The Noteworthiness of Little Lives

We were always told that dewdrops were the stars’ farewell kiss to Earth, a parting gift before leaving us to the start of another morning.

The grass blades, glistening with the residue of heaven’s affection, compete with clover for ground cover. Their voices are fickle, yet lilting, a noise that hums through the ground and makes me laugh. It is the same argument each day. Eagerly fought with no resolution, destined to be repeated tomorrow.

Sunlight races past branch and leaf alike, desperate to douse the forest floor in a whitish-yellow hue. Squirrels prance along tree limbs for their morning commute. The boughs erupt with chatterings about that pesky robin in the flowering dogwood tree at the south end of the forest, and inquiries over the health of the new kits born in the warren east of the daisy field– not the warren situated above the old riverbed, which I’m afraid is a rather necessary distinction.

Yes. It is, indeed, the start of another morning.

I outstretch my limbs, yawning as my roots twitch within the soil. There is much to be done today. I lean forward, pushing past the bark of my tree, my roots straining against the confines of soil and spirit. Two realms, Earth and something other. A holy tension. Roots taking the form of feet and elongating upwards into legs, two branches lowering, shortening into arms, a body fashioned out of bark and soil.

“A good morning to you, Liades!”

I smile and kneel before the Eastern box turtle at my feet. “Tudine! A fine morning to you as well, good sir. Where are you off to?”

Tudine laughs and inclines his head in the direction of the creek. “Paying a visit to Batra and Amfi, on behalf of the missus, of course. She’d gotten her hands on some extra algae and simply insisted upon sending it their way for the frogspawn. Tadpoles are due to hatch any day now! Speaking of which–” he turns and looks back up at me, “would you be so kind as to see if it’s secure? Simply couldn’t fathom having an accident on the way there.”

“Of course.” My fingers hover above Tudine’s shell, and I note the grass blades that’ve been braided and tied together to make a sort of harness. Spots of mud have been smeared beneath the grass-rope to secure it against his shell, while at the top lies a hollowed-out seed from a shellbark hickory tree. The bottom of the seed is also plastered with mud, for extra stability, while the inside carries the aforementioned algae. Tudine’s wife had been smart enough to pin a leaf across the top of the seed to prevent any spillage. After ensuring that this delivery of indescribable importance would certainly not be the subject of an accident, I look at Tudine.

“I believe it’s safe, my friend. Your wife did well in arranging it all.”

“She’s a fine turtle, that one. Thank you again, Liades.”

“You are most welcome! Send my best regards to Batra and Amfi.”

With a chortle and nod of his head, Tudine begins making his way through the grass. I rise to my feet and head towards the meadow, where the sprouts and saplings are already running amuck.

When Mirti spots me, she giggles, raising her chubby arms upward and babbling to herself. I laugh and bend down to pick her up. “Mirti, Mirti. I’m surprised by how lively you are, considering how often I heard your leaves rustling through the late hours of the night! Do you think it’s a game, little one, keeping us all awake like that?”

Mirti blinks and looks at me with the complete, rosy-cheeked absence of remorse. My feigned sternness is fooling no one today. She merely smiles, and pats my cheek with her hand.

“Aaaggghhhh-aaaaa.”

I grin and kiss the top of her hand. “Well. Now that is a convincing argument. My most sincere apologies, th–” I cut myself off, seeing that her face and arms are flecked with dark red bumps. I look up at Akasta, and motion for her to step forward. “Did you notice these?”

She nods. “Yes. I’m afraid the aphids got to her last night. A few of her leaves were nearly bitten through.”

“Cowards,” I murmur, stroking Mirti’s hair as she nestles into the crook of my neck. “Preying on a mere sprout.” I pause, watching three saplings chase one another through the grass, breaking out into a fit of laughter when the first one trips over a rock. I turn my attention back to Akasta. “We ought to send word to one of the ladybug troupes and request their assistance.”

“I would, but several of them were stationed at a geranium shrub on our northern border as of two days ago.”

“Well– we cannot leave her undefended tonight. Perhaps there would be a few lacewings or soldier beetles who’d be willing to stand guard for the evening.”

“Could Riduvar not be bribed into staying with her?”

I chuckle at the mention of Mirti’s older sister. A sapling with a voice so loud it could rival the call of a tree frog. “She could. But there is no doubt that upon her discovery of why she'd need to stand guard, the entire grove will hear her plans to avenge her sister, on behalf of all sprouts. Where is she, anyway?”

“She left last night with a few other saplings and their guardians. Something about an overnight visit to hear re-tellings of the past from Esbutera.”

“Ah yes,” I say, guiding Mirti’s hand away from my eyes, “Esbutera, ever the historian. No doubt she enchanted them with her tales. Are they due to return this evening, then?”

“Yes. So we have some time before–”

“Liades!” A voice shouts from above. A great-horned owl– and a dear friend of mine– perches on a tree branch above us, his feathers looking far more disheveled than normal.

“Oufos! By the sun, what are you doing awake at this hour? You ought to be home.”

The owl shifts his weight on the branch, stretching his left wing slightly before tucking it back to his side. “I– well– yes, I ought to be, I suppose. But a certain matter required my attention. It is one of grave importance. Urgent, I tell you.”

Mirti gurgles something in response, and I pat her back, staring up at Oufos. “Urgent, you say? Is something wrong?”

Oufos’ head turns slightly to look at Akasta before looking back at me. “Yes, I… I am afraid the extent can only be expressed in person. No need to get everyone riled up of course, but–” he sighs. “Would you follow me? Time is of the essence, as they say.”

