The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Sixth Annual Collection

When I was 12, everything made me angry. I woke in the morning with irritation the flavor of tart green apples on my tongue. Every word I spoke was sharp, and my mood was sour.

I quarreled with everyone. It usually began at breakfast, as my younger sister Bridget would absently kick the table leg while eating her cereal.

“Watch it!” I growled one day, annoyed at her dreamy face as the milk splashed from her spoon.

“Leave me alone,” she snapped.

“You’re such a slob,” I sneered.

“Mom!”

My mother turned from the counter, holding up the knife still thick with peanut butter. Her other hand cradled the sandwich bread. Above the frown, her dark eyes settled on me accusingly. “Stop nagging your sister, Jeanie. You’ll be late for school.”

Blood flushed my indignant face. Grabbing my books, I stormed out of the kitchen, letting the back door slam.

Walking to school, 1 reviewed the origins of my dissatisfaction. To be 12 years old was horrible. I was too old for most of the things that had once given me pleasure. Stuffed animals and dolls gathered dust on the upper shelves of my bookcase. Sometimes when I missed them, I consented to play with Bridget, who still found them interesting. Such occasions were rare, however. Doll play was babyish, I had decided just after Susan, my best friend, had gotten her first bra.

And that was the second problem. Though I had small, flat breasts, they were clearly destined to be something one day. I wanted a bra. I had fine, gold hair on my shins and beneath my arms, and I wanted to shave. My eyes seemed small, and I wanted to wear makeup. Some of my mother’s friends would nudge me and wink. “Have you started your periods yet?” they would inquire, and my cheeks would pink with embarrassment. I was in between everything, and I wanted to be grown up. At 12 years old, I was close, very close—but as far as my parents were concerned, not close enough.

It wasn’t until the Saturday after Easter, when the sun grew bright and the air finally warm after the long winter, that things began to change. I was sitting in the kitchen arguing with my parents.

“Why can’t I wear makeup? Susan’s mom lets her. She even wore it to church last week. And what’s wrong with shaving my legs? They look awful. All the girls—”

I stopped as my father’s face clouded.

He rolled his eyes and looked over at my mother. She was at the sink, calmly washing two apples. On the counter were two cheese sandwiches, one on top of the other. I saw the shadow of a smile on her face.

“Get a sweater, Jeanie,” she said evenly. “I want you to come with me to Fairy’s Bluff.”

“Daddy,” I pleaded, angry that they were ignoring my outburst. My father got up from the kitchen table, his hands in his pockets. He stood by my mother, looking at her expectantly. For a moment, my heart lifted. Surely, he meant to nudge her into talking, I thought.

She looked back, her eyes half-lidded in a sleepy smile. My father shrugged, and briefly cupped her cheek with one hand. My happiness fell as I saw the wordless agreement pass between them. On his way out of the kitchen, he stroked my head, smoothing down my hair. Then, whistling softly between his teeth, he left me alone with my mother.

“I don’t want to go,” I said sullenly.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Take Bridget,” I tried, offering my little sister.

My mother shook her head and went on packing lunch. “She’s too young. Now, get the thermos. Do you want tea or juice?” she asked, turning her face to me.

I glared back, hiding the mild surprise I felt at being given a choice of beverage. “Tea,” I snapped, grasping at anything that sounded grown up.

“Water’s boiled,” she answered briskly. “Make the tea, then add some milk to the thermos before you pour it in.” She put a sandwich, an apple, and a piece of cake into each bag. Carrot sticks came next, and a small bag of trail mix.

“I’ll get the car and meet you out front,” she said, scooping up the lunch and two buckets that waited by the door.

Alone in the kitchen, pouring the milk and amber-colored tea into the thermos, I sighed miserably. I’m never going to get what I want, I thought. I screwed the cap on the thermos angrily, thinking of Susan at church. She had turned around in the pew to wave at me, and her lips had been a rosy pink. In the middle of the homily, she had casually raised the fallen bra strap off her upper arm. I, meantime, had gritted my teeth and looked away at the stained glass windows.

