Traces

II

A gentle breeze rustled through the treetops, making the leaves murmur softly. For a moment, it sounded as if the forest wanted to whisper something to Ismira, as if the branches were reaching out to her. A smile crept onto her face as she ducked under a fallen log, continuing her path through the dense greenery. Ferns tickled her bare legs, and the earth beneath her feet felt soft and yielding. And sticky...

Ismira stopped so abruptly, it was as if she had hit an invisible barrier. The noise she now heard in her ears surely wasn’t from the wind... Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered her gaze and scanned the ground. Her heart seemed to beat outside her chest, pounding to return to its rightful place as she spotted the dark blood soaking into the earth and spattering the leaves of nearby shrubs.

With a sharp hiss, she exhaled, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath. The buzzing in her ears faded, and soon she could hear only the rustling of leaves above her.

It’s just blood, she reassured herself, tightening her left hand around the handle of her wicker basket. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then set the mushroom-filled basket carefully on the ground and followed the trail of blood winding through the underbrush. Whatever animal had been wounded here couldn’t have gone far, not with the large splashes of blood she could see on the leaves.

Within only a few paces, Ismira’s suspicions were confirmed. Before she could brush aside a few fern fronds, she felt the presence of death, and when her eyes landed on the stag’s open throat, there was no longer any doubt. Cautiously, she lowered herself to a squat, leaning over the dead animal, careful not to touch the carcass. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The scent of the forest was overlaid with the thick, metallic smell of death, so dense and pervasive that it was all she could sense, as if it had spread like a heavy blanket over her mouth and nose, threatening to suffocate her.

But there was something else. Ismira was certain of it. She could perceive it, though it hid from her, elusive and intangible. She leaned closer, inhaling deeply once more, drawing in the smell of blood and death to decipher what was concealed within. A sweet note, like honey and flowers on a hot summer day in a small, windowless room...

Ismira’s eyes flew open. Now the scent was so vivid, she could no longer ignore it. It overpowered everything, even the sticky scent of blood. With a strangled cry, she tried to leap up, but a sharp, searing pain shot through her back.

---

"The thistle blooms! The thistle blooms!"

A heavy weight pressed down on Ismira’s stomach as she bolted upright, disoriented, struggling to push whatever was weighing on her away and catch her breath.

"The thistle blooms!"

Again, a shout, this time directly in her ear. Finally, Ismira’s vision cleared, forming the colors and movements into recognizable images. She was sitting in her bed, light curtains drawn over the windows, letting only muted sunlight into the room. Around her, two children were romping, holding each other’s hands and chanting, "The thistle blooms!"

As if she hadn’t already heard it the first few times. But now, as her mind finally awakened, the meaning of those words dawned on her.

"The thistle? Are you sure?"

Now it was the children who didn’t hear her. The moment they realized Ismira was fully awake, they dashed out of the room. She could hear the bead strings in the next room being flung aside and a gruff "Out!" over a chorus of "The thistle blooms!"

Ismira couldn’t help but laugh. Now that the children had left her room and both her mind and body were fully awake, excitement began to build within her. If the thistle was truly blooming again, it could only mean something good. The last time the flower had shown itself in all its splendor was fifty years ago. At that time, Ismira had been a child herself, not much older than the two who had woken her.