Finn and the Woodland Paths

Finn changed his backpack and started down the meandering dirt path while a cool breeze swept across the tall pines. Ahead, the woodland promised, its emerald canopy murmuring secrets of adventure. Finn had always been a wanderer, a search for wild beauty, and this forest was unlike any he had visited previously. On the maps, it had no name, only tales whispered by the people living next town. They termed it the Speaking Wilds.

He came upon an older man seated by the side of the road, trying to load a bundle of firewood onto his flimsy cart as he headed for the woodland entrance. Finn moved forward right away.

“Let me help you with that,” he offered, lifting the load and fastening it to the cart.

The older man nodded appreciatively, his visage marked with wisdom and experience. “You travel with a loving heart, visitor. The forests retain compassion when you need them to lead you.

Finn grinned, waved the man goodbye, and headed into the trees. The instant he crossed under its arching limbs, the air grew thick with the smell of pine and moist ground. Deeper into the unknown, he was drawn by the golden patterns the light passing through the leaves created on the ground.

Finn wandered for hours, awestruck by the beauty all around him, the way the sunlit glades shimmered, the way the birds sang songs that seemed nearly like a language of their own.

Rising over logs covered in moss, he followed his fingers over old tree trunks and watched as a family of deer silently disappeared across the thicket.

As he roamed, he found small indications of life buried deep in the forest: a little brook gurgling over smooth stones, clusters of wildflowers swinging in the soft wind, and even a fox observing him curiously from behind a clump of brambles. The deeper he went, the more he sensed the woodland alive, seeing him just as much as he was seeing it.

He knew he had nowhere when he decided to turn back, though.

The trees appeared higher than ever, their trunks extending skyward indefinitely. His chosen road had disappeared and was replaced by a maze of strange paths. Finn felt his heart pound. I lost him.

He went backwards, but every direction seemed the same. Once friendly, the forest loomed about him like a vast green maze. The sun sank toward the ground, dusk replacing its golden brilliance. Hoping another visitor might hear him, he cried out, but only his voice echoed back.

Something odd then occurred.

A gentle glitter danced far away. Finn closed his eyes. Were they flights of fire? A light trick of the sort? He moved carefully forward, and the shimmer became more brilliant as he did. The entire ground seemed alive, showing a road never taken.

Ahead of him, the woods road shone weakly, like the moon’s reflection on still water. It softly guided his forward motion. Finn hesitated long enough to follow the brilliant trail, his pulse thumping with wonder and terror.

The woodland around him changed as he walked. The whispering leaves in tones he could practically grasp. Shadows moved silently as though the forest was watching him, not with menace. Like wildflowers and rain-soaked ground, the air smelled old and mystical.

He noticed them then.

Little figures almost discernible between the trees, no taller than his hand, their wings shimmering like dewdrops in the last of the sun. Their laughter resembled the tinkling of tiny bells as they rushed from branch to branch. He realised the fae. The defenders of the Speaking Wilds.

One of them floated before him with silver hair and starlight-glistening eyes. “The woods remember kindness,” she murmured like wind among the leaves. You assisted one in need. 

These days, the forest serves you.

Finn wanted to know so much about who they were and how the road had turned out, but something inside him urged him not to challenge the gift he had been given. Rather, he bent his head in thanks and carried on going, the brilliant road always heading toward the edge of the woodland.

The fairies followed him, their lights flickering in the approaching darkness. Finn could not comprehend their quiet, musical whispers among themselves, either. Sometimes, they raced ahead, lighting buried stones and dropped branches to guarantee his safe passage.

Time hung oddly in the magical woodland. Though he could not tell if he had been walking for only minutes or hours, his feet did not grow tired, and hunger did not chew on his stomach. The forest itself was supporting him till his trip was over.

The trees finally split, and Finn saw him walking out of the forest and back onto the known road. Only the rustling of leaves and the whisper of the wind remained when the illumination of the magical route vanished behind him.

He turned to turn back toward the trees and spotted the older man once more, standing next to his cart with a knowing smile.

“The woods, remember,” the man murmured gently again.

Finn nodded, now seeing that some sites were more than ground and trees. In some areas, there were souls. Several sites were recalled.

Finn tightened the strap of his knapsack and kept down the path, the whisper of adventure always calling his name, one final glance at the unknown forest.

He knew he wouldn’t be walking his last trip. Finn was more sure than ever that compassion was the secret to releasing the beauties buried inside the giant planet of riddles waiting to be explored. Before him, the path opened, and somewhere, another whisper of magic awaited in another woodland.

Do Finn and the Woodland Paths inspire you to embrace adventure and the magic of kindness?

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