Short Story: "Cottonwood Bride" (Original Fiction)

[deemoyza]

Cottonwood Bride | 2,358 words | Fantasy

Trees in the desert are cunning. They guide the weary traveler to water, but they may very well demand a price for doing so. Paying that price is up to you, if you are wise. So, go, drink and rest and refresh yourself, but be wary when the trees begin to speak. They will welcome you, comfort you, lull you into trust, and then, they will begin to question. Think carefully about your answers, and remember, it is no sin to leave.

Whatever you do, don’t say yes to the trees.

It is a tale as old as the valley itself, a warning passed down through generations. Manuela had heard it all her life, from her mother, aunts, and grandmothers, but with the sun on her back and a dying child in her arms, the legend was the furthest thing from her mind.

She had been traveling, as part of a disparate group, to meet her husband in a mining town along the river, some seventy miles from her home. All had been going well until her child had taken ill, and required more than her allotted rations of food and water to recover. Angered that Manuela had brought such a delicate, needy child on such a harsh journey, some members of the group seized upon this temporary inequality as an excuse to deny Manuela and her daughter their proper shares later, reminding Manuela that she was welcome to leave the group, should she believe she could find help elsewhere.

Manuela tried to withstand their treatment, and their jeers, for the sake of her daughter, but, ultimately decided that she stood a better chance of surviving at the mercy of the desert than at the hands of this group. Gaunt from hunger, lips cracked and tongue swollen from thirst, Manuela slipped away from camp one dawn, praying for a miracle.

Her prayer was answered in the form of a stand of cottonwood trees, growing along the bank of a stream that rose above and sank below the earth seemingly on a whim. She stumbled into the shade of the trees, the soles of her feet callused and burned, and waded into the water. She lowered her daughter into the stream, and bathed her, then helped her drink before slaking her own thirst.

But the water did the girl little good, for, once out of the stream, she simply slumped against her mother’s side, silent, eyes wide and staring at something Manuela could not see. The modest amounts of stolen rations could not coax the girl into eating, and, as the sunlight faded, so, too, did the life in her eyes. She closed heavy lids over them and stretched across her mother’s lap, her breathing shallow, her skin pale beneath the moon.

Manuela bowed her head in supplication, and spent the night murmuring prayer after prayer to her god and every saint she could name. She’d never meant for her daughter to meet such a fate; theirs was supposed to be a happy story, a comfortable life, at last, with the money her husband was making at the mine. But the miles between towns had stretched ever longer, and the sun was less forgiving by the day.

She would spare her daughter’s life with her own, given the chance, but who was there to make such an offer?

A breeze blew through the valley, rustling the leaves above and cooling her skin. And on that breeze, Manuela thought she heard a voice. She held her breath and strained her ears, and with the next gust, she heard it again.

Rest, it said. Rest your mind, ease your heart.

“Who’s there?” Manuela sat up straight, refusing to stand and disrupt her daughter’s sleep, and looked around. "Where are you? Show yourself!“

It is not necessary. We are everywhere. Now, rest.

Manuela shook her head. "How do I know you speak the truth, especially if I cannot see you? Show yourselves.”

We have. We are here. We are everywhere.

“What do you want from me? Can you not see my daughter is ill? I have no money, no possessions other than the clothes on my back and the food in my satchel. Leave me be!”

We want nothing of you. We wish to help you.

“Help me? How? Where are you? Do you have food? An animal, perhaps, to ride to the next town?”

We have no need for those things. We only wish to help you.

“Again, how?”

We can help your daughter. We can heal her, nourish her, watch her grow.

Manuela looked down at her daughter, and brushed a lock of dark hair away from the child’s eyes. "You cannot help her. She is too near to death. Only a miracle can save her.“

And you doubt that we are?

Another breeze blew through the trees, and this time, their branches bowed, reaching toward the ground, toward Manuela and her daughter.

We arose from the dust, fed by a stream that only briefly sees the sun. Yet here we stand, old and strong and unyielding. Are we not a miracle in our own right, life in the middle of desolation, life sustaining life?

As if in concurrence, the stand came alive with sound. Insects chirped and buzzed, a frog croaked, and night birds called. The grass on the banks rustled with the movement of unseen animals, and the breeze became a light wind, rippling the surface of the stream, catching silver threads of moonlight.

We are life itself, the trees went on, a persistent affirmation of nature’s will. And nature wills that the girl survive.

The child groaned and shifted in Manuela’s arms, half-roused by the sudden nocturnal chorus. Manuela stroked her hair, and watched her drift back into uneasy slumber.

"At what cost?” she asked, quietly.

Cost?

“There is always a price for miracles. If it is my own life, than I gladly offer it. If it is something else, I’ve told you already, I have nothing.”

There is no price, the trees said, their voices coalescing into one, smooth and deep as a man’s. There is only an agreement.

“And that is?”

You must leave the girl behind.

“No.”

It is our only condition. She will survive. She will be well cared for.

“And for what? That I might never see her again?” Manuela wrapped her arms tighter around her daughter. "That I might not be able to hold you to your promise? You might let her die the moment I leave, for all I know!”

We will not. And you shall see. You must leave the girl here, but you are welcome to visit her anytime. The branches swayed. But she will not remember you; she will have no idea who you are.

“If that is the case, why not simply take my life for hers? Why make me suffer the fate of a daughter who does not recognize her own mother?”

