The Forest That Burned a real fantasy by Matthew Hughston Lowder From the first day he met her, he knew she would one day burn. She was beautiful, well-manicured, and honestly every-thing a grouping of trees could be, from the curves of the tree tops to the delicate bushes on her forest floor. One day, the forest’s landowner abandoned the land. No one knew where he went or when he’d be back. It was fine and good in the opinion of the townsfolk. That reclusive man had never taken very good care of the forest in their estimation. Because forests are work and no one else wanted the responsibility, the selfish and careless man took the job years ago, taking minimal care of her until he one day left. That’s how the townsfolk told the story. But he wasn’t all that selfish and careless, and should the peasants take the time to truly remember things as they were, they may have found a much different man in the very beginning. But for now, at long last with the slovenly landowner disappeared, the townspeople had a position which needed filled. They weren’t sure who would now take the task of tending to the forest, and to support this claim one needed only to go to any pub or barber in town where people chatted same as they drew breath. But the following month, with the town anxious as could be, a lone sheep herder arrived one damp and overcast day. He was a slender, soft spoken sort, with hair that was too long over his ears and a shirt that was too big for him—a shirt that would have been better used as a bag for potatoes than clothing for a man. He seemed hard-working and was interested in employment of any sort. Due to his clean slate and honest eyes—and because the town was non-judgmental and a tad naïve—the town elected him watcher of the forest with no objections. He soon moved with his sheep to the outskirts of the forest. The forest immediately improved. Within days, flowers were blooming again, fruit was ripening, and birds were flocking back. If they didn’t know better, they would have called it old magic. It was as if the forest knew someone had come along who would know what needed to be done and she would at last be taken care of properly. No one ever spoke of the predecessor, and the new young herder never asked any questions of the previous watcher, for he was happy to be paid. The townspeople came to congratulate him in the coming weeks, filled with parties in the firelight, dancing, and well-wishes for the new watcher of the woods. One evening after a season’s change, the original land-owner was rumored to be in the area. The rumors reached the herder that this predecessor frequented a small pub in the village on the other side of the hill. It was there a local man saw him and came to the herder and the townsfolk, whispering his return. People wondered if he was presently coming to visit the new watcher of the woods. If so, why? But this was all hear-say. The sheep herder didn’t know any hard truths and tried to convince himself he wasn’t curious. He knew nothing about the former watcher and had no interest in him nor reason to think of him badly. The herder decided to be polite should they meet, but nothing more or less. But the young herder did grow curious that night. In the morning, a dentist at the market gave the herder a message. This dentist had run into the predecessor the previous night while at the bar on the other side of the hill visiting his brothers. When the herder asked what his name was, the reply was VanDraaden. VanDraaden rode his one-horse cart into their village just at sundown that day. His gray beard framed in remnants of receding browns, his eyes bleary and sad, but he somehow smiled to those he passed despite his appearance. He would keep what dignity he could. It should be apparent that, small towns being what they are, though VanDraaden only spoke to the one dentist the previous night, the word of such a strange arrival had arrived before the man. He simply showed up, uninvited, outside of the sheep herder’s cottage on the edge of the forest. Neither man said anything when the young herder brought water out to the traveler. The last of the sunlight was withdrawing around the great hill, and the earth was cooling. The two had never formally met until now, in the twilight with the lightning bugs. They sat on two tree stumps in front of the herder’s tiny home of moss, oak, and clay—more of a hut or cabin than a true cottage. Then, at last, minutes feeling like hours to the herder, the old unshaven gentleman congratulated the younger man on his good fortune, but also gave warning. “I know what you would warn, VanDraaden.” “So the town has not forgotten my name?” “I have no need for advice from a man incapable of handling his job, though since I don’t know you as a man, I have no reason to hate you either. You are welcome to food and water and to stay the night, but in the morning I ask you leave.” “It’s always good at first,” the broken man told the new groundskeeper, bobbing his head as