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The first time they met, he was three.
He doesn't quite remember it. There are vague memories of a lost ball, of forest paths that never ended, of a sun that seemed so hot his skin blistered with every moment that passed. What he remembers best are the emotions: the fear that overwhelmed him and the panic that sent him running down the same wrong paths he had already traversed three times over. The stubborn determination to continue to place one foot in front of the other and the muted surprise when he realized he was being watched.
It was remarkably composed. It sat in the shadows of a half-dead, crooked sapling and softly shook its rattle until he noticed. He approached it instinctively; when it calmly hopped away through the underbrush, he followed it without question.
In twenty minutes, he was in the arms of a terrified mother who vowed to never let him out of her sight again. His references to his fairy friend were dismissed as feverish imaginings. And though not a single word had passed between them, he was quite sure, then, as he would be for years to come, that it was indeed his friend.
He spoke of it often, thereafter. He drew pictures of angelic squiggles and named every one of his stuffed companions Rattles, even the carrot with the googly eyes pasted on. Once, they came across a snake in the road, and he tried to pet it.
He saw it again when he was nine.
Not the genuine thing. A picture in class. His teacher, a bubbly young woman who smelled of cut flowers and grass, pinned up a poster one morning and explained to him all about his friend. Its name was Dunsparce, and to see one was a once-in-ten-lifetimes occurrence, owing to their shy and fearful nature. It was known to have wings, though no one was quite sure whether or not it could actually fly. Once, long ago, a Dunsparce had been sighted in the forest that bordered their town.
His clarification that it could fly, though only for a bit, and his voiced suspicions about the accuracy of the 'shy' part earned him an extra ten minutes spent with her after class and ten minutes less from his recess period. He reflected afterwards that it had been a waste of time. For some reason, she persisted in explaining that it hadn't been seen in the forest for over seventy five years despite his repeated descriptions of the day he had followed it home. As she seemed to be stuck on the seventy-five year thing, it would be best to bring it in, he decided.
He spent the afternoon in the forest. The next one as well. Weeks passed, and his searches rewarded him with nothing but sore legs and a pine cone shaped like a giraffe. He didn't mind so much. It was nice in the forest, now that he knew it well enough to avoid getting lost, and he managed to trade the pine cone for two chocolate cookies at lunch one day with Arthur who liked this kind of thing. After a while, he stopped looking so hard. It wasn't that important, and he was sure that if he ever needed his friend again, nothing would stop them from meeting.
When he meets it for the second time, he is sixteen.
He does not remember why he spends so much time in the forest. He draws pictures of trees now, trees and bushes and flowers and birds. His stuffed companions have been adopted by his younger brother, though he keeps the carrot with the googly eyes. His friend renames it Dollar Store Reject. When he sees a snake, he takes out his pencils and asks it to hold still.
Two months after his sixteenth birthday, he leaves home and heads for his tree, a strong oak beside the skeleton of a half-dead, crooked sapling. The oak blocks the sunlight; the sapling had been dying for as long as he could remember. He half-wishes, as he always does, that there was something he could do to help it. It feels as if it's important.
He has been in his tree long enough to grow drowsy when he hears a distant, high-pitched shriek that only stops because it is interrupted by an explosion. He is scrambling to his feet, wondering if he's caught in a dream, when the second one comes. ...Then a third. Each louder, each closer. He does not know what to think. He can't think. He can only feel a familiar fear overwhelming him, a panic that sends him scrambling down the tree with no better plan than to run.
It is waiting for him when he drops down.
Its expression remains composed, though its hopping is much faster than before. He follows it without question. When it shifts aside some bushes to reveal a gaping hole dropping down into the depths of the earth, he understands and wastes no time in squirming inside. After they are safely ensconced, it calmly blocks up the entrance.
They wait together as the explosions continue, one after another, shaking the underground burrow with unimaginable force. When he thinks the ceiling will collapse, he holds out his arms, and it allows him to scoop it up. They hold each other tightly as the dirt and rocks rain down, and they wait for an end to it, one way or another.
An hour after the explosions have stopped, they dare to stir.
It takes thirty minutes to dig up out of the collapsed tunnels. They emerge into a devastated landscape, trees shattered and burning, nothing green left to see. He cannot comprehend this for some time. He simply stares. It is inconceivable that this could be the forest he knew and loved.
Then he remembers his home.
The paths are destroyed beyond recognition. Once again, he needs a guide.
In twenty minutes, he is staring at the ruins of his house or where he thinks his house ought to be. Nothing remains but a shell, a wood and metal outline of the home he had known for sixteen years. He stares from the middle of the street. He cannot bring himself to step closer.
When he finally turns away, his expression is curiously blank, and his step is uneven. He turns back in the direction of the forest, and he slowly stumbles forward.
