BOXCRUSH by N.M.Sirett

BOXCRUSH©

By N. M. Sirett ©

All Rights Reserved©

This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All stories are adult stories 18+

A Fairy Tale for Adults

1

Here is a box. As white as eggshells. As soft as unpeeled skin. Small like the pocket on a child’s apron. Here are its walls. Flawless, like a charm worn around a sorceress’ neck. A delicate floor, fine as swan’s down, with a rayon tread, opening onto whiteness. A blank canvas. The ceiling curls to kiss me.

Here I AM – raw like the sun. I twitch and twirl in the space. I do it so slowly, you shall barely notice my tactile appeal but stroke this silk, and you’ll soon see…

Movement is limited. But soon the space shifts. I shift too. I am moved with great care, and warmth comes. It is fire, burning. The space expands to let in the heat. Logs crackle and there is colour and light.

I blink, and drink in the flames. Flickering yellows and golds. Tame is the blaze. Contained in the tight space where we meet.

Again, the box stretches. Allowing room for another. A presence, alien to me, inside this box. Was it here before? Before me? It rocks. It rocks and rocks and rocks.

What is it? I peer through two bleary pinpricks. It is like squinting through needle holes or gaps inside dust motes. Watching from a brand-new visage. Back and forth, side to side, ensconced in softness – wide, drawn long. Gently, we sway. Me and the presence. I name it The Entity.

Rocking, I am lulled. Heavy is the lid of this box. Languid is the breath inside it. Back and forth and side to side. Rock, rock, rock. Ssh…

Sounds breeze in like gently blown snowdrifts and grace both shells. Those shiny little caverns on either side of my vision.  

Back and forth… I am sleepy… side to side… two little kittens have lost their mittens…

There is a picture book inside the box. Illuminated by the hearth’s glow. Its pages licked with an amber tongue. Images dance in the flickering shadows. Symbols are scrawled enigmatically across its leaves – to me they are jumbled and obscure. But the pictures tell a story. And I learn what cats are.

The box distends and rooms appear. There are corridors and windows that let in the light. There is, I can see now, an outside to the box. There is a front and a back. And the inside goes up, disappears into triangles. What is this? I am unsure.

I grow a little too. My movement, my sense of autonomy over my tiny self is growing. I can hold things. These things… are… objects. And there are many things, I see them now. To get about the box I must climb up and hold on, gripping with the matter moulded into long shapes. It is useful to have the long shapes that wiggle at the end of long, fleshy strips. These are part of me and they help me to grasp the objects when I move. I am pleased to operate the strips and the long, fleshy shapes, for they prevent falls.

But sometimes I go down. And when I do, The Entity catches me and I land somewhere soft. Everything is OK again, inside this box. Except… that it’s not. Because when I fall, The Entity does not allow me to freely explore the box for some time, and I am restricted to a sharp corner. I don’t like the corner. It is dark there. And it is cold.

This is when I learn ‘control’.

As yet, I do not understand its power source. But I can sense its presence, here in the box. An unseen force that resides within the walls of this box – and The Entity. Is it, then, the power hub?

Whatever it is, it powers restriction. Yet it is presented to me in the form of a friend. I have not yet learnt what ‘friend’ means. But I do learn that ‘restriction’ is there for my own good: to prevent my falls. So it is supposed to be my friend, but it feels only like restraint and nothing else. Is a friend a restraint? Is goodness only a form of control? And what is this driving force behind it? Where is it coming from?

Like exploration, like gripping objects, like clinging to available things, I am not yet ready to conceive it all. Not on any level.

Sometimes there is another being inside the box. A large creature, forceful and strong, and very, very tall. This being often lifts the control. I am free again to cling to objects. Until, that is, I fall.

Time passes. Objects loom less and less. I discover how to weave. In and out. In and out. In and out I go… without holding anything. I learn about those long shapes that grip well. The Entity calls them hands, sometimes fingers. I learn all sorts of words – fast.

            I can speak them into the air and watch them take form in the nothing. They sparkle brightly with a power all of their own. They are not the same power as the hub. I think I am the only one who can see them dancing in the space before my lips. Whatever word I say, it ejects from the cavern of my mouth with propelled force. Then it flashes with light and gems and icicles and all things mesmerising. Each word glistens.

            I wonder at ‘word magic’. I wonder… could I harness it?

            I know about the scrawled symbols. I see them there on the page. I know that the symbols gather together and make words. I know that symbols are letters. But I cannot read them. Yet. Even though I pretend. The Entity knows all the stories in the picture book. And now I do too. They have been read to me a thousand times beside the fire, and especially when The Entity wishes me to be silent. To calm down. To be subdued. Quiet. The Entity reads the stories over and over again until I go to sleep.

            Rock, rock, rock – back and forth, side to side. Lull.

            So… I know words. Pretend to read. I recite the stories – word for word – from memory. Turning the pages. Staring at scribbles. Those strange and alluring symbols beneath the pictures. I use the illustrations as a map. They guide me, giving me a rough idea of when to turn the page.

            I tricked the other Entity. Let’s name it The Woodcutter because it is always chopping logs for the fire. It believed in me. Thought I read words. But I can’t. I can only pretend. It is a magic I am yet to comprehend.

            It can’t be a strong magic, reading. I guess this. For The Entity hardly ever reads. It only does it when needing to silence me. And only then does the picture book reveal itself inside this box.

            Sometimes I am so excitable, the picture book will not keep me quiet. In fact, it will rouse me to ask all sorts of questions. That is when The Entity switches tack, calls upon its hidden power to disable me outright with control.

            I think The Entity feels I need heaps of control. I am not sure why. What would happen if I couldn’t be restricted?

            I know what I would do – here – inside the box. I would go look at the words I make. The ones I voice. I could watch them float. Drifting into the box space like sparkling bubbles.

            When the box goes up, there are more boxes within it. One of them is mine now. The floor is a rough brown like the inside of an abandoned bird’s nest. It is knitted wool and sometimes it burns my skin. The walls are a dull orange like peeled rind, a week old and lumpy. The lid is still white but does not open, is sealed. I don’t like the lid. It is the same feeling as the control and it sits heavy at the top end of the box. And, to make things worse, it blots out the sky.

            I don’t mind the walls. They are not so bad because one has a window and I can see outside. The outside, at the back of the box, is just empty space. It is not like the box. It is wild and unknown and vast. It has something in it called nature. Sometimes I venture outside with The Entity. Sometimes I go with The Woodcutter. Everyday they let me go a bit further but only if the sun is shining. When I do, The Woodcutter doesn’t even watch me. But The Entity does.

            I see blue on the outside lid. Sometimes, when I peek through the window of my own box, I see it has turned grey. Sometimes it is blue and white or grey and white. Sometimes it is black, pink, purple, orange, black with sparkles, navy with buttery smudges. There are moving shapes in it. But they are not like pictures. They are definitely not like words.

            I think words help me. I can understand all the outside things using words. Perhaps that is a powerful magic.

            Outside, the floor is brown and green. Some brown goes up and is green on top. There is a word for it: tree.

            I like trees. They are in my picture book. On the outside, at the back, there is an apple tree.

            The Entity says I can keep my own box. It is part of the box when it goes up: upstairs is the correct word. At first, I am unsure… Is being alone, in there, OK? But The Entity fills it with picture books to keep me occupied and other stuff. This is when I get Freesia. There is a word for Freesia: Freesia is a bear. A pink bear. And a friend. Finally, I am getting what that means.

            Freesia brings me fresh comfort, in a different way to the picture books. I can speak my words into her tummy and she hides them under her stuffing. They still glow brightly and I can see them glimmering behind all the fluff. Like little glow worms. Freesia says that when I hide the words inside her, they become secrets. And I have an entire stash of secrets hidden inside my pink bear. One day I will retrieve them, but I will wait until I have grown big enough to know how to work the magic of words. I will know and I will be too powerful for the box. The box will grow with me until I outgrow it, and then I shall be a magician.

            So Freesia is especially important to me. I’d do anything to protect her. Sometimes, I imagine, the fire in the hearth. It spills over the box floor, catching flames everywhere. And I plan a champion rescue! I would never leave Freesia to burn alive, even if she didn’t hold all my secrets.

The box warps, grows bigger. There is something new here. A sense of freedom. I move without limitation. I can venture anywhere within the box and the boxes within the box. I can go outside – back, not front – and know it is called garden.

            Other Entities come. Some are small like me. Others are giants. The small ones want my pictures books but… I don’t let them have any and they soon leave. The Entity scolds me for not sharing. But I don’t care. I know what ‘mine’ is.

