text: On the gentle southern slope of a small mountain, near the summit, grows an ancient fir tree. It has been known to the tribe for generations, and become a part of its culture. Every generation the elders tell the young ones how it is a sacred place, where the spirits of the dead pass through. Of each generation, one of the young ones is given the burden and honor of keeping watch over the tree, to make sure the dead have their gateway. For the people of his time it is the duty of Hok'ee, a young man of seventeen winters, who was destined to guard the Fir. though somewhwat reluctantly, as he didn't necessarily believe in the old ways and stories as the elders did, Hok'ee has done his duty as tradition demands it, ever since he was selected by the shaman five winters ago. Whenever the previous guardian has children of their own, a new one is selected from the children of the tribe, to take over the task of standing watch every day, all day, and in the case of a death all night as well. Five winters it's been and still nothing has happened to change the yougng man's beliefs, possibly even to his reluctant disappointment. Even when there were deaths in the tribe, which fortunately haven't been many, Hok'ee dutifully stayed at his post all day and night but saw nothing to make him regard the tree as anything other than just that. Today doesn't feel much different, he just had a bit of a heavy feeling in his chest when he left early this morning before sunrise but didn't think much of it. Now it's a pleasant late summer's day and Hokée is spending it as usual, walking around the area, always keeping the Fir within line of sight, or whittling small pieces of found deadwood into figures of animals with his knife. Sometimes a member of the trbe comes by to visit and keep him company for a while. Those are always the easiest days, when someone else helps time go by quicker. As Hok'ee is sittting under the tree slowly chipping away at the piece of wood in his hands he finds himself getting a bit bored and loks off to the horizon for any sign of company, but there's no movement. Just a bird flies in from the edge of his vision as Hok'ee gets back to his woodcarving. When the bird makes a sound though, he looks up. It sounded like an owl, and indeed there's one perched on one of the lower dead branches of the Fir. Do owls even come out during the day? Not as far as he knows, yet this one is. It's a beautiful thing, piercing yellow eyes staring straight into his, dark feathers with lighter spots reflecting gold in the sunlight. He can't tear his eyes away, but the longer his gaze is locked with thtat of the owl the more he starts to feel a pit in his stomach grow larger and larger. A moment later that pit tears his whole chest open with the feeling that something horrible has happened. The owl flies off ahead of him as he leaves his post early for the first time to rush back to the village. Even running the viallage is almost an hour away. An hour of a mind racing, imagining the worst. an hour feeling so sick he could throw up, but with no time to stop. Signs foreshadow his fears from a distance, but he doesn't want to see them, acknowledge their meaning. The smoke is visible first, then, closer, the bloodstains on the side of the tents. Closer still, the bodies. The bodies of every man, woman and child of the tribe. As he walks through the ruin of his village Hok'ee spots prints in the ground, unlike those of bare feet or of the tribe's footwear, he sees some of the wounds of his tribesmen, small round bleeding holes. The marks of the White Devil. They'd heard stories about it from other villages who'd heard from others, but never truly believed the White Devil could be so destructive of heart. As Hokée stands idly among the corpses of his family, friends and neighbors, not know what to do, whether to run, scream or collapse, but unable to do any, he suddenly remembers his duty and a hot feeling of guilt washes over him for not being at his post. "Maybe it's not too late", he thinks and solemnly begins to walk back to the Fir. This time he walks, with his mind now empty, desolate. Time seems to pass differently, at different speeds, as he walks whole stretches without realizing he's even moving his legs while other parts of the path seem to take longer than usual. The sun is low in the sky and bathing everything orange gold by the time he comes up to the fir, but as he breaks the treeline and looks up the slope he sees no green bathing in the setting sun. The Fir has changed completely, it is bare and dead, and Hok'ee finally collapses on the bed of dead needles at its base.