...It follows him without question.
He doesn't quite remember it. There are vague memories of a lost ball, of forest paths that never ended, of a sun that seemed so hot his skin blistered with every moment that passed. What he remembers best are the emotions: the fear that overwhelmed him and the panic that sent him running down the same wrong paths he had already traversed three times over. The stubborn determination to continue to place one foot in front of the other and the muted surprise when he realized he was being watched.
It was remarkably composed. It sat in the shadows of a half-dead, crooked sapling and softly shook its rattle until he noticed. He approached it instinctively; when it calmly hopped away through the underbrush, he followed it without question.
In twenty minutes, he was in the arms of a terrified mother who vowed to never let him out of her sight again. His references to his fairy friend were dismissed as feverish imaginings. And though not a single word had passed between them, he was quite sure, then, as he would be for years to come, that it was indeed his friend.
He spoke of it often, thereafter. He drew pictures of angelic squiggles and named every one of his stuffed companions Rattles, even the carrot with the googly eyes pasted on. Once, they came across a snake in the road, and he tried to pet it.
He saw it again when he was nine.
Not the genuine thing. A picture in class. His teacher, a bubbly young woman who smelled of cut flowers and grass, pinned up a poster one morning and explained to him all about his friend. Its name was Dunsparce, and to see one was a once-in-ten-lifetimes occurrence, owing to their shy and fearful nature. It was known to have wings, though no one was quite sure whether or not it could actually fly. Once, long ago, a Dunsparce had been sighted in the forest that bordered their town.
His clarification that it could fly, though only for a bit, and his voiced suspicions about the accuracy of the 'shy' part earned him an extra ten minutes spent with her after class and ten minutes less from his recess period. He reflected afterwards that it had been a waste of time. For some reason, she persisted in explaining that it hadn't been seen in the forest for over seventy five years despite his repeated descriptions of the day he had followed it home. As she seemed to be stuck on the seventy-five year thing, it would be best to bring it in, he decided.
He spent the afternoon in the forest. The next one as well. Weeks passed, and his searches rewarded him with nothing but sore legs and a pine cone shaped like a giraffe. He didn't mind so much. It was nice in the forest, now that he knew it well enough to avoid getting lost, and he managed to trade the pine cone for two chocolate cookies at lunch one day with Arthur who liked this kind of thing. After a while, he stopped looking so hard. It wasn't that important, and he was sure that if he ever needed his friend again, nothing would stop them from meeting.
When he meets it for the second time, he is sixteen.
He does not remember why he spends so much time in the forest. He draws pictures of trees now, trees and bushes and flowers and birds. His stuffed companions have been adopted by his younger brother, though he keeps the carrot with the googly eyes. His friend renames it Dollar Store Reject. When he sees a snake, he takes out his pencils and asks it to hold still.
Two months after his sixteenth birthday, he leaves home and heads for his tree, a strong oak beside the skeleton of a half-dead, crooked sapling. The oak blocks the sunlight; the sapling had been dying for as long as he could remember. He half-wishes, as he always does, that there was something he could do to help it. It feels as if it's important.
He has been in his tree long enough to grow drowsy when he hears a distant, high-pitched shriek that only stops because it is interrupted by an explosion. He is scrambling to his feet, wondering if he's caught in a dream, when the second one comes. ...Then a third. Each louder, each closer. He does not know what to think. He can't think. He can only feel a familiar fear overwhelming him, a panic that sends him scrambling down the tree with no better plan than to run.
It is waiting for him when he drops down.
Its expression remains composed, though its hopping is much faster than before. He follows it without question. When it shifts aside some bushes to reveal a gaping hole dropping down into the depths of the earth, he understands and wastes no time in squirming inside. After they are safely ensconced, it calmly blocks up the entrance.
They wait together as the explosions continue, one after another, shaking the underground burrow with unimaginable force. When he thinks the ceiling will collapse, he holds out his arms, and it allows him to scoop it up. They hold each other tightly as the dirt and rocks rain down, and they wait for an end to it, one way or another.
An hour after the explosions have stopped, they dare to stir.
It takes thirty minutes to dig up out of the collapsed tunnels. They emerge into a devastated landscape, trees shattered and burning, nothing green left to see. He cannot comprehend this for some time. He simply stares. It is inconceivable that this could be the forest he knew and loved.
Then he remembers his home.
The paths are destroyed beyond recognition. Once again, he needs a guide.
In twenty minutes, he is staring at the ruins of his house or where he thinks his house ought to be. Nothing remains but a shell, a wood and metal outline of the home he had known for sixteen years. He stares from the middle of the street. He cannot bring himself to step closer.
When he finally turns away, his expression is curiously blank, and his step is uneven. He turns back in the direction of the forest, and he slowly stumbles forward.
...It follows him without question.
