The Reborn Forest

by Renee Bradshaw

  It was dangerous during those changing times to be curious. Back then, not everyone believed. Now, everyone believed. Believe or be mulched.

  …

  She worked for hours lost in her own thoughts and memories before sensations of being watched crept up her back. The reborn watch all. Her father’s voice was the one to warn her that time.

  “Just sad memories,” she muttered, looking at the nearest tree. Memories and these damned eyes in the bark.

  She pushed the spooky sensation away as long as she could stand it. Then she took a deep breath and pushed the feeling away a little longer. When she walked to a new spot to bury the twelfth urn, the hairs on the back of her neck raised. She spun around and found herself face to face with a pair of unmoving, focused yellow eyes peering at her from a rather large hole in the closest tree.

  Fear fell away, making room for confusion. What is this? Then the word fell forward from the musty back lot of her mind where it had been stowed for many years. Information from history books she had devoured as a child.

  Owl.

  Gray with dots of white, and intelligent eyes trained on her face, the owl was the stillest living thing she had ever seen. His motionless feathered chest was like a magnet, and Mara’s hand extended without thought. Something so statue-like could not be real. Not alive anyway.

  The owl’s head pulled back into its chest as her unsteady fingers closed in, and Mara jerked back. The movement was so inhuman. Of course it’s inhuman, an owl isn’t human is it? Mara cringed at her foolishness, stepped back, and caught the heel of her boot on a rock jutting from the ground. Hands grasping at the nothing around her she landed hard on her butt and cried out.

  The owl leapt from the hole. He moved quickly, but there was a grace to his movement where Mara had been clumsy when she startled. Sure he would attack, she covered her face.

  Nothing happened. When she lowered her arm, she saw he had only moved higher in the branches. She sat for a moment, inspecting him, unsure if she should stand or crab walk away from him.

  “Who?” he said. Owls speak? There was an intelligence in his eyes, one that was not present in city pets, but speech ability?

  “Mara Strongholder.” She forced the name out of her mouth, hoping that would satisfy his curiosity, but he pronounced ‘who’ again and again. By the fifth ‘who’, Mara realized he was not asking a question. “You aren’t speaking at all, are you?”

  He did not answer, but ducked his head. With a careful eye on her companion, Mara pulled herself to standing. She grabbed the case with the remaining two urns, glad she had not yet removed the twelfth urn before seeing the owl, and walked backwards. She moved until she no longer saw the owl.

  As much as Mara respected the honor of the day, she ached with hunger and exhaustion, and wanted to finish. She would not let wildlife get in the way, no matter how fascinatingly frightening he was.

  Who rang through Mara’s head as she squatted and dug into the earth. Who certainly was the operative word of the day. She did not know who she had rode the bus with, whose souls lived in the trees surrounding her, or who was in the urns she buried.

  She turned the next urn over, searching for any kind of label or code to make this one different from the first eleven. There was no way to tell anyone apart. Everyone was anonymous in The Reborn Forest.

  The urn was as blank as the bark that surrounded her. Empty, forgotten souls. Her mother was in the forest somewhere. Mara had never thought about where she was until this moment. But, she would have given anything to curl up next to her mother, reborn or alive how she remembered her.

  Pat. Pat. Pat. Dirt on top of the twelfth urn.

  “Mother.” Mara traced the bark of a nearby tree, and if her mother had been there, she would have told Mara she was being silly. Her mother might have been on the Citizenry Herbalist Team, but she was a scientist before she was a believer.

  Mara spent most of her childhood hiding from her parents’ arguments. They would argue deep in the night when they assumed she was asleep. But her mother’s words had been so blasphemous, Mara stayed awake in sick fascination to hear what horrid thing she would say next.

  Her mother’s voice started in Mara’s head right then and she pushed the thoughts away. She would not think about her mother’s words while she was in the sacred forest.

  “Concentrate on your work,” Mara muttered, measuring for the final time. This part of her day would end soon. She pressed the shovel into the earth, pulling up dirt and digging around a strong root. The thirteenth urn was going under now. Final. She would be the last to say goodbye.

  She pressed the dirt down on top of the urn and her stomach growled. She had worked steady and quick until lunch without pause. And now it was time for part two of her day: the part not included in the plastic coated instructions. She gathered the tools and placed them all back in the case. Then she shut and fastened the lid.

  She would do her part, and then she would wait. She would flip that coin, and then she would flip it again when her task was done.

  Mara dropped the black leather sack from her shoulder and pulled out her sandwich in the cloth napkin, tomato and cheese on rye. She held it in one hand, and pulled the thin piece of wood from her breast pocket with the other. She turned the whistle over, and found the side Tayla had instructed her to use, the round side. Mara lifted it to her mouth, and blew with all her might, scared of the repercussions such a loud noise in the forest would have.

  But there was no sound.

  Mara shook the whistle, wondering if she would hear a broken piece rattling around on the inside. But nothing. She peered in the tiny opening to see if lint blocked the hole. Again, nothing. She raised it back to her mouth and blew. No sounds but the rustle of leaves, the occasional beating of wings against the air, the shallow footsteps and scampering of tiny woodland creatures.

