No Longer Alone

The old, browning journal pages whisper quietly as I flick through, viewing the fine drawings written in ink upon them. The complex odour of decaying paper teases my nostrils. It's one I love dearly, awakening a tide of memories, like Old Mother, many lessons she’d shared with me, and the countless adventures through The Greatwood I’ve embarked on alone. Each picture I glance over represents one such occasion, all of the creatures I’ve encountered, and a wordy caption beneath describes in brilliant depth every detail the previous could not: the weather, time of day, sounds, or taste on the wind. Even I am impressed. The entry is found rather quickly, though I feel compelled to count down the remaining pages. I turn gently back to the twenty-first when I finish. A smile weakens the stiff mask of my concentration and I’m suddenly aware of the tension in my neck. Green eyes glance up briefly to match the tangible image to my record. Before me stands an enormous redwood (in truth, there are many). Snow moss, of course, is snow moss, but it appears to lie thickest at this tree. The padded tip of my otherwise bony index finger drags a downward path along the paper, following the sketched line of a dissimilar larch tree until its base vanishes beneath a blanket of snow moss (I have struggled, a little, to depict it). The bottom third of the page makes up for this, however. Along with a thorough description, I read quickly about the arrival of a porcupine and how the creature had sprawled stomach down upon the moss, fleeing only when I'd stepped from cover to understand the attraction for myself. The feeling of astonishment returns easily as I recall the instant my sweaty palm caressed the  strange plant for the first time and suddenly I’m grinning, cheeks flushed red with the same  heat; today, I wasn’t nearly so naive. There’s no sign of that porcupine now, or any other animal for that matter. Hair prickles down both of my arms and I feel suddenly cold. Wildwood has grown eerily quiet all the while my thoughts were distracted and I fall from those with a start. My thighs feel weary beneath the awkward weight of my torso, the right more so than the left, and I lean heavily against the fork in the thin, old branch that’s my aide. The shadows grow long around me. It is late in the afternoon. I’ve been out the whole day and Mother will worry when I don’t return home before dark.