For Walti, the eldest, that meant shopping for his beloved Jesika; they’d just been married in spring, a young love. He’d had his sights set on a fine winter hat and shawl from a well-regarded artisan that he knew she’d love, and her own family had been unable to give her such a thing. Garret was far more interested in what the bakers and confectioners had to offer, having stuffed his pack with the remnants of anything he’d been unable to finish off. Neither of these things had Ewan’s attention, or at least not yet they didn’t. Youngest of the three, he had spent the day passing back and forth in front of the blacksmith’s shop, eyeing a beautiful hunting knife in the window. Walti had to practically shove him through the door, convincing him to buy it with his season’s allowance.
The boys were late leaving town, the sun casting long shadows over the fields as they walked home. Ewan’s new knife sat at his hip, quite the visual addition to the bow and quiver at his back. His father had strung it, and gifted it to him at a young age, but passed before he could teach Ewan much of its care. The bowyer in town had taken up that mantle, a kindly woman who loved to share her craft and lore. Ewan visited her as often as he could. As they walked, Garret gave him a nudge and offered him a bit of sweetroll - at least he was sharing, now.
As they came upon the forest’s edge, Walti suggested a shortcut through. It was the surest way to be home before sunset, the boys agreed. They had no fear of the woods at dusk, they’d been raised among its trees and knew the routes well. Each was an accomplished hunter, or aspired to it in Ewan’s case, and Garret’s axe glinted reassuringly as it dangled from his pack. Ewan mused that Walti was anxious to get home to Jesika, and the older boy sputtered; the group broke into an easy laugh as they entered the woods.
Garret was the first to realize something was not right. The shortcut was taking longer than anticipated, and the sky had not darked a bit as they walked on. It was tough to be sure, but the trees seemed to be changing in the twilit haze - their leaves appeared a deep crimson, richer than any fall foliage the boys had seen, and their trunks bleached white. Ewan found himself resting his hand on his new knife as unfamiliar memories stirred in the recesses of his mind.
Unsettled, they were glad to come upon a clearing, dominated by an enormous and ancient tree. There was no mistaking the colors here. Walti, now seemingly resigned to not getting home that night, suggested that the trio make camp. If they were truly lost, then they might be able to navigate better in the morning - though all three wondered if night would even come. Ewan, increasingly agitated by memories he could not place, began to protest, but Garret agreed and dropped his pack. Axe in hand, he began to search the edge of the clearing for firewood but unusually found no downed limbs or dried-out logs to harvest. He instead set his sights on a gnarled and split tree set just into the woods, with a long-dormant heart and dried limbs perfect for a comforting flame. He raised his axe towards a lower branch, connecting dully with the wood even as Ewan cried out with realization.
Thock.
Ewan woke with a start, just in time to watch an ethereal arrow vanish above his head. Next to him, Hemma barely stirred; the arrow was meant for him, not his wife, so she did not hear when it lodged itself deep in their headboard. He sought no archer; of course there would be none. The windows to their small cabin were all closed, and the single door was barred from inside. With a sigh, Ewan sat up and rubbed his face. Had the arrow brought back the dreams of his youth? Or had the dreams brought the arrow? He could never tell.
The old man got up quietly and shuffled across the room, ignoring his dresser and heading instead for the chest beneath the window. The ritual of preparation was familiar to him, now. A thick layer of dust floated through the first rays of dawn as he opened the lid, a reminder of how long it had been since he was last called. Practiced hands moved quickly through the clothing inside, carefully folded and wrapped in protective linen. The light leather garments, his own craft, had a brilliant red sheen that nearly matched the glow of the rising sun outside. Ewan smiled. Here, the clothes stood out like a sore thumb, almost gaudy in appearance. Where he was going, though, they would not be so out of place.
His bow hung on the wall as it always had, above the door where it belonged. Ewan stepped carefully onto a stool to get it down. He tested it as he did so, finding it supple as the day he received it. The bowyer in town had taught him well - or perhaps the forest had preserved it in some way. It had done right by him over the many long years, and today would be no different. Slinging it and a filled quiver over his shoulder, he hoped only that he could return the courtesy.
The last item to grab was the knife, the same one he had purchased those years ago. He returned to his bedside, gently opening the drawer of his nightstand and retrieving it. Ewan had kept it within arms’ reach ever since he’d bought it, especially after that first evening in the forest. He regarded it for a moment before sliding it into the red sheath at his waist, and closed the drawer as quietly as he could. Hemma stirred, but only briefly, and Ewan smiled again. She would wonder, when she woke and found him missing, but not for long. She knew all too well the story of the notches on the headboard, and recalled their number better than even he did. Fifty-one, now. It was a call he’d answered many times, and not one he could ignore.
A last glance over his shoulder, and the hunter was gone. It was a beautiful autumn morning, crisp and cool, and the brightening sky illuminated Ewan’s way. His knees ached a bit as he walked, and he did not breathe as freely as he once had, but Ewan felt alive. If this was to be his last hunt, he decided, then all would be well. He’d led a good life, long and filled with blessings. If the moon rose high and he did not return, Hemma would mourn, but she too would understand. Ewan was at peace. And besides, fear was an emotion of prey. He would have none in his heart as he returned to the earth.
