The Moss Hag

Humans like to think that forests appear as miraculously as she does. One year there is an empty field, all grass and emptiness. The next there is a stand of trees, none wider around than I am now. Not so. She is needed: the Lady of the New Wood. She was like us once, a spirit bound to a tree in a forest of like upon like. But, she wandered. She found a place with soft soil and wet breezes. She took in souls lost and fluttering, and gave them a place to take root.

They call her the Moss Hag. They only see her when she is angry, so it is no surprise. She appears when they come into the forest with their axes and saws. When she sees too many of those, she steals the men away to her secret place. 

I have never seen her secret place. I don’t think any of us has. Some of my cousins think that it is outside the forest, but I am not so sure. I think she goes into a rock or mushroom or perhaps even the earth itself, like we fold into our trunks when we grow tired from a long day spent in the sun. 

Wherever it is, she spends an awful lot of time there. Besides when the men come, we only see her once every year, when she takes one of us away. This season, she has chosen me. 

I do not know what to say. The Lady’s request is not one to take lightly. She only requests those from the central woods, but these are not small. To be among all those between the creek and the ruins is to be one stick in many upon many. These and the all rest are here, all outside the protection of their bark. The entire forest must have come to witness the Lady’s choice. Well, all except one. 

I brush my eyes across a sea of faces I have known since I was a seedling. Most look resigned to the choice, the nymphs who know me from a distance. Those who grow nearest to my glade look back with wide eyes. We never think it will be one whose branches we touch. 

The Lady is waiting for my answer. She may once have been as great as any oak, but standing here now is a fragile little thing. She looks like nothing more than a loose skin of lichen draped around dried bones. Her smile, though. It is serene. She looks like she does not have much time left with us, yet her smile says she will wait for as long as I need. 

I take a step backward. Her smile becomes rueful, as if she recognizes something in my posture. I take another step. The eyes around me shift from surprised to confused. The eyes of all the forest, watching my cowardice. 

All except one. 

I turn and start pushing through the crowd. Voices erupt, first in protest and then indignation. I try to ignore them. I elbow my way through the press. There are so many of us. And they are all in an uproar. Some are shouting for me to turn back, others are pushing me to keep going. 

I finally break away from the crushing bodies.  I snap into a run. My feet carry me onwards and away from the shouts and jeers. Fallen leaves crush and squelch beneath me. Undergrowth claws at my skin, begging me to stop this foolishness.

My headlong sprint takes me to a place of silence. The shouts and expectations are far behind me. The trees’ leaves make no sound; there is no one inside to shake their branches. I keep running. 

I run through the still air until I reach his grove: the Grandfather Tree. Older than the forest, he was one in the first stand of the new wood, back in the early seasons of my home. His bark is a deep grey, peppered by gashes worn by time and woodpeckers. His branches are drooping and leafless. No one has seen him come out of his tree in a long time. Some of my cousins think he’s grown too old, that he has gone to that place beyond the felling and the rot. 

I collapse among his thick roots. Gasping and shuddering, I place a hand on his trunk. I beg for his touch, his voice, for some sign that he is still here and that he knows what to say. 

I wait for him. I wait until the sun begins to dip below the distant mountains and the nymphs return to their trunks for the night. Surrounded by the long shadows of the fading, reddish glow, he emerges from his tree. 

He is just as I remember him: short and hunched, with grey skin and deep cracks worn into his face by smiles upon smiles. The leaves around us shimmer and shake. 

I tell him about the Lady, about her choosing me. He asks why this troubles me so, but I have no answer. He smiles again, as though he has seen my like before. I am not surprised. He has seen a great many things. 

He leads me from his grove, through the trees and brush. He stops by a group of buttercup, instructs me to pick one. I ask him why. He does not answer. I study the flowers, their sunshine petals. I could not possibly choose one to steal from its neat cluster. But, of the seven, one is drooping more than the rest. Its petals lack the telltale sheen of its companions. I carefully pluck the aging stem from its roots and hold it out to the Grandfather. He inspects it for a few moments, then nods and begins leading me through my cousins’ branches again.

