The Forest Beyond the Earth

by Matthew S. Cox

  The Haven will protect me. If it can stop Tree Walkers, it can stop giant bugs. She grabbed one of the bars on the door, pushing at it to make sure he’d locked it. When it refused to swing open, she breathed a sigh of relief, and again clamped her arms tight around her legs.

  Mother, please keep Dad safe.

  Quiet Time

  -7-

  Wisp escaped a dream of running through endless forest. She jolted awake, curled up on her side, safe and warm in her Haven. The nightmare of the Tree Walkers, a churning wall of vegetation and grasping vines chasing her, had plagued her as long as she could remember.

  She lay still, not opening her eyes, letting her mind steep in the truth that she did not have monsters nipping at her heels. A haze of still, warm air hung within the blanket-covered Haven. Trickles of sweat dribbled across her back, and the glow of mid-morning sun upon closed eyelids tinted her vision red.

  Lingering fear and confusion from her sudden leap to consciousness kept her silent and still for a while until reality seeped into her mind, shooing away the dread of her old nightmare. She’d had that dream ever since she’d been tiny, always the same thing: trapped in the forest alone at night, trying to get away from a rushing wall of vegetation and grasping vines―the Tree Walkers. As she grew older, the dream happened less often, but every time she fell asleep while scared, it happened again. She didn’t bother sitting up―or even rolling onto her back―trying to sort out what had happened last night, if indeed anything had. Giant insects couldn’t be real? Surely, if such creatures roamed the Earth, she’d have seen one long ago. Of course they couldn’t be real.

  I dreamed it. There’s no such thing as huge bitey-bugs.

  She struggled to open her eyes, but a thick layer of crumblies had glued her eyelids shut. Wisp reached up with one hand and wiped the gritty annoyance away, and kept pawing at her face until she ceased brushing granules off her cheeks. She peered out at the oversaturated pinkish orange of her little chamber. Bands of shadow from the Haven’s bars wrapped over her right thigh, which peeked out from the split in her skirt. She fixated on a trickle of sweat gliding down her leg to where her knee touched the thick padding.

  “Oh. I slept too late. It’s almost midday.” She took a few breaths, trying to wake from the heavy fog of oversleeping. “Dad?”

  Wisp listened to the silence for a little while before the memory of last night―Dad rushing her into the Haven, looking terrified―hit her in a flood. He’d grabbed his rifle and run out to protect her from the giant buzzing insect.

  “Dad!” shouted Wisp.

  Forgetting herself, she shoved upright on her knees to call for Dad again, but her head smacked into one of the overhead bars. She grabbed her skull in both hands and fell back over sideways, making random mewls of pain. Once the hurt faded enough for her to attempt moving again, she rubbed her scalp and pulled her hand back to check for blood. Fortunately, she hadn’t cut herself.

  “Ow.” She cradled her head where she’d cracked it into the metal. “Dad needs to make the Haven bigger.”

  She thought back to being six or so when she could still stand up inside it. At some point, she could kneel up tall, but now, she had to sit. With her rear end on the padding, only a few inches of space remained overhead. The Haven had protected her from the Tree Walkers every night as long as she could remember, and during the day whenever Dad went away on trips. She adored the safety, but a little more room would be nice.

  “Dad?” asked Wisp, then yelled, “Dad?”

  When no reply came, she grasped the bars of the Haven’s door and rattled it. Still, Dad didn’t yell from the outhouse asking her to wait a moment, nor did he come over to let her out. She sat cross-legged, wearing a sour face and picking a thumbnail at one of the bars. Sweat continued to roll down her back and over her belly.

  Wisp stuck her hands out past the bars and gathered the blanket upward. Cool air blew over her, and she fanned herself while taking a few deep breaths. A bit of tugging and pushing got the blanket wadded up on the top of the Haven, leaving all the sides exposed and air moving freely.

  She raised her arms and stuck her feet out past the bars at the end, stretching until she collapsed in a slouch. The shelves behind her, between the Haven and the wall, held over a hundred books, most of which she’d at least tried to read already. Dad once told her the ones she didn’t like would be better when she’d gotten older. She’d accused the ones on the bottom shelf of being too boring and making no sense, until he mentioned she’d been trying to read old school textbooks like a story. That, of course, required an explanation of school.