  Mara slid the whistle back into her bag and cursed Tayla. She had given Mara a defective tool. Tears pricked her eyes as she realized the silent whistle would mean failure. She had failed everyone. Everyone except the thirteen nameless souls she had buried.

  She bit into her sandwich, and in her resignation, did not wipe at the tomato juice running down the side of her jaw.

  “Yes,” she said around a mouthful, “at least I didn’t let the urns down. Dead and faceless as they are.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Two Weeks Earlier

  “I already have an important task,” Mara said, twisting her fingers together. “The lottery is one of the most important assignments for a citizen.”

  “Yes, but what about a Citizen of Change?” Tayla asked.

  Mara squinted at the smudge in Tayla’s makeup. The offending wrinkle stared back at her. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Why do you look so young?”

  “It helps me get where I need to go with less questions.” Tayla touched a finger to the corner of her eye. “I have a young spirit, but even young spirits collect cracks.”

  Silence fell over the two like a candle snuffer, and Mara searched for courage. She needed to find the strength to flee, or the good sense to tell this woman to leave. Either way, she needed to act fast.

  “Mara, there is a whole world happening around you. A whole world of change and a wondrous life waiting for you. If you accept duties as a Citizen of Change-”

  “Stop.” At the mention of duties, images of police patrols, shootings, bombings, mulchings and weeping parents flooded Mara’s mind. She could not commit the crimes of hate and destruction that the city and the Citizens of Change were forced to carry out against each other. No matter what she thought of the Questioner’s bravery when she read the comics. In her fear, she found the courage to stand, and to step back from the table. “I don’t want to be a Citizen of Change. I want to be normal, and I want you to leave.”

  “Normal is boring. Your life is boring. Look around your world.” Tayla waved her hand around Mara’s apartment. “Everything’s d
ead. You have no color, no excitement. It’s not even real. It’s muted from the truth. Dia would be very disappointed if she could see how you waste your life.”

  The mention of Mara’s mother, and what she might have thought about her life, filled her with good old fashioned annoyance. “You know nothing about my mother or my life and have no right to speak like you do. You forget, all I need to do is run downstairs to the front office, and you’ll be mulched.”

  “I’ll be gone before you even hit the stairs, and you’ll be dead by nightfall tomorrow.” It did not sound like a threat and it did not sound like a plea to listen. She sounded as though she was only stating a fact.

  Fact. It’s raining out.

  Fact. My favorite color is purple.

  Fact. You’ll be dead by nightfall tomorrow.

  “Your mother is a very important person in our cause.”

  With this, Mara pointed to the door. She might not make it to the front office, but she would be damned if she listened to more blasphemy. “Lies. You break into my home, threatening my safety and livelihood within the city, then pretend like you know anything about my mother. Take your message and go.”

  “You aren’t even a little curious?” Tayla asked, cocking her head. Silver bangs fell into her eyes. “You must be curious… how we got you into the lottery. Why. Or what I know about your mother.”

  “No. If I listen, I’ll be implicated.”

  “But, how will they know? You can listen, say ‘no’, and walk away. The citizenry will be none the wiser.”

  “They know everything.”

  “Hmm.” Tayla pinched her brow, loosening another piece of makeup. She looked at Mara with pressed lips, then sighed, stood and slid her hands into a pair of thin black gloves. “I’m sorry our encounter went this way. We weren’t supposed to meet at all. I simply deliver.”

  Tayla tucked her hair behind her ears, unlocked and pulled Mara’s door open, and then skipped out.

  Mara stood for a moment staring at the dark wood door; a useful soul. More useful if it had actually kept Tayla out. She flipped the deadbolt and began the quick search of her small home. Searching for anyone else who might be hiding in the wait. In the cupboard. Behind the closet door. In the shower stall. All clear.

  Mara could not shake the feeling of being watched and checked the window lock. The window only opened a quarter of the way and should have been too small for someone to sneak through. Tayla’s appearance made her wary of any possible entry points.

  Positive she was alone with slim chance of quiet infiltration, she enjoyed a hot shower. Water pelted against her skin, washing away the day and allowing her to pretend she was somewhere else. Someone else. The steam worked to clear her mind, pulling the stress from her body into the air, then down the drain.

  Like all good citizens, a part of her wanted to stay in this way of life forever. The sameness of it all was comforting.

  Reliable.

  Stable.

  She knew when and where to be. She was capable of everything expected of her. What to do, wear, say, think. Once upon a time, people were given the too large task of deciding what to do with their lives. Every choice in a person’s hands. Too much. Too overwhelming.

  Not to mention the catastrophic outcomes when wrong decisions were made. Someone with a sharp aptitude for math and science deciding on a life as an artist, instead of one in medical, where they were destined to be. People working and studying too hard in fields because they wanted to, or heard a calling, instead of just going where they would do the best for everyone.

  Her mother loved the curiosity of children. She had once told Mara if given her own choice, she would have been a caregiver. Not an herbalist. But she tested high in the right fields.

  Or the wrong fields, depending on how one saw it.