though he had no control over his movements. “It won’t be like building a porch or milking a goat or bailing hay. A porch can have you hammering your thumb, a goat you may wrestle to stay still, and hay can flutter and toss in the wind. But there are other challenges that come with watching those woods. Things that are out of your control.” “I’m sure I can watch the season change and keep her healthy, sir. To begin with I’m gravely unfamiliar with failure and I don’t intend to start now. Young I may be, only twenty, but every task given to me by my father and grandfather before I set out on my own I have completed.” “Is that so?” “In stellar fashion.” “How long have you been on your own, boy?” “Almost a year,” he said, nearly imperceptibly tilting his chin toward the sky. VanDraaden chucked, scratching the stubble on his neck. With a deep inhale, his words danced in a higher register. “Though her trails and streams are wide and winding, straight from a fairy tale, you must be careful, boy,” he said with a pause, returning to his raspy grumble. “A forest is still a forest. And a wild thing she is.” The young sheep herder told the man he would be cautious, but he had to leave to put the sheep down for the night. “I understand the task at hand,” the herder said. “What potential problems could there possibly be? All forests have imperfections.” “Aye,” said VanDraaden, standing up from the tree stump with difficulty. “That’s certainly true. But it’s not until you get inside one and start looking around that the flaws begin to rise.” “It’s only a forest,” said the herder. “That’s what I said too, my boy,” his words danced high again. The herder closed his eyes. “It’s not Boy. It’s Theo.” “Theo, then,” VanDraaden said, “It’s hard to tell the difference between something you think you want from something that’s good for you.” “Are you done, sir?” The middle-aged man harrumphed, then whispered, “I must be on. Best wishes.” VanDraaden left without another word, out the way he came, on his one-horse cart. That night under the stars, only a stone’s throw away from the edge of the forest, Theo’s mind wandered and worried until he fell asleep, the final notes of VanDraaden’s lyrical warnings lulling him to sleep. Things were good for that first year, even through the first winter. Most days he would sing to the forest, alone, and began believing he really connected with her. The forest became his entire world and he began talking to her. Theo loved the forest and she returned his love with tranquility, shade, and the twittering buzz of life. With time, to be closer to the forest and its beauty, the sheep herder abandoned his sheep and the cottage and began living in a tent in the forest’s center. “Others can tend to my flock,” he said to a concerned blacksmith one day. “The sheep won’t miss me. Another can live in my cottage. I won’t need it anymore now that I have the forest.” The blacksmith found something familiar in Theo’s words and actions, but failed to recall the déjà vu precisely. And so the herder sold nearly all his possessions, and the townsfolk who had become used to his presence at the mid-week market and on Sunday church services began to see less and less of their admired caretaker. The forest began to consume dear Theo. Another year passed. And like all forests that have been around a few years—like other vegetation that gets used to its rich soils—the forest became entitled and spoiled. She assumed she would always have a tight cropping around her edges, and Theo would do everything for her. Her vines and foliage began lazily expanding beyond their ideal boundaries. Suddenly the forest wasn’t as taut and defined as she once had been. Theo didn’t understand. Things were so perfect in the beginning. Now the forest stopped blossoming like she once had. The townspeople saw the changes from afar and made the trip down into the valley to visit Theo and make sure everything was alright. No one gave voice to their fears that it was happening again. The density of the air was different around the forest. The quality of the grass was unfamiliar. The hunters in the village began having a more difficult time hunting for quail and geese than ever before. The forest was diminishing and felt exhausted. “Don’t worry,” Theo fumed. “My forest is fine. I’ll fix this.” Quite irritated, he marched into the forest and told her that she had let herself go and it was time to trim. The forest didn’t like hearing that. Theo was doing everything he had ever done for the forest—and then some. He continued flowering her with praise and song and mulch and tender care. The townspeople came into the forest one day offering to help him, but he snapped at them, telling them he didn’t need their help. He had it under control. He was all she needed and so he pushed others away. He wanted his forest to have all the water and sunshine she could ever need. To make things perfect again, he demanded no one enter the forest until further notice. Hesitantly, the