The Edge of the Wood

At the end of a not-much-traveled road, on the edge of a not-much-discovered wood, a bewildered weasel froze in terror as her amber eyes transfixed on what she could only surmise to be the flailing arms of a scrawny, young boy sailing through the air toward her burrow. His crackling, adolescent scream grew louder and nearer until it snapped the weasel’s trance and her instincts snatched her out of the way just as the boy crashed against the hillside with a thud.

He laid there motionless as the weasel, petrified but curious, looked on from a nearby thicket for signs of life — she was almost worried for him. But any need for worry quickly dissipated for the boy was very much alive. He sat up slowly, scratching his head and wincing as he held his hand to his ribs. The weasel ducked away, hoping to remain undetected, but the boy had too keen an eye.

He crawled through the lush green grass ever so carefully and reached out his hand toward her. She pulled back, trembling a little, because young boys have been known to do terrible things to weasels. But being a rather good-natured kind of boy and not wanting to frighten her, he did not reach any farther.

“Where am I, little weasel?” asked the boy.

She stared at him in perplexity.

“Ha, talking to a weasel! I must have hit more than my ribs.” he laughed, followed by a wince at the shooting pain. It was indeed a silly thing to speak to a weasel, but having no one else with which to pass the time, he continued.

“Did you happen to see where my horse has run off to? I can’t say I blame him for bucking me, I only found him this morning and hadn’t much time to become properly acquainted.” The boy stood to his feet, grimacing but regaining his strength by the moment. “I suppose I will never see him again. He is a wild spirit anyway and I wouldn’t want to steal it away from him.”

He paced along the hillside, rambling on in an almost lyrical stream of thought that eased the weasel’s nerves. She was not so afraid of the boy now, seeing in him no ill intent, and if she had not been a weasel, she would have joined him in the banter.

Now that his bearings had all but returned, he looked about and observed the strangeness of the wood into which he had well-nigh been thrown. He had heard no shortage of stories about enchanted woods, and deep in his heart he knew that magic stirred before him. He felt as if it was calling his name.

“I guess it isn’t all bad luck being tossed from the saddle today — only a few bruises in exchange for finding so hidden and magical a place!” He turned back to the weasel. “Wouldn’t you say, little w–?” but she was not there. A fluffy, bronze tail bounced into the towering canopy of darkness before him.

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The stillness of the wood was pure and dreadful. Xanthous orbs of light slowly flickered in and out of sight all throughout the misty sanctuary of tangled trees. Wonder filled the boy’s heart as he walked along, stepping over twisting, mossy roots and running his fingers along the silky bark of resting logs. He had no sense of time in this other-worldly place, but every so often he could hear unusual, enchanting noises in the distance. He thought them at first to be the call of a bird or the cry of a cub, though the pale resemblance was only a way of his mind trying to connect what was natural with something entirely unnatural.

He came across a bubbling brook and leaned down for a drink, but before his lips met the cool stream, he heard an angelic voice bounce against the rocks carrying a melody that struck his heart straight through.

The boy sprung to his feet and chased the song. The dim twilight of the wood eased into brightness the farther he ran until he came upon a clearing.

Sitting on a swing that hung from a branch too high to be seen, was a girl, her voice ringing clearer than a cloudless sky. He gawped at the beauty his eyes beheld — her golden hair flowed like ribbons as she swooped across the carpet of grass beneath her feet, and her long, russet dress rippled in the gentle breeze. He found himself staring not merely in awe, but longingly, when suddenly the singing stopped, for the boy had not been the most diligent in his attempt to remain out of sight.

“Hello there,” she said to the boy. His throat enclosed around his voice like a hungry python.

“I said, hello there, boy!”

Out from his mouth came a rolling groan that sounded much like a disgruntled dog. The girl giggled and his face flushed to red.

“S-sorry. Hi. Hi there. Hello.”

She chuckled again and asked, “Are you lost?”

“Lost? Oh, well, I wouldn’t say that,” said the boy, slowly regaining his ability to speak coherently.

“So you know where you are?”

“Not at all.”

“So you are lost.”

“I would only be lost if I wasn’t in the place I mean to be,” the boy retorted, “and if I told you I didn’t mean to find the source of the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard, why, I’d be a filthy liar.”

