Winter's Gifts

A skinny boy sat by himself at the bus stop, fogging his glasses with his breath and rubbing them against his shirt, while other kids stood around in groups of twos or threes gibbering about their winter break plans. The crisp cool air blew an orange maple leaf his way; it hovered briefly about his spindly legs before settling with a sigh at his patent lace-up school shoes. He swiveled his feet so that the leaf mulch on the pavement scrunched under his shoes. He smiled as it reminded him of the driveway to his home, strewn as it must be by now with gold and rust-hued leaves lifting and falling in the breeze.

He looked up as a car suddenly turned around the street bend, rubber burning, and hurtled towards the bus stop. A couple of senior boys laughing and shouting crazy sat in it, one of them leaning out of the rear window, an ink bottle in his hand. “Run for it, Winter boy,” he yelled. William Winter gaped, frozen to the spot, his little knees clicking together. The senior unscrewed the cap as the car approached near, and just as he was about to toss the ink Winter’s way, the rear tire found a pothole. There was a loud thud and the boy splashed the ink all over his own face and shirt. His eyes went round and white in a blackened face as the kids on the pavement broke into laughter. The car sped away in an embarrassed roar.

Willy gaped at the pothole; he rubbed his eyes as the edges of the rut began to contract and fade, and then totally vanished from view: the road was level and smooth again. The curious braided bracelet on his wrist prickled briefly; a smile stole across his timid face as he cupped the band with his other hand. He looked forward to meeting Grandpa. And his magical winged wheelchair.

Startled quail streaked into the sky as Willy got down from the bus and trudged up to the house. Grandpa’s house was a rambling yellow wood structure with stone vaulted arches, tall fireplaces, and enormous bedrooms. Set in a green meadow, it was surrounded by deep woods through which ran golden shafts of sunbeams and a winding river chock-full of plump trout and salmon.

It was noontime and Grandpa was snoring on a bench in the grounds, his wheelchair parked next to it. Willy dropped his case and loping to the bench, hugged his grandpa from behind.

“Ho, ho, Willy boy, my son,” rasped the old man in delight. Grasping his grandson’s arms, he pulled him around the bench and sat him down. “Tell me all about school, boy, and be sure to leave nothing out.”

“Well, ‘twas fun,” the boy replied, trying to look cheerful.

“Was it now? Tell me all about your adventures.”

“Hmm, let’s see.” Willy crinkled his nose. ” There was this time we had a long green snake and a fishing line and we lowered this snake on Mrs. Tenebric as she sat marking zeros on our papers in the Staff Room.

And then another time we scraped the frosting and sprinkled salt on the Headmaster’s doughnuts. You should’ve seen him spit the bun out all over his shirt. And there was this geeky little kid with weird round glasses waiting at the bus stop one day and they…we splashed ink all over him.”

“All right,” the old man said, placing a hand over Willy’s scrawny shoulder and helping himself into the wheelchair. “That sure sounds like a load of fun – and you’ve been having it all without your old man.” His eyes twinkled with mischief as he winked at Willy. “But first, a meal. Let’s see what hash that grumpy Mess Sergeant has slung for us.”

“You tell me some about yourself, Grandpa, what’s your story? Have you been keeping well?” Willy asked after Mrs. Stirsauce the housekeeper had left: not before banging pot-roast, onion marmalade, home baked spinach and pecan bread on the table, grumbling all the while about how skinny Willy, and how fussy about eating Mr. Winter had become.

“One ain’t getting any younger, though the Drill Sergeant here never stops reminding me,” Grandpa said, nodding in the direction of the kitchen where Mrs. Stirsauce was clanging the pots and dishes.

“Can we go fishing, Grandpa, as soon as after this?” Willy asked, stuffing large portions of the roast in his mouth in a big hurry – he knew Mrs. Stirsauce wouldn’t let him leave without wiping his plate clean. “You put wings on the wheelchair and we’ll go flying over to the river.”

Grandpa avoided his eyes and pretended he hadn’t heard him. He moved the morsels around in his mouth like a masticating cow, musing over probably nothing at all.

“Grandpa,” Willy insisted. He cast a furtive look over his shoulder. “ We won’t tell her.”