  It’s like how I’m teaching you to read and everything, only instead of one dad and one daughter, its one adult and a whole bunch of children.

  Eyes closed, she savored the memory of his voice in her thoughts. Her mind drifted off, trying to imagine what it would be like to have other people to talk to. Or children for that matter. Except for the marauder the other day, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen someone other than Dad and Mother―or if she ever had. She’d read of other people, but had no frame of reference for what anything the words described really looked like.

  With a sigh, she looked back toward the end of the Haven facing the cabin’s front wall. Her water jug, still only half-full, sat beside a pair of metal coffee cans. She crawled over and pressed her face up to the bars, wondering if Dad had left her food while he’d gone off on a hunting trip, but both appeared empty.

  Dad didn’t leave food, so he won’t be away long.

  She leaned back to sit, idly tapping her big toes together while making random silly noises. A while later, she glanced at the bookshelf, but didn’t feel much like reading due to worry. He always told her before he went off on a trip, never simply disappeared. Wisp spent a few more minutes tugging and rattling at the Haven’s door and calling out for Dad, but he didn’t answer or show himself.

  Again, she crawled to the end of the Haven, this time peering over her water bottle at the door to the Mother Shrine a few feet away. “Mother, please tell Dad to come home. He needs to open the Haven. I have to let the bad water out.”

  Mother didn’t say anything.

  Usually, that made Wisp happy. Dad once told her that people in the Other Place have to work so hard to send their voice back to the forest that she would only ever speak if Wisp had been a bad girl. So far, Mother had never said a word. Grinning to herself for being a good daughter, Wisp sat with her legs bent to the side and ran her fingers down her hair, thinking about how Dad would often say how pretty it was. Mother had long, straight hair, too, only dark brown instead of bright blonde.

  Wisp called out for Dad on and off for another few minutes, until the need to let out the bad water verged on painful. She grabbed the bars, shook the door, and screamed, “Dad! Let me out!”

  Her voice echoed in the silence. She froze, gripped by a sudden fear she’d been bad. Never had she raised her voice like that. Near to trembling, she turned her head to peer at the entrance to the Mother Shrine. Her imagination pierced the old, brown wood, picturing Mother’s wrinkled face staring back at her. Dread stopped her from breathing for a few seconds, wondering how the voice would sound. If Wisp ever did bad, would Mother speak like a person or would her words scratch at the air, creaky and dry like her body?

  Mother said nothing.

  “Whew…” She slumped, leaning her head against the bars. I understand. I’m not yelling at Dad. I’m yelling for Dad. “Dad! Where are you? I gotta let the water out!”

  She pulled at the soft bedding, trying to move it out of the way before she had an accident. Beneath the inches-thick padding lay more bars, and floorboards marked with blotchy dark stains. She picked a finger at a discolored patch, remembering what Dad said about babies just making ngh wherever they happened to be at the time. It didn’t smell at all, so if the stain meant she’d made ngh in the Haven, it had to have been a really long time ago.

  “Dad!” shouted Wisp, shaking
the door. “Please!”

  She glanced back and forth between the door to his room and the front door. No sign of Dad appeared. Her need to let the bad water out worsened; any second now, it would happen whether she wanted to or not. Eyes locked on the cabin’s front door, she struggled at the bars, but the Haven’s square door refused to do anything but rattle.

  Desperate, Wisp reached out past her water bottle and grabbed the largest of the empty coffee cans, one with a rotting black-and-yellow label. A modified bar by the bottom corner nearest the bookshelf created a wider opening specifically for that can. Anywhere else, it wouldn’t fit between them. This can, she used for bad water and sometimes ngh when she had to spend long periods in the Haven because Dad had gone off somewhere. At least he didn’t make her clean it after; that, he always did for her. The can offered a much smaller target than the outhouse seat, but she managed to avoid creating a mess. Once she finished, she continued hanging on the bars over her head for balance, too overwhelmed with relief to move for a little while.

