Of the Chastier, the Stormbird, and the Little Wren

There existed in a broken grove a most tragic trinity: the Chastier with his honeyed thorns, the Stormbird with her tempest heart, and between them, always between them, the Wren.

The Chastier was a wretched, magnificent thing. Some days he stood tall and golden, showering the earth with fragrant blossoms, whispering "See how I bloom for you?" Other days, his roots twisted up through the soil like fists, splitting the earth with their fury. He could go from shelter to weapon between one breath and the next, his very shadow a thing to be reckoned with.

The Stormbird was beautiful in the way of lightning, all sharp cries and sudden movements. When the Chastier turned violent, she would beat her wings against the gale, shrieking her protests. The Wren, small and fierce, would throw herself into the fray, taking the brunt of the Chastier's lashing branches to spare the Stormbird's breast. Yet when the storms passed, when the Chastier drooped his limbs and wept sweet sap in apology, the Stormbird would flutter to his side, preening his shattered bark as if it were precious. She would turn her back on the Wren then, pretending not to see the feathers littering the ground.

The Wren learned the hard way that love sometimes wears the face of betrayal.

She remembered; the night she'd wedged herself between them, her tiny body a shield against the Chastier's rage, only to find the Stormbird nesting in his crown come morning. The way the Stormbird would bring her berries after, as though fruit could stanch the ache of abandonment.

How they both called this cycle love.

But wounds, like trees, grow rings, each one a memory. One autumn, the Wren realized her voice had changed. Her cries emerged sharper, her songs threaded with something like crimson. The Stormbird clucked her tongue. "Must you always make such a scene?" she'd sigh, even as thunder gathered once more in the Chastier's roots.

The WREN

She did not leave, not truly; but she began slipping away at odd hours.

When the air in the grove grew too thick with the Chastier's cloying resin or the Stormbird's keening cries, the Wren would vanish. Just for an hour. Just long enough to perch on the gnarled branch overlooking the river, where the water ran swift and indifferent. There, she practiced a dangerous magic: silence.

The grove misinterpreted her absences, of course.

The Chastier rattled his branches: "See how she abandons us?"

The Stormbird clucked her tongue: "Such a selfish little creature."

Neither noticed how the Wren always returned with river-polished stones in her talons, or how her feathers carried the scent of clean water instead of rotting leaves.

She was building something, yes, but not a nest. Not yet.

(The next page, should anyone care to look, is filled with pressed wildflowers and a recipe for lavender shortbread. The Wren, despite everything, still believes in pretty things.)