Fever

Polyscias fruticosa, the frog, and a man in heat

Astronomically speaking, it’s still vernal times. We are a few weeks from the solstice, but the temperature is rising, the crisp sprightliness of spring is already loosening into the slow languidness of summer. The forest has begun to settle into its hour of abundance, what has contracted will expand and hollows will fill with coveted hoards, golden honey will drip from the trees, the forest will creak with growth. We’ll walk through the woods half drunk on the heated scents of sap and nectar…

But first, the fever.

This particular day the dogs and I were making our way through the forest to one of the many lakes that dotted its green expanse, baleful blights on fine emerald flesh, if you ask me. Critters stalked us through the dense conifers, curious, or relieved. We could hear murmuring and chittering, rustling and creaks, wings flapping and talons grinding into wood. All hushed, all expectant. The dogs padded along behind me, ears twitching at each disturbance. There were monsters lurking, too, but they knew better than to make their presence known. Besides, they were probably also relieved to see us.

When the frog has a fever, no one in this part of the forest is comfortable. This happens every seventeen years, usually. This time it’s only been eleven. Why the seventeen year cycle? I don’t really know. Which of course means I also don’t know why the cycle was broken. Regardless, I am always prepared, but the rest of the forest, especially after the spring we’ve been having, was decidedly not.

As we walked, my fists full of a burning febrifuge incense of honeysuckle and ming aralia, I chanted.