Young Writers Society

I am just curious how this flows. Would you continue to read it? Thank you in advance!

Cael stands. The forest around him creaks as the wind bends limb and trunk, and the maze of trees stare back with intensity. Cael stands with his father, Mort, an old man with salt and pepper hair. They stand and gaze out towards the trees. Cael hears a sound. He is a young child, small and thin, and Mort, short for Mortimer, a name he hates, keeps his green eyes on the green pine trees ahead. Mort sees movement and turns towards the east where the sun remains high on the horizon. The sun corrupts his view. He settles a hand onto Cael’s shoulder with a firm grip and takes a breath. He now sees the beast. Mort draws his bow. The creature with white fur and intelligence bared fang and claw; the great white wolf, greatest in its’ pack, who stands a man tall; the wolf with fangs stained in yellow malice. Cael sees the red eyes. He smells the death of the valley they stand in; he feels the presence of the souls lost here in the middle of the wolves’ territory. Mort tightens his grip on Cael. His heart pounds against his ribs in rhythmic silence.

The wolf stays in the shade of the bushes; it continues to pace; back and forth then back and forth. Cael begins to worry; for a wolf to wait meant danger. Mort lifts his bow in a slow, controlled form. He fastens an arrow to the string and takes aim at the wolf in the shadows. Mort holds onto breath and fear; sweat soaks frayed leather pants and cotton shirt; wind continues to blow the tops of trees while time stands still. Mort strains eyes and ears, and uses his peripherals to check the surrounding areas. Minutes creep by. The wolf continues to pace. Mort senses distress in the beast. He sees the shallow movements and ragged breaths. He sees the red blood stained leaves on the bush the wolf hides behind. The beast is injured. Mort sighs in relief. Today is not a day it would attack. He undid his arrow in that same slow fashion, turns away, and kneels down to his son.

“We are safe. The pack will not attack without their leader. Are you watching?” Cael’s face mirrors indifference as he nods. “Do you see the blood upon those leaves? And the way the wolf paces?” Cael again nods. “Those are the kind of signs a proper hunter looks for. Those are the kind of signs that help guide one to safety my son.” Cael nods a final time, but he feels a fear deep down inside him that his father’s words could not cure. “Let us retrace our steps back to camp. This is a dangerous valley.” Mort says in an undecided tone.

Cael and his father retrace their steps. Their footprints remain fresh in the mud of the land called the Harsh-Wood, and the valley they stumbled upon marked the wolves’ domain. The valley, called the Snare, extends to the foot of high mountains called the Gray Faces. Mort lost sight of the road and brought them to that infernal place by mistake. He breathed easy. He and his son were safe. That realization did not shield him from the burden of blame; he and his son could be dead; next time he would be more careful.

Dry, brittle patches of grass cover the valley and crunch below Cael’s footfalls; dust swirls around his bare feet and accentuates the dryness around. The valley seems as dead as the smell that comes from it, and Cael feels sick. They walked many tree lengths since he awoke. His feet hurt; his mind a clutter; he thinks of home. His father roused him early to see the great waterfall that connects lake to river. Cael loves the sights of the forest and he had an unspoken love for the falls. He did not expect to see the wolf.

The wolf haunts Caels dreams each night. Dreams dreamt ever since the death of his mother. Cael, a boy of nine and a curious soul, passed into depression at the loss of his mother. At six the wolf pack stormed their camp and at six the great wolf ran down his mother who carried him upon her back. At six he saw the monster rip out her throat and at six he sat next to his mother as blood poured out in gargles of crimson. She was unable to speak; to say to her son one last time that she loved him, but Cael knew those would have been her words. Today he saw the beast and the fear once again.

Cael walks with Mort to his left. His mind drifts into a stupor and he floats off to that chaotic time, the memories that haunt his dreams. He kneels down next to his mother’s dirtied corpse and pounds onto her chest. He screams “Mommy… Mommy!”, but she died minutes ago. Blood stains his face, hands, and feet, and men pursue the wolves. Cael dares to look around. He sees the wolves begin to flee back to the forest afraid of the men that now hunt them. The white wolf cuts them off. It paws at them with malicious intent and they back off. Cael fixes his eyesight onto the scene and the red eyes of the wolf reach into his soul. The wolf backs up then snarls. The men follow and retreat. The maneuver went on for minutes until the wolf felt the tingle of leaves upon its back. “It’s smart,” Cael thinks as the wolf bounds away with blood soaked fur. Cael tilts his head up to the night sky. The stars twinkle above and the fluorescent moon kisses Cael’s cheek with light. “Mommy…” he whimpers as tears fill his face.

