Throne of Moss

Once upon a time, humans understood the words spoken by the forest. They could easily slip from their native tongues into, say, the language of the grasses, which, outside of a few dialectic differences, is mainly the same. Humans could speak with the trees and the orchids, even the bees, who, naturally, spoke several languages, the bees' main employ being the hand-delivery of messages to the forest vegetation.

It came to pass, as these things do, that the humans believed they no longer needed the forest: They began to shape it to their desires.

Whole languages disappeared as the forest constricted. Lilies hung their heads. The bees stopped Sunday deliveries. Maples toed underground pipes.

Eventually the humans stopped speaking entirely to the forest, all except Willheim, the last remaining woodsman.

And so it was the bees who brought the news of the birth of Edmunda to the woods. Edmunda: daughter of Tatjana, granddaughter of Alois. The blood of royalty coursed through the child's veins: She was destined to sit upon a throne of gold.

But the blood of the woodfolk ran through Edmunda as well, a simple misstep in Tatjana's judgement, according to the servants, who gossiped like bees while they polished the silver and plucked the goose for dinner. Suddenly intoxicated by the scent of wild roses, scent being a language all its own, Tatjana had taken up with Willheim.

Tatjana's mother was furious: Royalty does not mix with men of the forest. Willheim was dragged into the executioner's chambers, Tatjana sobbing on the other side of the oaken door, while the maple planted outside, in a token nod to the forest, looked on in silent sorrow.

The months passed. Spring turned to summer and then fall.

Tatjana gave birth.

The tree whispered a message to the bees, who flew low, carrying the word to each blade of grass: A new woodchild had been born.

The child's throne would not be gold, they decided.

Edmunda would sit upon a throne of moss.