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Then there’s nothing but the rain.

I lie there with my heart pounding, listening.

“Lord,” I tell the ceiling, “if my hives are still standing in the morning, I’ll go to dinner with the Pruitt boy.”

Thunder rumbles.

“Okay, fine. I’ll think about dinner with the Pruitt boy.”

Two

Chapter Two: Rowan

I’ve been alive for four hundred years, and I’ve never once given a shit about anything.

That’s not a complaint. Honestly, it’s the best way to live. You stand in the forest; you grow, and the seasons come and go… snow, rain, green, gold, snow again. Deer sleep in your shade, birds argue in your branches, and every spring, bees crawl all over your blossoms like they own the place. And you just let it all happen. No rushing, no wanting, no drama.

And every now and then, a human wanders through.

Humans are the worst. Loud, clumsy, always lost, always in a hurry to get somewhere they’ll hate once they get there. I’ve watched them be born, panic about it, argue over cows for sixty years, then die. Their whole lives fit in the time it takes me to grow one decent branch.

Flies. Noisy, sweaty little flies.

I tolerated them the way you tolerate weather.

Then the storm came.

I felt it before it reached me. The air grew heavy, the birds left, the deer ran, and then the wind hit me so hard every root I had screamed. So many storms thrown at me, I never budged. Not once. Until this one. I heard my roots tearing out of the ground and felt the earth let go of me, inch by inch, until I started to tip.

And honestly, I wasn’t scared. More… surprised.

Huh? So this is how it ends. Fair enough.

Then I fell, and everything went black.

* * *

I don’t know how long I’m gone.

There’s darkness, and then there’s something else. Pressure. Scraping. Little hands working on me, cutting, shaping, pulling something out of me I didn’t know was in there. It doesn’t hurt. It’s more like being woken up really slowly by somebody who won’t stop poking you.

Then, all at once, there’s light, and I open my eyes.

Eyes? Oh, I have eyes now.

There’s a ceiling above me with wooden beams, and shelves packed with little carved animals, soldiers, faces, and sawdust floating in a strip of moonlight from the window. I blink, which is new, too. Weird, but okay.

I lift a hand. And it’s an actual hand… big and brown, with the grain of my old bark running up the back of it in soft, dark lines. I curl the fingers, and they obey. I uncurl them, and they uncurl.

Interesting.

I sit up. My whole body creaks like an old door for a second, and then it doesn’t. Everything moves smooth, warm, and alive. I look down at myself… big arms, powerful legs, a broad chest, a stomach with more muscles carved into it than any human I’ve ever seen walk through my forest.

And… a cock. A very big cock, with a thick knot at the base, carved with amazing detail.

Well, somebody had opinions.

“You’re welcome,” says a voice.