The forest had a heartbeat. Underneath the bark of trees, underneath the soil of dirt, and even underneath the rocks of riverbeds. It was always there. That rhythmic beating made it undeniable that the forest was alive. That It was alive.
It took the form of many things: the trees, the dirt, the river. But It found its favorite form was one that mimicked a human—a woman— because it was only when its hair blew wistfully in the wind, when its body was framed by an alabaster dress, that It was considered alive. Considered as something worthy of living.
“Wren, is that you?” A man’s voice. It was always a man’s voice. Since the beginning of time, there had only been one woman brave enough to step into the forest, and because she had never returned, because she is the ‘Wren’ this man was searching for, no other woman would make the same mistake as she did.
It had not mastered language, a human creation. So, even though it looked human, it could not act like one.
“Wren, you have to leave. You’ve served your duty for long enough. This cycle—” The man stuttered, choking on his words. “This cycle has to stop. Mother lies awake every night, praying for an endless summer. I can’t—”He was vulnerable. It had never seen a man like this because the men who entered the forest were loud, arrogant, and violent, capable of destroying everything in their path. He was not like them. Despite his appearance —his short hair, his tall stature, and his aching muscles—he did not act like a man. A monster. That was a name It was called because it looked human but couldn’t ever be one. This man must also be a monster. “I can’t bear to do this anymore, Wren. Let’s just run away from this place. You, me, and mother. We can leave this village. Screw them and their selfish ritual.”
“Monster,” It uttered, its voice croaky and unnatural. The man’s eyes shot wide. He retreated, one step after the other, staggering as if he was no longer in control of his body.
“Where is my sister?” He asked, unsheathing the knife from the scabbard holstered at his hip. “You demon! Why are you wearing Wren’s face?” It realized belatedly that he was not a monster because, at his core, he was a man. A man with a heartbeat in his chest and not in the trees or the dirt or the river. A man with a real human body and not one regurgitated from memory. The man charged at It, knife in hand, a fiery passion in his eyes. It was like a flame. So hot that it turned blue.
It had the power to kill that flame, to put it out forever by uprooting the branches that fueled it, and if it were any other human —any other man—, It wouldn’t hesitate. But he was different. Unlike everyone else, he wasn’t here to kill Wren; he was here because he cared for her.
The man swung his knife. Inexperience and emotion blinded his judgment as he lunged again and again, unwilling to give up despite It easily being able to parry his attacks.
“Give me my sister back, you monster!”
Inexplicably, It stopped, and the man plunged his knife into its chest. They both froze. The trees leaned towards them, straining their necks closer, aching to listen. The grass thrashed in the wind, its blades bristling with prying ears. The forest went silent. Everything—the birds, the crickets, the river, the clouds, the air—came to a stagnant halt.
“Wren,” It wheezed. “Alive”
Despite not needing one, It had a shelter. One with walls decorated with colorful rocks, a roof covered with moss, and wildflowers blossoming in every lonely crevice. It was a home. But, it wasn’t the exterior design that made it Its home, it was the person living inside.
“Wren,” It called upon unlocking the door, the taste of her name sweet on its tongue.
“Fern! You’re finally back.” Its name was not Fern. It had no name, but humans had a tendency to create meaning out of nothing, and It had received too many names to count.
Wren was sitting at the table, a carving knife in her hand. She had a habit of carving at the same wooden slab, and every day, without fail, she spent hours etching what she called a number into its surface. “Did you gather the berries I told you about?”
It nodded, bringing forth a batch of dark purple—bordering black— berries. There was a mysterious shine to them, as if they had stolen the light of the stars to entice people to eat them. Wren inspected each one carefully, her eyes absorbing the fruit whole, forgetting about everything else in the world. It wouldn’t be wrong this time because this fruit matched every detail of Wren’s description. From the burgundy, tubular flowers accompany it to the way it grew solo instead of in clusters, this was the fruit Wren had been searching for in the past month.
“Fern,” Wren began. “This is it!” Her eyes crinkled with a star-like gleam, and the mole underneath her mouth lifted when her face stretched into a smile. It didn’t know why, because it had no stomach, no need to eat, but every time Wren smiled, a sense of emptiness ripped through its being, and it wanted desperately to fill that pit. To satiate its hunger.
“Can we venture outside tomorrow, Fern?” Wren asked. She looked up at It, eyes glassy and wide, like a storm was threatening to brew if It dared to refuse her request. Every exit in the house was locked: every door, every window. It didn’t matter how unlikely it was for Wren to escape through them; the locks served as much as a means of protection as they did to deliver a message: Wren was forbidden from leaving.
“Danger,” It said. The outside was dangerous. It didn’t understand why, but nearly everyone who entered the forest did so with one goal in mind: to kill Wren. In the past, Its negligence had led to Wren suffering. Wren had been torn into two by human blades. She had been hunted and speared like she was livestock. It couldn’t take any more chances.
Wren had died many times in Its arm, and every time, It would deplete the forest of all its life, stealing the shimmer of the trees, the songs of the birds, the nutrients of the flowers, to revive her broken soul. Death was a necessary thing, It understood. To die meant something was once alive. Wren could—should— die, perhaps dozens of times by now. But, It wouldn’t allow her to. Not until It could follow her in death. It had a heartbeat just like Wren. It felt hunger just like Wren. It hurt just like Wren. So, why couldn’t it die? Why couldn’t it be alive?
“No,” It said. “Stay.”
Wren looked down, her expression unreadable as she returned her attention to the wooden slab before her. There was a rare solemn look in her eyes as she picked up the carving knife again, continuing to engrave a number into the wood’s memory.
“What number?” It asked. In all of Wren’s lives, she woke up from death remembering nothing. Nothing except this habit of hers. It was as if it was ingrained into her soul, and no matter what day it was, what name she took on, what path she took in life, she would always be counting.
“243,” Wren answered. It was rare for her to reveal anything about this peculiar habit. “Fern, today is the last day of summer.” Wren smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes, didn’t come close to it. It was like she had practiced it numerous times, like she was an actor performing her role.
“No,” It protested. “Summer forever.” Wren had no right to decide when summer would end. No power to enact it. That decision depended on It and It alone, and as long as Its heartbeat continued to strum in the trees, the dirt, and the river, the summer would stretch like an endless desert.
The next morning, Wren died. The berries, the ones It had picked for her, the largest and ripest berries It could find, were deadly poisons.
It didn’t make sense. Why had it happened again? Like clockwork, Wren died in her arms just as she had done so many times before. At the exact same time on the exact same day.
For the next three months, It stayed by Wren’s cold and rigid body, unable to leave her side for fear she would awaken all alone. The trees knocked at Its door, asking It to drive away the chilling breeze and draw the sun from hiding, mourning the sickness that turned their green leaves to yellow and orange. The dirt groaned at Its doorstep, clawing upward with cracked hands, desperate for the warmth It had forgotten to give. The river dragged itself forward too, coughing in shallow gasps, its voice breaking as it begged to be filled before it withered into drought.
It left their cries to fall on deaf ears, and soon it ushered in a biting winter, one cruel enough to drain the life from every living being for the sake of restoring a single one. It was just as Wren’s brother had said: it was a cycle. A never-ending loop of love and heartbreak, of life and death, of summer and winter. The seasons. For even though Its heart dulled in the fall and stilled in the winter, it would quicken again in the spring and beat most brightly in the summer because once more, Wren would open her eyes.