The Historian

The weather had begun to cool. It was all that was needed for Tintalle to realise that autumn was already in their midst. Everyday, as the sun rose, she and Fflar, her black-capped chickadee familiar, would make it a point to count how many leaves had turned colour. Even now as they began their day, Tintalle’s whispering wind picked up the leaves that had dropped overnight, and they watched in awe as the numbers so obviously outnumbered the previous day’s. It was last summer when Fflar suddenly appeared in her life. Nothing had shifted; nothing had changed. She had just been thinking of the aspen forest she first woke up at as an esk when Fflar suddenly appeared. No flashing lights or shimmer. The space in front of Tintalle was empty, and then it was not. Fflar spoke to her through their minds, just as Tintalle did to her woodland friends. But while the squirrels and birds couldn’t speak to her directly – Tintalle could only interpret from their behaviour and tone — Fflar could. It was intriguing, and a nudge that told her that something was about to change. All this time, Tintalle had been wandering a little further than she had expected she would. She told herself that she would protect the forest in which she was born. What a year it had been, going up to the mountains only to meet Raaga, a Wanderer like Arya of the Conservatory, and then finding a forest that someone else had grown. Now, she was finally back at the only forest she knew when she first woke up. It was more beautiful than she remembered, and she was glad of that. Days of going about, growing a new sapling in place of a dead tree, was nostalgic. To think she had been so lost before, so unaware of what she was capable of back then. “You have become strong,” her elemental whispered. Fflar chirruped in agreement. Tintalle looked down shyly, and she could not help the feeling of happiness rising up inside her. That quickly turned to wariness when she heard a rustle of leaves from behind. She turned around swiftly, and saw a large form standing not too far away. Part of it was in shadow, and what was not was staring back at her. A face. A peculiar, owlish one. It was not like hers, but she knew that they were like her. A large butterfly with luminescent green wings was attached to their neck, striking against the warm colours of autumn. An antenna grew from their head, the right full and whole, the left fragmented. Tintalle took a wary step back. Her wind shifted to concentrate on the area around her, ready to use it against them if they proved a threat. Leaves that were in the process of falling to the ground were impeded, caught in her elemental. But as they stayed where they were staring at each other, something popped up in her head. “They look familiar,” Fflar whispered from behind her. There was a tinge of fear amidst the stronger emotion of curiosity. At last, as if on cue, the stranger made their first step. It was intimidating, to say the least, for they were so very large compared to her. They walked with the grace of a cat, just like Tintalle. When they paused in their steps, they were again in a stalemate. Tintalle decided that if they were here to hurt her and Fflar, they would have done so by now, and so, conjuring up her courage, she stuttered, “W-who are you?” A moment of silence, then — “You do not look like yourself.” A look of distaste crossed their features. “Dead branches. Seeded eucalyptus. You are lost.” Their eyes wandered to the red berry on her neck. “I see you have kept the Cornus canadensis.” Tintalle could not tell from their voice if they were a male or female, but it hardly mattered. Especially not when another esk had decided to show themselves in front of her. The way they spoke, it was as if they had seen her before. When? Why was it that she could not remember? This esk certainly looked nothing like any others she had encountered before and she was sure she would remember them if she had really met. And what did they mean by being lost? She was not lost… or was she? “How do you know I have kept the dwarf dogwood? You have... seen me before?” They shuffled into a seat, the black and white spots on their brown fur — just like a cheetah’s — played a mesmerising image under the filtered light as they did so. “I am The Historian, the one who transformed you,” they answered indifferently. Tintalle and Fflar gasped at the same time. “W-who… What?” Tintalle managed to blurt out. “Does that mean you know what happened to us Before?” Fflar said, finally coming out of hiding. Without realising it, Tintalle’s wind had calmed completely, now blowing lazily behind her neck. They tilted their head. “Do you wish to know?” “Will you tell us?” The Historian nodded. “Not too far from here, there is a village that does not take well with females. You may not know of it — I am not surprised — for something has been stored within you an aversion to that area. Well, not as if much of the village is around anymore after this forest died at the time.” A village that… does not take well with females? “No matter, let us continue. Because of this mindset, countless numbers of baby girls died every year. They are either poisoned, killed or abandoned.” They paused. “You were one of them. Your mother abandoned you in this forest, just as it was dying, infected by a strange disease.” “My mother… what of my father?” But even if she did not ask, she felt she already knew. “He convinced her,” Fflar said, her tone an indication of an afterthought. “Yes,” said The Historian gravely. “Your mother had not wanted to. She loved you, but she knew that running away will mean certain death for you both. So she gave in, leaving you behind in this forest. She had hoped that there would be others who would pass and find you, but this forest was dying, and she knew not. Even most of the squirrels and birds had left, for they could no longer endure without the gifts that healthy trees could offer. But those who remained behind had come and gone, watching over you with curiosity, and I believe even now, their kind remain friends with you. But they, of course, could not take care of you. Before you could pass from dehydration and starvation, I arrived and transformed you.” A wave of understanding crashed over her. It made Tintalle gasp. The Historian had been right — she was still lost even when she had already found her purpose. How could she have thought otherwise when she did not even know of her life before she became an esk? This was what she needed. However, even though she felt the delight and relief of knowing of her past, she could not help the apprehension that came with it. Humans. Again. Them and their selfish thoughts. “It is normal to think badly of them. Their culture and their customs may not make sense to you. History has shown the infinite evils that humankind has put upon this planet, but there is beauty too. Withhold your judgement, for that would be best for you. It would not do to dwell on the bad, but it would not do, as well, to be too idealistic. Nothing can be perfect in this world.” Tintalle looked down, deep in thought. Guilt had begun worming its way into her heart. She thought back to the three people she had chased out of the forest, the ones who had meant harm. There were only three, and there had been no more since that day. Had she really decided to hate them all just because of them? “I see you understand.” Fflar gave a high-pitched chirp, pulling Tintalle away from her thoughts. She could see herself changing right then. The colour of her legs had lightened. The berry on her neck remained once again while the dead branches and seeded eucalyptus vanished, giving way to several midwinter fires that framed the sides of her neck, and the roots of a quaking aspen. “The aspen stump on your back is diseased,” Fflar pointed out. Tintalle looked up at her familiar, and saw that the curved dead branch that was on her head had been replaced by a midwinter fire. “Befitting.” Tintalle looked up at her creator. As she did so, a glowing orange leaf floated past her. “What is this?” But The Historian had already begun walking away. Tintalle swallowed, gazing at the leaf with fascination. Things had most certainly changed. “Thank you,” Tintalle whispered, still taken aback by what had just occurred. She hoped, at least, that they were still close enough to hear.