Stormy Reprieve
This storm is the worst you’ve seen in quite a while. The rain is hammering against windows and shingles alike, pelting an uncertain rhythm out. Thunder crashes every few moments, echoing across the land like the bestial roars of some distant animal. Wind howls, rattling your doors and causing your house to tremble somewhat.
You don’t mind it much, though. It gives you the perfect opportunity to cuddle up beneath the blankets and catch up on your favorite TV show.
When you hear the first knock, you assume it’s part of your show and brush it off without thought. When it happens again, louder and carrying a bit more desperation than the last, you pause your show and wait. A third knock at your door reaches you, weaker and almost pitiful.
Curious—but also cautious—you grab an old, dented baseball bat from behind the door and prepare to open it.
It’s a woman. She stands there, golden-brown hair whipping about in the wind. Rain washes down fair skin, drenching through the dress she wears. A dress made of leaves, you note. In one hand, she has a glass bottle, while her other hand tries its best to tame her hair.
She looks at you sheepishly, granting you sight of the most amazing eyes you’ve ever seen. Despite the darkness around you, her eyes shine a vibrant hazel. And not any of those muddy hazels you see so often, but a true hazel. The only way you can describe them is by comparing them to a canopy of leaves, when you look up from beneath and you see the interconnected branches interspersed with the verdant hues of its foliage, or perhaps to a field as it regrows after a drought, the patches of grass signaling a return to life as they sprout from a soft, earthy loam.
“Hello …” Her voice is weak, but comes to you like birdsong on the breeze. “This may be a tad strange. I’m the tree in your front yard, and this storm looks to be getting worse. Can I come inside?”
You glance past her. Sure enough, the patch of land where your tree stood is now a gaping crater. Well, it’s a crater for now, but you reckon after the storm you’ll have a neat pond.
You look at the woman again and notice more. Her necklace is simple, a wooden brace that reminds you of the treehouse the neighborhood kids had built in your tree. One of her arms has a rope bracelet, as well, from which dangles a tiny, circular rubber charm.
“You’re … my tree?”
The woman nods and looks over her shoulder at where she came from. “I normally wouldn’t do this, but …” Her gaze meets yours again. “I don’t want to fall over.”
You still find it hard to wrap your head around it, but your mother and father had raised you never to turn away a soul in need. So, you step aside. “Yeah, of course. Come on in.”
The woman seems beyond grateful as she enters your home. Right away, you fetch her a towel so she can dry off.
“So, do you have a name?” you ask.
She thinks for a while, then says, “Yggy.”
It’s a nice name, and now that you know your tree has one, you plan to start using it more. “Where did you come from? Or were you always there?”
Yggy sits down on your couch. “Not even the nymphs know where we come from. We do not produce children like you humans. We simply … are.”
“‘Are’ what?”
She giggles, a noise as soothing as honey, and smiles at you. “We are the trees. We are forests, and glades, and palms. We are the ones that bring you shade on a sunny day, and we’re the ones that shelter you from rainstorms.”
“Not today,” you joke as you sit beside her.
Your gazes meet again, though not for long, before she looks at the floor. “Y-yes, I suppose so.”
“Hey, don’t worry, though. You’re welcome in here anytime you need to come in, okay?”
The woman nods once. “Thank you.”
Then, she picks her head up and looks over at the window. The storm continues to rage beyond your house, showing no signs of relenting. At first, you think that’s where she’s looking. However, when she stands, she makes it pretty clear that’s not what she’s concerned about.
“This little guy …” She picks up the potted plant you’ve had sitting on your windowsill for a few months now.
“Sorry, I’m trying my best.”
Yggy cradles it like a newborn as she glances back over her shoulder. “I can tell. She says you love her very much, that you talk to her and bring her water and nutrients. And she says it’s okay if you don’t succeed, you’re trying your best.”
Tears spring to your eyes as you pull your gaze away. “I-I’m sorry, it’s just … I’ve been working so hard to keep it alive. It was my mom’s before she …” The word catches in your throat. You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. You squeeze your eyes shut to keep your tears from coming, but it doesn’t work.
Yggy is beside you before you know it, the gentle skin of her palm caressing your cheek. “It’s all right. I’ll help you. Ayana will be all right.”
You gasp as she says your mother’s name, and your gaze snaps toward her. “Wh— How did you—”
Yggy looks down at the plant in her embrace. “She told me her name, and she told me she will always love you.”
