Grey Into Green

Nog whacked the tree with his stick. There was a loud thwack, a crunch and then a second later a branch lowered its limb towards him, the tangerine-coloured berries hanging from the leaves. The berries didn’t grow as large as they used to. No longer would you find large clumps, only sparse constellations of berries dotting the leaves. He plucked the extended branch and tucked it into the woven pouch around his waist, sliding it around to his back so the leaves were spread out behind him. Rowan berries had gifts that could help friend or foe, the Elder Mother had once told him, so he knew she would want him to bring some. Before he left, Nog swiftly nodded towards the rowan tree. The leaves swayed in return, orange berries fighting out against the grey sky. 

The ground was damp that day, blessed by a night of rain so it was soft and pliable beneath his bare feet. Tufts of grass tickled his feet as he crossed through the woods, sticks snapping in staccatos underneath his weight. The forest welcomed Nog through, and he returned this  through his caring for it. He examined the ash trees, inspecting for withered and sickly leaves, and came away satisfied to find none. He checked for broken sticks and impressions of boot prints in the mud but only the usual residents presided there, the snails and ants navigating through their miniature dwellings. Nog patted a birch tree once he deemed the forest to have passed the test only seeing his own bare footprints. You’re safe here, his hand stroked against the bark. The rain had encouraged the growth of fungi, and they peered out from beneath leaves and climbed out of rotting tree limbs. 

Nog counted and categorized the fungi, praying his findings stuck in his head like honey so that he could tell the others later. As he was doing so, he spotted the white hair of lichen attached to a tree, the little leaves stretching outwards tentatively. He inched towards the lichen as if afraid of startling it, then laid his hand on its accommodating tree. Nog gently placed his thumb under a small leaf and using his index finger on top, prised it away. In his fingers, the lichen sat delicately. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen lichen, maybe six moon cycles ago. Lichen is a useful tool for us, he was taught, as it grows when the trees take a big clean lungful. The lichen leaf secured in his careful grip, he carried on.

Eventually he reached the edge of the woods, peaking out into the meadow beyond. The wildflowers were sunbathing in the midyear sun, rocked by the wind’s lullaby. Nog stepped out in the meadow, the long grass brushing just against his knee. As he walked, he watched a honeybee greet a flower, her saddlebags already filled with golden pollen. 

In the centre of the field was a circle of twelve small mud huts, with straw roofs perched on top like hats. Smoke curled upwards from the middle of the buildings, the grey tendrils beckoning Nog home. He crossed the meadow, aiming for the hut closest to him. As he got closer the long grass shrank back to ankle height. A man was leaning against the mud walls, and he waved when Nog approached him. The green linen he wore stood out against his dark skin like ivy climbing a tree. 

Nog returned the wave and then placed his right hand over his heart and tapped it twice. I see you lover.

The other man, Rye, mirrored him then balled up his right fist squeezing three times. His left sleeve hung emptily. Nog spun around revealing the rowan branch splayed across his back. Rye smiled and both men walked past the hut in the circular clearing. Nog could still feel the lichen brushing against his fingers.

The huts were gathered around a ring of large flat stones with a large fire pit in the centre. The clearing was fifteen steps wide, Nog had counted it himself as a child. Inside the clearing, a dozen or so people were scattered around in simple linen outfits in earthy shades: green from the grass, yellow from pollen, brown from mud. Their clothes were the only connecting thread between their appearances, as beyond that they were a spectrum of skin colours, hair textures, heights and nose shapes, even the number of limbs was variable, from none to two to four. Some were amputations forced from fighting, some were born that way, genetic deformities born from toxic diets and nuclear leaks.

Nog approached the fire pit where a woman stroked its flame with a stick, silvery curls covering her face. He stomped a foot in the ground and presented the older woman with the rowan branch. Deep blue eyes met him, a pair much like his own, except adorned with age like trees are with rings. The Elder Mother, their clan’s leader and collective mother. She tapped her head and linked her smallest fingers. I see you son. The standard greeting, except it happened to be especially true for Nog. 

Thank you for bringing this gift. We must share out your findings, she signed. She turned and clapped her hands once, the sound bouncing off the clay huts until everyone had made their way towards Nog and the Elder Mother. Plucking the rowan’s amber berries from the branch, she made her way around the clan members and placed a berry in each cupped palm, which was then placed in their woven pouches around the waist. 

