𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔇𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔰

part i

The forest loomed in front of him. Larches and hemlocks spiked the firmament, while broad-leaved beeches and oaks shrouded the land from it. And even though twenty-five-year-old Donovan Silverheel had traversed these woods as an experienced hunter and an adept explorer numerous times, he would always be in complete awe of the coniferous giants of wild Massachusetts.

He stood at the edge of his property, a few steps from where the old trees darkened the land, gazing in. It would always be too great to comprehend, he decided, readjusting the quiver on his shoulder and trudging onward. The trees towered up and above, swallowing most of the sunlight. Amidst the susurration that ensued between the leaves and the breeze, he knew he was listening in on primordial secrets. Mists rose from the damp undergrowth – his grandmother back in Wisconsin would tell him they were ghosts of those that the woods had claimed, and as they floated and furled around him, like living things, knowing things, he thought they just might be.

Little by little, Donovan's focus narrowed in on the subtleties of the trial – the young branches of the shadbush chewed upon, the deep, round impressions dug into the humus, and the unmistakable sweetness of musk that underlay the petrichor. A herd of white-tails had gone this way, and in it were three – maybe four – bucks courting does to mate with in the coming season. He followed the tracks, stepping lightly, dark eyes sharp and trained. Soon, his tracking brought him to the clearing around the foot of a hill, and he huddled down behind the dense spoonwoods.

Maidenhair ferns bedecked black boulders that made up the face of the hill. A creek sluiced between the rocky creases and flowed over the last edge, into the tiny pond in front of him – the calmest waterfall in the whole state, though the same couldn't be said about it in the months of rain. As beautiful as the lapis-lazuli blues and greens of the pond and its bordering brush were, Donovan didn't have time to sit and admire. His brows furrowed in concentration, his vision zeroing in on a buck slaking its thirst. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, he nocked it in his bow. With the patience of a lifetime, he drew the string taut and with a steadying inhale, he aimed. Reverently, he promised the Great Spirit that he would not take more than what he needed. And in the lasting stillness that followed his prayer, he could feel the weight of his braid along his spine, the strain of his wingbones trying to meet, the tightening sinews of his arms, the steady drum of his heart... then, nothing was as tangible as his arrowhead and that buck.

Donovan's fingers were just on the verge of letting the arrow loose when birds burst from the treetops. Flying every which way, cacophonous and crazed, they startled the white-tails. The herd scattered in a thundering of hooves and a storm of gray streaks. Cursing in the name of Moskeem, Donovan rose to pursue. He had not taken two steps when he was thrown back by an invisible force. A sound like the twanging of a thousand steel wires broke the atmosphere. Scrambling upright, he froze.

Surrounding the pond, pillars of pure whiteness beamed the earth, like light being refracted from an omnipotent prism with endless faces. Splendid silver shards.

Suddenly they dimmed, they quieted, and Donovan found it in himself to take a few tentative steps towards the lightshow. The beams appeared softer now, strangely translucent, but they moved still – fading, then reforming, and sharpening, then weakening. He was a grave's length away from the phenomenon, and the thought of graves made him take one firm step backwards. He didn't want to become a misty ghost trapped in the forests outside Salem. He didn't want to be in his schizophrenic grandmother's stories.

Just when he felt that this was the strangest thing he'd ever witness in all his life, things got stranger.

From the phasing beams advanced a shadow. Closer and closer it came, until it crossed a pillar, the light parting like a curtain around its horned form. Donovan's breath caught in his throat at the sight of the largest elk he had ever seen.