The path to the forest was familiar, and well-travelled. Ewan had walked it many times, not just when Cevolo called. This time of year, the fields were a lovely amber, with their grasses either picked over by livestock or long since harvested for winter hay. Other crops had gone to market, and the festivals were over. If he met anyone else on his walk, he’d be surprised. For the farmers, it was a rare time of rest and recuperation. Less so for Ewan.
Though he walked the road towards the woods, they were not where the old hunter was headed. The Red Forest would find him among the branches, as it did whenever he was summoned. Study of the gods was not something that had called to him; his religion was in nature. Cevolo certainly had his worship, but Baphus, too - the Painted One’s work was evident everywhere, and that bounty had kept his family fed and clothed for generations. But Ewan left the finer points of religious studies to the philosophers. He had heard, once, that Cevolo’s forest sprung from his very aura - that it was not a physical place, and it did not move on its own. Cevolo simply projected it wherever he went, as a state of existence. Perhaps that was so, but to Ewan the distinction mattered little. If Cevolo wanted him, he would be found, and it would be among the trees.
As he walked, the old man thought back to his dream, and further to the memories that it had recalled. Ewan’s father had worshipped Cevolo before him, though to his understanding had never been called to hunt. That, as far as Ewan could tell, was penance for the mistake in his youth. He, Walti, and Garret had defiled Cevolo’s forest, claiming a tree that did not need to be cut. Even this may have been permitted, but what came after… Ewan shook his head. He had tried to stop Garret and Walti from harvesting the firewood, having suddenly remembered the warnings his father shared when Ewan was barely old enough to understand. They had laughed, of course; the gods were long gone, and even if the white wood was sacred there would be no one to stop them.
Ewan had sat with the other boys for a time as the old tree gave life to new flames, but was not able to calm his anxieties. As Walti and Garret settled in to try and sleep, covering their eyes against the twilight, he retreated to the edge of the clearing and climbed a tree. In its boughs, he watched for a while as their fire went out, eventually falling asleep himself. But Ewan still remembered the sounds of their yelling, waking him from his shallow slumber. Cevolo’s beasts had come, and they set upon Walti as he lay sleeping. Garret had managed to get to his axe, defending himself as Ewan blearily readied to shoot from his perch in the tree. They were wolves, four of them, but unlike any Ewan had encountered before. Great horns curled up above their ears, and their tails swished long behind them as they ran; their white fur was like parchment, as though they had been carved from the very trees of the forest. They ran with an almost deerlike gate, with long legs ending in nimble, pointed paws.
With pale, empty eyes they had attacked Garret, but he managed to fell one with his axe. Ewan killed another with a measured shot, missing the third as it leapt for Garret’s throat. The next arrow struck true, but too late. Terrified, Ewan clutched at his new knife, but did not descend the tree. The last wolf - as far as he knew - was still down there, and he had lost sight of it in the commotion. He could shoot, but did he have the strength to fight? For what seemed like hours, Ewan sat and listened, willing himself to leap down, but he could not. He was only inspired to move when the breeze came, gently weaving through the trees and carrying their leaves with it. Ewan watched this wave of red cover the bodies in the clearing - the wolves, his friends, and even their belongings and firepit - before sweeping it all away with a gust. At this sight, he had scrambled down the tree and ran, ran until the leaves turned green and the morning light of dawn welcomed him again.
Ewan shook himself from his memories, seeing that he was again walking among those familiar trees. In his reverie, the Red Forest had manifested around him. The leaves were the same striking scarlet, as were the grasses that wove among the roots. Though it had just been morning beyond the white-barked trees, evening twilight filtered through the branches above, bringing with it a quiet calm. Before long, he was in the clearing again, and though it looked different each time, the ancient tree at its center never changed. The protector of the forest, the same observer which had those many years ago watched Ewan’s friends fail in their hunt even as he committed the sin of cowardice.
Retreating a bit from the clearing, back into the forest, he prepared himself and then slowly began to climb a tree. Soon, the beasts would come, and Ewan would take any advantage on balance against his slowed reflexes. He was reminded again of that night long ago, this time settling amongst the boughs not to sleep but to wait. Their snaking, almost sinuous bark was smooth to his touch, and a subtle warmth could be felt within. Cevolo had summoned forth many kinds of strange and wondrous beasts from them in past hunts, and Ewan wondered what he would face this time. He confirmed his knife was still at his hip before readying his bow, nocking an arrow on the string in anticipation. Flesh or otherwise, arrow and blade would kill them all the same.
A snapped twig signaled that the forest was ready to challenge him. Which would it be? A single predator, there to test his strength and reflexes, as it had been so many times? Or perhaps a pack, to judge his speed and intellect? He listened patiently, and was rewarded with the hushed rustle of many paws through the leaves. Fitting that it should be the wolves, Ewan thought as he counted their number; and four of them again, too. They would avoid the clearing until he showed himself, and if he was to survive he'd need to even the odds before then. A flash of white at the base of the tree, and Ewan's arrow found its target. The rest of the pack scattered, dispersing into the undergrowth to regroup. They would be back in a moment to investigate; Ewan was well-hidden, and the oils infused into his leather masked his scent. He nocked another arrow and aimed down the trunk.