  Eventually, she eased herself down to sit, and, careful not to spill any, set the can outside the Haven as far as she could stretch her arm, but not so far she couldn’t retrieve it the next time she had to let out bad water. Deflated, Wisp sat cross-legged with her chin in her hands, confused, and worried―even a bit annoyed at being locked in.

  I’m not little-little anymore. I can go with him!

  She waited for some time, long enough that the few errant droplets on the wood evaporated, then smoothed her bedding back in place so it filled the entire bottom of the Haven. The lush padding she’d slept on for years was so thick and soft she couldn’t feel the bars beneath it. Wisp lay back with her fingers laced behind her head and her legs tucked close, feet flat on the cushion, knees pointing straight up. She stared up at the pink-orange blanket overhead, trying to understand why Dad would leave her in the Haven all day. He hadn’t said anything about a trip, nor did he set out any dried fish or deer meat as he usually did.

  The chirp of birds outside and the gentle rustle of wind in the treetops kept her company for a long while. Every so often, she yelled, “Dad?” but he didn’t answer. Wisp rolled onto her side and clutched the bars by her face, ‘hugging’ them because they reminded her of how much Dad loved her and wanted to keep her safe from the Tree Walkers. Even if he couldn’t be here, the Haven would protect her.

  Wisp stretched her legs, placing her feet on the bars at the end. After a moment, she found herself pushing on them, wanting to get out and stand up. A sense of being confined crept into her thoughts. She cringed at herself, ashamed that she could somehow be annoyed at her Haven. Dad made it out of love, to keep her safe.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered to Mother.

  She held still for a tense moment, but relaxed when Mother didn’t scold her for thinking bad thoughts about the Haven.

  Daydreams took her back to a time when Dad left her home alone for two days. She’d been eight years old then, but he’d spent at least half a day explaining about the trip and that she’d have to stay in the Haven while he was gone so the Tree Walkers didn’t get her. Wisp remembered crying so bad she couldn’t see straight when he told her, not wanting to be away from him that long, but he had to go for food. He’d left her with a sack of dried salted fish filets, three jugs of water, and of course, the big can to use as an outhouse. Back then, she could almost pace around inside the Haven while stooped, even stretch and such… but now?

  Getting bigger stank.

  Wisp idly kicked at the bars, resenting that she had to stay inside. Just the other day, Dad trusted her to go on a walk for the first time. I’m twelve! I’m not a little kid anymore. She sat up and grabbed the bars of the door, rattling it hard. I’m old enough to go with him! Had he noticed how frightened she’d become when the marauder got close? Of course, she’d thought a Tree Walker was coming for her, not a man with leather armor. That had to be it. Dad saw her act like a scared little girl and decided she couldn’t go out again.

  She sulked, ashamed of herself for getting frightened so easily. Minutes crawled by. She sulked, picking dirt from under her toenails, and decided to kill some time with the file, as her nails had gotten a little long. Wisp’s cheek mushed against her knee as she worked, sawing the file back and forth. By the time she finished both feet and all ten fingers, Dad still hadn’t come home.

  “He’s gone hunting… That’s right. I asked for a boar.”

  After taking a few sips of plastic-flavored water from the bottle, she reached out between the bars and snagged a book off the shelf. He didn’t leave me any food, so he won’t be gone too long. Wisp settled back against the inner wall, pillow behind her head, and began reading Watership Down.

  The made-up world filled her head, taking her out of the Haven where she spent hours in a world only slightly less scary than the one she lived in.

  Eventually, a snarl from her stomach distracted her from the pages, and made her aware of a growing discomfort in her bladder. She blinked at the thickness of the paper in her left hand, surprised at how far along she’d gotten in the story. The daylight coming in the window by the high shelf appeared to be weakening.

  “Oh, no… it’s almost dark! Dad!” Wisp tossed the novel aside and shifted around to face the Haven’s door. She paused a second, glaring back at the book while grumbling at herself for losing her place. “Dad! I don’t have any food! Where are you?”

