Part I
The first thing she remembers is the chatter. When she first learned how to communicate, she asked her mother what it was.
"Oh, just the birds, Eva."
But it didn't sound like birds to her. It sounded like the bristle of the leaves and the creaking of the branches in a purposeful, coordinated rhythm. It sounded like the trees, and it sounded like they were speaking.
As she got older, she loved to explore the forest. Well--that was natural. That's how they all learned the landscape, met others, foraged for food, and learned about the changing of seasons.
Still, even amongst others, she was known for her love of the forest. While many enjoyed the open meadows pocketed inside or grazing the outskirts of the woods, she very much preferred to be surrounded by the trees and brush. When they travelled to forage in the meadows, she stayed close to the edge of the forest. Unfortunately, this made her appear quite the loner, as everyone else preferred the meaty middle of the meadow, where grasses, clovers, and wildflowers were abundant.
On the other hand, spending so much time amongst the trees allowed her to pick up and make sense of their rhythmic chatter. She began speaking to them--originally just for her own amusement, but later, as companions.
They began speaking back.
She thought it was in her head, of course. They didn't say much that warranted much imagination--mostly greetings and simple pleasantries. She began to talk to them (she didn't have much else to talk to) and they appeared to listen quietly, respectfully, offering simple indicators of their assent.
Then they began to initiate conversation, in the most polite (and, to her, gracious) form: directing her to food. "There's a large patch of moss over there, on the other side of the stump and the broken trunk." "There are no new shoots on that large tree near the meadow--another came by and ate them a few days ago."
If this was in her head, she was glad to have such an intuitive conscious. Yet she had a gut feeling, an innate sense of truth, that this was not her own psyche, but that she was actively communicating with the trees.
This feeling strengthened when the pleasantries turned into full conversations. The trees, having been growing for hundreds of years, had so much to teach her, and she was eager to learn. Likewise, the trees were eager to teach someone so young and full of life--someone who could walk, run, explore, experience the forest's majesty. They taught her about themselves, about how their roots and rhizomes connected them to every single tree, plant, and fungus in the forest; of the other creatures that lived both amongst the trees and in the trees,the bark, the trunk, the roots, the soil; she learned about life and death and connection, and they discussed it all at length.
The trees told her about the grove at the heart of the forest--the largest trees by far, with the most well-formed and well-connected roots. They led her to the heart, nestled amongst the mountainous terrain surrounding it, and taught her to feel the pulse of the soil beneath her tiny hooves.
??
It was hardest for her to remain impartial when other creatures were attacked or eaten. The trees and their longevity paid little mind to the caterpillars being gobbled up by a passing wren, or a chipmunk being snacked on by a fox.
"That's how it works," the trees said. "We've seen it before and we'll see it again."
"It's terrifying," she shuddered.
"Oh yes, it must be. But this is how the forest grows."
Harvest Antlephore
Earth
