Lost

A boy

This work is protected by the Australian copyright law

      Weeping was a shameful thing, reserved only for suckling babes and little girls. The boy was none of these things. His Ma had seemed to have forgotten this fact however. When she wasn't weeping, she could be found at the bottom of a bottle of foul smelling brew with vacant eyes. She avoided the few windows in their cottage for a dark corner which seemed to suck the life out of everything that occupied it. The boy's Ma seemed to blend in with their mismatched furniture, a heap of dull unmoving rags.

 The rest of the cottage was not much better, the boy often thought he saw faces leering out of the dust at him. It was always cold and his arms where too weak and small to wield an axe, so the only thing in the hearth where old ashes. Without the smoky heat from the fire to keep it at bay, crags of yellow fungus had taken up residence between the slats in the walls. It was slimy and he loathed to brush against it. The floor, which was hard packed earth emanated a coldness that the few raggedy matts done nothing to dispel.

The boy's bare feet tapped across the rammed earth of the floor, his feet numb as they passed from threadbare rug to hard earth. His snubbed nose ran and he wiped it noisily on the front of his shirt, before pulling himself atop an empty crate that leant against the wall. On his perch, the boy's small hands tugged the mouldering hessian sack from the window. His pinched face peered out, green eyes wide as they took in the foggy nothingness that enveloped the world.

No one's come.

The boy chewed nervously at the skin around his nails as he brought his freckle dusted knees to his chest. He shivered, half with cold and the other with fear. The boy looked helplessly at his mother before chiding himself. He was seven, not some babe, he would wait and everything would be fine.

The boy kept his post atop a worn wooden crate by the door, waiting. His knees knocked together as he shivered through his stained rags, the cold and the damp seemed to creep into his bones. It was the kindness of strangers that had kept the boy alive thus far. At first he had rejected the charity, his Da had been a proud man before he'd disappeared and so had his Ma. He'd childishly believed that as the new man of the house it was his duty to take up that mantle. But as the boy's Ma had gradually stopped washing for the villagers, the cupboards had emptied at an alarming rate, till there was more dust than food.

It had been a few hours before the boy dazed off, and it was his stomach that forced him to stir. Of late he had gotten used to slight gnawing that remained in the pit of his belly, however, on occasions like this it would stab so fiercely through him that he thought he might retch. The boy checked the window again, hopeful. There were no gifts by the door, not even some of the half rotting potatoes that well-meaning church ladies where so fond of giving.

The boy jumped from his perch and pushed open the door, it squeaked in protest. It was drizzling outside, covering everything in a grey stillness, but he could tell it was late. The cold nipped at the boy's nose. He narrowed his eyes squinting for none existent figures. They were too large, the boy's eyes, great green things settled in a small pinched face that was smattered with freckles and grime. He trembled, glancing back at the dark innards of the house, it was cold inside, but outside was worse and his Ma was in there.

The boy remembered the last thing he'd eaten; it had been a day ago. A stale heel of bread that he'd found between one of the shelves, he'd soaked it in boiled water to get it down. The boy's stomach cramped, and he fought back tears.  It seemed a little food was worse than none, for it brought back memories of warm loaves baked on the fire hearth with curls of golden butter. He'd tried to eat the pages of a book his father had left behind after that. The page had an illustration of a pie on it. It had made the boy sick.

"They haven't come, Ma. It's late." The boy began pulling on rags, he talked mostly to convince himself. But his thin voice hung weakly in the air, reminding him that even as the man of the house he was just a child.

"I-I-I think I should go and see." A stupid child, the boy thought sadly. His hands where clumsy but at last he pulled on his final ill fitted boot and he was ready.

"I'll bring back food, Ma, I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." The boy waited for a reply that did not come and forced the door open.

The confines of the shack gave way to a grey, wet world like the yawning mouth of a monstrous creature. The boy trudged slowly, mindful of roots and sharp stones and the overgrown grass that liked to snake around his ankles. The wet grass slapped against his legs, soon making his layer's useless and soggy and covered with sharp little seeds. No one had seen to the path towards the village in a long time. In some places the grass towered over the boy while cruel brambles reached for him, no longer bound to the fields. A thistle thwacked against his face and he whimpered.

As the grass began to even out, the path only got more treacherous. It began a steep incline, one side a bank that fell into woods and the other a field. It was covered in stones, worn smooth and slick by rain and in the dying light the boy had to squint to see them all. He chewed nervously on his lip, it was getting to be dark now. Shadows played on the edge of his vision and everything was blanketed with a white noise, so thick it made his ear's ring. The boy twisted his cold hands against his chest. Perhaps if he'd waited longer someone would have come. Perhaps they were on their way at this very moment.

Perhaps- the boy did not see the entrance to the rabbit warren. The toe of his ill footed boot got caught and he lost his footing. Stumbling, the boy's arms smashed against the smooth surface of a rock and he cried out in pain. The grass turned into cold soft earth as he fell down the incline, his arms scrabbled for something. Anything. The boy gripped at a fern, it halted him momentarily before coming loose. The cool smell of decomposing leaves filled his nose and his mouth tasted of earth and the metallic tang of blood.

It felt like an eternity of tumbling before the boy stopped.  With slow and pained movement's, he stood. A cascade of dirt fell from the boy like rain and a crown of dead leaves stuck wildly from his limp brown curls, the pungent smell of decay over powered his senses.  The boy whimpered as he looked up at the slope. It was too steep for him to climb, nonetheless he tried. Visions of Banshees and the cruel abhartach trailed in the darkness that spread out beneath the woods. The boy heard wailing and he did not know where it came from. The moon had decided to come out then, full and mocking, peeking through wisps of clouds and casting ghastly shadows through the canopy. It made the fog glow and come alive with creatures of the night.

"I'm not afraid!" Sobbing, the boy grabbed a stick and waved it around wildly at the darkness. Limping he tried to follow the path of the slope, branches grabbed him and he was soon separated from it. Tears stung cuts on his cheeks and his body ached. The boy's eyes danced wildly, everything looked the same. The dark silhouettes of twisted trees, monstrous ferns and rotting wood towered over him, looking down on him with disapproval. How dare he intrude on the sanctity of this place. How dare he.

With blurry eyes and clumsy feet, the boy stumbled upon the grove. He collapsed beneath the roots of an ancient tree, the moss that covered the ground was soft as a cushion. I'll just rest a bit, The boy thought, overcome. It was strangely warm here. It was the warmth that stirred the boy. Golden beads of sap seeped from the ground, steeping the small hollow in a light that affixed itself to his eyes like a film. The sweet smell of nectar dripped from the air, alongside spiced savoury smells. The boy felt his hunger sated in a single breath. He felt that he should be scared, but he couldn't be. Songs full of unknown words filled his ears, soft as the babbling of a brook lilting in a strange but familiar tongue. The ground stirred and fungus pushed through the leaf litter unfurling like great big dinner plates, the boy's vision swum as he took in the feast set out before him.

There where pyramids of honeycomb, dripping onto woven mats piled with wafers, glazed tartlets and golden pastries. Queer looking fruits littered the setting carelessly amongst piles of mushrooms steaming in their juices. A crock full of berries and of reddest stolen cherries drowned in thickened cream sat closest to him. The boy's small pale hand hovered, falteringly before he reached for it. He'd heard the stories, once you ate something of theirs, you were lost. In his mind's eye, he saw his Ma, she was already lost. Just a different kind of lost, he thought sadly. So was his Da. The boy put the fruit to his mouth.