Birds glided through the air, as plentiful as leaves that nestled in groups on the green fields and rolling hill, a clearing amidst the dense group of looming guardians. A decrepit, mossy throne within an area many would consider abject. Upon this throne sits the king of the land, stoically regarding that which is his. He jerks and jumps off the rotted stump, scurrying off to his castle, the petit rodent venturing to new heights as he slinks up and around the roughened bark-clothed pines. Approaching the worn seat, a boy rests himself upon it, exhaling a sigh of contentment. He loves this place, this place of adventure, who’s goblins and ghouls, castles and temples, swords and shields were limited only to which he could imagine. Today, at this moment, he is a warrior-king, having just vanquished a wondrously jeweled, but tremendous foe; Smaug, much like the wee thief Bilbo Baggins boasted. Leaping from the seat, he clenched his powerful fist, and gave a war cry to the heavens, hefting his legendary horror-slaying, foe-crushing, ground-pounding weapon, his battered and cracked (not forgetting stained with the swamp green ichor of a hundred overgrown “Weedmen”) wooden sword. For this was his land of adventure! May no invader cross, and if some far off general besieges the land, woe be unto his army, for the boy will cleave the limbs of every single flora that is raised.

He dashes off, now through the dense growth, the outreaching green tendrils of the gargantuan pines stabbing and slicing and pricking at his exposed skin, causing fleeting moments of anguish. The merciless plants do not care for his well-being, nor for his quest, and attempt to disrupt or halt it in any way they can. He ducks and spins through the crowded forest, leaping over logs batting away a thousand arms and fingers that try and pluck out his eyes and blind him. Legs become like the stones he runs on, heavy and become nigh impossible to move, sweat beading upon his brow, the pinpricks of a thousand needles stinging on his naked arms and equally bare knees, boots crashing through piles of dead undergrowth, kicking decay into the air.

Suddenly, the boy is flying in a glorious arc, the sword is torn from his hand, and then, just as abruptly, he crashes back to earth, grounded yet again, and rolls. His stomach turns, threatening to dispel its contents, as burning nerves torment his young flesh. His poor limp form is assaulted by a hundred aches, a thousand pains, a million cuts, scrapes and bruises. His back is wounded, along with his shoulder, and he can feel a warm wetness drip down his shocked flesh. The boy stands, knees shaking, tears beginning to stream down his dirty face. A leaf falls from his tousled chestnut hair, and sticks to the crimson river that flows down his right arm. His heart flutters at the sight, and he begins to swoon. He places a hand on a nearby tree, and begins to gasp and heave. He has never felt pain like this in his entire life, nothing can compare. Suddenly, every little cut and scrape on his young self feels like they have torn open with the recent tumble. Limping on injured legs to his toy sword, grasping it in his only uninjured hand, he begins the painful journey back to his camp.

The return voyage was excruciatingly slow for the boy. He wanted nothing but to be held and told he would be okay, and what a brave little man he was. Rays of sun shine through the tree tops and the overgrowth, and strike the motes of dust left hanging in the air from the tumble and shuffling of the boy’s tattered boots as they slap against the hard, crusted path. A few more crystalline tears sprint down his face, reflecting the beautiful and serene forest all around him, before they jump and fall to their end against the ground, or are wiped to oblivion with a filthy hand and a loud sniffle. The boy, lets out a cry of anguish and frustration, and throws himself against a knotted tree, crying when the injured arm slides down the rugged bark, causing the coagulated blood to flow freely once again, dying the woven, faded blue of his blown-out-kneed pants to a rusty red. The oak he leans against creeks, slowly swaying, playing shadows across the injured knight. It’s lighting burned, ochre trunk, and bare splintered branches rubbing against each other, speaking an archaic tongue in their shrill voices. He rises up from the tree, new determination showing in his pale blue eyes, small crooked teeth clenched together and chapped lips open in a snarl. Some spittle oozes from the corner of his mouth, only to be sucked up with a slurp. He then trudges forward, up the jagged cliff, which is really a hill with a trail, to his fort where his white stallion and his courageous war party awaits, cooking a mighty feast, (which is actually a single drooping grey tent, a small steel fixed gear bicycle, and his family, heating canned stew).

The sun is just over the western pine tops, glowing with a blinding orange, and casting shadows hundreds of feet long on the field where they camped. The small tufts of persistent wild prairie grass poking up through the earth, fighting each other for water and sunlight, casting their own, meeker, shadows. Clad in his new tattered shirt, the poor little adventurer approaches. A small breeze rustles the trees and dried leaves, faint howling can be heard from the nearby sandstone creek, as the wind makes its way through. A fast fluttering of wings from a flock of jays break the tense scene, as they rush off to who knows where, steel-grey and indigo bodies contrasting against the setting sun-lit sky. They move and waver like a mirage, chirping and gliding in a circle across from the boy, before continuing off again.

A hoarse howl pierces the tranquility of it all, as the boy wails the pain he had been keeping all this time. He stumbles into the camp where his family reclines, a flickering cooking fire casts shadows across their faces as they laugh, not yet noticing the little hurt fellow. He wails that noise he had been keeping quiet all afternoon since his fall again, louder, and the entire camp is in motion immediately. The fire still casting a ruddy light in a circle, one can see a man nearly jump into the old tent, and a woman dash over, curly brown hair blown behind her head as she drops to a knee to see why such a brave adventurer would screech like this. The man comes out of the tent, a small box of apothecary cures. He nearly slides to the boy on his own knees much like the woman did, tearing a hole in his pants to match the young warrior’s. A large white beast is jumping to and fro, sprinting circles around the scene and pursuing fairies that stray too close to the fire, the entire time yipping in excitement. It leaps and catches one of the fluttering moths, trapping it under a paw. Hearing her name thundered by the man tending to the boy, the young pup drops to the ground, with gargoyle-like stillness. Dropping his cracked blade, the boy latches onto the woman, and a few minutes later his hot tears dry, and he relaxes to near silence. The man picks him up, hefting the boy to the nearby wagon, setting him on the hood of that old truck they drove and surveys the damage. The delirious warrior-king mumbles some indecipherable words, and makes a sharp intake of breath.The man cleans the small cut on his arm, using a strange, clear potion that bubbles upon contact and wraps an adhesive dressing around it. The woman comes over and gives it a light, and gentle kiss, and the boy is smiling once again. He jumps off the hood of the truck and marches (but more like skipping), over to his little sword and whirls around to the puppy who is still sitting quietly and gives her a rough pat on the back. Not ten minutes after he fell at the will of some evil “Ent”, he is hiking off back into his Sherwood Forest. One can understand how a gruesome war wound like the little hero received cannot, and will not keep in down for long. If he doesn’t protect the Creek they camp at each year, the kingdom, his mother and father, and of course his dog Dusty (rightly named considering the filth she acquired), from the ghouls and goblins, the bejeweled dragon Smaug, and all other nasty things that go bump in the night, none will.