nigelcampbell
Woodland Folk
Once upon a time, the mushroom children awoke beneath a stormy sky to discover that their parents had disappeared. In the early morning light, they looked under every mushroom cap, and turned over every leaf that had fallen from the few trees that still stood tall in the forest. Though they listened for the sound of voices o’er the heathered moors and the sloped green hills that surrounded them, they heard but the sad wee-snaw of a lonely donkey, and the occasional bleat of a lost lamb.
And yet, looking down on the valley from the brow of a hill near the old chapel, though they knew they were alone, they were not afraid. The very brightness of their frocks beat back their cloudy thoughts, and the sunflower yellow of their silken capes kept them warm in the cool wind. They looked at one another, and across the moors again to the village, and decided, without exchanging a single word, that their parents had simply gone for a long walk.
Mid-day, they ventured into the woodland, gathering mushrooms to present to them upon their return: blue-legs, hedgehogs, and satyr’s beards, cloud ears, hawk’s wings, and fairy rings. Along the way, the youngest girl stopped to make a crown of flowers, then offered it to the eldest, who placed it atop another sister’s head, since, queen-like, she already held a fine bouquet of red roses. The boys wrestled skeins of ivy from the trunks of trees, weaving them into the knots of their cravats, and around the pearl buttons of their little-man vests. Tuckered out, they napped for a while, and dreamed of mushroom omelets, and a mushroom quiche, and a thick and steamy mushroom stew.
After a while, they woke up very hungry, raindrops falling like sugar from a box over a bowl, fine and fast, weighing down their eyelashes, leaving dry their clothes and their hair. They were dizzy with the smell of mushrooms and butter, with the smoke from the fire mixing with their father’s tobacco, their mother’s scent sweeter than strawberry jam.
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