“Wha – who?” Grandpa seemed to shake out of his reverie.

Willy flapped his arms like a bird and tilted his chin toward the sky. “Wings...fly,” he whispered. Then he made a gesture of dropping a line and reeling in the fish.” Plop, plop, yummy,” he whispered, licking his lips in a depiction of a juicy roast, later, over the campfire.

Despite himself, grandpa couldn’t help laughing. But his shoulders slumped and he shook his head.

“What happened – you look sad?”

“Well,” sighed Grandpa, looking out the window at a flitting cloud, “that’s all I can do now, look out the window at the skies.”

“Why, what d’ya mean,” Willy asked.

“The wings are gone. Kaput, stolen.”

“But how? ” Willy wailed. He’d survived boarding school only at the thought of the adventures he and Grandpa were going to have on that flying chair.

“They was here in my hands one day, as I brushed their feathers and folded them neatly under the bed, and the next, they are a-gone, missing, as if they were never there.”

“Couldn’t you conjure up the thief with your magic or something?”

“Alas, there seems to be a blackout, as if the scene was nipped. There’s a big hole in the film for that day. Serious magic is afoot here; those them woods, I say again, they’re magical, I tell you.”

“Well, let’s go looking for them.” Willy leaned forward on the table and thumped his tiny fist, ready to sprint after scoundrels that went about pocketing wings not belonging to them.

“What, in these,” Grandpa asked, waving his arms about his useless legs. His head slumped on his chest and he wrung his wrinkly hands in despair.

“Then I must go”; Willy said, a hint of steeliness to his voice.

Grandpa shook his head. “I cannot let you, you’re barely a spring chicken, a boy scout; you haven’t even earned your speeding ticket yet. And you’re all I’ve got left after we lost your parents.”

“But we must get it back! You can’t sit here pining by the window all your life, Grandpa. That’s just not you – you’ll grow old!”

“I am old. But you aren’t going. You’re going to spend your vacation pushing me around the grounds and feeding the chicken, and, and feeling sorry for me. But you aren’t going by yourself,” he said. “Those woods are charmed and dangerous; who knows what strange creatures haunt their shadows or prowl midair. The wings are in there somewhere, I’ve often dreamt them streaking above those treetops, or hopping by the ponds, preening the feathers and mocking me.”

“Then help me. The wings mean so much to you and I’ve such happy memories of our rides on them. Help me get them back, watch over me –.”

“You’re not going to stop, boy, are you?” Grandpa’s wistful gaze glided over the scrawny boy puffing out his chest trying to look like a man. His loss seemed to have suddenly added years to the boy.

“Come here then,” he said, wrapping his bear arms around the boy. Grandpa groped Willy’s wrists till he found the bracelet. “Always wear this, promise me. It’s made from the antennae of a Luna moth, who has the best hearing in the world, and from the eyelashes of a griffin, creatures that can see across hundreds of miles. With this, I’ll be able to see and hear everything that happens to you and send you something over to help you out. Understand?”

Willy turned the bracelet around his wrist and folded down his sleeve protectively. “I understand, Grandpa.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Stirsauce to pack you some things for the journey and you can be on your way at dawn. God be with you, son.” Grandpa, shaking in fear for his grandson, drew Willy in close embrace.

At the crack of dawn, Grandpa saw Willy off on his new adventure, alone this time. Luckily, Mrs. Stirsauce wasn’t down yet so Willy was spared of her fussing, crying, and chest beating routine. But she’d packed some nuts, apples, and Calif outdoor bars; grandpa had put together a Swiss army knife, a torch, a rope, and even a backpack Nemo Hornet camping tent for little Willy. Grandpa fought back his tears as he hugged Willy for the final time; Willy’s jaw was set and he was determined to look determined.

“Wait for me,” he waved airily, as he bounded off the porch in the direction of the woods.

Willy drew in his breath at the early morning loveliness of the wild: blue mists were giving in to the dull shafts of light breaking through the treetops and the dew shed from the earth’s cool bosom was scattering under his boots. The wind came flying as fast as it could over the rolling hills, he couldn’t keep up with it, not if he ran.

