Walking in the woods

The apple is crisp and sweet. The seller all worn and warts. The snap of each bite a promise and a wish. But my lids stay light, and the sun sinks slow, and my story is still unstarted. Awake, awake, awake. Every day, awake. 

The days in Story all run the same. Never met the wolf. Never met the witch. Never danced at the prince’s ball. The dreaded invitation comes crisp quarterly. I am always cordially invited. I never bother to attend. 

Built my house of straw and yet it stands still. Unblown. Uncrumpled. No huffs or puffs. No chinny chin chins. Just crowded and cramped and damp in the rain. It smells faintly of old grain. Some animal scratches in the walls. It steals my food. It never speaks. It never sews. 

I walk each day in the deep dark woods, till home finds me again without mishap. A grandmother waves from a cabin porch swing, her eyes small, her teeth dull. The breadcrumbs remain, marking the trail. The trail is always clear. The way is never barred. The old woman offers fresh picked rapunzel from her garden. 

I’ve traded most of the things I once held dear. A locket with a photo of my mother, looking stern but with a softness in her eyes. A pocket watch. A bag of coins. The beans sprout in the garden. I use them in the soup. The clouds drift lazy trails, far off and formless. 

The people of Story are kind, in their way. They pity me I think, the dullness of my empty pages, my uneventful hours. I took a job in the bakery, though Jack keeps me in the kitchen. I make folk uneasy, he says. Not my fault he says. They just ain’t met “someone like me”

I enjoy the work. I enjoy the smell. The ache in my arms. Jack lets me take the day-olds home. The bread is good in the magic-bean soup. I read a book by the fire and sop till it gets cold. 

There’s a stock boy there that’s kind enough. Shy behind his hazel eyes. Father found a lamp once. Tells me to call him Spud. That’s how his friends do. Says I’m not so strange as people say. Says he likes the way my mouth looks when I sing. I sing when I kneed. A song my mother taught me. He asks about my mother. I tell him about her eyes. 

Then I ask him his story. And it’s all set. Something with dragons. And damsels. And fire and ice. He rubs his hands when he’s excited. He can’t wait to turn 18. He turns 18 in June. 

I do too. 

I’m jealous. But I don’t say. 

We break for lunch together. We sit under the old oak tree. The squirrels bring him berries and cheese and wine and glasses. He asks me to sing, but I say no, no. I tell him about the forest. I tell him about my walks. About the old woman and the gingerbread house. And he begs me not to go. It’s dangerous he says. 

Dragons are dangerous I say. 

That’s different he says, and his eyes are far away. 

Some days I get there early. He is there before me. Some days we talk for hours. Some days we don’t talk at all. 

It is winter. My house is cold. I look forward to the bakery. He smiles when he sees me. I blush but I don’t know why.

Sunday is market day. The people in the market are wary of me. The girl whose beans grow only beans. Whose apples are merely apples. Whose straw house still stands. Sometimes the little ones point. Sometimes the older ones too. 

There’s trouble one day. Some lumber jack. Says some things. Shouts some. You people. Don’t belong. Points at the road from town. A crowd gathers. 

I’m sorry I say. I look at his ax. My mother I say. A circle forms. A crowd. A mob? They grow louder. Something is thrown. Someone should do something. 

It’s happening. It’s finally happened. 

But then. 

Spud. 

Sticking his nose where it don’t belong. 

She’s harmless he says. 

Look he says. 

The crowd is angry. 

No story, he says.

It’s her he says.  

The lumberjack grumbles. 

This doesn’t happen to her. 

The people mumble. 

No! I shout. Throw me out, I shout. Attack, I shout. But they are losing interest. Come back. But they are gone. 

My anger knows no limits. You. I shout. You ruined it. I shout. 

No, he says. I’m sorry, he says. 

Don’t, I say. Ever, I say. And I turn my back and leave. 

Now I don’t sing in the bakery. Now I eat lunch alone.

He brings flowers. I throw them out. 

He writes me notes. 

I tear them up. 

I switch my shift. February, March and April. The days are all the same. The forest. The beans. The animal in the wall. The old woman with the dull teeth. Her name is Judy. She knit me a scarf. 

I throw a wish in the wishing well. I find a house of talking bears. They are home. They invite me in for lunch. 

April, May and June. The bakery is quiet now. Jack posts an ad for a stockboy. Peter’s almost all growed up. 

Peter, I say?

Ya know, Spud. 

Spud. Peter. Of course. 

His birthday’s coming. 

Mine too.

Jack bakes me a little cake. I take it home to the little straw house. I’m warmer in my scarf. Cut a little piece for the little animal. Leave it at his little hole. Put a warm stone in my bed.  

There’s a rustling outside. I light the lamp. Peer out into the dark. 

Peter? I say. 

Spud, he says. 

Go away, I say.

I’m sorry he says. 

You had no right I say. 

I know, he says. 

I brought you something, he says. It’s my birthday tomorrow he says. 

Mine too, I say. 

I know, he says. Can I come in? he says. 

He’s holding something in his hand. A locket, and I know there is a photo inside. A stern woman with kind eyes. Mother. 

How? I say.

Traded he says. Can I? he says. 

And I open the door wider. 

We awake in the morning on the little bed. The animal is at the foot. A kitten. It yawns, then rolls over and slowly starts to purr. 

Peter I say. 

Spud, he says. 

Happy Birthday. 

Happy Birthday. 

Today’s your day. I say. Dragons. Princesses. Ice and fire. Your story finally starts.

Yeah he says. About that, he says. And he shifts his eyes down. 

Peter. He is quiet. Peter! But he just stares. 

What did you do? I say.

I traded, he says. 

And the terrible truth dawns on me. This is it. This is my story. And now it’s Peter’s story too. 

The soggy straw house. The kitten in the wall. The bean soup and bread. Days in the bakery, nights in the bed. One and then the next and then the next. July, August, September, Forever. 

Peter, I say, why?

Don’t know, he says.

Idiot, I say and sigh.

What now? I say. 

Don’t know, he says. Wanna walk in the woods? He says.

And despite everything, I do. I really do.