The Waihatu
Let Sleeping Gods Lie, Act 2: The Other Side #13
Continued from A Bloody Mess of Broken Legs and Regret. Catch up on all the stories from Act1: An Unusual Brain here.
Day forty-seven: I have identified three new plants while walking with the Waihatu — the forest folk.
The deadly rose.
The tree orchid.
And the black fig.
The names are my own. I’m still puzzling over what the forest folk call them. They have a rhythmic sequence of sounds and words for each name that evokes the meaning of their subject and intent as clearly as inserting the knowledge directly into my brain. I can only guess their many dialects (each of them speaks a subtle variation of their tongue) are more based on identity, intent and will than on how the sounds are made or the words formed.
The deadly rose is quite small, generally a delicate yellow, or pink. Occasionally white. They remind me of exquisite crepe paper flowers Jenna would bring to the Dirranbandi fete. But not to be taken home, these ones. I brushed one of these beauties as I wandered past — a single petal floated gently into the air and landed on my left wrist. I felt like I was in a fairy tale. Then, I woke up four days and three nights of fever dreams later in the Seeker’s treehouse.
The tree orchids I have seen left me breathless. The petals of the largest could wrap me up a few times over. The smallest fit in the palm of my hand. These are the flowers Cliff says changed him and brought him here. They smell like memories and give me vivid dreams, but so far no transformation or teleportation. So typical they work for Cliff, but not for me.
The black figs are the flowers that drew me and Aidan to the Heart of the Spirit Forest. Tiny black fruits grow in the centre of a purple flower. I have only seen one since those that floated on the river in the new Dirranbandi. I think the Heart Tree may have grown them just to bring us to Cliff. Cliff speaks to her regularly but I have only spoken to her once. It was terrifying and peaceful and intoxicating. Like speaking to the earth or the sky.
The forest folk are spectacular. Each is different from the next. Ahrta is impossibly tall and spends most of her time as a tree drinking in the sun and grounded deep in the soil. Like the rest of the forest, she moves with the tree tide — an endless cycle of other-worldly patterns around the Heart. She is the Seeker of the heart grove. A healer and counsellor to the Waihatu who live in the last great forest grove. Many from the out-forest and wilds are migrating in as the night grove spreads, vomiting up horrors that walk the wilds now. Cliff spends most of his nights hunting them.
Ghie, Arhta’s youngest daughter is a little shorter than Aidan and occasionally flits through the forest as a tiny red finch. She is often over at our table and has helped us so much in finding and preparing food safe for us to eat and river water so pure it seems a shame to drink it. I think she enjoys learning about us as much as I enjoy learning about her and her family. The Waihtu are all children of the Heart and form one family. Those from the out-forest and wilds are those who cannot remember who bore them, always seeking the tree of their birth, travelling in small nomadic groups through the ever-changing spirit forest.
Heather put her battered notebook back in her backpack and looked out over the forest canopy. Pastel pink streaked across the twilight sky, borne on wings of blue and grey; fading into the windy night. Aidan climbed up and sat next to his mother.
‘I like it here.’
‘I know, honey. It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? So peaceful.’ She looked out at the horizon wishing that moment could last forever. But Heather knew, they would not be here for long. Change was coming.
© 2022, Isaac Asamoah. All rights reserved.
Enjoy the read? Join Medium to get access to all my stories and so much wonderful content from so many talented writers it is just crazy!
More from me:
