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Description
I had been told by nearly everyone who’d ever inhabited my twenty-six years that there was a town on

the other side of the trees. Just at the edge of West Colfax, there was a place called Sun Valley that parents

told their children about in stories only dead men should tell. Dead men, of course, did not have the privilege.

“When you get to Sunset Valley,” my Mother warned me, “Tell no one where you’re from. They won’t take

kindly to Colfax, and it won’t take kindly to them.” She warned me to leave the Locke name behind—it never

did a new person any good to have an old name. So I agreed to go nameless into the woods. I didn’t want to

believe that there was such a place as Sunset Valley, especially with the things they weave out of the

darkness to scare children back under their sheets.

Michael did not say goodbye. That is a thing to be remembered, considering brothers ought to remember

one’s Leaving Day. His would not have come for another four years, if Mother were to choose his life outside

these walls, but he did not wake that morning to tell me goodbye. There was a part of me, however small,

that would have liked him to come with me into the redwoods to meet a destiny unforeseen. Perhaps he

would have kept me on the path to Sunset Valley and saved me thirty-three years. However, Michael’s being

there was not a part of my destiny, and his was not to follow me into the woods. Mother told me that my fate

would come of its own accord, so long as I went to find it. I suppose she chose my life to be alone—to walk

unaccompanied into the shadows of West Colfax and come out on the other side. I chewed thoughtfully on a

strawberry when my feet began their walking. Woods make a person thoughtful, I supposed, just as much as

old words make a person willing to hear. What nightfall would bring, I was unsure. As long as I stayed on the

path of ground cherry leaves and sawdust, no animals could harm me, but that did not mean a series of

missteps could not stray me far enough from the poultice to make me a vulnerable meal.

I reached into the dirt to pocket a handful of sawdust. “Just in case,” I ventured to myself. “Just in case.”

The evening sounds vibrated through the paralyzed wood of the tall, brick red trees. If a chill was to be had,

it would follow in the next hour and seep through the fog into my bones and the surfaced roots cut through

by bits of path. I left on a Dying Day, and I think that’s why my journey was cursed. Maybe that sawdust

would have come in handy, had I stopped to collect more than I did. But being as little in quantity as it was,

it did less for me than “just in case” would have ever allowed. You can’t see sunsets through the trees, but if

I could have seen it, it would not have seemed remarkable to me or anybody for that matter—nobody except

Mordy Bones who watched the sun go down on that Dying Day with every recognition in the world that it

would not rise or set for me again, not for thirty-three years.

It did not occur to me for some time that I had lost my concentration to nearly anything but the path. The

thick fog had covered my stiff hiking boots and I did little fathoming that a thing invisible required finding.

Bending into the mist, I swiped my hand through the white foam to clear it. To my horror, yet not my surprise,

I found my boots sinking into a much different shade of ground than the one I was expecting. My heart

pounded anxiously with the loss of the path. How long had it been since I’d stepped off the edge and

unwelcomed into the forest? Stumbling over roots and patches of soggy moss, I tramped through the thick

white, flailing my arms before my knees to clear away the fearful thing that quickened my blood with fear.

Twenty-six was certainly an odd-firing age, I told myself in Mordy’s old words, and an odd enough age to die.

It had not occurred to me prior to stepping off the path just what being lost meant. Mortia’s Glints would find

me, surely, and if they didn’t, something worse would. I stumbled on a crack in the earth and tumbled to the

forest floor.

Covered head to toe in shattered leaves, meandering through the creeping dark rewarded me after

some time with a patch of straw-colored path. My heart throbbed painfully in relief of the thing, yet not

pleasantly enough to leave me without a warning that I ought not scare myself like that again. I thought

quick, sincere, gentle thoughts to the trees for my return. A sigh of relief. A foot and a half back on the path.

Yet miles of midnight gathered and the dark stretched out before me. I was not allowed matches in my

equipment pack, so as not to set the trees on fire. At least, that’s what Jacob Rowley told me when I went to

buy a canvass bag from Rowley Square Market. Donya Rowley told me it was to keep me from melting away

the path. Mortia Rowley wove a different tale entirely. “The beasts, they prowl the redwood trees… and catch

the scent of smoke. As long as the smoke stays on the path, they cannot cross the sawdust. An inch margin

on either side… SNAP!” she clapped her hands in close proximity to my face and I jumped back with the

sudden sound. “Don’t listen to Mortia,” the shop keep said, though not the most convincing. A gentle man,

Jacob Rowley, but a stickler for his sister’s tales. He often said her head was soft as a child and that kept her

from seeing things right. She often claimed visions of silvery bubbles floating through the trees—the Glints,

she called them, though I can’t imagine why. She also had a habit of staring into spoons and smiling distantly

at her reflection. But I liked her because sometimes, when she spoke about the Glints and spoons, she did so

with Mordy’s old words… like it was a story she’d heard about but never truly seen.

As I shivered in the sawdust, I silently cursed Jacob Rowley and his matches. In the redwoods, I could

have said it aloud, but I feared the roots might absorb the harsh thoughts and begin to grow crooked… or

slip them through the dirt and pass them along to the merchant himself. I did not wish to be cruel at either of

their expenses. I walked, waving my hands before me as I went, until I reached the first resting spot: a large

circle of cherry leaves and sawdust spread out in a circle where I could unfold my blanket and sleep. I dug

in my crisp canvass bag for the Setting Stones and began arranging them in a square around my bed. If, for

any reason, the sawdust had been compromised, Mordy said these would keep me safe. They would keep me

sturdy… and keep me on the path. “Don’t think of the monsters and they’ll think less on you.” But I couldn’t

help imagining their teeth in the fog sprouting like weeds through the smoke of a forbidden fire.

