Her hunger began as revenge. A vindication for the time She was trapped, muzzled. That first winter, it coated the moor and all that moved on it until little was left.
We are used to the hunger now – the same starving neglect we have seen in animals. They are turned out to pasture upon us, only for our reserves to wither, choked by frost, hardened by the biting cold, called down by Her.
The creatures scratch at us, at the ground, mourning until they can no longer stand, until they fall. When the hunger has left them legless, She allows the thaw. We soften, squeeze moisture from the dankest reaches to provide them the relief of water, and a warm place to rest. We aid as we can, until the flesh gives way to bone.
We become one. We bring it down into our bosom, into that hole beneath the ground, the ones that echoes. She uses the husk to feed the other animals who are starving, so that more may last throughout the winter.
We do not feed often. We cannot spread and scourge like the ones we watch; the ones that live from us. The animals and the people, spreading their seeds fast and desperate. The pieces we leave above are our kindness. We let them succeed as we wait. So fleeting, their lives, so in need of joy. They know not what She brings.
We know their hunger. We have felt the slow melt of muscle as it rots down into our soil. We have grown, gently, strand by strand over crisp shards of bone, holding them close until those above can see them no more. We have swallowed skulls whole, deep into our wettest parts. Kept them shiny white with our peat. Pointless though, this nursing in marshes and river silt. In time the sun will parch us, the river will recede, and our treasures will be back upon the surface again.