There was once a clear stretch of flowers, growing over a subtly raised hill in the wilderness, where the wind would, made gentle by the nearby trees, cause the grasses and the petals to sway, pulled by the ebb and flow of the night air. Seldom was it visited by humans (besides myself, who found it once as a child and have returned, on occasion, ever since), and it seemed to me that even more seldom were the times that the peace of that place was disturbed in any way. I was visiting that night, to cleanse my soul with the tranquillity of that place, as I had many times before, figuring that the light from that night's full moon would deepen the beauty of that soft crest beyond heaven's splendour. There I spied, on the very top of the hill, a sapling for some species of tree I could not identify; it had just begun to sprout, crowded by the stalks and strands of flowers that swooned in the moonlight (which turned slightly away as if though quietly blushing from the kisses of the lunar goddess's pale glow).

Basking in the crisp atmosphere of this place, feeling the purity of the air in my nostrils, and smelling the delightful breath of those green, growing things, I witnessed a wild animal begin to make it's way to the top of the hill. Standing there unseen by this creature, I watched it's fur catch the light of moon, which highlighted its form and revealed it to be a pure, white wolf. It was as if the creature was wearing a veil granted by the night sky itself, crowned with the glory of glittering sky. With all of the natural elegance of the Wild--and, conversely, a somehow calm and preternatural air of human-like nobility--it strode to where the sapling had stretched its young roots, and curled around it as if to cradle and protect the nascent tree.

It was then that I saw you. With all the bewitching charm of a sorceress, wearing the flowing white garments of a goddess, your lithe silhouette moving softly towards the white form of the wolf, into the moonlight upon the hill's crest. . .  I saw you illuminated by the stars, and watched as, with no fear in your eyes, hand outstretched, you gave the wolf a look of purest adoration and affection, stroking its fur with a gentle kindness that would be befitting of a mother holding her newborn. I looked and, believing I was having an epiphany from that moment, said, "It is possible that this is representative of love in its truest form; that this is the essence of the relationship between nature and humanity" Indeed, never have I seen, to that point in my time on Earth, a sight more tender than this.

You then held out your arm, and whispered something in the ear of the wolf. You let the wolf start to gently bite down on your skin, as if it was playing. It didn't seem to hurt you, at least, not at first. I wasn't sure, but once those teeth began to draw blood, I knew those wily jaws must have been steadily increasing in pressure. I thought to break from my hiding place near the edge of the field, among the trees, to make myself known--whether to scare off the wolf or prevent you from hurting yourself, I am unsure. For my own actions, there was not much time to think, and I found myself instead observing further: you stood there, calm, arm willfully outstretched, as if this was not only permissible, but was actually your wish all along. Your face contorted into a mix of both pain and pleasure, while your eyes remained locked to the creature's own. I willed myself to move, but could not break from the trance into which I had slipped, into which the scenes of this stage had plunged me.

A quick glitter caught me by surprise, as if a silver mirror had caught a beam of moonlight to send its sparkling white rays to my eye.  I watched your arms blur with motion, concealed by the shadow of that nocturnal setting. Your hand near the wolf's head, I saw what appeared to be the handle of a knife, and a gleam of crimson-stained steel sparkling near the creature's eye.

The wolf howled in pain, as I've never heard a wolf howl before (perhaps it is better described as a long whine of anguish and terror, though the words to describe something as terrible as that sound still elude me). I watched you carve out its eye and place it in your mouth before biting down upon it. I swear, even from that distance, I heard the visceral sound of that eyeball bursting against your teeth. I observed as you chewed the eye and spit it into the creature's face, scattering chunks of red against its pure, white fur, while gelatinous crimson spilled forth, from smiling teeth, over your fair chin.

Drawing your arm back, you pierced the wolf's flesh again, this time placing the blade between its ribs, drawing out its howl in a long, hoarse, gurgling sound that exceeded the horrific quality of those previous cries. Before I could fathom why I should bear witness to such a thing, I saw the scene before me morph into one of indescribable violence, as the blade slid in and out of its flesh with incredible rapidity. I beheld as all that was white upon that hill, both cloth and fur, became stained with the deepest red--save for the unsullied light of the moon (even so, I cannot be sure; the moon itself at times seemed to glow with its own hidden ire). The flowers themselves were not spared from such violent spattering, and all petals upon that hill became dotted with ruby droplets, which adorned them as jewels do crowns.