I look at Akasta and rest my free hand on hers. “I am sure whatever it is will be quickly resolved. No need to fret. Here,” I turn Mirti slightly and place her in the dryad’s arms, shaking my head when she begins to cry. “Be at ease, beloved. I’ll be back before you know it, hm?”

After exchanging farewells with both of them, Oufos takes off, and I have to run to keep up with him. “Oufos! It is far too early for this kind of activity, my limbs are aching!”

Ahead of me, he mutters something unintelligible, followed by, “If I can fly while half-asleep, you can certainly go for an early morning run. Now keep up!”

The next few minutes are spent in partial silence. No immediate sounds other than my own footfall and the occasional remark from Oufos. We pass by a creek bed, where the young minnows attend their classes and recite the seven tenets of the Great Minnow-Crayfish Treaty.

Not too far off, the grumblings of mushrooms emit from a shady patch of grass– something about the self-righteousness of tulips, I believe. A mother fox watches her two kits play-fight but they pause only to watch me run by, greeting me with a wag of their tails.

After what feels like several hours, Oufos flies up onto a tree branch situated above a massive hydrangea bush. In-between breaths, I ask, “Oufos, are we here?”

He doesn’t reply at first, but hoots in a warning when I take a step forward. “Liades. Listen. I… I have brought this to no one else’s attention yet. You were the first I sought out. I didn’t want to cause a panic among the saplings or fauna especially.”

“A panic? Oufos, you know I am not fond of riddles. What happened?”

Oufos only extends his wing in the direction of the bush.

I reach out and part the bush’s leaves with my hands, slowly stepping through it until I am standing in a clearing where my toes sink into the moistened dirt, and the dark brown blood of dryads oozes up and over my feet.

No. No. Not again.

The scent of death is overpowering.

I do not hear Oufos fly above me.

I do not hear him perch.

I do not hear him say my name.

This now-clearing is only a clearing because of the trees that were that no longer are.

Stumps standing where lives once flourished.

I stumble forward, and fall to my knees.

Bodies of fully-grown dryads and saplings– easily twenty of them– litter the ground. Their flesh bears the gashes of axe heads and human ambition. Mutilated corpses, bodies scalped of their leaves, bark and bone, all strewn about in the grass.

A sob gnaws on the inside of my throat upon seeing Esbutera– a nearly five-hundred year old oak tree– whose body lay severed at the waist.

“When did you find them?”

“Just under an hour ago,” Oufos whispers. “Zula saw it. We found her screaming and were able to calm her down enough to hear what had occurred. Idaru is escorting her back to the warren now. I left to find you.”

A few steps away, the moss bawls, coated in the blood of the very beings who once cared for it. I pluck a few leaves from my head and begin wiping off the moss, gently running my fingers over its surface. “Shh. I am sorry. I am so sorry. You are safe now. I promise you. You’re safe.”

That is what you told them the last time.

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat and shake the thought away. “How many?”

“Zula recalled there being six human men. They arrived all at once, but left gradually, carrying the trees they felled.”

A bitter laugh crawls past my lips and collapses onto the ground. “Of course they were human. What other race of being possesses a bloodlust for destruction?”

“Liades.”

“Have the fauna made machinery their god? Do the dryads upheave the earth to gain favor with their misers?” I look up at him. He stares back at me, unmoving. The moss quiets down to a whimper. A chipmunk scurries out from the bush and stands on her hind legs, examining the scene. She spots Oufos, bowing her head to him, and scampers to my side. I feel a tiny paw rest on my knee.

“What do you suggest we do?” He asks.

I brush the tears from my cheek and carefully rest my thumb on the chipmunk’s paw. She nuzzles my hand in turn. My eyes close.

“What we have done before. Notify the elders at once. They will call for a Syndur-Ei, and that is when we shall make this known. Express to them that all fauna, pardoning the ones on active patrol, are to be summoned as well. We can’t afford to have anyone unaware.”

Oufos coos softly. “Of course.” A breeze sweeps through the clearing. He turns his head in the direction of where we came. “My friend… With this being the– the third instance within this lunar year… do you believe they will call for a migration?”

Migration. A damnable notion. Making dryads uproot from their host trees and meander about the world as spirits without a home? Tearing creatures large and small from everything they hold dear, and for what? The illusion of pursuing peace?

My eyes open. “I don’t know.” I look to my left and see a smaller body lying on its back, its head bare, juvenile hands curled up against its chest with dried blood underneath the fingernails.

Riduvar.

The chipmunk squeaks as I lunge towards the sapling. One of her arms dangles at the joint, the flesh severed. It hurts to breathe. “Why did we ever vow against retaliation, Oufos?” My words are mangled. He doesn’t answer. The question floats throughout the silence, resting on each disfigured body, passing over every severed limb and bloodstain.

The grass writhes and wails.

Long after Oufos departs, and the chipmunk expresses her sympathy, the sunlight shifts into a deep pinkish-orange. It spills, too easily, onto the bodies below.

Movement stirs at the far end of the clearing. A long line of ants have begun their procession march, carrying a variety of flowers. They soon split into groups. They carry their respective flower up onto each corpse– not a single victim left behind– and leave the flower on their chest before departing.

It is still once more.

I lean down and cradle Rivudar’s face in my hands. My forehead against hers. The tears are not brushed away this time. A few birds fly overhead, their song echoing, syn-dur-ei, syn-dur-ei, syn-dur-ei! In this sunlight, she almost looks alive. I lower my head to her ear and whisper an apology, my thumb brushing against her cheek, her skin as cool as stone.