After a few hours of trekking, Willy decided to rest by a clear pond and savor the soft rustle of breeze over the grass and the scraping of a leaf against a leaf, when he heard barking in the distance. At first, he thought it must be a hunting expedition, but he remembered gaming wasn’t allowed in these parts and the bark was of a single dog, coming closer to where he lay hidden among tall blades of grass.

A downy animal, fair with brown patches, low-slung and long like a boat; its white-tipped tail erect and pointed like a propeller shaft from its bottom – sending it in dizzy eights and circles through the turf – came bounding toward him. It jumped on Willy’s chest; Willy fell to the ground and the basset hound proceeded to lick his face to the bone. “Stop, stop,” Willy cried out, wrestling with the drooling dripping fat dog. He finally managed to push the animal off his chest and sit up.

“Who owns you, what are you doing here,” Willy asked; it was a struggle to keep the deliriously happy dog flying off the ground again. “And what does it say here,” he muttered, examining the dog’s collar – “Ninny.”

“Woof, woof,” the dog strained with all its might against Willy’s grip.

“Where is your home, Ninny, poor girl, are you lost?”

“No, I’m not, you poor boy,” replied the dog, in a clear human accent.

Willy pushed a finger inside his ear and shook it vigorously. “Was it you that spoke,” he asked, looking around in disbelief.

“Yes, I can speak, mutton head, can’t you see.” The dog had managed to slip out of his grasp and was now crouching on her short stubby rear legs, aiming for a spot in the center of Willy’s forehead to spring at.

“I say, a speaking dog – don’t jump again,” Willy cried, holding out his arm. “Here, fetch,” he said, snapping off a twig and tossing it away.

The dog turned her head to look at the thrown object, in two minds about what pleased her more – licking the boy or running after a dead stick. “You go fetch,” she said, preparing to jump again.

“Don’t you have a home to go to – go home, Ninny?”

“What are you doing here, woof,” the dog asked.

“I’m looking for a pair of wings – large white ones. When they spread, it’s like the sails of a boat; when they fly, the sky becomes overcast. Have you seen them?”

“I haven’t, or I might have – mistaking clouds for your wings. But Aunt Gilda would know, or Aunt Tilda – for sure. Do you want to play?” Ninny lay on her back and began to cycle her paws in the air. “Do you want to scratch my stomach? Here, shake my paws.”

“Get a move on, silly dog, I haven’t all day to play. Where can I see this aunt?”

“Come, I’ll take you there. They fry the meanest bacon this side of the woods. I can already smell food on the table, sniff, sniff.”

“Let’s go then,” said Willy, already a little fed up feeding off protein bars. He could hear a slow rumble rise up in his belly at the thought of scrambled eggs and mash potatoes and maybe some hot milk if that was not too much to ask.

“Run me to it, then,” said Ninny, leaping off toward a clump of trees on a zigzag route. Willy threw on his backpack and took off after the dog as fast as he could. The chase brought them to a small clearing among the woods. A wisp of smoke curled up from a log cabin and a large table with a red-and-white-checkered cover was laid out. Five chairs and five plates with cutlery had been neatly arranged. Nearby, a large black cauldron, suspended from its chain and tripod was on a slow boil. It simmered and seethed and thick bubbles large as balloons rose to its surface. The dog scampered into the cabin and after a clatter of pots and pans and falling furniture came straight back out and lowered itself at Willy’s feet.

Two tall gaunt women dressed in black from head to toe followed the dog out of the cabin. On seeing Willy they clucked appreciatively and after the customary pleasantries seated him at the table. Ninny too hopped on to a chair and slung a napkin around her neck. She put her paws on the table and with her jaw hanging all the way to the plate, looked ready to eat the meanest bacon this side of the woods. The sisters motioned Willy to sit at the head of the table and themselves took chairs on his either side. Willy looked closely for the pointed hat, the long knurled fingers, the sores on the face, and other telltale signs of witches, but the ladies seemed pleasant and kindly. They even had soft white manicured hands, which they waved limply in the air while speaking.

“Are we expecting anyone,” Willy asked, noticing the empty fifth chair.

