Beneath the Purple-Leaf Tree

The first beams of sunlight crept past Arvan's window, spilling across the wooden floor in thin, golden bars. For a moment, he lay still, listening – a chorus of faint voices, the cries of roosters, and a restless hum, as if the very air of Huina village was unsettled. He blinked the haze from his eyes, sat up, and rubbed his face.

Today, Arvan woke with one worry in his mind—his older brother Cren, still likely hurting after what happened yesterday. The memory of seeing Cren bloodied and limping, carried by Herman, stung Arvan like a fresh bruise. He pushed away his thin blanket, moving quietly so as not to wake his mother in the next room.

He splashed cold water on his face at the wooden wash basin. The chill bit his skin, but it sharpened his senses as he gazed at his tired reflection. "Today will be better," he told himself, even though he didn't quite believe it. He threw on his simplest tunic and headed for the door, grabbing a hunk of bread left over from last night's supper.

When he stepped outside, the freshness of morning air hit him—clean, with a sweet, earthy tang. In the distance, the spacious shape of Huina's village hall stood as always. But something was different. A crowd had gathered, blocking the entrance and spilling across the yard. Many villagers moved urgently between houses, faces pale, clothed in yesterday's dust and worry.

Arvan's steps slowed as he approached. He paused near the well, searching for a familiar face to explain this commotion.

It was rare to see the village so alive this early, yet the atmosphere wasn't festive—just the opposite. Most faces were grim, some streaked with tears. Several unfamiliar adults and children clung to each other, some in bandaged arms or hobbling on splinted legs. There was something haunted in their eyes—a shock that made Arvan's own stomach twist.

He spotted Cluiver, one of the regular guards, just making his way down the steps. Arvan jogged over and tried not to sound too nervous.

"Mister Cluiver, what's going on?" he asked quietly.

Cluiver pulled his hood up against the brightening sun, pausing with a tired sigh. "Refugees. Survivors from Arnan village. Don't ask me much—Ronova hasn't told us everything yet. All I know is, they look like they've seen the end of the world." The guard shook his head. "Try not to bother. It's chaos enough already."

Arvan nodded with a quiet thanks and slipped deeper into the crowd, his worry for Cren now mixed with something colder.

He searched the faces lining the wall, many too tired to notice him. But then, near one of the beds set against the window, he saw a familiar silhouette.

Keynes, the strongest and most respected guard in Arnan, lay in a rough bed. His chest was bare, wrapped with linen over countless wounds that darkened the cloth with old blood. Splinters still stuck from his skin in places. Yet it was not his wounds that frightened Arvan most—it was the way Keynes stared upward, eyes hollow, unmoving even as Rutina whispered a sleep spell over him. The usual grim sternness was there, but now mixed with something lost, defeated.

For a moment, Arvan thought to approach. Perhaps Keynes could tell him about what happened to Arnan. But the thick silence Rutina kept around her patient, the careful concentration as she worked, made Arvan freeze mid-step. His question died on his lips. He stepped back, not wanting to disturb them further.

He meant to turn and leave when near the edge of shade beneath a nearby ash tree he glimpsed a small, unfamiliar boy. The child sat alone, hidden as best as he could, knees drawn up, watching everything with an empty, distant look.

He couldn't have been more than seven or eight—definitely younger than Alice or himself. His clothes, though finely made, were torn and dirty. A thin, angry cut traced the side of his jaw, and his hands clung tightly to a ragged blanket. The haunted way he watched the crowd—like a fox in a den after the sound of hunters—made Arvan's chest ache.

Driven by an urge he hardly understood himself, Arvan knelt near the boy under the tree. He summoned as much friendliness as he could muster, keeping his voice low.

"Hey," he tried gently, "are you waiting for someone? D'you know where your parents are?"

The boy didn't look at him, just sat frozen as if by cold. The blankness in his eyes was almost inhuman.

When Arvan tried again, "Are you hurt? Maybe I can help you find someone—" the boy finally moved. His small shoulders began to tremble, hands tightening around the bit of blanket. In a sudden, wrenching motion, his face crumpled, and tears started leaking from his eyes, silent at first, then rising to quiet sobs.

Arvan, now worried he'd made things worse, reached a careful hand to the boy's shoulder, but the child flinched. Eyes locked on nothing, he began to wail. The sound was so raw, so broken, it cut right through the morning's noise.

Several villagers turned, giving Arvan sharp, disapproving looks, as if blaming him for making a wounded survivor's pain worse. He shrank in on himself, stammering apologies and wishing for the ground to swallow him up.

