Healer of the Wood

It was a very damp morning. Dew clung to the grass, coated the brambles of so much brush and undergrowth, and glistened on the needles and leaves of many tall trees. There were towering redwoods, Douglas Firs, Tan Oaks, maples, and pepperwoods. Moss coated parts of the forest floor and climbed up many trunks. Thick branches spread in every direction and seemed to twist around one another, creating a thick jade canopy. Even if the gray clouds parted, the sun wouldn’t have been able to penetrate many parts of the thickly set leaves and limbs.

The air was still very wet and a pale mist, driven by a cool meandering wind, drifted throughout the woods. It pushed along, coiling over itself, building, settling, sliding between the trees. At first, the fog would break against the trunks like ocean waves upon the rocks. It would build, start to climb the trunk, and finally part around its sides. One by one, the base of every tree was immersed, standing in a sea of fading, dull white.

Through a break in the tree line emerged a tall figure. They were wearing a dark green cloak with a hood drawn low over the brow. A leather knapsack bounced and jostled on their back. Brown field trousers covered with many patches and stitches from countless repairs, were already spattered with mud. Leather boots were slick from the dew. From either shoulder hung a burlap satchel; each one was already bursting with pinecones of various shapes and colors, flowers, acorns, little berry branches, leaves, lichen, and mushrooms. Flowing from beneath her cloak was a bushy red tail, swishing curiously back and forth. Each time the figure stooped to swipe a sample from the earth, removing it with a gentleness reserved for a newborn babe, the tail swished back and forth with excited curiosity.

There was a rustle in the distance just as the figure bent over to pick up a violet that had split its stalk. The tail twitched and the reddish-brown snout which peeked out from under the hood wiggled. Turning, they gazed deeply into the woods to catch some kind of movement. When everything remained still, the figure’s posture relaxed and they continued on their way.

As the morning went on, and the journey continued, the mist started to clear. Sunlight began to sparkle through breaks in the canopy. The cool air became warmer. Sighing as the hood came down, Pinecone the Red Squirrel shook her head a little to remove some of the dew remaining on her snout. Her tall red ears twitched a little bit and eyes so green they matched the moss around her surveyed the forest. Pushing her glasses back up her snout and tugging her braid out of the cloak, she continued on.

This morning, she hadn’t set out with a particular destination or goal in mind. She merely wanted to stroll and see what she could find. Although she’d been out long before the sunrise, Pinecone was still feeling very chipper and full of energy. Even though her satchels were growing heavy, she still had plenty of room to stuff a few more good finds into her knapsack. Once everything was close to bursting, she’d return to her cottage and enjoy a little tea as she organized her discoveries! The happy idea made her wiggle as she walked along.

Pinecone knew every twist and turn through the wood even if there was no true path. Here and there were grounds often trod by other forest folk, the many creatures and peoples who shied away from the clusters of distant towns and villages. But these were more or less without direction, non-linear paths where so many feet had crossed at one point, moving every which way. Anyone who was not from the wood could look at these vague indications and think any direction was possible.

That kind of knowledge, in possession only to the likes of Pinecone and her fellow brethren who took to the forest, made her happy. It was like knowing a secret–a rather harmless one and perhaps not at all that interesting even to the outsider. After all, they never ventured this far. The old ways were beyond them now. But knowing made her feel like she was in on something, like a scheme or heist, and that made her feel quite giddy.

She traversed a mossy rise between two firs. Pinecone knew this spot, there was a lovely oak with thick limbs laden with beautiful leaves on the far side. The ground around it was always covered in fallen acorns and small branches cast down by the wind. These carried more than a few leaves; Pinecone enjoyed twisted spirit beads around the branches and hanging mystic stones from them with twine. Then, she would hang them up around her mattress, seated on a loft, to catch thoughts, dreams, and perhaps a wandering soul.

On the other side, she paused. There was someone standing underneath the tree, their head upturned to its branches. Pinecone quickly recognized her as Silver Fox, a creature somewhat larger than her who had deserted her town in the west for a simpler life. She was clad in a khaki cloak, light blue tunic, and black trousers.

“Good morning to you!” Pinecone chimed as she strode up beside the newcomer.

“I wish it were,” Ashes the Silver Fox sighed, glancing down at her. “I don’t know much, but it seems to me this tree is deathly ill.”

Pinecone looked up at it. At that moment, some leaves fluttered down and one landed right on her nose. She plucked it away and examined it; the leaf was wilting and lacked its usual vibrant color. Studying the trunk, she found the gray bark to be discolored, some parts having become a glossy kind of brown. When she touched it, the bark crumbled and fell onto the soil below.

“It’s very sick,” Pinecone confirmed. Where the bark had broken away, there were slices. A black ooze began to seep from it, like blood from an open wound. She gasped and backed away. “It’s been infected with the Wyglan Rot!”

“Is it a danger to us?”

“The pox only affects trees, but it is not naturally occurring. Someone injured this tree!”

“Such a pity that there are those who wish to see this forest razed. They fail with fire, so they try again with disease. Which is the more dangerous, I wonder,” Ashes mused sadly. “I do enjoy this spot. I will be sad to see this tree go.”

