Gradually, Greta slowed and listened intently. There was nothing but the swish of leaves nudged by a lenient wind and her own heavy breathing. ILLUSTRATION | JOHN NYAGA
It was twilight and she was walking among giants. In the rapidly falling darkness, Greta could just make out the tops of the towering trees covered in wispy lichen and damp moss that soared straight up into a sky dotted with the first stars. She walked evenly, slowly almost, marking her way, feeling the rough bark of the trees, relishing the squish of the wet moss on her fingers and tasting the sweet forest air as she made her way to a spot she’d been to many times before.
Just as a half-moon broke through the trees bathing everything in a silvery sheen, Greta arrived at her destination, swung the heavy backpack she was carrying onto the moist earth, pulled out a shovel and started to dig vigorously by the roots of an old, gnarled, massive fig tree.