I hover in the garden with The Entity. It hangs material on a line. The line is for drying. Today the wind is strong. And a gargantuan creature stampedes across the rush of green. Dangling legs – great flappers, bolstered by mini tornados whirling about its tromping gait – oh, they come a running! It is about to devour me. Gobble me up – fee-fi-fo-fum! For I am a tasty morsel, small and appetising. Here it comes. I hold the air in my cheeks, not daring to breathe words. What if it spotted their magic? Their lights?

            And that is when I learn…

            The Entity’s power. The hub of the box.

            Fear.

            That is the power behind the control.

            And the box hums with this power. The box is static with fear. I have it now, like it’s catching. Like it’s measles. It is a power driving me to quiver behind The Entity. A stifled cry escapes and blobs of water spurt from my viewing holes. But all The Entity does is ask what’s wrong.

            I point, unable to speak. Afraid to call it what it is: a flesh-eating giant.

            Words are powerful and I am not about to call those words into existence. It would crack the sky lid and crash the clouds. Smashing to bits and falling upon us like apocalyptic hail stones. Great hefty lumps of crumbling lid flattening us to the greens and browns of the outside floor.

            Again, The Entity is asking what is wrong. I point but it doesn’t understand me. So I am forced to whisper: ‘Giant…’ and not daring to give the slightest weight to my tone. But I am lucky. The word fades like smoke before it has time to glitter.

‘Where?’ asks The Entity. But I am already pointing. Can’t it see?

There is a sudden burst of laughter. The Entity lifts me into the air and meets my gaze. ‘That’s no giant!’ It exclaims. ‘It’s just a pair of overalls, blowing in the wind. It looks like the legs are taking long strides, doesn’t it? Is that what you see, little one? Is that your giant?’

            I brave a brief glance. I see it. Washing hanging out to dry. That is all it is. The fear leaves me. But it never leaves the box.

2

When the outside lid is so black that even the sparkles it makes struggle to gleam, I can feel the hub of the box fizzing invisibly. It is a fine seam in a blanket of quiet. And I wonder if… only I can sense it. Running through the walls, skittering along the ceilings, and scratching at the floors. It is alive and it is a thing that knows me.

            I sink beneath the warmth of knitted squares, making a lid and walls all around. It is darker inside this woven refuge. I cannot see anything at all, but it matters not because I have already crushed my peeping holes into a thousand lines that are two tight knots. I squeeze hard and it feels as if the orbs beneath them will disappear into the recesses of my mind.

            I wish The Entity would come. I cried and cried but nobody heard me. If they did hear, they still didn’t come and I am all alone up here, in my box. I clutch Freesia to me. She has a drum in her chest that beats jubilantly. Proclaiming she is mine. It thuds against my skin. Its pulse is strong and I wonder if it is really hers.

            The power hub fizzles. Static scampers over my walls like skedaddling beetles. The box is alive. Not just the hub. The box itself knows I’m here. The box harbours me within its walls. And tonight, it knows I hide.

            I try to sleep but I constantly wake. On the first occasion, I am awoken by a woman. Immediately, I cry. For I am deeply afraid. She looks like a lady from one of my picture books: The Magic Porridge Pot. There she stands. A peasant woman with a grinning face. She holds a basket of bread and has a scarf over her head and tied under her chin. She is plain, dirty-faced, and grinning – and not real. Not real. She is just a picture from the storybook. Not real. Not real. She can’t be… but how did she get inside the box where my clothes are kept? How did she slink through the gap in the doors so silently, without brushing a single cardigan or knocking a dress to the floor? How did…

            ‘Hello, my name is Nightmare,’ she speaks.

            I stop crying. The chill of her breath and depth of her voice – so sharp – cuts through sleep with an easy scythe. The knitted squares are a husk of shadowy monster on the floor beside me and I am exposed to the vulnerability of night. Its hush. Its not-a-stir. And the intangible zip of the hub that is somewhere inside this box.

            Slowly, I drop an arm down into empty space. Clutching Freesia to my side as my hand fumbles for the knitted squares. My fingers feel for the edges of suckled yarn, dragging it up from the darkness fast before the bugbears come a rushing from beneath.

            The peasant lady isn’t real. She lives in my picture book. And if she is real, then she was simply bringing me bread. And that, I have learned from stories, is kindness. As I think this, the frizzling noise of the hub whirs away, eventually dies down to a tiny and tame zizz zizz zizz.

            I disappear in a shroud of warmth and softness. Freesia nestles into the crook of my neck and I rub my chin against her soft pink ears. The lids of my peeping holes grow heavy and the orbs behind them ache with fatigue. Slumber follows and I drift, but it is light and airy in my dreams. And soon a great thirst has me crying again.

            The Entity does not come. Nor does The Woodcutter. The box is still and black and empty. All except… a hand. I see a hand in the dark. It has its own light. Spectral and levitating. Disembodied and hovering beside me, holding a teacup and saucer. Tea steams from the well of the cup and it looks delicious. The beverage is irresistible. I can smell tantalising sugar in the heat of the cup. My tongue is hippety-hopping to be quenched. My mouth is dry, and I lick my lips. As I reach out, a distant voice reverberates from the ether: ‘Cup of tea, dear?’

I move to grasp it. Bring it to my quivering mouth and drink.

            But the cup vanishes and so does the hand. Now, in replace of the apparition, there is only pitch-black emptiness and the vague vestige of something that was there before. Tracing the air like an Indian Summer haze. Was it a solid something that vanished? I don’t know. It seems to me that that is what it was, what truly occurred, but before I can wonder at this my lids spring open with an acute awakening, their lashes bristling against the knitted squares that smother my face and keep me safe. I shut them again quickly, pressing Freesia into my chest. Trembling, I mutter, ‘Let me sleep, hub. Don’t you know I must sleep, box?’

            The box and the hub, they must understand this. Surely? I will not cry any more. I will just sob if I feel the need. Otherwise, I will be braver and try to sleep.

            Something is howling and mewling and screaming in the blur of the outside world. It wakes me like cold death and I sit up, letting the knit fall like a cascade of woolly waves onto my lap. What is that creature, on the outside, in the nature? At once it sounds like pain, then laughter, then excitement, then a calling… What is it?

I scream along with it, and that makes The Entity and The Woodcutter come a rushing. Both dashing towards me in a cyclone of panic.

            The Entity brings light and security and safety to my box. The Woodcutter brings anger and dreariness. I have woken it and it is mad. The Entity sends The Woodcutter away – to its own box – and sits beside me.

            For a moment I am held. Then comforted. And the thudding drum I heard earlier, beneath Freesia’s stuffing, subsides.

            I explain the noises in the nature, and that is when I learn more about woodland animals. Some are like cats and others are nothing like cats, I am told. And the one I heard was probably a creature called a fox. The Entity promises to find me a picture book about foxes, soon, providing I am good and go straight to sleep now. The Entity says that I can learn all about foxes from picture books. That it is easier this way because foxes are so incredibly shy. I might not see them although I can hear them. I think about this and wonder if it is really true because they did not sound shy to me.

            ‘Hush now, sleepy time,’ says The Entity.

            I ask if I can have a little light and The Entity nods, leaving the door to my box and the door to its box open. Outside in the passageway there is a lamp burning brightly. I hear the tapping of a moth against the frosted glass shade. Incongruent with the sizzling distortion of the hub.

            Both sounds fight for superiority. Growing louder and louder in the night. And I am not sure which one will win. The relentless moth, searching for the light, or the power of fear.

3

This morning, the outside lid is dull and grey, as though the day forgot to wake. It pulled a patchwork knit over its diurnal course, then dozed endlessly. The world outside the box is monochrome and steel. I don’t like it.

The shading on the inside of my own box comes in various gradients of old-movie-grey. The space jumps like spitting film grain. And the things in the space only exist as a blackish connivance of palpitating dots.

I lie on a bed of sticky tar. Its sides slacken to form great pools of resinous pitch. The carpet is a quagmire. Between the bed and the floor there is little contrast. It’s as though I am set adrift on a seismic wave of polished onyx.

            I glance at Freesia. She is no longer pink but speckled silver, white, chrome. A thick smudge of noir shadow outlines her shape. It’s like she is straining to be pink. Like you can almost see the colour there but not. It presses against an oppressive, dewy film, a thin overlay of opaque grease. Her fur sticks fast to the underside, in bits. Great clumps of gluey bear-fluff, unkempt and at odds with the suffocating tints of this monochrome wash, are splayed rebelliously against it. But there is nothing she can do. We are both drained of colour.

