According to all the implicit rules of fiction, taken and compiled from all the novels that she’d read thus far, supernatural occurrences are the triggers for ninety-percent of the grand adventures that sweep the protagonists off their smartass feet. Which is why, technically right now, Willow should be discovering secret treasures, deciphering cryptic messages, tailing shady organizations and basking in the thrill of her own adventure, maybe not necessarily in that order.

 

The thing is, none of the adventure novels had deigned to tell her that it might involve narrow, smelly tunnels and thieving cats, and the potential loss of a personal item or two. 

 

Her ears are burning with embarrassment; just what had she been expecting when she decided to abandon all common senses and follow the talking cat to a shady-ass tunnel?

 

After approximately ten minutes of half walking, half crawling through the darkness, Willow finally sees the proverbial light at the end of the path. It stands a few meters away from her in the form of an old-fashioned wooden door. The girl nervously shines her cellphone flashlight over it, in an attempt to find any hints of her feline purse-snatcher, but the light reveals nothing of the sort and leaves her with more questions than answers.

 

Willow feels a sliver of anger and exasperation worm itself into her head. Where on earth did the dratted cat go?!

 

The door sits innocently at the other end, worn out near the hinges and blocked by an iron bolt fastened across it. There is no sight of any animal anywhere in the tunnel, or any cleverly hidden holes where any such animal could possibly hide. It’s all slippery moss and smooth, stony walls, and an all engulfing darkness that grows darker as the daylight fades out.

 

Willow stares at the door at a grand total of one minute, racking her brain over how a cat could possibly get past it, when her wandering eyes finally fall over the small opening in its wooden frame. The ‘opening’ is a tiny hole near the base of the door, conveniently big enough for a cat to slink through, but too damn small for a full-grown girl that is Willow Whitman. The latter valiantly tries peering through it, but it’s all dark and omnious on the other side.

 

Eventually, the girl thinks, ‘Fuck it, I might as well open it and get this over with.’ She’d searched every nook and cranny of the tunnel along way, not that there were many nooks and crannies to begin with, mind you, and her cellphone battery is going down fast.

 

Adrenaline thrums through her veins in a way she’s never felt before, because right now she feels foolish and brave and strangely hopeful at the same time. It’s not a bad feeling altogether, but the thrill of it intoxicates her to the tip of her toes.

 

The bolt is surprisingly easy to lift despite its size, and the girl hopes that whatever’s behind that door is just as easy to deal with. The door creaks audibly and gives way under a push of her hands, and Willow mentally prepares herself for another long stretch of tunnel beyond it.

 

What she isn’t prepared for is a peculiar, peculiar sensation washing over her body in the immediate aftermath, as if somebody is pulling at her stomach with a rope in an attempt to yank all her innards out. It is a terrible feeling that she wouldn’t even wish upon her worst enemy; the sensation leaves her reeling in pain and slightly nauseous. She bites back an urge to puke all over the floor, eyes pressed close in agony.

 

For a tiny heartbeat or two, Willow promptly forgets to breathe.

 

Somewhere along the torturous moment, there is a sudden gust of wind that almost knocks the girl off her feet. She lands unceremoniously on her butt with a hiss. The disorientation eases up a little too fast and too abruptly, but Willow is too damn glad to be finally able to breathe. Her first thought is ‘Why is there wind in the tunnel?!’ followed by ‘When did the ground get so damn soft?’

 

The nausea still lingers in her tummy, but Willow’s mind is now coherent enough to realize that there’s something terribly wrong with her surroundings. She peeks open an eye to assess the situation. And is met with a sight that looks like it has been yanked straight out of the pages of her indulgent storybooks.

 

Gone is the all engulfing darkness from the narrow tunnel. Somehow, Willow has ended up smack in the middle of a mysterious forest of emerald green trees and twisting roots, right beneath a clear summer sky.

 

“Bwah —?!”

 

How does one end up from a long-ass, conspicuous tunnel in the outskirts of a bustling town to a full-grown wilderness?!

