The Forest

Early one morning, the fog reached high enough to cover the lower branches of The Forest. Faish saw it clearly, resting still and ominous below him as he ate breakfast seated on one of the limbs of his home branch. Only about one day in thirty did the fog reach this far up, and it stirred his ever-present anxiety like a cluster of butterflies shaken from a limb. He finished his last bite of fruit and placed his hands on his thighs, fingers spread wide. He inhaled slowly, held it a moment, and began to pray.

“O Forest, provider of all, protect me this day. Catch me if I fall. Catch my wife and children. Bless the work I do today to provide food for my family. And . . . please help me to not fear. My thanks.”

Faish kissed the fingertips of his right hand and touched them to the limb on which he sat. He rose carefully, winding his way back to the main branch and over to the limb where he had slept. His wife still lay there on their platform, drowsy eyed and smiling as he crawled over her to retrieve his glasses.

“Have a good day, flower,” Faish said before kissing her.

“You too, sweet nectar.” Her face looked crisp and clear, though discolored by the amber lenses of his glasses. He pulled away and rose smoothly to his feet. Then he turned and made his way back down the branch. At the trunk, Faish glanced down again at the fog, now only an indistinct amber-gray through his glasses. With the surface of the fog indiscernible, he no longer saw exactly how near it was. 

But still it unnerved him.

The fog always hovered down there, somewhere. Usually it stayed low enough that Faish couldn’t even see it through the branches. Now, though, the fog enveloped the people living farther down the tree. What would that be like? Few people ever went below their home branch. The lower you went, the greater the risk that if you fell there’d be nothing below to grab onto, and you’d simply be gone. Forever.

That unnerved everyone a little. Most people like Faish—who not only had The Fear but also the birth defect of being able to see too far—wore these glasses that made nearby branches appear crisp and everything else a blur. They kept you focused on your next step or two and took your mind off of falling. Because, whether you fell a few feet to the next branch down or fell all the way through to the fog below, it was all bad. Injury from a short fall might make you unable to work, which would make you unable to pay rent, and you’d have to move to a lower branch, which meant . . .

Faish took a deep, slow breath before starting out away from the trunk, heading for work in the fruit trees.

The glasses were supposed to keep you focused. But the endless possibilities for falling always hung at the bottom of Faish’s thoughts. Falls waited a single mistake away—not only for him, but for his wife and children as well—with each step, each swing around a trunk. So the lenses didn’t help much. The Fear was always there. Faish couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t have it. 

There were others with The Fear, of course. Faish was far from alone. His own wife sometimes had it, but Faish suspected that his anxiety rubbed off on her. And their kids already showed the classic signs of The Fear—not wanting to go out and play with the other kids, clinging a little too tightly to their parents. He’d destined them to a life of worry. Faish felt bad about that.

But what could he do? The danger was real. It wasn’t natural not to think about it or fear it, no matter what anyone said. He wasn’t the unhealthy one. If people really wanted to cure The Fear, they’d do something to prevent falls.

Nevertheless, Faish navigated the branches with skill. He planned ahead, taking the less popular routes. He took his time, placing his feet carefully, finding the rough bark with the most traction. 

But he never felt comfortable doing one particular maneuver—the swing pass. Perhaps the involvement of another person, often a stranger, unnerved him. The swing pass allowed two people to pass each other on a branch too narrow to walk side by side. They would approach, judging the other person’s weight relative to their own. Usually without slowing down, they would turn their right shoulders toward each other, link right arms at the elbow, plant right feet adjacent on the branch, and swing around each other. Then they’d unlink arms and regain their balance, continuing on their way.

It required trust in yourself and the other person—trust in their skill, strength, and attention. The weight balance had to be centered around a point between them, or someone could lose their balance and fall. It happened, occasionally. Each swing pass could be your last.

