American Marten

American Marten

You weren’t even sure this part of the park had a path. One moment you were among trimmed hedges and wooden signage, and the next—ferns brushing your knees, moss tugging your boots, and silence thick as velvet. The air smelled faintly of cedar and secrets.

You found the medallion half-tucked beneath the gnarled roots of an old spruce, humming ever so softly. You knelt, touched it— And the branches above exploded into movement.

“Are you real?” a voice chirped. “Or am I hallucinating again? Last time it was a talking blueberry.”

You look up. She’s upside down—fur auburn like toasted pine needles, eyes wide and glimmering, clinging to a branch like gravity’s an option, not a rule.

“I hope you’re real,” she says. “I’ve just started sorting the taxonomy of visitors. You’d be in the unexpected mammal drawer, right between porcupine and opera singer.”

“I’m real,” you say.

“Oh good. I don’t have time for figments. I’m on a schedule, and figments always monologue.”

She flips to the ground so gracefully it seems the world simply tilted beneath her. She lands on her toes, fur fluffed with self-satisfaction.

“I’m a marten,” she says. “But more specifically, this marten. The one who saw the first flicker. The one who knows the trees are listening now. The one who—ugh—stepped in mud three times this morning, and still looks fabulous.”

You ask, “What do you think the medallions are for?”

Her eyes gleam like polished amber. She lowers her voice, suddenly conspiratorial.

“I think the medallions are keys. Not just talky-animal keys, mind you. No, no. Bigger than that. I think they unlock the folds.”

You blink. “Folds?”

“The places-between-places,” she says. “Pocket dimensions. Sideways woods. Time-slippery glens. You haven’t noticed yet, but the trees are in different positions when you walk back the way you came. And yesterday? There were thirteen squirrels in this grove. Today, only twelve. Where did Gerald go? Exactly.”

She spins in place, then climbs halfway up a branch and lounges as if reclining on an invisible chaise.

“The world got tired of staying put,” she says, “and now it’s fidgeting. The medallions are helping. Or guiding. Or maybe provoking. I haven’t decided yet. But I am keeping notes.”

She pulls a folded leaf out of nowhere and shows you a sketch that looks suspiciously like a train station made of mushrooms and quartz.

You try to ask another question, but she cuts you off with a wave.

“No more questions! Curiosity is a limited resource and I’m budgeting mine.”

She bounds back up the branches, pausing only once to peer down at you upside-down again.

“Oh, and if you meet the vole, don’t let him start on his hero speech. He’ll never stop.”

And then she vanishes into the canopy, leaving behind only a flick of fern leaves—and a giggle that might’ve come from the trees themselves.