            I shudder at the chilly nothing touching my skin with inquisitive fingers. The hub resonates a celluloid crackle. The air is frazzled. The room thumps. The outside glides into gloom. Bleak and white. I am loath to see outside, although the inside is far from appealing. The space inside the box is no friend. Is it ever? Is it just a place to put me?

A sibilant hiss surfaces like a prey-seeking snake, unfurling through the cracks in the floorboards. I hear fingernails scratching the walls. Everything feels… electrostatic. A high-voltage thrum burrs on and on in the box. The temperature drops. And I move – if only to stay warm.

I stretch out my legs and my atoms try to keep up. My feet are like sand. Every grain is skittish, slipping about inside my skin. I place one foot in front of the other, hearing the clink of tiny bones jumbling loose, like the animal remains in a witch doctor’s satchel.

Every forward motion is a toil. But I keep going. Wading through the sticky gloop that wants to suck me under, on and on, past the window of glare and blinding white, and past the dancing black dots that make up the contents of the box. I breathe in and out with kinetic exertion. My lungs are iron wool and every intake is sharp; every outbreath is pressure.

I am smothered in the dance of the room. Immersed… like Rumi’s swirling dervishes. I imbibe giddiness. Embrace the spiral.

The stuttering film grain shifts me into spaces misaligned with the intention of where I intended to be. Sudden and disorientating paths set me off course until I am dizzy and cannot find what I am looking for: the door.

I turn my head over my shoulder and see Freesia. I have left her alone on the bed! And she is so small. Smaller than me. And she is sinking. Down into the blackness. Spitting grey. One paw held high in the air like a cry for help. But I am nearing the open door now. And I am thrusting forwards furiously, so I can leave my box. But Freesia… she is my one solace. My friend. And all my secrets are buried in her warm tummy. I see my words glowing on a ripple of wool. Plummeting to blackened depths before my very eyes. Being sucked under. For the bed is a leech. And it must not bleed her.

Courageously, I aim myself at her. Propel my fragile form towards the bed-melt. It hurts. I press harder. Forcing myself to move backwards, into the space. I battle on, through the fog of the box. And I grab her, just in time, before she disappears into that obsidian sea that was once my sleeping space.

She is pleased. I can tell because she blossoms, at least a little, and only in her soft cheeks. Then we are both fleeing the confines of the box. To the lamp outside and its cosy yellow snugness. The moth is trapped inside the shade. Flapping chalk-dust wings – like a whispered secret – against the bulb. But I do not understand what it is trying to say. Its message is a paper tongue inside a pencil drawing. But the lamp and moth are the only colours here, and both offer some comfort. I relax and feel my bones click into place. My body smells like salt. And my breath regulates to a steady rhythm. Even the pink returns in my bear’s fur.  

   I stand before the top step, leading down to the lower level. Down there, it is empty and bleached. Void of both Woodcutter and Entity. Where have they gone?

The box extends and is vast. It curves outwards, bulging with echoes. Its bloated face turns upon me and waits to see what I will do now. In the box. In the wide and empty box. This commodious vacuum.  

4

The endless treads descend in timeless silence. I take them carefully. One at a time. Steady now. I wish to match the silence with my own, although Freesia is ruffling into my side with begging questions. But I will not cease. I must go down to the lower level of the box. And Freesia can deal with it. I snuggle her into my hip clumsily with awkward fingers, and she is suddenly still. Warm against me, through this thin cotton nightdress.

The lower level is parchment white, deckle edged, and oilcloth-soft. Morning intrudes into the space with its pale strips. Flash-bright. Diagonal. Like a slanting paper boat on a nickel-silver sea. The walls are billowing schooner sails, moved by unseen zephyrs. Sporadic shots of daylight glitter like whispering comets. And the floor is a vast expanse of planed wood. An outstretched virgin surface – untrodden and unknown.

            It looks so different. The objects I run around. The places where I sometimes hide Freesia in a game. The spots where I read my picture books. The hearth where I sit with The Entity. Where I am read to. Where I learn stories. And pretend to know words. Like I can be magical too, like The Entity. The place where The Woodcutter sits and eats. The table where I eat broth and bread. Sometimes cake. Sometimes I drink tea there. Or hot milk. These areas are all still here. Occupied by dust motes and moths and little scurrying creatures that do not wish to be seen. And all of it is suddenly strange, unknown, vast, and unfamiliar. And I know it is because it is void of occupants. Where are The Entity and The Woodcutter? Why would they leave me alone?

            Freesia is looking up at me from my hip. I pull her to my chest and she gently whispers in my ear. She is rebellious. She knows I must not explore the outside of the box. Especially the front. I am allowed outside at the back when I am supervised but never the front and never alone. Her suggestions tickle the soft shells that are my ears. And I listen.

            I turn all the way around to face the front of the lower box. There is a door there. But it is a forbidden exit. Freesia is so excited, and I do not wish to disappoint her.

            Upstairs, the moth powders the lampshade with a velvety tap, tap, tap. The boxes up there frazzle with static. The walls fizz with the power of the hub. And the monotone, grainy gloom of the new day hides spectres that are all too eager to greet me if I stay. I know it. I can feel them. They live in the walls and the boxes where I hang my clothes. They live in the floor and in the air. And they are waiting. Now that I am alone, here, I might not be alone for long. And the glitching dots and the crackles from upstairs are reaching the top step. And I don’t want them to come down here, so I skip to the door. Twist the doorknob. It clanks and jingles metallically and there is a rusty smell in the air. Copper scent fills my nostrils for a moment, right before I open the door and…

            I am met with light. Strong, misty light. Is there nothing here? If I step off this doorstep will I fall? And if I do, will I simply plummet into infinity?

            My peepholes adjust after I screw them up several times. And then I am seeing. Really seeing. There is colour here. A stone path. Some green. A white picket fence. And… beyond… there is…

            A wild meadow. And beyond that, a deep forest. And high up on the hills behind, there is a kingdom. A palace or a castle or something. It looks like an image in one of my picture books. And the front of the box is gigantic. A living, breathing wildness.

            I gulp down heaps of air. Clutch the doorknob tightly. Freesia is whispering frantically. We must leave now, before the spectres come down the stairs. The Entity cannot save me from them and there is nobody here but them. We must leave.

            So I step out. I step… one, two, pad, pad, pad, I go… over the stone path to the gate and the white picket fence. On I go. On and on. My fingers on the latch. The gate swings open. The scent of wildflowers and the first seasoned fruits pop beneath my breathing holes. The white morning washes me bare. I am free. In a meadow of joy. A place where birds sing. A place where I can run and run and run and run and…

            Is it a wood or a forest? What is the difference? How can I tell? It is so full of trees. They are all brown and go up, with green on their lofty tops. Much higher than the trees at the back of the box. Much taller. And so… sentient.

            This is their turf and I am new. I must introduce myself. I must let them know that I am a friend. And Freesia, too. She is the one who led me here, after all. My pink bear and her devilish ways. OK. I can speak. It is fine.

            ‘Hello.’ My voice quavers. The foremost trees bristle with wind. Rustling leaves hoarsely bear their greeting.  ‘This is Freesia,’ I say breathlessly, holding her up for all tree-eyes to see. Their bark deepens all oval-shaped grooves, to watch me in a knotted gaze, as I shake Freesia up and down in the space before my head. I move her paw so that she waves. And the trees wave their boughs in reply.  

            They have accepted me, I think. I am allowed to explore this place.

            Humbly, I walk among them. My feet are bare and the earth is soft and cool beneath my toes. Shady and spongey is the undergrowth through which I travel. Twisting in and out of thick trunks. My hands pressing on branches. Scrub scratching my nightdress. The scent of wood and moss and wild mushrooms in my nose and on my tongue. I love it here.

The energy of this bewitching verdure is a wonder to me. It is magic like the magic of words only raw. It is ripe for the soaking and soak it all up, I do. The frequency of the trees and the nature all around me melds with the fibres of my own essence. We are one.

The box is not my home. I know it now. I always knew. And this place tells me another secret that I already knew: that I am not from the box. I am from before the box and a long way from home. The box is my entry point. And The Entity has made it a home. But I was before and this place feels like hereafter.

            This is too much for my smallness to conceive. So I speak the tree wisdom into my bear. I see the words catch in breaking light. Yellow sunbeams snap at the high branches and shine leafy patterns upon the letters, before all my words vanish into Freesia’s belly.

            ‘Keep it all,’ I sing to her. And she smiles in her bearish manner, back at me. I trust her wholly. She will never tell on me, that I was here. In the dirt with the worms and the bugs. But my nightdress might.

5

A creature comes now. Big compound eyes and a wide stubbly grin. An amiable face hovering before my own in complete silence.

