The Dryads are Calling

They say the forest by Phoenix River sings.

Perhaps it is just he wind howling through the leaves, or a particular birdsong. But Percy Fisher knows better; he knows what lies in those woods, and he knows that the forest sings of his demise.

It all started six years ago.

Fisher, the son of a salmon wrangler, had been disturbing the peace in Phoenix River.

"I've nearly got it!" Percy yelled, a spiked stick he'd crafted in one hand, a cord net in the other. He was wet up to his thighs, the river surrounding him and the fish avoiding him. The net had been empty near to an hour.

"You can do this." Percy whispered to himself, not aware he had an audience.

His watchers were beautiful in an effortless sort of way. They wore no clothes and everything about them seemed to ooze elegance, but you wouldn't know that unless you were looking for them.

Their skin, all tinted glorious shades of green, glinted in the sunlight. Some had locks of auburn, with braids intertwined with twigs and foliage. Some had eyes of pure brown reminiscent of bark. And although none of them looked exactly alike, they all bore the same nymph-like ears. Dryads.

And Percy, a human boy no less, fascinated them.

Percy took a stab at the water, missed, and toppled on uneasy feet as the river's current drifted around him. One of the dryads giggled - oh how silly it was of the humans to not have roots to keep them grounded.

The boy must've heard. His head swivelled towards the forest and there he thought - he swear he could have sworn - something.

He was so distracted, so sure that he had seen an apparition in the forest, that when a salmon swam straight into his calf, Percy didn't catch it. Instead he stumbled, and this time fell into the water.

There was no laughter, for the dryads were smarter than risk getting caught. But Percy knew, or at least thought he knew, that something had been mocking him in those woods.

He left the river behind, sopping wet and marching straight for the forest, pointed spear in hand. He wrapped the dripping and empty net around his other fist. His features were contorted in ferocity.

"Brother, is that you?" The boy yelled.

Percy knew that there was only one other who would be so bold - or so stupid - to venture out towards Phoenix River. It was half a day's walk from home, and Percy's father disapproved of the trip. Not that he knew about it, exactly.

If his brother had followed him, to spy or to tell tales, then Percy was going to shout at him until his throat was hoarse.

Yet, the forest was silence when he approached. Just the breeze through the trees, the squeak of a squirrel, and the wet squelching sounds of Percy's footsteps. He stopped at the opening of the forest, peeking in.

"Brother?" He called again, though this time his voice wavered in doubt.

There was no response, only trees.

Perhaps he hadn't seen anything, Percy thought. And he thought hard. No, he finally decided, his eyes had not deceived him. It had been no trick of the sunlight, no ghost from childish bedtime stories.

So, he took one large step into the forest. Then another. And another. Before long he was at the centre of a grove, large trees surrounding him in a circular copse.

A blanket of tranquillity warmed Percy, made his eyelids grow tired suddenly. He didn't want to forget about the thing he thought he'd saw, it was still in the back of his mind, but something about this forest made him yawn and stretch. The net fell away from his fist to the floor.

Percy's soul seemed soothed. His river-sodden clothes had dried, his hair too. The pointed stick felt heavy in his hand, and he released it with a wiggle of his fingers.

"I could stay here." Percy nodded, speaking aloud. The dryads agreed - all in their original forms of oak, pine, and juniper. All sighing whispers of peace through their leaves. They wanted to know what this human boy would do, whether or not he was worthy of meeting the nymphs of the forest. Worthy of being in the presence of their grace.

For that to happen, the boy had to be calm. But, in this tale, Percy was never very good at keeping his cool, and he was definitely never worthy of anything otherworldly.

He found himself coming to sit under a large oak tree. The peace he felt seemed to bug him, as though he couldn't remember why he was resting his back against the rough bark. Roots snaked beneath him, but Percy believed they were shaped like the seat of the finest throne. He felt the leaves of the lowest branches finding purchase in his hair.

Aren't I supposed to be scared? Shouldn't I be trembling here, alone in the forest?

He couldn't remember the answer to those questions. His train of thought fell away as a woman emerged from a tree, her body peeling straight out of the trunk like magic.

She was no ordinary woman of fair skin and fairer hair, no. She was one with emerald skin and hair so black it could have been the embodiment of night itself. A woman so beautiful, Percy began to cry.

Her eyes were verdant and her body was covered by delicate leaves, intricately bound together. Twigs snaked around her, constantly writhing as they moved from her legs to her torso, to the tops of her shoulders.

The woman extended a hand to Percy, and he almost felt obliged to take it. Almost.

When did he last feel so tranquil? When did he ever feel so good of heart?

Something had spooked the boy, deep within his gut, and then the beautiful woman smiled and that was enough to shake poor Percy from his stupor.

She had razor-sharp teeth. All dryads did. She meant no harm; she was simply mimicking the gentle action she'd seen humans express for years. But Percy didn't know that.

He moved so quickly that his head hurt when he stood. Once he'd come to his senses, there was no trace of a woman at all. There was no peace, and his clothes were soaked through with river water once more. An unsettling chill snuck into his bones and settled there. Above, the sky was now dark.

He could not leave at this hour, for home was too far away and he would lose his direction in the dark. He would stay then, so be it.

Percy snatched his spear from the ground and tugged on the net. It was caught up in the exposed roots of the tree beside him. He yanked, a mighty pull that took all of his strength, and with a loud crack he freed the net.

The broken tree root lay unearthed, snapped in two. And the forest started to howl, low and undulating.

Percy ground his teeth and did what all clueless men do. He betrayed the dryads.

He snapped off their branches, stole their leaves, ate their fruit. He hurt and he injured and he did so knowingly as the forest wept around him. He lit a fire, and the deed was done.

Come sunrise he fled, and never looked back.

Days, months, years later, Percy tried to forget what he had done, but it was impossible. He heard that the forest by Phoenix River sang, and he knew why. It was a song of mourning and loss. It was also a song of revenge.

Many men were entranced by the sound, and took it upon themselves to explore the forest. It had taken his father, his little brother too. He begged them not to go.

No one returned, and it was all Percy's fault. The dryads never let him forget that. You see, ever since that fated day, the trees spoke to the boy who destroyed their kin. They haunted and tormented him and sang him a song:

The dryads are calling,

To reclaim their fate.

You left us no choice, for you would not be our mate.

You took and you broke,

And you hurt us, we were bawling.

You ignored our pain, so the dryads are calling.