Ashes departed then, her head hung low. Pinecone didn’t bother watching her leave. Instead, she gazed resolutely at the tree.

“You shall not go just yet,” she resolved.

Spinning on her heel, she raced through the woods, retracing her steps. All the trees and brush around were a blur and she didn’t care how many twigs she picked up her long tail. Bursting through the undergrowth and leaping over creeks, she returned to her cottage nestled between a mound of mossy earth and a grove of pines. It was a small, simple stone house with round windows on either side of the front door and an old brick chimney.

Throwing open the door, she dropped her knapsack and bags on the floor. Quickly, she tossed logs on the embers underneath the flat stove and slid her mixing pot over it. Going to the shelves beside the stove, she rooted around and collected a variety of herbs. She rustled through jars, plucked them from twine strung across the room, and popped the lids of small chests. “Healer’s Hay, Rejuvent Ridge Grass, Savior’s Sage, Cleric’s Cotton…”

She went to a series of glass jars stuffed with mushrooms. “Brown Ameliorate, White Ameliorate…” Hurrying across the room, knocking over a stool and a wooden stand, she went to another shelving unit which held a series of premade potions. “Draught of Reconciliation, Convalescent’s Cure, Fixer’s Juice, Harmonizer…”

Everything was quickly deposited to the slate next to the pot. Finally, she pulled out a jug from the cabinets beside the stove which was labeled as ‘Pure Water.’

As soon as the fire blossomed, she set to work. First, she added the water and waited until it was simmering. Then, she added each of the potions; the water became a miasma of purple, blue, and red. While she waited for it to boil, she took her mortar and pestle and ground up all of the herbs. After that, she diced up the mushrooms as finely as she could before crushing them in another mortar and pestle set.

Finally, the contents began to bubble. Pinecone added everything at once and then stirred it all with a ladle. The viscosity of the combined potions made the mixture very thick and the herbs and mushrooms quickly dissolved into the broth, giving it a granulated texture. The color remained miasmic.

After letting it cook for a little longer, she put on her mits and removed the cauldron from the stove. Placing it on a metal stand, she unplugged the covering for the drain and added the nozzle. Collecting some empty glasses, she placed each one under the nozzle and filled them halfway up to their necks. She repeated this process, cranking the handle attached to the nozzle to stop the flow so she didn’t lose a single drop. When she had ten bottles, she screwed it shut, corked the bottles, and placed each one in the knapsack.

Pinecone tore through the woods once more, the bottles clinking in her bag. Even though the glasses were thick and sturdy, she did her best to be swift but careful. She didn’t want to risk breaking them.

Returning to the oak, she set her knapsack down at its foot, and took out a cloth. She dumped part of the contents of one bottle onto it and pressed it to the tree’s wound. This went on for only a few moments, as the cloth only spread it so far. Pinecone decided to pour it into her paw and started rubbing it all over the bark. She tore away some of the rot, drew a handful of the concoction, and pressed it as deeply into the cuts as she could.

Soon, the entire base of the tree adopted the smeared color of the purple, red, and blue miasma. Empty glasses fell onto the moss. Her paws were thick with the potion. When she drained the last bottle, she took a few steps back. Pinecone was out of breath and her chest was heaving. Behind her wide glasses, her big green eyes were wide with hope and fear.

Nothing was happening. The bark remained slathered but the sickened parts persisted. Leaves continued to fall from the branches even more wilted and brittle than before. Her heart sank; would this poor, young tree have to die in such a horrid way? Dying from the inside out, slowly, painfully? It was not fair. If only she had been faster or visited the tree earlier, she may have been able to save it.

With tears in her eyes, Pinecone collected the bottles, put the corks back in, and dumped them into her leather knapsack. She didn’t care about the dirty smears and paw prints she left on her bag. Just as she was about to throw it over her shoulder, she heard a crackle.

Turning around, she gasped as the rotten bark fell away. The exposed cutting marks seemed to glow. Each light was an amalgamation of leafy green and glittering gold. Shards of light seemed to peer out from the tree like the rays of the afternoon sun. Pinecone thought she heard charms chiming in the wind. Healthy bark around the exposed pieces of trunk grew together, covering the wounds. Above her, the wilting leaves righted and their beautiful emerald shade returned. Each branch quit drooping and straightened out; they even seemed to grow! The entire treetop rustled and bristled with new life; dozens upon dozens of large acorns tumbled onto the ground. Many struck Pinecone on the head but she did nothing but giggle and cheer.

When the lights finally faded, the oak seemed taller and wider than before. The potion she brewed was absorbed and the denotations of its appliance were gone. A few more leaves settled softly on the grass and moss.

Pinecone raised both fists triumphantly. “Yes! Yes! We did it!” she cried, dancing around. “We saved you, dear friend!”

Her chest flooding with relief, she sighed and fell back against the trunk. She slid down, wearing the biggest smile. Unable to help herself, she giggled and kicked her feet happily. “I wish I could stay a while longer to keep you company, but I have a long day ahead of me. Worry not; I shall watch over you and your brethren throughout the forest. Always.”