But people did it all the time. Unless there was another branch nearby thick enough to support weight, the only alternative was for one person to back up to the nearest trunk and move to another branch. That slowed you down. Usually, it only slowed Faish down, because most people were willing to do a swing pass more often than he was.

But Faish was tired of being the backtracker. He resolved, once again, to not let The Fear hold him back. The faster he got to work, the more fruit he could pick, the more money he’d make, and the more secure his family would be.

And he’d use the swing pass if he had to. He was good at it, after all. Or at least average. There was nothing to fear.

It wasn’t long before his determination faced its first test. A man a few inches taller, but slight of build, met him at almost the dead center of a branch about a pace across. They locked eyes. Neither slowed, though Faish’s breath caught in his throat. They linked arms, planted feet, took a nauseating swing into open air, and then it was over. No wobbling, no drama, and Faish continued on his way.

But his heart played a drumbeat in his chest.

The second pass came on the very next branch, extending from the same trunk. Faish’s heart sank into his gut. It hardly seemed fair. This one was a middle-aged woman a few inches shorter than Faish, but stocky of build. Once again, his breath caught as they locked eyes. She gave him a relaxed smile, and he felt a little jealous. But the pass was over in a second, and they continued on. She probably never gave it another thought. Faish panted to catch his breath.

Fortunately, the next passing came where two branches overlapped, so they were able to walk normally past each other. 

And then, just as Faish neared the trunk end of a large branch, a woman dressed in pale yellow, with white hair and a lined face, appeared from nowhere, moving quickly toward him. She didn’t appear to see him at first, and Faish slowed slightly. Finally, she looked up and they locked eyes. She wore glasses, too. Her eyes widened slightly. Then they reached each other. Faish extended his arm. She extended hers. The linking of elbows felt slightly off, and it wasn’t only the size difference.

They swung, and the balance was wrong. She weighed next to nothing, and Faish’s weight pulled her toward him. Time slowed. Faish straightened his right arm, unlinking from hers. He bent at the waist, extending both arms, straining opposite the direction his weight kept shifting, slowly, inexorably. With horror, he realized he couldn’t prevent a fall. He was going over.

Something hard struck his tailbone. His body twisted, crunching twigs and leaves as he flailed to get an arm around the small limb he’d landed on, before he fell farther. And he succeeded, but only just.

Faish found himself dangling in the air, his left arm wrapped around a wrist-sized limb extending from the branch off which he’d fallen. He kicked his legs. A whimper escaped his throat.

Suddenly, another man was there, reaching out from the larger branch and grabbing hold of Faish’s flailing leg. 

“I’ve got you,” he said.

He helped Faish hook his ankle over the limb and maintained a grip while Faish scooted toward the main branch.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” the man said again.

Another man joined him, and they lifted Faish easily back onto the branch.

“Are you hurt?” the second man asked.

Faish gasped for air. His heart thumped like a hammer. “I’m well,” he said. “I’m well.” He looked around. The two men who’d helped him stood on either side of him. Behind them, more people were gathered. The white-haired woman he’d tried the swing pass with wasn’t among them. 

His heart seemed to stop. “Where is she?” he asked hoarsely. “The woman I . . .”

The first man, still holding Faish lightly by the arm, shook his head.

Faish looked down to the branches below. They still hung in the misty fog; he could barely make them out. But he saw nothing. He crouched down, feeling dizzy. What had he done? He closed his eyes, buried his face in his hands, and felt his glasses. He tore them off, useless things. Faish looked down into the branches again.

Everything became clear as his eyes adjusted. He saw through the distance and the mist, picking out branches and leaves below. Faish scanned the area carefully.

“She’s gone,” a woman said in a soothing voice. “It wasn’t your fault.”

But Faish saw something below, a patch of pale yellow among the green and brown. “No!” he said. “She’s there. I see her.”

He heard movement and quiet exclamations from the people standing above him as he crouched on the branch.

“I don’t see anything,” someone whispered.

“Hello!” Faish called loudly. “I see you!”

