The Helpless

We trudge through brush and branch, growing wearier by the hour. As the sun reaches its height, the unmistakable shriek of a wailing baby pierces the air. There, cradled by the exposed roots of an ancient tree, lies a newborn child swaddled in rags.

We attempt to comfort the babe, but quickly discover that this is no mortal child. Its skin is ice to the touch, its eyes amber-bright. Surely this is some phantom of the wood? And yet the child continues to wail in such anguish that its plight is unmistakeable: it needs our help.

We are faced with a choice. Do we bring the baby with us, apparition though it must be? Or do we abandon this child to the wilds, like those who came this way before us?