 

The girl pushes herself off the ground with a stagger, eyes wild with panic and head in a jumble. The forest looks ancient and deep, the kind that could lead you astray with the slightest movement in the wrong direction. There is a headiness in the air that is beginning to do weird things to Willow’s mind, but she can no longer pinpoint the reason behind it.

 

All in all, it is an alarming conclusion to her short adventure in the smelly tunnel.

 

Willow slaps herself across the face, hard.

 

It isn’t the forest that strikes terror in her heart, but it is the realization that wooden door is nowhere to be found. The panicked girl runs around in circles like a headless chicken, trying to find a glimpse of the tunnel— she couldn’t have fallen that far from it— but both the tunnel and its mysterious shabby door seem to disappeared into thin air.

 

The forest looms over her like a gnarly giant, and Willow is finally faced with the epiphany that she is truly, utterly lost.

 

Twilight never comes as intended, much to the girl’s relief. What follows immediately is a hint of alarm, because the sky of the forest looks about as bright as a summer afternoon. A warm breeze sweeps past her like a sigh, and it is then that the sounds of the wild come rushing to her ears. She can hear the chirping birds, the rustling of leaves and the cracking twigs beneath her feet, but they do nothing to quell the anxiety coiling in the pit of her stomach.

 

Somehow or the other, that smelly, good-for-nothing tunnel has yanked her off to a completely different place in a complete different time zone. There is nothing but rows upon rows of trees and brambles and wilderness as far as her eyes can see.

 

Willow reels in the whirlwind of confusion that is her mind. It has happened too fast, too suddenly, and what slams over her gut more painfully is the fact that she is the one who allowed it to happen. Gone is her Clocktown with its familiar streets and alleyways, and gone is any mysterious door that could bring her back to home. It is technically ridiculous and logically impossible, but the sight and smell and the sounds of the forest are too real to ignore.

 

She can feel the texture of a rough bark beneath her fingertips, smell the wet ground and the pungent leaves, and she knows it with a certainty down to her bone marrow that the forest is as real as the heart hammering in her chest. Willow Whitman takes one last look at her surroundings, and takes off to a random direction.

 

On the hindsight, it might have been a better decision to stay put and wait for the door to materialize again— as stupid as it sounds, but Willow is restless and scared and frankly a little hungry. She isn’t as hungry as ‘I-will-pluck-random-berries-off-randoms-plants-like-an-idiot’, but it is something along the lines of an ‘I-might-last-for-a-while-but-I-need-to-find-food-soon-or-I-am-screwed’ hungry. Either way, with nothing but a useless cellphone and a measly bar of chocolate in her pocket, Willow is very much certain that her future in this forest is already screwed up beyond repair.

 

The cat and her school ID is the least concerning thing in her mind right now.

 

The forest grows thicker as she walks further in. Willow valiantly tries to memorize the signs along her trail— a twisted branch here, a brightly spotted mushroom there— but she is a city girl through and through. Never in her eighteen years of life has she ever ventured anywhere near the woods, and to her mounting frustration the chaotic rows of pines and oaks and redwoods look exactly the same in every damn direction.

 

There is a sinking suspicion in her chest that she has been going around in circles for a while.

 

Undeterred, Willow combs through the dirt and digs out a particularly pointy pebble, before setting out again. This time, she marks the trees with scratches as she walks, eyes raking through her surroundings and ears strained to catch the sound of any potential water sources. There’s a tiny hope that she might find a stream flowing somewhere through the woods, but given her shitty luck so far, the hope isn’t something she is willing to hold onto.

 

 The fact that something is terribly wrong with the forest doesn’t quite register in her mind until Willow stops for a beat to looks back on the trail behind her. The trees all look the same as ever, except for the fact that the latest mark she’d left on a particularly tall oak wood is nowhere to be found. The bark is all smooth and pristine, and there are no obvious signs of her footsteps left behind on the grass beneath it.

 

The girl runs back to the trail and checks upon the trees she’d marked before— they all stand innocently on the same spots and in the same direction where she remembers— but the scratches she made to mark her way have all disappeared simultaneously without a trace.

 

Terror grips her heart like a vicious claw.

