The Forest of Vanishing Stars

by Kristin Harmel

If one listened closely enough, nature always spilled her secrets, which were, of course, the secrets of God.

Life and death. Death and life. Two things that mattered little, for in the end, souls outlived the body and became one with an infinite God.

After she had shoveled the dirt back into Jerusza’s resting place, she stamped it down carefully, for she knew that ghosts could escape from loose earth.

There was nothing she could say to change the way he felt. Sometimes words could move mountains, and sometimes they could mean nothing at all.

The others have been a comfort, certainly, but in a way, being together just amplifies our loneliness.

If the legacy of miracles was part of one’s birthright, was the legacy of sins, too?

Always move toward the beginning of the day, not the end.

She hadn’t realized that once one opened the door to one’s heart, it was impossible to fully close it again.

She knew how to disappear in public, though, not by looking down but by walking with her head held high, meeting people’s eyes for fleeting instants instead of shying away from their gaze. It made her look as though she had nothing to fear, nothing to hide, but she also knew to avoid the kind of extended eye contact that made bears, wolves, and men feel as if she was an aggressor.

But it was Jerusza’s voice in the breeze answering the question. The universe is always in balance, she said. Summer and winter. Day and night. Sustenance and poison. Good and evil. To know the light, you must also know the darkness.