A Forest of Redwood
(Translated by Fanni Sütő)

The air is freezing tonight. I pull my yak fur coat tighter on my chest, but the bone-biting cold makes me shudder. As we push further and further away from the village, the silence of the pine forest falls on us like a shroud.

I lock my fist around Arjuna’s slim fingers, I don’t want her to feel afraid. I try to shelter her as long as possible. Arjuna presses her free hand against her belly, she keeps tumbling and I sink into the hollow snow up till my ankles. We don’t have a lot of time, so I help her stand and we continue our way, pushing against the darkness.

I sense a slow change and I know from Arjuna’s shudder that she noticed it too. The soothing rustling of animals stops, the hungry howl of wolves comes to us on the back of a faraway wind. I feel like we’ve been on the road for hours when she comes to a halt in front of a redwood.

“A face,” she whispers as she looks at the wrinkly bark of the tree. “So it’s true…”

I nod.

“She’s Tuya. You didn’t know her. She brought us the Light before you were born. She was the tribute of a bad year. We owe a lot to her,” I continue encouragingly and because I guess her thought, so I add. “She gave her moon-blood, yes.”

“Like me.” Arjuna lifts her chin.

The first snowdrops hadn’t even raised their heads when she announced with fear and pride in her voice that she felt the signs, the new curves of her body, the ache in her breasts. We expected her bleeding to start by the summer. If it had happened that way, it would be someone else tumbling beside me.

The redwoods and spruces become denser, in the dead silence I think to hear the whispers of the souls enclosed in them. When we pass Gerel’s tree, Arjuna’s hand trembles. I know what’s coming next, she’ll try to break away from my hold. They all try to, but I’m always stronger.

Gerel, whom Arjuna loved like a sister, brought us the Light last year, her face is now written on the trunk of a huge spruce. The spirit of a boy called Khan lives in the neighbouring tree. Khan was from a good year; the forest was content with the boy and nine mares.

This is a bad year though. The meadows and fields are barren, the animals freeze on their feet. We have burnt all the dead trees, but now we need to cut the living if we want fire. We had no other choice but hoping that that Arjuna’s moon-blood will make the Sky and the Earth fertile again.

This time a redwood waits for the tribute. Its huge hole yawns in blackness, but this is just appearance. She knows too. Her face is like virgin snow.

“Juna, do you need help...?” I ask, understanding her hesitation.

“I’ll do it,” she says quietly. “I’m ready.”

I’m relieved, this is the most difficult part of the rite.

She reaches between her legs with a confident move of her hand; the warm blood colours her fingers crimson. The shadows pull away, I can almost see darkness, this beast drawing back. Arjuna knows what to do. She touches my forehead and paints a circle on it with her blood. It’s not the first time the sign of the Woman clothed in the Sun is drawn on me; but it’s the first time for Juna – it is also her last.

Fear without fear

The world sleeping free,

Rain, ice,

Whirlwind, wind,

Raging fires,

The mouth of a rabid wolf,

should spare her,

as long as she lives,

Sun-Mother, I offer my blood to you.

Upon her song the redwood shudders and the girl steps into its embrace without hesitation. The branches come to life, they reach out to trap her body and soul. Her scream rings out beneath the sighing and cracking of branches. I reach for her inadvertently, but I couldn’t save her even if I wanted to.

My throat clenches. It’s terrifying and magnificent to see the rebirth of Mother Light, I’ll never get used to it, even if I see it a thousand times.

Arjuna’s moon-blood has driven away the darkness. Tomorrow we will wake up to see the beginning of spring.

***

Kazó-Horváth Dóra is a Hungarian amateur writer passionate about horror, and fantasy tales. They work as a software engineer in Budapest. Works of theirs have been published in anthologies, in Hungarian. Their short stories written in Hungarian were translated into English by Fanni Sütő: http://inkmapsandmacarons.com/en/