Friday, September 26. Epps Bridge-ish

Traffic slowed to a crawl as we got closer to Epps Bridge. I would be so glad when the roadwork causing this was done. We crept forward a few car lengths at a time. Lusa watched the road crews working on the new overpass.

I opened my music app and flipped to a favorite playlist.

Hesitated.

“What do you like to listen to?”

“Wind through leaves. Water on stone. The hum of earth,” Lusa said, her answer sounding distant, thoughts elsewhere.

“Uh…I meant music. Songs. Bands—”

Right. Asleep for who knew how long. 

“Nature sings. You just have to know how to listen.”

The car in front of me picked up speed as we cleared the bottleneck.

I set my phone down. Decided silence wasn’t so bad after all.

During my frenzied lunch break research, I’d looked at all the nearby state parks, trying to find somewhere big enough Lusa could disappear. There were bigger parks in the mountains, but until I was free of this warden thing, I wasn't about to add a three-hour commute to my mornings. Watson Mill seemed like the best compromise. Plenty of trails and, most importantly, a primitive camping area that had opened this past spring.

I’d registered for a weekend camping pass online, which was good, because the park station was closed when we arrived. A single car sat in the gravel parking lot at the trailhead. I parked on the opposite side from it. 

The trunk of my car was a mass of shopping bags, in addition to the clothes and food I’d grabbed from home. I hoped I wouldn’t have to make multiple trips. The hike to the primitive camping area was several miles long and the sun was no longer visible over the treetops.

My trusty college backpack hadn't been designed for hiking, but I managed to cram most of the supplies into it. That still left me carrying the world's cheapest cooler—with a few meals squashed inside—a bag of bottled water, and the tent.

I juggled all three for a moment, trying to reach my keys to lock the car, before Lusa took the cooler and water from my hands.

“Thanks,” I said. The car beeped and I turned toward the trail. 

“This is unnecessary,” she said, lifting the water.

“I’m not drinking creek water,” I said.

Was she looking paler? 

Pale had become something else. Her skin was almost translucent. 

“Let’s go,” I said, setting a brisk pace. I wanted my life back—before I had to explain to Sarah why I kept disappearing to run errands for some mysterious lady in the woods.

I still hadn't wrapped my head around tochigami being real. If I woke up tomorrow and learned this was an elaborate prank, I wouldn't even be upset.

Land gods existing, some enemy lurking unseen—that was much worse. 

Lusa hadn't liked me calling her a land god. She'd corrected me immediately.

Guardian.

Apparently the distinction mattered.

Not like I'd planned on worshipping her. 

But what did being a land—er, guardian—mean? I’d never heard of them outside what little Japanese folklore I'd dabbled in after binging an anime about tochigami. In the show, tochigami had specific responsibilities. The greater oversaw entire territories, while the lesser were responsible for a pond, or meadow.

The territory Lusa had described sounded like it covered a major chunk of north Georgia, which, in anime terms, would make her a mid-level guardian, at least.

If that even applied here.

I could have asked, but didn’t. Maybe because a big part of me was still struggling to wrap my head around all of this

Magic.

Guardians.

Shadow monsters.

I'd accepted the contract as real. I'd stopped looking for another explanation somewhere around the moving tattoo and the whole food is poison now episode.

So, yeah, I bought the magical contract. Mostly. 

Everything beyond that...

I was still working on.

I tried not to think about the emotions that sometimes slipped through the bond—subtle enough that I still wasn't sure what I was feeling, only that they weren't mine. They always vanished before I could make sense of them. 

I tried especially hard not to think about the faint certainty that, no matter where I was, I could point the way back to Lusa.

That particular realization had been shoved so deep into the back of my mind I intended to leave it there.

While my brain thought the hike wasn’t bad. My legs and lungs had a different opinion. Why did Athens have to sit at the foot of the mountains? We didn’t just have hills. We had hills with aspirations to be mini mountains.

Of course there were several of those on the trail. And switchbacks.

Something about the shadows felt wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on why exactly.

Lusa didn’t appear concerned, so I shrugged it off and kept putting one foot in front of the other.

I was breathing hard by the time we reached the end of the trail. The light was fading quickly. I was grateful Lusa had carried some of the stuff. It hadn’t seemed heavy at the car, but the weight grew with every step.  

Surely I wasn’t that out of shape, was I? I had hauled massive textbooks around campus for years in college, which hadn’t been that long ago—

I did some quick math.

Oh. 

Nope. 

And I’d been working a desk job.

