AUGUST • C.CULLEN

one

AUGUST
1663, LONDON

It had been an age since August was free to roam.

His great grandfather, Elm, had forbidden him from leaving the forests for fear of humans discovering him in the days where men kept each other as slaves and slaughtered innocent women charged with witch craft.

It has been two hundred years, but in the quiet whispers of the leaves, August hears the warnings of his siblings and friends. Not much has changed. Man still hunt down his kind, and fear what they do not understand.

Bare feet padding quietly on the forest floor, August trails his hands across the rough bark of Elkin, the oldest living member of his family, and he whispers a soft 'goodbye'. Her branches sway softly in the wind and a leaf slowly falls, landing in his fluffy hair.

Goodbye, Elkin says. Be safe.

He taps her trunk once more, then takes his leave.

August follows in silence a path consumed by the flora of his forest, one the humans dare not take for it is deep within his home and shrouded in darkness. It would not be safe. He steps lightly on the thick, moss-covered roots of his cousins, which bury beneath the earth and rise in uneven masses, obscured by the small boulders and spiked thorns which line the path.

It is silent in this part of his home, and not. Birds do not talk, nor do foxes or deer, nor wild dogs or small rabbits. Still, the rivers run and the wind sings soft melodies which thrum in August's heart. His family, though large in number, have faded from his hearing. He has strayed from their safe haven. They do not talk to him here, so near to the edge of the forest, save for the saplings, who call for their big brother's attention.

At the end of his path, close enough, now, to hear the chatter of men and huffed sighs of horses, August faces his family. "I'll miss you," He whispers, and the wind carries his voice. He pulls the leaf from his hand with a gentle hand and kisses it. There is something mournful in his heart, he notices. He has been with his family for close to two-thousand years, and he now takes his leave for good.

August walks to the edge of the forest, bare skin covered by the shadows, and shrinks back as three men on horses charge past him. He clutches Elkin's leaf to his chest. He watches them leave, heart pounding, then looks from the cold buildings of the city, where he was intending to go to mourn his fallen friends, to the direction the men raced.

He swallows, then kisses Elkin's leaf once more and tucks it into his hair, where it will not fall. He follows the men.

—

Carlisle leads the charge into the sewers, heart heavy and grim. He whispers a prayer beneath his breath. The young men with him, and they are young, only sixteen and eighteen in age, look to him for direction from atop their steeds.

"Go North together," He commands gently, "and stay silent. The creature is dangerous and will attack unprovoked."

"What about you?" Henry asks, visibly scared.

Carlisle swallows down his guilt and looks into the boy's eyes, "I will go West. It won't go South, for the dense woods will be too hard to navigate in the wet." He wipes the rain from his face in hopes to clear his vision. It doesn't work. He has to squint to see his commrades and they yell to be heard over the weather.