The city boy glanced out the window at the long, thin trunks that rose from the ground like giant weeds. This was his first time seeing a forest. He had arrived last night in the dark, when those impossibly tall structures were simply imposing shadows. He hated them even more now, seeing them exposed in the early morning light. He preferred his city, with the stone and brick buildings that had an end point high up. These trees, at least what he could see of them, never ended. They just rose up to the heavens, making the boy feel impossibly small and invisible, unworthy of such grand majesticism.

Shiloh, it’s time to get up.

The boy jerked his head toward his mother’s familiar voice. She was standing just before the entrance to his new room. Despite her short, stout stature, she loomed above him, as towering and imposing as those trees outside his window. Silently he obeyed her command, pushing the covers from his neck as he reached for the flannel nightshirt that dangled from the near bedpost. He pulled it over his head and walked toward his mother, but she gave a guttural tsk of disapproval. He glanced down at his bare feet and then wound his gaze around all four corners of his new room before hanging his head in a desperate show of dejection, anticipating the admonishing words that were soon to flow at him like an angry swarm of honeybees.

Where are your slippers, young man?

Shiloh managed to respond with a weary shrug, an ill-mannered gesture his mother would likely misinterpret for apathy.

A smart boy. Top of his class he is. But he can’t seem to remember where he put his slippers.

His mother left the room with a scowl spread across her face, her movements brisk and hurried as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him any longer. Shiloh shuffled after her, his bare soles scuffing against the tarnished floorboards.

Don’t go dragging your feet like that. You may be a city boy, but you ain’t no lazy good-for-nothin’.

He made his way to the kitchen table, the sting of his mother’s reprimand boiling at the surface and coloring his pale cheeks red. His mother was a rural lady born and raised, full of strength, sensibility, and utility. Shiloh was the opposite. A city boy, his body slight and underdeveloped for a twelve-year-old and his mind filled with worthless words and ideas. Where his mother was robust and capable, Shiloh was asthmatic and futile. A day dreamer in a pragmatic world, soft even for the intellectual idealism of the big city. 

Always in that damn head of yours.

His mother’s wide frame stood before him, placing a bowl of steaming porridge under his downturned chin. A sweet, creamy sent rose from the colorless mush. He glanced up at his mother and saw a rare smile cross her face.

I know this move has been hard on you so I made it special today, like on your birthday.

She turned to the counter and began banging about, doing what mothers do in the kitchen. Shiloh brought his attention back to the steaming bowl. With great impatience, he gave many rapid-fire blows at the visible curls of steam, disrupting their spiraling, upward movement. His mother soon spoke through her banging.

Quit all that huffin’ and puffin’ would ya.  

Shiloh’s stomach was grumbling and his mouth was impatient to taste whatever sweet and creamy substance his mother had put into the bowl. But he conceded, slouching his shoulders while he waited for the steam to blow away. As he stared in front of him, his sight began to blur and his mind quickly reverted to what it did best: imagining a life worth imagining. He was in New York City, an ancient nineteen-year-old living in ramshackle conditions, an attic room with just a desk and sofa and a few spare feet to pace about. Impossibly poor, but paving his way in the creative and intellectual scenes nonetheless. A Raskolnikov-like figure; a character he once read in a book, a book he couldn’t quite understand. It was a story about a man in a faraway time and a faraway place. He came across the work when he saw a tall, lanky guy with round, rimless glasses and a frayed, oversized sweater scan through it in a store. He admired that disheveled intellectual. Wished to be like him, even. So he stole the book — the only thing he ever stole, other than a pack of chewing gum — and took what he could of the man that day. With the treasure tucked under his arm, he rushed back to his apartment and locked himself in his room, reading the small print under his quilted blanket with the aid of a flashlight. Most of the sentences passed through his brain like empty slates. But even so, he read the five-hundred-or-so page tome, taking what he could understand from it and leaving the rest for later.

Aren’t you gonna eat? I can hear that little stomach of yours grumblin’ away.