He didn't know what to do. Nothing he said or did calmed the boy—in fact, every word seemed to make the crying worse.

That's when he felt a light pat on the back of his head—a soft, teasing tap, not enough to hurt but enough to startle.

"Hah. What did you do this time?" Gilian's voice came from above, light as always.

Arvan could only shrug helplessly. "I just asked where his parents were…"

Gilian, crouching easily beside him, winked. He produced a striped sweet from his pocket—one of his favorites, the kind he'd shared with Alice many times before. "Hey, little guy. Want a sweet?"

But the boy, in his anguish, swatted at Gilian's hand, knocking the sweet onto the ground. With a high-pitched whimper, the boy scrambled away and ran, pale arms pumping, toward the north gate at the edge of the village.

Gilian and Arvan exchanged a look—a mix of guilt and helplessness—before following at a distance.

***

The north gate was rarely crowded. Beyond it lay the deep Crevtowood forest, a place rich with wild game and stories, but with dangers too. Just inside the gate stood the largest tree in Huina—a towering old thing, its purple leaves glowing in the morning sun, its roots twisting between stone and earth. It was said that during the festival, children lit candles here before floating them on the Lake of Tribian. Today, its shade sheltered only sadness.

The boy stopped beneath its lowest branch and collapsed onto the earth, his face buried in his blanket, the sound of his sobs echoing beneath the canopy. Gilian arrived first, sitting beside him with wordless patience. Arvan followed, unsure what else to do but copy Gilian's quiet.

For minutes, maybe longer, they said nothing, simply listening to the cries, then the sniffles. Occasionally the boy would mumble—sometimes "Mama," sometimes "Uncle," sometimes names they couldn't make out. He repeated "Why did you leave me?" in a whisper over and over. Then, in a trembling voice: "My sister… she screamed, and then, she was gone."

The words were sharp as knives. Both Gilian and Arvan sat even stiller, casting glances at each other but staying silent. Sometimes, comfort meant only being present.

Eventually, the boy's tears slowed. Exhausted by grief, he slumped against the tree trunk, eyes fluttering, until at last he drifted into an uneasy sleep. Tears still marked his cheeks. There was no way Gilian or Arvan could leave him now. They shared a look and resolved to keep their watch beneath the wide purple branches.

The morning drifted onward. Occasionally a bird would land on the branches above. Light filtered through the leaves in shifting violet patterns. The village's noise faded into a sleepy midday hush.

Arvan felt the urge to ask Gilian why he was so gentle with the lost boy, but the words stuck in his throat. The two simply sat—sometimes dozing, sometimes thinking of their own families.

At last, as noon marked itself above them with white-hot rays slanting down, the boy stirred. He woke with a start, blinking at his unfamiliar companions. His expression remained shadowed, heavy with things no child should see.

But a loud grumble came from the boy's stomach—a sound so ordinary and childish it briefly broke the spell. Gilian grinned, reaching into his bag.

"Here," he said softly, offering another sweet, his own meal—bread and dried venison—and a honey apple juice. "You tossed it before, but I saved one. Go on, eat. It's alright."

Hungry now, the boy took the sweet and the bread with slow, careful hands and chewed as if unsure whether it was real. The honey apple he sucked on, juice running down his chin. When he finished, the tears started again, but they were thinner—softer, more like release than despair.

When the boy had eaten his fill, Gilian finally tried again—voice gentle where Arvan's had earlier been clumsy.

"Can you tell us your name, little guy? I'm Gilian, and this is my friend, Arvan."

The boy nodded, face still wet but calmer. "Harley," he mumbled. "My name is Harley. I'm from Arnan."

Arvan's mind reeled—this was one of the survivors. So small, and yet somehow still alive.

Gilian glanced at Arvan, then back at Harley. "What happened, Harley? Why did you come here?"

Harley seemed to shrink, his words catching on every memory. At first, he said nothing—the silence stretching. Finally, he gave an answer—halting, but clear.

"Last night… We were all at home. On the outside… near the village hall, It was loud, noisy. Mama told me to stay by my sister at home while she wanted to check on uncle Joe's condition at the village hall. Then, there was screaming. Lots of it. Things—people—started fighting." His voice broke, eyes wide. "Aunt next door started eating people. I saw it. Mama tried to reach me, but Uncle grabbed her. She screamed, then stopped screaming—"

Gilian's and Arvan's faces drained of color as Harley's words washed over them. Arvan felt his memory lurch backwards to the forest—the impossible things they'd not want to guess finally become reality. Arnan village hadn't survived the night.

"—Uncle Joe bites mom's leg." continued Harley with a trembling voice.