Under Moss and Maple (Heart of the Forest #1)
Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
Iona made her home in the forest, deep in what the humans called the Quinault River Valley—a wise and ancient place, comprised of towering trees cloaked in lichen, mosses and mushrooms. She was bound to all the vibrant life within the valley, but also to one tree in particular. Like many of the maples in the valley moss draped over her tree’s limbs like blankets, its mighty crown stretching up and out, impressive in its resilience.
She hadn’t seen any other forests, but knew that this one was special. Why else would humans come from all over the world to see it?
It wasn’t unusual, therefore, to feel their presence rippling through the valley. But it was strange that humans should venture so deep, especially so late in the day in autumn. Dusk approached quickly, and frail human bodies struggled to stay warm in the cold and the rain.
Strange and heavy footfalls echoed through the trees.
Iona had been resting for some time, but the forest stirred and called her to investigate. The visitor’s footsteps were not close to Iona’s tree, but their force reverberated through the understory, through the network of the forest her kin were sensitive to. The strangeness of it caught her attention. Humans rarely traveled this way, the foliage undisturbed and unused to such intrusions.
Iona watched the men, three of them, as they cut paths through the ferns, ripped the fronds from their stalks with a blunt blade.
These men meant trouble.
They were dressed in dark clothes and carried unusual equipment with them. They smelled of whiskey and cigarettes as they crept through the shadows of the setting sun, speaking to each other in low voices.
A large, bulky man led the way, his muscular form bundled beneath a coat and warm layers. Coarse, dark brown hair nipped out from under his knit hat, and his beard was gruff and wiry. The effect was rather intimidating, when paired with his stature and the gear he carried. He gestured crudely to the surrounding fir, and the motion set Iona on edge.
The other men trailed behind. One was short and mostly bald, with a scraggly beard that hung low past his chin. The other was tall, with short-cropped blond hair and a clean shave—a look that meant business. That one had his face buried in a map, and was scribbling on it as they walked on.
Iona was used to hikers that trekked deep into her forests and made camp there. These visitors mostly respected the land they ventured into, leaving little evidence behind when they left. The men before her marched with purpose into her forest, without camping supplies or reverence for where they stood. They were clearly after something else.
Iona drifted through the trees, watching. Although she was certain they could not see her, their glances around made her worried. The lands here were supposed to be safe, protected. Surely the others would have noticed these men?
Iona needed to warn them, just in case.
***
Deep in the ancient valley, the maple trees grew strong, the stalwart heart of the old growth forest. Iona, like all Acernae, was created by the life force of the maple, and bound to it—guardian and ward. Among the many forest fae, Acernae were the tree’s power given form. Only the oldest and wisest of the trees had such a gift. A hundred years or more for a spirit to be created, and a few hundred more to gain their full strength. Like mankind, the Acernae were born of the earth, and took many forms that borrowed features from the humans they imitated.
Though they took the shape of humans when it suited them, the Acernae were not bound to it. Her kin could exist as spirits, silent and unobservable, floating through the forest they existed to protect. They could move between places near instantly, what her kin called ‘stepping through.’ The ability proved useful when time was of the essence.
Iona stepped through then, letting the forest blur around her and taking her physical form in an entirely different part of the forest, far from where she’d seen the strangers. This was the space the Acernae had carved out for themselves, where they met each other—at least, the ones she counted as her closest friends.
“Orla! Vall!” She called out. Hopefully they were close enough to hear her.
The building was once a post office, built almost a hundred human years ago. It had been in a state of decay, nearly reclaimed by the forest until Iona and a few of the younger of her kin had fixed it with their magic. They’d repaired the caved in roof with roots and covered the gaps with layers of moss and lichen to keep the rain out. Eli installed an old iron wood stove, rescued from an abandoned home that had long since rotted into the ground. It kept the place warm and dry. Not quite as nice as the human homes of the current century, but to Iona, it was everything. She took a moment to build a small fire, saying her thanks to the logs that burned to warm her weary bones.
It was neither Orla nor Vall who showed first, however.
