Song of the forest
by Aeris Walker
According to the lore, Humans cannot experience the music of the forest.
At least, that’s what I’ve always been told. They are a species of just five senses, and even those have limitations; colors appear muted, textures are nearly imperceptible under their blunted fingertips, and sounds fall flat. Apparently, their hearing abilities are so atrophied they can only discern one distinct voice in a bird’s song, completely missing the three-part harmony of its chirped tune. Clearly, they lack the sense of perception—I’ve seen it. I have watched the Humans interact with almost no acknowledgment of one another’s feelings, as if they are entirely blind to the syrupy clouds of color formed by emotion which hover above their heads.
Taste must be affected too or else they’d never leave the forest, where even the moist air lights the tongue like sweet nectar. But the music—I often wonder if they’d tread differently in our woods if they could hear it. It’s overwhelming at times, the sound of a million trees and insects and plants all emitting their unique chiming vibrations into time and space.
The ancient oaks resonate their deep, low moan; streams bubble their crisp tenor. Dew drops sing in liquid whispers, and vibrant green ferns pulsate their erratic staccato, layering our song in anticipation.
But under every rock, plant, and fungus, spanning the endless underground, are the mycelium with their spidery threads connecting all forest life; their ultrasonic hum is easily the most beautiful sound in the universe. Their voice establishes the key in which we all sing.
My wings brush against each other in a lyrical swish, feather against feather. My kind has thrived in these forests—in nature—since the beginning of time, but the Human mind is unable to comprehend our existence and so my species remains unseen—invisible through the ages. Legend indicates we once co-existed, but in the Humans’ thirst for transcendence, they advanced, scanning the stars for the universe’s secrets, then bowed to mathematics with her cold logic. And when they fell in worship at the feet of science’s unyielding laws, they abandoned the pursuits of the spirit realm, losing all connection to those peripheral, ethereal senses.
In their frenzied striving for omniscience, they’d unknowingly severed a limb, blinded one eye to an entire world they were in but no longer of. Now, they look at us and only see what makes sense—maybe an exotic moth or butterfly, but never the truth.
Nestled under a red-capped Amanita muscaria, I awake to the breathy sighs of infant fronds unfurling from their curled dormancy. Sunlight trickles between the trees and warms the new life as they join our song with airy, wobbly voices. A doe and her young fawn pad across the mossy forest floor, their brassy huffs wafting in the air. They stop short and jerk their heads up, silent, ears twitching, before they bolt beyond the trees in a flash of brown and white fur. I place my ear to the ground, where the mycelium hum and squeal at the pressure from an above ground visitor, somewhere beyond the stream.
I flit above the bushy sedges and birch tree saplings where I see something—someone—teetering toward me. A Human.
A small, squishy Human.
Her wild sprigs of hair shudder like leaves in the wind and her skin is as smooth as a river stone. A cloud of pale-pink hovers over her body—curiosity, innocence. She wavers on the uneven ground, plump limbs bouncing with each step. She squats and rubs a patch of moss like a house pet. Its purr is like glass bells. The Human laughs, a trickling, lilting giggle.
She plucks a petal from a dainty white flower, and it gasps.
The Human’s eyes grow large, and she stumbles. Her aura shifts from pink to a murky gray—uncertainty, confusion. She bends her ear to the maimed plant and listens, listens.
Humans have traipsed and tramped through these woods for as long as I can remember, since my emergence—the day I poked and cracked my way out of that lucent chrysalis. Many wanderers have entered these woods; some are fearful, but most are searching. They are a restless species, cognizant of the void, yearning for wholeness in a grayscale world of their own design. The spirit realm whispers and pulls with its siren song, but they do not hear. Cannot hear. At least, that’s what I’ve always been told.
This sprite of a child suggests otherwise. My hands scrape against lichen on the trunk of a monolithic redwood tree as I cling, watching. If she can hear, could she see? See me? As I have done a thousand times before, I spring from the safety of the trees and chart an intersecting path with the Human. I encircle her crown of curls and she turns in a staggering arc, following my flight, dewy eyes locked with mine. Her dimpled hand rises, reaching, pointing, and a sound like the crystalline chiming of the Trillium flower escapes her lips when she speaks.
“Baby!”
I sputter and crash into a narrow branch, scratching my delicate cheek. Though centuries older than this child, it is natural that a Human might describe my diminutive features as infant-esque, though until now, that was only conjecture.
The girl leans into the brush where I’ve fallen, her head tilted—watching, waiting. She claps and coos when I rise, then loses her balance and plunks onto the ground near a cluster of golden mushrooms.
