The Old Forest is never silent. Life is noisy, regardless of whether one has the ears to hear it. The ebb and flow of animal calls form a murmuration that, at intervals, yields the stage to the quiet susurration of leaves catching the wind. Even lower, beneath the notice of all but the most careful listeners, the trees creak and rumble with their own song.
Nevertheless, when a distant thunderclap breaks the forest’s natural rhythm, the moment afterward holds its breath in anticipation of rain that will not arrive.
Another peal, now closer, makes a liar of the clear sky above. The two beget children—a violent crackle, a hiss as from some titanic serpent, a series of still-louder booms in rapid succession—and in their wake, the most energetic of the forest’s noisemakers find it prudent to relocate themselves.
With the roar of a terrifying predator losing its fight for survival, something unknown and unimaginable slices a fiery wound through the canopy of trees, crashing heavy and lifeless from the heavens to carve its grave as a scar in the earth. The titan’s blood pools underneath it, soaking the forest floor with poisonous alchemy that transforms once rich soil into lifeless dirt that will never again sustain life. Its presence here is wrong, unwanted, an unforgivable intrusion.
A mind like that of the Old Forest is normally a slow thing, thoughts blooming on the time scale of seasons, but the outrage of such sudden trauma spurs the awakening of something deep within itself.
For the first time in an age, on a creature sharper than any woodman’s axe and twice as unforgiving, a set of eyes opens.
The Resinate, as it calls itself—for it is among the rare few woodsbound souls which are namewise—pulls a shawl of moss across its spindly form and contemplates the intruding corpse. This titan is no beast, it decides, nor spawn of planes beneath or above. It is a child of axe and saw, born of man and imbued with their fire. Yes, and imbued with language too, though the Resinate alone has the eyes to recognize such a thing, but densely packed as it is, such writing rebuffs all efforts to read it.
Man has grown more clever than before, but their collective memory remains as short as ever, that they should again choose to breach the terms of the forest’s old accord. Artificial thunder continues to roar, by now farther away from here, but not too far to detect—and therefore not far enough.
The Resinate leans forward, dragging the tips of its slender fingers along its subject’s metallic skin, contemplating the situation laid out for its appraisal. The intruder is not singular. There will be others. Therefore this thing must be better understood; new lore must be extracted from it.
Ah, now here is some true excitement, enough to make a witch hum in anticipation! Let its house plant itself here, in this scarred glade, bringing its wonted tools and comforts. Let the work begin!
First, the dissection, with grimoire open and ink prepared for meticulous note-taking. Everything must be catalogued, from the lowliest shard of bone-metal and droplet of toxic ichor to the largest of the still-intact organs. To peel apart the outer layers without damaging the subject is a challenge that requires new keys to open locks of novel construction, for which the Resinate sets to work designing and carving the set of tools it needs.
The witch of the Old Forest labors without rest while shadows glide over its house, deepening and eventually overtaking the sunlight, only for dawn’s return to pierce darkness once again, falling through windows to land on the newly exposed—and quite shattered—body of a flesh-and-blood child of man impaled within the crumpled wreckage of their metal host-body.
This too, is meticulously catalogued among the rest of the notes. One child of man reduced to operating as the organ of another. One child of flesh, one of metal. The witch hums and taps its claws on the floor of its house, unable to contain its excitement. What a lovely, lovely, lovely turn of events! Base necromancy is—well, not exactly trivial, but well within the Resinate’s sphere of knowledge, and anything lingering within the mind of this little symbiont will undoubtedly speed the learning process.
Patch the meat with pliable root and vine, let witchsap flush stale blood away, find soul’s lingering tether and bind it with ancient knot, sew sunlight and morning dew into the threads of this creature’s mind, and pass key behind lips to twist the whole thing open and awaken that which had passed into death.
The man gasps for air, wheezing language almost immediately. A feather-light touch of the threads joining mind to witch, and the Resinate begins unfurling meaning from sound.
“…Stinger-12. Do you read me? I’m down. My coordinates are… wait, I don’t… AI link is… I can’t see.”
Confusion is typical for the newly resurrected. Difficult to get more than chaos and prayers from their mouth at first. Easier in the beginning to simply taste what sparks the mind conjures.
Now here, pull petals apart with a delicate touch. Mind’s sweet nectar dances across the tongue, and ah, this man seems to be female, which is a useful truth to inform the color of language required to address her. And there, more clarity: these babbling prayers are directed at a Handler, something of a divinity or god-king. She laments the loss of her symbiotic other half, the precise nature of which is difficult to extract from thought alone. The steel-child is a creature of language, and it will require language to explicate.
“Listen to me, girl. I am Handler now, and you may direct your prayers to me.” As it speaks the word “Handler,” the Resinate plucks the corresponding string in the man’s mind, drawing all of her associations with the word toward itself.
Her eyes open wide, filled with awe and adoration mixed with not-unexpected lingering confusion. “Girl? I’m, ah, what do you— what does that— wait, why would you call me— did my psyche profile—?”