Eli strode into the doorless building, his face twisted with immediate concern. He was the oldest of their small crew—he’d been in the valley for forty or fifty human years. His visage was nearly a foot taller than Iona, with bright green hair that matched his eyes. His long and graceful limbs were kept warm by a woven linen tunic that hung loosely about his willowy frame. Boney antlers jutted from the base of his skull and wrapped tightly around his head like a crown, coming to a point above the center of his pale forehead.
“Brother,” Iona said as she turned. “Something is amiss, in the forest. Strange men.”
“Iona…” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His concern evaporated. “You trouble yourself too much with the humans.”
“There’s something different about these ones, I’m telling you.”
“Tove warned you about watching too closely.” He spoke firmly, though he was not unkind. He moved to the fire, adding another log and shifting the embers around. Heat flooded from the stove while the door was open. He conjured water, filling the kettle and setting it atop the stove to boil. Small jars lined a shelf above the stove filled with herbs Eli liked to grow and gather: fir tips, fennel and mint, among others. “You’ll drive yourself mad, obsessing over every being that steps foot on our soil.”
“Vall would believe me.” Iona crossed her arms stubbornly across her chest.
“Vall is a child, not much younger than yourself.” He stepped closer, and ruffled Iona’s untamed, auburn hair and causing her to scowl to deepen. She swatted his hand away, patting her hair back into place and situating it under the small horns that adorned her own crown.
“I’m no child. I’ve been here over thirty years,” she argued. For a people who lived for centuries, it wasn’t that long, but Eli was always holding his age and experience over her. Many of the older Acernae did the same, and it drove Iona mad. If she was young and naive, then they were stale and out of touch with the world as it changed.
“Human decades, measured against the span of eternity, dear.” He gave her a small smile. “Tea?”
She nodded reluctantly. Eli was not subtle in his peace offering, and while Iona accepted it she was still unwilling to drop her nagging suspicions. She’d wait until the others arrived. They would believe her.
Eli handed her a mug filled with steaming tea, before sitting on one of the log benches with a cup of his own. The cups were chipped in several places and did not match.
Like everything else of human make in the building, the cups had been scavenged from things left behind by people who’d visited the valley over the past century. The eclectic collection of old books, clothes and furniture spanned decades. Each new addition thrilled Iona, who was rather fond of human innovation. There were many luxuries her and her closest kin learned to enjoy from the humans, tea and novels among them. These indulgences were frowned upon by their elders, but harmless.
The tea, however, was a favorite of Iona’s and one she found difficult to resist. Eventually she trotted over to join Eli on the bench.
“I could read to you again, to calm your nerves?” he asked gently. They didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but Eli was her family. He’d been the one to teach her to read the human language, when he’d seen her fascination with the collection of books they’d acquired over the years. Many of them Iona had nearly memorized by now, but they were a comfort to her, nonetheless.
“No, not today,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll drink your tea, but then I’m going to follow those men out there, to see what they’re up to.”
Eli eyed her, but did not argue.
Orla arrived a minute later, breezing into the doorway with her usual energy.
“Iona, dear, what is it? I could hear your screeching from across the valley,” she sang. Her visage was a slender and airy woman, with verdant hair and pale green skin. A spring Acernae, like Eli, they embodied the maple at the peak of the season when they are most vibrant and full of life. She’d woven flowers into her hair, and her magic kept them in bloom throughout the year.
Vall appeared behind her in the doorway, wearing an unusually serious expression.
“You’ve seen them too?” they said. Vall was the youngest of them. They were an Acernae born of winter, rare among their kin. The maple tree, from which their power is drawn, are dormant in the winter and so it was generally believed that the winter Acernae were less powerful than the others. Indeed, their appearance was most similar to the ordinary humans—Vall’s own brown hair and dark skin would not stand out. This mattered little to Iona, of course, who cherished Vall most among her kin, though it felt unfair to choose a favorite.
If anyone would believe her worry over the human visitors, it was Vall. Iona was so grateful at the sight of them, she leaped up from her seat and knocked the last of her tea into the dirt. “Yes, I have. That’s why I’ve called everyone.”