Cael stops at the edge of the Harsh-Wood. A tear leaks down his puffy cheek. “Son... Son...” Mort repeats. Cael shakes his head as if dazed. “Are you alright boy?” Cael nods and the words would not form. They never did. Mort places both hands upon the shoulders of Cael and looks down at him. Cael feels comforted by the touch of Mort’s calloused skin and the warmth of his solid green eyes that marks a man of the Harsh-Wood. Cael looks up. He sees his father; the scar across his cheek; the dark black hair that was also his.

“Let’s keep a move on then.” He says and turns around, haste in his step.

Mort pushes back limb and vine. The trees and bushes block their path for the Harsh-Landers never made roads or paths; they keep it simple to keep it safe. The Harsh-Wood had a glow to it; the green of the pines and elder trees were vibrant, the soil soft and mossy. The air feels thick as molasses but a soft scent of flower and dirt permeates in slow moving wafts. The pine trees were tall, but the elder trees leave them in shadow, and a sweet melody radiates off their roots and branches. Cael loves the elder trees. He climbs upon their limbs and sits at their roots. To him, they hum new music; at least that is what he believes, and with no mother, the trees seem the next best thing.

The walk back seems a short distance compared to the walk forward, maybe due to Mort’s newfound sense of location. Cael smiles a bright smile when he sees the smoke drift upward some two-tree lengths away. The branches and underbrush obscure their view, but home was close.

They shuffle through the bushes their camp use to conceal the location. Cael hears the sound of the Harsh-Lander’s small drums that pound a creative tune to the intimate ring of wind chimes that hang upon each elder tree; the music of the forest. Cael loves the sound. His mind wanders once more to his dreams.

The oldest ancestors planted the elder trees in the oldest days of Dain and bestowed each tree a name. Cael made it a priority to learn the names. There existed Goliath, Tiny, and The Misfit; Ash, Squirrel Haven, Dark Oak, and Little Friend. Each name depicted a story, but the story of The Misfit proved a mystery.

“How can a tree be a misfit?” Cael thought every time he passed that elder tree, but no adult had the answer and his imagination always wandered.

A branch taps Cael’s cheek and he sees Mort in front of him. He smiles for imagination, an unheard of language in the Harsh-Woods, births fear among the people. Cael understands why. People die often enough to create a blind fear of all things unknown. Imagination leads to many men’s downfalls and Mort reminds Cael of it every day. Cael kept his dreams a secret for this reason. The less the camp knew the better. Life is serious in the Harsh-Wood. Mort rants and raves about how Cael must remain in the camp; fairy tales and mystical creatures did not exist in the recesses of the Harsh-Wood. Death lies there, and that is all that lies there. Cael blames no one, especially not his father. Mort was just as scarred as Cael over the death of his wife, after all.

The pair breaks free of the bushes and Mort sighs, content. Cael notices the familiar air of the camp. Still. Watchful. The hum of the elder tree at the center of camp calls them home. Cael loves the idea of home, but pain resides there. The memories begin to creep back. He retreats into one of his favorite memories.

“Who are they?” Cael would say. “Where did they live? What were they like?” He knew other people existed within the Harsh-Wood, but his mother never would tell him.

Mort would laugh a deep resonate laugh. A laugh Mort always employed for Cael’s long list of questions.

“Slow down son. The history of the Harsh-Wood is long. Our people, the others, we came from the same place but split off somewhere in the ancient times,” and so Mort introduced Cael to the wide world of the Harsh-Wood.

“We are Middle Dwellers, son.” Mort drew a circle in the air and pointed a finger at its center. “We make our home within the center of the Harsh-Wood.” Cael looked at him, expectant, excited, like a child should.

“Well what about the others?” Cael said, unable to hold his enthusiasm.

Mort laughed. “We are important to the story as well. Give it time. I will get to them.” Cael looked down. He knew he needed to learn patience. Mort did not notice Cael’s flushed cheeks and continued.

“It is said that the forest originates from the first tree, the tree our ancestors are buried around. That marks the center of the Harsh-Wood. All life originated from that point.”

Cael looked toward Mort, curious and focused.