townspeople agreed. Money passed hands in the pubs as bets were collected. Theo went to the center of the forest and told the forest not to allow anyone in. The forest belonged to him and no one else and must remain pure if she was to return to her former glorious state. He said no one else understood her beauty and only he could take care of her properly. “Let no one in,” the herder told the forest. “I’m all you need now.” And for a while, he thought things were getting better. But then, a morning came where the herder, who no longer herded much of anything, came upon other men trespassing in the forest. Theo was irate. How could she do this to him? This was the biggest shock of all to the herder. How could he have been clearer in his request? He couldn’t believe she would let people inside her; after he had posted signs at the forest’s perimeter and in town up the hill. Surely the forest should have denied entry to the wanderers. It’s almost as if the forest wanted the forbidden to enter, he thought. VanDraaden, the previous drunken landowner had warned him this would happen in a forest so tempting and perfect. Again, Theo said, “No, not in my forest. I’ll fix this.” And he killed the two men hiking in his forest. Immediately, leaves from the trees began to fall and blacken. He posted even more signs around the forest perimeter. She didn’t enjoy the dozens of nails being driven into her trees, but Theo didn’t care, drunk on obsession and control. The townspeople stopped talking to the herder who lived down in the valley and out in the woods. His title went from The Herder to Theo to the Hermit. Eventually, they even stopped talking about him with each other. He was another victim of the forest’s cursed offerings which were to be seen and enjoyed and loved by many, but the young watcher of the woods had become greedy. He became crazy with jealousy and paranoia. He began smothering her in attention. As much as he loved her, he scolded her. Anxiety could be felt down every trunk and even up in town. Theo knew he could make her more beautiful and more his own, but the forest was growing old and thin now. The forest began to make it clear she was growing tired of feeling owned. Her will and her fate were her own, and it was sending Theo into a manic state. Cold in his tent one night, Theo thought back to how this all began: when he was a selfless and friendly lad, taking care of the woods for the town, not himself. All that he ever wanted was a sanctuary; a heavenly, quiet place to enjoy his days with his sheep when he was away from the trials of life. Both the forest and Theo accused the other of selfishness. The forest couldn’t see what an incredible giving caretaker she had. No matter how he tried, she allowed her leaves to grow brown in April. Her bushes became mangled and twisted. Her blooms returned late in the season and thinner than ever. What had happened to the forest and the herder? He received a parchment from a courier one day. It was from the previous groundskeeper, VanDraaden, saying hello once more after all these years and asking how things were going with the forest. He requested Theo’s presence at the town pub on the other side of the hill. “What could he want,” Theo snarled to himself. “Likely he wants back the forest. Well, it’s mine now!” He tried to cast this VanDraaden out of his mind, but his curiosity ate away at him for a full day and night. Jittery and sleepless, Theo could take the paranoia no longer. He readied his horse for the short journey. Theo entered the pub and found the man he was looking for but he was barely recognizable. VanDraaden’s teeth were clean, his collar white, his tie crimson, his hair combed and oiled. “How did you know this would happen but I did not?” Theo yelled, starling the entire pub. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The former groundskeeper put his hand up to the bartender, motioning to him that everything was alright. The bartender put the shotgun back beneath the counter. “People are stubborn and must learn some lessons on their own,” the previous owner said simply, in a voice barely recognizable. “Nothing I said would have made you leave. I warned you once, friend. You saw the state I was once in. The forest did that to me.” “But why?” Theo hissed. “Some things we can’t control.” VanDraaden pointed out the window. “She’s no exception.” Theo went into a further rage. “But I’ve done all I can! I’ve given this forest sunlight and water and managed her in every way a man could. I’ve given her time and sweat and tears. And still she won’t stay pristine! Still she won’t keep others out! She’s mine!” he cried. “And all I want to do is take care of her forever! Why would she do this?” “Forests have a life of their own. They are living, breathing things. Not what we see them to be. Not what we hope them to be.” As VanDraaden went to bartender for two ales, the young Theo sat slack-jawed. He was years older than he was when he first took on this