My mother was waiting for me in the car, the motor idling quietly. She had one elbow resting out the open window. On her head, she was wearing a scarf with the pattern of green ivy all over it. I had always liked that scarf on my mother. When I was little, I thought it looked like a fairy crown of leaves covering her dark hair.

I slipped into the front seat beside her, and we drove off toward the country. As the neighborhoods and shopping malls gradually gave way to the spreading fields of nearby farms, some of my anger abated. I stared curiously at my mother, searching her face for signs of myself as an adult.

She had a strong, clean profile. Her smooth, prominent forehead curved out over intelligent eyes. Her nose was a little crooked—the result of a childhood break— though it lent an interesting angle to her face. Her mouth was generous, and she smiled often. Dark hair had escaped the edges of her scarf and curled around her temples. She had a good figure, sturdy and wide hipped. I followed the lines of her muscled forearms down to her squared hands. She gripped the wheel with confidence, her knuckles large and white where they rose above the shiny metal.

Had I not been so absorbed in my anger, I might have been happier at that moment. It was a ritual of my mother’s to go every spring to Fairy’s Bluff—to pick wild asparagus along the roadsides and then gather mushrooms, especially the hooded morels, in the dark woods of the bluff. She would go for the day, with lunch in tow, and always return with a quiet gleam in her eyes as she settled, tired but satisfied, into a chair. Kicking off her shoes, she scattered little clods of black dirt from the heels of her socks. On her clothes, she carried the soft fragrance of the woods.

I had joined her the previous year for the first time. Looking back on it as we rode along, I realized I must have been a big pain. I tired quickly, complained about the long walk, stepped on the mushrooms I was supposed to pick, and fussed at the dirt that got into my sandwich. My mother tried being patient, but by the end of the day, she became frustrated and very sharp with me. She tossed the buckets in the back seat, and the mushrooms spilled out into the footwells. Her lips were pressed tightly together as she drove home, faster than usual. My father met us at the door, with quizzical eyes. Bridget, holding his hand, sucked on a Popsicle.

“Too early," she had said to him, and I knew it was me she was talking about, not the lack of mushrooms or asparagus.

Well, it’ll be different this year, I thought as I saw the cliffs of Fairy’s Bluff rising in the distance. I’m older, I told myself, squaring my shoulders. Catching my mother’s sidelong glance, I wondered at her smile.

We spent the early part of the day searching for newly risen stalks of asparagus along the back roads that wound around the bluff. My mother knew just where the asparagus hid amid the dried grasses of the old year. The sun was hot on my back as I waded through the tangled grass looking for the arrowed heads. Finding a small patch of green, I leaned down close to the earth, the dusty perfume of sun-heated straw filling my nostrils. A black stag beetle clambered over the stalks, raising an indignant claw at me as I cut away at the base of the green asparagus.

“Be sure you leave some behind,” my mother called from her patch farther down the road. “We want there to be some for next year.”

So close to the earth and sheltered from the road by the brambles and grasses, I stared at the green stalks of asparagus. They were sturdy sentries, rising up out of the hard soil. Dark green whorls of leaves were packed tightly against the tip of each shaft, which faded to a pale cream at the woody base. I cut the stalks, the sun warming my back and the hum of insects filling my ears.

It was nearly midday when my mother came up to me, her bucket full of green spears. Her expression had softened, and a streak of dirt ran across her forehead. Sweat circled her throat like a necklace of dew.

As tired and thirsty as I was, I refused to show any signs of it.

“Come on. We’ll head into the woods,” she said, taking my half-filled bucket and emptying the asparagus into a cooler in the car. Setting our empty buckets aside, she grabbed the lunch bags, handed me the thermos, and set off.

I followed her, my eyes squinting against the bright noonday sun. At the edge of the woods, she stopped, poised half in the shadows of the trees. I saw my mother inhale slowly. She closed her eyes. Her lips parted with the breath of her exhalation. Then slipping the scarf from her head, she entered the woods, the new leaves casting a pale green light over her shoulders.

