Raven
Mother holds my hand as we stroll along the path in Sales Hollow Park. “Raven, remember that the oak is your best friend, strong and faithful,” she says. “Maple, pine, and ash are also our friends, but beware the hemlock, for he is cunning, and the alder cruel.
Though I’m a small child in this moment, I know my mother is long dead so this must be a dream. Her memory rose to comfort my restless sleep, yet my heart warns it’s much more.
Dark hair falls in luxurious waves around Mother’s shoulders as she kneels before me. “This is important, sweetheart. Beware Miss Willow. She will seem a friend and refuge at first, but do not trust her. She is selfish and unhappy, and will betray you if she can. In the end, you must bend them all to your will.”
I nod with no understanding of her words.
“Remember what I’ve told you, Raven. It’s important.” Her eyes sparkle with intensity, yet her voice is kind and gentle.
I’m confused, but not afraid. “Yes, ma’am.”
She smiles. “That’s my good girl.” The pupils in both her eyes grow bigger, black bleeds into the whites, spreading like ink over a page until the entire space is filled. “A storm is coming, baby. You will need the help of your friends in order to defeat the coming evil. My girl is brave and strong. You can overcome her if you don’t lose heart.”
Her? Who her? I focus on the woman who looks like my mother—the one with obsidian eyes. There’s a millpond to our right. Prickles rise on the back of my neck, and down my arms. The scene mirrors the place where Desiree drowned last year. A sense of evil overwhelms me. The same darkness I felt when she tried to strangle me in Gideon’s attic.
My gaze darts past my mother to the shadowed crevices and thick hedge between the trees. I’m searching for danger, trying to identify the threat. My heart beats like that of a little bird, thrumming to the point of arrest. The oppressive feeling grows nearer. It’s almost upon me. Help. When I try to speak the words, none form. “Help me, Mother. Don’t let her get me!”
Mother still kneels at my feet. Tiny, green tendrils, no wider than a piece of string, slither from the corners of her eyes. Another root sprouts from her nostril, more from her ears. The foot of a tender, new vine blindly feels its way across her shoulder, down her arm to her hand. They multiply and grow thicker, stretching every orifice to capacity. Crawling over her skin, the vines swell until Mother’s face splits open. Her flesh tears and reknits, changing form.
She is the tree.
Her roots reach for me. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself as the tentacles make first contact.
They tickle. My eyes pop open, but Mother is gone. Nothing remains but an ever thickening system of heavy vine coiling one over the other. Slowly, my legs are encased in soft leaves, my body, arms, and face. I giggle as I imagine myself a small pea hiding inside a pod. Butterflies live inside a cocoon before they hatch. Do they feel like I do—safe, warm, and protected inside a fortress of ivy? Strong as iron, smooth as velvet.
Sleep, my child.
“Yes, Mother,” I whisper.