He still couldn’t make out anything specific, but it was definitely the same color as the woman’s clothing. And it moved.

“I don’t think that’s her,” someone whispered.

But Faish was sure.

“I can’t move,” came a voice from below. “I might fall.”

“I’m coming down,” Faish shouted. He rose to his feet, looking to either end of the branch for the best way down. The nearest tree had a branch below that he could probably jump to, if he dared. “Let me through, please.”

The shocked onlookers moved back toward the nearest trunk. “It’s too far,” a man said. “You’ll never get down there.”

“And if you do, you’ll never get back up,” a woman said.

“Does anyone know where some rope is?” Faish asked. That would be the way back up.

“I do!” a woman called from behind him. “I’ll get it!”

Faish reached the trunk quickly, then turned to look back toward where the woman lay clinging to small limbs. Without his glasses, he saw clearly. But he still couldn’t see a path down to her unless he made a leap for a branch about eight feet below, a dizzying drop, farther than he’d ever jumped in his life.

He sat down on the upper branch, dangling his feet over the side.

“What’s he doing?” someone asked. “I don’t see—”

“No!” someone else yelled, just as Faish leaned forward and slid from the branch.

The fall felt so long and made Faish’s stomach lurch. But his feet landed squarely on the branch below and he sank into a crouch, perfectly steady.

He took a deep breath and stood up.

“Are you hurt?” a woman called from above. 

“I’m fine!” he replied, feeling a little giddy, not only from the adrenaline but also from the thrill of landing a jump that few people ever attempted. Even better, from here he saw a clear path ahead.

The branch was unworn, rarely if ever used for walking because the only other branch near the same height was the one in which the woman was tangled. Twigs and leaves covered the branch’s round top—the worst kind of branch for walking. But Faish moved deliberately down it, placing each foot with care, feeling for traction with the soles of his feet.

“I’m coming,” he called.

“Please hurry,” the woman said.

Faish stepped more quickly, fighting years of instinct by reminding himself of his years of experience. Sometimes, one didn’t have time to be careful. Sometimes, one simply had to act and hope for the best.

Suddenly, the fog swirled up from below, enveloping Faish. He froze, expecting to lose sight of everything. But that never happened. He could still see the branch, the nearby limbs and leaves. In fact, his vision wasn’t any worse than when he wore his glasses. Faish continued on.

“Are you well down there?” a voice called from above.

“I’m well!” Faish called.

“We can’t see you! The fog!”

“It will pass!” he said.

And then he was there, beside the elderly woman in yellow whose fall he had caused. She lay in a thick patch of leaves, her arms hooked around separate limbs, her legs dangling below. It was a miracle that she hadn’t kept falling.

Faish positioned himself carefully behind her. “Are you injured?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “But my arms are numb and shaky.”

“I’m Faish,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Araila. Nice to meet you, Faish.”

Bracing himself against the branch with his legs against the limbs holding Araila, Faish reached forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pulled her body closer, gently, until his face was buried in her back. Then, with his hold on her secure, he lifted.

Araila freed her arms from the branches and transferred her grip to Faish’s arms as he leaned back, pulling her to the branch. Maneuvering was awkward, but she was light, and Faish soon helped her to sit on the branch next to him.

“Thank you, Faish,” she said, breathless. “Such a nice name. My late husband’s best friend had that name. Not many people do, nowadays.”

“I’m so sorry I made you fall,” Faish said.

“It was only an accident, Faish,” she said, linking one arm around his elbow and holding tight. “No one’s fault; they’re part of life.”

Faish shrugged.

“You have The Fear, don’t you?” Araila asked.

Faish glanced over at her. She gazed intently back at him through a pair of amber-lensed glasses. It wasn’t a subject of normal conversation.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “Do you also?”

“You could say that, but I wouldn’t. You were wearing glasses up there. How far can you see without them?”