Shiloh turned his attention back onto the steaming bowl, his stomach hollow but his interest in food no longer piqued. He brought a spoonful of creamy porridge to his lips and slurped at the mushed contents. 

Is it to your liking?

Shiloh gave a scant nod, hardly noticing the sweetener or cream that was added. His mother gave another disapproving tsk and turned her back on him, resuming her motherly task of banging about the kitchen. Even at twelve, Shiloh was wise enough to know that his silence was irritating. But he avowed to himself then that if he were to ever have a wife, she would damn well know not to expect any outward affection from him if she did something nice without his outright asking for it.

Don’t expect me to go out of my way doing nice things for you if this is how you gonna act.

Shiloh pushed his bowl aside and jumped up from the chair.

Now where do you think you’re goin’?

Out.

Out! A city boy like you wanderin’ alone in the wilderness with all those big creatures lurkin’ about.

Shiloh swiveled on his heels.

You said the city was too dangerous so we left. And now you say the same about here.

His mother’s disapproving tsk turned into an aggrieved humph.

The world is dangerous, my boy. I’m trying to teach you that. But maybe you need to learn it on your own.

He crossed his arms and prepared to give a last, curt remark.

Maybe so. 

He swiveled back on his heels and made his way out the front door, exiting into the space where those imposing structures stood. Tilting his head far back, he examined the fuzzy line where the sky and forest canopy converged. In broad daylight, he could distinguish the point where the trees met their end. But he couldn’t see the frightening creatures lurking within.

Glancing down, he saw his red slippers dangling off the edge of the raised portico, hovering precariously above a dirt mound. He slipped them on and made his first step into foreign lands that were now his home. He would have to move quickly to take leave of the old, three room shack before his grandmother returned, as he could disobey his mother but not her elder, for her fingers could pinch with the viciousness of a crusher claw and her words could sting like the prick of a banded hornet.

With nimble feet, he made his way down the sloping path and entered the forest, exposing himself to the danger that lay within.

***

Adira was sitting at the table, watching Joy rub her hands together with such vigor it was as if she were trying to wring her body of all its water, leaving behind only dry, crusted bones. Adira wanted to smack her daughter upside her chin and wrest out the cityness that had been bread into her since she left with that good-for-nuthin’ grifter. That prick had left Joy high and dry at four months pregnant, when she couldn’t mask her growing tummy for what it was. Why her daughter had stayed in that hellish place for so long was beyond Adira. Maybe she was afraid of being the brunt of town talk and wanted to save herself the pity and the stares and the I told you so’s. For she was a proud woman, her only daughter. Proud to a fault.

And now all that pride had made her son run from her, like his father. He had left in a huff at breakfast, just when that insolent daughter of hers had put aside enough pride to come home and admit defeat. But after twelve years, Joy wasn’t what she remembered her to be. Her body was still strong and stout, yet her mind was anxious and weak, broken from all that city noise and smog. Adira believed it was infectious and that, if she were to spend too much time with her daughter, she too would lose the good sense and wits she had about her.

You’re weak, Joy. Weak.

Joy stopped wringing her hands.

That’s the best you can say to me after all these years. And when my son’s gone missing all day.

Adira straightened her back and crossed her arms.

Yep, that’s the best I got. You have to toughen up. Get back to your country roots.

Joy matched Adira’s rigid posture. But on her daughter it appeared guarded, a defensive hold rather than an offensive maneuver.

If you wanted me to be strong, why’d you give me such a weak name? Your name means strong and look how you turned out.

Adira scoffed and gripped her dry elbows, tightening the cross in her arms.

Well, you ain’t exactly joyful. Pretty much the opposite of it, if you ask me.

Adira had mumbled this under her breath and Joy, with her bad hearing from all that city noise, hadn’t caught even a whiff of her curt words.

I might not’ve heard what you said. But I can tell it ain’t pretty toward me.

Adira responded with a tsk, a habit her own daughter seemed to have taken to.

So there ain’t no one here that can help us find my boy?

Nope. It’s just you and me for now. But don’t you fret. We’ll go searchin’ again at first daylight tomorrow.