I hesitated at the edge of the shadowed forest and sniffed. The scent was rich and dark. The odor of rotted trees, wet soil, and sharp, resinous pine was distinct and commanding, filling my mouth with the dense flavor of earth. I exhaled, awed as the pale green shadows speckled the skin of my arms and dappled the front of my white shirt.

In the muted silence of the forest, I saw my mother bending down by an old pine, its ancient branches brushing a welcome across her shoulders. Her hair hung loosely around her face, clinging in damp curls at her neck. She glanced at me, and a stray shaft of sunlight glinted in her eyes, making them sparkle in the green shadows.

“Come, Jeanie. Look here,” she called, and her voice sounded musical.

I drew near, almost cautiously, as the forest light caressed my mother and transformed her into the image of a green fairy, newly wakened from a winter sleep beneath the carpet of pine needles. She was on her knees before the base of an old, gnarled pine tree. Pine needles were tangled in her curly hair, and the white remains of a sticky cobweb clung to her arm. Her hand was cupped around the bright pink blossom of a lady’s slipper blooming in the shadow of the old tree. Shaped like an orchid, the rosy bowl of the flower hung suspended over the dull brown of the forest floor. Two pale pink wings graced the throat of the blossom.

“Oh,” I exclaimed, and knelt to examine the flower. “It’s beautiful.” Gently, I touched the green leaves, and the pink bowl of the flower trembled on its delicate stalk.

“And very rare,” my mother added softly, sitting back on her heels, her hands resting on top of her thighs. She touched my shoulder softly, and I turned to face her. She smiled at me. “When you’re angry, your cheeks blush just that color.”

My eyes widened, and I frowned. “That red, huh?”

“That beautiful,” she replied, and stood up. “Come on,” she urged. “I want to collect the morels before we stop for lunch.”

My mother moved quietly through the woods, her hand affectionately patting the rough, patchy bark of familiar trees. As she brushed back the carpet of dried needles, the mottled brown caps of the morels appeared.

In the silence of the forest, I thought about my yearnings for adulthood, which at home in the kitchen had seemed so clear and in the woods had become confusing.

I felt both frightened and excited by the life that lay ahead. Emotions bubbled like thawed sap, and the sour taste of my anger was suddenly sliced by the pungent aroma of the pines mingled with the leaven of humus. It was a smell that promised new growth out of the old; it was a taste that came as a harbinger of the future I craved.

My head swirled with half-understood thoughts, and as I bent to pick a morel, I hesitated, struck by shyness. The morel was a lovely brown, its wide, elongated cap tucked neatly around a slender shaft. My hand hovered above the mushroom, and I stared at it, recognizing its sensual shape for the first time. I glanced awkwardly at my mother. With gentle fingers, so as not to bruise the shaft, she plucked a mushroom from the forest floor. She held it up to the light, admiring the color. Then smiling at me, she placed it with the others in her basket. I reached down and plucked mine.

The shaft was smooth, the flesh springy to the touch. It had a moist fragrance that tickled my nose. Clinging to the crevasses in its cap were tiny clods of dirt. A pale milk-white spider huddled in one fold, and very carefully, I coaxed it onto my finger before releasing it to the forest floor.

“There's a nice clearing over by those rocks, where we can eat lunch,” my mother said, pointing to a spot just beyond the pine trees. The sun filtered through a break in the trees and settled on a gathering of boulders. Brilliant green moss covered the curves on their humped backs like a velvet cloth.

My legs were tired, and I was aware now that my stomach growled for a cheese sandwich. Placing the morel carefully in my bucket, I joined my mother by the rocks.

Though there was sunlight, she sat in the shade, the green light of the forest veiling her face. I sat beside her and watched as she unwrapped the sandwiches and handed me one. Her fingers were dusted with dirt, and a few black particles speckled the bread. I shrugged and, not even caring to brush them away, took the sandwich and started to eat.

We chewed quietly for a while. Then, I grew impatient. “Mom,” I said, trying not to sound pleading, “why can’t I be like Susan? What’s wrong with wearing makeup?”

My mother’s eyes were lidded, her mouth softened with disappointment. She put her sandwich down and shook her head. “Jeanie,” she said, “why do you ask for so little?”

