Where the Grass Sings
Sammy
The eastern road stood exactly as I’d imagined it to be.
Which felt strange, because I hadn’t imagined it at all…
not really. I’d only ever seen Havenlore from the inside, from the warm cobblestone center of the village outward, never the other direction.
When I’d arrived here, I hadn’t walked through a gate or down a road or made any conscious choice about where I landed at all.
One minute I was in my gaming chair with my headset on and a storm shaking my windows, and the next I was curled up in Guruk’s field with Inara’s horn glowing above me and no idea what had happened to my life.
I had not, in other words, made an entrance.
Now I stood at the edge of the village, where the cobblestones yielded to packed dirt, and stared at the road stretching out ahead of us. The full weight of what it meant to leave a place on purpose fell on my shoulders.
“You've gone quiet,” Guruk observed, standing as my silent sentinel beside me.
I swallowed to fight my conflicting emotions. “I'm taking it in.”
“You've been taking it in for some time.”
“Have I?” I motioned for him to kneel so I could retrieve an item from my pack.
I knew better than to argue with him about carrying the bag.
Rummaging inside, I found my notebook and snapped it open.
I hadn’t been one for journaling in my world, but since arriving in Havenlore, I’d discovered its benefits.
With the pen attached to the leather bindings, I flicked it up and wrote: “I arrived here without conscious thought. My heart taking me to this place instead. This is my first time leaving the village under my power, on my own two feet, and with every option considered. I’m setting out by choice. ”
Guruk was quiet for a beat. “That is significant.” He rubbed a space that was tense between my shoulders. “And you are brave.”
“Thank you.” I snapped it shut and blinked the water from my eyes. “Okay, let’s go.”
The first two hours passed with ease. Although I’d been a pro-gamer on Earth with less enthusiasm about exercise and more about RPGs, I’d spent the past months in Havenlore working on the farm and helping Guruk with the animals.
I still gamed, showing the villagers all kinds of tabletops, but I no longer lived a sedentary life. A fact my body thanked me for.
My muscles had become stronger and my stamina longer.
And despite the path being dirt, it was well kept and level, curving gently through the trees in unhurried loops.
With the morning sun spilling through the dense canopy, the birds singing overhead, and a light breeze tickling my hair, it was a pleasant hike.
Or it would be if my brain would stop going into overdrive.
I kept cataloging every sight and sound. Every rock, every tree, every shadow. I couldn’t help it. Guruk caught me scribbling notes without breaking stride and said nothing, which remained one of his most underrated—yet deeply appreciated—qualities.
“Does this path have a name?” I asked.
“The eastern road.”
I snorted. “Very descriptive.”
“It goes east.” Guruk shrugged.
“Right.” I wrote it down anyway. Eastern road. Functional name, no lore attached. Investigate. “How far to the first rest point marked on the map?”
“At this pace, the highland clearing by midday tomorrow.” He glanced sideways at me. “Assuming we do not stop to document every stone.”
“I documented two stones.”
"You illustrated them.” He laughed, mimicking a pen between his long fingers and intensely scribbling in the air.
I raised my chin indignantly. “It’s a valuable record.”
Berry chittered from their post atop Guruk’s shoulder, and Guruk gave them a look of pure solidarity.
“You're both fired,” I said pleasantly, and kept walking.
I heard Guruk whisper to Berry behind me, “What is fired?”
I didn’t clarify, but I hid a smile behind a cough.
Another hour or so later, we encountered a strange phenomenon.
A low, resonant hum hung in the air. It was not quite a melody, but I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t one either. The sound settled behind my sternum and stayed there, like a note held past the point where you’d expect it to end.
I stopped walking. “Do you hear that?”
Guruk tilted his head. “The grass?”
I spun around and stared at him. “The grass is making that sound?”
“Yes, it’s the singing meadow.” He said it with the same nonchalance one would use to name what they had for breakfast. “It runs along the edge of the tree line. The blades resonate in the sweet air.”
I looked at him for a long moment. “You've walked past singing grass your entire life, and it doesn't strike you as remarkable?”