task, but felt even more tired in his soul. Meanwhile, VanDraaden, a man nearing fifty, appeared years younger now. Theo wished for the wisdom and good fortune to see things from the perspective of an outsider. He wished he had not been so smitten by the forest—then he might have seen things more clearly. Like the previous man who had tended to the forest, maybe Theo could have escaped the spell earlier. His lack of preparation to truly handle the cursed responsibilities deeply upset him. He was just a stupid herder, he thought. A herder with no sheep to herd. Theo continued to drink with the clean-shaven man deep into the night. It was a new moon that evening and the trail back to the other side of the hill was long and dark. Theo, now frustrated and drunk beyond reason, disappeared into the night. VanDraaden trotted off to the Inn. For three days, Theo ate and drank nothing and wandered the forest. On the third day of sulking and fasting and hollering at nothing, he came to the forest center, ran to her, between withered trees and bone-dry streams, and arrived where his scattered camping gear, cookware, and hunting supplies lay beneath her breath-taking canopy. It must remain pure, he thought, and he screamed. His scream was like that of a bear. The birds lifted above the forest canopy, away to safer grounds. Theo began flipping over tents and benches. He had cut his arms in the process but felt nothing. Crying and yelling up into the far away branches, he screamed, “Why must you cause me so much pain! Do I not give enough? Why are you not like before? Tell me to cut myself and I’ll give you all my blood! Tell me to give you the sun and I will move the earth closer to it! Is it so much to ask that your borders stay fair? That your bushes be not unwieldy? What am I not giving you?” All at once, thousands of leaves began falling around him like an act of God. In his fury and confusion the heart-broken caretaker began a fire. Now, if you asked him today if it was truly an accident he wouldn’t be able to tell you. But that day Theo threw everything into the small controlled blaze, including his own tent filled with poems written on paper, his sketches of her trees—everything. Some say his intention was only to destroy his possessions. Alas, the fire grew and began climbing the bark and brush of that which possessed him. Theo called upon the townspeople to help stop the flames, but nothing could save the forest. Her inferno burned for seven days. It’s glow could be seen from the other side of the hill. It became uncontrollable, as VanDraaden at the pub said it would. During those seven days, the buckets of water from the surrounding wells were not enough. The town would lose the forest, Theo would lose his character and trust and integrity with the townspeople, and the broken herder would have nothing to show for his dedication. His first failure and deepest life lesson. No one could help him, and the fire raged on. All was lost. When the roasted bark and ash and the brittle twigs settled days later, and the area was cool enough to enter once more, Theo took a devastated walk through what was once his forest. His emotions were so scattered that he honestly didn’t know what could have been fixed to avoid what had happened. His faith had been overconfident. She was gone now, burned to the ground. Part of him still blamed the selfish forest; another part blamed his own carelessness. He approached the end of his hours’ long walk, tears streaming down his face with anger and regret in his heart. But all at once, Theo’s breath caught in his throat. He had come upon a single untouched sprig, a green and leafy sprout in the charred gore that made up the forest floor. He bent down slowly, genuflecting in a church, and smoothed away the surrounding black soot to better see the condition of the young sapling. Indeed, something had survived. It wasn’t much, but it was a promise that with a little nurturing this young man would one day be ready again for another relationship with the Wild, and with any luck, such a fate would not occur again. Five days later, the clean-shaven VanDraaden returned to his pub on the other side of this hill, and there was a roll of parchment for him. He took the roll from the bartender, already knowing who it was from. It read: What’s burned is burned but it’s not the end of the world. Just the end of one forest. No one ever saw Theo again. And with time, the townspeople forgot his name and his plight. Theo eventually became known as the previous caretaker. Decades later he was forgotten completely. Centuries later the town was abandoned and forgotten as well. Forests were called different things by different civilizations through the ages, but they remain always. The lands and the mountains changed only a little but stayed the same for the most part, as did the habits and mistakes of Man. thank you for reading, MH
Posted on: Sun, 01 Sep 2013 15:14:52 +0000
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