I cannot see her! Just one breath ago, less than 3 beats of my heart ago, Three was there. Her small red head covered with lacey curls, a giggle walking on two legs, blue eyes locking in joy with mine at the sound of the cuckoo deep within the forest. She was right here, crouched beside me. But now she is gone.
I felt her here, next to my leg, brushing against it as she picked berries, plucking each one between tiny forefinger and thumb, and finding its way to her mouth between puckered lips. Her blue smile I did not see, but I knew it was there. I took a step or two away from her, (maybe three? I am not sure now) to reach some berries deep within the thicket, so deep I had to turn my head away (from her!) sideways to thrust my arm deeper into the bushes to pick what I was sure were the largest juiciest prizes of the forest, while I ignored, just for a moment, the finest prize of all, my dear Three. So different from her siblings, One and Two, who have left on journeys of their own. And now, Three is also gone.
Twin suns shine down hot upon my head, beads of sweat form at the base of my neck to run down my back beneath my green tunic. Three could not have gone far. She is just a child. But that is the problem. She is just a child. She doesn’t know enough of Arak. She doesn’t know to look for the sticky trap lines he lays throughout the forest. Not happy with the prey he finds in the sky, the birds and bats that fly too close, he wants more. Between strong trees on either side of the game trails, nearly invisible, his webs snare all manner of creatures, both large and small. At the first twitch of the silken thread Arak dashes forward, and with a quick movement, an injection of poison, it is all but over. With trembling legs, he carries his prey up high to his home in the upper branches, to cocoon it thickly in silk, to hang in the sky, alone, to die. Three is just a child, and now, I cannot see her.
I drop my basket. There is no time to go home and get help. I must find her now. I move quickly up the trail, looking both right and left into the forest with each step, calling out her name. “Three!” I call, trying to ignore the growing panic in my voice. “Three, where are you? Come out darling, come to me, I’m right here!” But there is no answer.
I stop to consider, which way? Towards home the trail leads through the opening forest, to field, to village. In the other direction lies the dark forest of Arak. Something pulls me forward, into the dark. “Three!” I call out, “Three, I’m here! Mama’s right here.” There is no answer. No red head pops out from the brush, no small body appears suddenly to run toward me, laughing, to joyfully hug my legs. I move ahead on the trail, my eyes focused on the ground, the bushes, looking for any sign. I make my way deeper and deeper into the wood, the twin sun’s light is diffused by the trees, then I see them. Several small blue berries on the trail, right in the middle. Too far to have been carried by any wild creature without eating, they must have fallen from the tiny hand of my Three. My pulse quickens. Three came this way.
I follow the game trail for what seems like hours. The forest grows darker and darker, but I cannot tell if that is from the passage of time or the depth of the wood. I look for any trace of footprint, any hint showing Three’s passage. Soon, I admit, I will have to turn back. When darkness falls I will not be able to see the webs, the snares across the trail and within the forest. I cannot help Three if I fall to Arak.
The trail winds deeper and deeper into the forest. I must go back. I must return to our village and get help. I cannot bear to think about saying the words out loud. Three was there, right there beside me, and all at once in a moment, she was gone.
A few more moments. I will look for just a few more moments, and pray for a miracle. I move more resolutely, searching the ground and trail in front of me, and the forest on either side. “Three!” I call out to the silent wood. A cuckoo answers, from deep within the dark forest. I pause and wait for a response from Three to the call of her favorite bird, a giggle, a gasp, but there is nothing but silence.
I stop myself and gasp as well. I see the web. A snare line of Arak lies before me, crossing the trail. A silver line of silk, taut and thin, almost invisible, stretches from one tree to another across the trail. Three, I think. How tall is she? She is shorter than the snare, she must have crossed just beneath, unaware. I back up, crossing into the forest on the right, making an arc around the snare’s anchor points and return to the trail.
I move quietly, more carefully now, my eyes scanning from left to right. Then I see it! Three’s small basket of bark, bottom stained blue from her harvest. It lays on its side in the center of the trail. Three was here. I move past it, not touching the basket, not wanting to disturb it as if moving it will take Three yet further away from me. Then I see her. Three lays asleep, on a bed of soft green ferns at the base of a small ash.
“Three!” I cry out, collapsing next to her, sinking to my knees with relief, pulling her close.
“Mama,” says Three, her eyes, slow with sleep meeting mine. Then her eyes widen as they fix on something dark and terrible just above my left shoulder. I did not see him.
Amy Logan lives with her family in Eastern Washington state. Her work has been published by Antipodean SF, Endless Dreamer, and Rock Salt Journal among others. She wants her readers to feel something tangible and change, just a little bit, from reading her work.
Published 10/30/25