   I stretch out my hand and the tiny visitor alights. Its long body tickles the tip of my middle finger. Its transparent wings rasp against the skin of my palm, then cease all flapping. Its colour gleams iridescent in the leaf-light. Pink guild and plush blues.

I try to speak to the creature, but apparently it cannot hear me. It just smiles and blinks, waves a tiny claw instead. It signals for me to follow it. Propels its delicate form into the air, in a flash of electric-blue delight. Dancing backwards in empty space. Then it hovers, midair, as if waiting for me.

I place a foot forwards, but Freesia is tearing rabidly at my shoulder. She is unsure. Perhaps I should be, too, but the creature is divinely bedazzling. Like levitating treasure. I cannot ignore its magnetism. And soon, Freesia is protesting under my arm, and I am racing. A rush of green in my peripheral vision and a tiny percussion of snapping twigs beneath my pattering feet.

            I follow a path of criss-crossing moss that is kind on my bare soles. Sometimes there is fresh water. A chancing spring. Its trickling path almost parallel with my own route, and whimsical in the underbrush. Sometimes I see it, a startling glint of silver, and then it is gone.  

I keep pace. Trailing my new friend. Fixated on the pinkish-blue sparkles glitching in and out of the thronging, dense forest. I leap and spring over tree roots, feeling a fragmented heat-kiss against my skin whenever I slice through a punctuating spear of light. Emanating from that tangerine ball, up there, on the outside lid.

Sometimes, when it isn’t dark, the outside lid is all fire. The Entity has names for up there: the sun and the sky. And when it is dark: the night, the moon, the stars. I like these names because they help me to identify stuff. And it gives me great peace to understand a little more about my new world.

The sun brings blistering light to the outside box. Except earlier, when it was meagre. Everything was leaden when I awoke. Everything in my box was… shivery.

Outside the box, near the white picket fence, mist smothers the land. Great stooping clouds, smitten to skim against the ground with a nebulous sweep. Glaring white.

And when I bounded through the meadow and scaled the hillocks, heading for this forest, the sun sharpened its talons. Whetted them against the husk of gloom shrouding the day. Blood-orange claws shredding the murk. Slate-hued clouds ribboning away. Effervescing into vivid blue. And all around me, dewdrops glistened. Peppering the land with majestic jewels.  

But here the trees welcome me, and I have gone deep into the heart of their forest. Yes here, among these lofty creatures, the power of the sun is miniscule. And, in some places, it is of no consequence. What little light descends from the outside lid is perfectly mottled with thistledown. Blown free from the neighbouring meadow. Weightless, ethereal puffs glittering in mustard-gold rays. The warmth of those sun-shards briefly heating my bones amid the contrasting coolness of woodland shade.

Under a copse of trees, water pools. My tiny friend flitters low over its skin. Gliding. Grace and beauty. It is a flash of magic-blue upon the glistening surface of the pond. There are ponds in my picture book, The Princess and the Frog. And it draws my eye now because the pond looks just like the illustration in my book.

My tiny friend is making something in the water. A symbol. Like the ones that make up the words in my picture books. Words and symbols that I would love to understand. But it only makes one letter.

First, it zips downwards, scrawling a line through the water with its long body. Then it elevates. Directly upwards. Then it is at the top of the line. And there is where it draws another line. Horizontal this time. Straight and long. The vertical line beneath it stretches downwards from the centre of the horizontal line. And I hear a voice say, ‘Tee…’

The voice is not the voice of my tiny friend. Nor does it belong to Freesia. She has not uttered a single word since we arrived at the pond. I look around but find nothing. All I see is a silken web stretching across two fallen branches and a little black spider at its centre. Dewdrops hang from her weave like they are her own personal water storage. She is motionless and I do not believe the voice is hers.

‘Tee,’ I repeat.

‘The first letter of your name,’ says the modest voice.

Again, my peepholes scour every inch of ground and across the pond but nothing, no one, nobody.

‘Who are you?’

‘Look, the letter is Tee…’

I look. Again, Tiny is writing the letter T in the water.

‘T is for…’ the voice tapers. I hear dry whispers like leaves fallen to a crisp. And then a scurrying. A hurrying. Away! Away!

The voice has gone and the trees grow dark. The sun has vanished from this place and the pond is an ebony melt. My tiny friend no longer skims over the water. There is no flash of blue. All I see is a deepening black. And the forest is closing in on me like a rapacious wolfpack.  

Freesia is a thumping icebox against my chest. I have breath caught in my throat because a great gaping hole of blackness is unfurling from the nook of that large tree over there. Black shaggy fur unfolds itself in thick heavy layers. Wild and whiskery, a creature stands on four sinewy legs.  

An unnaturally large black dog with red eyes stands before me, baring its slavering, arrowlike fangs. Prickle-stiff hair and a tail like a scythe. Its ears are two black triangles. Sharpened to points. Its eyes flare with a red-hot glow. They are two firepits of pulsing blood.

The soles of my feet are glued to the land. Everything stops. Something puts the outside world on hold. And the scene freezes. The only movement is on the surface of the pond, where the letter T gently undulates.

It is the beginning of my name, I think, so this can’t be my end.

6

A low, surly growl has me shrinking into the trunk of the nearest tree. I feel the scratchy bark through the fine material of my nightdress. Scraping off skin. I quail at the darkness unleashing itself inside this foaming shagpile, with eyes like molten rubies. Its breath is a rank and steamy gauze of sulphur. It’s as if this monster has emerged from beneath the forest floor, some subterranean, demonic beast-lair.

            ‘Quick, in here,’ comes the same voice I heard before, and I look all around me, in search of its location. But I still don’t see. As though the voice is incorporeal. ‘Quick. Hide.’ There it is again. But where? And before I can stop it, the trunk is folding in on itself and sucking me inside where there is light and warmth and colour. A cosy space with a skillet of food and a rosy fire. An old woman, no bigger than a domestic cat, sits stoking the flames with an iron rod. And outside is the black dog. I am in the hollow of a tree and I am by no means safe. The wild dog is approaching. I have nowhere to run.

            ‘Tabitha, spin!’ The old woman gives a throaty, goat-gruff command to a tiny spider. I have learned about spiders in my picture books. So I already know what they are. And this one is a money spider. Its eyes are eight sovereign coins with a gilded sheen like honey gloss. They are sparks in shadows. Glistening like bright sun-pricks. Each one is bolstered by a shivering, fanged smile.

            The creature spins a web across the gap in the trunk. I watch it working furiously. In a hurry and at the will of the tree-lady. The old woman stabs the fire and says, ‘Put on a spurt, Tabitha, time must not be wasted.’

            The spider finishes weaving. And the trembling web confuses the predator on the outside of this great, magical tree. It sniffs the cool earth. Nudging its drizzling muzzle into mushroom-clad roots and wriggling worms. A beetle scampers between two giant, effulgent eyes.

            I look at the little lady. She puts a wrinkled finger to her lips in a gesture to hush now. Then she returns her gaze to the fire. She toasts something, but I am not sure what. It looks like… yes, grass snakes. And I realise I know the names of many things. I have learned from the books in my box. And from The Entity’s stories. I realise now, I even know the name of the creature I followed here: a dragonfly. Tiny, the creature who can write on water, is a dragonfly.

            My head swivels to face the gap and the dog. It’s black-furred face now fractured behind silvery threads. And behind this web of horror, I hold in a sneeze. The scent of burning snake’s flesh is too much. It is steaky, leathery, and clinging. I cup both hands over my nose. Squashing Freesia into the crevice of my armpit. And the big black nose of the dog sniffs at Tabitha’s silken artistry, and snarls suspicion into this tentative hidy-hole.

            But when the little lady chomps down on toasted grass snake, the creature loses interest and pads silently into shadow. I dare not move. I am as still as a vigilant squirrel. Alert for the danger lurking in the forest. And poor Freesia is a tremor of fear. Her tiny heart thuds hard against my own.

            ‘He’s gone,’ says the little old woman between mouthfuls of charred snake.

            I nod slowly. Staring at her wrinkly old face and snake-stained lips. Reptile juice dribbles down her chin. The backdrop gleams amber and gold. Is it safe to have a fire in a tree? I wonder.

            The spider runs a fibrous dragline between us and hovers in the space. Twirling from its abdomen in a miniscule attempt to address us both. To the old woman, Tabitha is gesturing that she is done for the day. And to me, she gestures a ‘You’re welcome, child.’ Then she is gone. Shooting upwards and disappearing into the multi-boughed loft.