I cursed my own stupidity. I’d been in decent shape in college—even dabbled in intramural sports. But now?

There was always something more important than the gym. A deadline at work, adulting, time with Sarah, sleep—

I had never planned to end up solidly in dad bod territory before even becoming a father.

“We should camp soon,” I said.

“Why?”

“It’s getting dark. I won’t be able to see well enough to set up the tent if we go much further.”

“Are you having trouble seeing now?”

That made me pause. Glance skyward. Overhead, the sky was gray bleeding into midnight purple. 

“Not really.”

She nodded as if that was the expected answer. “Let us continue then.”

I sighed. “Okay, so what are we looking for?”

“High ground. Near running water. Healthy life. A tree to form the core. Hickory. Tupelo. Beech might work, if it is old enough.”

That was not the answer I had anticipated.

I pulled up maps on my phone, turning on the satellite imagery. Cell wasn’t great out here and it loaded slowly. A blinking blue dot marked our position. A thin blue line curved through the trees nearby.

“There’s a creek that runs into the river that way.”

She just looked at me.

“What?”

“You had to consult your—window—to figure out where water is?”

“I don’t know this area.”

“We are uphill. Water will be downhill. We can head that way,” she indicated the way I’d pointed. “Or we can go that way. The creek is nearer there. Closer to the river.”

“And you know this because you can sense it?”

“I know this because I understand how water moves. Your people used to know things like this too—before your pocket windows.”

I grumbled and stuffed my phone back in my pocket.

“Look, I’m an accountant. I do numbers. Forms. Financials. I’m not some explorer pushing the boundaries of civilization. Those days are gone.”

She ignored it as if she recognized it for what it was. 

Excuses. 

“After you then,” I said.

“What about this one?” I asked. 

We were walking the top of a ridge. A wide, gurgling creek ran sixty feet or more below us. The slope was steep and the ridge crest narrow—barely wide enough for the tree in question. It was broad and straight. Didn’t seem to have any sickly or decaying limbs. 

“That is a black walnut, not hickory.” 

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that look. Calm. Patient. You really don't know this?, followed almost immediately by, Very well. We'll start at the beginning.

I couldn’t see the difference between this tree and the hickory she had pointed out earlier. That one had been too young and sickly, she’d said, though I hadn’t seen anything wrong with it. 

But Lusa had touched it, lingering for a moment, her expression sad.

I studied what I could see of the offending walnut. Rough bark. Lots of larger leaves, many a yellow-gold. Looked the same to me.

A chill ran through me. Were September evenings always this cool? 

Did I pack a jacket? Before I started digging around in my backpack, Lusa bent down, sweeping aside the fresh carpet of still-brilliant leaves. Round, dark nuts lay beneath, some still mottled with green. 

“See the nuts? A hickory shell splits. These are solid.” She rose, resting a hand on the bark for a moment. “But it is a fine tree. Stand for many more years.”

The words felt...weightier somehow. I realized, belatedly, she was speaking to the tree—a blessing. Something tugged at me. Toward the tree. Then down into the earth. Wind rustled in the branches above as if in answer and a shower of brilliant yellow leaves came fluttering down.

Lusa lifted her hand and sank to the ground. She seemed to have grown even paler.

I took off my pack and sat beside her, legs draped down the ridge.

Below, the creek burbled. Nightlife sang all around us and I realized how dark it was. I pulled out my phone to check the time. It was after eight—but I could still see. 

Barely. 

Was that her doing?

If maintaining all this took effort, should she be spending it on me? 

And who was I to tell a land god—guardian—how to do her job?

Maybe she felt just as trapped as I did.

One good thing about the dark—I wasn’t about to run into anyone I knew and have to explain what I was doing out here.

‘Oh hey, this is my…cousin. From out of town. We’re, uh, shrine shopping.’

Yeah. That’d go over well.

The best thing to do was finish this. Get her anchored. Get the contract behind me.

I shook my head. Too much thinking. None of which helped find this tree Lusa wanted.

Every healthy hickory we'd found Lusa had said were too young. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but there was something underneath—

I finally decided to just ask.  

“What’s wrong?”

She was silent.

“Lusa?”

Something like annoyance pulsed in the bond—quickly squashed.

“Lusa’ta?” I tried again.

“The forest,” she said. “There are too many trees gone.”

I looked around. “There’s a lot of trees?”

“They’re too young.”

I thought about the tree at my back, how it was so broad I didn’t think I could reach around it.

“This one seems older.”

“And there should be many more like it. And many older still.”

