We Didn’t Believe by Andrew Sippie
When the tracks we followed disappeared, the forest we knew vanished. Withered, white leaves fell instead of lush, green ones. The trees had no bark, the soil was the wrong shade of brown, and the ground was warm and crinkled with no sign of underbrush.
Many told tales of unseen portals deep in enchanted forests that displaced travelers to faraway places like the edges of bottomless pits, the throats of massive beasts, or the bottom of the sea. We only had ears for the distant rustle of underbrush, snap of a twig, or grunt of prey. They told tales of leviathans that could swallow islands, giants that could level mountains, sorcerers that could madden entire cities, gods that could shape continents. We only heard our village’s plea for food after the crops failed.
We could feel something’s awareness of us, so we tiptoed and whispered. The trees, if they could be called that, appeared brown but wore no bark and rose tall but bore no branches. Searching for anything familiar, we squeezed through those thick, smooth, curly strands. We still listened for the size of an animal in its rustling, searched for creatures in the trunks of hollowed trees, sensed the marking of musk, could survive and find anything.
When mounds appeared beneath our steps, we stumbled forward and fell. Our weapons tumbled out. The knives and daggers that plunged into the soil drew oozing, red water. The ground shook and swayed. It didn’t matter. Without a hearty haul from our hunt, next winter would be our last.
We touched our chins to the warm ground and became like snakes in the grass or frogs in the reeds. We tasted, smelled, and listened for anything and everything that would give us answers. There were none. Like from a bucking horse, the ground tossed us upwards. Our trembling grasp of the smooth strands failed. When we hit the ground, our bones snapped. We screamed and pounded the spongy ground. We dug our fingers in to pull ourselves forward.
We still understood the twang of a bow, the flight of a straight arrow, the skid of a struck target falling, and the weight of limp prey slung over our shoulders. We could see the joy and relief in the faces of our families at our return. We could hear their laughter. We could feel their sobbing. A hand large as a thundercloud blotted out the sun before it descended upon us. Only before it crushed us did we finally believe.
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Andrew Sippie finds his happy place when writing and reading speculative fiction. He can often be found teaching and tutoring students from all over the world, jogging through the woods, and delving into the unknown. He’s at andrewsippie.com and on twitter @AndrewSippie.