Her hands loosened their grip on the ropes as she swayed back and forth in front of him.

“May I ask — the song I heard you singing — what was it about?”

As soon as the words came out of his mouth the girl dragged her bare feet to stop the swing, fell to the ground, and burst into a flood of tears.

“I—I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you!” he exclaimed.

The sobs grew louder and louder until they were almost deafening.

“Oh really now, come on! I swear I meant nothing by it! You’ll lose your voice if you keep on wailing like this!”

She looked back at him and rubbed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Please forgive me, it’s nothing you’ve done,” she muttered, trying to compose herself. “I do wish you hadn’t seen me so awfully distressed.”

“It’s no bother to me at all — is there anything that might console you?”

“The song I was singing,” she said, having calmed down, “it was about something very dear to me. I often get caught up in the sweetness of song and forget the sorrow that inspired it. It wasn’t until you asked me that I remembered the sting of what I’ve lost.”

“What is it that you’ve lost? Perhaps I can find it for you.” said the boy, trying his best to comfort her.

“I wouldn’t ask you to risk so much. We’ve only just met!”

“Have we? My heart feels as though it’s always known you.”

Her eyes, a hue of morning sunlight, twinkled.

“You are a silly boy,” she said with a sigh, “to think you could love me at first sight.”

“First sight? No, no, no.” The boy reached out and held her hand. “It was long ago, actually. My love first swelled the moment it heard your song through the dancing leaves of this peculiar wood. Love at first…sound, you might say?”

“Well, boy, I’m not sure I’ve heard of such a thing.”

“I’d never heard of a girl on a swing in the middle of an enchanted forest, but here we are.”

“Yes,” she said, her cheeks ablush, “here we are.”

Hand-in-hand they sat in silence. She looked down and traced the contours of his fingers.

“A flower.” the girl said. “A marigold flower.”

“Is that what you’ve lost?” asked the boy. “Well I’ve seen plenty of those, I’m sure I can find you another.”

“It’s not just any flower! There is only one like it in all the worlds.”

“World, you mean.”

“Pardon?”

“You said, ‘There is only one like it in all the worlds.’”

“Oh, yes, of course, world is what I meant.” She bit her lip and stood to her feet.

If not blinded by infatuation, the boy might have thought more seriously about the misspoken word.

“Okay then,” he said with resolve. “Where can we find it? We’ll go at once.”

The girl looked over her shoulder, opposite of the way the boy had come, deeper into the darkness.

“That way.”

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Years passed. The journey made a man out of the boy, and finding the flower had, on several occasions, nearly cost him his life. He crested a familiar hill and there he saw the edge of the wood where the girl (who had surely since grown as he) told him she could accompany him no farther, but would wait patiently for him to return.

“This is my home and I cannot leave it. It is why the flower is beyond my reach. You must continue on alone, boy.” He remembered the feel of her delicate fingers slipping out of his own as he left the wood that day so long ago.

A rustle in a nearby bush caught his attention. The journey had not tempered his curiosity in the least, so he went to take a closer look. Before he reached it, a tawny, slender creature peeked out her head.

“If it isn’t my little friend!” the man declared in delight. “After all these years, to come by you again!” He sat down in the brush and reached out his hand, but this time the weasel was not so shy as upon their first encounter. She came up to him, looked down at his hand, and to his utter disbelief she placed her paw inside, softly brushing its velvety pads against his fingers. She climbed along his arm onto his shoulder and stared at him with those brilliant, amber eyes.

“I see you’ve found your courage since last we met,” he said to the weasel, “but it seems I’ve yet to find my wits — here I am still talking to you!”

She leaped down his back and circled around his feet playfully.

“We might get along aft— WAIT!”

The weasel stood regally before him on her hind legs, the marigold flower dangling from her mouth.

“Now we can’t be friends if you don’t give that back straight away! You’ve no idea what I’ve gone through to—”

But before he could finish the words, the weasel turned and dashed away. He scrambled after her in desperation, trying to follow the whipping about of her copper tail through the swaying grass, but she was too elusive and much too far ahead. She stopped at the edge of the wood, glanced back at the man, with a twinkle in her eye, and bounded into the blackness.