“Was it my lack of faith? Father, where have I failed you? Just tell me where, and I can make amends– change!”

Frantic, a young priest scurries around a room, chased by a potted bonsai. It bumps into walls, leaving scratches on the fresh paint. Its stretched prehensile roots skittering a path between composite wooden desks.

“Please! Have mercy! I’ll do better, I promise!”

“Shkkkkk… Nooo!” The bark of its tiny trunk warped to let out a twisted voice, “You have chosen against the teachings, to find your own path. One less trodden, one less known. What have you made me do!”

Resentment rumbled from tiny leaves, shaking a few cherry-pit apples to the floor.

“That was all I had to show for my fifty years in the brotherhood! You brought me this shame!”

At this point, the young priest would wonder how he got into this arboreal aggravation. As uncertain as he seemed now, he wanted to be an alchemist ever since he was a boy.

It was a difficult life for he and his family, isolated from the rest of the world, self-sufficient, and strict. He grew up in a family of seven, on a forest-bound farm. With five brothers, a sister, and his mother, he learned a hard days’ work the long way, forward and back. Just like his own mother would tell her kids every morning,

“I don’t want for much. I just need you to earn your supper, and ask for seconds.”

She would, of course, garner a forced “Yes’m” from each young soldier down the line.

“You all gonna speak up?”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

“Good! Now get out there, and make your papa proud!”

Toiling from dawn until dusk, mending clothes and making up stories on his trips to and from the mill, he dreamed of a life where he could make something entirely new. Like his eldest sister, Esther, would tell him years ago,

“Papa was a great inventor, Jotur. But more than an inventor, he was a creator! He made fire in colors you won’t find anywhere else, and illusions of swords made of water!”

Jotur didn’t believe the tall tales of a godly man, who could make dust bunnies dance and candles shiver. These were things of magic, and had no place in reality. But still, he would lead a different life if they weren’t fictitious.

With the way Esther spoke of their papa, he must have had something special going for him. The young priest was convinced that somewhere out there, his father still lived, barely making it by for his evening cup. After all, somebody needed to love his mama. If nobody did, then how could they all exist?

When every night they each thanked a photo of a man in uniform, called him papa , and tucked each other in, he couldn’t help but wonder if he really was abducted into the forest like mama said.

But what really went through his mind when he saw that same mama cry at an altar in on the edge of the forest one night? Candles long reduced to faded stubs and wax leavings adorned a half-chiseled boulder. By the light of the fireflies, he could almost make out a pair of boots expressed from the stone. Hiding behind a Rusted Oak tree, Jotur listened in. Can you imagine going back to the flock, and knowing something they didn’t? It was enough to set his middle child syndrome whirling.

“I just don’t know what to do, Arthur! The kids are wild, and I try to tame them like goats, but I can’t smile with them like I could next to you! Where’s the love? How do I find more for them when we can barely survive here off our legacy? I just…”

Her sobs cut short, and she covertly wiped her face in her sleeve.

“Well, that’s enough for today! Now… who’s watching?”

The hunched over woman picked up her lantern, and threw her arm back, spinning to see what she could have missed, and who must be punished. A sorry sight of *nothing doing* left her scowl nearly falling off her face.

“I told that boy there was too much beanberry in it. He’s got me seeing things. I’ll give him a visit to remind him.”

As the old woman trudged off, dragging her feet in a near stupor, young Jotur could hardly breathe. He was sure his mother felt him looking in her direction. He thanked the stars for his youngest brother’s poor cooking skills.

But there! As if in answer to his prayers, as he looked up, a flash by the carved boots illuminated a portion that seemed to be painted. The curious curfew-crasher crawled to the forgotten figure, and inspected. An intriguing instance, certainly, and surely there must be a reason for painting it red! A soldier, after all, had no use for the arts. Pressing his nail against the red paint, he tapped. He tapped, scratched, rubbed, and questioned until the paint was all but gone.

Why is this part so stubborn? Jotur thought. Why can’t I remove it?

No sooner did it come to attention in the shape of an arrow, did he feel the rushing of air from a sudden crack beneath him. The ground itself had given way, and he was falling! In those few short blinks, his short life flashed before his eyes, unsure what form of demise should suddenly surprise. But no… he lived.

With a muffled crunch, he landed on his wrist, mingling his well developed tendons with shattered bones.

“Hhhhheh–“

Jotur bit into his shoulder to hold back a scream. Getting caught with broken bones was a surefire way to exile. There’s no use for a faulty worker, and he saw many more young faces in the old family photos.

Opening his eyes and wiping the tears, he slowly adjusted to his surroundings. A musty scent… soil. Mud? Stone, dry moss, and wood. Straining his vision, he realized a small study, with tomes crammed into a broken shelf. One was left on the table, half open. The youth shuffled close, determined to find out something about the farm before being cast out in the morning. On the cover the words, “Lost in Translation” were scrawled.

He had barely finished reading the supposed title, and long, wooden whips reached out from it pages to grab him. With little left in him to exert a resistance, Jotur refused to call for help. If he was going to die, he would do it on his own. Any of his siblings may have his assistance, but he would never yield. He was swallowed whole, into a world unknown.