A Short Story in a Forest

A short love story that also involves the betterment of one's self.

He first caught a glimpse of her as he ran through the trees. It was a flash of sunlight, shimmering in a dance of refractive delight off her white fur. She was in the glade, bending over to observe-- something… and then he was gone, out of sight.

He returned, much later, to the glade only to find it empty. There was a circle of depressed grass, but that was all. It wasn’t a wide area, though long. Ancient pines mingled with aspens on the outer ring. In their shade, wild ferns intermingled with red and blue penstemons, honeysuckle, and blue sages. Hummingbirds danced around scrub jays and mockingbirds, The latter two species doing their best to out sing the other. He glanced around the glade with a mingling of relief- and disappointment. Grubby fingers rubbed against grubby thumbs and he trotted away, a daydream of perfection lingering in his mind.

A few days later, he returned, racing by again, leading in a game of Dance with the other young males his age. Their cloven hooves tore at the soil and brush as they danced, whooped, and sang. They tumbled one over another out of the trees and into the glade. He caught a bare glimpse of white-- and perhaps a flash of sky blue fabric-- as he fell onto his back.

Perhaps, Cyranus thought as he lost his breath, this wasn’t the best idea.

A third time, he sought out the glade, approaching quietly, and alone. He berated himself, mildly, for being a coward.

At last, he caught a clear sight of her. She sat with her legs tucked neatly under her body, a heavy thermos in her lap. She would watch the forest move around her as she would every once in a while, sip from it. A spring-green tunic covered her torso, ending just above her knees. The white fur of her face was neatly combed, as it was on her legs. Loose curls hung from her crown, nestling the sufficient antlers sprouting out from her forehead. A mockingbird alit on a nearby tree and began to sing in its warbly-mountain stream voice. A delighted smile lit her face, and he felt his whole body warm with the joy of witnessing it.

A new desire gripped him then, new and inexplicable. He wanted to see her smile again and again. And he wanted to be the cause of that smile.

He made to step forward, into the light, when something seized him from within. Looking down, he suddenly became aware of all his faults. Mud caked between the cleft of his claws, some still dried on the fur of his leg. His clothes were shoddy-worn near through in some places and damp with perspiration. His mind was thick and heavy, his tongue a worthless slab of meat in between his teeth. Oh, and what of his breath? Did it still smell of his last meal? How would he even speak to her?

Instead, he slunk away, tormented by every lowly thought and deed he had ever done, every way he had not shown up, or half-heartedly committed. Every fault cried out, shaking a fist at the sky and his skin crawled to be itself. He slunk to his bed, defeated.

Cyranus slept fitfully, waking as he tossed and ruminated over the time he had spent in that glade. At last weary of failing to fully sleep, he rose and noticed he did so with the sun.

He marveled as he watched the sky blossom from its deep indigo of rest to a pale rosy peach, and then the bright, robin’s egg blue of day. He had not been awake early enough to witness a sunrise in years. He found himself smiling, and noticed the same warm delight as earlier. Then and there he made a resolution to be awake every morning with the sky.

He trotted with more spring in his gait, to the stream nearby and washed up. The water was brisk and left his teeth chattering. He grit them tight and scrubbed and picked and combed the burrs and mud from his fur. With a mossy stone, he set about polishing the mud from his claws and setting a shine to them. It was difficult, unfamiliar work. So often he missed a spot and had to go back, that by the time he deemed himself clean enough, his fingers were tipped with blue and his jaw hurt from clutching.

Agitated, but satisfied, he climbed from the stream and shook himself dry, munching on breakfast. In spite of his frustrations and discomfort, he was satisfied. That was one problem taken care of.

Cyranus continued his day, as usual, foraging for food, interesting things, and running errands. The world had a warmer feel to it, somehow, and his friends commented on it. Not on the world, exactly, but him. He was actually in a good mood that day, they joked. He smiled, and said nothing, but continued about his day.

That evening he was dismayed to find himself worn and dirty again. He looked around his home, sad to find it dirty as well.

With a sigh, he snatched at the things closest to him, for once actually looking at them. He contemplated each item. Did he need this thing? What was wrong with it? Was there a better place for it than the floor? Probably.

He picked his way through the filth and the clutter and found better homes for them. By the time he had finished, the warm sun glow had been replaced by the cold mantle of the moon and stars. He was tired, true, but his being felt as refreshed as it had this morning after bathing.

Things weren't perfect yet, but Cyranus tucked into bed immensely contented and slept more soundly than ever before.

He rose before dawn again, pleased with the accomplishment. Breakfast went down as the sun came up. Now it was time to be off to bathe. The stream was as icy as the day before, so Cyranus made a quicker, though just as detailed job of it, than before. Stepping free, huffing and blowing, he noticed his fur caught the light in a new way. What he had always presumed to be a dull brown now glinted as deep gold in the sunlight.

