The West Woods

Chapter 3 : Death to Trees

Though his hatred of birds festered and burned in his gut whenever the morning broke and the birds in their cages would cheep and chirp, Woodie had indeed grown to appreciate what they had to offer. Their eggs kept them fed and the feathers they dropped were saved up to be used as kindling for the fire.

The birds, though Woodie hated to admit it, had been a good move on Wes' part. They cleaned up any excess of otherwise useless monster meat, and they were used as disposal for meat that had gone bad. As long as both had been cooked the birds seemed to enjoy it. The two -Wes and Woodie- had really come to rely on the eggs the birds offered them.

Wes had been setting up traps around spider dens, just outside of their webs. The spiders would inevitably come out at night and find themselves stuck in Wes' rabbit traps. Wes would harvest from this meat, glands (which were always sought after for they made good medicine), and silk for bird traps or fishing rods. Sometimes he could even use the silk to patch their clothes.

Woodie was very impressed with the work Wes put in to caring for them. It was true that Woodie did most of the hard labor for the house, but he was amazed with how comfortable his life was, how much easier it was, now that Wes was with him.

He had luxuries he never had before with Berries and eggs, mended clothes and a meal cooked every night before he got home. And he thought about his life now, and how Wes would go out of his way at times to make Woodie comfortable and his cheeks felt warm and his stomach felt empty -though not hungry-, and this was something he just couldn't explain.

Lucy liked to act as though she knew something when he would get these feelings. She would tease him, and poke fun. As though there were anything to be poked fun at. He wasn't sure why she acted like this, as far as Woodie could tell there was nothing there for her to take on such tone of voice.

Nonetheless she teased him anyway, and he let her do it if only to avoid argument with her.

When she wasn't teasing him she was giving him reminders. Warnings. Cautionary words of advice. And it forced him to remember that not all was comfort here, even with Wes taking care of him.

He tallied the days on a stack of papers. He numbered them and watched them carefully. Five, four, three days till the full moon. The moon allowed Wes to get more done, its light allowing him out to collect more materials and gather more food. For Woodie the full moon only brought dread, and he'd been very careful not to let Wes find out about his secret.

On the night of the full moon Woodie would wander off, allow himself to change away from Wes' unsuspecting gaze, and run the forest destroying the plant life. In the mornings he always collected any pine cones the trees had dropped. He took them back closer to the house and planted them, ensuring there would still be firewood in the days to come.

The days leading up to the full moon he spent at home with Wes. He helped reinforce the walls and door. He helped him gather monster meat, and silk, and glands. He helped him in the garden, and even with his birds. Somewhere in Woodie's gut was a feeling of guilt he just couldn't place, like he were a burden on Wes.

What if the mime found out what he was? What if Wes discovered he wasn't being entirely truthful? What if he ended up changing too close to home and Wes got hurt by him?

All these were worries that ran through his head.

And as always the full moon came too soon for the lumberjack and he wandered off into the woods to change, leaving Lucy back at home. His teeth tore through his gums, and his spine grew long and broke through the flesh at the base of his back. Every bone in him snapped and popped and mended together into his new form, and every moment was painful.

He ran the forest, gnawing into the bark of trees, and breaking through the nearby boulders. He wouldn't remember a single bit of it in the morning. The night would be hazy as it always was, with only the destruction around him as a reminder.

As morning light broke the beaver became calmed, and Woodie woke up, worn and tired but definitely himself, and he made his way back to camp where Wes was standing, staring at the garden.

Woodie had not noticed it until now. The first frost of the year had covered the ground and curled the leaves of Wes' berry bushes.

Winter was coming.