Joy leaned forward, her wide bosom spilling out onto the table’s rough edge.

What about sheriff John?

Adira gave a bitter snicker and released her arms from their tight hold.

That old man! Sure, when he ain’t sippin’ at his whisky.

Joy leaned back with a disappointed scowl.

I can’t lose this boy, ma. He’s all I got.  

Oh yeah. And what about your mother?

Ma, he’s my only son.

Adira lessened the ire behind her angry glare. She had five children, one daughter and four sons, and none of them remained nearby. Two had passed and the rest had moved on to bigger towns and cities. It’s the reason she had spent all these years trying to cajole Joy, her most dutiful child, to return home. But it didn’t seem that home was home to Joy anymore.

Look, you’re makin’ a big deal of this. The boy is strong and smart, stronger and smarter than you give him credit for.

Joy shook her head.

You hardly know him, ma.

And whose fault is that? But I’ll tell you something, I have a soft spot for him already. Just from last night. And besides, the kid needs adventure. How else will he learn those tough lessons that’ll make him a real man.

Adira slapped her leg, bringing force to her reproach. But worry clouded Joy’s amber eyes, coloring them like an oxidized penny. Adira realized that sleep was the only option left to calm her daughter’s distraught nerves. She rose from the table — her brittle, old bones cracking in protest from a long day on her feet — and limped toward the cupboard where she kept her medicine. From the bottom shelf she grabbed a glass bottle filled with white, round pills. She brought it to the table, twisted the metal cap, and placed one under Joy’s nose.

What’s this for?

Sleep.

Joy gave a disgruntled tsk, her wary gaze fixed on the snakelike S that was etched into the compact powder.

My kid’s alone in the middle of a dark forest he’s got no bearings of. I ain’t gonna sleep.

Don’t be so stubborn and take the goddamn pill.

As if she were a child, no older than her missing boy, Joy tightened her lips and turned to the far wall.

So be it. I’m going to bed. I ain’t gonna be of no use tonight. And I sure won’t be of use to that boy all grouchy and tired in the morning.

Adira shuffled her old bones to the corner room. Once inside, she pushed the door back so that only an inch showed between the frayed edge and the frame. She figured that if Joy slept at all, she would prefer to be in her son’s room, but she wanted to invite her daughter into her bed without show or pretense.

With aching, groaning muscles, Adira changed into a nightgown and lowered herself onto the firmest part of the doughy mattress. Staring up at the dark shadows above, she began to picture her daughter’s stout body lying on the narrow bed in the spare room. The image brought a rare smile to her old, wrinkled lips and she was able to close her eyes with ease, bringing a merry end to such a trying day.

***

Shiloh awoke curled up in a ball. His head was propped up on a mossy log and his clothes were damp with morning dew. From the sparse openings in the forest canopy above, light fell upon him like a million pins pricking deep into the center of his constricted pupils. He felt alive. Strong, capable, and alive. He had survived a day and night on his own, lost in an unfamiliar and eerie woodland. A city boy, but a clever one nonetheless.

He sat up and rubbed the dirt from his flannel nightshirt and scratched the wet earth from his scalp. As if this action animated his thoughts, he warily glanced around for any big, scary creatures lurking about. But all he saw were the looming trees, no less imposing than before. With youthful, nimble joints he jumped up and dove past the low hanging branches, heedless of the shallow scratches forming on his skin. He felt tough and emboldened within the marrow of his bones. Nothing could get him now — big or small.

He pushed his way through the prickly thicket with daring gumption, the grumbling of his empty stomach hardly registering against the noise of his newfound pride. By the time he made it to a clearing, the sun had reached its zenith and the early morning chill had transitioned into a sweltering mist. He wiped his forehead with the back of his palm and continued onward, his hand shielding his eyes from the bright sting of high-noon. When he reached the clearing’s end, he sat underneath the shade of a Sycamore tree and rested his tired feet. He was still wearing his red slippers, which were now caked in black muck and dotted with holes. If he ever did find his way back home, he would never hear the end of it from his mother. He sighed and laid across the tree’s shadow, his head grazing the base of the wide trunk. Closing his eyes, he let his hunger settle and allowed his mind to wander off into a dreamless void.

