A storm tore through the Forests after they were taken. Great trees trembled as their roots threatened to pull from the earth. Rain pounded the ground like beating fists, smothering the fire and carrying away scraps of clothing and pieces of the treehouse. Every fearsome creature took shelter as the wind rampaged through the woods. First Wood screamed its rage and grief, and Jasmine did too, until her throat was ragged and her voiced was ripped away.
The fire might have taken her, had the rain not come. Perhaps it was the shock of the icy water that finally forced her to move. She did not remember digging the trench to lie in, nor did she remember dragging the wet and fire-blackened piece of wood over her little den, but her fingernails were torn and her skin was filthy with charcoal. Mamma and Papa always said that if she should lose her way, she must stay exactly where she was, and they would come and find her. But Jasmine knew where she was. They never said what she should do if they were the ones who were lost. Jasmine opened her mouth to scream again, but her throat was too sore to produce more than a whimper. She inhaled a mouthful of mud, and choked it back out.
She lay in her hole long after the storm calmed. Her eyes were swollen with smoke and tears, but still she kept them closed. She had lain on her belly in the ferns as Mamma and Papa were beaten and chained by the Grey Guards. A thorny branch had dug into her arm as she pressed her free hand across her mouth, but she had not dared move. The branch had torn through her flesh as if she were a wet leaf, and blood had crusted over the wound. Mamma would be horrified to see it pressed into the mud, but she was not there to fix it. She was not there to care. Mamma— the very word was a savage knife in Jasmine's heart. Mamma's eyes, green like spring leaves, had been clouded by pain and fear as she motioned with her chin for Jasmine to hide, her hands tied cruelly behind her back, blood trickling from her nose.
Papa— the knife twisted, oh— would tell her to get up. He would tell her to climb a tree and get to higher ground. He had looked so wild and afraid, like a wounded animal, as his eyes had searched desperately for her as the Grey Guards bound him. Jasmine had wanted to run to him, and throw her arms around him— I am here, I am here, I am here!— but she had stayed in her hiding spot, still as death, unwilling to betray Mamma.
The storm is over, the ground is no longer safe, Papa would say. Jasmine rolled over in her hole, and thrust her uninjured arm over her eyes. She did not know how long she had been there, but it might as well have been all her life. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth from a lack of water, and her empty belly heaved.
Open your eyes, my dearest, the voice in her ear was Mamma's, but Jasmine knew it was only in her head.
It is a trick, Jasmine thought. If I open my eyes, you will still be gone.
Yes, the voice was sweet and so sad. Something squirmed in the mud under her hair. Yes, I will. But you will still be here. You must get up.
She opened her eyes— one, two— and was greeted by the sliver of pale sunlight that filtered through a crack in the wood as thin as a hair. She drew patterns on the board with her finger, not ready to listen to the whispers Mamma had left behind. The drawings would not mark the wood, not like the burnt sticks Mamma would give her to draw with on torn tree bark. They would disappear, like her family. They would be invisible, like her. Every heart beat was a blow to her chest, every breath she took dragged knives down her throat.
Finally, she kicked the board away. The fire had burned away many of the treetops, and it was brighter than Jasmine had ever seen. Sunlight burned her eyes and blazed hot upon her skin. Her heart broke as she looked around her. The flames had turned the massive tree that held their home into a skeleton the colour of ash. It still stood, but many of the smaller trees and bushes around it had been completely destroyed. The house itself had fallen, smashed and burned into pieces that scattered the ground around her. The world spun around her, and Jasmine felt like she might be flung away.
Water first, Papa's voice murmured. Jasmine staggered through the sludgy mud to where she had left the water bags, not too far from her hiding spot. She had brought them with her when she had been drawn back from the stream by Mamma's screams, but all of the water had sloshed out as she ran. One of them had been left with its mouth facing the sky, and held a shallow pool of rain water. Jasmine lifted it to her lips and drank greedily. When she had had her fill, she poured what was left into her cupped hand and cleaned the small wound on her arm. It stung horribly, but she gritted her teeth and washed it until she was sure the dirt was gone.
