Then, abruptly, the relentless drumming of rain on leaves overhead softened and muted. It didn’t vanish, but became a background hiss, overshadowed by a sudden, deafening roar of the deep, thundering cascade of falling water, incredibly close. I felt a fine, cool mist kiss my face as we passedthrougha shimmering, translucent curtain that blurred the already dim forest light.
Instantly, we were in a pocket of stillness. The air, though cool, no longer whipped with wind or carried the chill of direct rain. It hung heavily, thick with the smell of damp earth, cold stone, and thick carpets of moss.
Underneath it all, stronger now in the enclosed space, was that wild, green, ancient scent that clung to the creature holding me. The roar of the waterfall echoed around us, contained, making the relative quiet feel profound. It felt like the inside of something hollowed out, a hidden chamber carved behind the rushing water, shielded from the storm that raged only feet away. The creature’s steps slowed, becoming more deliberate on the unseen floor. It hadn’t stopped, not yet, but the transition from the wild, rain-lashed forest to this hidden, echoing spacesent a fresh wave of apprehension through me. Shelter, yes, but shelterwith it.
Then, it halted. With a slow, deliberate movement that seemed utterly incongruous with the immense strength I’d felt, it bent. There was an unexpected carefulness in the motion, a controlled lowering that jarred strangely against the raw power it radiated. It eased me down onto the cool, dry earth of the floor, my back coming to rest against a smooth, slightly curved surface of solid rock or perhaps the inside wall of a massive, ancient tree.
My injured leg stretched out awkwardly before me, the ankle already swelling, sending sickening waves of pain pulsing up my shin with every beat of my heart. I instinctively tried to draw it closer, but a gasp escaped me as fresh agony flared.
The creature didn’t retreat. It didn’t step back to give me space. Instead, it lowered itself into a crouch beside me, its large form looming in the dim light filtering through the waterfall curtain. Its head tilted slightly. And those eyes, those luminous, unsettlingly bright green eyes, fixed themselves not on my face, not on my terrified expression, but with an unnerving, unwavering intensity directly onto my mangled ankle.
The focused scrutiny felt cold, analytical, like I was a specimen under examination. There was a strange possessiveness in that gaze, too, as if my injury was something of specific interestto it. The air crackled with a new kind of tension, sharp and focused. Its silence, combined with that intense, unreadable stare directed at my most vulnerable point, sent a shiver crawling up my spine that had nothing to do with the damp chill of the air. My breath caught in my throat. What was it going to do?
Its gaze remained locked on my swollen, discolored ankle for another long, stretched second, the silence in the echoing chamber broken only by the thunder of the waterfall and the frantic pounding in my own ears. Then, slowly, deliberately,it lifted one hand. Large, covered in a rough texture like ancient bark, the fingers thick and strong. The movement was economical, precise.
It didn’t touch me. Instead, the hand moved sharply, pointing directly at my chest, then jabbing down emphatically toward the packed earth beneath me. Once. Twice. The gesture was unambiguous in the dim, water-filtered light.Here. You.Ground. Now.A command delivered with silent, absolute authority. There was no room for misunderstanding, no possibility of defiance implied.
It held my gaze for one final, piercing moment, the luminous green of its eyes seeming to bore right through my fear, pinning me in place as effectively as its earlier grip.
Then, with the same unsettling fluidity it had shown before, it rose to its full height, turned its back on me, and without a sound, stepped toward the shimmering curtain of water.
For a heartbeat, its form was silhouetted against the brighter, storm-tossed world outside. Then it dissolved into the cascade, vanishing completely as if it had never been there.
Leaving me utterly alone. Shivering uncontrollably, pain radiating from my shattered ankle, trapped in the echoing heart of this hidden place, the creature’s silent, undeniable command hanging heavily in the damp, cold air. Alone, but with the terrifying certainty that it was somewhere out there, just beyond the water’s roar. And it expected me to wait.
THE SILENT CARETAKER
Kauri
The small one remained where I had placed her, huddled against the cool, damp stone of the hollow. A tremor ran through her slight frame, a visible shiver in the dim light filtering through the water veil that shielded this space. The air here was thick with her scent—the high, sharp tang of pure terror, layered over the heavier, metallic scent of spilled blood and the deep, aching thrum of brokenness emanating from her damaged limb. Her eyes, wide and the color of a storm-darkened sky just before the lightning strikes, tracked my every movement, reflecting the restless shimmer from the cascade outside like captured, frantic starlight.
She pressed herself back, trying to merge with the rock, making herself impossibly small, a fledgling bird frozen before the hawk. Silent. Still. She obeyed. My unspoken command held her fast, a tether stronger than the fear that pulsed from her in waves, hot and palpable as sun-baked earth. But beneath the sharp fear, beneath the dull ache of her pain, something else stirred in the air around her, a scent under the scent. Faint, yes, but undeniable. A resonance, like a half-remembered melodyfrom a time long passed, clung to her presence. Something unexpected and unsettlingly familiar.
