Untitled Story--Days With You, part 1

Untitled Story--Days With You, part 1

AN UNTITLED STORY--
DAYS WITH YOU

Between the leaves above, the sky was a brilliant blue. The observer hadn’t seen a cloud pass since achieving consciousness. The observer supposed that it was one of those days. A perfect day, it could be assumed, for a walk in the woods.

There was something odd going on, though.

Beneath the leaves held up by moss-covered branches, hung thick with vines straining to reach the light, the air was still. There was barely any whispers of wind. No stray noises from animals in flight. Not a howl, or cries, pierced the green gloom. No insects or birds chirped.

It was unbearably silent.

And so the observer made a clacking noise. The sharp sound echoed harshly in the stillness. Unnerved further, the observer of this lack of activity made to stand--

And fell a horse’s length to the forest floor with a crash that seemed to continue into eternity. New pain seared through wounds that suddenly wanted their attention known. The observer decided to ignore the silence engulfing the forest green, and take stock of the immediate situation.

The observer gingerly stood, feeling muscles strain and a few wounds weep anew. Talons digging into the leaf-covered, plant-filled earth, the observer located the source of the largest of the injuries: his right wing was torn off, leaving a ragged, still-oozing stump just past the elbow. The observer cursed loudly, ducked from the reverberations of the incredible sound in the silent forest, and proceeded to examine the stump more closely.

For some reason, knowing with certainty that he was male brought the observer a measure of reassurance. Since he had awoken, the only thing that he could recall was that he was in a forest. Wondering on this new development, the observer turned back to his wounds.

Hanging in tatters, the thin membrane that used to connect to the wing’s fingers was covered with scabs; it was the terminus of the limb that hadn’t yet completely covered. The observer licked the wound and then spat. It didn’t feel right, nor did it taste right.

It was around this time that he noticed a strange ringing in his head. Somewhere between a mental suggestion and a feeling of longing, it tugged at the observer’s mind, and, without anything better to do, he followed it.

Climbing slowly over roots covered with tiny red ferns, the observer made his way around the base of the tree that he had fell from, heeding the call that the observer didn’t really understand. It was enormous, and, with his many injuries, the going was slow. The observer’s every motion, whether it be twitching from pain, dragging a talon along the ground, or clacking his beak in anxiety, were the loudest things the observer had ever heard in his life. At least, that he could remember.

Lolling over a bulging root, the observer slipped on a moss-covered object and landed in a miniature forest of red ferns. Looking over his shoulder, the observer noticed that the object was either a rock or a very resilient skull; the observer was too tired to care much at that point.

Breathing deeply, feeling more sharp pains along his flanks, the observer felt incredibly worn out. Possibly from blood loss before he awoke, possibly from blood loss after, and possibly because the observer was just tired, he didn’t know. It seemed like it had been a silent, oppressive eternity since he had awoken to the sight of the bright blue sky between the leaves above.

The observer lifted his head enough to peer at the sky once more. And noticed the giant red ferns sprouting from the trunk of the tree he had fallen from. At least a hundred times the size of the feather-length ferns the observer was currently lying amongst, the giant red ferns loomed overhead.

His mind silent again--the observer hadn’t noticed when the calling had left him alone--the observer studied the red ferns. It was when the observer noticed the rustling of leaves that the realization came to him: these were blood ferns.

Memories came flooding: blood ferns grew along game trails, where kills were most likely to be made. They were normal ferns, for the most part, except for their love of blood. It was said that the blood ferns could suck the blood from a dragon in a few hours.

They were also known to clean the blood from wounds; travelers often came to town with tales of blood ferns saving their lives from what would have become seriously infected wounds.

So, the observer thought. I’m in the possession of plants that can either kill me or save me, depending upon their mood. Ironically, it reminded the observer of a few friends he knew, back home. And home was...Narn....

And it was with that thought that it all came rushing back. Well, most of it. He didn’t remember how he came to be in the tree, but he knew who he was, and what he was doing in the Great Forest.

As the blood ferns reached tentatively for him, Kalthan the grifkin felt another presence around and beneath him. It was hungry, but not with a threatening intent. It was the strangest thing that he’d ever felt, this insight into the things surrounding him.

Pressing up against his feathers, brushing his wounded wing’s stump, the blood fern fronds let out a mental sigh that almost terrified the grifkin into flight...or, in his current state, a slow, painful crawl.

Along his flanks and wings, there were tiny stings as the ferns ran over open wounds. Watching their progress with a tired eye, and privy to their otherworldly delight at the blood meal, Kalthan began to wonder how he had wound up in the tree above, missing a wing and covered from head to tail in all manner of injuries; the whole gamut from bruises to, he was sure, an arrowhead stuck in his rear right leg.

Within a few, tenuous, minutes the blood ferns retracted back into their bed in the soil, leaving the grifkin with rapidly scabbing wounds that didn’t seem to ache as badly as they had. Kalthan was relieved that all the plants had wanted was a snack; he didn’t want to recall to his mother how he had almost died to blood ferns, or have someone else tell her worse....

He was supposed to be heading home now...he was sure. His mother was certainly beside herself, since he had been separated from his siblings, who were supposed to be heading back to warn Narn of...something. Kalthan strained to remember what had been so important that they race back towards the outlying settlement that they called home.

Narn was located in a clearing near the northern edge of the Great Forest; the ancient forest itself was a natural border to the lands in the east, those mountains that held the ogres that so often encroached upon the lands of others for the sake of killing.

Ogres...big, nasty humanoids. They had large, reptilian heads with enormous teeth; four arms that could easily crush anything smaller, including grifkin; and dull orange flesh. For the past millennium, the ogres had done everything from raiding to full-blown war, all to expand their territory. As far as Kalthan remembered, they were taking over coalition lands so they could fight.

Considering everything that could go wrong, Kalthan decided that his anxiety had something to do with the ogres. The exact problem, he forgot...at most, he remembered flying over large campfires. Very large campfires...bonfires. Lots of them.

Lying in the blood ferns, the grifkin stretched until he felt his wounds awaken, and then let the contented feelings from the plants wash over him. It was a long walk back to Narn, made even longer so by his wounds. He decided the best course of action was to sleep on it, for now.

And panic later.

Kalthan’s eyes rolled up, and he collapsed.

The unnerving silence of the forest followed him into the darkness.