Delighted, he trotted off to face his day. Today she was reading a book. It was a great heavy thing, a rust-colored cover and beaten brown spine. She drew a finger over the words as she read, mouthing them soundlessly.

He paused at the edge of the glade again, wondering how rude she might consider it for him to interrupt her reading. With great relief, he found he felt no paralyzing disgust or fear. So, he walked casually into the glade and sat at an inconspicuous distance. He took out his lunch and ate while watching everything around him but her.

A small cough. Startled, he twisted around to see the girl staring at him, not unfriendly like.

“Can I help you?” she asked. He stared stupidly at her for a moment before catching himself.

“It's a small glade. I'm sure you didn't come here just to try and avoid looking at me, " she continued. Cyranus winced. He wasn't so inconspicuous, it seemed.

“You caught me," he admitted. “I didn’t know how I could start talking with you.”

“One normally starts by saying hello,” she replied.

“Oh, well then, hello,” he said with a polite nod of his head. She laughed delightedly. His heart heaved at this accomplishment.

“Hello. I’m Fabalea. What’s your name?”

“I’m Cyranus.” He couldn’t help but notice how happy she looked as she smiled.

He gathered his lunch and walked on his knees over to her. He paused halfway there.

“Is it alright if I join you?” he asked, suddenly shy.

“Oh it's fine,” she assured him. Then, gathering her things, she met him halfway. She studied his face. “You're that boy I see from time to time, aren't you? Always running around?”

“That's right. I've been doing odd jobs. Running errands.”

“Ah. I thought so. It took me a moment to recognize you. You look so different…”

“All cleaned up?” he laughed. “Don't be shy to say it. I was frightening before.”

“I was going to say gross.” A mischievous smile flashed across her face and they both laughed.

“I suppose I can't fault you for that assessment,” he admitted once he caught his breath.

A quiet lull fell in the conversation. Her hands fidgeted with the book pages.

“What are you reading about?”Cyranus asked.

“Oh, it's a compendium of tales about the forest. My father is a historian. I'll be one too, one day. So I'm studying up.”

Tilting his head he examined the book. He had never seen a book before, and it fascinated him. To think that countless years of knowledge could be stored, like magic.

“Why do you want to be a historian?” he asked. Fabalea’s eyes gleamed at the question.

“Stories tell us who we are,” she said, her voice thick with belief. “What we came from, what's important to us. We can't risk losing such precious things. I want to keep those precious things safe!”

“That… That's a wonderful goal,” Cyranus said. He stared off into a memory. “My grandfather used to tell us stories when we were little, my siblings and I. I loved listening to his voice and how it seemed to make things come alive in my mind.”

“Did you have a favorite? Story, I mean. ”

He closed his eyes, searching for the sounds, the imagery he could recall. “Yes, I believe I do,” he said with a fond smile.

Fabalea leaned closer into him. “Could you tell me?”

Closing his eyes to find the right words, he began. The story was simple, meant for children. A story of a brave warrior who faced a terrible dragon to save the one he loved. But, instead of slaying his foe, the hero instead spared it, seeking an ally instead. The dragon agreed, not wanting harm to befall the beloved woman either.

Fabalea sat enraptured by the story and smiled. Cyranus stumbled at a few spots, but his voice carried out how his grandfather's must have, all those years ago. When he finished, she wiped her eyes and thanked him. It was a lovely story.

“Do you know any more stories?” she asked. “You could be a bard, the way you tell them!”

Cyranus laughed, suddenly self-conscious. “Oh, I hardly remember them. I'm impressed I remembered what I did!” He looked at her oddly, his heart racing with excitement at the thought of being a bard. “You really think I could?”

“Absolutely. If you're going to try, I'll have to bring you books so you can memorize more stories!”

His face fell. He looked away, embarrassed. “That won't work,” he said. “I can't read.”

“Ah, then I'll just have to teach you.”

He looked back in shock --and gratitude swelled in his heart. He had only just met this woman, and here she was, offering a dream and a future to him.

She opened her book up and angled things so they could both see. “This little symbol here, that's the letter ‘a’. It makes the ‘ah’ sound in words.”

He placed his finger under the letter, absorbing the lines and curves of it.

From them on, they met daily in the glade, going over letters and words and grammar. Cyranus learned fast, to which he always attributed that he had a very good, and very stubborn teacher. They spoke and laughed and, quite quickly, fell in love.

For many years after that, the little ones would climb into his lap, dragging a book as often as they carried it, and begging for stories. And he always obliged, even as his voice grew faint and his horns cracked with age. And Fabalea would always come in turns, listening to the sound of the stories and smiling as the generations turned.

Author's Note

Never wrote anything romantic or lovely before, but this story has been on my mind.