Dr. Aris Thorne believed in the elegant certainty of data. She believed in peer-reviewed studies, in the Latin names of species, and in the unassailable truth of the scientific method. She did not believe in things like “forest spirits” or “the memory of a place.” Which was why her new guide, Finnian O’Connell, was setting her teeth on edge.
“The locals call this part of the forest the ‘Whisperwood’,” he said, his voice a low, pleasant baritone that seemed to blend with the rustle of the leaves. “They say if you’re quiet enough, you can hear the old trees talking to each other.”
Aris adjusted the heavy pack on her shoulders, the delicate sensors and sample containers clinking softly. “What you’re likely hearing is the aeolian sound generated by wind passing through the canopy. The specific pitch is determined by the density of the foliage and the velocity of the airflow.” She glanced at him, her expression carefully neutral. “There’s a perfectly logical explanation.”
Finnian—Finn, as he’d insisted she call him—just smiled. It was a slow, easy smile that crinkled the corners of his startlingly green eyes. He was not what she had expected. The university had arranged for a “local expert,” and she had pictured a grizzled, silent man in his late sixties. Finn was maybe a few years older than her, with a wild thatch of dark auburn hair and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He looked less like an expert guide and more like a character who had wandered out of one of the folklore books he was so fond of quoting.
“And what’s the logical explanation for why every GPS in the world goes haywire a mile into this forest?” he countered, tapping the beautifully antiquated compass that hung from a leather cord around his neck. “High iron deposits in the soil, I’m sure. But it’s more fun to think the woods just don’t like being mapped.”
Aris didn’t grace that with a response. She was here for one reason: Luminospora silvana, a species of bioluminescent moss so rare it was considered little more than a myth. But she had seen a satellite image, a faint, inexplicable glow in the heart of this unmapped forest, and had secured a grant to prove its existence. The moss was said to have unique bioregenerative properties, and if her hypothesis was correct, it could revolutionize medicine. That was the mission. She had no time for whimsy.
Their first day was a study in contrasts. She would stop to take soil samples, meticulously logging the coordinates from her (currently functional) GPS. He would stop to point out a gnarled oak tree that he claimed was the home of a mischievous pixie, or a ring of mushrooms that marked a fairy circle. She looked at the forest floor and saw a complex ecosystem of decaying organic matter and nutrient cycles. He saw a tapestry of stories.
“You have to feel the forest, Aris,” he said as they paused by a rushing stream. “Don’t just look at it. Smell it. Listen to it. It has a rhythm.”
“It has a measurable rate of evapotranspiration and a quantifiable biodiversity index,” she retorted, kneeling to collect a water sample.
He chuckled, a warm sound that was surprisingly disarming. “You know, for a botanist, you don’t seem to like plants very much. You just like their data.”
The observation hit a little too close to home. She had loved plants once, as a child, for their beauty and their magic. But years of academia had trained her to see them as systems, as chemical compounds, as potential patents. The wonder had been replaced by methodology. She stood up, brushing the dirt from her practical cargo pants. “The data is what matters, Finn. It’s what’s real.”
“Is it?” he asked, his green eyes serious for the first time. “Is the data of a song the same as the way it makes you feel? Is the chemical composition of a tear the same as the heartbreak that caused it?”
She had no answer for that. She retreated into the safety of her work, focusing on the task at hand. But as the day wore on and the forest grew denser and darker, she found herself becoming increasingly aware of him. The easy, confident way he moved through the tangled undergrowth. The way his eyes would light up when he spoke of some ancient legend. The way he would instinctively reach out a hand to steady her as they crossed a slippery patch of rocks, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. It was an unquantifiable variable, and it was beginning to interfere with her experiment.
As twilight began to bleed through the trees, casting long, eerie shadows, he found a small, sheltered clearing for them to make camp. The air grew cold quickly. While she was setting up her high-tech, single-person tent, he had a small, efficient fire crackling in a matter of minutes. He was a paradox—a man who spoke of magic but possessed an incredibly practical, earthy competence.
“There,” he said, handing her a steaming mug of tea he’d brewed from herbs he’d gathered along the way. “To warm you up.”
She took it, her fingers brushing against his. An unexpected jolt, a tiny spark of static electricity, passed between them. Her eyes met his over the rim of the mug. For a moment, the science and the folklore, the data and the stories, all fell away. There was only the crackling fire, the deepening twilight, and the unnerving, undeniable pull of the man who believed the forest had a soul. And for the first time, Aris began to suspect her meticulously planned expedition was about to venture into completely unmapped territory.