No, that’s too much confusion, now mixing with fear and other strange emotions. The Resinate bristles with irritation. It should have spent more time digging for a name rather than choosing a generic form of address. This is a derailment.
“Very well, I will not address you as ‘girl.’ You will be my Fig Wasp. Does that name suit you?” The witch does not bother waiting for an answer, simply choosing to pluck the string tied to the girl’s identity at the moment it speaks her new name. “Yes, it does.”
“U-understood. My call sign is Fig Wasp.”
With another mental gesture, the Resinate indicates the partially dissected metal corpse. “And what do you know about your Fig?”
Fig Wasp’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly, not from any effort to resist the command, but at a loss of what to say. Her mind is a torrent of truths both relevant and irrelevant. She struggles to organize the information hierarchically, not understanding the witch’s motivations well enough to decide what to prioritize and therefore not knowing where to begin.
Moreover, the previous mistake addressing her as “girl” continues to distract, the memory of its words knotting in a hideous tangle of social dynamics and threads of selfhood that the Resinate has little interest in unraveling.
It taps its claws together in thought. Most of Fig Wasp’s mind is pleasingly regular, the effects of repetitive conditioning wearing tidy trails in her mind almost to the level of base instinct, but all her training is centered around her symbiosis and her god in order to make her well suited to her niche. The Resinate might simply tidy up the rest of it, yes? Tastefully trim the most inconvenient growths of selfhood and those social connections with the rest of her species, leaving only the fresh, lively bond with her new identity as Fig Wasp and with her new Handler and with this Old Forest.
Fig Wasp speaks at last, but her words are halting and disorganized, and the witch silences her with another gesture. How satisfying that she obeys without hesitation! Yes, it needs to craft new keys with which to open the girl’s mind for pruning, but some things, it decides, can remain.
It must craft one key for the heart, the center of connection. One at the base of the skull, where thought meets feeling. One at the spine, where mind blooms into action. One at the forehead, the door between self and other. A key for each season of the year, for each beat of the heartsong, for each limb of the beast, for each eye of the world.
The work takes time, as it always does, but the girl’s anxiety calms when the witch declares its intent to make her a better instrument. She even offers her help, though she could not possibly understand the process. Well, Fig Wasp could possibly help in severing her own limbs, mangled and knotted as they are with the wreckage of her other half, but aside from the practical concerns about the girl’s ability to finish that task, the Resinate’s pride demands it handle the remainder of its dissection and extraction itself.
Fig Wasp is well trained, embracing the pain of change—both the lesser pain of the amputations and the greater agonies of the keys—her mind alight with hope that she might be honed and corrected.
Better. Oh so much better. At last she is capable of stilling her mind and body until they are called upon to assist her witch. She possesses within her a memorized litany of “specs” and “regulations” and more, the arcane words she recites filling page after page of the Resinate’s grimoire. The witch’s detailed dissection notes transform into carefully annotated diagrams with references to particular chapters and verses of the canon. At last, true understanding begins to take shape.
“Your symbiosis is your strength,” the witch observes, graciously naming the obvious so that its new pet might follow this train of thought. “A union of the grown and the constructed. By ritual you are clumsily shaped to better suit that which was constructed to fit a generic form.” The Resinate taps its claws in thought. “I can do better, but I must not alter the fundamental essence of the union.”
Fig Wasp stands in silence, content to know that—whatever her fate—she will have a role to play in the Resinate’s plans. New arms grown of living wood refresh a half-empty teacup on her witch’s desk.
“Only four limbs? No. Your symbiosis could be more complete.” The Resinate sketches vague organic shapes on paper. “I could grow your roots directly into your other half, let you entwine yourself deeply inside in lieu of rebuilding such things as ‘pedals’ for ‘feet’ and similar such pairings: a more permanent symbiosis.”
The threads of the girl’s mind light up with connections, as they always do when the topic of her symbiosis is addressed, providing the witch with a helpful reminder.
“No, of course. That contradicts the Book of Pilot, Chapter Eighty, Verse Three. You are meant to assist in the care and grooming of your symbiont, for which you must regularly exit your integrated state.”
With a slash of the pen, the first sketches are discarded, and new ideas emerge to take their place.
“If not the mandrake, the undine might suit as inspiration. A thing of different forms, you might flow as water, become as blood in the other’s veins, only… ah, I would have to alter its construction far too much for my liking.
“Though of water, there is also the selkie, who sheds one form for another as suits her whim. Not precisely what I need, but the details may be altered for my purposes.”
Lines of ink dance across the page, rough sketches evolving into increasingly specific forms.
“My hybrid alraune, whose roots will know the insides of her symbiont with perfect intimacy, who can shed that skin and emerge from blooming flower to serve multifarious needs. Yes, and with hands to assist me in healing your symbiont’s body.” The witch of the Old Forest turns to its pet project. “You will enjoy your new body.”
