The Heart of the Forest

Tonight I had such a strange encounter that I must write it down, though I swore to tell nobody.

It is not as though I can scarcely believe it, for here is a twig in my hair and tomorrow morning I’m sure I will find the forest dirt on my boots by the door.

I walked in the moonlit Peerdsbos that borders our town. I have done so many times, but tonight I paused – for how could there be a faint green glow on the trees to my right? There in the woods stood I, where the canopy blocked the moonlight, and I saw the green strengthen on each trunk as I looked deeper into the forest. It wavered slightly on the grass, and on my hand when I placed it against a trunk. A light, then.

But from where? I stepped off the path to get nearer, following the deepening green. I fancied myself a fish in emerald-lit waters and I hoped I was not heading for a net.

It was not long before I stepped around a trunk and there! Sitting cross-legged on an enormous root, a tiny man. I could not tell what colour his clothes were: bare feet, stockings, shirt and hat were washed green with the light that shone from beneath the roots of the giant tree behind him.

I venture that his beard was dark. It parted in teeth; he grinned at me.

“Welcome, small human.” Well! That wouldn’t have seemed quite fair, coming from him. Except, he spoke with such an accent as I had never heard before. “Well, you have found the light, so I suppose you have some qualifications to know the fairy folk. Yes, yes, yes – ” (I must have looked surprised) “– isn’t it obvious?”

I had nothing to say.

“Now. Have a good look. Come closer if you like. This is the forest’s heart that few are privileged to see, and I am its guardian. While it is alive will the forest live also.”

I walked a few steps further and peered into a little valley made by two shining roots. Light filled it; it was like a lake. A silent lake. I heard no sound in the grove, yet I – I felt some music, some kind of song, I am sure.

“Good,” said the little man. “You must promise never to tell anyone – not a soul – about this place or this encounter. If you don’t promise, we will have to take the memory… and we might make it very difficult for you to find the path again.”

Well, I must have promised, because I came to myself walking on the path, quite near to the start of the forest. I came straight home.

I believe I did promise. For I am determined never to tell.

…

“He never told me that story,” said Franz, eyes still fixed on his grandfather’s signature.

“It looks like there are a few stories he might not have told us,” said Rosa from the sofa. Before her on the coffee table sat a cat-sized wooden chest, lid open, within which lay a trove of envelopes and bits of paper: collected tales of a lifetime.

Some stories Franz had heard – the fairy waterfall in America, where fairy laughter and music could be heard on a full moon. The hag-like creature that chased his grandfather through a field in Germany. But now he realised the chest might contain stories Bompa had never told anyone. Not even Franz.

He flipped the note over and writing caught his eye: “Franz. I have left this here on the top of the pile. This story started all my adventures with the fairies, and I hope it inspires you too. Forgive me. Bompa.” He slipped the note into his pocket.

A thought occurred to him.

“Wait – now we know about the light,” he said. “Don’t you think that counts as him telling us?”

His sister peered into her hot chocolate. With a teaspoon she fished out a melted marshmallow. “Well, he’s dead, isn’t he? Bit beyond any fairy’s reach now.” She grinned, dropped the marshmallow back into the mug, and knelt over the case, fluttering her fingers. “Another one?”

A warm breeze tickled the back of Franz’s neck and rustled the papers in the chest. He went to the window.

““At last. I had waited many years to see – ”” Rosa began to read.

“Not tonight.” Franz locked the window with a snap.

…

“Burn it.” The voice rasped, scraped Franz from sleep. “Burn the letter.”

Green shone through Franz’s eyelids. His fingers clutched damp, fallen leaves. He sat up.

What wasn’t in darkness was lit by emerald light that streamed from the base of a giant tree trunk: bare feet (his own, Franz realised), swollen roots, and a bearded, wizened little man scowling down at Franz with a mug clutched in his hands.

“Burn it, and promise never to repeat the tale in any form.”

A period followed – Franz couldn’t tell how long, it was as though it didn’t matter – of wavering green and darkness, and the creature’s wrinkled glare.

“Good…” the little man said. “But your sister – Oh, yes, they told us about her too, the fairies did! You had your window open, you know… Your sister didn’t promise. Goodbye.”

…

Franz opened his eyes to sunlight and fumbled for his mobile phone.

“Franz! Oe w’est?”

“Listen, Rosa, ah… Did you have a weird dream last night? About Bompa’s story?” A watery snort came from the other end. And spluttering. Finally,

“Which one, dear?” Franz blinked. “Oh, by the way,” she continued, “we really should get together to read those stories in the chest. I was thinking about it all day yesterday. You haven’t started without me, have you?”

Franz got up. He went to the living room. There on the coffee table was the chest, key protruding from the lock. On the lid was a folded piece of yellow paper.

“Hey!” He jumped. “Helooooo?” Rosa’s voice spoke to his thigh, where his phone hand had dropped.

“Ah, yeah – ” he said, then remembered he needed to speak into the receiver.

“So, what dream am I supposed to have had?”

“Forget it…” When he’d fobbed her off and hung up, Franz went to the window. He looked through the glass across the fields to the Peerdsbos that remained.

The treetops, rich green, waved at the sun.