            I stare in disbelief at the little old woman. Now melting in perishing flames. Both woman and fire are nothing but embers. Then nothing but ashes. And the nook of the tree is moss-damp and spine-tingling cold. I am all alone in this bewildering forest with only Freesia for comfort. And the dragonfly, that lead me all this way into the heart of the forest, has vanished.

            I am lost. I realise now, The Entity forbids me to exit the front of the box for good reason: protection.

            I long for the box. I want to return to the box. But how can I ever find it again? And if I try to find the box now, will I encounter that black hound, with those spectral red-glow eyes?

            ‘A Black Shuck,’ says the incorporeal voice. It must be the old lady, I think. Although she is nowhere to be seen. Again, she whispers: ‘Beware, the Black Shuck. The Padfoot. The Hairy Jack. Beware.’

            My peepholes bulge like a toad’s throat pouch. I study every inch of forest floor. Grip the rough bark of the tree with one hand and press Freesia into my panting chest with the other.

            ‘Striker has gone now. Only dens with a broken web will give him a clue that his prey is nearby. But Tabitha’s weave was a hornswoggle. An unbroken web to fool the predator. So he did not seek you here. Striker has moved away and you must too. For Striker will strike again. Striker will return. So run, child. Run.’

            ‘Who are you?’ I ask. My words are butterfly-soft.

            ‘I am the keeper of this tree.’

            ‘Keeper, please help me. I am lost,’ I mouth.

            ‘Let the bear be your guide. I have whispered the ways of the forest paths into her fur. Now go, child. Go!’

            And I run. Twigs snapping against the skin of my heels. Forest sounds, strange and wild, haunt my ears. Leafy scents fill my insides as I breath deep and fast. Forcing my way past bristling bracken. Dark-green fronds brush against the white flashes of billowing nightdress. And I run. I run and run. And I tumble down steep slopes. I bump into trees. It sounds as though there is laughter echoing through the trees. The forest is laughing at me. It is so immense and I am too small for it. Silly girl. You fool. Did you think you were ready to enter the forest? But you must come back. You must learn the magic of letters. And the other letters in your name. You must learn your name. In the depths of the enchanted forest. For if you learn your name, you will be free.

            I stumble. Those last steps lead me to the rolling hills and open lands sloping down to the wild meadows. And in the distance, I see the box. Sitting pretty in the valley below. All white and freshly painted. With a picket fence. And shrubs. And flowers. And… safety.

            I want the comfort of The Entity and The Woodcutter. Why were they not there when I awoke so early in the new day? Why would they leave me?

            I sprint with the last of my fire. A diminishing furnace in my gut. I am all out of air. I plummet through tangled flowers and hit the gate with a thud. Then I crawl. Breathless. Weak. Brittle.

            Freesia clings to the underside of my nightdress like a baby bear. She sticks to my sweat and so does my hair. I surrender to the whispering grass and collapse. Here. Beneath this hardy bush, clumped with pale and sundry frog-green berries. It is here that I am sprawled. Face down, beat. But I am home. And Striker did not follow. There is no black dog here. But there is the sound of frantic cries.

            The Entity and The Woodcutter have returned. They are fraught and desperate. They cannot find me. Perhaps they should not have left me alone in the first place. Now they are sorry.

            I lie still. Prostrate. Air circulates around my breathing holes, looking for a way in. And my fingers jerk at velvet grass. It was raining in the night. Moisture has tenderised the soil. Providing a natural mattress, readying me for sleep. I keep my peepholes firmly shut. They will find me soon. They will find me here… beneath this gooseberry bush.

7

I am no longer alone. I am found. I am safe. The Woodcutter carries me in his arms. He is my saviour. Strong and protective. And I begin to cry. The Entity scolds me, then flounders, but, gradually, anxiety and exasperation mutates into warmth and tenderness. Only then does The Entity soften.

I am brought back inside the box, given warm milk in a glazed, earthenware cup. Oatmeal in a wooden bowl, apple sauce heaped into its centre for sweetness. And warm clothes made from gentle wool, scented with lemon soap and honeysuckle.

I hesitate for a moment before the well of questioning overflows. And then: why did they go? And where? And why didn’t I go with them? Why did they leave me alone and vulnerable? Didn’t they understand that I might wake and panic? The questions come in a childish torrent of hot tears, my cheeks as puffed-up pink as Freesia’s. I am told that there is a farmer’s market on the long track traversing the forest. And they would always travel there early before dawn. Especially since I first arrived in this box. The journey is far too arduous for my fragile limbs. I am not ready to accompany them yet. I am too small. So they venture to market early, before I wake, and leave me safely tucked away inside the box. Nobody knows who I am or that I am here – except them. So nobody looks for me in the box. Nobody is interested in the box. It is perfectly safe to be alone here. So they say. Unless, of course, I run away – only then am I in mortal peril.

I finish the last morsel of porridge. Swallowing it down spiritedly and chasing it with a drop of the creamy milk. I want more.

Fleeing the Shuck has triggered my appetite. I ask for another helping, but instead I am handed a bread roll, fresh from market. The Entity places sliced apples and hard cheese on a bread board and slides it across the wooden tabletop.

I grip the edges of the board with delirious vigour, then seize the bread and tear into it with my teeth. There is a satisfying crunch to the crust and the inside is light and fluffy and still slightly warm. That baking smell comforts my breathing holes, embedding itself into the contours or my mind’s eye – a permanent fixture now, the smell of it for ever stimulating the preserved image of this very moment.

As I chew, I innocently enquire about black dogs with red eyes. Both The Entity and The Woodcutter stiffen like two great hull planks. Wide eyes set adrift on a secret misted sea. I yearn to wade out to where they are, but it seems that I cannot reach them there. Instead, I wait for their return. Watch them. Spot dark mysteries hidden behind vacant expressions. Right now, right here, comes a sudden realisation: they underestimate my sharp insights, my ability to read deep into the depths of others. Even for one so small, I swim deep.

They know of the Black Shuck. Of Padfoot. Of Hairy Jack. A creature going by many names. A shadow beast. They know. And still, they left me here. Alone. Vulnerable. In this box. Nothing is stopping the creature from finding me here. Nothing is stopping that monstrous dog from finding its way out of the forest. How do they know I am safe, that it is OK to leave me unprotected? What else might visit this box – here in the valley – among the wilderness, where no other boxes exist? Are they so categorically unwavering in their beliefs that this box is secure?

It is delusion, I think. Delusion and naivety. And already I feel older than The Entity. Wiser than The Woodcutter. Truer to the nature of this reality.

Suddenly, The Entity breaks the silence which has dropped heavy into the box and weighted us all down like anvil-figurines. A maddening giggle breaks from The Entity’s lips. Its sound is strange. Void of humour. A vapid chortle erupts, as though expunged from The Entity’s fear-fettered arteries. Little funnels of fright, discarding all things light and carefree. And The Woodcutter looks askance with maddening eyes. But soon, confusion dissipates and It too is laughing. Together, they lie. Tell me I am talking nonsense. What I imagine is but a thing of dreams – or perhaps nightmares.

I am small. Still, I protest. Stand my ground. Insisting upon seeing a Shuck in the forest. And before I can stop myself – I say these words. Words I mean to bury in a secret box inside my head. How am I allowing this information to escape? Here are the letters… spilling from my mouth, over the table. Sparkling golden lights, wisping away into the air, seeking the correct order in which to settle and make sense. Then they are no longer random letters. They are words. Words that blacken like storm clouds above the heads of The Entity and The Woodcutter. I bring five fleshy digits up to my lips as if to stop any other words from seeping out of me. Knowing full well that it is already too late. The damage is done. The words are raining acerbic droplets. Two stricken faces, before my own, are now drenched in something pale and watery.

The Entity is the first to dry. The Woodcutter jerks, lips twitching as if to resist leaking words too.

‘You imagine things.’ The Entity bristles with word-noise so flat I barely recognise any definition.

‘You would never go into the forest.’ The Woodcutter gives me this statement like it is a special gift. One we can all utilise.

‘I wouldn’t,’ I hear myself saying.

Freesia is on the other side of the table. Placed there earlier by The Entity while I was stripped of my sodden nightdress and wrapped in fuzzy knits. I cannot meet her button eyes. She’s never heard me tell a lie. I am guessing she is also as startled as I am to witness The Entity and The Woodcutter’s keenness to believe this obvious fabrication.

I fold the lie into interesting shapes. It is origami on my tongue. Each corner of truth creases, folds, unfolds. Halves. Overlaps. Top edges folding back on themselves. Forming a shape. A simple sheet of truth manipulated into something else. Now it is a knight’s heraldic shield. Protection. A wolf in a white fleece for its blazon. The wolf represents deception. The fleece, concealment. The white is the colour of the lie. I hold it out before me, in my vision, and continue: ‘I only got as far as the gate. I was afraid to go out into the meadow. The world outside is too big for me. I didn’t wish to be lost. For surely I would’ve been, had I the notion to go any further or seek adventure.’

