I remember when they first came to the glade. They stood upright, as if somehow that made them better than us. They had cans and wrappers that they left to rot eternally but never completely. They had axes and saws that they brought to tear down the trees and lay pavement over their broken bones.

They thought they were the only ones in the world. They didn't give us a second thought.

Until there was one, the child, who came to save us.

I was crying, I remember; I was crying because I had asked my father so many times not to cut down the tree. It was a beautiful old thing. Majestic, regal. It was older than he was, and wiser, and he saw fit to cut it down and turn it into plywood.

I went away on a field trip and when I came back it was gone.

And so I ran away. Not because I hated him but because I hated what he was doing. I was ashamed to be his daughter.

I stumbled through the forest, the one that my father was tearing apart. I could already see its vitality seeping away; the wildlife had receded into the far reaches, and the trees were looking sickly, bare.

The forest led me to the clearing. It was almost maternal, as if the branches of the old sycamores and oaks were pushing me gently toward that little den of earth.

It wasn't massive; it was a peaceful, serene little valley. Nevertheless, when I saw it I knew that it was important, and more importantly that I belonged there. I knew that I couldn't let my father destroy it.

I'd had a connection with animals and the environment since I was a child. My father would call all of the plants I kept alive when they were dying and all of the animals I'd nursed back to health "little miracles." But we both knew, somewhere deeper in our minds and our hearts, that they weren't miracles. Miracles were unattainable, coincidental things.

But I hadn't truly thought of these things and made the connection until I stumbled into the glade. The animals were so plentiful in that little hideaway crafted by Mother Nature that they seemed to have taken refuge there and abandoned the rest of the forest.

I wasn't surprised by the way they acted around me. They didn't shy away, like they usually did with other people. They approached me, tame as anything, studying me inquisitively with trusting eyes. I wondered if I should be scared.

But I wasn't.

After the discovery of the glade, I went home to my father. He was worried--he'd been out all night looking for me, he'd said.

So I asked him again to stop doing what he was doing, if only for my sake. He turned me down. Money, he'd always said, makes the world go 'round. And he wouldn't let a silly little thing like the environment stand between him and his precious money.

So I didn't ask him to stop. I put up with it, in my own way; all throughout my childhood, I'd sneak to the glade whenever I could. It was my way of coping.

The forest got weaker and weaker.

When I was 18, my father died. It wasn't as much of a loss as I'd expected it to be. The paternal hole that he'd left whenever he was out tearing trees down was filled by my evenings cleaning the forest, listening to the quiet background noises of the cicadas calling and the squirrels foraging.

I decided, once my father died, to move away. I needed to leave the place behind. I knew who the new owner of my father's company would be and I didn't want to sit and watch the glade get ripped to pieces. He was ruthless and cold, more than my father was and more than many people would ever be.

The night before I was supposed to catch my flight and leave the glade behind, I got cold feet and decided to pay the forest one last visit, just go on a little walk to give it my condolences and my grievances because it deserved every last one. It was like planning to go see a dying relative and the pain in my chest was not unwarranted.

That night, I walked barefoot into the crisp autumn air of the forest at midnight. The chill in the air felt good on my skin, like a long lost lover that had returned from some distant place. I was at peace breathing the fresh scent of the pines and hearing the snap of the twigs under my calloused feet. It was beautiful, and deafeningly quiet. No machines, no axes or saws tearing apart this little piece of heaven. Not until the morning.

I don't know how I found the glade again, in the pure dark under the welcoming sky of a million shining stars. Maybe the route was embedded in my mind, maybe some muscle memory led me there. Or maybe it was fate.

And, just like the first time, all of the animals were there. It was as if they were waiting for me, everyone accounted for. I was a little girl again.

I looked at them sadly and took the glade in the moonlight and all its beauty in. I was forcing myself to turn away and leave it behind when a doe stepped through the clearing towards me.

Emotion overwhelmed me. I fell to my knees in front of her and began to cry for everything lost and devoured and destroyed and taken by my own race.
I began to feel a tingling in my shoulder blades that gradually spread all over. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant sensation at first, but it became so painful and intense after a few moments, the feeling of wings ripping out of my back and my fingers twisting into compact hooves, that I lost consciousness. The translucent black of the night faded away into the opaque black of the mind, impermeable and impenetrable.

I awoke to the gentle tapping of three golden butterflies exploring my new, different body.

As I came to, I saw that I was surrounded, still, by the expectant faces of row upon row of creatures. I felt strong, invigorated, powerful, more so than I had ever felt as a human.

They were looking at me, waiting for me to take the first step, lead them to the reclamation of the glade. All of the animals had a role to play and they were anxious to play it.

A wolf in the crowd began to howl. Not a howl of mourning, but one of triumph.

They say that if a tree falls in the forest no one will hear it.

But they were wrong.

If a tree falls in the forest, the animals will hear it.

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Now, though, Curiama and Flews looked at each other worriedly as they were called into the home of their dying neighbor. He was sickly and frail, and hadn’t spoken for days. But when they entered the cabin, he looked at them with tired eyes and rasped, “It’s the Plague. It has returned.”

Flews looked at Curiama fearfully. The plague was something surreal, intangible, unimaginable It hadn’t happened for hundreds of years – was stuff of legend, really, and their stomachs dropped at the thought of being in the midst of it.

Something tickled the back of Flews’ mind. Some kind of nursery rhyme or poem she had heard as a child. She struggled to remember, to form the full verse from just an inkling of a memory:

“When it comes Sickness and death in a wave Visit the wise elder tucked discreetly away For life he may give, and death he may stay.”[/I]

And so Flews and Curiama went to visit the hut of the shaman, who himself was stuff of legend and a source of fear for all of the villagers.

