Ephemeral
The field had been torn up into clumps of earth and detritus. The roots of unearthed plants were stark white in the sunlight, as if shocked to be exposed.
Maria clicked her tongue, stepping over a ridge of loose dirt with a huff of annoyance. It was late in the year for such a mess, but it wasn’t too late. Very inconvenient, at any rate.
Bisecting the field was a trough earth that was deeper than the rest. Maria decided that it looked as though a giant had scooped out a line of the ground with one hand, intending to plant his garden. But the time for planting had long past and the seeds would freeze before long.
The mud squeezed between her toes pleasantly at the deepest point of the trough. It led to the forest edge, growing deeper as it went, and extended between the trees. Maria tilted her head, squinting through the glare of the sunlight to see into the gloom that draped over the forest. She couldn’t see how far the path extended, but it couldn’t be more than a few dozen body lengths or so before the end.
The mud squelched under her feet as she walked.
This part of the forest was all cedar, and the sweet scent of the broken wood assaulted her breath. The trees were unhappy with their treatment, and Maria found it hard to pity them as she ducked beneath their prickly boughs. They were far from kind-hearted, and she had little patience for selfish trees with no regard for others.
The trench extended far further than three dozen body lengths into the forest, ending in a steep mound of earth that rose over her head. She did not falter in her steps as she scaled the pile in a few sure-footed steps.
At the top of the pile was a dead songbird, its rib cage pried apart to reveal a mess of red blood and white bone. The symmetry of its insides was a macabre butterfly. Maria crouched down and lifted the bird in cupped hands. Its head flopped back, neck broken.
“I’m sorry, little one,” she said, running a thumb over the ridges of its ribs. It had been a pretty thing.
A large beetle landed on Maria’s wrist, antennae searching for the scent of blood that had led him to her. He had two orange stripes on his back, bright against the blue of the dead bird’s feathers.
Maria let the bird fall to the ground and plucked the beetle from her skin. She held him between her thumb and forefinger and watched as he it began to thrash his legs in a panic. She inhaled deeply and blew out a warm stream of air over his underside.
He stilled.
“Silphie,” Maria said, holding him up to the light. He twitched his antennae in recognition.
“Show me where it went, and I will let you go free.”
Silphie did not respond at first. His antennae waved back and forth, tasting the air for a long moment of consideration, before stretching his forelimbs wide in Maria’s grip. She released him, and he immediately it took to wing, orange stripes flashing as he circled her head once before heading deeper into the forest. Maria followed, the dead bird left in the mud as insects descended upon its bounty.
Silphie flew a lackadaisical path. He turned a corner and then, changing his mind, turned back. Maria let him lead, stepping over roots and stones with care. A tree to her left had a gouge cut into its bark that oozed red blood.
Somewhere in the branches, a bird let out a mournful wail, long and low. Another bird replied. Maria tilted her head back, watching the flashes of blue feathers as they hopped from branch to branch, and replied with a short tune of her own, high and sweet. The birds echoed it back to her.
Silphie finally decided on a path and, buzzing loudly as he dodged this way and that, led her to a clearing. He alighted on an oak tree that stood tall and pale, surrounded by the deep red tones of the cedars. Maria stopped there too, reaching out to touch its rough-hewn bark. A piece fell away beneath the brush of her fingers, a gift, and she palmed it gratefully. She looked up at Silphie, who was trembling against the oak. Perhaps in exhaustion, or in fear.
“Is it here, Silphie?” Maria asked. Silphie trembled harder, flattening himself against the bark before going still. Slowly, he extended his wings and took flight once more, circling the tree. Maria followed, watching as Silphie alighted on the head of the creature. It was seated on the forest floor, its back to the oak tree and its hands cradled to its chest.
It looked up at her with round, red eyes, blinking quickly. Its mouth was a dark, vertical slash across the centre of its face that opened wide when it spoke.
“Hello,” it said, voice a rasp.
Maria nodded her head in greeting.
“Hello,” she said.
“Where are the others?” it asked. Something thick and red dripped from its chin.
“You’re late,” Maria said, “They have already come and gone.”
“I see,” it said. Its neck creaked as it nodded, “Then I am alone.”
“Yes,” Maria agreed.
She held out a hand, the piece of oak bark revealed in her palm. Silphie landed on the bark and she crushed him between her fingers. The gush of liquid was blue.
The creature on the ground watched her.
“Was it beautiful?” it asked.
Maria nodded.
“And terrible,” she said.
“Ah,” it tilted its head back against the tree, “I would have loved to have seen it.”
“It is far too late for that now,” Maria said, extending her hand a second time. It gazed at her open hand, her pale skin stained red and blue with blood.
“Must I?” it asked, looking at her face, “There is poetry to be found here. I can feel it.”
Maria shook her head.
“It is far too late for that now,” she said again.
It closed its eyes.
“Indeed,” it said, “And yet the poetry is here all the same.”
Maria waited, hand extended, as it got to its feet with creaking joints. It shook itself, like a creature trying to dry its fur, and infinitesimal scales fell from it like dust. It turned to Maria and extended its hand. In its palm is the tiny heart of a bird, still beating weakly.
Maria reached out and took the heart as the creature reached out and took the bloodstained bark. They stood for a moment, arms connected in an unbroken circle, and watched one another carefully.
“I suppose,” it said after the moment had gone on too long, “That you will not tell them of this?”
“I will not,” Maria confirmed. It nodded, its mouth splitting its face into something like a smile.
“That is as it must be,” it said, “But I curse you all the same.”
Maria nodded.
“Likewise.”
They stepped away from one another, and with a hiss of wind through branches, the creature crumbled away into dust and bones.
In her hand, the little bird’s heart stopped beating.
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