The Trail of Marigolds

There was a proud little house that sat at the edge of the forest, walls made of wood and covered in lilac Wisteria, the door a beautiful purple and the garden covered in a rainbow flowers; red roses, orange lilies, yellow buttercups, green carnations, bluebells and, of course, the purple wisteria.

It belonged to a proud little family too. Iris and Daphne, avid gardeners and loving parents to their only son, who they named William. They were a close family, spending their time in their cherished garden or talking strolls in the woods until they knew all of the quaint trails off by heart. They never strayed off of them, however, well aware that the woods were known to be thick and disorienting.

One day, they decided to take a picnic into the forest, stopping in an inconspicuous clearing surrounded by trees and filled with the chirping of the newly hatched spring chicks.

"Mummy and I are just going to chat for a bit and enjoy the sun, okay Will?" Iris told her son. "You can play, and then we'll head back." The little boy was more than happy to run around the clearing, imaginative, young mind conjuring all sorts of games for him to play.

Soon, though, as is inevitable with all children, he got bored. William trailed back to his parents, only to find them both snoozing quietly on the picnic blanket! Now, William had always been an early riser, so his parents had started a rule that he couldn't wake them up in the morning until their alarms went off unless it was an emergency.

Despite the fact that this rule was mainly established for weekends so the women could get a lie-in, William decided that he shouldn't wake them then either.

... But that didn't stop him from being very, very bored.

There wasn't that much to do in the clearing, and he found himself getting closer and closer to the edges of it, peering into the dense trees, wondering if he might spot a hiding fairy or little forest dragon, like those in his storybooks.

Instead, he saw a flower.

It was a big flower, with lots of curly yellow petals. A marigold. It was just so... so... pretty.

His parents loved flowers.

William glanced back at them, remembering how many times he had been told (and lectured about) not leaving the trails.

But the flower was so close, if he could just walk in a tiny bit then he could reach it, easy-peasy! And, though they had lots of different flowers, they didn't have one like that. Usually, his parents bought him flowers to plant. The boy decided that it was his turn now.

So he stepped onto the soft grass, carefully picking his way over a small poison ivy plant towards the marigold.

Now that he was closer to it, the boy could see how pretty the flower really was. The petals were an almost unbelievably vibrant yellow, and the entire thing was almost bigger than his whole hand. William knew his parents would love it.

But, as he went to tug the flower from the ground, another smudge of bright yellow caught his eye.

It was another marigold, somehow even bigger, more golden, prettier!

William looked back down, and was surprised to see that the marigold he had been trying to pull out of the spring ground was now... not very pretty. The stalk was practically bent in two, struggling desperately to support the suddenly sickly-yellow flower. Maybe it would be better if he picked the other one instead. His mothers wouldn't mind if he went in just a little bit deeper, William could still very clearly see the clearing where they were snoozing, even with the trees full of big green spring leaves, so if they woke up they would see him without any trouble at all.

However, as he arrived at the next plant, another one caught his eye. Instead of bright yellow, this marigold was a golden orange. His mother Daphne's favourite colour was orange. Maybe that one would be better. It certainly was prettier...

So William kept spying more and more pretty flowers shining in the wonderful summer sun, each one larger or a better colour than the last. When he eventually reached them all though, they never looked quite right, as if he'd already pulled them out of the ground and let them wither away without any water for several days. That didn't matter. After all, there was always a prettier flower just out of reach...

The boy kept going on, enjoying the sound of the autumn leaves crunching beneath his feet as he skipped his way to the next flower, grateful for his jumper as it kept the winds from getting him too cold.

It couldn't have been too long then, when the young child finally stumbled across the truly prettiest flower he had ever seen. The petals were the brightest yellow possible, standing out against the harsh white of the winter snow, and it was so large that William fell over as he pulled it out.

At long, long last, he had the prettiest flower possible for his parents...

His parents. Where exactly were they? Which way had the little boy come from again?

William scanned his surroundings, blinking. Hadn't the trees been bare a moment ago? Hadn't the ground been covered with snow?

No. That was silly; it was spring, he knew that! And he knew the way back to the clearing too.

The little boy hurried his way back home, enjoying the summery sun, the crunching of autumn leaves and the warmth of his jacket against the winter winds until he finally made it back to the clearing.

Somehow, it was completely empty. Even the picnic basket was gone. That was... odd.

But it was fine. He knew the way home! William just had to follow the trail. It was a bit more overgrown than he remembered - usually it had seemed well-trodden due to his family's constant use of it - but the boy just shrugged it off. It didn't matter anyway, so he kept his eyes on the flower clutched in his hands, almost scared it would wilt away like the others.

The child giggled to himself as he thought of all of the times his mothers had commanded that he stay on the paths. He hadn't gotten lost, even for just a second, and he had gotten them the most prettiest flower in the world!

William turned the final corner...

There he found a house, crumbling in on itself as it squatted uncomfortably at the edge of the forest, wooden walls rotting, the purple door's paint peeling clean away, and a garden covered from wall-to-wall in bright, pretty marigolds.