The Forest Whispers

Trees don’t understand most humans. They don’t understand borders, and they have no interest in human politics. Why don’t humans understand that everything and everyone in the natural world is connected? Why can’t humans be more like trees? The trees in the boreal zone circumvent the Northern Hemisphere and are found in Canada, the United States, Norway, Sweden, Russia, and China. Most humans want to protect the forests, but some just want to exploit them. For millennia, the trees lived in harmony with the Indigenous people, but these new generations are dangerous: dangerous to the forest, the forest inhabitants, and the world. Now the spirits of the trees must protect themselves and the Arctic. They must draw humans to them who can hear their voice. Marguerite Marchand, Erik’s great-grandmother could hear the trees whisper. So could her mother, Margaret Mistik-Wastew. Erik can too if he listens. Grace will help him believe.

The morning air was sharp with the scent of Spruce, Fir trees, and frost as Grace walked along the familiar path past the barns on Manitow Farm. She had come to expect their brief morning exchanges—a nod, a quiet hello—before continuing on her way. But today, Erik was standing by his ATV, hands in his pockets, watching her approach.

“How is your research going? I hear that you’re writing about the forest”, he said.

“It’s going ok,” Grace replied. “Skye is a living library of stories.”

“Come with me,” he said. “I want to show you something – the real forest, the kind few people ever take the time to notice—”

Grace hesitated. They had never spoken beyond their passing greetings, yet there was something in his voice, a quiet pull that made her say yes before she could second-guess herself.

She climbed onto the ATV, the engine growling to life as Erik guided the vehicle onto a narrow, unmarked trail. Snow dusted the branches of towering spruce and jack pines, their dark green needles stark against the pale sky. The deeper they drove, the quieter the world became, the trail narrowing into little more than a set of tire tracks weaving through the untouched forest.

After a while, Grace spoke. “This forest—it’s more than just trees. I hear that some people call the boreal zone ‘The Circle’,” she said, watching the landscape blur past them. “A living band of forests that stretches around the Northern Hemisphere. It keeps the Arctic cold, slows the melt, holds the earth in balance. Without it…” She trailed off. “Without it, we lose everything.”

Erik nodded, keeping his eyes on the trail. “I’ve heard the same thing, but not from books.” “The Elders in Thompson talk about the trees like they’re alive. Not just alive—but aware. I remember my grandfather saying that my great-grandmother, Marguerite Marchand, would say that the trees hold the knowledge of all time. They remember everything. He said that she could hear them. So could her mother, Margaret,Mistik-Wastew before her.”

“I didn’t realize that you were part Metis,” said Grace.

“Part,” Erik replied. “Metis, or Cree and French Canadian, and Scottish on my mother’s side. Norwegian on my dad’s. Born in Nebraska. That explains the reason I’m here but what brought you to Thompson?”

“It’s far away from…,” Grace paused and then continued, “a recommendation from a friend who knew that I adore Christmas and needed peace and solitude.”

“So, do you hear the trees,” Grace asked.

Erik exhaled, gripping the wheel. “I don’t know. I feel something, though. The last few weeks, the forest’s been different—restless. Like it’s trying to tell me something.”

They drove past a clearing where the charred remains of trees stood like blackened skeletons against the snow, the ground speckled with saplings pushing through the frozen earth. The boreal forest was always renewing itself—through fire, through storms, through ice. But this time, something felt different.

“They say the forest calls to those who can hear it,” Erik said softly. “Maybe that’s why you’re here.”

The trail seemed to disappear, the trees closing in around them, forming a tunnel of deep green and soft gray where the morning mist still clung to the undergrowth. Patches of frozen moss peeked through the snow, vibrant even in the dim light, and the occasional golden tamarack stood like a burst of fire among the evergreens, its needles the only ones to change before winter took hold.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Erik said, his voice quiet, reverent.

Grace nodded, her breath fogging the window. “It feels… untouched. Like time doesn’t move here the way it does everywhere else.”

Erik stopped the ATV “It doesn’t. At least, it didn’t—until people started taking more than they gave back.”

 A raven swooped overhead, its wings catching the morning sunlight, and somewhere in the distance, the echo of a wolf’s howl shivered through the trees.

 Grace felt it in her bones—the hum of something ancient, something alive beneath the snow-covered ground, stretching its roots deep into history.

She turned to Erik. “Do you ever feel like the forest is watching?”

He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Yeah,” he admitted. “And sometimes, I think it’s waiting.”

For what, neither of them knew but they both felt it.

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