“At first there were just the men and the women and the children. It was a happy time; a time of unity. And then the wolves and other dark things came to the Harsh-Wood. Those who were abducted by the fear migrated the dense forest to find better shelter. Our ancestors had little for defense. Why would they? They were the only beings within these woods so when the dark things came, many died.”

Mort knelt down and pressed his hand upon the forest floor; dirt shifted below his weight; his eyes closed. His stance was one of remembrance, Cael knew. He sat and waited; quiet and respectful.

Cael began to think Mort forgot he existed and went to speak, but Mort returned to his upright position. “The Sky-Builders, smart men and women, took to the trees. They made strong houses out of elder tree wood when the trees were plentiful. The Exiles, they found sanctuary in the lands close to the outskirts. They felt safer, more room to run. Us Middle Dwellers, we stayed. The elder trees offered us song and warmth. They offered us hope. Who knows if we were smart to stay, but we still live.”

“Could we visit them some day?” Cael asked.

“Maybe, one day. I’m not the one to ask though. That would be up to your mother.”

Cael snorted. “I’ll be stuck her for eternity!” He rolled his eyes. His mother would not let him a tree length away from the house let alone let him travel to the Sky-Builders domain.

“What stories are you going on about?” Her voice broke the still air bred by father-son conversation. They both turned to meet her gaze. Mort’s wife. Cael’s mother. Her face was a bright, tan color; like honey. Her smile radiated love and longing. Cael loved that moment of pure bliss; the last moment he remembered them as a family.

The picture began to fade and Cael heard a noise in the distance. Mort.

“Come”. Mort says quick and to the point. He walks toward the first disheveled hut. Cael bends down and picks up a clump of dirt. He smells the oaky wetness of it and remembers Mort’s respectful stance for the forest. “Come boy.” Mort calls to him a second time, impatience in his voice. Cael notes that he stands near the first hut already. Dale’s place. “Maybe Tim was home.” Cael thinks, ignoring Mort’s glare. The boy takes another minute before he nods and walks on soft feet towards his father.

The path to camp feels hard on Cael’s bare feet; years of footfalls saw to that. He stares down as he walks, his father beside him, and a familiar voice breaks the silence.

“The forest speaks.” said Alby in a gruff tone that barely escapes his bushy black beard. He spoke the words with quick accent and articulation; words that were uttered often in the Harsh-Wood.

“To you and I” Mort replies in the same strict manner. The ritual means respect to the forest and to the trees.

“Y’boy still catatonic?” Alby continues.

“He is.” Mort spits back, a hint of venom to his answer. Cael looks up in time to see Alby’s eyes shift downward as if stung.

“I meant no disrespect to y’boy, Mort.”

Mort lowers his voice. Cael knows that tone well; the voice used to speak about his mother. Anger fizzles in his chest. “I’m nine years old.” He thinks to himself. “I’m not a child anymore.” He watches Mort and Alby converse in whispers. As they continues he hears his mother’s name; each syllable cuts deep into his soul. He bolts then; to the only place he of comfort. Mort screams his name. Cael knows that tone too, it means a hard night, but he cares not.

The main road that cut north to south through the camp twists between hut after hut. When horses walked upon the roads in the beginning of days its’ girth could fit five, maybe more. It was the busiest road within the camp. Cael notices each face: Angus the Butcher, Bree the Hostess, Desmond the Cook, Eileen the Craftswoman, and many, many more. They all utter a hello to Cael, but he runs past them with little acknowledge. The center was close.

Cael’s feet slap the impacted ground and throbbed from the exertion. His heart pounds. The anger inside him makes no sense. His mother dies and her name causes anger. He wants to feel sadness. He wants to feel at peace with her death but deep within his soul all he could render was anger. The anger fills his mind. It drenched his face with tears. So many tears. “It doesn’t make sense.” Cael thought. “This anger makes no sense. This darkness”. He began to feel faint and the world around him spins. A sweetness manipulates the air and catches his mind. He knows that sweetness. The center. The elder tree.

The sweetness stops his tears and his vision returns to normal. He catches sight of the memorial garden that circles the tree; blue cineraria are planted for the death of each Middle-Dweller. White ornate stone tablets are placed at the base of each flower that have the name of the individual etched into its’ face. If one looked upon the garden from the canopy above they would be graced with circular patterns of blue and white and blue and white. The memorial extends hundredths of feet from the center and Cael sprints the entire distance.