I'm here, aren't I?

CW: Mild religious trauma, injuries,

Wren was trying her hardest to not make a sound as she left through the front door that morning. Her parents were asleep, and she’d rather not get into an argument about her plans for the next few days. Whims were not to be followed at this time of night, where who-knows-what could be lurking. The realistic part of her brain knew that it actually was pretty sound advice, but the obstinate part of her argued that 4 AM was a perfect time for a young woman to be wandering out in the wilderness on her own. With no car of her own and a longoff memory of a destination from her adolescence to guide her, her legs set to widen the distance between her and the safe yet uninspired life.

It really was quite the hassle getting two bags of supplies, an oversized sketchpad, a backpack, and a leaky water bottle over a fence without dropping or scraping anything. But such is the struggle of a true artist, Wren mused, untangling a shoelace that had snagged. Her imaginary adversary, Fantasy Wren, disapproved of Real Wren’s form and watched it unfold with a critical eye. She had scraped quite a bit of her leg and dropped her water bottle back on the other side, disappointing the both of them greatly.

As Real Wren reached her arm back through the fence, fingertips tapping and flicking the edge of her bottle, Fantasy Wren loomed over her. When it was inevitably sent rolling even further away, she could almost hear her alter ego’s tired sigh. Fantasy Wren didn’t need to waste her time with such troubles. She did not have to practice landscape portfolios, she could have simply paid entry into Glassrange State Park without having to trespass, and if she did she would not have been so careless. Real Wren was unbalanced, unemployed, and an art school drop out. 

Two more fence hops and another tear in her jeans later, Wren finally resumed her run across the property. It was the last one before finally hitting the woods. She hadn’t been caught before, and she didn’t even think this lot was inhabited, but out in the boonies trespassing was risky business. Guns were an assumed part of life and recreation for most households here, and the last thing she’d like to die for was the luxury of working with colored pencils and markers.

Finally hitting the first scattering of evergreens and brush, she permitted herself to stop at a larger tree to fully catch her breath. Plucking a twig out of her already tangled ponytail, she pulled out her phone and turned the camera on to see if any other hop-alongs were there. She didn’t often take selfies, so the unflattering nature of the front-facing camera caught her off guard.

She was quite the mess. It was barely 8 AM now, and loose strands of her auburn hair were already clinging to her cheeks and forehead with sweat. She had lost her tan over the winter, so her pale cheeks were flushed and bright from the extended running. She had bags under her eyes from the lack of sleep; the slightly bloodshot look of her sclera an annoying contrast from the blue of her irises. It all made her face look puffy and swollen, like she was about to burst into tears at any given moment.

Having enough of hating herself and committing to only positive, productive thoughts this point forward in her mission, she locked her phone. Fantasy Wren, glowing and beaming with endorphins on her parallel run, vanished in an instant. There was no need for her anymore. The woods to the west of Glassrange were a sacred place in her mind, she refused to let her poison in here. 

She wasn't the only one in her community who believed they were special in one sense or another. People who went missing eventually reappeared, sparks never spread from drunken bonfires, and animals never attacked people here. Or at least, that’s what the people of her grandparents' generation believed.

But this security was, in a way, Glassrange’s downfall. With no challenging or dangerous trails to hike, climbers rarely came through for the experience. A lack of interesting wildlife discouraged people seeking out the fauna. The assumed safety of the forest led to local politicians to approve smaller and smaller budgets with less staff. This made the smaller trails fall into a state of disrepair.

Then, there were the zealots in her town. They didn't like the idea of even a benevolent force that wasn't immediately associated with God. Her parents had been among the crowd that considered any rumors a distraction and a nuisance.

At this point, no one came through Glassrange or the neighboring Santa Calcita anymore for the nature trails, the one source of tourism for the region. Sure, there used to be an occasional geologist studying rare calcite crystal formations, but local grants dried up ages ago. Local guides always recommended a park an hour or so in any other direction. But for Wren, it was still a sanctuary that held the promise of inspiration.

