Twigs snapped beneath Cenn’s boots as he crept down the hillside. Thick undergrowth whipped against him as he moved beneath the high evergreens above. The air was cool and slightly damp with mist.

The area around his home could sometimes be difficult to traverse. After several years however, he’d grown adept at moving on the steep slopes quietly. He knew paths that made less noise. He knew when to stop and wait. Wait and listen.

Cenn held an arrow nocked on the string of his bow, ready to fire. He stilled his breathing. The sounds of whistling birds came into his ears. He heard the low rumble of wind blowing across the mountains.

And he heard the sound of a creature moving through the brush.

There was the temptation here to move closer, to get a closer look. But Cenn had become more patient with time. He knew that there was a trail of mickle berry bushes leading closer into his view. Soon enough, the deer did come. He would’ve hoped for a older buck, but the younger one before him would still -

The deer sprang away. Cenn blinked in surprise for a moment. He hadn’t even drawn his bowstring yet.

“Gaia’s winds,” he cursed.

He should’ve fired the moment he had a clear sight on the creature. No. Then he may have hit it in a non lethal place, and maybe lose it anyway.

Cenn relaxed his stance, standing up. He was perplexed how he lost that deer. There was always the chance that the deer had just decided to leave on a whim, which was probably the case. Bothersome animals.

A cool wind swept through the Borea forest, and Cenn breathed it in deep, with all its richness, and pleasant natural scent. Mixed in with that, he could smell the sweetness of the berries. He plucked a few of the dark purple-red berries and put them in his mouth. They were a bit too tart. The season was still a bit too early for them to be fully ripe.

In the meantime however, he could always pick some to use in traps. He unstrung his bow, and began filling the satchel at his waist. The time slipped away as he enjoyed the quiet of the forest. This was not the world of the city dwellers, constantly busy without stopping to appreciate a calm moment. Nor was it a tight-nit village filled with nosy neighbors wanting to intrude on you.

No, this land was Cenn’s. It was the land of the trees, of the animals, it was Gaia’s land. A land of peace, yet tiny bits of chaos, of unpredictability. Not a land of obligations, of dinner plans, or of complicated dealings with other people. In this land, he was king and conqueror. He smirked, thinking of some pompous king attempting to tread this world, and likely tripping on a fine robe and falling down the hillside into a pile of ants.

When he was gathering a handful of berries, Cenn noticed an odd sound, different from the others in the forest. It felt… repetitive. Many sounds in these stands of trees were repetitive of course - but not in such a deliberate, regular way.

Cenn closed up his satchel, and readied his bow. He concentrated, focusing on the sound, and taking careful steps to approach it. When he came closer, he heard it stop. He’d been on the cusp of recognizing what it was. It hadn’t sounded natural.

As he walked in-between two pines, he saw something. Some sort of brown creature that was hard to make out through the bushes. It wasn’t large enough to be a deer, but Cenn couldn’t quite identify it as any animal he’d seen in the area before.

He pressed the arrow tight against the right side of the bow. He pulled back in on smooth motion, and loosed the arrow.

The arrow’s tip thunked into the stump the creature was sitting on.

“Aigh!” a shrill shout came.

Cenn lowered his bow, and came closer.

It was… a kweebec. They were creatures of the greener warmer lands to the south. Plant-like, they were small, with skin like the wood of a tree. Not only was it odd to see a creature Cenn had only heard about, and so far north alone in the woods, but the creature also was wearing a small coat like a human, and was gently strumming a lute.

The kweebec grimaced at him, the umber tones of its face furrowing. Oak leaves growing out the top of its head ruffled in the wind.

“Well,” the kweebec said, “I am quite put out by that. I would be shouting ancient curses at you also, for sticking an arrow in one of my fallen brethren, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m in the middle of playing a song.”

Cenn’s mouth slowly dropped open. What… what was all this?

The kweebec looked back down as if it had forgotten that Cenn was there. It’s fingers strummed a slow, quiet melody. It would play a chord, then pause, then a short string of notes, then pause. The kweebec’s melody was surprisingly quite good. It almost seemed to accompany the sounds of the forest.

“Who exactly are you,” Cenn asked, “and what are you doing out here in the middle of the woods?”

The kweebec suddenly shot its face up, and it had a more cheery expression. It began to play a quicker, more vibrant tune, its fingers dancing on the strings.

“What an excellent question my friend,” the kweebec said, “I am Treesinger, a wanderer by trade, and a storyteller by calling.”

“A… storyteller?”

“Why yes,” the kweebec said, “that being, the artful process of creating entirely new worlds, invented by the spoken tongue or written word.”

“I know what a story is.”

The kweebec let out a chuckle. It was a higher pitched squeaking kind of sound. “Then why did you ask?”

Cenn set his jaw, unable to find a fitting retort to the creature’s remark. No. He wasn’t trying to have some needless witty argument with this creature. That wasn’t his life anymore.

He reached down to the stump and yanked out his arrow. As Cenn did this, the kweebec started singing softly along with his playing.

“Why are you here?” Cenn asked the kweebec.

The kweebec didn’t answer. It continued to sing its song. Cenn considered leaving, but then the kweebec finished a verse, and began playing an instrumental section.

“I am here my good friend,” the kweebec said, “because I have felt drawn north as of late.”

