Page 18 of Rescued By the Surly Sasquatch

Betsy's brow furrowed as she read and reread the cryptic passage. Conduits? Mate bonds? And what was this about maintaining balance? Her mind raced, trying to connect these mysterious words to what she knew about Chase and the strange, magical occurrences in the forest.

"Oh, Grandma," Betsy sighed, running her fingers over the faded ink. "What were you mixed up in? And more importantly, what am I mixed up in now?"

As she delved deeper into the journal, Betsy's initial excitement gave way to a mix of awe and trepidation. The forest, it seemed, was far more complex and magical than she had ever imagined. And her grandmother? She hadn’t been just a random herbalist who'd stumbled into a magical wood. She had been a steward, a protector of the balance between the human world and the ancient magics that pulsed through the very earth beneath their feet.

"Holy guacamole," Betsy breathed, her mind reeling. "I'm like a magical forest princess. Or maybe just a really underprepared park ranger. Either way, this is not what I signed up for when I decided to become an herbalist."

Her eyes fell on a particularly intriguing passage. "Ooh, spells! Now we're talking. Let's see... 'To commune with thespirits of the trees, speak these words while touching the bark of an oak...'"

Betsy squinted at the handwriting, trying to make out the incantation. "Ar... arbor... sentient? No, that can't be right. Arbor... something... communicus? Eh, close enough."

Determined to try out her newfound magical knowledge, Betsy marched out to the nearest oak tree. She placed her hand on the rough bark, took a deep breath, and spoke the words she thought she'd read.

"Arbor sentient communicus!"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sound like a giant yawning, the tree's bark began to ripple under her palm. Betsy watched, wide-eyed, as a face formed in the wood, its features gnarled and knotted.

"WHO DARES DISTURB MY SLUMBER?" the tree boomed, its voice like creaking branches in a storm.

Betsy yelped, jumping back. "Oh, shit. I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. I was just trying to, you know, commune. In a nice, non-disturbing way."

The tree's eyes, dark hollows in the bark, narrowed. "YOU ARE NOT FRANCINE," it observed grumpily.

"No, no I am not," Betsy agreed quickly. "I'm her granddaughter, Betsy. Nice to, uh, meet you? I love what you've done with your leaves. Very green. Super photosynthesis-y."

The tree huffed, a sound like rustling leaves. "FRANCINE NEVER WOKE US FOR IDLE CHIT-CHAT," it grumbled. "SHE KNEW THE PROPER RITUALS. THE RESPECT DUE TO BEINGS OF OUR AGE AND WISDOM."

Betsy winced. "Right, of course. Totally my bad. I'm new at this whole magical forest steward thing. Still learning the ropes, you know?"

The tree's expression softened slightly, or at least became less knotted. "AH, A NOVICE. THAT EXPLAINS THEBUTCHERY OF THE SACRED TONGUE. VERY WELL, YOUNG ONE. WHAT WISDOM DO YOU SEEK FROM THE ANCIENT OAKS?"

Betsy's mind raced. What did she want to know? There were so many questions, so many mysteries surrounding the forest and her role in it. But one thing stood out above all others.

"Oh wise and, uh, leafy one," she began, trying to sound appropriately reverent. "I seek to understand the nature of the forest's magic. It seems unstable. Chaotic. Is there a way to restore balance?"

The tree was silent for a long moment, its wooden features creaking as it considered her question. Finally, it spoke, its voice like wind through hollow branches.

"THE BALANCE IS DELICATE, YOUNG STEWARD. IT REQUIRES THE UNION OF HUMAN WISDOM AND FOREST MAGIC. FRANCINE UNDERSTOOD THIS. SHE WORKED IN HARMONY WITH THE GUARDIAN, MAINTAINING THE EQUILIBRIUM. BUT SINCE HER PASSING, THE SCALES HAVE TIPPED. THE MAGIC GROWS WILD, UNTAMED."

Betsy's heart sank. "So it's my fault," she said quietly. "Because I'm not her, not doing whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing."

The tree's bark-brow furrowed. "NOT FAULT, YOUNG ONE. RESPONSIBILITY. YOU HAVE INHERITED A GREAT DUTY. BUT BE WARNED—KNOWLEDGE WITHOUT UNDERSTANDING IS DANGEROUS. POWER WITHOUT CONTROL, CATASTROPHIC."

"Great," Betsy muttered. "No pressure or anything. Just the fate of an entire magical ecosystem resting on my woefully unprepared shoulders. Piece of cake."

She was about to ask another question when a deafening crack split the air. Betsy whirled around to see a nearby pine tree suddenly sprout arms and legs, uprooting itself from the ground.

"Oh, come on," Betsy groaned. "Now the trees are going for walks? What's next, singing flowers? Dancing mushrooms?"

As if on cue, a patch of toadstools near her feet began to do a jaunty little jig.

The oak tree's face creaked back into expressionless bark. "GOOD LUCK, YOUNG STEWARD," it rumbled. "YOU'RE GOING TO NEED IT."

With that parting shot, the face disappeared, leaving Betsy alone with the increasingly chaotic forest.

"Right," she said, watching the pine tree lumber off into the woods. "Magical crisis. I can handle this. I am woman, hear me cast spells, I guess?"

She hurried back to the cabin, snatching up Francine's journal. There had to be something in here about controlling rogue magic, right? As she flipped through the pages, her eyes fell on a promising-looking incantation.

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