“Hellooo, little mother!”
Cassie looked out through the shutters. Outside at the gate, the aspen waved her twig arms over her head as if she were waving in an airplane.
Oh, not again.
The aspen skipped down the singing stones. “Tell Father Forest that I am here!”
Without fail, the aspen came every morning, but today Father Forest had other visitors too. Tree-people from the southern part of the boreal forest had come to the cottage to discuss placement and exposure and color of autumn leaves, as if they were artists participating in a vast art gallery. “He said he can’t see you today,” Cassie said through the shutters.
Racing at the window, the tree-girl hissed at Cassie—eyes wild yellow, sharp green teeth bared. In that instant, she’d transformed from a childlike tree spirit into something feral. Cassie instinctively flinched away from the window, and then the aspen burst into wailing. “Oh, my aspens! They suffer! It’s the spruces. Their roots spread—they steal soil from my aspens!”
“I’m sorry,” Cassie said, eyeing her through the shutters. No matter how cute the tree-girl could look, she wasn’t a child. The perky innocence was an affectation, as much as Father Forest’s Santa Claus image.
The aspen shrieked. Her leaves spiked, her eyes rolled, and her mouth widened into a gash across her bark face. “He must come see! Spruces crowd my aspens back into the valleys. My aspens lose mountain exposure. My aspens starve for sunlight!” Her stick body shook. “You must let me see him!” Launching herself at the window, she clawed at the shutters.
Cassie retreated fast. “I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said.
The aspen beamed, again a green child. “Goody.”
Cassie escaped into the living room. Phosphorescent moss lit the walls in a faint green glow. Open flames, Father Forest had said, made his visitors nervous. Six visitors, birches, sickly green in the moss light, had planted themselves into the wood floor.
Stepping over their roots, Cassie whispered to Father Forest about the aspen. Father Forest grimaced—an odd expression on a Santa Claus. “Can you tell her ‘not now’?”
“You know how she is,” Cassie said.
“Oh, dear,” Father Forest said. “I should go—”
“This is not acceptable.” One of the birch-men flopped the leaves on his head. Another birch frowned and said, “We have traveled a long way.” A third spoke up: “We have important decisions to make.”
“Oh, dearie dear,” Father Forest said. “Cassie, my child, can’t you pacify her?”
Cassie began to refuse, and then she stopped. Maybe this was her chance. If she could use the crazy tree-girl… Cassie’s heart thudded, and she tried to sound nonchalant as she said, “I could convince her to show me the spruces. Tell her that I will report back to you.”
He frowned. “Surely, she can wait a few—”
“She is seconds away from bursting in here,” Cassie said. “As you can imagine, I would prefer not to walk so far.” She patted her round stomach for emphasis. “But if it would help you…”
“Let the human go,” one of the birch-women said. Another birch said, “Yes, let’s get on with it.” Another added, “Please, we have limited time.”
Father Forest surrendered. “Very well. Go, then.” He waved his hand to dismiss her as one of the birches tapped Father Forest’s knee and said, “About that shade of yellow…”
“Golden tones are better, don’t you agree?” Father Forest replied.
Cassie backed into the kitchen, certain he’d change his mind. Any second now, he’d realize his mistake. Her hand shook as she laid it on the door latch. Always before, it had behaved like solid wood.
She squeezed the latch and pulled—the door swung open, and Cassie fell outside. Her knees shook. She leaned against the door frame. She sucked in oxygen. It smelled of spruce and soil. It smelled of shadows and sunlight.
“Little mother, is he with you?”
Cassie barely heard the aspen. She walked to the gate. Brown and brittle ferns brushed her skirt. She felt the warm crunch of spruce needles under her bare feet.
Run, her mind whispered, run.
“Little mother?” The aspen’s voice held a dangerous note. She stomped her twig foot, and Cassie focused on her. She had to keep the aspen pacified if her escape was to work.
“He asked me to observe in his place,” Cassie said. “I am to report back to him.”
“All we want is our due,” the aspen said, sweet again. “It is not fair. Other trees have much better exposure.” Cassie opened the gate. Legs shaking, she walked out as the aspen continued, “Some trees have such good exposure that they can speak to the winds. Never aspens, though. It is not fair at all. It is injustice.”
Just beyond the picket fence, the dark of the forest was primeval. Shriveled ferns shrouded the forest floor. Above, leaves and branches were knit so tightly that they choked light. She could lose herself in that darkness. She could disappear.
Cassie glanced back at the cottage. Innocent as a gingerbread house, the cottage glowed in the warm pink of morning. She could hear the rise and fall of the birch voices through the shutters. She expected Father Forest to tear out after her any second. Her heart beat as fast as mosquito wings. Forcing herself not to run, in case he watched from the window, Cassie walked into the forest, and the shadows swallowed her.
The aspen bounced beside her, again childlike. “What do you think?”
She knew it was her imagination, but it felt as if the trees were leaning in on her, suffocating her. As she squeezed between shrubs, she missed the openness of the pack ice. Out on the ice, her soul expanded—but here, she felt boxed in, claustrophobic even. Filtered through the canopy of evergreen branches, the light in the forest was an underwater green. Ferns and horsetails filled the spaces between the spruces. She stepped over roots and brown-leafed bushes.
“Are you listening to me?” the aspen demanded.
Cassie hadn’t been. “You want exposure?”
“Yes!” The aspen’s yellow eyes flashed. “Some trees on mountainsides can speak to the winds. Is that too much to ask? Some space to be heard?”
Cassie looked back over her shoulder. She couldn’t see the cottage anymore. Now it was time to run. She didn’t know how much time she had before Father Forest realized his mistake, but she had to be well beyond the reach of his vines when he did. She broke into a jog, cradling her oversize stomach. Rocks jabbed at her bare feet.
“Slow down, little mother.”
“We have to reach the spruces!” Cassie said. “You want me to see them quickly, don’t you?” As soon as she had enough distance, she’d distract the aspen and lose her. Her skirt snagged on bushes and wrapped around her ankles. Reaching down, she hiked it up to her hips. She ran faster.
The aspen loped after Cassie. “But you’re going the wrong way. My aspens are east! Little mother, stop!” Her shrill voice pierced the wind. She let out a screech.
Needles quivered overhead.
Holding her stomach protectively, Cassie ducked under a low-hanging branch. It slapped her forehead. She pressed her hand on her stinging head. Blood or sweat, it felt wet.
Ahead of her, bark melted like molten metal.
Cassie veered to the left, and a second wall of bark blocked her. She looked behind her. Bark sealed all the gaps. Caught! Cassie stumbled to a stop. All around her, wood ringed her in a solid circle. She spun.
Perched up in the branches, the tree-girl peered down at her. “I said east!”
Cassie heard a horrible cracking noise as the wall of trees split. It fell open as if lightning had struck it. Father Forest stood where the wall had been.
Cassie retreated until her back hit the wall of bark.
“You disappoint me,” he said softly. “I thought we had an understanding. After all, it is your own interest that I am protecting.”