Wren checked her phone again before moving on. Her last text to her father was still unread. Not that she was going to tell her parents that she was breaking any laws in any way that would leave a convenient paper trail for the potential prosecutors that may be in her future, but she at least wanted to make sure her camping cover story had landed successfully. No such reassurance was happening now as she ran further and further from cell phone service. Sighing, she pocketed her phone and retrieved her compass. She was going to have to walk a few miles to the south and a little more to the west for the location she scouted.

In the middle of the park there was a cliff and a sudden change in elevation. On the lower side was the town of Santa Calcita, the community that maintained the southern border of the evergreen sprawl. It was from that town that she saw her prize, miles and miles away. Now, she wanted to catch it from the north side, from the side her hometown was on. She was hoping to catch a view from the cliff a few hours before sunset, when the mountains to the west would begin to cascade their shadows across the valley. The angles of the mountains and trees on both sides always had a magnificent way of sharpening the rays of light at sunrise and sunset, and she hoped to catch a bit of that magic in her sketchpads.

The biggest obstacle was how deep in the woods it was. This was going to be the longest trip she had been on in a while, so Wren came extra prepared. Not only was it a long hike, she also estimated that it would take two or three days in order to get the views she needed during the critical windows she had available. But all that meant she was carrying way more than she had before. She was absolutely pushing her luck and putting her survival skills to the test, but her faith in the local legends laid the foundation for her confidence. But after the second mile, her arms were jelly and she was taking more stops than she’d like.

Come on, it’s only pain, she thought to herself, willing her hands to clench and her arms to stabilize. Feeling a cramp coming on, she set everything down again to simply sit in the dirt and leaves. She checked her phone again. No service, but the clock still worked, obviously.

It was 12:51. Wren wrinkled her nose at that. How was it already past noon? Was she stopping that often? At this rate, by the time she got to the cliffs and set up camp it would already be past the golden hour. She’d have to set up after she was done, at night, then. As she crouched to reach for her bags, a certain thought gave her pause. How far have I actually gone? There was no way she wasn’t there by now. Even if she was walking at a snail’s pace of a mile an hour, she should have reached some sort of cliff by now. 

The possibility of getting lost hadn’t even occurred to her until now because the directions were obvious and the way was supposedly easy. If her directions got messed up, the solution would be simple. All she had to do was go south and she’d eventually hit the cliffs, and then she would follow the cliffs east until she hit a highway. But as far as she knew she hadn't even hit a downward slope yet.

Wren checked her compass again. It indicated she was suddenly headed east for some reason, towards the highway. She hadn’t made any turns and only moved in the same direction for miles, or so she thought. When she glanced behind her, the trees didn't seem to have moved.

Where the hell am I going, then? Wren turned back to the south. The trees became denser in that direction, suggesting it really went deeper into the forest. But so did the original direction she was going, which was apparently east. By all rights, she should still be facing the south, shouldn’t she? She couldn’t wrap her head around it. How was she suddenly walking out of the forest? She’d heard of people getting disoriented without a path, but she was being deliberate and methodical.

Wren huffed. It was like an annoying version of the local legends: a guardian angel that was prematurely coming to her rescue. Her late grandfather spoke of a guardian in the woods; he claimed that it once sent a trail of fireflies to send him and his friends out when they had gotten lost as children. She’d always believed him, or at least believed that he thought it to be true, probably for far longer than she should have. Obviously, less people believed in that kind of explanation for miraculous happenings in the woods now. Her parents and their friends resisted such fairy tales in favor of grounded lessons of God’s eternal guidance, and any third-party deity getting the credit was a sore spot as she grew up.

For one reason or another, Wren had always favored the stories her grandfather told her to the sermons of her parents. There was something about the idea of a local being watching out for her community in what ways it could that felt more meaningful than a distant, supposedly omnipotent god only helping people out in one very specific way. But she also knew that deep down stories of a spirit that protected the forest couldn’t be true, as painful as it was for her to admit. As the realities of life set in, she found the truth was usually cruel in its mundanity.

But as the solitude of the forest set in, she found her superstitions coming back to her. Wren looked up at the tree tops that judged from on high and cupped her hands around her mouth.

“If there is a forest guardian, thank you,” Wren called up to the leaves. “I’m not lost at all! You don’t need to guide me out!”