“What are you on about?” Orla asked with a sigh. She leaned over the couch, snatching the empty cup of tea from the ground and setting it on the table.
“She’s seen some… suspicious visitors,” Eli answered.
“It’s true. I think we should drive them out,” Iona said.
“I don’t know of these men,” Vall chimed in, “but I hear the whispers from the trees. Something plagues them.”
Iona reached out and grasped Vall’s hand, a “thank you” for backing her up.
Orla looked at the rest of them skeptically. “Iona, humans venture through here all the time. Our trees have been safe for many seasons, there’s no reason to worry. Truly.” Her words were kind, sympathetic even, but Iona did not miss the condescension beneath them.
Iona worried her bottom lip between her teeth, not ready to let the matter go. “Perhaps we should take the matter to Tove, and the Elders? Surely they would want to know of strange activity in the valley. And they would be most knowledgeable on what we might do.”
“This is not a matter worth troubling them with,” Eli told her firmly in a tone that shut down any further protest. “Though I can’t stop you from keeping an eye on things, if it would bring you peace of mind. If the situation escalates, we can always bring it to the Elders then, when we have proof of any wrongdoing.”
Iona pursed her lips, her arms still crossed tight about her chest, but there was no arguing, not when Eli was right. There was no evidence that anything was amiss, and bringing it up to Tove would only irritate her.
Tove was the oldest among the Acernae of the valley, though none knew exactly how long she’d been alive. Time had not been kind to her, and over the decades, Tove had hidden herself away more and more. Now, she only converged with the other Elders on important matters, though it had been some time since they had gathered. The past years had been uneventful.
The silence stretched on as Eli’s words hung in the air. None of the others would contradict him, and though it pained Iona to acknowledge he was right, she saw no other options.
Reluctantly, she nodded.
“Shall we play a game then, since we’re all here?” Eli suggested, and the others agreed a bit too quickly.
Iona sighed but relented. Perhaps they were right, and her fascination with the humans was beginning to cloud her judgment.
Since she was the most gifted in summoning woods, she called forth a table, her magic buzzing in the air around them. The Acernae gathered around, and Vall filled the room with light.
They each had their gifts, determined by their season of creation. While Iona could call to the flowers or herbs, Eli and Orla were much better at it. Vall, originating in the cold, dark months of winter, could summon the firelights with ease. Like lightning bugs, the firelights floated around the room, hanging in the air above them.
They settled in to play a game based on the human dice game called Sevens. Eli had watched a group of loggers playing once, and taught the others some years ago. Iona had forged the dice out of wood, and the game was simple enough to play with nothing else.
She sat, rolling the dice dutifully as her turn came around, but her mind still wandered. It had been some time since her intuition was provoked so thoroughly that the sensation was difficult to ignore. Even as Eli’s words rang true in her mind, they did little to settle her. But as the hours passed, Iona found herself forgetting her panic, and relaxed among her kin.
***
Dawn arrived and the others had long since dispersed.
In the daylight, Iona found she couldn’t resist the urge to check on their visitors. Her physical form fell away, leaving her free to drift back to where she’d seen the men enter the trees of her forest.
The intruders had gone elsewhere, leaving heavy bootprints in the dirt and trampling the lush moss and lichen that grew in the understory.
She frowned as something else caught her attention.
Several of the Douglas fir in the area had been marked with bright orange spray-paint, symbols Iona did not recognize. She put a hand up to the trunk of one of the trees, and searched within it. There was nothing amiss with the tree itself—it was still in good health, besides the mark. She focused, attempting to push the ink from the bark, but it was no use. It hadn’t soaked into the wood, only sat atop it. She tried to rub at it with the sleeve of her woven sweater, but that too was pointless as the paint had already dried. Frustrated, she had no choice but to give up. Whatever the symbol meant, it would stay for now.
Iona assessed the other trees and found the same marking—but the trees were otherwise unharmed. She put a hand to the tree before her, and it hummed faintly with life.
Bending down, she rested her forehead on the cool bark. The morning was damp and cold, her physical form felt it acutely.
With a sigh Iona let her body fall away, stepping through the forest to take refuge once more inside her tree.