 

‘How is this even possible?!’ is the first thought that pops up in her mind, but between a talking cat and a strange, teleporting tunnel, ‘impossible’ seems like a very foreign concept right now. Willow is weary and exhausted. She drops the pebble and grips her head in frustration; what wouldn’t she give right now to be able to find the thrice-damned door again and run back to the safety of her home?!

 

If she manages to return back to her home by tonight, Willow secretly vows to write up a frigging novel on the charming little place that is Clockdown. She would recite it before bed every night like the bible, and remind herself to be grateful for the normalcy of a life nestled between familiar places and unchanging ways.

 

‘No, you wouldn’t.’ A traitorous voice quips from somewhere in her mind. ‘You would again go back to having foolish desires and impossible dreams, because that’s the kind of pragmatic fool you are.’ Willow has the decency to pause and flush in embarrassment; the voice is oh-so-correct and she doesn’t even dare pretend otherwise.

 

The girl is busy wallowing in self-pity when the first signs of strangeness creep over her. The air shifts imperceptibly, like it is preparing for the arrival of something— or someone, in the midst of the warmth of a crisp summer afternoon.

 

“Hello ~ !” Comes a melodious voice from somewhere up in the sky, and Willow barely suppress an urge to jump. She feels an awfully lot like a tightly coiled spring, or a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at the slightest disturbance around her.

 

The source of the voice is a woman, who is sitting on a branch high up in a maple tree and peering down at her with an innocent smile. Her eyes are aglow with sweet promises and indulging fantasies of every imaginable kind, and suddenly Willow is very grateful for her lack of imagination. There is almost a seductive nature to the woman’s posture, from her teasing smile to the generous curve of her waist, to her slender neck exposed beneath red wisps of hair swaying in the breeze.

 

“…And who might you be?” The woman asks again. “Won’t you come join me up here? Just say yes, and I will fly down the tree and take you to the top of the world.”

 

What follows the poetic declaration is a dainty giggle, as if the idea that someone will deny the offer is her own private joke. Willow finally sees the hint of silvery white on the woman’s shoulders; feathery wings seem to have sprouted from her back, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The woman sits atop the tree as confident as a Goddess and as sweet as an angel, eyes staring straight down into her soul.

 

Willow imagines that many a poor fellow must have gotten swept by those eyes and said yes, and the rest is better left to your imagination, because the girl has none to spare. She would not blame them, of course, because the woman looks absolutely ethereal, and maybe twice as dangerous. Not to mention the wings on her back, and –— Are those talons at her feet?!

 

“I am Willy.” The girl answers pointedly, eyeing the woman (Bird? Bird-woman?) with distrust. No way is she going to give away her real name to who-knows-what in a who-knows-where that just screams suspicious. “I came from a wooden door somewhere, but I can’t seem to find it now.” It goes unsaid that she would not go up there at the proverbial top of the world, thank you very much. There’s already been enough damage following a talking cat, she is not going to add a winged woman to that list. Oh no, sir.

 

Glowing eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. Much to Willow’s dismay, the bird-woman seems to grow more interested in her by the second. She swoops down to a lower branch faster than eyes can see, and Willow lets out a very unladylike squawk at the sight.

 

“That is most fascinating!” The woman gushes. “I was convinced that you were a human, but you had been a ‘willy’ all along! It seems that I have been mistaken; you see, for I have never seen humans before.”

 

“Err— no, no, you were correct!” The girl pales. Was this woman alright in the head? Why would she mistake a human girl with a – what was a Willy in the first place?!

 

“I am very much human. It’s my name that is Willy.”

 

The bird-woman clasps her hands in childlike enthusiasm, her glowing eyes almost sparkling with glee. “So you are a human, after all! This is my first time seeing a human up close!”

 

The words ring an ominous bell in Willow’s mind. “Don’t tell me – there aren’t any humans near this place?”

 

“Oh, there are plenty of humans in the capital.” Bird-woman waves her dainty hands in a dismissive gesture. “Not many of them dare to come around here. We beings of the Emerald Forest have gone almost a century without ever seeing one. You are the first one in a long time.”