Once she had made her rounds, the Elder Mother grated her knuckles against each other and then curled her right finger against her nose. Sons and Daughters, she continued signing to the group, berries for protection not for defence, and after the responsive nods the crowd became scarce.  

Nog stayed by her side once the others had left, unfurling his palm to reveal the little lichen leaf nestled there. The Elder Mother let out a silent gasp, eyes widening in joy. 

The pollution must be fading from the Near Forest, she signed, the trees are speaking through the lichen. 

He nodded, his smile joining hers. She gestured behind him indicating he should share out their glee, as if it would take root and grow with the lichen. 

Nog walked back to Rye standing outside the hut they shared with their child, but before they could open the bark-covered entrance, he gripped Nog’s arm. 

There’s been a sighting, he signed, eyes scanning around, a Grey was seen in the Kindling Woods. The storm-coloured uniforms of the rebel corps had been spotted before, blowing across places like a hurricane. Never had they gotten this close before. He paused, brow bunching as he signed, individually spelling the letters of the foreign final word. The Grey had a G-U-N.

Nog rubbed his fist in circular motions on his chest and then pointed behind him. Sorry I don’t understand. 

Rye repeated the spelling again G-U-N. It was like Nog had stood under an icy waterfall: shock and fear laced his bloodstream, his  heart threatening to escape his ribcage with its pounding. He knew that word. Knew what it meant and what it did. He’d seen it. Nog ushered Rye inside. Fear was more infectious than joy.

That night, the wave of images flickering through his head rose and crested until it had wiped out all other thoughts. For once he couldn’t barricade them out, the memories from his life before floated behind his eyelids. A childhood without innocence, no blanket of naivety to protect him or hide under. 

He saw charcoal structures taller than the trees closely packed together. Some were intact, the glassy windows reflecting the permanently light sky. Other buildings were riddled with the decay of war and turmoil, large chunks missing like they had been bitten. Strung between was the thick toxic fog hanging like cobwebs on the structures, orange skies peeking out from behind them. 

In his mind he heard the collective thuds of boots hitting the concrete, marching in unison. The people dressed in all grey, patrolling the streets, looking for the undocumented and outcasts. Once Nog saw a woman held between two soldiers, being dragged along, her feet scraping against the ground trying to make contact. His father had spun him around, but not before he had seen  the tears and blood pooling down the woman’s face.

His final memories of his life before had left the darkest stain. Nog remembered hiding in a plastic bin, his father in the one beside him. He was hunched over his knees, imagining he was a snail curling into his shell - not that he really knew what snails looked like then. His plastic shelter was empty but the stench of its previous residents and waste had still been thick, worming into his nose even after he’d buried it in his jumper. There was no concept of time in the bin, his father had taken off the electronic watch he used to wear in case it could be tracked, and he hadn’t learnt to be guided by the sun yet. 

They had to hide, his father said to him, back when Nog used his mouth to speak. Nog only understood years later that it was because his father wasn’t born in that country, something that seemed trivial in the woods. He could still smell his pine scented soap lingering on his clothes from their final hug mixed with the sharp tangy smell of plastic from the bin. 

Nog had been wheeled away, bumping and jolting in his shelter pulled along by his mysterious captor. When the lid had finally opened, he stared into eyes so similar to his own, his mother’s face haloed by the sun. He was lifted out and onto the soft grass welcoming his feet. Plastic didn’t feel or communicate, it was dead. It was death. 

Not wanting to wake his family, Nog crept out from underneath the animal skin blanket tiptoeing past Rye and his son, his small mouth open as he dreamed. Outside was a twilight sky, stars shining like embroidered crystals in its fabric. He walked over to a smooth stone and sat down. Wind was rushing through the surrounding trees, teasing the sleeping wildflowers in the meadow. Nog inhaled, clearing the plastic and pine scented memories with the soil and sweetness of flowers. He knew they had been fortunate, protected from the steel and toxins, the trees guarding their sanctuary for fifteen winters. Just like the forest, the pollution was slowly seeping out of their system, their lungs able to expand without being stuck together by tar. 

Rye didn’t know what the Greys did, his gentleness couldn’t think of such brutality. He only knew the violence of storms and predators, not the crack of whips or splatters of blood. Nog wouldn’t let him discover it. It was not surprising the Elder Mother had given them all the rowan berries straight away, she must have known the Greys had found them. Death was better than the alternative.