Dahlia and the Garden of Light - Chapter 21: Chapter 21

Their second mission led them deep into the Amazon — a world of breath and pulse and ancient knowing. The jungle didn’t just live. It watched.
Dahlia and Amy moved between river villages by canoe, guided by quiet elders and sharp-eyed children who paddled with practiced ease. They offered medicine, stitched wounds, and listened to stories that had never touched the outside world — tales of spirits in the trees, whispering leaves, and rivers that sang at night.
In a small village built on stilts, an old woman with cataract-clouded eyes reached for Dahlia’s hand.
“You have jungle blood,” she whispered in a language neither of them spoke — but somehow, Dahlia understood.
“She says the trees know you,” translated a young boy, Miguel. “That your heart beats like theirs.”
At Base Camp
They returned each night to a modest research camp built along a shallow bend in the river. There, beneath mosquito nets and a tin roof, they met Maria — a sharp-witted archaeologist with sun-darkened skin, tangled curls, and boots caked in centuries of dust.
Maria tossed a mango slice toward Amy the first night. “So, which one of you is the wild one?”
Amy caught it with a smirk. “She speaks to trees,” she said, jerking a thumb at Dahlia.
Maria raised a brow. “Really?”
Dahlia, stirring herbs into a pot of water, didn’t look up. “Only when they have something to say.”
Maria leaned forward, intrigued. “You’ve got something ancient in your eyes. I’ve seen that look carved into temple stones.”
“I’ve just seen too much,” Dahlia murmured. “That’s all.”
Maria didn’t press. But her eyes lingered, sharp and thoughtful.
Later that night, around the fire, the team gathered: Miguel the translator; Camila, their no-nonsense guide; Esteban, a soft-spoken botanist with a passion for orchids; and Paulo, a young tribal scout who barely spoke but noticed everything.
They traded stories under the stars.
“Once,” Camila said, sipping maté, “a jaguar walked into camp. Sat down. Stared at me for ten minutes, then left. No sound. No threat. Just… watching.”
“Was it real?” Amy asked.
Paulo nodded solemnly. “The jaguar is always real. The question is: were you?”
Everyone went quiet.
Dahlia met Paulo’s gaze, her expression unreadable. “Some things in this world don’t need proof. They just need presence.”
The Logging Site
A week later, they reached the edge of destruction.
The trees parted to reveal a clearing ripped raw — chainsaws still humming, bulldozers smeared with sap and soil. Roots lay like severed limbs. Oil slicked the floor of the forest like blood.
Amy’s voice cracked. “They’re killing it.”
Dahlia’s jaw tightened. Her hands curled into fists. “Not if we stop them.”
Maria glanced between them, then toward the machinery. “Careful. These people don’t care about rules. They only care about money.”
That night, the jungle moved with them.
Maria stayed behind at camp, her satellite radio at the ready. Amy slipped between the tents, silent as smoke, pouring thick tree sap into fuel tanks. Dahlia walked the perimeter alone, scattering crushed petals and bright red berries—offerings, protections, and silent warnings.
She paused beside a saw blade and whispered something under her breath. The earth responded with a low, steady hum. A faint green glow shimmered beneath the soil, then faded.
But a twig snapped.
A flashlight flared. A shout.
“Who’s there?!”
Gunfire cracked the night open.
“RUN!” Amy shouted, diving behind a log.
They scattered.
Dahlia sprinted up a tree in seconds, her movements liquid and fast. From above, she dropped seed bombs — clay balls packed with pollen, luminescent spores, and vine seeds. They burst mid-air into clouds of blinding gold and violet.
A guard fired upward blindly.
Dahlia dropped behind him like a ghost and whispered, “You’re done.”
A flick of her wrist. He collapsed, gasping in a cloud of lavender.
Amy swept low and slammed into another man’s knees, sending him sprawling.
Paulo emerged from the underbrush with a slingshot, striking the last one across the temple. The man dropped.
They tied them with salvaged rope to the fallen logs — poetic justice. Maria triggered the emergency beacon on her radio.
“They’ll be picked up by sunrise,” she muttered.
By the River
Later, they sat on the muddy bank of the river, bruised, scraped, and silent. Fireflies blinked around them like sparks from a forgotten world.
Amy’s hands trembled. “I didn’t think we’d make it.”
“We almost didn’t,” Dahlia admitted, dabbing antiseptic on a bleeding cut across her shoulder. “But we did.”
“You didn’t hesitate,” Amy said. “Not once. You just… became.”
Dahlia looked up. “I can’t afford to hesitate.”
Amy frowned. “Because of your powers?”
“Because hesitation gets people killed. I’ve seen it.”
Amy leaned back on her elbows, breathing deeply. “You really think we can change the world?”
Dahlia’s gaze drifted to the trees — gently swaying now, as if grateful.
“We already are.”
Back at Camp
Maria approached Dahlia later, brushing damp curls from her face.
“You’re not like the others,” she said softly. “You know that, right?”
Dahlia gave a tired smile. “I’m just someone trying to do right.”
Maria shook her head. “No. You’re called. There’s a difference.”
They stood in silence, the jungle pulsing around them.
From the shadows, Paulo emerged with a carved wooden token. He placed it into Dahlia’s palm — a jaguar surrounded by vines.
“For protection,” he said simply. “The jungle knows what you’ve done.”
Dahlia closed her fingers around it. “Thank you.”
As the sun rose the next morning, the team began preparing for the journey upriver. Another village. Another story.
But before stepping into the boat, Dahlia turned once more toward the trees.
And in the rustling leaves… she thought she heard them whisper.
"Thank you."