 

Beings of the Emerald Forest? “E-Excuse me, lady.” The girl says cautiously. “Apologies for the rude question this late in the game, but who exactly are you? You’re –err, not quite human, right? Right?”

 

Real smooth, Willow. Real smooth.

 

The melodious giggle returns, this time it is devoid of any hints of lust. The bird-woman’s grin widens, and Willow catches herself staring at a set of razor sharp teeth peaking behind the luscious lips. “I am Aeon, harpy of the Emerald Forest.”

 

Harpy? Her pitiful mind goes into a whirl of confusion. Harpy, as in the mythical, should-not-exist-in-real-world things from the children’s books? As in, those monster-like half woman, half bird, tear-you-into-pieces-and-eat-you-with-soup creatures from the fairytales harpy?!

 

“J-Just so you know,” It takes some effort for Willow to speak up. “I am kind-of, sort-of not very tasty right now. The inside, I mean. It’s all very nauseous and unappetizing… probably.”

 

“Huhuhuhu!” This new laugh startles her. It is as if the entire forest is laughing along with the creature sitting on the tree. The girl is verrry close to pissing in her pants, but she is even more unwilling to take her eyes of the birdwo— harpy right row.

 

“You’re so adorable.” The harpy says, sending a sliver of hope in Willow’s hammering heart. Adorable is almost right up there with I-am-not-thinking-of-it-as-a-potential-food. “Fret not Willy, harpies do not eat strange things off the ground. Although, once upon a time you might not have been so lucky.”

 

“And for the most part, I am very curious about humans. All I know is second hand knowledge. Aren’t humans the ones that eat, sleep, defecate, and occasionally complain about everything in unnecessarily loud voices?”

 

‘Close enough.’ Willow thinks. She doesn’t know of the temperament of harpies, but she is glad that she has met a reasonable one of the bunch. 

 

“There is um— more to humans than all that. But ah, miss har— I mean, miss Aeon, do you happen to know a way out of this forest, and the direction to the capital where the humans reside?”

 

Aeon’s eyes flash golden red, and for a wild moment Willow is afraid that she’s asked for more than she should have dared to. But then the shift in the air is gone with a blink and the angelic smile returns to the woman’s face. It cleverly hides the rows of shark-like teeth behind her red lips.

 

“What a pity, I thought that Willy might want to stay with me some more.” Her voice is almost wistful. The seductive trace lingers in it like wafting incense smoke, threatening to take over Willow’s mind. But the latter stubbornly stands through it, reminding herself of one thieving black cat and her mother’s indignant face back home.

 

Home. She must find a way to return home.

 

“Ahahaha, what a pity indeed.” Willow agrees nervously. Don’t anger her, don’t anger the harpy. “But I am afraid that I must find the capital, for err— personal reasons.” The less the woman knows about her predicament, the better.

 

“Are you, by any chance, the chosen one?” Aeon asks curiously.

 

What is that supposed to mean?! Chosen for what? Willow’s deceptively calm face hides the increasing levels of panic in her mind. “Uh, no?”  

 

“Oh.” The harpy says, as if everything has suddenly fallen neatly into place. The glow in her eyes diminishes to a tiny flicker. She curls and uncurls her fingers, staring at the nails distractedly, suddenly having lost all interest in the girl in front of her.

 

“Then you are a nobody.”

 

Willow freezes momentarily. The voice has turned impossibly cold and impersonal, devoid of any traces of curiosity and playful warmth. It is strangely jarring, but the girl tells herself that it is better to be a nobody than a who-knows-chosen-for-what in a weird world of harpies and magical forests.

 

She forces a feeble smile to her face. “So, erm, where exactly is this place, Miss Aeon?”

 

The harpy turns around to face the wind, preparing to unfurl her bright, silver wings for the flight ahead. The muscles in her bare back jump and contract beautifully, and her red hair glows golden in the flickering sunspots through the maple leaves.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Comes the fleeting reply from Aeon of the Emerald Forest.

 

“Welcome to Nowhere, little miss nobody.”