You lead the boy to the copse of tainted fairwoods. It reeks of innocence spilled and soaked into the soil.

The boy is just nearing the eve of his adolescence, brown skin smooth and unblemished save for the scrapes and bruises of rough play with peers. Your own brown skin has been corrugated by the decades and is ornamented beneath one ear with a tattoo of the sun.

He stares up at the trees. “They look no different than the rest.” It is almost a question.

Another time, you will teach him the subtle signs that a tree is tainted. For now—finally understanding your own mentor’s brittle eyes at this moment—you press his palm to the bark.

A wren streaks skyward at his scream.

He struggles, but you clench your jaw and tighten your grip. One breath. Two. Three.

You let go and squeeze him to your chest until the rhythm of his heart is not so frightening. It’s not in keeping with your oaths, but you remind him, as you have every day since he was placed under your tutelage, that he has a choice. You try to hand him the satchel of food and water—enough for four days. Neither of you is surprised when he shakes his head.

Sighing, you open the bag and hand him a jar of salve that will blunt the pain. He applies it generously to his palms, then kneels and grabs hold of one massive root.

He was chosen—as were the other children, as were you—for the same reason the fairwoods were propagated: a talent for drawing the malignance close. For seven hours, he sweats and occasionally whimpers, but never loses his grip or his focus. Afterward, you show him how to wield the axe and cut away the fouled portion of root, wide across as his splayed fingers; thin as a wrist. He places it in the satchel and the two of you head home in the hushed dark.

As long as the land remembers your people’s suffering under occupation—and it’s been less than a century since the empire was driven out—the trees will be needed to prevent the soil from poisoning the water and crops; and you gifted few will be needed to keep the hungry trees from growing too big, stretching their roots too far, suffocating everything.

* * *

Back at the guildhome, you prepare him a draught and he sleeps for two days. This will be one of the rare, final times he’s afforded such respite. In the early morning, he receives his tattoo; the ink is made from the ashes of the tainted root. You told him it should be something he loves, so he’s chosen a calf—a cherished pet from before his gift was discovered and he became your charge.

You can never again encourage him to spare himself. He’s made his choice.

After the two of you break your fasts, you follow him through the forest, back to the copse of tainted fairwoods. It reeks of innocence spilled and soaked into the soil.

* * *

Ⓒ Kel Coleman

Originally published in Pipe Wrench, October 2021. Reprinted here by permission of the author.