“Oh.” I snapped my fingers, understanding. “This used to be farmland. I saw it on the park site.” 

She was quiet.

When I glanced over my shoulder, her eyes were closed, hands pressed to the ground.

“Is that a problem? Do we need to try a different park?” I wasn’t looking forward to hiking back out of here in the dark if so.

“No,” she said finally. “This will do.”

“Shall we keep looking?” I asked, rising and grabbing my backpack. “Or do you want to camp here?”

I snapped my mouth shut.

Camp. 

In a tent.

With Lusa. 

She rose, placing a hand against the tree. Took a step and stumbled. 

I caught her before she fell. 

Fear.

Mine. Hers. I couldn't tell anymore.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm fine."

She pushed away and kept walking. 

"You look awful." I followed behind her. It was noticeably harder to see than it had been.

"Is this because of...whatever you were doing back there?"

“I’m fine,” she insisted. She stopped, sizing up a tree about the size of the walnut we’d left. 

I looked up, tracing it to the canopy overhead. It ran straight with an impressive number of branches. There were no small trees crowding underneath. The neighboring trees were of a similar age, all stately with healthy growth.

Lusa placed a trembling hand on the tree, then sighed.

“This one.”

“Great! I’ll get camp set up. We can figure out what it needs in the morning.”

She looked like she wanted to argue.

I held up a hand. “No, not tonight. You’ve pushed yourself too far.” I tapped a finger beside my eye. “I can barely see now. That was you, wasn’t it? You need to rest.”

“I just woke from sleeping more than—“

“And you woke without an anchor or a warden and are clearly struggling just to remain here.” 

She wanted a warden? I’d be a warden. I’d nag her until she took care of herself. “Enough. We rest. You might not need it, but I do. You can run me ragged tomorrow. We will get your shri—grove—set up and then find you a proper warden. I’m sure there’s some outdoorsy type out there somewhere who can help you hunt down hollows or whatever else you need to do.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. For just a second, I thought she looked…hurt. Which was stupid. She wasn’t a person, she was a—whatever she was.

And I was an absolute ass for thinking that.

Finally, she nodded and sat down, closing her eyes. 

I wanted to sit down and devour my dinner—but if I did that, I’d be putting up the tent via phone flashlight. 

That was a terrible idea.

So I set to work. The tent was supposed to be stupid easy to set up. Supposedly big enough for two. I hadn’t been thinking about Lusa when I’d bought it. I’d thought large enough for two = should fit me without feeling like I was in a plastic bag.

The tent was simple—snap the poles, thread them through, done.  It was also tiny. Maybe I’d let the lady have the tent and sleep outside.

And maybe it wouldn’t rain. Again.

I tossed my pack inside, then sat down to eat.

Dinner was Ron’s pasta dish. Not bad cold. Hard-boiled eggs on the side. 

I lifted the first bite to my mouth when a thought occurred to me.

I put down my fork and asked Lusa.

“Do you eat? Or sleep—normally?”

She looked mildly offended. “The land sustains me. And I do not require sleep.”

I nodded. Took a bite. Chewed.

“My people would bring offerings,” she said softly. “As the seasons changed. Gifts. Thanks for a good harvest, good hunting. I ate those.”

People?

I took another bite.

A quiet rumble broke the silence.

I glanced into the trees. Then at Lusa.

The sound came again.

Her eyes were closed.

I poked at that sense between us. So far I had tried to ignore it. It was annoying having to filter emotions that weren’t mine. This was the first time I had reached out.

She was…embarrassed?

And completely surprised.

The bond went silent as a wall slammed in place. 

I rocked back from the force of it…and heard the sound again.

Of course.

I handed her my bowl, fished out a clean fork.

“Eat,” I said.

“But—“

“I know what hunger sounds like.”

“I am not—“

“Have you ever been asleep before? For this long?”

She shook her head.

“Then you don’t know what sleeping that long did to you. Maybe it’s just you aren’t connected strongly enough for the land to sustain you. Maybe the land can’t. Maybe there isn’t enough left wild.”

“But that is your—“

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Skipping dinner won’t kill me. And I brought breakfast.”

And if she needed to eat that too, then I’d still be fine. She had said we would need to head back for supplies tomorrow. I’d grab more food while we were out.

Enough for two.

She ate. For someone who claimed not to require food, it disappeared quickly.

I rose. “Anything we need to do tonight before we turn in?”

She nodded, handing me the empty dish. Color had returned to her face.

“We claim this tree.”