Trees tell the tallest tales. In the forest of stories, words whisper through the branches as comforting as a cool wind on a sweaty brow or as fortifying as clear spring water on a parched tongue. People travel from every corner of the world’s sprawling map to visit it—some with eyes lit by curiosity, others with shoulders stooped by desperation.
I am here to greet them all.
A young person paces at the entrance of the forest, a stark line separating dense green from patchy oranges and browns of fields. They gnaw on their fingernails. I can almost see the worry inside them, like a ball of molten metal simmering in the pit of their stomach.
They have not noticed me yet. I do not know if my presence will relieve their fears or amplify them. This is a visitor who needs a slow easing into the woods. They are not alone in this; over the last millennia, thousands have worried themselves into a rut at the tree line. It is no matter how long they need. I have the patience of moss growing over stone.
“You are most welcome here,” I speak in my most human voice, refined over the ages.
The young person tenses. Their bloodshot eyes go wide, thumb still pressed to chapped lips. Slowly, they lower their hand from their mouth. Blood beads at their ragged cuticles. I want to take their hand and pull them into the forest where they will be safe from the unnamed fear that dogged them here. But that would be impatient.
Sure enough, they take a step closer to the mottled darkness of the forest. “Who are you?” their voice breaks.
“I am the guardian of the forest of stories. Will you enter?” I speak from a patch of shadow, watching as the young person’s head swivels, looking for the source of the sound.
“May I—may I see you?” The fear evaporates from their voice like morning fog, leaving only curiosity in its wake.
“Are you certain you want to?”
“Yes.”
I smile to myself; this did not require my patience after all.
As I step out from the patch of darkness, I watch the muscles in their cheeks twitch as they try in vain to keep from showing their surprise. To this day, I do not know what is most shocking about my appearance. Perhaps it is different for each visitor: my towering size, my skin so like tree bark, my curled wooden horns, my tail of swishing vines.
To the young person’s credit, they keep their composure well, except for the slightest raise of their eyebrow.
Their mouth works at a question that comes out all at once. “Do those hurt?” They gesture to the flowers growing out of my arms.
What a delight this person is, with their surprising question! I did not know I could still be surprised. “Not in the slightest.” I pluck a handful of violets and buttercups from my skin and offer them.
“What’s your name?” The young person asks as they tuck flowers into their braided hair.
“I do not have one. What shall I call you?”
Again, they chew on their cuticles. “I—I don’t know yet. The name I have doesn’t fit.”
“I see. Perhaps we can find you a better name in here. Shall we hear a story?”
My extended hand hangs between us for a moment. There is always hesitation—the eager, the curious, the terrified but determined—everyone knows that stories once heard cannot be unheard.
They take my hand, human skin warm and soft. I lead them into the forest.
Trees are great storytellers because they are great listeners. They listen to the stories carried on the wings of birds, on briars in a fox’s matted fur. They listen to the visitors, who trade their stories for stories from the trees. And they listen to each other.
As we walk deeper into the forest, where the dappled green light turns blue with shadow, the trees’ voices grow louder. Stories are whispered like a breeze, passed between tangled branches. The young person, who holds my hand so tightly in their own, cannot understand the language of the trees. When I hear, “Listen to the tale I tell,” they hear only the sounds of the forest humming with life. It is my duty to help them find the story they need to hear.
“Why did you come here?” The outside world, with its orange-brown fields and molten fear, is far behind us now.
“They say there’s something wrong with me. They say I’m sick.”
I turn us down a well-trod path that leads to the banks of a babbling creek. I don’t need to say anything now, only listen.
“You see, everyone says I must be one thing or another. But I’m both, and I’m neither.” They bunch their linen tunic in their fists. “Everyone says it’s wrong, but I don’t want to be the person they insist on. I want to be myself.”
“You are not the first person who has arrived here wanting that, you know?”
Their eyes brim with tears. Sometimes simply knowing that you are not alone is worth as much as a story.
We cross the creek, treading carefully over slick stepping stones. On the other side, a willow waits in a patch of pale blue irises. I part its curtain of drooping branches. The young person follows behind me. Their eyes burn with such need, they could set the woods aflame.
When I knock on the trunk of the tree, the long branches shush, and a shower of leaves rains down on us.
“You have a visitor, tell them your tale,” I murmur in the language of the trees.