“A naughty girl,” replied the one who’d introduced herself as Aunt Gilda.

“Our niece,” piped Aunt Tilda.

“She’ll join us shortly.”

“ As soon as she behaves.”

“Shush.” Aunt Gilda gave her sister a look of reproach. “She’s on an errand – gone to fetch Oofy. Oofy is our pig who’s run off,” she explained as Willy seemed blank. Willy looked in horror toward the simmering cauldron.

“No, it's not for him,” Gilda cackled.

“For sure,” added Tilda, grinning wide like a Cheshire cat.

Ninny became impatient with the small talk. She woofed and banged a spoon on her plate.

“Oh, can’t you see the children must be hungry, go on,” Aunt Gilda said to her sister, “lay the food out, dear.”

Tilda rose and vanished inside the cabin. “So what brings you here, Willy,” Gilda asked.

“I’m searching for Grandpa’s wings – they were stolen. Have you seen them – large white ones –?”

“Wide as sails, with a shadow like clouds blotting out the sky?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“When magic happens in these woods, there’s little that escapes me.”

“Can you tell me who’s taken them?”

“Why, does your Grandpa not know that already? Do you test me, child?”

“No, he said the scene had been blacked out – with magic perhaps.”

“I did feel a large shadow looming overhead once when I was picking scallions. Wait till Tilda fetches up with food; we can discuss after this. Tell me more about things your Grandpa knows,” she asked, her long fingers creeping over Willy’s hand in a slow crawl.

Her hand seemed cold and clammy. Willy didn’t know how to remove his hand without seeming rude. His stomach was growling louder now and he wished food would come so he could leave. He suddenly realized she’d such long fingers: they seemed to be snaking up his arms now, and she wasn’t even moving from her spot. He tried to shift his chair back but even his feet seemed fixed. He peered under the table and saw a slimy pale green vine creeping around his feet, slowly winding its way up his legs. His arms and feet felt numb and he felt a shiver rise in his spine. He opened his mouth but no words would come out – he felt quite powerless. Aunt Gilda, who’d been watching him closely leaned back in her chair, satisfied that he was immobile. “Tilda, hurry up,” she called out to her sister. “And you,” she barked, addressing the poor dog, “look busy. The fire is dying out.”

Ninny jumped down from her seat and scrambled to a heap of chopped firewood from where she began to haul pieces and pile them under the cauldron. She moved in a dizzying blur of motion as if she was under a spell, drooling, her large ears slapping the sides of her face. When Tilda came out, both sisters heaved Willy off his chair and dragged him to a fat fig tree, wide as a Cadillac

Fleet wood. A girl, the same size as Willy, was tied to the base of the tree. They propped Willy up against the tree trunk and trussed him alongside the girl. Tilda cackled and rubbed her hands in delight at the work done well. She bent down and taking a lock of each child’s hair in her hands, inhaled deeply. “Your hair smells like the blue mists that float down from the hills, and your breath, sweet as the morning dew.”

“What do you want from us,” cried Willy, finding his voice again now that Gilda’s fingers had come loose from his body.

“We crave your innocence, dear, your freshness,” Gilda leaned her face close to Willy’s. He could smell the rancid odor on her breath. Her face seemed to be rapidly withering into an ashen crinkled and oozy mask. He was afraid the flesh might droop off her bones into his lap if she stayed bent like that any longer.

“Get away from me,” he cried. “Let us go.”

“This is where you’re going,” Gilda said, moving her hands in slow circles over her belly; her hand was no longer white and soft, it was a mud-caked stub with branches. “We’ll be back as soon as the broth is ready for you two to seethe in. Let’s get ready our little feast – which is the two of you, “ she slurped noisily. Breaking out into an impromptu ditty, she sang:

“Sprinkled in the tail of a mole, the scale of a flapjack;

The muzzle of a foal, the quill of a hunchback;

The white of an eggnog, and – (winking) the tongue of a lapdog.

And then shall we be restored… to our youth, beauty, and everlasting life.”

“– Of tricks and traps.” (Added by Tilda.)

