Legend XCIX – The Harpy of Root Stillness

More about Legend XCIX – The Harpy of Root Stillness

Deep in the ancient forest, where the roots of the trees jutted from the earth like scarred limbs and the light fell to the ground only in narrow, green veils, lived a harpy whose name was whispered from mouth to mouth without ever being spoken aloud. She was called the Keeper of Root Stillness, but this title was less a name than a description of what she was. Her body was that of a being between worlds, with the torso of a woman and the powerful wings of a great bird, their feathers shimmering in warm shades of brown and gold, as if they carried within them the age of the forest itself. Her legs ended in sharp, firm talons, designed to anchor herself in earth and wood, and yet she moved not hastily, but with a deliberate calm, as if with every step she listened for something deeper than sound. The harpy was not a hunter in the conventional sense. She did not lie in wait for prey, nor did she defend territory out of hunger or anger. She watched. Every felled tree, every carelessly trampled path, every forgotten trace of violence reverberated within her like a distant tremor. When she dug her talons into the ground, the earth told her of what had happened and what might have happened. Wanderers who entered this forest often sensed a change long before they saw it. The air grew heavier, their own breath sounded strange, and even birds fell silent. Some believed it was their imagination, others called it superstition, but those who pressed on without pausing soon lost their way among roots and shadows. At night, the harpy sat on the ancient trunks, wings pressed close to her body, eyes fixed on the darkness, listening to the slow heartbeat of the forest, a heart older than any human memory. In those hours, she was not a guardian, but part of a great silence that sustained and preserved. It happened, however, rarely and without warning, that a person remained. One who did not demand, did not call out, and did not seek, but waited, as if knowing that the forest must speak first. For such, the harpy emerged from the depths of the roots into the light, slowly, without threat, her wings half-opened, not for attack, but for revelation. Her gaze was calm, heavy with knowledge, and whoever returned it without fleeing or pleading passed a test that was never named. Then the deeper forest opened, not as a path, but as a state of being. There lay no treasures of metal or stone, but memories that rested in the soil like sleeping seeds: lost names, broken promises, decisions that had never been made. Some people returned changed, with downcast eyes or a silence that defied explanation. Others forgot everything they had seen, yet the forgetting itself was part of the answer. The harpy remained behind, unmoved by gratitude or fear, for she demanded nothing.