She does not flinch when I flutter closer, just a heartbeat away from her pert nose. I lift one hand, she lifts one finger, and we touch—two species, two worlds, connected like searching tendrils. The mushrooms below us radiate a hollow, smooth timbre, cloaking the moment in somber warmth. My wings tingle in a rush of excitement. I fly down and rest my head near the mushrooms’ spongy caps and urge the child to do the same, pointing to my ear. She lumbers onto unsteady arms and lowers herself, ear crooning toward the strumming fungi. Moisture gathers on her unparted lips.
I flit away, and hover near a beetle scuttling over strips of bark. I point to my ear again and she leans in, listening. The beetle’s song is metallic, bright, notes coming in short bursts.
The girl laughs and I find myself laughing with her; beetles do make quite a jaunty noise. I have never known a silent world, a world without music, but I hear each sound almost as if for the first time as I share it with the small Human—this anomaly of her species. I descend, below the exuberant foliage and plant my feet against the cool, damp earth. I point to the ground and lay down, ear to dirt.
The child mimics my actions and sprawls out along the forest floor, ear to earth. The mycelium’s hum is high and clear, like wind against glassy snowflakes. Their silvery song stretches for miles in the rich soil, an underground celestial choir. The girl is still as stone, unmoving but for her lips, which tremble. Her voice is honey, smooth and mellow, as she matches the pitch of the ethereal hum–singing. The music of the forest is more beautiful than ever. Her aura is azure—a rare, dazzling blue, the color of wonder, magic. Spirit.
The mycelium squeal, their steady song dipping and shuddering. Footsteps, frantic and heavy, shake the forest; someone is running. I peer above a fallen tree to see a woman racing over the uneven ground, stomping grass and moss underfoot. The cloud of color above her swirls from orange to scarlet—fear, distress, panic. Her wild heartbeat sluices, like iron in water. She stops and turns in halting half circles, searching, calling. At the sound, the child lifts her head from the damp ground.
“Mama.”
Dried leaves dangle from her hair when she rises on unsteady feet. Our eyes meet, two worlds, being pulled apart like roots from the earth. Her plump hand wiggles. Goodbye.
She turns and rushes toward the woman, stumbling over thick growth. A rainbow of emotion explodes above the woman when she sees the child, shades of joy, relief, guilt. Love. When they embrace, a veil of rare, dazzling blue shrouds them.
Spirit.
It is unlikely I will ever encounter the child again, and I wonder, when she has grown and assimilated into her grayscale world, if she will remember me, remember the forest.
Remember the music.
At least, that’s what I’ve always been told. They are a species of just five senses, and even those have limitations; colors appear muted, textures are nearly imperceptible under their blunted fingertips, and sounds fall flat. Apparently, their hearing abilities are so atrophied they can only discern one distinct voice in a bird’s song, completely missing the three-part harmony of its chirped tune. Clearly, they lack the sense of perception—I’ve seen it. I have watched the Humans interact with almost no acknowledgment of one another’s feelings, as if they are entirely blind to the syrupy clouds of color formed by emotion which hover above their heads.
Taste must be affected too or else they’d never leave the forest, where even the moist air lights the tongue like sweet nectar. But the music—I often wonder if they’d tread differently in our woods if they could hear it. It’s overwhelming at times, the sound of a million trees and insects and plants all emitting their unique chiming vibrations into time and space.
The ancient oaks resonate their deep, low moan; streams bubble their crisp tenor. Dew drops sing in liquid whispers, and vibrant green ferns pulsate their erratic staccato, layering our song in anticipation.
But under every rock, plant, and fungus, spanning the endless underground, are the mycelium with their spidery threads connecting all forest life; their ultrasonic hum is easily the most beautiful sound in the universe. Their voice establishes the key in which we all sing.
My wings brush against each other in a lyrical swish, feather against feather. My kind has thrived in these forests—in nature—since the beginning of time, but the Human mind is unable to comprehend our existence and so my species remains unseen—invisible through the ages. Legend indicates we once co-existed, but in the Humans’ thirst for transcendence, they advanced, scanning the stars for the universe’s secrets, then bowed to mathematics with her cold logic. And when they fell in worship at the feet of science’s unyielding laws, they abandoned the pursuits of the spirit realm, losing all connection to those peripheral, ethereal senses.
In their frenzied striving for omniscience, they’d unknowingly severed a limb, blinded one eye to an entire world they were in but no longer of. Now, they look at us and only see what makes sense—maybe an exotic moth or butterfly, but never the truth.
Nestled under a red-capped Amanita muscaria, I awake to the breathy sighs of infant fronds unfurling from their curled dormancy. Sunlight trickles between the trees and warms the new life as they join our song with airy, wobbly voices. A doe and her young fawn pad across the mossy forest floor, their brassy huffs wafting in the air. They stop short and jerk their heads up, silent, ears twitching, before they bolt beyond the trees in a flash of brown and white fur. I place my ear to the ground, where the mycelium hum and squeal at the pressure from an above ground visitor, somewhere beyond the stream.
