Of course, I was caught immediately and brought up on charges of “Interfering in Human Affairs, Causing Bodily Injuries to Humans,” and—worst of all in the eyes of Nicholas—“Fixation on an Individual Human.”
My punishment? To live out the rest of my days as a caretaker of the Elder Woods.
This is a joke of an assignment.
“Caretaker” means nothing except keeping humans away from our sacred land. Here, the Common elves harvest a unique sap to create healing draughts.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that I’m not looking down the barrel of five hundred years of being a List Keeper. I don’t give a fuck about exile.
Except for one problem. Nicholas took away my ability to teleport and to be invisible. I’m essentially a very tall human with an ear deformity who will die of extreme old age. For my own survival and the survival of these woods, I can still talk to trees and plants. So at least I have that.
But I can no longer keep my eyes on Clara. I haven’t been able to see her in five long years.
Until today.
I’ve finally got Clara in my sights, by a total fluke of coincidence. And I’m never letting her out of my sight again.
Chapter Three
“This is a terrible idea, dude!”
The toasted man is getting us more and more lost, through the dense trees of Elder Woods. And I’m starting to get the creeps.
And then I see the ax.
What the actual fuck?
He turns to face me with a proud grin on his face.
“It’s like I said. Cutting down your own Christmas tree used to be a thing that men did all on their own in the woods.”
He might have said that in his incoherent rambles, but I hadn’t heard it before now. If I had, I’d like to think I would have ditched him miles ago.
This man-boy is certifiable.
I wish whatever creature lives in these woods would pop out and make Daren piss his jeans right now. I’d love for his dick to freeze to them as a result. Not to do any permanent damage, but maybe enough to require medical intervention, like a much more embarrassing version of that scene in A Christmas Story.
Daren rounds the corner, and he shouts, “Here it is! This is the one! Fuck yeah!”
“Please do not think about cutting down a tree in these woods!” I exclaim.
Too late. The chopping begins.
Thwack!
“Dude!” I shout. “You do know Clark Griswold is a fictional character, right? You do know this is wrong on so many levels?!”
I hate running. I hate being out of breath. I also hate yelling. The fact that I’m doing all of these things is not lost on me. I’m also going to get caught by the farmer—or whatever weirdo haunts these woods—and be guilty by association.
But my love of natural habitats far outweighs my worry about looking guilty if caught.
Daren doesn’t answer but delivers blow after blow to some poor tree. God, just how big is this tree that he’s trying to cut down?
“Come on, man! You’re being a huge dick right now. Birds probably live in that tree!”
Later in life, when I retell this story to people, I will describe how at this moment, the chopping sounds stopped, and everything seemed to go eerily still.
A human-like shadow cuts across the snow to my right. This is followed by complete and utter silence from the birds and all woodland creatures. Not a single chirp or scuttle can be heard. A minute later, Daren’s blood-curdling scream rents the air.