“Michael! Get up here. Right now!”

Sprawled sideways on the sofa, his feet making muddy imprints on the wall, Mike glanced at the stairs but then turned back to his handheld video game.

“MICHAEL! I MEAN NOW!”

“But Mom! I’m about to capture the Demon of Destruction! And I can’t save this game.”

“If you don’t get up the stairs by the time I count to four, I’m going to throw that game in the trash…ONE….”

Mike sighed heavily. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” He shuffled upstairs.

His mom glowered at him from the middle of his room. Before Mike could say anything or even raise his eyebrows, she gestured impatiently with both hands at the birds’ nests, logs, bones, feathers, rocks, and other treasures Mike had carried home from the woods and dumped helter-skelter across every more or less flat surface—rug, bed, shelves, and things already on the shelves, like his CD player.

His mother’s eyes were slits. “I told you to pick up.”

Mike quashed an impulse to shrug. Instead he pleaded. “But Mom. Why do I always have to pick up my room? None of my friends do. Their moms say as long as they keep it in their rooms, they don’t care about the mess. And this isn’t even a mess, Mom! I know where everything is.”

“First of all, Mike, you know I don’t care what the other moms do. Secondly, you do not keep it in your room; I find dirty clumps of this junk from the woods all over the house. It’s important for you to have some sense of order. Messes like this can get out of control. And then where would you be?”

“Huh? I’d be right here.”

“Don’t get smart with me, young man. You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t Mom. I don’t get it. How can it be a problem for me, if it doesn’t bother me at all? You’re the one that’s bothered.”

His mother tilted her head to one side, staring thoughtfully at him.

“Okay, Mike,” she said after a few moments. “If it doesn’t bother you at all, never mind. Pile it up in here however you want. Just keep it out of the rest of the house.”

She stepped past him and went downstairs before he could reply. Was she angry? She didn’t sound it. But she wasn’t happy, either. She sounded . . . worried, that was it.

Well, she didn’t need to be. Mike pumped a fist into the air. He didn’t have to pick up his room any more!

And now he could go out to the woods even earlier.

Later that day, Mike smiled as he settled on the branch of his favorite tree—a huge, old oak. He felt sealed off from the rest of the world by the dense greenery surrounding him.

His back suddenly stiffened and he drew in a sharp breath. For a moment the shifting, lustrous leaves of the tree had looked exactly like a face, a man’s face, staring at him.

It was gone now. Mike scanned the branches.

“Huh. Guess I was staring in one spot too long or something,” he muttered.

He leaned back and tried to relax again. But when a strong breeze rustled the leaves near him, Mike jumped. He climbed down out of the tree and shook himself. Taking a deep breath, he decided to walk down to the creek. He stepped around the tree’s massive trunk and almost screamed.

A man stood there, staring at him. A man covered from head to toe in shiny green leaves. No, not covered. They were growing on him, or out of him. Even on his face. His dark eyes looked like two small tunnels into the foliage. He was grinning at Mike, a shadowy, toothless grin.

Mike closed his eyes and bit the inside of his lip. When he opened them though, he was still in the woods facing the green man, not home in bed.

“Wh-who are you?” he asked.

The green man’s grin broadened. He extended his arms and clapped once with his large, knobby brown hands. Grass shot up from the forest floor, wildflowers unfolding and blossoming throughout. It was like watching one of those stop-action documentaries on the Nature channel where they show months of growth in a few seconds. Vivid butterflies fluttered all around them; the trilling of what sounded like hundreds of birds filled the forest. Wow, cool, thought Mike. A heady fragrance suffused the air; Mike’s skin tingled and his heart pounded faster when he inhaled.

The green man turned and headed toward the creek. Mike followed. He wasn’t sure he could choose otherwise.

As they moved through the woods, birds, rabbits, foxes, deer, and more, slipped out from the trees and flitted, hopped, trotted and bounded alongside. Mike smiled at the scurrying chipmunks, but grew nervous when a large black bear lumbered out to join the growing throng.

His nervousness intensified when dozens of green-skinned men and women, dressed all in green, with vine leaves twined in their brown hair, joined them. Most were smiling but their faces looked ferocious. No, not ferocious, just utterly wild. They didn’t look like they would tear you apart on purpose, but they might do it accidentally.

When they reached the creek, Mike’s eyes widened. The formerly burbling little stream had swelled to a rushing torrent. Darting through the water were schools of brilliant fish—like goldfish, but all the colors of the rainbow. What kind of fish were those? Where did they come from? He looked up. His head swam at the sight that met his eyes.

Jewel-like birds, the same colors as the fish, flew through the air—air that now shimmered as though it were filled with gold dust. The green-skinned men and women were scattered everywhere, some lolling under the trees, others perched in the branches. Broad flat leaves piled with fruit, and large jugs of what looked like wine had appeared and they were feasting and drinking. A tall green woman laughed as she stuffed berries into the mouth of a green man lying in her lap, dark juice dribbling down his jaws and cheeks.