‘And there was no such notion,’ added The Woodcutter, willing it to be true.

‘No.’ I confirm. But I do not glance once at Freesia. I already feel her fiery gaze, like the midday sun in a cloudless sky. My cheeks are hot in my face. There is a sharp sting in the heat. I deserve it. It is punishment for speaking ugly words. All words that are not true must be ugly, of this I am certain. For they feel wrong. Twisted and gut-churning. Sullied, upchucked words that taste of rotten fish and carry the stench into the open, tainting everything they touch. Rippling into the world and beyond. Into unknown places where the consequences cannot be seen, heard, or felt. Grit and grime – I learn – is sometimes necessary. The Entity and The Woodcutter have taught me something new today. The lesson is learned, but the experience is mild. For this is only a white lie. But it is still a lie.

‘You did not see a black dog.’

‘I thought I… No.’

‘I should think so, black dog, indeed. How your imagination runs riot. To think you can conjure up such a story at such a tender age.’ This is The Entity. The faux jolliness in Its voice, the haughty stance, and tossing of the head. The brazen expression. Its skin like paper over cracks. And behind it all, a fear transfusion takes place inside veins filled with sulphuric blood.

I shudder, remembering the hound. Can old Hairy Jack find me here?

I am swept up in a long embrace. Lifted from my stool. Held close to a thudding heart. Words flutter into the shell of my ear: ‘Never leave the box without permission. The box is safety. But on the other side of the fence, out there, in the wild, is the big beyond. Lands undiscovered. Places so distant, way beyond our reach. Worlds for you to enter where we cannot follow. And in certain areas, there is great darkness. Things unimaginable that you would not wish to encounter. And worse still, there is another kind of darkness: pretence, illusion, ego. Privileged and unprivileged beings all searching for the top end of the food chain. Clambering over one another to reach the summit.’

The words make me think of the wolf shield. Quivering now, I bury my head in The Entity’s shoulder. Screw up my eyes. Wanting the world to disappear. And still, Its words keep coming. Brushing and sweeping the cavity of my ear with needle-sharp letters. Dropping into the labyrinths of my inner ear like earwigs on a mission: ‘There’re towns and villages. Cities and citadels. And its denizens all wear masks. But you won’t know they are masks because they look like real faces. And they do not peel off but unravel when your back is turned. They are strangers with concealed knives. Their intentions are designed to drive you hard into the ground. They cheat with charm. Hoodwink you into sweet friendships. And that is only the beginning. All the while, they plot your demise – if not plot, they certainly dream it. These people are worse than monsters. They know where your grave lies. They know because they are the ones digging it. You must never allow such a fellow to deceive you. Out there, one must walk the Road of Life as though it is a frayed rope bridge stretched across a rock-ravished ravine.’

‘And there’s always somebody on the other side with a knife, ready to cut the rope,’ added The Woodcutter for good measure.

I snuggle deeper into the crevice of The Entity’s neck. Seeking comfort in the warmth of Its skin. I feel the icy fear in Its cells merging with my own.

Fear is Its legacy, I think. And It wants to leave that legacy to me. But it is an unwanted gift. One I do not wish to receive.

And now I find I am focusing on something It said: The Road of Life. Excitement revs its engine, starts in my heart. The Road of Life. Where can I find it? I wish to know it. It is a real road. Perhaps it is on the other side of the Enchanted Forest. It’s not a road The Entity takes, nor The Woodcutter. They use the country track and go to market. That is all. But The Road of Life is vast and endless, with many junctions and turnings, or so I imagine. 

‘We cannot protect you beyond the piquet fence,’ says The Woodcutter. ‘Not outside the box. Not anywhere except here.’

I think of Hairy Jack. What could possibly be worse than a Shuck? I shiver and curl up like a hedgehog in the arms of The Entity. Its heart tethered to my own. I hear both heartbeats. Theirs and mine. Both are beating for me. And although my own heart pounds in my chest, it only exists because it was made from a fine blend of The Entity and The Woodcutter. I know it. I know that is what I am. But I am so much more, too.

I came here to this box. Created from two hearts. Therefore my heart is also theirs. I must look after it. I am responsible for taking great care of it. So I must never do anything displeasing. Never. Or they will be hurt. And I could never hurt them. Not intentionally.

So, I learn another lesson today. I learn a new word.

Guilt.

Guilt for leaving.

For almost getting lost.

For almost being harmed by a Padfoot.

And for lying about it.

I think The Entity and The Woodcutter believe they have taught me a different lesson today: to be nobody’s fool. It is a puerile thing to think this is a lesson. For surely to be nobody’s fool makes you the greatest fool of all. We learn from foolish acts. And we can never stop learning. Therefore, I am not sure if a ‘nobody’s fool’ can truly exist. Still, I’m sure another lesson instilled today was the power of fear because it comes to me in a tsunami of unwanted spasms up my spine. Wave-smacking and corroding each vertebrae as we climb the stairs.

There is a bucket of thick sobs emptying from my eyeballs and saturating The Entity’s shoulder. We arrive upstairs, in the doorway to my own little box. Upon seeing it again, I stop crying. The monochrome gloom of early morning is no longer a reality. Sunlight swishes the room in welcoming hues and the place where I sleep looks cosy and inviting. The Entity has also remembered to bring Freesia with us. I am handed my bear.

‘Look, Freesia,’ I say in an urgent whisper, ‘everything here is OK again. We don’t need to be frightened anymore. It’s clear and warm and bright. The sun is shiny and hot and its light streams fast through the window. We can read and play. In our little box. We can just be.’

8

Time passes in the box and I am stretched like a piece of pliable playdough. Laid out flat on the slab. Then rolled. Sausaged into shape. Pulled and pinched until there is more of me in the arms and legs. My neck now a lengthening, elegant swan-throat. My hair tumbles wildly past my pale shoulders. It’s cushioned velvet. Rich chocolate gloss, when brushed (which isn’t often). And soon becomes an earth-brown putty after catching raindrops. If The Entity has not painstakingly combed out all the tangles, then it is a matted beast upon my head. Things nest there, or so The Woodcutter jests.

I lose count of the days spent growing. The outside box changes colour with every passing season: golds and ochres and cherry reds wilt and crisp, blanketing the ground. Blue-ice zephyrs sweep it all away to expose the harsh white snow and its frigid scowl. On days like these, I huddle beside the fiercest of log fires with books that no longer contain just pictures and a few simple words. As I have grown, the books have grown too. There is a more sophisticated world unfolding in the pages and I begin to consume the words stamped in indelible ink. Exquisite fonts that set my heart ablaze as my eyes fall upon the sheer artistry of calligraphic finesse. Every letter pounds inside my own heart. And Freesia’s, too. Every word is savoured. Is special. Even words like it, an, a, the, my… mine. All the words are mine. I own these books. They are gifted to me. And they get me through the bleakest months of winter.

On warmer days I am allowed to carry some of the books outside. I will climb the apple tree and languidly limb-stretch in the curve of a twisted bower. Turn to a page and delve straight in, with only the subtle aroma of apple blossom for company. Of course, Freesia comes too. She loves to frolic with the bumble bees and tweet along to birdsong. A calming background melody to my literary repose.

Cinderella has a blue gown and crystal slippers. And she shall go to the ball. I turn the page. The sound of paper cutting air is a mini-thrill. The soft paper leaf against my finger. The corner-edge gently pricking my index finger feels… satisfying. I sniff the next page. There is a wood-dust scent. I read on. Page turn. Read. Turn. Inhale page-fragrance. In this bosky part of the outside box, I am free to disappear. That is, until something tickles my breathing holes. The sensation has me spiralling upwards, like a soaring lark, away from the palace and Prince Charming standing on the steps, holding out a glass shoe in the palm of his hand.  

For there, on the end of my nose, is a speckled worm. The upper half of its tiny frame puckers, rising gradually to lock peepholes. Here we are, worm and child, meeting for the first time. Freesia’s pinkishness illuminates to a bright fuchsia at the sight of it. Her big old bear face looming over the timid little creature. I brush her back with an urgent flip of my hand, but she ignores my gesture and leans in even closer. This is a rare sight. These particular worms are reticent, by nature. Not easily found.

The startled worm cowers. Coils into the opening of my nostril like it is hiding in the shadows of a cave mouth. I throw Freesia a disapproving look, and only then does she calm down and lean back into the branches. Apple blossom confetti snowing down on the tufts of her  milky pink fur.