  She shook the door, clattering the bars, but the metal refused to yield. The shelf of jars holding what little food remained in the cabin sat a short distance away against the back wall of the room, but as much as the Haven protected her from the Tree Walkers, it kept her away from the food―or anywhere else. Trembling started as her mind scrambled to come up with an explanation. Dad didn’t leave her any supplies. He hadn’t told her about going anywhere. A giant insect had buzzed the cabin last night, and Dad went to make sure it didn’t hurt her.

  What if something bad happened to him?

  Wisp curled up in a ball, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair. If Dad went to the Other Place while she stayed safe inside the Haven, no one would open it for her. She’d never be able to get out and find food. Soon, she’d wind up in the Other Place, too. But, if he’d made the Haven out of his love for her, wouldn’t it disappear if he journeyed to be with Mother?

  “No. Love is forever.” She squeezed the bars, gazing up at the shelf where the opener sat beneath a can. Again, the bad thoughts came. She wanted to leave the Haven. She didn’t want to go to the Other Place yet, and certainly not by way of starving. That, she’d read about in more than one book, and it did not sound fun. A man trapped on a desert island with nothing to eat had a little more room to run around in, but their situations did not sound too different.

  Idly tracing her hand back and forth over her growling stomach, she stared longingly at the jars of bugs and greens. For the first time in her life, her Haven almost scared her.

  “Mother? Can you open the Haven, please?” She tapped her toes, waiting. “Well, no… she’ll only talk from the Other Place if I’m bad. I doubt she can touch things.” I should probably try to get out.

  Worry about Dad being upset if she somehow got out of the Haven kept her still and silent for the better part of the next hour. Flat on her back, she eventually gave in to fear and began shouting, “Hello?” or “Dad?” every few seconds. Right around the time her throat became sore, she decided to stop―and felt foolish. In twelve years, she’d never seen another person until the marauder. Who, exactly, did she expect would hear her shouting?

  Frustrated, she double-kicked the door.

  The Haven shook. It almost seemed as though the whole thing moved. She glanced around the enclosure, examining all the places where the bars touched each other and turned blue-black. Dad had created the Haven from individual rods, using magic to make them stick together, the same magic that the Tree Walkers couldn’t break. But, more and more, the fear that something bad had happ
ened to him got her restless. Too many things felt wrong about this: he hadn’t said anything about going away, didn’t leave her food, and he’d gone out right after they heard a giant bitey-bug flying around.

  She grasped the bars in both hands, peering up at the shelf where the opener sat beneath a can. Dare she do something? Could she do anything but wait for him to return and hope she didn’t starve? From as long ago as she could remember, Dad had made her learn the rules:

  “Never go outside the cabin without Dad.

  “Never get more than two steps away from Dad.

  “When Dad’s not here or asleep, I have to stay in the Haven.

  “Never shout or yell, because the monsters will hear me.”

  Wisp needed the Haven to protect her if he wasn’t here, or else the Tree Walkers would swoop in and take her away forever. She shivered at the thought, but a sliver of doubt crept in. For years, she’d been terrified of that happening, but the more she thought about it, the stranger it sounded.

  How could the Tree Walkers know I’m not in the Haven?

  She extended her right leg out past the bars and set her foot on the floor. That should fool them. If the Tree Walkers could sense her being vulnerable, exposing herself (even one foot) should make them appear. She’d only have to pull it in the second anything happened, and she’d be safe.

  “I’ve got a foot out,” said Wisp, staring at the front door. She waved her leg around, spread her toes, and stomped on the floor. “See? I’m out of the Haven? Come get me.”

  Five minutes later, she extended her other leg past the bars. She waited, barely breathing, watching the front door for any indication the living forest would come to take her. The only sign of life came from distant birds chirping. She patted her feet on the floor back and forth to sound like she walked around.

  Still, no Tree Walkers came rushing in.

  “Oh, I’m being silly.” She sighed. “It’s still day out. I have time.”

  Again, she stared up at the shelf. Even if the Haven sat directly beneath it, she’d never be able to reach. Disappointed, sad, and a little afraid of starving, she bowed her head. Wisp sank to the side and curled up, asking Mother over and over to bring Dad home fast while her stomach growled. She thought of how happy she’d been only yesterday beside the stream, eating fish. Worry for him brought tears, but they soon gave way to her wanting fish.