Shortly a lone wolf returned to the tree, slowly sniffing its way towards its fallen mate. Ewan dispatched it quickly, sending the remaining pair dashing back into the woods. They knew where he was now, and would need to see their advantage in numbers to return. Ewan descended as quickly as he could, reclaiming one of the arrows before making for the clearing. He scanned the treeline as he stepped into the open, intending to put as much distance between himself and the beasts’ cover as he could. He could hear them running unseen around him; they would not be scared off as they might have been in other forests. Ewan’s presence was a challenge, and Cevolo would surely command them to respond.
The first wolf stepped carefully into the clearing, carved eyes locked on Ewan as it approached. It stopped at some distance, clearly anxious as he raised his bow towards it. But it was a show, and both hunters knew it; a distraction, to allow the remaining wolf to attack from the side. They had the advantage, and Ewan would be forced to choose. He readied himself, listening again for the swift footfall of his hidden adversary. Moments later the charge came, from just beyond his periphery. With a last look at the waiting beast, Ewan spun and lodged his arrow between his attacker’s eyes. He reached for his dagger as the wolf collapsed to the ground, crouching to avoid its companion’s leap. But it had gone low instead, seeking to take his legs from beneath him. Ewan cried out as the beast’s teeth sunk deep into his thigh, even as he buried the blade in its neck. He held it close as it died, both hunters slowly collapsing to the ground.
With the wolf's last breath, the forest fell silent. A chill breeze swept through the clearing, lofting a flurry of leaves in its wake. The red washed over the wolves' bodies, sweeping them away as it had every time before. Ewan struggled to stand, but found he couldn’t - the wound in his thigh prevented it. Painfully, he made it to his knees, propping himself up on his bow. As he did so, he looked towards the ancient tree that had ever presided over his hunts. Its bark peeled and shifted, and forward strode the familiar form of Cevolo, god of the forests. The wind drifted towards him, wreathing his unnaturally tall form in crimson. His humanoid body was skinned in the same pale bark as his domain, covered in the red mosses and grey lichens that his sacred trees wore. As he came to a halt, the many talismans that dangled from his antlers swayed gently and clattered around his bare skull, which could easily have come from any one of his great beasts. Vacant eye sockets studied Ewan, who returned the gaze unwavering.
At their first meeting, when Ewan had been called back to the forest in a much harsher way than this, he had been afraid. Here was myth personified: a spirit from cycles long gone, judging his actions. Challenging him to flee. But he had not then, and would not now. Ewan felt only respect for the Red Hunter, which was all the god had ever demanded. Respect for the forests, certainly, and the creatures within. But more than that, recognized Ewan, the nature of men; those like himself, who try so desperately to separate themselves from the beasts of the land with their civilization. Their money, their power - so much nothing, when weighed against pure instinct. The mortal struggle between predator and prey. In every hunt, Ewan saw this truth. No man is worth more than his actions in the face of death, whether his opponent’s or his own.
And now, it was his turn. He could feel it in the air, like static on his skin, as Cevolo drew his bow. Ewan held his head high as an arrow formed from nowhere, trained towards him. He exhaled, and his god let the arrow fly. But it would not pierce him. Instead, the arrow planted itself in the ground in front of him, just within reach. The old hunter watched as it faded, a little red sapling sprouting up where it had struck. The tendril shot upwards, twisting upon itself like a beanstalk. As its growth slowed, the color drained from its developing bark, coming to resemble the trees around it. A living staff, a gift from the forest; Ewan reached out and accepted wordlessly. Cevolo watched as he used it to stand, bracing himself against the pain in his leg. The mortal hunter collected himself, slinging his bow carefully over his shoulder and sheathing his dagger, before meeting the deity’s empty gaze anew. Apparently satisfied, Cevolo returned to the old tree, leaving as he’d come. Ewan turned and did the same.
There was no path out of the Red Forest, but it mattered little. Ewan knew he would find the forest’s edge before long, as he was no longer needed among the trees. This would not be his last hunt, he knew that. The staff was not a parting gift, but a sign of worth. His skills glorified Cevolo, and so long as he still lived he was the god’s to summon. But just as when he left his home for what he thought was the last time, Ewan was content. Even now, in his twilight years, he could still prove his worth in the hunt. The pain in his leg lessened as he gripped the staff, which emanated the same warmth as the trees in the forest. He allowed his mind to wander again, but no memories overtook him as he made his way home. Soon, the red and white of the sacred place faded to muted brown and green, and Ewan was on the rural road again, passing empty pastures and bare fields. The sun was high in the sky - barely noon, back in the real world - and smoke rose from the chimney at his home in the distance. Hemma was preparing lunch for them both, just in case. Perhaps she would ask about the hunt, or perhaps not; they would enjoy a meal together all the same. Ewan would be called again, but for now, he had earned his respite.
