The Rustle of Leaves, the Breaking of Bones
For an age, there was only the quiet hum of the forest. The slow decay of leaves, the patient growth of moss over stone, the deep, dreamless sleep of the earth. I was a part of that stillness, a memory buried with a simple, solemn trust. Then, they came. Their voices, a harsh intrusion. “Yo, check this out,” one of them said, his words a clumsy shovel digging into the sacred silence.
They found the locket. A small, simple thing, but it was not theirs to touch. It was a seal, a promise. “Looks like gold,” another one murmured, his greed a foul scent in the clean air. A fool’s debate followed. “Maybe it’s here for a reason,” one of them cautioned, a flicker of primal wisdom in his fear. But the warning was ignored. They took it. And with that single, thoughtless act of violation, they woke me.
The world feels different after a long sleep. The air is sharp, the light is strange. My purpose, however, is brutally clear. It is not born of malice or rage, but of a deep, violent nature that demands balance. The locket must be returned. My bones, which are now the forest, stir. My skin, which is the bark and the soil, remembers its form. And I begin to walk.
The first of them is easy to find. His laughter is a sharp, unnatural sound that does not belong here. I follow the noise, a patient predator tracking a careless prey. He does not see me until it is too late. There is a snap, a brief, wet sound, and then the forest is quiet again. One less disturbance.
The others are scattered now, their initial bravado curdling into a fear that I can smell on the wind. They stumble through my woods, their brightly colored clothes an offense against the muted greens and browns. They talk of legends, of a story they thought was just a story. They are beginning to understand, but their understanding comes too late.
I find two of them near the old fire tower. Their hands are clumsy with tools, their movements panicked. One tries to fight back. It is a futile gesture. Nature itself is my weapon. A rock becomes a hammer, a sharpened branch a spear. Their struggles are brief. Their screams are quickly swallowed by the trees.
The last one, the one who first held the locket, runs the longest. He is driven by a terror that makes him fast, but the forest is my home. Every rustling leaf, every snapping twig, tells me where he is. I do not rush. The hunt is a methodical process, a restoration of order. When I finally stand before him, there is no hate in my heart, only a cold, inexorable purpose. He has something that belongs to me. He has violated the stillness.
And when it is done, when the locket is returned to its rightful resting place, the forest can sleep again. The sun will rise and set, the seasons will turn, and the quiet hum will return. But the memory of their brief, violent intrusion will linger, a warning whispered on the wind. A reminder that there are some places that should remain undisturbed, and some debts that can only be paid in blood and bone. As the old song goes, a black fly will be there to pick the bones clean, here in the violent heart of nature.