He considered this with genuine sincerity. “Is there no singing grass on Earth?”
I shook my head. “If there is, humans have never heard it.”
“Hmm.” He looked sorry about this, as if finding it odd to hear that singing grass was not a normal occurrence. “That’s a shame, my little human.”
I bolted from the path.
“Sammy,” he called out, clearly startled by my abrupt turnabout.
I yelled back, waving over my shoulder. “I just want to see it.”
I pushed through the last of the trees and stopped.
The meadow spread wide and golden, catching the early afternoon light across its tips. The grass was taller than I'd expected, even knee-high in places, with blades so fine they were nearly translucent at the ends. And it was singing. Truly singing!
Not words exactly, not a tune you could hum back, but something that occupied the same space as music.
It was a warm, resonant chord like the last echoes of a ringing bell or circling a meditative sound bowl.
When the breeze moved through it, the pitch shifted, and the whole field hummed together like a single living thing.
I stood at the edge, not daring to move.
Berry drifted into my peripheral vision.
They walked into the meadow, the grass up to their chest, and their three pink tails fanning wide, absorbing.
They went still in the middle of the field, eyes closed, face tipped up as if standing under a spotlight.
Whatever the grass was putting out, the florin was drinking it in like water.
A large, warm hand came to rest between my shoulder blades.
“It remembers things,” Guruk said quietly, beside me now. “That’s what our elders say. The meadow holds what passes over it.” He paused, tilting his head and seeming to listen to the melody. “It is the sound of joy, of peace. Don’t you think?”
I didn't answer for a moment. The notes flowed through me, and for the first time since starting our quest, I stilled. Not simply standing still, but truly stilled inside. My thoughts quieted, my anxiety eased, and I felt the peace and joy that Guruk spoke of.
“It’s the most magical wonder I’ve ever experienced.” My voice came out smaller than I meant it to.
“Yes.” His hand slid around to my waist, a gentle anchor. “But do not tell Inara. She will be offended.”
The laugh came out of me before I could stop it, bright and unguarded, and the meadow seemed to hum just a little warmer in response.
Berry drifted back to us and patted my cheek once with one soft paw. Good, they meant. This is good.
I leaned into Guruk's side and let myself be there, in the golden light, with the grass singing, my orc warm at my side, and the florin humming between us. Three travelers, full of the hope of people who haven’t yet met the difficulty ahead and are still allowed to just be glad they’re going.
Then, I drew a breath and clicked my pen.
“Singing meadow,” I said, writing. “Eastern road. Approximately three to four hour’s walk from the village. Mood: exceptional. Would recommend to all party members.”
Guruk plucked the pen from my hand.
I turned to protest and found him watching me with that expression; the one I still hadn't found the right word for. The one that made me feel like the most seen and loved person in any world.
He held out a flower to me with the hand not holding my pen prisoner. Small, pale blue, with a center like a yellow star. He must have picked it somewhere in the trees without my noticing.
“Don't write it down,” he said, tucking the flower behind my ear.
I sucked in my lower lip. The urge to scribe the journey hit me hard. I knew it was a coping mechanism, a way to control the uncontrollable. Crossing my arms over my chest, I said, “I wasn't going to.”
His eyebrows rose.
I sighed. “Really. No writing.”
He handed my pen back. I clipped it to my notebook.
As we turned back toward the path, I noticed Guruk pause at the meadow’s eastern edge. He crouched low, the same motion he made when checking an animal’s tracks on the farm. He was quiet and focused, his big hand hovering just above the grass without touching it.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing of note.” He straightened and fell into step with me, his expression easy. “A deer, perhaps.”
I accepted that and walked on. He knew this land far better than I did. Though the urge to catalog it in my journal buzzed at me. I ignored the itch and placed my hand in Guruk’s much larger one. The warmth of his palm pressing into mine.
“It is a beautiful day, isn’t it?” I smiled up at him as Berry came to rest on his shoulder once more.
“With you,” he smiled back, “every day is perfect.”
I blushed, and we walked on, east, into the golden afternoon, the meadow humming softly at our backs.