Then I place my hand on the young person’s forehead. “Visitor, listen.”
I leave them to it—sometimes a story is a private thing. But I hear patches carried on the breeze, and I know this one so well, I could have done the telling myself. It is about a person named Robin, who is also both and neither, who leaves their small village in search of people like them. They have many adventures—some joyful, some tragic—and along the way, they gather lonely people like birds gather sticks for a nest, until they’ve fashioned themselves a home. Robin and their found family build themselves a castle in the woods, where the door is always open, and all are welcome.
There is a long quiet between the end of the story and when the young person peeks through the curtain of willow branches. Their face is blotchy with tears, but they smile so wide it is like sunshine in the deepest part of the forest.
“Thank you.”
We travel out the way we came, the young person whispering the story over and over to commit it to memory. At the entrance to the woods, where the orange light bleeds between the trees, we both stop. The young person looks back over their shoulder, as though they might tear off through the woods back to the comfort of the willow tree.
“For you.” I hold out a bracelet I wove from fallen willow branches while they had listened to the story. “It will tell you the story again if you ask very nicely and listen very closely.”
The young person cups the bracelet in their hands as though I have given them something impossibly fragile. But, gingerly, they slip it onto their wrist. As their fingers run over the braided wood, a look of utter contentment rests on their face.
“What shall I call you?” I ask.
The young person smiles. “Robin.”
So it goes. I help people like Robin; I help the very frightened and the very curious; I help anyone who knows there is more to the world than what they can experience with their own senses alone.
Until the day a king arrives.
The trees have no need of kings. They have lived far longer than any man who has fashioned himself superior to others because of blood, because of money, because of might. Kings are only kings because they say they are and enough people allow it.
The day that king rides up to the forest, his crimson cloak shines like a single bead of blood dripping through the fields. Behind him, six knights follow in gleaming silver.
On birds’ wings, the stories whisper of his greed; on briars on a fox’s matted fur, the stories whisper of his cruelty. All around me, the trees are indignant: branches shaking, leaves rustling as though a great gale blows through the forest. The trees demand, “Remind him that he is merely a man. Remind him that he is mortal.”
The king does not hesitate at the edge of the forest. He marches in, as though he owns it. From my place in the shadows, I notice that he has no crown. Perhaps he is not a king after all, simply one who fancies himself superior. The six men in silver follow close behind.
“Only one may enter at a time,” I boom in a voice barely human. The six men press close to the king, drawing their weapons. But the king waves them away with an emerald-clad hand.
“Who dares address me?” he calls. The forest rustles in their rage.
“Who dares enter the forest of stories with such pride?”
“I am Baron Reeve, and these woods are on my lands. They are mine. Now, show your face.”
I am a creature older than the written word. I have the patience of moss covering stone. And yet, this insignificant, self-aggrandizing man has managed to irritate me more than any being in my long memory. I straighten to my full height, tall as witch hazel or hawthorn. With each step, I summon my age, my permanence. Stories are as old as the trees, after all, shared as soon as mouths could speak.
When I stand before Baron Reeve, his men in silver tremble. But the Baron sneers in disgust. “Hideous beast,” he spits.
“I am the guardian of the forest of stories.” My voice is no longer human, words barely intelligible beyond the primordial dread they are meant to invoke. “If you want to enter here, you will do as I say.”
The men in silver turn a sickly shade of chartreuse, but Baron Reeve narrows his eyes.
“Fine, I will go alone, and you will show me all of the stories of this fabled forest.”
“You will hear one.”
Before he can protest, I raise my hands. The trees bend and stretch, swatting at the terrified men in silver until they flee screaming of ghosts and imps and story-book creatures.
There is a little-visited part of the woods where the water runs a murky yellow, and the air hangs low with sulfur. The leaves shine uncannily green, and the tree bark gleams dark and smooth as polished obsidian. I lead Baron Reeve along the river until it gives way to a swamp, gurgling and hissing. I can almost hear the Baron’s grip tightening on his weapon.
“You cannot slay me, and I will not hurt you. You have no need of that,” I say without turning around.
I find a strip of land where we can pass. I glide over it, despite my size, and am treated to the slurping of the swamp at Baron Reeve’s boots.
He is spluttering obscenities when he makes it to the other side.
“Why did you come here?” I ask, though I already know. I wouldn’t have led us to this far-flung place if I hadn’t. The want rises off of him like the stink of sweat: a hunger for power.