I scowled, confused by her reply.

She raised her eyes to me. “Do you remember when you were younger, and we used to build elfhouses?”

In spite of my anger, I smiled at the memory. “Yeah, you told Bridget and me that elves lived in the tangled roots of big old trees. We used to sweep out passages to make little houses.”

“And then you put in rocks and acorns as tables and chairs,” my mother said, laughing.

“We also made rugs out of moss.” I paused, and then added, “It was fun.”

“You believed in the magic of elfhouses then, didn't you?” my mother asked.

I shrugged as a pang of sadness pierced my heart. What did any of that have to do with now? I was growing up, wasn't I? I wasn't supposed to believe in those things anymore. “I guess so,” I replied sourly.

“And no more?” my mother whispered.

Looking up at her, I was overcome with fear. In the shimmering green light, her hair entangled with the twigs and leaves of the forest, my mother appeared as a stranger to me. The sunlight cast a hard gleam in her eyes, and they glowed like those of an animal caught at night in the headlights. Her shirt was opened at the throat, and lines of sweat trickled between the cleft of her breasts, streaking the fine coating of dirt on her skin. Along the ridge of her collarbone, the green light of the forest clung like moss.

She plunged her hand into the loose soil around the rocks, withdrew something, and held it between us in her closed fist. As she opened her hand, I saw a tiny brown bulb with a fine webbing of roots extending from its base.

“Magic doesn’t leave us as we grow older, Jeanie,” she said softly, “we abandon magic. It remains always within us, and we need only choose to see it.”

As I watched, a slender green stalk emerged from the tip of the brown bulb. It grew before my eyes, splitting through the papery thinness of its covering in an eager search for sunlight.

My mother fanned the roots of the bulb with careful fingers and replaced it in the soil. Tamped down in its bed of dirt, the green stalk continued to rise, its leaves unfurling like flags.

I stared at it, fascinated. Then I looked at my mother, who was gazing at me in private amusement. “How did you do that?” I asked, breathless.

“Ask for more, Jeanie—of yourself and of the world about you,” my mother urged. “You will find there is an endless store of mystery. It will grow as you grow. And if you let it, it will deepen into something loving and powerful.” She sighed and pushed back her hair. “You may get a bra, and in time you will wear makeup and probably shave your legs, though I suspect you may come to hate those things as much as you now want them. Don’t forget what makes you truly special.” She brushed my cheek with her hand, and the skin of my face tingled. “Come on, finish your lunch. We still have a lot of collecting to do.”

The rest of the afternoon passed me by as if I were floating on the surface of a quiet pond. I drifted, aware of the whispering wind in the leaves, the gentle rasp of insects, and the dry rustle of creatures in the underbrush. A wood dove cooed, and as her mate answered from another tree, I smiled knowingly. Although I was still impatient to be grown up, my mother had gifted me with vision, and I could calmly hear my yearnings echoed in the waking forest.

Like that small bulb my mother had unearthed, I, too, had roots resting firmly against the earth, roots that dug deep for sustenance. Along with the bright flag of youth that was forcing its way through the soil, with a longing to bloom lush and beautiful like the lady’s slipper, came a downward pull, and a new kind of knowing. As my mother had shown me, the strength and beauty of the flower was not in its brilliance, but in the solid core that lay beneath the surface. Listening to the roots that coursed within me, I could hear the murmured songs of nature and feel the ancient history that joined me to the world of nature. I would not have to sacrifice the wonderment of childhood for the shiny trappings of adulthood. As a child, I had built houses of magic for elves; as an adult, I would become a house of magic, every door opening to reveal yet another mystery.

We returned at twilight, just as the sun began slanting over the tops of the trees. My father met us at the door, and next to him was my sister Bridget, with one sock on and the other dangling from her hand. My father’s gaze shifted from my mother’s face to mine. I saw him nod in recognition, and then he sighed. All my clamoring for the things of adulthood had not impressed him. In the day spent with my mother, however, a change had occurred in me. He saw that change and, giving me his shy smile, patted my shoulder encouragingly.