Breathing heavily, she climbed to her feet. The sky was still bright, but the sun was beginning to set. Had her parents been there, they would be getting food ready for the evening meal. A night and day had passed since she had been left behind. Food next, Mamma's voice breathed.
Jasmine stumbled obediently to the remnants of her home. The tree in which their house had stood had been burned black, and stunk of fire and evil. It looked nothing like the safe place where Jasmine had laughed and slept and played. The leaves that had concealed the little house had been consumed by the flames, and what remained of the house was scattered around her feet. The rope ladder hung limply from a branch, torn and with some steps missing, but likely still good enough to support her small body. She walked through the remains like a ghost, half-numb to the destruction around her. She dug blindly through the boards until she found a sack of dried berries and crammed a handful in her mouth, forcing herself to chew slowly. She followed it with a second handful, and then a third. The food settled her stomach and cleared her head a little.
She eyed the rope ladder again. It swayed gently in the evening breeze. It would be night soon, and even Papa, who was very strong, did not like to be on the ground in the dark.
She rose, and made towards the ladder, when something on the ground caught her eye. A piece of paper fluttered on the ground, trapped by a broken branch. It had been sheltered underneath the wood from the rain, but pulled back out by the wind. Jasmine snatched it up and unfolded it. It was one of Papa's rhymes, the one about the bear and the mouse. It was short and silly, but Jasmine loved it for the little drawings. With trembling hands, she folded it up and placed the precious paper into her pocket. Silent tears cut through the dirt on her face.
Good girl, Papa's voice said. You are doing well. Now, climb.
Jasmine grasped the bag of berries and clutched it between her teeth. She made slow progress up the ladder, for her arm ached, and she was careful to test each frail step before she put her weight on it. As she neared the top, one broke under her foot. Jasmine's stomach lurched as she clutched the rope for dear life and regained her footing. A fall from that height would not be one she could survive. Finally, she made it to the top. Although most of the house had fallen, some of the floor remained, including a piece nearly four times the width of her body. She spat out the bag and fell heavily upon the floor, her numbness bleeding into exhaustion. She reached into her pocket and clutched the paper in her fist, holding it like she might hold Papa's hand.
The remnants of the house creaked and moaned in the wind, but she knew somehow that the tree would not let her fall. For all the damage it took, it was was massive, and still sturdy. Injured, perhaps, but not dead. Besides, she knew that tree. It had been her home all her life.
"I am sorry they hurt you, too," she whispered, as loud as her voice would let her.
Rest now, little one, a deep voice whispered. Do not worry about me.
Jasmine sat up and looked around wildly. The voice had been realer than the soft remnants of her parents' voices in her mind, but no one had spoken.
Do not be afraid, the low voice spoke again. I will keep you safe, as I always have.
Jasmine lay back down, and closed her eyes. It did not seem so strange, really. Her panic faded as quickly as it had come. She knew, in her heart, that it was the tree that had spoken to her. She knew that trees talked to each other, for she heard the whispers their leaves made in the wind, but she did not know that trees would ever take an interest in speaking to her. She knew that the tree would keep its word, for it had been her home all her life, and she could not see why it would betray her now of all times.
Still, she could not stay there forever, that much she knew. She would have to make a new home, and she could not bear to have it in sight of where the old one had lain. But it did not matter yet. She would sleep surrounded by the branches of the tree that had sheltered her for seven years. Tomorrow would be a new day. She would salvage what else she could from what had been left behind on the forest floor. If Papa and Mamma came home they would be so proud to find that she had made a new home and kept herself safe.
When they came home.
They had to come home.
Note: This is a rewrite of a piece I wrote back in 2010 or so for a collection of stories called 'First Wood'. The story itself was called 'Like Spilled Water'.