The Forest Provides
By Jaxon Murdock
The fresh snow crunched under my feet as I approached the cabin, a welcome haven after the suddenness of the blizzard. I gripped the shoulder straps of my backpack, pulling it tighter against me as I found shelter on the porch, leaving the blistering cold and blinding white behind.
I could barely feel the latch of the door through the numbness that had been creeping up my arms; though I fumbled open the latch and pushed against the door. The warmth of the interior was a welcoming invitation.
I glanced over my shoulder at the blanket of white covering the forest behind me. The faint trail of my footsteps was the only sign of life. But that storm was a cold one. I sighed. I was lucky to have found my way to the cabin through that blinding white.
I shut tight the door, shrugged off my pack and set it down on the table, and made my way to the hearth.
Lovely. It was still warm.
I took a few logs from the holder and placed them carefully, withdrew some kindling from my pack, and rekindled the fire. Finally. The feeling began to return to my fingers as I warmed them.
I retrieved the pot and filled it with snow from the edge of the porch outside, braving the cold again briefly, and hung the pot over the fire. From my pack, I collected some vegetables I’d been carrying, chopped them up, and tossed them into the rapidly melting snow of the pot.
I’d managed to find a rabbit in one of the snares I’d stumbled across just before I’d located the cabin. I figured that I’d skin it and add it to the stew, too. I felt confident it would make a good addition, but as I held my knife over it, I hesitated. I thought back about the best way to prep it. Something my dad used to tell me came to mind, and I remembered the first time he’d made me watch him skin a rabbit. I’d cried back then. Just a little.
But I wasn’t that kid anymore.
It was going to make a tasty meal.
I cleaned up, ensuring the table was spotless. Everything was in its place.
The small clay pot of ink, its rim crusted with dried residue, sat near the back of the table beside several bird feather quills worn smooth at their tips. On the shelf above them, a row of leather bound journals were pressed between two rocks carved into primitive but elaborate bookends, one looked like a fox and the other like an elk.
I tucked a lock of my long red hair behind my ear as I reached for the first of the volumes. The leather was soft under my fingers, darkened with age and the oil of countless handlings. The pages crackled slightly as I opened the first book, their rough texture catching on my skin.
I flipped through the first pages. Building records, mostly. Technical notes in careful script.
June 12th, 1986
Finished the outer walls. Squared and plumb. The forest provides good timber
I paused, glancing at the pot of stew hanging over the flames. I nodded. Yeah, it sure seemed so.
July 22nd, 1986
The roof is in place now. I’ll be sleeping inside at least. No more waking to critters nuzzling my bedroll anymore.
More construction notes. Window frames. The hearth. A detailed sketch of the door latch mechanism. I smiled. Meticulous, almost obsessive record-keeping.
I stirred the stew, the rich smell of rabbit and vegetables filling the cabin. My stomach growled. Just a little longer.
I turned more pages, skimming past calculations and supply inventories, until—
September 3rd, 1986
The cabin is finished. Set the last board today, the railing on the porch. Smoothest work I’ve done yet. This place is mine now. Mine alone. Tomorrow, I rest.
I settled back into the chair, the journal resting comfortably in my lap. The fire crackled. Outside, the wind had died down. The storm seemed to be passing.
September 5th, 1986
Found something on the porch this morning: a deer skull. Cleaned and polished. Damn thing set right on the door step staring into the cabin. What fool might have left it there? Hell, it’d take a fair bit of determination to hoax me out here. Ain’t nothing for miles.
I looked up, the skull of a deer caught my eye. It hung prominently above the mantle, sun-bleached and perfect. I bit my lip, and continued reading.
September 7th, 1986
Another one this morning. A pile of berries on the stump table on the porch. The kind that only grow on the west-facing slope. I tell myself it’s a raven. A fox with odd habits. But the logic feels thin.
I stirred the stew, the spoon scraping softly against the pot’s bottom. Almost ready.
September 10th, 1986
A trout by the creek today. Scales still gleaming. Placed exactly where I draw water. I left a carving of my own: a fox, rough but deliberate. In the morning it was gone. In its place: a snare. Perfect construction. Better than anything I could make.
My hands had gone cold again. I set down the journal and moved back to the hearth, holding my palms out to the flames.
I glanced around the cabin, soaking it in. The deer skull on the mantle. Antlers mounted above the door. River stones arranged in a careful spiral on the windowsill. Small carved figures lined up along the shelf: a fox, an elk, a bear, and quite a few dolls. All primitive but intricate.
September 14th, 1986
Found a doll on the doorstep this morning. Made of twigs and sinew, stone head, wrapped in a piece of my torn flannel. The flannel I tore checking traps last week. There’s a crack in the stone, right where my scar is. They know what I look like. They’ve been watching me close enough to know.
A chill ran through me despite the fire’s warmth.
September 16th, 1986
Saw something tonight. Eyes in the trees. Yellow, unwavering. Too high for a wolf, too steady for an owl. They watched me through the window for what felt like an eternity. Then vanished. I sat with my rifle all night. Didn’t sleep.
I turned the page with trembling fingers.
