The old traveler packs away his sleeping things into a woven backpack, shoulders it, and walks along the dirt road. After a time in which the sun has lit the sky pink, purple, orange, and settled on a hazy blue, there is an unusual rustling in the tall grasses to his left. He glances, keeps walking. A shadow flits across the road behind him. He whistles a tune only he remembers. Rustling comes from the right, and a young girl steps out in front of him. He smiles at her and keeps walking. She watches him pass, then trots along after him.
“Hello,” he says when she’s caught up.
“Hi,” she replies with a tremor of eager timidity, staring up at him. “My name’s Auga.”
“Auuuuuga,” the old traveler repeats, tasting the word, breathing it out with ponderous deference. “A divine name: ‘au’ is the sound of the eternal.”
She lights up, a mirror in the sunlight. He blinks, looks away. “That’s what my Gramma says!” she cries. He takes her hand as they walk. She continues enthusiastically, “I was born with my mumblical cord wrapped around my neck, likethis! I was so blue and funky-headed my mum started to cry an’ everyone thought I was going to die or be, you know, challenged—but not Gramma! She knew I’d be okay because of a dream she had. My parents baptized me Augustine, right away in the hospital, so I could go to heaven an’ be raised by God. My Gramma was all mad. She wanted me to be named her name! She said she was the one who saved me because she was the only one with hope and she gave me her hope, so she had avoice in the matter. But it didn’t work because nobody around here likes old people or tribe name, especially my dad, who thinks Gramma’s a crazy ol’ bat (I heard him say so to mum). Plus I know she’s got no voice anyway ‘cause one night she drank a whole bottle of wine and cried a lot and told me how a mean spirit called the White Man stole it away from her. Now I gotta watch out for the White Man. So, anyway, she calls me Auga ‘cause it sounds funny to my parents, and I like it better too. I never use it at home though, so if you come to my home call me Augustine.”
“Okay, Auga. I’ll do that.”
Auga is flushed, panting slightly. “Gramma says I’m strong and wise because of how I was born.”
“Are you?”
“Oh, yes! Well, strong, at least: I can carry a whole bucket of grain, and when mum took us to the butcher’s shop in town my brother was sick all over the floor but I was fine even though I felt sick.”
“I see.”
“How do I know if I’m wise?”
The old traveler considers this. “You are wise when the world respects your word.”
“Then I can’t be wise,” Auga says sadly, kicking a pebble. “Nobody listens to what I say! Gramma, too, when I’m telling her something she interrupts me, even though when I interrupt her she gets real mad.”
“You aren’t grown yet, you have time to become wise. But… becoming wise isn’t the same, it means something different.”
“What does it mean?” she asks eagerly. “What do I do?”
He leans down, checking that they’re alone, and winks at her. “You listen!”
“But I do listen!” She stomps about for a few seconds and he chuckles to himself. “I listen to what my parents say, even when they’re wrong, and I listen to Gramma’s stories, even the ones she tells over and over again, and I listen to birds and to crickets and if an owl hoots at night I follow the hoots till I’m right under where he’s sitting and we look at each other till it gets too cold or mum calls me in. I read a lot too and mum says that’s like listening to the stories of dead people but Gramma says that dead people aren’t real people anymore, so I figure they must be ghosts and you can’t trust ghosts even if they’re very smart.”
“Keep listening,” he says sagely. “You’re doing well.”
He slows down, shading his eyes and looking around. There are a few houses in the distance, and on one horizon a dark line. Otherwise, just pastures and fields.
“Where are your parents?” he asks.
“Working, and my brother’s playing football with friends from school. There aren’t any kids my age around except in town so on the weekends I got nothing to do.”
“What’s the town’s name?”
“St Lucia, which is silly because there’s never been a saint here. Not that I know of. I don’t like it, either, all the buildings are fake, not like our house which is a hundred and seven and is made of real cedar and at night it smells like the forest.”
“Have you ever been in the forest?”
A fear creeps into her eyes, she cowers slightly in his shadow. He watches her curiously. “No. Dad works there. He says it’s too dangerous.”
“It is dangerous, but you must face danger, if you want to be strong and wise. And you are with me. Come. Which way is the forest?”
“That way.” She is pointing east, to the dark line on the horizon.
They head straight east, crossing cow pastures.
"We get there around noon. Then we rest and eat," he tells her.
"You talk funny," she says, and proceeds to mimic the local farmers who talk like bumpkins.
As they draw ever nearer, the forest looms up from the Earth, threatening Auga. She swallows down nervous little gulps every now and then, and each time the old man senses it and squeezes her hand. Their hands have both become sweaty, and often she wriggles hers out to wipe it on her dress (but she always takes his back). Soon the forest is distinguishable: legions of tall brown sentinels, arms stretching up and out to encompass her, green demons curling at their feet, ready to scrape and snatch her away. Fifty yards away, she hesitates, but he pulls her on. Her speech dies out, trailing off, strangled. She begins shaking violently and at ten yards away, they stop.
He crouches, looking gently into her eyes, feeling her fear. "Can you hear it?" he asks. "Can you feel the forest?"
"Y-yes. It--it's growling at me."
"Growling?" he repeats, eyebrows shooting up like startled cats. "Ah, I see...."
"It doesn't like me," she says.
"Perhaps it's wounded."
"Yeah! It's hurt and it's mad. It's mad at me because every day my dad burns it! He says he doesn't but I see the smoke and when he comes home I can smell it on him."
The old traveler glances north where, a couple miles away, thick grey smoke cascades into the blue sky.
"You are not your dad, Auga. Be patient. Listen to it."
"Okay," she whispers. She's staring up, a hundred feet and more, into the face of her fear.
The man sits and breathes. Auga's expression is changing, from terror to stubbornness to curiousity. When he sees this the old traveler asks: "What is it, child?"
"It's not growling anymore."
"Oh," he say, smiling hugely, "what is it doing?"
"It's just breathing."
"That's all it's ever done, Auga. It was something inside of yourself that was growling, something that is wounded."
She breaks her gaze from the trees to glare at him in reproach. "Not me! I'm fine."
He stands, takes her hand. He says, "With patience and love, you will heal." And with that the old man leads the young girl into the forest.
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