oom: Jack comes home
The forests of Britain are not what they once were. It was said a squirrel could cross from Newcastle to Dover and never touch the ground--but those days are long gone.
Still, what remains of the forests feels much the same to the one who knows them. Their voices are familiar, comforting--many are old friends who remember him from seed and acorn. Welcome, welcome, they say in their soft rustling voices, welcome home.
He sheds the slight body he's been wearing for the past few months: here on his land he can show his true form. He is neither human nor tree, no matter what shape he wears; he is not Jack, not Herne, not even the Green.
He simply is.
And it's good to simply be.
Still, what remains of the forests feels much the same to the one who knows them. Their voices are familiar, comforting--many are old friends who remember him from seed and acorn. Welcome, welcome, they say in their soft rustling voices, welcome home.
He sheds the slight body he's been wearing for the past few months: here on his land he can show his true form. He is neither human nor tree, no matter what shape he wears; he is not Jack, not Herne, not even the Green.
He simply is.
And it's good to simply be.