The sisters joined hands and skipped to the cabin to fetch the ingredients, singing aloud: “Tail of a mole, wail of a foal; white of an eggnog, bite of a lapdog…”

Willy struggled with the cord that bound him, jerking from side to side and gnashing his teeth but with no success.

“It’s to no avail,” spoke the girl, who’d been quiet so far.

“Who’re you,” Willy asked, still yanking at the bonds, which only cut into his wrists and ankles deeper.

“I’m Polly.”

“I’m Willy. How’d ya get caught up in this?” he kicked the dirt. “I’m such a fool – I should’ve seen it coming. Trapped by a talking dog and two witches – of all the tricks in the book, this one has gotta be the lamest.”

“Same here. I saw a wounded pig, and I followed the poor thing into the forest.”

“Well, well, that was Oofy, their pig. What do we do now? I think they got our bath on the boil,” he rued.

“These ties are magical. We’ll have to trick the sisters into releasing us.”

“How? With what?” Willy thumped his head against the trunk of the tree. Only if Grandpa could see him and help him with a gift. He turned up his wrist and eyed the bracelet. It bristled for a moment and then went cool and soft against his skin again – nothing happened – nothing went up in flames or came down in a clap of thunder. Willy stopped his struggles and the children lay quietly against the cool of the bark, thinking of an escape plan.

“Hey, your feet smell,” Polly said after a while, crinkling up her nose.

Willy wiggled his feet. “No – Mrs. Stirsauce is very particular about laundry. These here are dried and ironed socks – argh,” he winced, as the smell hit him too. “What did you eat for breakfast today – onions and Limburger cheese or boiled cabbage?”

“Nothing of the sort – I’ve gone hungry since last night – argh.” The smell, which started as of rotten eggs, became the suffocating stench of raw garbage. The kids were gagging and choking when the stink, like that of a rotting carcass, began to overpower them.

They heard a rustling behind them and from a crack in the trunk of the tree, began to rise a giant club head of orange-red seeds, surrounded by a pleated skirt, bright green on the outside and maroon inside. Polly screamed as a long line of dung beetles appeared on the ground and headed for the plant, crawling up and down her legs. The stink was so bad even the bewildered birds and squirrels were driven out shrieking and squeaking from the surrounding trees. The brouhaha also attracted Ninny: she came charging in and then vaulted in the air in shock.

She stayed at a safe distance, barking all the time and leaping in mad circles. Soon, the sisters came hurrying to their tree. One flick of a finger and the dog froze in his tracks, all bark clamped down the throat for her.

“Aw, how these kids smell!” Gilda covered her nose with the edge of her veil – for someone used to filleting skunks and sprinkling barf of fulmar chicks in her soup, even she found the smell oppressive.

“What’s wrong with you; what have you children done,” Tilda asked from behind her sister, her hands cupping her nose. Willy stole a glance behind him; he noticed the plant’s stem and petals had twisted into the hollow of the tree out of sight.

“When the sun rises, we always smell this way,” Polly said.

“Don’t you like us anymore,” Willy asked, joining in. “You’ll learn to love it.”

“It’s worse than dog fart, woof,” Ninny added. “ I can’t stand these kids.”

The sisters turned toward Ninny in amazement – they’d just cast a spell on her and she was still speaking. Gilda flicked her fingers again.

“Concentrate, Aunt Gilda, concentrate. The smell is getting to you,” repeated the insolent dog.

“You stubborn animal! Here!” Aunt Gilda removed a wand from under her cloak and shook it at the flustered animal that couldn’t seem to help his sudden urge to talk. A small spark passed between the wand and the dog and Ninny finally fell silent.

The sisters huddled in counsel and then separated. Gilda pushed Tilda toward the children. She approached a few steps, leaned forward, and then briefly inhaled before covering her nose and dashing back to her sister. They whispered among each other and then turned to the kids. “You’re foul kids; there must be something vile you've done. We don’t want to get any worse than what we already are eating smelly kids. Go rot!” the sisters turned on their heels and hied themselves off, muttering and grumbling.

The kids looked at each other and sighed in relief. The moment the sisters were out of sight, the cords around their bodies loosened and fell, before entirely disappearing. Ninny also seemed to have found her voice back, for she was prancing around them wagging her tail and saying, “woof, woof.”

