Taref

Autumn leaves tilted between maple trees, gracelessly gathering on the damp earth. The wind hummed gently through the branches like a mother as she stitched her childrens clothing. Tasseled corners of a thick woven blanket clumped together, binded by mud and broken foliage from having been dragged across the wilting forest floor. The scratch of lead on parchment illustrated the scenery, striking the colour from the vibrant leaves.

All was quiet, save for the strokes and the humming of the trees. All was still, save for the sweeping of a hand and the tumbling leaves. All was alive, save for the dead foliage and the creature watching me.

The creature was long, his heavy body pulling on the branches of the maple tree I leant against. Scales each a different shade of brown, not unlike the autumn leaves. Sienna, umber, ochre. Hard curved scales created hollows for the creatures eyes - a glowing and ethereal, molten gold.

His name was Taref. He had been the first to die in this forest.

Winter had gripped him in her calloused hands and pulled him down into the river of which he hunted. As he had struggled against her, flailing like a brush stroke amongst a thousand others, she twisted him, and brought a rock down upon his brow. She killed him and adorned him with his heavy crown.

Being the first to die in a newborn forest was a curse. Much like the seafarer Davy Jones, first dead on the ocean, Taref was sworn to guide the souls of the newly-dead.

But now, this moment, as leaves were falling dead on the ground, Taref watched me.

To avoid the monks of the monastery, I sought refuge in his forest, hoarding parchment and tools in a hollowed tree.

When I first saw him, I had ran. I ran all the way back to the harsh hands of the monks and dropped my supplies. That night I wept in the dormitories, then I heard a sound I would soon grow to know as that of Taref’s body sliding down barken trees. It sounded like the bristles of a brush being forced against the grain of a wooden table.

When I opened the window, I could see his dark shadow against the ground, returning to his forest, and my parchment and lead left on the oak panels beneath my window. Gone were the concerns that he may harm me. I went back the next day with a bottle of wine, stolen from the cellars of the monastery, as a thank you.

Sitting on a rotting pine tree’s trunk, overhanging a steady running stream, Taref told me about himself, and we drank. The water twinkled like the stars of the sky and the green bristles of pine trees fluttered aimlessly through the air. A friendship had been born, and thus grew the habits of our strange pair.

Taref found new scenery, and guided me to each new spot. At the locations, I would sketch, and Taref would watch me, often whispering to me tales of death - some deaths took place in the location I sketched, some far away in foreign lands. Sometimes Taref would leave me, to tend to his duties, but he always returned before nightfall, to guide me home.

Years had passed and gone were the days of the monk’s lashings. No longer a child, I made my worth as an apprentice to an artist, finding new sceneries for my master to paint.

He never knew a forest spirit helped me.

My visits grew more and more frequent, as winter approached. Soon Taref would be busy tending to death, he wouldn’t be able to meet with me so often. It quickly came to the time that I would visit two locations a day, so I might save half my sketches for when winter comes.

Taref slid down the tree closer to me. His tongue lashed out in anticipation. Today he told me of a new death. Before me, in a hollow betwixt the roots of a great maple, lay ghostly signs of a battle. A one sided fight of nature. A rabbit, out scavenging, had it’s scent caught by a fox. From the moment the fox had smelt her, she was no longer alive. That’s how Taref said it, like he had heard her die.

He had seen it playing out, almost in slow motion, as the rabbit registered the hunter, silent amongst damp leaves. She had darted away, trying to get back to her hole. The fox charged, small and swift. Smaller than the rabbit anticipated. As she stumbled into her hollow, a home and sanctuary, she discovered the true size of the fox. He followed her down and ended her in a quick bite. There had been little blood - collected by the scruffy brown fur of the rabbits coat - and the fox emerged from the rabbits hole victorious.

As I sketched, I imagined how I might paint the scenery. Though it held not picture of rabbit or fox, I’d spent so much time with Taref I could almost feel the death myself, and it reflected in my sketches. The leaves were shuddering and the trees a little more twisted, like they were gathering to create a cage for the rabbit. In my painting, the oranges would be vibrant, as copper and colourful as Taref himself, the earth would be as rich a red as the currant wine my master drinks. The Tree’s would blend almost together, but still distinctly themselves. Hopeful, the sky would bleed through the leaves, and the light would not touch the ground.

But I do not paint. It is for masters, not apprentices. Taref often told me how he wished he’d be able to see me paint, how the colours were made to be crafted by me. Wishful thinking. There were many apprentices more skillful than me.

As I finished my sketch - small details of scratch marks around the rabbit hole - Taref began to unravel himself from the tree and brush across the forest carpet. In a voice one doesn’t hear, Taref told me to go home. Content with his unfiltered manners, I gathered my things. No longer in need of keeping them in the hollow of a tree, I slipped them into a pack.

Curved over and unaware of my surroundings save the soft crumple of leaves as Taref purred away from me, I almost didn’t hear the hunter. A dry crumpled leaf underfoot gave him away. His bow was aimed for Taref. Breath didn’t fill my lungs. I moved. My foot slipped but did not falter me. Dirt caught under my nails as I scraped off the ground towards Taref. The arrow loosed. Taref paused to look back. All he saw was me. All I saw was the arrow, planted like a sapling in my chest.

Darkness did not come. But loss did. A loss of time. A loss of memory. A loss of life.

When I focused or awoke or came too - Taref waited. His eyes, before, a molten gold, was now liquid silver. He stared at me with loss. So much loss.

He asked me to stay, in a voice I could not hear. I answered in a voice I could not make, that I would never leave.