Children of the Forest

Chapter Two

An intuitive feeling pulled at my body instantly, guiding me through the ubiquitous trees. Alarmingly similar to my dream, dazzling reds, brilliant oranges and quiet yellows flew around me; jade underbrush deep in the woods, untouched by the shifting seasons, veiled all else under a haze of dimness, allowing rare rays of light to peek through the elongated arms of the ancient wooden creatures. Minuscule dust motes danced in the air, lethargic, like dozens of idle lanterns. The colours of fall still infected every part of the forest, but it was less noticeable there; it was as though I were peering through a sepia lens with hints of smudgy emerald.

My boots scuffed against the crackling forest floor until they moderately slowed to a stop. I glimpsed at the small open space through thin branches, training my breath to silence. My palm scratched against the rough bark of an oak as I stepped closer to survey what lay before my eyes.

Tall, delicate blades of grass soundlessly swayed in the slight wind, whispering inaudibly. The sun generously poured molten, translucent gold onto the grass and brightened the towering trunks of the trees. But something stood in its midst, something dark and rigid, something breathing and alive.

A person, sequestered and alone, feeble among the hefty woods, dark-haired with a youthful build. I carefully stepped away from my cover, open and fragile without concealment. I prepared myself for death and breathed in deeply, cherishing what might have been my last breath, then parted my lips.

"Adair?" I whispered gently, cautiously, as if I were approaching a wild animal. When the boy turned, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock, hunger, and curiosity, I quickly sifted through the details of his appearance mentioned in the missing posters and articles that had circulated for years. Everything seemed accurate – from his straight nose to his obsidian curls – save for his eyes, which were so pale, nearly limpid – when they should have been a coppery bronze.

His mouth popped open; in wonder or disbelief, I couldn't tell. "Who are you?" his voice was ragged and scratchy, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time. "How do you know my name? How did you find me?"

"I'm Elise Finlay," I smiled. Relief and giddiness bubbled up inside of me, sweetening my tongue like sweet honey. "And you're Adair Diarmid?"

I stopped a few feet in front of him, maintaining my distance for the comfort of both of us. His eyes seemed to dilate for a moment, his fingers trembling slightly.

"I am," He rasped at last, clearing his throat. His cheeks looked as though they were painted in silver. My elation at finding a missing boy, however, was quickly quelled as his next words dropped out of his mouth and disappeared into the bitterly wintry air, as gauzy fog. "How did you find me? How?"

Before I could respond, Adair – the lost boy in the secluded words –strode towards me so stiffly I would have thought he wasn't capable of walking properly. His eyes-- a mystifying bleached lilac-- penetrated straight to my eyes, unflinching and – desolate, pleading.

Stunned, I blurted, "I don't know – I was just walking– "

"No..." he whispered. Adair looked absolutely mortified. "I think you should leave."

"Not without you," I said automatically, shaking my head. "How could you not want to come back? To a warm house and a town that has been searching for you for years – goodness, have you been living here for seven years?"

He ignored everything I said. "Don't tell anybody where I am – especially not my father; no, not him." When he turned his back to me, a sudden feeling of relief washed over me. His eyes – they had a hollow, empty quality to them that suggested hopelessness and years of seclusion.

Adair fell to his knees, momentarily disappearing among the softly hissing weeds.

"Adair –" I began mildly, unsure of what to do or how to comfort a phantom of a boy. I completely glazed over the fact that he had mentioned his father, when his father had been missing for seven years, too. I hesitantly stretched out a hand and settled it on his shoulder, hoping it was a reassuring gesture to him. The moment my hand brushed against the shoulder of his crisp white shirt, however, a wave of icy coldness flooded from the tips of my fingers to the top of my shoulder, as if I were touching snow.