#smolme ShooktBunny

[dawnistired]

The Willow’s Moon by: TiredBunny101

COUNT YOUR NUMBERS just to be sure. One, two, three and four. Listen to the beat of the crickets as they sing into the dead silence of the forest, as a lonely willow tree stood bent slightly towards the moon. Oh, how he loved the moon as it shone through the silvery night. His lowly whispers would echo inside the forest as he would call for the moon desperately. And those whispers would turn into wails and cries.

Thus everyone knew of the Wailing Willow of the forest, as his wails haunted the minds of the travelers and wanderers, yet he didn’t want everyone to know. He only wanted the moon to reply to his calls of desperation. 

In the darkened state of the forest the usual silence passed, the creatures of the night expected the wails of their ghastly willow but he was unexpectedly silent too. What has happened to their wailing willow? Has he gone mute? Has he lost his tongue? Or worse, has he gone sane? Is it that bad for the willow to go sane rather than being gone insane? Can’t things just not go even more mysterious and suspicious as it was before? Many were quite intrigued by the willow’s silence.

“Wilted Willow. Wailing Willow. Helpless Willow. Has your bent self, gone sane?,” the large black owl tilted his head to a hundred and eighty degrees as he perched down to a large oak wood branch that was near the willow. But he wasn’t replied to, only breathy sighs went back and forth their surroundings. “Willow, oh Wailing Willow! You have gone sane!,” the smallest of the rabbits hopped to a stump near the willow crying aloud.

Chitters and chatters with hushed tones of shock surrounded their willow. The creatures of the night and those of unusual beauty gathered around, forming a loose circle and with the peculiarly silent willow at the center.

“Pretty pixums and faeries, oh do tell.  Has Mr. Willow gone sane?,” a pair of white foxes pleadingly asked the beings as they whisked around the bushes and closed flowers. “We don’t know ourselves, if he’s gone sane. It would take three blue moons before he’d actually go sane, dear foxes,” a pretty plum faerie said as she danced with the rose pixum.

They still waited for his wails to pierce the eerie air, but to no avail he did not even let out a single whisper. The cherry nymph was adamant to know but she was getting afraid of the silence surrounding their willow. Dawn was breaking so they rushed away, hiding back to their abodes as they feared of the wanderers and hunters lurking around. And so they have left their strangely silent willow, but eager for the night, to thus once more ask him.

“A day’s worth of luck has begun. The mountains cower beneath the rising sun. To the place of horrors and deaths unknown. I am but a wanderer, lost but not in sorrow. Lovely nymphs and faeries--,” a distant hum and light singing started to envelop the silent green vastness. “Yer bein’ annoyin’ again musician,” a gruff voice stopped the cheery musician. “Why Sir Killer of Animals, tis’ the greatest one I’ve composed so far,” the cheery small person said strumming his small guitar not ever minding the scowl plastered on the face of his companion, well for now.

“Well ye better stop yer whinin’ soon, we’re near him,” the hunter shuddered. “Near who?,” the musician curiously asked. And ‘twas so the creatures, who thought their willow has gone sane, heard it. A broken wail, the hunter covered his ears to keep his sanity for himself. Loud echoes and cries engulfed the forest in a terrifying state. The shadows danced around as well as the accompaniment of rustles caused by the wind. The shadows came forward, darker than it was before, creating a dome of terror beneath the sun.

“My moon! Where are you? Have you not heard me? I tried to be silent yet you have not ever once looked down upon me!!!!,” a ghostly cry pierced through the air. Every single breathing being winced. The creatures thought he had gone sane, but maybe it was only their wishful thinking.

“Perhaps Mister Willow had a cold last night and forgot to scream his lungs out,” whispered the deer to a shy skunk. “He has only stopped briefly, was he asleep?,” the skunk’s tail swished side to side and she flinched. Click. Clack. The footsteps went near the darkest part of the forest. The young musician stood in front of the willow and gasped. “Oh my, what a lonely creature. Sir Willow, ‘twas yer cry, was it not? Why are ye cryin’?,” he boldly asked.

Creak. Click. Creak. Woosh. Long vines of brownish green vines suddenly wrapped around the neck of the poor musician, choking him. “Is he here? Has he heard me? Are you the moon?,” a voice spoke in full longing, but the musician gaped as he tried to remove the thicket of vines wrapped upon him. “I-I a-am n…not cough cough your moon,” he rasped out, tears forming upon his eyes.

The vines wrapped tighter as the wind blew stronger, the willow was mad. “HAS HE NOT HEARD MY CRIES? HAS HE NOT SEEN MY TEARS? HAS HE NOT ONCE FELT MY PRESENCE?,” he desperately shrieked, shaking the musician who was slowly going unconscious.

“WAILING WILLOW!,” the hunter shouted out as he tighly held on his hunting spear. “Let ‘im go! He knows where yer bloody moon is!,” he said in panic.

Terror was etched on the hunter’s face and it was in a shade of pale blue. The wind slowed down and the vines loosened. “You know where my moon is?,” he asked as his vines released the crying musician, making the hunter grab his shirt tightly and patted his back. “He knows, ye wait for us. We’ll be bringin’ ‘im here,” the hunter barely spoke out and slowly dragged the musician away.

The forest was silent thus again, the hunter and musician left in a hurry, they had raced back to the village hours ago. The Willow was calm, he was calm, he is calm, why was he calm? The musician did not come back, why has he not returned? Where was his moon? The hours turned into days, the days turned into weeks, the weeks turned into months and the months turned into years.

The willow still cries, but not to the moon. He cries from the musician who never came back. He cries for his love who has not acknowledged him. “My moon, ye bloody musician! Once ye come back, I’ll strangle ye to yer death!” He swore loudly. The pixums and faeries have feared for the worst, and this was his worst.

Count your numbers just to be sure. One, two, three and four. Listen to the beat of the crickets as they sing into the dead silence of the forest, as a lonely willow tree stood bent slightly towards the moon.