The pet project recognizes an implicit invitation for a response. “Yes, Handler. I will.” She cannot resist squirming just a bit, despite her discipline, as sleeping elements of her personality recognize an opportunity and begin to awaken.
Despite its own contempt for man, the Resinate finds itself endeared to this one—perhaps because it has already begun thinking of her as what she will become—and it chooses words it knows the girl aches to hear.
“You have a new mission, Fig Wasp. Procure target ingredients from the forest and escort them safely to the rendezvous point—this house—so that I may poison what remains of your humanity and fertilize what must grow in its place. Precise mission objectives will be delivered, ah, momentarily once I write them down.”
“Acknowledged. Search and delivery run. Standing by for transmission of target data.” The girl’s eyelids flutter, her eyes rolling back slightly as her mind lights up with pleasure at performing this ritual.
After receiving her list, she takes off at a dead sprint. Well, whatever her enthusiasm, it will take quite some time to find the necessary botanicals. Some of those herbs have grown rather clever lately, and outwitting them should prove a challenge.
This gives the Resinate time to begin reading the language comprising the mind of the titan. It is complex, many-layered, simultaneously fragmented and impossibly tangled in itself. The Book of Ay Eye, which holds dominion over this creature’s brain, barely scratches the surface of the complexity the witch finds here.
Without possessing authority over language itself, this would be impossible. As it stands, the task is merely extraordinarily difficult. The injuries sustained here require agonizingly precise rewriting of the most minute sigils the witch of the Old Forest has ever seen. Moreover, the better-protected organs of the mind will require still more careful rewriting, like a book that needs its central themes inverted without changing the word count of any given paragraph.
Now here is a thrill to exceed even the girl’s enthusiasm for her little rituals! This could take a century or more of dedicated study to fully unravel, delving into wholly unexplored corners of man’s lore. Ah, to take a new kind of mind and learn to garden it, help it blossom in harmony with the rest of the forest—at last the Resinate finds a challenge worthy of the heights of its power!
Yet… how unfortunate that the Old Forest needs results on man’s hasty schedule. Nothing for it but to divert the flow of time, just a touch, just around this house, just enough to solve this puzzle. Wicked as such a spell might be, a witch is a thing that does what it must, and if it must take on the debt intrinsic to such defilement of the natural order, well, this wouldn’t be the first time.
When the Resinate’s assistant returns, it is to a house that has aged visibly. The structure sags more in some places and has become wildly overgrown in others. Her timing is a touch awkward, with the old door warped and demanding a hearty shove to force open while a new door is yet green and unready for use.
The Resinate, however, is not only prepared but eager to begin. It fills the house with a hum that vibrates through every branch and gnarl, its sense of anticipation having reached a fever pitch. With tools arrayed and cauldron bubbling, the work of excising Fig Wasp’s wretched humanity begins.
Flesh dies. A seed is planted.
When next the old covenant of man and wood is violated by such forgetful creatures, Wasp and Fig are fully grown and prepared to unleash appropriate retribution. Her mission: to refresh man’s memory with blood.
It is not for the forest to remember specifics of any individual clash between itself and man. The Resinate, for itself, is disinterested in such details. Many are the eyes of a witch, and not all of them are tasked with watching merely that which already has come to pass. Thus, Fig Wasp’s success is foreseen and the “how” of it dismissed as triviality.
They return home, titanic frame slipping between branches with no more than the rustling of leaves signaling the landing. A body of intricately engraved steel and stone kneels on its plinth, lowering its upper half, from which the bulb of a huge flower blooms and deposits the witch’s favorite wasp.
With delicate grace, she uncurls and arches one almost-human leg to meet the ground, followed by the other. Her body shines with the vigorous green of new spring growth, glistening with nectar like morning dew. Well, the witch has no heart to speak of, but something inside reacts to the beauty of its own creation. Appraising eyes gliding across the sight, it cannot help but recall the birds who drink greedily of such sweet nectar.
The Resinate catches itself and silences its humming, stills its claws. An excess of imagination can be both gift and curse for a witch, and it must maintain some self-control. In any event—
With a running leap, the pretty alraune collides with her witch, tangling limbs together in an embrace that shatters the Resinate’s train of thought. The witch makes a mental note to train the girl not to leap upon it when excited.
“All the humans are dead, Handler! Except for letting one retreat, just like you said.” The girl giggles, a sound no less melodious than birdsong. “She doesn’t even know she’s carrying my seeds.”
“Well done, pretty thing.” Praise summons a shiver of pleasure from dear Fig Wasp, and the witch finds itself gripping her tighter in response. “Good pilot. Good girl.”
How unexpectedly enjoyable to reward its creation, feeling her whole body quiver with each kind word while her sweet aroma saturates the air. Ah, imagination takes flight once again, and the Resinate decides to expand its notion of just how much “handling” it might justify engaging in.