The trees, of course, said nothing back. A few birds flew off in surprise at the sudden noise, but otherwise her wild shouting into the wilderness was unacknowledged.

“So uh,” she continued awkwardly, “I’m just going to keep going then!”

Why are you still shouting? Wren asked herself, feeling a bit like a child playing make believe. She stared up at the treetops for a few more moments, needing to feel like she was actually waiting for some sort of response. The sudden crawling sensation on her neck did make it feel like someone was there, listening. She thought she might even have heard distant bells, like wind chimes, echoing in the silence. But she knew people had a way of inventing sensory input when they were utterly alone.

A breeze picked up, making the leaves above her sway. Still no answer, obviously. The feeling of someone listening passed too. She was just alone in the wild, afterall. Her cheeks flushed again, and she snatched her bags off the ground. Determined, she opted to not pocket her compass and held it out as a constant guide instead. There would be no drift in direction this time.

Wren’s plot to outwit the forest guardian’s misdirection had worked. In under an hour, she finally found evidence that she was headed to the cliff. The trees were growing less dense again, and the mountains on the other side of the valley were becoming visible. After climbing over one more hill, she could finally see the first ledge. The trees didn’t completely make it to the edge itself; there were about twenty or so feet between  them and the cliff. The first ledge also was only five feet or so, leaving a more narrow but still easily traversable rim of dirt and stone before the several hundred feet drop. To the right of where she emerged, the cliffs stuck out in a triangular formation before evening out. To the left, the cliffs continued eastward until finally sloping down miles away towards the two towns separated by a sharp change in elevation. She could almost make out the highway from here, if only because it was a clear cut out in the trees in the distance.

Wren set her bags down and approached the ledge with caution, slightly digging in the toes of her sneakers before she completely set her weight down. She didn’t have any climbing gear to bring, so if any of the dirt or rocks shifted she would tumble off the side completely. But the dirt seemed tightly packed. She leaned over the edge slightly to look at the smaller ledge that jutted out. This was really where she wanted to set up shop, but she wasn’t sure the safest way to get down. She could dig a little bit and shimmy down, but she ran the risk of shifting the dirt around her. There weren’t any roots to grab onto, just the occasional rock sticking out. She looked east and west again. The ledge did go up a little to her right, but it was stopped completely by a flat, vertical boulder. To the left, the ledge became more and more narrow with no way to lower herself down easily.

Bummed, she flopped backwards and stared up at the sky. The view from this first ledge was fine, but bothered her to come so far only to have such a minor obstacle defeat her. Of course, she mused, I could just… simply jump down, and figure out how to get back up later. The danger of the imagined scenario gave her goosebumps, but the prospect of succeeding this way excited her. It really would be a test of the local legends, and her beliefs in them. Nearly every one of her grandfather’s generation had some memory of some wonderful miracle happening to them. But those miracles didn’t occur anymore, likely because no one ever pushed their luck here. Imagining some sort of miracle for herself made her breath catch in her throat a little.

In reality, Wren was not that foolish. Settling on the first ledge, she pulled out her half-complete sketch book and set to work. Her feet dangled over the cliff, a mere five feet away from the finish line, and she couldn’t help but feel like a coward.

When it came to drawing landscapes, Wren felt like nothing more than a very shoddy camera. Sure, her line work was fine, but for something like this, colors and shading really carried the weight of the visuals she desired. She was satisfied with the mountain range, the tree trunks, and the highway lines and town, but the leaves were just a sea of green blobs. They were mostly evergreens, but she just couldn’t capture the inspiration she needed to make the shades and hues truly click with her. Tapping a blue marker on the paper, she considered just finishing this one up and starting again. She completed the page and huffed with exasperation as she dramatically flipped the paper, entertaining her audience of no one.

She set her eyes on the mountains to the south and west of her. It was going to be sunset soon, and the rays were becoming more intense as they angled across the mountain range. The sky was a nice blend of blues, orange, and even pink against the clouds. Perfect.