  Her father taught Mara to deny the voices that called to her, and to instead follow the correct path. The path to filing and an office. Something lived noisy and unhappy in Mara. She ignored it. And when she had days that the voice inside told her she was different, and it would not silence, she combated with questions. Like a soldier might combat death with bulletproof vests.

  She had always known the loud angry voice inside was lying dormant ready to awaken. Her mother had known it; her father had known it. And now, the Questioners seemed to know it.

  Ever since the first time her father caught her with a Questioners comic, she never believed her day would come. She was young, so very young, and he asked Mara if she wanted to end up like her mother. Her mother had not been long dead, and Mara remembered her kind temperament, her beauty, and the sound of her laughter. She thought of all of these things when she said, “Yes, I want to be just like Mommy.”

  Her first grownup tooth cut deep into her cheek when her father slapped her. “Never say that again.”

  In that moment, she thought it was anger in his eyes, mistrust in his hand. But it was not until a college roommate lost her father to a mulching that she realized her father had been guided by fear. Her mother had not been a good citizen.

  Mara folded the table back against the wall and set about washing the dishes, drying, and putting them away. If there was a household inspection in the morning, she would not be caught looking like she entertained without a guest on the entry log.

  Mara checked the locks one more time, more out of habit than fear. The evening’s adrenaline leaving her body, she sat on the edge of her bed. Coming down from the excitement gave her body the illusion of growing ill; tired, sore, weak. And she had done nothing more than listen. Not even that much; she made Tayla leave before she listened.

  She would forget, pretend, and silence the voice inside of her. Be a good citizen.

  Mara pulled out her e-reader then lay down in bed. Pirates were her story of choice, and there was a new addition to her favorite serial. High seas and faraway lands.

  No sooner had Mara read the first sentence on the first page when she dropped her e-reader and sat up with a start. Tayla had left the message behind, alive and waiting for Mara to read.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mara fell back against the tree, surprised when she did not crash through the thin white trunk. As though a magnet pulled her down, her body was heavy and the earth moved around her. She allowed her eyes to drift closed. So tired. Or hungry. The hard work of the morning must have drained more of her energy than she expected, but she had not brought more to eat than her sandwich. A nap would have to suffice.

  A crisp breeze rustled the leaves and chilled the ground. She shivered and itched at a bump on her neck as shadows dashed across her eyelids. Birds darted across the sky, cutting through the sunbeams.

  She should not have been tired. She was in The Reborn Forest for the first time in her life, possibly her last. It should be an experience, the highlight of her boring and mundane tan existence in the city.

  Her tiny life paled against that vast forest, and somehow, excitement alluded her.

  Her hand flew to her neck as the itchy bump began to burn. A bug bite of some sort, she must have scratched it open without noticing. The burn changed from annoying to painful, and she pressed against the spot, hoping applying pressure would dissipate the sting. Just as she opened her mouth to curse, the burning sensation stopped.

  She did not have time to analyze the incident before the area around her became engulfed in a thick fog. She waved, hoping to cut through the gray, but only when it was inches from her face, did her hand become visible.

  A shuffle through the leaves. Another lizard? A squirrel? Then heavy footsteps. Human. Mara reached for her bag, not knowing what use it would be. But it was the only thing near her. Is this it? Have I been caught?

  “This is her?” An old woman’s voice. More footsteps approached.

  Mara’s mind slowed, and no longer did she feel heavy, but the entire world grew heavy around her. The air, thick and made of arms, pressed her into the ground. Like quicksand, first molding to her shape, then dragging her into darkness.
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  Pitch black.

  The only living thing surviving the darkness seemed to be the voices. Confusing words. Jumble of sounds. Baritone. Tenor. Cracked. Solid. Swirling disconnected melody.

  “Did she plant them all?”

  “Yes, but she’s still got the case.”

  Disjointed spurts of music.

  “Looks like her mother.”

  “…introduce them…”

  “…he won’t allow…”

  “Cover her eyes…”

  “Antidote…”

  “…too much…stretcher.”

  “…on the lookout…”

  The darkness claimed her ears, and the world disappeared.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Two Weeks Earlier

  The deciding moment sat on Mara, as heavy as a stone while thousands of thoughts ran over her like a river. The most puzzling thought, the one that made her laugh, she spoke.

  “Where are the lights and trumpets?” In the comics, there were always lights and trumpets when one received their message and became a Citizen of Change. Because they always chose the Questioner path. Because if they did not accept their new role that meant they chose evil. The comics made the distinction obvious. No one ignored their calling out of fear.

  Could she bury her head under the covers and pretend like the moment never happened? Or, did she run down to the office and report the break in?

  How would she explain her inactivity for the past hour as Tayla got away?

  Her inactivity.

  She did not react. A moment some people wait their entire lives for – chosen to help the Questioners – and Mara let that moment sit across from her with silver hair. Drinking water from her guest glass like she was Mara’s father.

  Just popping ‘round for a visit, Mara. Seeing how you’re doing.

  The temptation had not been strong enough then, to slink in the shadows, to do something important for the surrounding citizens. Even with Tayla in her home, representing a new life. Would a piece of paper change her mind?