Whispers in the Pines
Leaving campus on Saturday morning was a relief. The moment Adrian's dented pickup truck moved beyond the town limits and onto the curving mountain highway, the weight of the previous week started to fall from my shoulders. The constant dripping of the game talk, the crowded parties, the looming, unspoken questions—everything disappeared from the rearview mirror and was replaced by the emerald green of the pines and the cool, fresh mountain air. Adrian had one hand on the steering wheel, the other forearm braced on the open window, a real, easy smile on his lips for the first time since the championship. He was singing along to some indie song on the radio, and I couldn't help but grin. This was the Adrian I had been missing. This was us.
We found our old spot by Black Creek, a small, secluded clearing where we'd been camping since we were kids. Setting up the tent and gathering firewood was a comfortable, familiar ritual. We moved past each other in easy silence, each of us knowing our place, our footsteps in harmony through the years of friendship. For a few sweet hours, everything was normally normal. The impossible flash of gold, the chilly run-in with the bullies, the heavy burden of my own confused emotions—it all felt a million miles away. Here, we weren't the campus king and his quiet sidekick. We were just Ethan and Adrian.
It was not until the sun started making its slow downward drift, lighting the sky with orange and purple brushstrokes, that the mood changed. The woods of our childhood began to seem different. The shadows of the tall pines started to lengthen and darken, contorting into strange and ominous shapes. The happy noises of the woods—the bird songs, the chattering of squirrels—faded, replaced by a deep and vigilant silence.
Adrian also changed. The carefree, easy-going boy of the drive-up was being pushed aside by another. He grew quieter, more observant. As I was struggling to get the campfire going, he stood at the perimeter of the clearing, cocked his head as if hearing a distant conversation.
Did you hear that?" he suddenly asked, his tone low.
I froze, tilting my head. "Listen to what? I hear nothing."
He stood there in silence for another moment, his eyes fixed on the heavy woods to the north. "Nothing," he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Just the wind." But his shoulders didn't relax, and he huddled the remainder of the evening closer to the fire, his back never fully turned away from the black tree line. He was more at ease here, his movements smoother and more assured, yet at the same time, he was tightened with a tension I'd never seen him display on campus.
Later, as we sat together beside the blazing fire, the blackness outside surrounding us like a wall, he became somber. He gazed into the mesmerizing dance of the fire, his eyes a strange, timeless expression. To end the silence, I mentioned a local myth he would tell me when he was a boy.
"Hey, don't you remember that old ghost story you used to spin about the big wolf that guarded these mountains?" I asked with a small laugh, trying to remember some of our old easy familiarity.
Adrian's face didn't brighten. "My dad used to tell me that one," he said, his voice a soft rumble. "It's not a story, though. It's a history." He prodded at the fire with a long stick, watching a shower of sparks dance into the night air. "He said the entire forest is a kingdom, and it's been ruled by the same ancient line for centuries. They guard it, maintain the balance. But there are other lands, ruled by other lines, always challenging the borders, always wanting more.
He glanced up from the fire, his grey eyes nearly black in the shadows. "The legend is that the worst you can do is to demonstrate weakness on your own borders. It's a declaration of war. And treason on your own borders… that's a death warrant. There is no mercy for it. Because it puts the survival of the entire line at risk."
His recitation of the tale was different this time. It wasn't a ghost tale to frighten a child; it was a somber, serious history. The terms territory, betrayal, and war just hung in the chill night air, sounding not at all like folklore, but like a warning. A creepy shiver that had nothing to do with the chill, slid down my spine. When it was finally time to bed down, I wriggled into my sleeping bag, tired but not sleeping. I gazed through the mesh of the tent window at Adrian. He was not preparing for bed. He stood by the smoldering fire ring, his back to me, gazing out into the unseen blackness of the forest. He was immobile, a silent sentinel watching. I knew then that he was not gazing at the darkness. He was gazing into it, as if he could see the threats and the mysteries concealed from my ordinary human vision. And I was suddenly, appallingly, frightened of what they were.