The children shuffled to their feet and slapped their numbed limbs to get the blood flowing again. As they stood wondering what direction to take through the forest to avoid the sisters, Ninny leaped toward a small opening in the bush and wagged her tail.

“Is this a trick again,” Polly asked.

The dog stood on her hind legs and furiously pedaled her paws. “Woof, woof.”

“What’s the matter, you can’t speak now,” Willy asked.

“Woof, woof.”

“It seems the spell is broken. Remember, they were going to cook her tongue also,” Polly said.

“But she’s suddenly fussy about how we smell, eh?”

“That wasn’t her speaking, poor thing,” Polly giggled.

“Then?”

“I threw my voice in her.”

“You’re a ventriloquist?”

“Amateur – I learned it from my father. I can also do mimicry,” she said; pursing her lips she let out a shrill song of a Blackburnian Warbler. Then she puffed her cheeks and slapped her throat and let out a bloodcurdling wail of a Red Fox.

“Wow! You’re really good. You think we should trust Ninny to come along?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Polly shrugged. “Can’t leave her here at the mercy of the sisters.”

The two children and the dog set off, wading through the bush till they reached a river. The sun was setting and the shadows were getting longer. They were tired and hungry. “Let’s camp here for the night,” Willy said, crashing in a heap on a pile of leaf mulch. He took out a few protein bars and handed them to Polly and Ninny, and began to munch on an apple himself.

“You know what was that plant,” Polly asked, as they scooped up water from the river in a water bottle.

“A Titan Arum – a Corpse Plant.”

“How did it get there all of a sudden – it’s a native of South America?”

Willy smiled and said nothing. It was Grandpa’s gift, he figured, washing the grime off his bracelet.

At nightfall, Willy pitched his tent and all of them snuggled inside for a deep, dreamless sleep.

A booming voice woke them the next morning: a couple of hunters were poking their rifles into their tent.

“What have we got us here, Bill?”

“My, my, mammy’s little pick aninnies, Hex,” answered the other one, a mean looking, tobacco spitting, bearded man with chest hair peeping out in tangled balls from his shirt.

“Look like milky bites to me,” Bill replied, squinting into the tent with its flap raised by the muzzle of his rifle. He looked the same as the other one, only his massive pale belly hung over the edge of his khaki trousers, which he’d tied with a rope whose loose ends fell all the way to his thick thighs.

“Dainty little morsels, Har, Har,” he chuckled. “Even gat a yelpin’ arfin’ flea bag.”

“Good bait, knowin’ the saurian’s epicurean taste for new flesh.”

“Com’on now, out, git.” Bill, who seemed the leader, ordered the occupants of the tent out by prodding them with his rifle. The kids and the dog crawled out of the narrow tent on all fours and stretched out – it’d been quite a long huddle inside.

“Now, move.” Bill ordered, pointing toward the river. “It’s a bright morning’, time to git to work.”

They clambered down the slippery grassy slopes leading to the riverfront. Ninny, scared of the water rats hiding under the bed of reeds on the waterfront stayed behind on the edge of the rise, watching them carefully. The bank was muddy this side, the sand churned up by hooves and bellies of animal hordes visiting the watering place. All along the slopes grew wild flowers and groves of wattles and native bluebells. The river, broad and green-tinted with plenty of mullet splashing in it, flowed peacefully. On the opposite bank was a wide field of white sand on which lounged a herd of wild animals, enjoying the bright sunshine. As Willy peered closely, he realized they were crocodiles. Some of them raised their heads lazily on seeing their party arrive at the riverbank, but beyond that, they didn’t show any further interest.

A willow tree had snapped and fallen over the river, its branches extending just a few feet over the water’s surface. The children were ordered to walk to the edge of the tree and then made to sit with their legs dangling over the water’s surface. There, Hex tied them to the branch with rope and then waded out of the muddy bank.

The hunters prepared their lassoes and hid behind reeds and rush growing rankly on the riverside. There, smoking quietly, they sat in wait for the alligators to swim the children’s way.