Just when I thought the ordeal was finished, I watched you reach into the blood-soaked earth, to pull up the clump of soil that contained the sapling. Your eyes were black like an animal, and your chest was heaving with all the fury and frenzy of a predatory beast. Though I could not understand why, I felt as if though a great tragedy had occurred. Upon brief reflection, however, I was shocked to find that the source of this feeling was not the death of the wolf, but the death of this sapling--as if the world had been robbed of something essential to it, something perhaps sacred to the Earth and her creatures--it was as if I was picking up on some kind of divine aura from the tree, like this sapling contained some kind of primordial essence important to life itself, and somehow I knew.

Astounded once more, I saw as the fairness and charm returned to your face. Though covered in the aftermath of your brutality, your face looked upon the sapling and became of visage of a caring gardener (or, again, a mother looking upon her beloved child), with all the beauty of an underworld goddess. You gently brushed the dirt away from the tender roots of the sapling, and, digging carefully through the eye sockets of the wolf, placed the sapling deep into the bloody ruins of the wolf's brain mass, there to nest it among the gore.

The wolf began to breathe. I still do not quite understand how. The calm motions of its chest might have made it look as if it was merely asleep, were it not for the ruined skull and body of the creature. The fog of it's breath visibly froze in the cool of night, appearing not only from its broken muzzle, but from the wounds in its ribs (I still remember the blood in those wounds bubbling with each breath). Your dress soaked and ruby-colored, your hair dripping with viscous liquid, I watched as you slipped fluidly back into the trees, melding with the shadows of night, as if though what had happened had not done anything to change the gentle stillness of before.

With rising speed and strength, the wolf's chest expanded, and soon the motions of the beast's ribcage became too large and severe to be mere breathing. With the sound of cracking bones, and the wet sound of bloodied meat and spraying fluids, I heard a pop, only to see a newly formed crater, quivering with reddened sinews and torn viscera, in the space where its lungs should be. At first I thought I felt the clouds start to pour their tears onto the earth; the sound of droplets splashing gently among the flowers, the feeling of moisture on my face-- for a small moment, I believed that this sanguinated hill would be cleansed by the aquiferous sky, and was relieved.

No clouds hung to block any lunar glow from overhead. It couldn't have been rain.

I, as a child, once observed the smith's hammer forcefully reshaping glowing steel, causing droplets of liquid impurities to tear their way out of the steel and into a brief, but brilliant, existence. In each moment of the hammer strike, in each memory of those sparks, I've always felt as though they were conscious entities somehow. Reflecting on the heated fury and shining abandon of each miniature awareness, I felt that each one represented a single dream or desire; that as the hot steel lump underwent its own metamorphosis, its cast-off excesses gave birth to life; that each one was a flash of thought trickling high among the darkened heavens, the astral river that flows above as we sleep.

Instead of a deluge of rain, atop the hill, I saw a vision as glittering as sparks from the blacksmith's forge. The lunar goddess--whose rays I once heard are cast by Her as a part of God's will to illumine His works--dispensed her beams on the surface of gem-like bodies, and for a brief moment before me, there appeared a galaxy of flickering stars. Though quite a spectacle, I felt somehow ill-at-ease, like there was a violation of normalcy in that image. How unfortunately revelatory it was then, when I saw worms, droves of worms, slithering and squirming among the grass, glittering wet with moonlit blood. They seemed immediately to bury themselves in the soil, surely made supple and damp from warmth and moisture, and quickly disappeared from sight. I left then, unable to bear witness to any more of the oppressive imagery that God, in his righteous cruelty, had the grace to inflict upon me.

My mind has failed to make sense of everything from that night, though it has not failed to keep it within the theatre of my memories. I am still not sure if what I saw was real or just a dream. Since then, I've revisited that hill multiple times, and over the years the sapling has grown into a large tree, its roots resembling the destroyed corpse of that white wolf. Since having seen the grown tree, it has made its way into my sleep; into my dreams. It is then, in that sleep, that it comes to me, wailing at me, tearing through me like fangs of a wolf, like a knife in my skull, like roots that wrap around my throat and drown me in my own blood. Even though these are mere dreams, I still do not dare to approach the tree in the waking world. The peace of that hill has been forever tarnished since that night. Though that tree has grown strong, I still feel the red mist of spattered blood upon the wind every time I lay eyes again upon the hill, and the tree, whose roots devoured the noble remains of your victim, always seems to loom over me like an inescapable shadow.

That hill is a grave, and that tree a monument. I know not what fruit it will bear, but if the tree is anything like me--as I, too, have laid my roots in silence: the silence of a quieted skull--whatever burden it may receive will certainly feel heavy among its branches.