“I am here to acquire knowledge—how to defeat my enemies, how to amass wealth, how to become like a god.” His eyes gleam unnaturally in the yellow-green light of the swamp.
“You are not the first person who has arrived here wanting that.”
That’s the wonder of words: the same words in the same order can provide a promise of community or the threat of insignificance. It is all up to the listener.
“No, but I will be the last.”
The swamp trees laugh, stony buds falling like pebbles as they mock the hubris of this man.
“Very well, come with me.”
I take him to a tree whose bark is so mirror-smooth you can see your unmarred reflection in it. Here, in the yellow-green light, Baron Reeve’s crimson cloak appears a dull burnt-orange.
I knock on the trunk of the mirror tree, the sound harsh and metallic. In the language of the trees, I whisper, “You have a visitor, tell them your tale—the unabridged version, if you please.”
Then I instruct Baron Reeve to sit on the ground.
“In the mud?” he protests.
“There is much you want to know. It will be a long tale.”
This appeases him, and he sits on the ground with a long, wet squelch. I place my hand on his forehead. “Visitor, listen.”
Then I took make myself comfortable, settling in like the slow rot that creeps through a fallen log. This is the longest tale in all the woods.
The mirror tree speaks of a man—smart and rich and hungry for power. I see Baron Reeve’s eyes gleam at this. He sees himself in this man as clearly as he sees himself in the reflective bark of the tree. This man decides he is more fit to be king than the current king, so he leads a group of men to depose him. But when he is king, he still owes deference to the god of his kingdom, who brings light and life but also darkness and death, so he leads a group of men on winged beasts into the sky to depose the god.
Baron Reeve goes to stand, thinking the story is over. The mirror tree’s branches push him back down. This story is only just beginning. Because then another man decides that he should be king and that he should be the god, and then another man decides that he should be king and that he should be the god, on and on across time and across lands. By the twelfth iteration of the story, Baron Reeve’s brow beads with sweat; by the seventeenth, he looks as though he’ll be sick; by the twentieth, he wrestles with the mirror tree’s branches, tearing himself away, running back the way we came.
I follow close behind, touching every tree I pass. “Don’t leave the tale unfinished,” I say in the language of the trees. They all join in the mirror tree’s tale, passing its words branch to branch, leaf to leaf, until the woods resound with the tales of hundreds of men who made themselves kings and gods, only to be struck down by another man who wanted the same. Power was impermanent; power had no memory.
Baron Reeve clamps his hands over her ears as he runs to keep from hearing more. He stumbles over roots, tears his cloak on thorns, and when he has reached the place where sky peeks through the branches, the night is blanketed in stars.
The trees fall silent, their tale having come to a close.
“You should not have angered me,” Baron Reeve threatens.
“I do not fear your anger, nor the anger of any man.” I slip between the trees, hiding in shadow and night, letting my voice flow from all around him.
“You should be afraid,” his voice wavers as he backs out of the woods, into the open fields and unobstructed night sky. “You should be very afraid.”
The following dawn, the story arrives on the wings of a starling, its tiny heart frantic as it lands in my palms. “He returns,” the story cries. Wing after wing whispers, “He returns with men and with fire,” until a whole murmuration of starlings dances the forest’s impending destruction across the sky. The briars on the fox’s matter furs mourn, “He will leave only ash,” as the fox digs a new burrow away from the threat of men.
The trees take these stories and whisper among themselves. They do not sound angry, as I had thought they would. Surely, they should scoff at this threat. They are so much older and wiser than this foolhardy man. But perhaps, our centuries of safety have exaggerated our permanence. Perhaps, even the oldest and wisest trees can burn.
The air is thick with stories and smoke when Baron Reeve’s army crests the hill. In the dawn light, the flames shining through the field cast the whole world in a bloody shade of red. I take my post at the entrance to the woods, just as I would to greet a visitor.
Behind me, the woods whisper, “You have our strength.” I will fight them if I must. I urge my wooden horns to grow sharper, my viny tail to sprout poisonous barbs. I will not let him take these stories from the people that need them—I cannot. And yet, the procession of fire is so long. It coils through the fields like a deadly snake, the tail disappearing somewhere over the hill.
All is quiet, save for the distant shout of voices and crackle of flame. It takes me a moment to realize that, for the first time in a millennia, the trees have gone silent. The air is too hot and too still when one tree whispers, “All stories must come to an end.”