Pink was her favorite color, and she loved the way it blended with others. Green was fine, but it was a little too calm and boring in her eyes. She shifted so that her right leg dangled over the ledge and she was facing the east to look where day blended into night in the distance. It was still warm out, and it was going to be warm all night thanks to the humidity. She was fine to keep working until she no longer had light. Perhaps she’d just work on blending the different sky colors. No linework to distract her, just the ink mixing and fusing on the page. Uncapping her favorite pink, she went to begin filling in her page, but paused.

There was already a splash of color there. A small rainbow, dancing back and forth on the paper, before flitting off. It was almost like a refracted ray of light that might’ve bounced off of something else.

Now where did that come from? She twisted around in each direction. There was nothing but forest around her. Even if it was somehow an intense beam of light from the town, her paper was facing the opposite direction. The only thing that stood out was the jutting of the cliff behind her, but rocks and dirt didn’t reflect light like this.

With all her twisting and looking around, she hadn’t noticed that she bumped into her water bottle, which began to shift and teeter over the first ledge. By the time she noticed and swiped for it, it bounced onto the next level with a metallic clang. The sharp noise cutting into the hours of silence made her head ring, but as it settled amongst the dirt, she became transfixed upon it.

Just jump down, she thought. It’s solid stone in that spot. It can hold your weight. You’ll climb the rocks back up like nothing happened. The thought was tantalizing once more. She looked out to the horizon, the expanse of forest below her, and her breathing grew less and less even. She pictured herself simply missing the ledge altogether, her stumbling against the rocky wall. She could be impaled on one of the trees, or smashed apart by the earth. No one would ever know what happened to her. And yet she lingered on the ledge. As anxious as she was before, she was starting to feel a little numb to consequence. Just jump and it’ll be okay. It’ll be okay no matter what. Nothing bad happens here–

Her feet landed on the second ledge with no wobbling or give. The dirt didn’t shift and rocks didn’t crumble. It was only a small jump, but the rush of surviving it gave her a small wave of euphoria. From this angle, she could clearly see smaller rocks that jut out from the first rock that were easy enough to climb up. She giggled a bit, and then outright cackled with relief. She had no idea why she spent the last few hours worrying about it.

She reassessed her surroundings as she crouched to grab her bottle. It was only a few feet wide, but it was spacious enough for her to sit and recollect herself. If she hadn’t known any better, it was almost carved perfectly for someone to walk along. Gazing at the sunset from here gave her a burst of inspiration, but she lingered a little bit longer. The sun had finally disappeared over the mountains, allowing her to look at their outline directly once more. That was as good of a sign as any to attempt the climb back up while it was still light enough to see.

As Wren stood, a sudden flash of prismatic color hit her directly in the eyes. She shielded them and took a step back, bumping into the first ledge. The bump knocked her bottle loose out of her hands once more, this time fully sending it over the cliff. The light cleared enough from her eyes so she could bear witness to its ceremonious flight into the abyss, followed by an unmistakable bang of metal on rock that echoed up the earth. Birds scattered from the trees below, crying out and warning their brethren of perceived imminent danger.

“Well. Shit.” Wren cringed at the cacophony.

The chaos was distracting for a moment, but her attention was turned back to where the cliffs jutted out towards the southwest, and the boulder that stood at the end of the ledge. The rainbow had been reflected off the rocks somehow. While staring at them a little longer, another beam scattered up through the cracks of the giant vertical boulder and the rest of the stone behind it.

It’s coming from behind the rocks, she thought, mesmerized. Was there a cave or passageway behind it? She could swear she heard jingling in the distance, like the small bells from earlier. But that didn’t make sense either. Her senses were betraying her, surely. Yet still she found herself carefully walking along the ledge towards the outcropping. It began to narrow and raise, so she found herself leaning more against the first ledge.

Her foot slipped a little, but she quickly straightened up and slid towards the wall. Turning her glance back towards the boulder, she saw that the light had stopped. The bells had quieted too. Her knee buckled a little bit, triggering an immediate and instinctive fear of falling. Her vision tilted sideways, making her grasp the stone ledge behind her for stability. Okay, fun’s over. Warning sirens were going off in her mind, urging her to head back.