I realise then, the worm could crawl up inside my breathing hole. What if it buried into my brain and ate my thoughts? I would no longer be able to mould words. It would be the end of me. In a sudden panic, I pinch the bridge of my nose, inhale through my mouth, release my finger and thumb, and visciously expel air like a surfacing whale.

The worm is a maggot-ball. A miniature shrimp. Coiled tight. A jellied, squidgy lump hurtling towards a gnarled and stiffening branch. The apple tree braces itself for impact. I hear a muted squeal of terror from the worm. But Freesia’s outstretched paw acts as a rescue cushion. And the worm silently alights without fuss in my bear’s clasp. Thank goodness for Freesia’s quick thinking. I learn something in that moment. I had performed an act of fear. And by doing so, I had almost harmed an innocent creature. If I had not panicked, I would never have inflicted such a brutal eviction upon the worm. For coaxing the creature out with friendship and warmth is a conquest of love over fear.

I wonder if the worm could ever be friends with a girl like me. A girl who has acted out of fear. I have learned fear from The Entity. It would be proud that I had acted in such a way. The Entity would have had the same thought. The Entity would have sneezed the worm right out of its nose and thought no more of it. I know it to be true.

The worm unfurls. Two large eyes blink slowly. Two glazed olives rotating in its creviced head. Recording the map of my own features in its pinprick mind. I cannot help but think it is registering my identity for future reference. It is an intelligent worm. Not like the worms in the apples. Nor the wriggling, frenetic victims in the blackbird’s beak. No. This worm did not spring forth from the blossom. It is no caterpillar. It will never be a butterfly. It is none of these things. Inside this worm is a whole new realm of reality. A place filled with words. It is a word-animal. I recognise it because I am a word-child. I instinctively see all things word. This worm came from the pages of my book.

Freesia is scolding me in incredulous bear tones. She is disappointed that I would behave so rashly and cannot believe I would embrace fear, let alone act on it. Have I gone completely insane? Of all people, she is saying, I should know better than to harm an innocuous bookworm.

I shake my head. Shamed. Distraught. A bear-judicious sentence passes over me like a sweeping plague, denuding me of skin and flesh until I am nothing but bone. A tree-skeleton. I cannot meet her button eyes. My glance sidles into a leafy sprig of thin branches where pollen dances on sunbeams and ants march to the infra-sound beat of the honeydew drum.

Hot tears seer behind my eyes, then fall. I burn with heartache. The punch comes from within, internal bruising, flowering with smarting petals until the birdcage beneath my skin rattles and aches. I let out a yelp of unmitigated blubbering, scattering ants, blossom, and songbirds afar.

The bookworm rises up in Freesia’s paw. Corrugating its neck and head to peer at me with those large green eyes. Acumen sparks primordially at their centre. A keen, probing assessment of me – the whole of me. My reaction to my own actions. And once this assessment is digested, those olive eyes liquesce into drippy empathy. Pooling forgiveness.

‘I didn’t mean it.’ Those words are squeezed from my tight lips. Each one pops into existence and hangs heavy in the air before my hot face. The words are the colour of bruises. Stinging the oxygen and rattling at the edges of the bookworm’s comprehension. Soon they are searing great scorch marks in the air. Each letter turning fire red, tapering into smoke plumes that blacken the light.

‘I know…’ When the bookworm speaks, its sound is small. A row of punctuated full stops dotting upwards, leaving a string of ellipses in their wake.

I stop crying and stare at the creature poised reverently upon Freesia’s paw. It blinks in slow motion. I wait until time ends for it to finish.

‘You do?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No problem.’ The worm smiles. I am not sure how. I cannot see its mouth. It has a mouth, but it is as fine as a splinter under the skin. ‘Can you put me back in the book?’

I nod and look down at the book that I still hold in my left hand. I have lost my place. I fumble quickly, leafing through it, looking for the picture of Prince Charming and the shoe.

‘Page fifty-six,’ says the bookworm.

‘Yes, of course.’ I flick the pages until I see the five and the six. There. That is the last page I sniffed.

‘Next time, don’t snort me out of the book.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Is this where you got up to?’ the bookworm asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Then I guess we are on the same page after all!’

‘Wait, before you go, do you live in this book all alone?’

‘Alone?’ chuckles the bookworm. ‘I’m never alone. I have all the characters to live among, not to mention the narrative. I move from book to book, collating worlds. Size is deceptive, you know. If you open up a bookworm, you will find a vast universe inside. Teeming with life and meaning and cathartic journeys. Adventures. Stories.’

Freesia chirps up that the bookworm must seem juicy to the birds.

The bookworm rolls its olive eyes in the direction of my bear, and firmly states: ‘I am not appetising to a bird. Their gizzards and glands are not designed to process entire universes.’ It wriggles awkwardly, raising its head a little higher. Stares at me for an age.

I remain still. Allow the word-animal to run its olive eyes over me, again and again. And then, a sudden realisation cracks across its quizzical expression. ‘I know you!’ it shouts. ‘You’re a word-child!’

I am staggered. Nobody has ever spoke this into existence. I see the words floating before my wide eyes.

WORD-CHILD

Bright, colourful lights, letter-shaped and gleaming. They dance playfully in the space between us. Freesia giggles.

‘You are a rare sight, indeed!’ the bookworm continues. ‘I’ve searched many a kingdom and munched my way through untold books – each one lost on some dusty shelf. Untouched. Unread. I’ve heard you are a dying breed. I was beginning to think word-children were already extinct. This is an auspicious meeting, dear one. And no accident. Tell me, what is your name?’

I crease my brow. Confusion lacquers my eyes. Dismay dam bursts in the bookworm’s expression. Its speckled face, that was (only a second ago) an electrical surge of elation, now caves in on itself – as though our bookish meet-cute is a damp squib.  

I try to be positive. I try. I speak fast, words spilling out of me in rainbow-shock: ‘I know I have one. I do. I was told. A dragonfly showed me the first letter. The letter T.’

The bookworm tilts its head sideways with deepening curiousity. ‘T? T for what?’

‘Yes. T. For what, I still don’t know.’

‘How do you plan on finding out?’

‘I don’t plan on finding out. You see, Tiny, the dragonfly lives in the enchanted forest. And, well, I live here… in this outside box. And over there… in that big white box. The one that is fenced off from the wild meadow and the forest beyond.’

‘I see,’ says the bookworm. I imagine that it might scratch its head now – if it had arms.

‘I am forbidden to go into the enchanted forest ever again. So, I can never know my name, other than the first letter.’

‘Fine,’ sighs the worm. ‘Then T you must be. For now. So, T, would you like to learn my name?’

Freesia gasps. Her paws retreating to her cotton mouth. She knows, as well as I do, that any creature lucky enough to own their own name, doesn’t give it freely to others. For sharing a name is sharing great power. I feel honoured. And at the same time, undeserving.

‘I don’t need to know it,’ I reply sheepishly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. We are kin. It is not often that I find a word-creature. I was beginning to think that I was the last of us.’

‘Really? Are word-creatures so rare?’

‘Absolutely, yes. Rare! Rare! Rare!’ The little worm is roused. Sad. Clever and sad.

‘OK. What is your name?’

‘Sir Danson Tridblotch.’

‘Oh, you have three names,’ I say, admiringly.

‘Correction. I have two names. One title. I was knighted, and henceforth sired to the Queen of Words.’

‘It is a great honour to meet you, Sir…’ I stop there. I know that it is not my place to speak the name without permission.

‘You may call me Tridblotch.’

‘Very well, Tridblotch, forgive me for my ignorance, but who is the Queen of Words?’

‘She is what she is,’ snorts Tridblotch. ‘A queen. And goddess of literature. Without her, no books would exist. Not in any world.’

‘And you are her knight?’

‘I am. There are many knights, but sadly we are scattered throughout time and space. I tend to stick to the fairy-tale realms, mostly. I peruse the folktale and the myth lands. I loiter in the realms of the magical. I consume the pages interminably. For it is not only my duty but my nature.’

I am so engrossed in the conversation; I forget the time. The Entity is calling to me to come inside for supper. I look up at the outside box lid. The distant ball of fire has travelled to the far side of due west and is descending in a pool of equinox gold. The lid is a periwinkle scarf, shrouding the outside box.

‘That’s your maker over there, right?’ askes Tridblotch. I nod and sigh. Lowering my peephole lids in resignation. I want to stay in the apple tree with the word-knight. I want to talk books beneath the twinkling canopy of imminent stars. I yearn and ache and long to…

‘Supper!’ the cry of The Woodcutter now. Impatience in its tone. It is hungry. It won’t sit to eat until I return. It wants to eat and I am the delay.