Some of them formed a circle and started dancing. Strange howling music played, although Mike couldn’t see players or instruments. As he watched the dancers spin, faster and faster, his skin turned clammy and his stomach felt like it was rising. He remembered with an unpleasant rush the last time he was carsick.

Behind the dancers it looked like . . . were the animals also dancing? Mike squinted as he tried to get a better view. They were threading their way deliberately through the tree trunks. It did look like some kind of dance.

The music doubled its volume, throbbing in Mike’s head; the dancers now were a blur of teeth, hair, and green. Someone caught him by the hand and he was drawn into the fierce circle. He caught a glimpse of the green leaf man standing in the center of everything, his hands and leafy face raised up to the sky. His mouth was open wide, something green—more leaves?—tumbling out of it.

Mike jerked and tried to break away. The hands holding his tightened their grip. Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head back; a burning drink was poured down his throat. It instantly made him delirious, like the time he had a fever of 104 degrees. Somewhere deep inside him, far away from the maelstrom, a tiny voice urged him to go, get out of here, this is not for you, you can’t handle it. Using all his strength Mike desperately tried to wrench himself free of the whirling circle. He heard cackles and a low rumble of laughter that sounded like thunder. The dancers caught him by the legs as well as the arms, pulling and pulling, his limbs stretched out; if they pulled harder his shoulder bones and thigh bones might pop out of their sockets.

The dancers pulled harder.

The wild laughter swelled in volume, blotting out all other sound as Mike’s mind went black.

When he awoke, he was lying sprawled at the edge of the forest as though he’d been thrown there. A memory of the frenzied dance bubbled up and Mike tried to jump to his feet, but his muscles were stiff and he fell. After taking several shuddering breaths on his hands and knees, Mike got up slowly. The woods were at his back, and directly in front of him, across the meadow, was his home. He set off for it with careful, cramped steps, like an arthritic, old man.

As he drew near, Mike noticed his mother on her knees working in the garden. He stopped and watched her.

A fat bumblebee buzzed past him, landing on a purple coneflower and crawling to its rust-orange center. The sharp, peppery smell of the tomato plants drifted over, making his mouth water as he imagined biting deep into one of the heavy, red globes.

For the first time ever, Mike considered the hours and hours of disciplined work his mom had put into preparing the soil, weeding, planting, watering, and digging. Her methodical labor resulted in these ordered beds brilliant with color, rich with fragrance, laden with fruit and vegetables.

He felt like he had seen the garden every day, but never really seen it before.

His mom turned. “Oh, hi there. Did you have fun in the woods?”

Mike swallowed.

“It was okay,” he said. “Your garden looks great, Mom.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise and she stopped what she was doing. “Well. Thank you.” She gestured with her dirt-caked trowel. “Help yourself to some cherry tomatoes.”

She watched him limp over to a cluster. “Mike, hon, are you all right?” she asked. “Did you get hurt?”

“No, no. I’m fine, Mom.” Mike pulled several firm cherry tomatoes off their stems. They were warm from the sun. “I just . . . I overdid it today, that’s all. I think I’ll go inside now, okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” she replied. “You’d better go lie down and rest.”

About an hour later, Mike’s mom went inside and washed up. She went upstairs to Mike’s room to check on him—perhaps he was coming down with something.

Outside his closed door she took a deep breath, bracing herself for the visual chaos inside. She knocked lightly.

“Come in,” Mike said. His mom pushed the door open and gasped.

Everything was picked up. His bed and the floor were clear. That was the first surprise. Then Mike’s mom looked across at the shelves lining one wall of his room.

Mike had sorted everything he’d ever brought home from the woods on them. Groups of birds’ nests, some thick and armored with mud, others delicately woven together; many-colored stones; the papery curves of a cast off snakeskin; the architectural wonder of a honeycomb; flowers and leaves he had pressed and dried—it was a beautiful display.

“Michael,” she said, stepping inside the room. “This is . . . this is . . .”

Mike grinned at his mother’s loss of words.

“These things you’ve collected,” she continued, walking over to the shelves and picking up several intricately patterned feathers. “They’re wonderful. I couldn’t really see them before . . .” she broke off, biting her lower lip. I will not say I told you so, I will not, she thought.

“Yeah, neither could I,” Mike said. “Before today.”

His grin widened as he realized his mom would probably take the credit for his room’s new look. He shrugged and glanced out the window past his mother’s garden, its vivid colors glowing in the late afternoon sun, at the dark green boughs of the woods, shifting in a strong breeze. They were both beautiful, each in its own way, the cultivated garden and the wild woods. Mike chuckled as he realized something; his mom was kind of responsible for him putting his things in order.

“Well,” his mother paused, unsure what to say next. “Would you like to come downstairs for a snack?”

Mike nodded. “In a minute, Mom,” he said. “There’s just a little more stuff I want to arrange.”

The End

Dorothy Imm moved so often when she was growing up that she doesn't know where she's from. She currently lives in Ohio in a house that is usually full of children, and always full of books. She loves hero
tales, myths, and magical stories, and recently finished her first fantasy novel for children. She has published stories and poetry inKidVisions Webzine, which you can find at http://www.samsdotpublishing.com/contents.htm.

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