Turning away, her right heel spun on a rock that shot out from underneath her foot. Immediately, her center of gravity swayed out and away. She spun to the left and her hands desperately reached out, hooking her fingers into the rocks above her. The dirt below her feet kicked away and shifted another rock, leaving a gap in the ledge that sloped down and off the side of the cliff. All that was left to stabilize her was a few inches of stone that were only wide enough for her toes to stand on. She tensed her already sore arm muscles, afraid that any wiggling would send her plummeting to the world below.

Wren inhaled deeply to steady herself. Just pull yourself closer to the wall, step only where you’ve stepped before, and you’ll survive this. Think of the other people who have been saved. Nothing bad happens here. Nothing–

The sound of bells and wind chimes returned, along with a voice. A man’s voice. She snapped her head to the boulder several feet away from her, which seemed to phase and shift away, revealing a cavernous opening that led deep within the cliffside.

“Lark,” the man’s voice echoed from within the cavern, “I’m not in the mood for your games. We’re wasting a valuable opportunity to catch up.”

Ringing followed. A golden light culminated and began to emerge with the bell’s ringing, until it finally flew out. Once outside, the light flitted to and fro, closer and further away from her, clearly alarmed by Wren’s presence. Her fingers trembled as she clung to the rocks for her life, closing her eyes to keep the odd flying bell from blinding her.

“Campers are capable of causing some kind of commotion," the man continued as he came closer to the entrance, squinting as he entered the light. “You can’t just assume…” He trailed off as he finally saw her, eyes widening in horror.

He was certainly not the kind of person she expected to see out in the wilderness. He was wearing a broad shouldered dark emerald cloak over a black robe and pants, like he was some sort of fantasy actor or Renaissance Faire cosplayer. The man himself appeared normal, however. He was a good bit taller than Wren, olive-skinned, with angular features made him seem quite agitated and mean for a moment. He also appeared older than her, maybe in his thirties, with flecks of gray in his black hair. He stared back at her for a beat, taking a moment to fully absorb the emergency of her situation.

“Whoa there,” he said, raising his hands slowly. His voice was suddenly much more gentle than before. His eyes darted between her and the light buzzing around the both of them. “Lark, back off, you’re not helping.”

Wren felt like she was having some sort of near-death hallucination as he talked to the ball of light. It flew off and back into the cavern, ringing loudly. As the ringing faded, she realized her breathing was shallow and rapid, the shock of their appearance leaving her numb and disoriented. She couldn’t form a cohesive thought in her brain to allow her to accept it as real or reject it as imaginary. All she could do was cling and breathe, as if thinking might take away any effort from keeping herself alive. A clump of dirt loosened under one of her nails, and her vision became overwhelmed with static.

“Easy now,” the strange man hushed. “Just breathe. I’m coming to get you.” He shifted closer to her, extending a gloved hand. “I’m almost there.”

“I-I don’t want to let go,” Wren stammered, gasping and panting.

“You have to.” He was frighteningly calm. “You need to take my hand.”

“I’m going to fall if I do.”

“Not while I’m here.”

It seemed like a fact to him. His eyes seemed tired but his smile was gentle and safe. His confidence was catching her and causing her to even her breathing rate. She saw herself letting go, taking his hand, and him pulling her to safety. Maybe this really was the forest guardian’s doing, leading him to her, or her to him. Wren’s elbows loosened and she set more of her weight down on her feet. This story would have a happy ending after all. All she had to do was let go with her left hand–

The instant she did, her weight caused the rock in her right hand to loosen and release from the ledge above her. It seemed to distort her perception of time and space, like she was just a passenger in her own mind, careening passively towards her demise. She could tell from the way the man’s eyes widened and he rushed forward that she was not descending at the angle he anticipated. In fact, her ankles were buckling and slipping, too. Pain jolted through her right ankle as it twisted in a sickening angle. It was going to be sprained. That’s what the coroner who worked on her case would say. Broken neck, contusions on her chest, and a sprained ankle. Scraped off the cliff, packed up in a bag, and forgotten.

Wren still reached out to the man, her finger tips brushing past his as she continued her descent.  Below her, the trees and forest floor that awaited her came into clarity. She was falling, gliding closer to the ledge itself, unable to stop the impact they both knew was coming.  I really believed in you, she thought, her head smashing into the rock and her vision fading into the abyss.