“I can’t believe it, they’re using us as alligator bait,” Polly cried, squirming on the tree branch. “These guys are stuck in a time warp.”

“Hey, free us,” Willy yelled, for the second time in two days, as one monster fell into the water on the far bank.

“Yeah, that’s it, keep up the din, babies: just what’ll ‘tract the gator,” Hex laughed.

Meanwhile, Ninny had also started barking wildly. Her bark carried across the river and more crocs began to wobble toward the water.

“Shut up, Ninny, shut up,” hissed Polly. “Shut up Willy. The more we scream, the more the crocs will be attracted.”

“What do we do now,” Willy cried.

“Wait, I’ll do something,” she said. Taking a deep breath, slightly parting her lips, she began to heave her chest. And “woof, woof,” Hex barked.

Bill dug his elbow in his companion’s ribs and hissed, “What’s come o’er you, mate. Shut up.”

“Woof, woof,” Hex barked again, unable to stop. His face grew red and he cupped his mouth in his hands but the “woof, woof,” grew only louder. There was a splash of the water as the giant monsters swam toward the clump of rush where the two hunters were hiding. “Shut up,” Billy could be heard shouting. He scrambled to his feet and raised his gun but it was too late. One alligator had high-walked up the bank and caught up with Billy. It snapped at his heels and crunching down on his leg, dragged him into the river and out of sight.

Another alligator had already grabbed Hex, who for mercy’s sake had stopped barking, and was instead crying loudly for help while going down in a ripple of bubbles on the river’s surface. Birds flew out from the trees and frightened monkeys chattered in the branches as the alligators swam downstream to enjoy their meal on a lonely stretch of the beach. Soon, all fell quiet: the monkeys went back to nibbling on their fruit or removing lice from each other’s coat, and the birds returned to their worms. Ninny galloped down to the tree and chewed off the rope on the children’s hands. Freed, they all ran back up the slope to safety.

‘I wonder why Grandpa didn’t send me a gift this time,’ wondered Willy as he lay back on the grass far away from the river. ‘Maybe it was for the best,’ he decided, as he looked sideways at his newfound friends, also lying beside him, exhausted after the desperate dash from the riverfront.

“I must go on.” Willy mused aloud. “You must return. And you can take Ninny back with you.”

“Will you manage alone,” Polly asked, twirling a grass blade in his ear.

“It’s my cross to bear, mine alone.”

“Cross – ahem. Big boy!”

“Won’t your parents be worried sick?”

“Quite happy, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

Polly turned her attention toward Ninny who’d curled up in a snug furry ball against her belly. She stroked the dog gently on her broad forehead. “My parents passed away. I live with foster parents. They were childless; they loved me I think, till they had a child of their own. They put me in a boarding school last summer.”

“That’s not fair: to think like that of them. I’m also in a boarding school, but that’s because Grandpa is unwell – he’s on a wheelchair.”

“Then what are you doing in the woods so deep inside?”

“Will you laugh?”

“No – I swear.” Polly pinched her throat.

“I’m searching for his wings – not his wings – the wings he puts on the wheelchair. When they unfold, they’re so white you get dazzled; so broad, the day becomes dark with their shadow. He’s sad now that someone has stolen them.”

“Do you know who has them?”

“Not yet. But they’re here in these woods. Grandpa has seen them hovering about these treetops, the witches have seen them. I’ve to go on looking till I find them.”

“How much longer; how much deeper in?”

“As much as it takes. And you’ve seen how much mischief and magic lurks in these woods.”

“But we did manage, didn’t we; fairly well, I would say. What would you say, Ninny?” Polly scratched the dog in her belly and it began to furiously pedal its paws in the air. “See, the dog also agrees.”

“I can’t put your lives at risk.”

“What’re friends for, eh Ninny?” Polly stole a glance at Willy while nuzzling the dog with her nose.

“Are we friends,” Willy asked, trying to hide the surprise in his voice: No one at school had asked to be his friend. They bullied him all the while when they weren’t beating him.

“If you want to be – we’ll make quite a team, I think. It’s like an adventure book; only we’re in it this time. I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

“Okay, then,” Willy bounded to his feet. “What’re you waiting for? Let’s go downstream along the river; there are marshes where the river empties into the sea; the woods end there. I think we should find our wings by then – there’s no other place to hide ‘em.”