“And it was a good story,” the others agree.
“No, no, I will not let it end yet.” I urge claws to sprout from my oaken hands, sharp as the pain and loneliness so many of the visitors had felt before they came here—before the stories saved them.
But Baron Reeve is so close now, his emerald rings flickering in the ghastly light. He smiles wickedly, “Hello, beast.” He raises his torch.
I drop into a crouch, ready to spring.
But then someone is in front of me, their arms stretched wide.
Robin.
“We will not let you burn these woods.”
“We?” Baron Reeve asks smugly.
One by one, they appear armed with pots and brooms and pitchforks; stooped old women in whose eyes I recognize the same stubborn, eager light they’d had as girls; fathers clutching the hands of their partners and children in whom there is no trace of the lonely young men they once were; all visitors to the woods, returned at last. There are only a dozen of them—Robin leading—in the face of Baron Reeve’s army. But they are determined.
“Who are you to destroy something so good in this world?” One of the old women points her broom at Baron Reeve.
“This is my land—I may destroy it if I wish.”
“This is our land!” Shouts one of the fathers. “We maintain and harvest it, and you tax us until there is nothing left to feed our families.” He directs his voice to the long line of silver-armored men behind Baron Reeve. “Do not follow this man because he makes you feel powerful—he would turn and crush you as readily as he would us if it suited him.”
“Ignore him,” Baron Reeve commands. But it is too late. Whispers spread like wildfire down the line of torch-bearers.
“Please,” Robin begs of the silver-clad men. “You know what is right. Some of you came from the land that this man wants you to burn. Some of you grew up in the shadows of the woods, strained your ears at night to listen for the stories. Some among you may have even stepped inside and were guided by the guardian to a tale told just for you. If that tale saved you—eased your fear, brought you joy, made you realize you are not alone, then please, do what is right. Save these stories.”
Robin’s voice rings, the air taut with anticipation. In the darkest patch of the woods, the mirror tree says, “Another one to add to my tale.” Its voice carries, branch to branch, leaf to leaf; on birds’ wings and fox’s fur. This greedy man will fall, like all those before him.
Trees are not proud creatures, but the woods rustle, standing straighter as they murmur, “The young one listened well.”
And then, one silver-clad man extinguishes his torch. “I went to the woods and heard a tale that filled me up with bravery—me, a frail, sick, wisp of a kid. Markus, you had to come with me, because I couldn’t make the trip on my own.”
A few men down the line, Markus extinguishes his torch and nods to his old friend. One by one, torches go out all over the road like setting suns. Those few men who seem determined to stand with Baron Reeve realize that the tide has turned against them and extinguish their torches as well.
Only the Baron remains. “I will do it myself. I will destroy all of you. I will burn the woods. I shall be like a god. You will bend to my demands,” he rambles.
But he stands alone, and the people stand together.
They descend on him, some with weapons of silver, some with weapons taken from the cupboards of their homes. Scraps of red cloak float through the air. An emerald ring rolls out from between the feet of the crowd.
From the depths of the forest, the mirror tree says, “He should have listened.”
When it is over, some silver-clad men take Baron Reeve’s remains back over the hill to some unseen castle or fortress or seat of miserly power. But the others stay. They worry a rut in front of the woods, curious about the place they had been ordered to destroy. The villagers remain with them, telling the stories they had carried with them all their lives. Robin’s voice rings as they speak of someone who was both and neither, who built a home of once-lonely souls where all were welcome.
As the sun arcs high in the sky, a few folks inch nearer but are not yet ready to enter. I am a patient creature, and I wait still as moss on stone.
It is full evening when someone first sets foot in the woods. It is Robin leading the way, their hand clasped with a silver-clad man, whose hand is clasped with an old woman, on and on in an unbreakable chain.
I shift from the shadows. The new visitors’ eyes go wide, but those returning smile at me like an old friend.
“I am the guardian of the forest of stories. Will you enter?”
For the first time, or for the first time in a long time, these people enter the forest of stories. They enter, and they listen.
Trees tell the tallest tales. In the forest of stories, words whisper through the branches as comforting as a cool wind on a sweaty brow or as fortifying as clear spring water on a parched tongue. But my favorite among these is a tale of unlikely heroes who saved the woods from burning. Visitor, listen.