Description
I had been told by nearly everyone who’d ever inhabited my twenty-six years that there was a town on

the other side of the trees. Just at the edge of West Colfax, there was a place called Sun Valley that parents

told their children about in stories only dead men should tell. Dead men, of course, did not have the privilege.

“When you get to Sunset Valley,” my Mother warned me, “Tell no one where you’re from. They won’t take

kindly to Colfax, and it won’t take kindly to them.” She warned me to leave the Locke name behind—it never

did a new person any good to have an old name. So I agreed to go nameless into the woods. I didn’t want to

believe that there was such a place as Sunset Valley, especially with the things they weave out of the

darkness to scare children back under their sheets.

Michael did not say goodbye. That is a thing to be remembered, considering brothers ought to remember

one’s Leaving Day. His would not have come for another four years, if Mother were to choose his life outside

these walls, but he did not wake that morning to tell me goodbye. There was a part of me, however small,

that would have liked him to come with me into the redwoods to meet a destiny unforeseen. Perhaps he

would have kept me on the path to Sunset Valley and saved me thirty-three years. However, Michael’s being

there was not a part of my destiny, and his was not to follow me into the woods. Mother told me that my fate

would come of its own accord, so long as I went to find it. I suppose she chose my life to be alone—to walk

unaccompanied into the shadows of West Colfax and come out on the other side. I chewed thoughtfully on a

strawberry when my feet began their walking. Woods make a person thoughtful, I supposed, just as much as

old words make a person willing to hear. What nightfall would bring, I was unsure. As long as I stayed on the

path of ground cherry leaves and sawdust, no animals could harm me, but that did not mean a series of

missteps could not stray me far enough from the poultice to make me a vulnerable meal.

I reached into the dirt to pocket a handful of sawdust. “Just in case,” I ventured to myself. “Just in case.”

The evening sounds vibrated through the paralyzed wood of the tall, brick red trees. If a chill was to be had,

it would follow in the next hour and seep through the fog into my bones and the surfaced roots cut through

by bits of path. I left on a Dying Day, and I think that’s why my journey was cursed. Maybe that sawdust

would have come in handy, had I stopped to collect more than I did. But being as little in quantity as it was,

it did less for me than “just in case” would have ever allowed. You can’t see sunsets through the trees, but if

I could have seen it, it would not have seemed remarkable to me or anybody for that matter—nobody except

Mordy Bones who watched the sun go down on that Dying Day with every recognition in the world that it

would not rise or set for me again, not for thirty-three years.

It did not occur to me for some time that I had lost my concentration to nearly anything but the path. The

thick fog had covered my stiff hiking boots and I did little fathoming that a thing invisible required finding.

Bending into the mist, I swiped my hand through the white foam to clear it. To my horror, yet not my surprise,

I found my boots sinking into a much different shade of ground than the one I was expecting. My heart

pounded anxiously with the loss of the path. How long had it been since I’d stepped off the edge and

unwelcomed into the forest? Stumbling over roots and patches of soggy moss, I tramped through the thick

white, flailing my arms before my knees to clear away the fearful thing that quickened my blood with fear.

Twenty-six was certainly an odd-firing age, I told myself in Mordy’s old words, and an odd enough age to die.

It had not occurred to me prior to stepping off the path just what being lost meant. Mortia’s Glints would find

me, surely, and if they didn’t, something worse would. I stumbled on a crack in the earth and tumbled to the

forest floor.

Covered head to toe in shattered leaves, meandering through the creeping dark rewarded me after

some time with a patch of straw-colored path. My heart throbbed painfully in relief of the thing, yet not

pleasantly enough to leave me without a warning that I ought not scare myself like that again. I thought

quick, sincere, gentle thoughts to the trees for my return. A sigh of relief. A foot and a half back on the path.

Yet miles of midnight gathered and the dark stretched out before me. I was not allowed matches in my

equipment pack, so as not to set the trees on fire. At least, that’s what Jacob Rowley told me when I went to

buy a canvass bag from Rowley Square Market. Donya Rowley told me it was to keep me from melting away

the path. Mortia Rowley wove a different tale entirely. “The beasts, they prowl the redwood trees… and catch

the scent of smoke. As long as the smoke stays on the path, they cannot cross the sawdust. An inch margin

on either side… SNAP!” she clapped her hands in close proximity to my face and I jumped back with the

sudden sound. “Don’t listen to Mortia,” the shop keep said, though not the most convincing. A gentle man,

Jacob Rowley, but a stickler for his sister’s tales. He often said her head was soft as a child and that kept her

from seeing things right. She often claimed visions of silvery bubbles floating through the trees—the Glints,

she called them, though I can’t imagine why. She also had a habit of staring into spoons and smiling distantly

at her reflection. But I liked her because sometimes, when she spoke about the Glints and spoons, she did so

with Mordy’s old words… like it was a story she’d heard about but never truly seen.

As I shivered in the sawdust, I silently cursed Jacob Rowley and his matches. In the redwoods, I could

have said it aloud, but I feared the roots might absorb the harsh thoughts and begin to grow crooked… or

slip them through the dirt and pass them along to the merchant himself. I did not wish to be cruel at either of

their expenses. I walked, waving my hands before me as I went, until I reached the first resting spot: a large

circle of cherry leaves and sawdust spread out in a circle where I could unfold my blanket and sleep. I dug

in my crisp canvass bag for the Setting Stones and began arranging them in a square around my bed. If, for

any reason, the sawdust had been compromised, Mordy said these would keep me safe. They would keep me

sturdy… and keep me on the path. “Don’t think of the monsters and they’ll think less on you.” But I couldn’t

help imagining their teeth in the fog sprouting like weeds through the smoke of a forbidden fire.