We have no interest in your life. But hers …

“What interest do you have in hers?”

Another breeze, like a collective sigh. We are lonely. We provide shade and relief to animals and travelers alike, and we anchor the soil for the other plants to grow. But we are never met with more than a simple thank-you. We long for conversation, for communion. For what humans might call love.

“Love? But you are trees, what can you know about love?”

A good deal, insofar as love is sacrifice. But love is also joy, so we have heard, and we long to understand that. Your daughter can teach us. She can speak to us, live among us, a bride forever pure.

“A bride?” Manuela shifted, weighing the consequences of waking her daughter and leaving the stand at that moment, to brave whatever elements might await her outside.

Only in the sense of an agreement. You had hoped to marry her someday, correct? To join her to a loving family able to provide well?

“Of course. But to a man, not to a tree.”

What difference does it make, so long as she is cared for? We ask not of her what a man would, save for devotion and companionship. Her virtue will remain intact, forever. Her body shall not age beyond that of a young woman. She will live with us, as long as we shall stand, and she will never want again.

Manuela sighed, her breath hitching in her throat, tears stinging her eyes. If what they said was true, it may be for the best … What was she thinking? She was tired. So tired … so frightened. So desperate to help her daughter, whose color was fading even in the moonlight, as she watched.

So, the trees said, bending their branches once more, have you considered? Will you leave the girl with us?

“…Yes. Yes, I will, so long as you promise to care for her.”

As we have told you, you are welcome to visit her, to view our adherence to our word.

“Very well.” Manuela’s lip trembled, tears spilling onto her hand, onto her daughter’s cheek. "Please, take good care of her. That is all I ask, all I beg for. Please.“

It will be done. Lay the girl in the tall grass and leave at daybreak. Do not return until the season has turned. Afterward, you may return as often as you desire.

Manuela nodded, biting back a sob.

We shall leave you in peace to say your farewells. But we must ask one more question. What is the girl’s name?

"Gracia.” The word came out strangled, laden with tears, edged with desperation. "Her name is Gracia. Grace.“

***

The trees kept their word, and Manuela returned every spring to see Gracia walking among them. Gracia would acknowledge her only by a glance and a tilt of the head; then, she would clamber up the nearest tree and stay there until Manuela left.

The trees taught Gracia how to survive, how to forage for seeds, and how to kill game, when necessary. For everything the stand could not provide by its own nature, it took from unwary travelers lured in by the stream. And so, Gracia lived, outfitted in oversized shirts and ill-fitting breeches, a feral creature that spoke the language of the trees, and fascinated travelers who caught glimpses of her, becoming the central figure in legends she would never hear.

Just as she would never learn to not say yes to the trees.

Years passed, and became decades, then centuries. Gracia perched on a branch and watched the houses and fields creep closer, watched a strip of foul-smelling material stretch past the stand. The stream slowed to a trickle, then retreated underground for good. The plants died and the animals left, and Gracia grew thin and weak.

The trees stood strong, however, their roots reaching deep enough to tap the stream. They became concerned for Gracia, for the waning of her flesh and the fading of her eyes, and, while she slept one night, they convened to discuss how they might help her.

She woke upon a cushion of leaves, the downy seeds of the trees clinging to her hair like a veil, and, upon the trees’ command, she knelt before the oldest among them.

Long ago, the tree said, we promised the woman who birthed you that we would provide for you, always. But the developments of recent years were unforeseen, even by us, and have threatened your safety and well-being.

Gracia nodded, running one hand over a thin arm.

Perhaps it was not wise to keep you in human form all this time, but we did so in recompense to your mother. She is no longer with us, however, and we have since reconsidered our decision.

As a human, you may not survive out here any longer, with no food or water to sustain you. But as tree, as one of us, you will have no trouble finding sustenance. It is not a difficult decision, but it is yours to make, so we must ask you – would you agree, would you allow us to make you one of our own?

Even in the shade, the ground was growing hot beneath Gracia’s knees, and she did not hesitate for a moment before giving her answer.

"Yes,” she said, in the language of the trees, her voice as rough as their bark.

Very well. Close your eyes. When you awaken, you will want no more.

Gracia did not feel the transformation as it occurred, and only realized what she had agreed to when she could no longer move. Still, the water below the ground was cool against her roots, and sent the sensation through her new body. She ceased to struggle as her hunger and thirst were sated, and accepted her fate with the very virtue after which she was named.

***

Progress does not stop. It does not stop for people, let alone for trees. One morning, Gracia awoke to find the ground cleared and the soil turned right to the edge of the stand, and to a noise she had never heard before. The earth undulated beneath her, and the screams of her family tore through her own body, nearly drowned out by the roar of engines. She dug her roots in and held on as tightly as she could, but those, too, eventually snapped, and her body fell to the ground.

***

It is an old tale, that of the Cottonwood Bride, passed down from one generation to the next, each time to less receptive ears. It has since been filed away with the fanciful stores told by old housewives, to while away the hours and frighten children into good behavior.

But it takes on new life again for some, driving down the county road at night, when they glance into their rearview mirror and see a pair of eyes looking back, large and dark against a hunger-drawn face. When they feel a ghostly tap on their shoulder, and hear a question posed in a language they’ve never heard, yet immediately understand.

Where is my family?

Please … take me home.

---

Written in response to this prompt.