The Fate of the Forest

On this cold October evening, the forest was deathly silent. No birds chirped overhead, no frogs croaked their soothing songs, and no animals scurried through the underbrush. The only noise to be heard was the sound of leaves and branches crunching under Ophelia’s boots, shooting sharp, knife-like stabs of noise through the woods. She looked somewhat unprepared for such a hike, with her navy skirt hitched above her warm leggings, and a matching blazer thrown over her white button-up. The girl resembled a little floret, pretty and perennial.

Ophelia had visited this forest before, on this exact day last October. She brought another with her, a thin, lanky man with freckles and brown hair. The pair giggled and chatted as they explored the verdant realm. Then, the forest had been bustling with animal life, squawks and rustles, but now it was still.

Deathly still.

For October, the forest was incredibly lush. Where most trees were barren by now, their branches stripped clear of leaves, the old oaks here were still vibrant green. Their leaves hadn’t begun to turn orange, as if the entire forest was out of place in time. The cypress trees were all deciduous, but seemed to be strangely bunched up in certain areas, huddling up like cold travelers on a harsh winter’s night. Frost hadn’t yet touched the damp grass, and sprays of herbaceous flowers still dotted the ground. Vines scarcely covered a few dozen trees. It was a beautiful ecosystem, ever-growing and ever-changing.

The girl climbed over mossy branches and under low-hanging leaves, deeply burying herself towards the heart of the forest. Stinging nettles nipped at her legs. The air was stagnant; no breeze blew through her hair or ruffled her clothes. She strode with purpose, with confidence, as if she were leading someone down a path she had traveled many times.

But she had only been here once.

Midway through her journey, Ophelia came to a creek. It was shallow, but the water was dark and murky. No fish moved under the surface, at least none that created any ripples on top. A tree had been meticulously felled across the narrow part of the water, and she glanced to her side, as if waiting for someone, before cautiously stepping out across the bark.

The wood groaned with every move she made, her steps turning more and more lignified. She almost slipped, but the forest took mercy on her.

Getting off on the other side, Ophelia darted her head up quickly, scanning the surrounding flora, like she saw something run by. Her breaths were shallow and lingered in the air, nearly being swallowed up by the stalking flowers inches from her head.

With a sudden urgency, Ophelia pushed the looming florals away and marched forward, through a patch of asphodel. She trampled over their pretty white petals with reckless abandon. The poor things withered as she went by, bending and distorting with every shake of the ground. Ophelia, the bestial woman, stopped in the middle of the patch, bent down, and tore out handfuls of the clearing, snapping their precious pedicels like thin bones.

She carried the corpses in the nook of her arm. Such a soft and cruel grave for a beautiful flower.

The forest pressed on, thick and heavy—a bewitching enigma. As Ophelia continued into the quiet woods, a quaint creaking began to ring out. She didn't seem to notice. Those like her never do. Only seeing the forest as a whole, never taking in the fine details. The beauty of the flora is lost on so many.

From a seed, to a sprout, to a flowering enchantress, the plants of the forest grow tall before retreating back into themselves. The non-monocarpic, the true warriors of flora, rise again in the following spring. Even the ones that die each year can live again with the help of their animal neighbors that spread the capsules of their offspring. The cycle of rebirth, perfected in this unnoticed woodland. Where humans tried and failed, the plants succeeded in their immortality.

When the bulk of the forest was behind her, Ophelia slowed, taking time to look at the scenery. Vines here strangled the trees with a fury, and the grass grew tall, brushing her knees. The flowers surrounding her were once brightly colored, but now hung their heads in despair. Gentle petals drifted down from above like a silent rain and landed on Ophelia’s tensed shoulders. It had been a long time since she was here.

Too long.

Before Ophelia was the tree. A magnificent weeping willow, with her arms outstretched, protecting the land around her in a leafy embrace. She stood tall over the scenery like a looming wooden gallows. On her trunk were two letters. O and A, carved into her flesh with cruel, loving precision. I had watched as Ophelia and her lover did it. How they enjoyed the shelter of the tree, then sliced open her skin. How they took the surrounding flowers from their shelter and wrapped them into a crude bouquet of thorns and poison. The forest did not forgive him, and it will not forgive her.

The girl picked up surrounding rocks and placed them gently at the base of the tree. She ripped snapdragons out of their earthy home and laid them to rest at the base of the cairn, with the asphodel she slaughtered. Facing her crude structure, she didn't see the flowering vines slithering behind her, and the sounds of her sobs drowned out the quiet rumble of roots tunneling through the ground.

When the vines grabbed Ophelia’s wrists, she screamed, and the forest rose to life. Birds screeched and rabbits dashed through the bushes. Swarms of insects zipped between trees and swarmed her head. The leaves of the willow whistled in the bellowing wind, and the snapdragons sang like a songbird. The whirlwind of noise muted Ophelia's screams as my vines dragged her down into the soil.

I swallowed her into a tender, strangling embrace. Dirt filled her mouth, and tendrils dug under her fingernails. Roots grew inside her chest and burst out of her epidermis, spilling her crimson blood into the thirsty soil. Small flowers rapidly germinated and sprouted from her eyes. Carnivorous chlorophyll seeped into her skin and devoured her from the inside out.

Her flesh was ravaged, and her bones were left neatly arranged, buried next to her lover’s. Now eternally part of the forest, they could harm me no more; they could harm us no more.

As soon as it had begun, the storm of sound was over. The birds quieted to their usual chirps, and the animals grazed and slept under the willow’s dappled shade. Her wound scarred over and sealed completely, and the insects returned to their homes.

The only thing left was the echoing laughter of the forest. The laughter that consumes the ungrateful.