[scissorkitty]

I know, Crunchy!! I can't do a poll with that few responses!!! BOOOURNS!!

[Crunchyfrog]

*BUMP*

Only 2 votes?

[scissorkitty]

woops! hehe. sorry crunchy.. here it is!

[Crunchyfrog]

*waits impatiently for poll*

[Crunchyfrog]

I am also in the pagan camp here. He's hurt the trees. His panic has become an irritation for them. Maybe a little tree-hugging might help. He needs to get in tune with the forest.

Lovely chapter.

[scissorkitty]

Glad you liked it, guys!

VERY nice suggestions! I like how you've both "classified" them.. that's going to make the eventual poll SUPER easy for me to write! My, how thoughtful!!

[Shady Stoat]

Or there's the pagan answer. Blood is life. Maybe a small donation to the forest, of George's own lifeblood, will make up for the disturbance he's been causing.

And once he's part of the forest, body and soul, he'll probably find it easier to commune with it, to find the answers he's seeking and the help he needs.

Nice chapter. Surreal... but nice

[Thunderbird]

Well, there's the Disney answer... try talking to the animals and the trees themselves.

Then there's the Buddhist answer... meditate.

Then there's the panic button answer... Scream for help.

But I suppose just looking around for something or someone sentient would help, talking to yourself or singing as you go along might draw some attention.

Nice imagery as usual.

[scissorkitty]

ChapterEighteen


Leah. LEAH!
The quiet stillness of the inner forest was shattered by George's voice. It wavered precariously amongst the gently waving treetops, and dove urgently through the stream beds. Little trickles of his urgent yells dug themselves insidiously through the soil, saturating into the dreams of sleeping animals below ground level. The forest sighed and resigned itself to a new form of irritation.

LEAAAAAH!!

Thwaaaack. A branch, bent double against its will, snapped back against George's face with a pine-scented, needled defense. He flinched, and smeared the resulting dew-sap combo from his nose, to collect with the rest of the forest debris now liberally covering his body. Forcing his way beneath the offending tree limb, he continued to fight his way through the woods, which seemed to be pushing more and more against him, the further he ventured from the clearing.

Doesn't... arg.... matter. MUST.... find.... LEAH! Hate....... MOTHERFUCKING.... TREEEEEES!!!!

* * * * *

Dawn had broken, golden and beautiful, in the little clearing. Tendrils of sleeping daylight had whispered across the warming ground, and collected in the small pools of lingering dew. Despite this magnificence, of which the forest was rather proud, George had noticed none of it.

His attention was focused instead on the utter lack of Leah. She was gone. Gone. Left him in the night, with a pile of fruit bits, and a stupid letter that explained nothing. Left him to rot, die, wait, leave... left him in a weird land, in a weird forest, with a possibly homicidal giant Cat roaming around. Left him stranded by strange tea-making Irish weirdos who transport people in dreams...

In dreams. Right.

In dreams. RIIIIIGHT. He sat, collecting his bearings, and looked around. Okay, so Leah was gone. The forest was okay, and that Cat was possibly around, but at least not around at the moment. George ran a calming hand over his scalp, and scratched at his goatee, deep in thought.

If this is a dream.. if this is all a dream, either hers or mine.. then... then it's not REAL! So.. then.. things I do here don't have to be logical things in the real world. Not logical things... not logical things..
His voice trailed off, but George's eyes remained active, flitting from sun lit stone, to puddled ground, to dawn-lit sky. He found his gaze drawn magnetically back again and again to the little pile of fruit, and, upon closer inspection, the feather laying on the far side of it: Soft as the deepest sleep, black as the darkest thought, shot through with a bronze that would put the fading sunrise to shame.

His brains felt electrified, shooting sparks of random inspiration that owed nothing to modern science, reason, or conscious motion. One hand tickled the feather back and forth across his jawline whilst the other hand, totally independent in motion, dug through his pack for a piece of the string that had once bound the fruit packets together. Closing on a loose end, the busy hand fished it free and gave it a little wave of triumph.

George focused. He pulled his earring carefully from his earlobe, and used it to gently pierce the quill of Leah's feather. The gold shimmered softly, pulling more highlights from the pinion in his hand, and he smiled absently at the beauty as he threaded the string through the closed hoop. Tying the ends, George looped the necklace around his neck.

The feather felt warm against his chest. He closed his eyes, and turned ever so slowly in a circle, his now-bare feet digging into the soft grass, searching for contact.

Leah... where are you. Which way should I go? How do I find you? His voice broke across the clearing in a soft wave of wanting. The forest sighed a little, a soft breeze tickling the grasses in the riverbank, and nudged the nearby birds to stillness and silence.

Moments ticked by, as George completed his slow rotation.. and then. And then.

There.

The feather moved softly against his chest, rising imperceptibly at first, and then with a slightly stronger motion- as if drawn by a lodestone towards the north-western edge of the clearing. It continued to rise, warmth radiating from the soft plume, until it stood freely out from his neck, making a very obvious compass-needle.

Okay. Leah. There. Right.

He packed his things quickly, and began to walk.

* * * * *


Now hours later, the sun sat high in the sky, spilling golden light across the glittering treetops. Far below, George continued his push against the now-resistant forest.

A forest that was becoming more and more pissed off at the intrusive interloper. Branched being bent, snapped, shoved in haste.. where was the gentle romantic soul of this morning? The forest grumbled to itself, and a tangle of roots humped from the soft loamy ground to tangle the toe of George's boot, and send him stumbling into a fallen log.

In a sudden cloud of musty dankness, the rotten wood gave way, and George quickly found himself flailing around in a damp puddle of murky forest filth, probably condensed from the fecal matter of whatever forest denized had stayed the night.

FUUUUUCK!! What the hell is the goddamned PROBLEM, here?!! Dream- this dream SUCKS! He pounded a fist in frustration, sending little globules of things better left undescribed flying into the air.
What do I have to do to get a little HELP in this shithole?

The air in the forest trembled, and the trees held their breath. A weasel, frustrated at the destruction of its log, and now busy searching for something else, froze mid-scuttle. The forest smiled to itself.

Ahh. Finally.




((So? What DOES George have to do to get a little help here?))