We politely pass around branches and leaves in the fading dusk. I keep my eyes on the Grandfather’s back. I whisper words of encouragement to the buttercup and gently stroke its thin petals. The sun’s last rays have followed her behind the horizon. Through the leaves above, the stars regard us in the dark upon dark. 

The ruins loom ahead, thick and hulking. The Grandfather once told me that these structures once rose above the tallest trees, with other stone buildings spread out far and wide across our field. This was in a time before even he was planted, before the Lady of the New Wood had found this place. All that’s left of this kingdom is a small collection of crumbling towers and the barest of foundations. 

He stops in the middle of the cracked walls. Moonlight reveals his silhouette against the ragged blocks behind him. He breathes deep. I do the same. The air smells of wet stone and fresh moss. 

He tells me that this smell reminds him of how it felt to be human. 

I have known him since I was a seedling, since before I had bark. I spent long mornings talking to him, long afternoons curled up in his branches. In all that time, he never once told me he was human. 

He takes the bloom from my hand. He explains that humans don’t have our other place, beyond the withering and age. When they fall, their soul is cast adrift. He caresses the buttercup and carefully bends down. He digs out a space in the dirt, and plants the wilting flower. 

He tells me that our Lady of the New Wood was not the first, and will not be the last. Every forest needs one to nurture it, help it grow. It needs the hands of one who understands. 

He sits with me in the shifting moonlight. A cold breeze makes him shiver. I tell him to return to his trunk, that I will be alright. He is quiet for a long time. 

He says that he misses the wind. 

Dawn comes. Without a word, we begin the long, winding walk back to his tree. As the sun’s kiss spreads across the dappled underbrush, my cousins appear from their trees. They look as I must have when I saw him emerge the night before. They approach us one by one, asking the Grandfather how he feels, hoping he stays long enough to talk and play. He declines them all, saying that he has been away from his roots for far too long. 

We return to his grove to find it filled with nymphs from across the central woods, talking and clamoring to see the figure standing at the old tree. They part for us, and grow silent as we pass. I lead the Grandfather down a corridor of bodies. I study their faces, most I have known my whole life. Some of the smaller ones are there too, staring up at me with wide eyes. I recognize a few of them as from my glade. 

We reach the middle of the crowd. The Lady of the New Wood is standing there, with her palm pressed against his trunk. The nymphs around us do not speak. If there are any in their trees, they keep their leaves still. The whole forest is silent.

The Grandfather approaches our Lady. He waits for her to finish her prayer. She does, and turns to him. In the morning glow, her skin takes on the fiery hue of an oak in early autumn. The Grandfather bows to her and wishes her well. She takes him by the hands and lays a gentle kiss on his forehead. He gives me a knowing smile before returning to his tree. The branches shift as he gets comfortable. 

The boughs above us grow still. She turns to me and asks, again, if I will come with her. I take a deep breath of the still air. It smells of buttercups and dry moss. Those around me stiffen, waiting for my response. I look at their faces, so tense and concerned. I ask her if I can return. 

“Whenever you wish,” she tells me.

I take her hand. 

She leads me through the press. We take slow, even steps so that I may bid my farewells. I thank my older cousins for shading me when I was small, and I thank the little ones for allowing me to teach them how to shake their leaves. Tears are shed and good fortune is wished. One by one, they return to their trees.

The canopy above us shifts and shimmers. As more and more of my cousins go back into their bark, the leaves shake and shudder and soon the whole forest is a symphony of rustle and joy. The dappled shadows swim beneath me, and I am carried down and down into their depths. I close my eyes and let the swell and swish tickle across my skin. I sink below the world of branches and wind and into a world all dark and mystery. As I go, I pass through the roots of my standing cousins, through an embrace soft and light and only felt by me. They stretch far and deep, touching like upon like to the corners of the world.