I flit above the bushy sedges and birch tree saplings where I see something—someone—teetering toward me. A Human.
A small, squishy Human.
Her wild sprigs of hair shudder like leaves in the wind and her skin is as smooth as a river stone. A cloud of pale-pink hovers over her body—curiosity, innocence. She wavers on the uneven ground, plump limbs bouncing with each step. She squats and rubs a patch of moss like a house pet. Its purr is like glass bells. The Human laughs, a trickling, lilting giggle.
She plucks a petal from a dainty white flower, and it gasps.
The Human’s eyes grow large, and she stumbles. Her aura shifts from pink to a murky gray—uncertainty, confusion. She bends her ear to the maimed plant and listens, listens.
Humans have traipsed and tramped through these woods for as long as I can remember, since my emergence—the day I poked and cracked my way out of that lucent chrysalis. Many wanderers have entered these woods; some are fearful, but most are searching. They are a restless species, cognizant of the void, yearning for wholeness in a grayscale world of their own design. The spirit realm whispers and pulls with its siren song, but they do not hear. Cannot hear. At least, that’s what I’ve always been told.
This sprite of a child suggests otherwise. My hands scrape against lichen on the trunk of a monolithic redwood tree as I cling, watching. If she can hear, could she see? See me? As I have done a thousand times before, I spring from the safety of the trees and chart an intersecting path with the Human. I encircle her crown of curls and she turns in a staggering arc, following my flight, dewy eyes locked with mine. Her dimpled hand rises, reaching, pointing, and a sound like the crystalline chiming of the Trillium flower escapes her lips when she speaks.
“Baby!”
I sputter and crash into a narrow branch, scratching my delicate cheek. Though centuries older than this child, it is natural that a Human might describe my diminutive features as infant-esque, though until now, that was only conjecture.
The girl leans into the brush where I’ve fallen, her head tilted—watching, waiting. She claps and coos when I rise, then loses her balance and plunks onto the ground near a cluster of golden mushrooms.
She does not flinch when I flutter closer, just a heartbeat away from her pert nose. I lift one hand, she lifts one finger, and we touch—two species, two worlds, connected like searching tendrils. The mushrooms below us radiate a hollow, smooth timbre, cloaking the moment in somber warmth. My wings tingle in a rush of excitement. I fly down and rest my head near the mushrooms’ spongy caps and urge the child to do the same, pointing to my ear. She lumbers onto unsteady arms and lowers herself, ear crooning toward the strumming fungi. Moisture gathers on her unparted lips.
I flit away, and hover near a beetle scuttling over strips of bark. I point to my ear again and she leans in, listening. The beetle’s song is metallic, bright, notes coming in short bursts.
The girl laughs and I find myself laughing with her; beetles do make quite a jaunty noise. I have never known a silent world, a world without music, but I hear each sound almost as if for the first time as I share it with the small Human—this anomaly of her species. I descend, below the exuberant foliage and plant my feet against the cool, damp earth. I point to the ground and lay down, ear to dirt.
The child mimics my actions and sprawls out along the forest floor, ear to earth. The mycelium’s hum is high and clear, like wind against glassy snowflakes. Their silvery song stretches for miles in the rich soil, an underground celestial choir. The girl is still as stone, unmoving but for her lips, which tremble. Her voice is honey, smooth and mellow, as she matches the pitch of the ethereal hum–singing. The music of the forest is more beautiful than ever. Her aura is azure—a rare, dazzling blue, the color of wonder, magic. Spirit.
The mycelium squeal, their steady song dipping and shuddering. Footsteps, frantic and heavy, shake the forest; someone is running. I peer above a fallen tree to see a woman racing over the uneven ground, stomping grass and moss underfoot. The cloud of color above her swirls from orange to scarlet—fear, distress, panic. Her wild heartbeat sluices, like iron in water. She stops and turns in halting half circles, searching, calling. At the sound, the child lifts her head from the damp ground.
“Mama.”
Dried leaves dangle from her hair when she rises on unsteady feet. Our eyes meet, two worlds, being pulled apart like roots from the earth. Her plump hand wiggles. Goodbye.
She turns and rushes toward the woman, stumbling over thick growth. A rainbow of emotion explodes above the woman when she sees the child, shades of joy, relief, guilt. Love. When they embrace, a veil of rare, dazzling blue shrouds them.
Spirit.
It is unlikely I will ever encounter the child again, and I wonder, when she has grown and assimilated into her grayscale world, if she will remember me, remember the forest.
Remember the music.