In amongst a stack of college papers from Mom‘s years as an English major (1948 – 1952), I came across this four-page typed work of fiction. There’s no date on it, but surely it’s safe to say it’s about 75 years old.

The Winter Wood

Prologue

On May 18 he thought he was dead and lying under the sea. His head rested flat like a pale rock against the bottom, and through his arms and legs gushed the gray water like skim milk flowing into funnels. He remembered feeling lightheaded and foolish, but thoroughly indignant because he could not move. Yet there were no bonds nor chains to anchor him. He had a sudden fear of being frantically lost, like the time he bungled into The Sandy Shell Hall of Mirrors and ended up standing in the center and screaming with all the jungle terror of seven years. But there had been someone then to smooth his collar and kiss his tears away. Under the sea there was nothing but a blue shark with a blood–red eye.

On May 23 he felt himself staring down the yawning throat of a growling crater. Purple steam and lava crept about his face, but he sensed nothing. A climbing scavenger with a crooked claw shrieked its warning in the wind until he raised his hand and waved the bird onward. It was then that the swollen liquid roared and leaped at him with its searing fangs. He fell over, screaming for the bird with the crooked claw. Only his own cry returned before he felt the pain.

When June 7 came he was afraid of his own thinking. He slipped into a quiet room to muse with the cat Dubonney, but there was no release from it. He felt himself being hurled into the sky, until, a mile from the sun, a silver stirrup wrapped its ring around one of his feet. Then he dangled in the openness of heaven as he cried for the power to rise or fall.

As he began swinging across with the dull momentum of a giant pendulum, a large black hand with ten red fingers locked itself around his free ankle and began to pull. He wanted to plead to the thing’s sense of mercy but he saw no signs of life. The monster pulled and yanked and tugged and stretched. He could have borne the agony if only it would speak; he would have welcomed a sneer or a taunt. In the coming dark the fingers turned to thorns of blood; their venom seeped into his own veins and sped to his brain. In a moment he was mad.

*********

The man in the silver shirt patted the little girl as he made her a promise.

“If you’re here at four we’ll go in and you can have the red rabbit. But only if you’re here.”

“If I can, I will.”

“You’re not afraid of me?”

“No.”

“Then come. Goodbye, my dear.”

The wind felt harsh and bitter to his poor face now that he was alone again. The lady with the daisies at her throat stood in the shop window starting to smile – until she saw. She turned sharply and walked away. From its gay new wagon the red rabbit tipped its cuddly ears at him. The shame fled, and he wanted to go in then, to buy the toy, and save it for the child. But a promise was a promise. Perhaps this one was going to be kept.

He had never enjoyed the city: its florid mask and greedy paws were too much for his gentleness. And so he walked away – for it was early yet – until his lengthening strides bore him beyond the babbling streets and dank sideways, past the vulture venders and their tainted bargains. Only when the last house was gone in his dust did it feel easy to breathe again. He whistled to the bird in its nest, the frog in its pond, the grouse in the grass. But nothing responded, nothing acknowledged his cry. Yet he knew the joy of trying, even as in the morning. Hope held his heart with thoughts of the child. Only his patience had overcome her shyness and reluctance. But she had not run from him; she had not cried. This he remembered most.

He watched the sun spread her bright shadow to warm the meadowland. The thrush mourned sweetly above him for his lady love. The man in the silver shirt flicked his finger to catch, perhaps, a remnant of the song. But it was useless. Only his own heart’s tune was there, and it had nothing new.

The little girl sat weeping with the dying leaves. The man in the silver shirt came to the rescue.

“What happened to our date?”

“Go away. I’m not to see you again.”

“Not ever? But why?”

“Because you’re a fancifier and not at all true. And you’re strange and terrible. I’ve been told.”

“Is it because I don’t really know you?” His voice trembled.

“I don’t know you and I can’t know you.”

“Ah, so you, too, must leave me.”

The child turned her head. “I don’t want to! But I must.”

“Come to the store. With all my heart. I beg you.”

“No, please.”

“Just for the rabbit – “

” I have no money – “

“All I want is one pure smile from you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid.”

“How can a man be afraid?”

“Loneliness and unhappiness are the greatest sorrows.”

“Do you have them?”

“Yes. Come for the rabbit … “

“I’ll come, because you are afraid.”

The man in the silver shirt took the little hand. They walked down the street and into the shop. The lady with the daisies at her throat saw them coming and hid in the back room.

The fat boy decided to be brave. Yet not before the pair was gone did he relax. He called the lady out from her retreat.

She shuddered, “I’m sorry, but I really couldn’t do it.”

The boy was intense. “I know; the eye was horrible. That black hole with the puffy red rim. Do you know the child?”

“Yes, she’s a proud little spot. Came in a few times to ask if she could feel the rabbit.”

“But the old man – how can she – “

“Stand the sight of him? She can’t. You see, she’s quite blind.”

Epilogue

The man in the silver shirt fell asleep in his chair by the fire. He dreamed then that he wore two flashing wings that carried him through a lonely forestland. It was winter and there was nothing on the trees he passed to shield him from the snow. The wet down washed his face and fell into the cavern of his eye. It was then that he saw before him, as if springing from a sleeping sun, two golden orbs of light. Somewhere a little red rabbit called his name. The man in the silver shirt stopped breathing. Then he saw the winter wood step back for spring.

“The Winter Wood” © circa 1950  Joan Cassidy. All rights reserved.

Please subscribe here: Simply drop your email address here and we’ll send you a notification with each new story.