‘Tell me, quickly, T, for I know you cannot remain here any longer, do your makers have names? Are they word-creatures?’

‘I am not sure. I just know them for what they are. One is an Entity. The other a Woodcutter. So, no, I guess neither have names. As for the words… The Entity has been providing me with books. It can make words, like I do, but it has no enthusiasm for them. Not like me.’

‘Interesting,’ replies the worm. And I see it should be scratching its chin now. If it had arms. ‘Perhaps one of them was almost a word-creature… once.’

‘How can someone be an almost word-creature?’ I query.

‘Well, you see… words begin in living creatures as embryos, dormant in every being. Something activates the words, and, if that happens, the host has the option to harness the words and learn how to utilise them. Those who are naturally inclined to do so will instinctively harness the words with immediate effect. Like you, for instance. But some simply do not have the energy nor the inclination to pursue the magics, and slowly the word embryos are miscarried. That is when a living being will become nameless. They will spend the rest of their days existing without the magic of books. It is a different world for them. They have to go live their lives in the wilderness of their own hearts and find other things to warm the cockles, so to speak.’

‘What other things?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not nameless. I can’t begin to imagine what it is like to be them. Only they can know. But I will tell you this, T… don’t let your makers know you have a name. Don’t even spill the first letter. Do you hear me?’

‘Why?’

‘Because they won’t understand. They might even look at you differently. Even though they love you, I am sure, they will be at odds with themselves. They will be forced to bring up a child they cannot possibly comprehend. It will be painful for both you and them. Take my advice. Never tell them that you have a name. Never let them know that the books mean more to you than just playtime things. Make it appear as though your toys are just as important. And keep the secrets of word-magic to yourself.’

‘Is that really necessary? They are my Makers. My Protectors.’

‘So. It is still crucial. Secrecy is key.’

‘Supper!’ The Entity this time.

‘Coming!’

I say my farewell to Tridblotch as Freesia carefully lowers my new friend onto page fifty-six. I watch as Sir Danson Tridblotch wriggles across Cinderella’s glass slipper and vanishes beneath the heel. Then I scramble down the trunk of the apple tree, book under arm, Freesia in tow, and skip across the green floor of the outside box.

I cavort and cartwheel towards the inside box, carefree and childlike-wild. Until I reach those white walls and the dark doorway leading to food and warmth and love and fear. The place I must never leave.

9

At night, in the private space of my own box, I lie on my side twiddling bed blankets. Satin edges placating sleepless fingers. The door is open and shards of cheese-wedge light spills across my earth-brown carpet. The walls are a dim shadow-peach in the almost-dark room. And something lives there, inside the wall nearest to the door. Something moves that is not shadow nor the flicker of moth wings.

Two figures with soft, pattering feet. Delicate, gauzy creatures. One tall, like The Entity, one small, like me. In white gowns. Long hair, ebony, sleek, covers their heads. Heads without faces. Just plain skin.  

When they tilt those skin-stretched heads and unstick their white, gluey limbs from the walls, my eyes widen at what I am seeing. I pull Freesia close and whisper: ‘Do you see that, bear? Do you see?’ And Freesia nods slowly as if not wishing to be seen by the two jellyfish girls protruding from the wall and easing themselves onto the carpet. Elbows angled to the lid of my box, with their backs all hunched and crooked. On squelching knees. Outstretched fingers, each one bone-pale and scratching at the woollen fibres lining the inside of my little box. I don’t like it.

They are in conversation, private words, not in a language I understand. The exchange is mute, yet I hear it all the same. They speak with no mouths because they have no features. Just skin. Skin and… bundles of thicker-than-night hair. All skin with nothing on it, not even a drawn-on face. Nothing scrawled there. Not even with crayon. Or paint. Nothing. The skin is shudder-worthy. Like snagged netting on sea-worn boulders. Their blanched gowns are sporadic sea spray when they move. As though an invisible wind buffers those gossamer folds. Nightime flags in whispering motion.

Freesia quivers against my chest. ‘Are they box-spirits?’ she asks. I cannot answer. I do not know. But they are here now. And I draw the blanket up around us, barely breathing.

The conversation deepens into secrecy. They sojourn foreheads, as if transmitting thoughts. Sound emits from their no-mouths in some foreign tongue. I think they are playing a game. I think they want me to play. Freesia urges me to remain beneath the blanket, but I feel myself slipping. Toes scratching carpet. Cold air nipping my ankles as I sink from the warmth of the covers into the shallow ripples of night air.

As I do this, both faceless heads twist on sharp moonbeam-necks. A whirl of white voile fountains the pair. Mounds of hair spiralling upwards to tickle the lid of my box. Hair like squid-ink blotting the air. Coiling tousles wriggle out from their onyx crowns in a fibrous beckoning. Urging me closer. I am a sleepwalker, unable to break sleep. Zombie-gait and deadened eyes. Creeping closer to the box-spirits.

In their language I feel them express a longing to immerse me in their game. I comprehend their meaning and ignore the pleas from my sleeping place… back on the bed, the safe island. The place where my bear shivers and quakes. Blanket-bound and pillow-hugging.

I do not give in to the fear. I want to know what these creatures are and where they have come from. I want to explore their minds and see them clearly. I want to…

No. I must sit down, beside them. It is time to play. In the space between them, there is a white box. A miniature replica of the inside box. It has the same windows and the white picket fence. It has the same floors. That kitchen, identical to the one downstairs. It is a toy version of the inside box. The box is a dollhouse. And the front façade opens outwards to reveal the interior, which matches the rooms in the box. But there are no dolls.

The box-spirits chatter avidly. To the outside ear, it is a shrill squeak. A dying-frog squeal. But on the inside of my mind, the sound is intelligent connection. An intricate network of incomprehensible words. I feel their meaning rather than interpret them. We are to use bugs. Bugs can move. Dolls can’t. Or, at least, I’m not sure I want my dolls to be autonomous. And ‘animated bugs’ is a more interesting game.

The faceless ones make shadow puppets dance across the walls, bending bleached fingers into obscure shapes. And I am able to reach across and pick at them until they unpeel. The shadows come away from the wall as easily as dead skin. Squirming between my fingers like hooked sprats. Each shadow puppet is a tiny creature. Bug-shaped and buzzing with nocturnal zest. And I lower them into the dollhouse, letting them jiggle about inside the tiny rooms.

Bug-eyed critters scrabbling about in there or slithering into the cracks and squirming beneath downsized furniture. It’s fun to watch them moving around. But they don’t behave appropriately. They don’t behave as though they belong. They would be better suited to the nature of the outside box. Seeking patches of green and slabs of brown. Sprigs and brush and other such things. That is where they truly belong. In the little dollhouse, they disgust me. And I want to scrape them away with my nails. Splat them with a fist. Shake the box until they all drop into a heaving mini-beast mound on my carpet. Sweep them away with a broom. I don’t want them. I’d prefer dolls. But I dare not let these box-spirits know it. I do not trust their presence. But I would like to at least try to understand them.

I hold up my hand to touch the taller one’s smooth eggshell face. I stroke it with the back of my hand. It crunches like snowpack. Freezing my skin. And I know… I have angered them.

The snow-chill freezes the room. And muted high-pitched screams bleach the air. My ears cannot withstand it. Wax crumbles inside them. I feel the stretch of their no-jaws. The indignant flash of their not-there-eyes. Hair like black spikes. Their dresses billow into suffocating casket shrouds. Snuffing out my airholes. Pressing into my face with a heavy, low fever. I want to scream too, but there is no breath now. Just endless nothing in the space that was my room. With my bed. And my bear. Now it is a ghoul-funnel. Occupied by two fathomless figures. A sedated untwisting of white voile – unravelling bandages of box-spirit. Dissolving hair, erosive in the acerbic night. Skin slips off ghost bones. And they are just two shrill skeletons dancing mid-air. I watch them run out of the room. Osseous feet trampling the tiny box of bugs. Down the stairs they go. I run after them, watching as they open the downstairs door. Scampering down the path and leaping over the picket fence. Leg bones akimbo. A rush of white lustre suddenly engulfed by the wild meadow’s shuddering embrace. The wind blows the door shut. And I stand at the top of the stairs, panting like the Black Shuck. Freesia has joined me. She stares at the door with her button eyes. Neither one of us knows what to make of such a scene. Nor do we ever wish to see the box-spirits again.

Perhaps they will go to the enchanted forest and rest their arcane bones against some unsuspecting tree. Sink into the soil. Where bones belong.