1 minute read
Zombie Camilla Johnson
shuddered. “I was… wasn’t hunting anything! I haven’t done anything. My men and I are simply passing through.”
“Then why do you destroy the forest as if this land is yours?”
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The man stopped for a moment and stared at her blankly. “Miss, I don’t know who you are, but Lord Dolion owns all the land from the eastern woods to the mountain. You must be mistaken.” “The shifter of the woods is never mistaken, hunter.” “What,” he asked, “are you saying?” he
narrowed her green eyes at him and grinned again. The trees swayed violently as the wind hissed through them. When she smiled at him, their surroundings responded to her with their own consciousness. Leaves flew past the man’s face in whorls of verdant green that blinded him. Howls of wind and the crackling of branches shrieked in
unison. A voice directed at him rose above the chaos: “Hunter, no man can tame this land. It is its own being.”
She stepped back and melted away into the trees.
Perhaps the shifter was the bird flying away or the squirrel scampering on faraway branches. But in the background, a doe trotted off. His vision blurred as his view of the lush greenery turned into a kaleidoscope of dirt and leaves. The ground rushed towards him, and the world turned black. ith a sudden intake of breath, he sat up in a tranquil grove of oak saplings, vacant except for a single deer. He glanced around, hoping to see his partners, but the forest was empty except for him and the animals. When he returned his gaze to the strange doe, in its place was a fey woman. She was barefoot, and flashes of sunlight in her hair revealed auburn and gold. Her eyes were fixed on him. rompted by her stare, the young man said, “This is the grove I helped clear. What happened?”
“A new growth of trees. Isn’t it beautiful?”
He looked at the colors of the light shining through the leaves and felt the softness of the earth below. The sounds of the animals’ daily lives surrounded him. It was richer in color and life than what most talented artists could paint.
“I suppose it is.” — Nina Swartz