September 18th, 1986
A hunter came through today. Orange vest, rifle, trespassing on my side of the valley. I was going to confront him when I saw movement in the trees near him. Something fluid. Wrong. The hunter saw it too, and his face went white. He fired twice, dropped his rifle, ran. I heard screaming in the distance.
September 19th, 1986
Found him this morning. On my doorstep. Body torn open with deep, clean gashes. Surgical. Like he’d been prepared for butchering. His organs exposed, limbs stacked neat. His rifle propped against my railing like a gift. I buried him. Couldn’t look at his face. What the hell is going on? Is it protecting me? Keeping me as livestock?
The stew bubbled over. I jumped up, grabbed a cloth, moved the pot away from the flames. My hands were shaking.
Outside, something moved. A shadow passed the window.
I froze, listening.
Just the wind in the trees. Had to be.
September 25th, 1986
The family of raccoons from the creek. Found them on the porch. Skinned, gutted, paws removed. I’d watched them play for weeks. It knew I liked them. Killed them for me anyway.
October 1st, 1986
The bull elk. The massive one I’d been watching graze. Butchered with those same precise cuts. Haunches stripped and stacked. It knows what I need before I need it. How long has it been watching? How much does it see?
I crossed to the window, peered out through the shutters. The snow had stopped completely. The forest was utterly still. Too still.
October 8th, 1986
I tried to leave today. Made it a mile. Found the path blocked — massive oak fallen across it. Wasn’t there yesterday. Tried to go around. Brambles. Fallen pines. Every route blocked. The forest itself won’t let me out. I came back. What else could I do? There was a new doll on the step. More detailed than the last. My face carved in wood. Words carved into his body, THE FOREST ABIDES.
The handwriting was getting harder, more pressed into the page. Ink bleeding out, making the letters blotchy and less legible.
October ? 1986
Days blur. The gifts continue. I’ve stopped questioning. This is my life now. I’m the well-fed canary in a gilded cage.
A sound outside. Definite this time. A soft thump against the cabin wall.
I set down the journal, my heart hammering. Crossed to the door. Gripped the handle.
Slowly, I pulled it open.
The porch was empty. Just snow and shadows and the dark line of trees beyond.
But there— faintly, it looked like something had been dragged over the top of the snow, disturbing its surface in a deliberate path toward the cabin from the trees. Stopping at the threshold.
The snow had covered my earlier tracks. I saw no other tracks. I wondered at what could have made such a strange disturbance of the snow. It was almost like what a sled might make, but if no one had dragged it, how did it get here? More importantly, where had it gone?
I slammed the door, latched it, backed away.
I watched the door for a while, craning my neck to listen for any more sounds. Nothing but the crackling of the fire. I sighed. Keep it together girl.
November — no, December? Hard to say.
found another hunter. thing left it for me like a cat leaves mice. carved up neat and deliberate. I couldn’t bury this one. too tired. the forest took the body overnight. providing for me. or cleaning up after itself.
the long dark
raccoons again. different ones. it knows i need food. it provides. i cook what it brings. what else can i do? what else IS there to do?
winter month
tried to leave again. forest said no. came back defeated. new doll waiting. has my face carved PERFECT. how did it see me so close? when was it that close?
The pages were stained now. Dark brown. Some entries barely legible.
THE MOON OF WAITING
we hunt together now i think. or it hunts FOR me. or am i the HUNT? hard to remember which KILLS are mine anymore
Drawings fill the margins. Eyes peering from between trees. A tall, thin figure with wrong proportions. Symbols that meant nothing.
33rd of Septimber
THE FOREST ABIDES THE FOREST PROVIDES THE FOREST PROTECTS THE FOREST KEEPS
Over and over again. Filling an entire page.
The Year the Trees Spoke
I am the forest THE FOREST IS ME cannot tell where one ends and other begins this is home this is mine this is forever THIS IS PEACE
My breathing was heavy, my chest tight. I wanted to stop reading but couldn’t.
████ [completely illegible]
abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides abides provides provides provides provides provides provides provides provides provides provides provides
Then, clear as the first entry, in that same careful script from the first journal:
The Last Day
A massive oak fell across my path. Brambles blocked every route. The forest funneled me back. On my doorstep: a new doll. Her face carved in polished wood. Three words etched in her chest: THE FOREST PROVIDES. I understand now. She will never leave. She is loved. She is well-fed. She is here to stay.
And below that, added later in a shakier hand:
The First Day
A new one comes. The forest will provide for her as it does for me.
I glanced nervously up at the dolls proudly displayed on the shelf. I gasped as I realized how alike the last one was to me. Different from the others, but similar in craftsmanship.
My blood turned to ice.
Outside, a sound. Deliberate. Unmistakable.
Something moving on the porch.
I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but the movement had stopped. It must be gone. I crept to the window and peeked out into dimming daylight.
Nothing.
I gathered my courage and opened the door. There. On the stone doorstep sat a deliberate arrangement of animal bones.
The bones spelled a single word: STAY.
I stared at the bones. At the message meant for me. My pack still sat on the table inside. My supplies. Everything I’d need to leave.
But the stew was ready. And I was so very hungry.
I closed the door.