Children's Story (for Ben)
Bob
As my father walked away, I grew finally afraid. The gun hung limp in the crook of his arm, his stride
sure and steady. I looked away for a moment and he had melted into the forest.
The fire pit lay empty at my feet. My only job was to bring it to life. He would bring back the game, and if
I could not start the fire, we would not eat tonight.
I looked around me. Evergreen forest stretched as far as I could see, making four walls of the great
outdoors. A light drizzle had pestered us for two days. Thebrush and forest floor were damp and
laughing at me.
I set off in no direction in particular. A hatchet hung from my belt. Strapped across my back, my pellet
gun rocked over my shoulder blades. I turned back only once, and our meager camp was lost in the
sameness of the woodland.
I looked for dryness. The earth under my boots bubbled and sputtered with collected moisture. Puddles
reflected the gun-metal gray of the sky.
As I drew my foot over a fallen pine, my toe caught on a limb. I stumbled, but the branch that snagged
me broke clean and loud from the force. White timber marrow stared back from the fracture. I paused, to
consider the thing, and the woods began to speak.
A few yards away a lifeless tree leaned against its living kin, pulled from the earth by the wind. The bark
had long ago rotted and fallen away. The dull gray of the wood mirrored the cloud cover. I unsheathed
my hatchet and approached it cautiously, as if it might suddenly spring into motion.
I handled the nearest twig, and it broke under my fingers without protest. Myhands moved over the
smooth trunk, testing the branches. I grabbed a larger limb and hauled back, hard. It came off in my
hands almost before I had started, my own effort throwing me backwards and to the ground.
The bough was light as a feather. It begged to be burned: to be animated one last time. I went to work.
Moving up the trunk, I freed every limb that I could with my bare hands. The heavier limbs resisted, but
the hatchet released them and my loose pile of fuel began to grow.
Leaves rustled behind me and I froze. The forest grew quiet and menacing, closing in around me. Time
stretched and became as infinite as the wood. I stared at the spot the noise had come from and caught
the gleam of a small black eye in the brush.
As the rabbit crept out of the scrub, I crouched, sliding the rifle off of my shoulder. I turned to stone. The
creature hopped out of cover, testing the new green shoots that sprang from the bed of fallen needles. I
raised the weapon and breathed easy. I held my breath and squeezed the trigger.
My father came back an hour later. An orange flame roared gleefully in the pit. The hare lay on a flat
rock, ready to be skinned. My father stood at the edge of our camp, two pheasants over his shoulder;
shotgun in the crook of his arm. His smile warmed the darkening day. He said nothing, and I understood.
sure and steady. I looked away for a moment and he had melted into the forest.
The fire pit lay empty at my feet. My only job was to bring it to life. He would bring back the game, and if
I could not start the fire, we would not eat tonight.
I looked around me. Evergreen forest stretched as far as I could see, making four walls of the great
outdoors. A light drizzle had pestered us for two days. Thebrush and forest floor were damp and
laughing at me.
I set off in no direction in particular. A hatchet hung from my belt. Strapped across my back, my pellet
gun rocked over my shoulder blades. I turned back only once, and our meager camp was lost in the
sameness of the woodland.
I looked for dryness. The earth under my boots bubbled and sputtered with collected moisture. Puddles
reflected the gun-metal gray of the sky.
As I drew my foot over a fallen pine, my toe caught on a limb. I stumbled, but the branch that snagged
me broke clean and loud from the force. White timber marrow stared back from the fracture. I paused, to
consider the thing, and the woods began to speak.
A few yards away a lifeless tree leaned against its living kin, pulled from the earth by the wind. The bark
had long ago rotted and fallen away. The dull gray of the wood mirrored the cloud cover. I unsheathed
my hatchet and approached it cautiously, as if it might suddenly spring into motion.
I handled the nearest twig, and it broke under my fingers without protest. Myhands moved over the
smooth trunk, testing the branches. I grabbed a larger limb and hauled back, hard. It came off in my
hands almost before I had started, my own effort throwing me backwards and to the ground.
The bough was light as a feather. It begged to be burned: to be animated one last time. I went to work.
Moving up the trunk, I freed every limb that I could with my bare hands. The heavier limbs resisted, but
the hatchet released them and my loose pile of fuel began to grow.
Leaves rustled behind me and I froze. The forest grew quiet and menacing, closing in around me. Time
stretched and became as infinite as the wood. I stared at the spot the noise had come from and caught
the gleam of a small black eye in the brush.
As the rabbit crept out of the scrub, I crouched, sliding the rifle off of my shoulder. I turned to stone. The
creature hopped out of cover, testing the new green shoots that sprang from the bed of fallen needles. I
raised the weapon and breathed easy. I held my breath and squeezed the trigger.
My father came back an hour later. An orange flame roared gleefully in the pit. The hare lay on a flat
rock, ready to be skinned. My father stood at the edge of our camp, two pheasants over his shoulder;
shotgun in the crook of his arm. His smile warmed the darkening day. He said nothing, and I understood.