Faish hesitated. “No one’s ever asked me that. I can see everything.”

“Everything? Now that’s something special.”

“What about you?” Faish asked. “I assume you wear glasses to give you near sight?”

Araila smiled. “I have a friend who also asks unusual questions. He asked, ‘What if I curved the lenses the other way?’”

Faish leaned forward. “Did it make him see farther?”

Araila reached up and removed her glasses. “I wasn’t blessed with far sight like you were. I can see about ten paces without these glasses.” She replaced them on her face. “With them, almost as far as you can.”

“But why would you want to see farther?”

Araila’s smile faded. “You were exactly right when you said it’s hard to see past The Fear, Faish,” she said. “It clouds everything, just like this fog. But there are gaps, like the gaps between branches as you walk. And when those gaps appear, you can’t be focused only on the branch right in front of you. You have to be ready to see everything. And what you see . . . well, it can make a difference. Look.”

She pointed past the limbs that had caught her fall to a wide clearing in the trees. The fog dissipated before their eyes, burned away by beams of sunlight plunging down through the canopy. The Forest spread out before them, brilliant green and brown, with surprising splashes of gold and crimson, deep blue shadows, and pure white sparks of reflected sunlight.

“Oh,” Faish said softly.

Araila remained silent for a long moment, and they simply stared out at the world together. 

“What do you see?” she finally asked.

“The Forest.”

She waited for more.

“Colors, so many colors. Textures. Distance.”

The silence spread for another long moment, until Faish broke it.

“Beauty,” he said, “and danger.”

“Does The Forest hear your prayers?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Faish whispered.

Araila stayed silent again. Faish felt that she was waiting for him to say more. Or maybe see something else. Something he’d missed . . .

And suddenly he saw.

People.

They appeared as flashes of movement, changes of color through the leaves. When he tried to pick out movement, he saw them everywhere.

“There are so many people,” he finally said.

“Yes,” Araila replied, and Faish heard the smile in her voice. “So many people. And all part of The Forest.”

They watched the clearing teeming with life for a long moment before Faish remembered their predicament—they couldn’t get back up. The Fear sprang up inside him again, which in turn made him wonder why it had ever left in the first place.

Then a voice called out from above. “I brought rope!” a woman said. “Are you well?”

“Yes, we are well!” Araila called back, her voice strong.

“Can you get to the nearest trunk? We’ll lift you back up from there!”

“Yes!”

The rope was lowered. Faish helped Araila secure herself in the loop at the end. A moment later she rose up into the air.

Faish stood alone on the lower branch, watching the resplendent morning scene Araila had pointed out to him. He felt warm and thankful that the disaster had ended well.

Soon, the rope was lowered again, and he placed the loop around himself. The rope pulled tight, and Faish ascended easily. On reaching the top, he was surprised by the number of people who had assembled to help. He didn’t recognize any of them, but they had postponed their activities to help him and Araila.

As the crowd dispersed, and Araila was led away home by a relative, Faish found himself alone. He would have quite a story to tell his wife that evening. For now, he still had the day’s work to do.

Faish sighed and stood up. He would not be swing passing anymore today. Maybe not ever again. Taking a risk to save a little time and make a little more money no longer held any value in his mind, no matter what everyone else thought.

He pulled his glasses from his pocket and put them on. Then he remembered Araila’s strange glasses and what she had said. He looked around at the beauty of The Forest, and he felt a part of something larger than himself. And that did seem to make a difference. Maybe he would never be brave, bold, or wealthy. But he could be The Forest’s eyes.

Faish returned his glasses to his pocket and walked carefully to work.

Ben Spendlove is the author of The Freezer, a novel about parenting at the end of the world published by BCC Press. He enjoys traveling both near and abroad. Some of his favorite places are Yellowstone, Moab, and Australia. He also enjoys hiking, riding his bicycle, watching TV (especially Star Trek), and just spending time with his family.

Art by Beki Tobiasson.