A gust of wind blew through the hut, though there were no windows on the walls. It looked deserted, as if no one had been there for years. Cobwebs matted the antiquated pots in the corner and a layer of dust coated the herbs which still looked suspiciously green.

Flews’ heart dropped. So there was no hope after all.

They turned to go when a rustling noise called their attention.

Peering into the darkness, Flews could make out a vague shape slumped on the far side of the room that had not been there before. As she stared at it, it stood.

It was terrible to behold; had some kind of dark power around it that drained everything around it of energy and was itself veiled in darkness. "Well, now, little adventurers, don’t go just yet,” it rasped.

Flews gathered her courage. “You’re the shaman. You’re the one who can save us,” she said pleadingly.

It took a step towards them and Curiama cringed. “Actually, children,” it said with its grating voice, “you are the ones who must save us. It is foretold. Do you not heed the prophecies?” It started to chant, its whisper-voice growing louder until it seemed a scream:

[i]“One large and one small, In stature and in courage, To save them all Must venture into the forest, And face its ancient fury, To combine fire, earth, and water, And return to the source To restore all lost purity. Every creature, one and the same Must gain back their health Amidst the cool of the clean flame.”

“Th-that’s just old wives’ tales,” Curiama stammered. “It’s not true. There’s no such thing as prophecies.”

The shaman laughed, a horrible cackle. “Say what you will, children. There is no prophecy. Only the plague, with no cure.” It continued to laugh and disappeared as if it had never been there at all.

“Wait!” Flews shouted. “Wait! Help me understand the prophecy!”

But the shaman was already gone.

Curiama looked at Flews and shuddered. “We’re going into the forest, aren’t we?” she said, dread coating her tongue.

“You can be sure of that,” Flews said, eyes hard.

As they walked through the greenery, hooves crushing twigs, they realized how decrepit it looked. Trees were losing their vitality, ferns losing their vibrance.

“The plague’s affecting the forest, too,” Flews said softly.

They continued to walk, not entirely sure of what they were looking for. The sky began to darken.

“We can’t be out here when it’s dark,” Curiama said. “You know the legends of the walking trees. And now we know that anything can be true…”

Flews nodded. “Alright, we’ll head back.”

But when they turned around, they found that their tracks were gone.

Curiama let out a little cry of astonishment. “Wh-where did our tracks go? How are we supposed to find our way back?”

“Quiet,” Flews said suddenly.

All around them, the rustling of the trees grew louder.

The branches of the trees around them were twisting, writhing, reaching towards them like snakes.

Flews closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Run.”

They ran as the sky grew darker and eventually they were running blind. They were knocked unconscious as a giant tree root coiled around their bodies.

When Flews and Curiama came to, it was dawn and they were face to face with a menacing but inquisitive looking tree-face.

It scowled at them.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the little travelers, running through my forest with reckless abandon,” it said spitefully, with a voice that sounded older and more tired than the earth itself.

“Oh, it has been a long while since I’ve tasted blood – always this water, water, water – you know, I do like a little variety in my meals,” it continued grumpily.

Flews looked at the pink sky, willing the sun to rise. She knew that all she had to do was hold off the tree until sunrise. Just a little stalling, she thought.

“Blood?” she said. “You must be going batty – we don’t have blood in our veins. We’re made up of water. No variety here,” she said quickly.

The tree scowled and narrowed his eyes at her.

“It has been a long while,” the tree pondered, its bark grating against Flews’ coat. “Maybe my memory fails me.”

The tree made to set them down, then changed its mind. It brought Flews close to its eye. “I don’t believe you, little traveler. Prove it to me.”

“I dropped my knife,” she said. “You have to let me down so I can find it and cut myself to show you the water in my veins.”

The tree grumbled. “Why don’t I just smash you and see what color comes splashing out of you when I do so, eh?”

Flews shook her head. “No, that would just make a mess, and you would have to drink the same boring water anyway. Let me down so I can get my knife.”

As the tree set her down and began to grumble about its dry bark, she feigned to search for her knife.

“Come on, come on, come on…” she said, looking at the tiny sliver of sun coming over the hill.

The tree began to get angry and snatched her up, scratching her in the process and making her bleed. “You liar!” it screeched, and bent its arm back to smash her on the forest floor.

Just as its arm went back, the sun peeked over the hill and it froze, groaning as it lost control of its limbs.

Curiama was sniveling in the grasp of a branch near her.

She let out a deep breath and clambered out of the grasps of its branch. She was beginning to climb down when a flicker caught her eye. A small branch, thinner than her arm, was burning.

Suddenly, words of the prophecy came back to her.

“…to combine fire, earth, and water…”

“Curiama!” she yelped, “Help me break this branch off!”

“What now?” Curiama asked, once they were back on the floor. “We’ve got fire, and we’ve got earth, but what about water?”

Flews paused. “Wait. Do you remember the line in the prophecy? ‘To return to the source?’ We know where this thing started.”

“The lake!” they said in unison.

It didn’t take long to get back to their village, though the branch that was miraculously still burning did fetch them some strange looks. They pushed past people, running for the lake.

Curiama cocked back her arm and let the burning branch sail, leaving an arc of fire in the air.

The moment it hit the water, the atmosphere changed.

There was a moment of complete silence, breathlessness, and then they gasped, breathing in pure air.

Above the river, impossibly, danced a ten foot high inferno. Curiama started at the sound of fish jumping in the water. They hugged each other and cheered, and went back to the village to spread the news.

And so it was, the prophecy, that every creature, one and the same, gained back their health in the clean flame.