“I mean,” Cenn clarified, “why aren’t you in the south, in the villages with your own kind?”

“Hmph,” the kweebec snorted, “sounds rather boring. For the price of putting on a thicker or lighter covering, I can travel all of Orbis, rather than rooting myself in one village all my days. Besides, if I remained there, I would only be a treesinger in my autumnal years. Out in this wider world, I have been able to be a treesinger to all the peoples of Orbis. That is why I am called Treesinger.”

“What… is a treesinger?” Cenn asked.

“Aren’t you the questioner?” Treesinger noted. “In one regard, that shows an active, curious mind. On the other hand, it interrupts my thoughts, and begins to grow quite annoying.”

Treesinger finished his thought. He hadn’t answered Cenn’s question. Cenn once again began considering leaving, when the kweebec altered its melody, and began to sing.


LIke kernels of corn in the soil we are sown,

Spread among forests from seeds that have flown.

From Gaia above and the warmth from beneath,

The unborn are nourished as they restfully sleep.

The time must come then for one to be born,

And from past comfort cherished they must be torn.

As they shiver in cold of newness and life,

They must then be guided to avoid any strife.

Here are the seedlings taught of our ways,

Sung to of legends from far withdrawn days.

With the knowledge of memory deep in their chest,

They then find the courage to grow to their best.

But I, you see came to outgrow my small nest,

And from them I left to sing to the rest.

For kweebecs only do you think need to hear,

The song that a treesinger holds oh so dear?

The time must come then for one to be born,

And from past comfort cherished they must be torn.

As they shiver in cold of newness and life,

They must then be guided to avoid any strife.

With the last few words, Treesinger slowed his playing, and then played a few final chords. They rang out through the forest, echoing a clear tone that flowed into the sounds of the chirping birds. Cenn was unable to keep himself from making a quiet gasp of surprise.

“That was -”

But Treesinger was already playing. Didn’t the kweebec ever tire? From Cenn’s experience with musicians, they would’ve taken a brief break by now.

And that was something else that struck Cenn. When he’d initially seen this little kweebec, he’d initially felt sour. It was sourness at seeing something as frivolous as an instrument again. But the kweebec’s tune was not something so bland and stilted as a minstrel’s party song. The kweebec’s playing seemed to compliment the forest’s sounds rather than distract from them.

“I take it you enjoyed my song?” the kweebec asked.

“I… I suppose,” Cenn said hesitantly.

Treesinger continued to play.

“What was it about?”

Treesinger abruptly muted the strings in a discordant note.

“Poisoned roots boy, is your brain swimming in molasses?”

Cenn jumped slightly at Treesinger’s brief spark of intensity. “I… uh, I understand the broader meaning. I just don’t understand why you are here specifically.”

Treesinger had begun playing again. “I am here because I felt I needed to be here. I play for the peoples of Orbis the same reason a treesinger among my people plays for the seedlings - because there is something that must be learned.”

Cenn frowned. “You seek… to teach me something?”

“If that is why I am here,” Treesinger said, “then yes.”

“Well I’m a grown man.”

“As am I,” Treesinger laughed.

“It was my understanding there were no men and women among the kweebecs.”

“I’ve found the human moniker suited me,” Treesinger said, “but I find it extremely arrogant of you to think that because you are grown, you have no need to be taught. The only ones that have no need to be taught are the dying, and that’s because they’re running out of time to learn any further!”

Treesinger said the last part accompanied by a flourish of notes, moving to a more upbeat rhythm.

“I…”

Cenn tightened his fingers around his bow. What was he doing? He was getting mad at a kweebec, something that probably couldn’t reach his height if it stood on the stump. This was precisely the thing he had wished to avoid coming to these woods. He’d hated conversations like this. Times where he had lost his temper. Where he had gotten involved in arguments that amounted to nothing. Here, the only thing that mattered was if he could get food.

“It appears that you are unused to conversation,” Treesinger noted.

“No,” Cenn said, “I have had far too much of it.”

“No one can have too much conversation,” Treesinger said.

“I have. Right now.”

“Then why haven’t you left?”

That quieted Cenn for a moment. He should be picking berries, or trying to find another deer.

“Evening is drawing near,” Treesinger said. “Perhaps it is time that you return to your dwelling.”

Cenn cocked an eyebrow. “You mean to say that you’re staying out here alone?”

“I never said that,” Treesinger said, “I implied it. Also, I resent your implication that because I am small, I am unable to protect myself.”

“All you have is a lute,” Cenn said.

“I see no trorks around,” Treesinger said. “I believe I will be fine.”

Treesinger continued strumming.

“If I offer you to stay the night at my home,” Cenn said, “will you do so?”

“Of course,” Treesinger said, “I would never reject the kindness of a generous host.”

What had led Cenn to this? For the past few years, he’d lived in isolation, and then suddenly he was letting some strange woodland creature into his home? He pushed aside the thought. At least this kweebec was not some snooty noble.

The kweebec slung his instrument onto his back as he stood atop the stump. He followed Cenn as they walked through the forest, beginning the hike back to Cenn’s cabin. The sun began to sink into the haze of the dense mist around the mountains. In the silence of their walk, Cenn began to feel the pestering memories from locked away years. Despite knowing the way home, he started to feel lost.