When he woke up, the sun hung low in the sky. In the city, he had block numbers and street names to point him in the right direction. But here, where nothing was named and everything just was, he had no signifier to orient himself. Remembering that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, he squinted up at the sky and tried to recall where the sun was placed before he dozed off. He figured that it was several inches to the right of the Sycamore tree as he walked toward it. He stood, shuffled a few feet ahead, and turned to face the tree. The sun was now several inches to the left. This would indicate that he was facing north, with west to his left and east to his right. He didn’t know which direction his grandmother’s house was in, but he was left-handed and had a predisposition to everything not right as his mother would say. So he chose left. With proud shoulders, he stepped back into the entangled woodland.

He trekked westward, stomping a path through unmarked territory. The canopy of trees above blocked most of the sun’s light and all he could hear was the loquacious chirping of birds high up. There was no sound of any big, scary creatures nearby, so he was beginning to believe that his mother was simply a worrywart. He laughed at that thought, the sound of his voice unfamiliar, lost and meandering within the slippery interstices of the dense woodland. But midway through the laugh, he noticed a steady rustle above the bird’s chirping. He froze, afraid that a slithering animal like a snake or wild cat was lurking nearby. Once his nerves calmed, he realized that what he was listening to was the murmuring purl of a stream. Relief coursed through him and he ran, tripping over a log and scratching his exposed skin even more. But he got right back up and ran once again, slowly this time and with greater caution, in the direction of the burbling stream.

Moments later he found himself standing atop a low but steep cliff. Water gushed at a fast pace below. With firm footing, he made his way down the rocky slope, tripping onto his hands but twice. At the bottom, he dropped to all fours and ducked his lips to the cool, refreshing stream. He drank for quite some time, greedily sucking up water so that the front of his shirt was not just damp from dew and sweat but dripping wet. When he was satisfied, he gave a great big sigh and lay supine on the dirt ground.

A thin clearing in the tree canopy let in the harsh light, allowing the sun to beat down on him with a stinging intensity, drawing the moisture out of his wet clothes. He gave another satisfied sigh and closed his eyes. But now that his thirst was quenched, a sharp pain placed low at his abdomen reminded him of his hunger. With a sudden jerk, he flung himself upright. His fevered gaze met the enticing scarlet of a berry bush on the far bank. Rays of sunlight happened to hit across the shoots, causing the bush to coruscate against the verdant surroundings like a deity come to earth.

As if he were in a trance, he raised himself onto his feet and began to wade through the stream. At the deepest point, it reached his belly button, drenching the bottom half of his flannel nightshirt and nearly knocking him down into the quick-moving current. But he managed to climb onto the opposite bank on all fours, panting and famished. In an excited stupor, he crawled to the scarlet bush and reached for a branch. He tore off several berries with his mouth as if he were eating a cluster of grapes straight from the bunch stem. While he chewed, a bitter substance filled his mouth, but he continued to mash the berries between his teeth as he tore off another four with his fingers, balancing them on his open palm.

He took a second to study the vibrant cluster in his palm, mulling over whether he should swallow the mush he was holding in his mouth. After a moment of contemplation, his reasoning came to this: what his mother warned him about were big, scary, hulking creatures like the trees he was kneeling beneath. So these small, innocent berries — although deathly bitter — shouldn’t be a danger to him. Besides, it was always the sweet tasting things his mother disapproved of. He swallowed the pulpy remains and went about eating the rest of the branch one berry at a time, imagining the pride his mother would feel when he found his way back, a good country boy with a clear understanding of what was a danger and what was merely disguised as one. He already could envision his first words to his mother, brought to her with learned wisdom:

Mama. I realize what you were trying to tell me all along. It’s the big things that count.

But as he spoke this thought out loud, he retched, spilling the scarlet mush right at the scratched, muddied soles of his bare feet.

His red slippers were gone.

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