That faint, unsettling resonance lingered, a question unanswered, but the immediate need was clear. The sharp scent of her pain demanded action. Her broken limb radiated heat that needed drawing out. The swelling had to be contained before it choked the life from the flesh below.
I turned from her wide, watching eyes and pushed back through the heavy curtain of the waterfall. The shock of the cold spray against my form was sharp, cleansing, washing away the close air of the shelter. Outside, the rain still drummed against the canopy, a relentless rhythm against the roar of the cascade. The air bit, alive and wild. Purpose settled over me, a familiar weight.
Just beyond the reach of the heaviest spray, clinging tenaciously to the slick, dark rocks, grew the broad, fleshy leaves I sought—native ginger. Their roots held the power to soothe the fire of injury, their leaves cool to the touch. I selected several of the largest, healthiest ones, their surfaces slick with rain. Lower down, near the churning pool where the falling water met the earth and churned it into froth, I sank my hand into a deep cushion of sphagnum moss. It came away dripping, soft as cloud-mist, perfect for holding moisture and protecting delicate skin.
Finally, beneath the gnarled, exposed roots of the ancient fig that clung to the cliff face above, I found the pocket of darkness I needed. I scooped handfuls of the clay hidden there, dark and rich with the minerals of the deep earth, slick and intensely cold against my palm.
The forest yielded its remedies as it always had. Its patterns were known to me, its gifts offered freely to those who understood its language. Each leaf, each patch of moss, each handful of earth held a purpose, a power I had learned longbefore creatures like the small one ever walked these paths. Gathering them felt as natural as breathing, an instinct honed over countless seasons. Yet, handling these familiar elements, intended forher, felt strangely discordant, underscored by that persistent, faint echo of something I couldn’t quite place.
Pushing back through the heavy, shimmering veil of water, I reentered the shelter’s relative stillness. The roar of the falls muted slightly, replaced by the enclosed echo and the sharp scent of the small one’s fear. I shook the excess water from my form, droplets scattering onto the packed earth floor, darkening the ground. Every movement had to be slow, deliberate. Suddenness would only amplify her terror.
Even so, as I turned fully toward her, she flinched violently, pressing herself impossibly flatter against the stone wall. A small gasp, sharp and desperate, was stolen by the omnipresent thunder of the cascade. Her storm-gray eyes were fixed on me, wide with an animal panic that resonated uncomfortably within the ancient quiet of my being.
I stopped several steps away, leaving a clear space between us. Slowly, carefully, I extended one open hand, palm upward. Upon it lay the gathered offerings—the broad, cool ginger leaves, slick with moisture, the deep green cushion of sphagnum moss, still beaded with water, and the dark, dense clay, gleaming wetly in the dim light. I held my hand steady, letting her see them clearly. Then, with deliberate slowness, I shifted my gaze from the items in my palm down to her swollen, discolored ankle, then back to her eyes.
These.For the hurt.Offering aid like this was not a gesture I made lightly or often. It felt like disturbing sediment laid down over centuries, revealing something unexpected beneath.
Her gaze darted between my outstretched hand, laden with the forest’s remedies, and my own steady eyes, then back again. A silent, frantic war played out across her pale features. Feartightened her jaw and widened her eyes, but the undeniable throb of her injury pulled at the corners of her mouth, etching lines of pain beside her lips. Her breathing hitched, shallow and rapid in her chest. Seconds stretched, measured only by the roar of the falls and the frantic beat of her pulse I could almost feel vibrating in the air.
Then, almost imperceptibly, she gave a single, tight nod. Her lips pressed together into a thin white line. It wasn’t trust. It was acceptance born of desperation, a surrender to the pain that likely overshadowed even her terror of me.
That minimal sign was enough. I moved forward, the packed earth cool and solid beneath my knees as I kneeled beside her. The heat radiating from her injured ankle struck me even before I touched it, an intense, dry heat that spoke of inflammation deep within. The skin was stretched taut and thin over the swelling, an angry red darkening to a bruised purple along the edges where the bone had likely shifted. So easily broken.
My fingers, rough-textured as weathered ironbark, hovered over the damaged flesh for a moment. Then, with utmost care, I touched her. My calloused pads probed the extent of the swelling, feeling the unnatural give beneath, the subtle grating of displaced bone. I moderated the pressure instantly, mapping the contours of the injury with a lightness that seemed at odds with the sheer mass and strength of my hand. It was a touch learned over untold seasons, tending to the delicate split bark of saplings ravaged by storms, coaxing life back into crushed stems.