“Let’s,” Polly said, pulling herself up by Willy’s hand. They set off along the river, picking white frosted blueberries spread like a carpet on the ground, or eating them straight off the spiky bramble, popping them in the mouth as they went along. “We can never go hungry,” Polly exclaimed, jumping up to snap off wild grapes growing on tree hanging vines.

A few hours walk brought them to a narrow clearing in the woods. At the passage to this open patch stood a striking white ash tree, its girth wide as a football field, its canopy towering above them like a mountain. They stood gaping awhile and then headed for the pass.

“Halt!” A deep booming voice commanded them – it came from the ash tree. On approaching close, they observed a dwarf at the base of the tree. He seemed to be a soldier, wearing chest armor and bearing a bow and arrows that seemed a couple of sizes too big for him. He badly needed a shave and a haircut, for his matted locks had entwined into the tree trunk and he’d become one with the tree. But in place of his legs, were ugly stumps; blood still oozed from a few spots where the flesh had been torn off the bone, and worms and flies crawled all over the wound. The man’s face was white with agony.

“What on earth happened to you; do you need help?” Polly stepped back in horror and gawked.

“I don’t take help, not from mites. I have a task for you,” the man thundered.

“That’s not a polite way to ask,” Willy stepped in between the dwarf and Polly; Ninny was growling in a deep-chested way.

“Who’s asking?” the man drew an arrow and shot it at a tree a hundred feet away. Birds flew off the tree squeaking, in a trail of feathers, and a coot fell out of the branches with a thud.

“I may not have the use of my legs, but by Odin, I can stop an army.” He raised his bow again as Willy grabbed Polly’s hand and made to dash; his one hand on the arrow in his quill. “And don’t you try to run – my arrows will follow you to the underworld. And my bow is cursed, every time I remove an arrow, it must draw blood.”

“Okay, what would you have us do,” Polly asked, restraining Willy’s arm.

“I need you children to climb up this tree. You’ll find three maidens deep in knowledge, consuming the highest boughs of the tree.”

“Really,” Polly asked, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. The dog gaped and Willy scratched his head.

“You don’t believe me, do you,” the man shifted his torso, his eyes rolling up in pain till the whites showed. “ Come closer so I don’t have to shout.”

As they edged forward a few steps and halted, the dwarf spoke up. “I’m Dain, from King Hogni’s army. We fought alongside the great Odin in the First War that came when Odin hurled his spear on his host. The great wall of the God’s palace crumbled and the heavens were cloven. Alas, a great fear numbed my mind and I ran from battle – became a deserter. The Valkyries hunted me down and set foaming wolves upon me that tore my legs off. To this day I’m bound to this tree, not by shackles but by my fear. At night, the sap from the ash tree heals my wounds and my legs grow back. Alas, my eyes lose their light, and as I struggle to make my escape, I hear vicious creatures stalking me. In fear, I return to the tree. When the sun rises again, the sap dries up and my wounds return. This must carry on day after day, this is my eternal punishment for deserting the gods.”

“Which battle, when did it happen? What do you want of us?”

“It happened long ago; much, much before your, or your grandparent’s time. I’ve lost count of the moons I’ve seen since then. I could neither secure a seat in Odin’s Valhalla or in Freya’s Folkvangr, disgraced as I was by my cowardice.”

“What can we do about it – for we are only mortals…kids.”

“I need you to climb up this tree, meet the Norns, the three maidens and ask them to look into my future and see for how much longer must I bear this punishment. They would know.”

“Why don’t you shout up to them and ask yourself.”

“This tree holds together the realms of earth and sky. Its roots reach out to the underworld and its canopy extends into the heavens. My voice will not reach them from down here.”

“You mean all this while, you haven’t found anybody to climb up the tree?”

“Err, I did….” The dwarf replied, caution creeping into his voice.

“Then…?”

“The children never came down. Strange, I’ve been waiting, but no one has ever returned. More children than any fool can imagine; no tongue can enumerate them.”

“What makes you think we’ll get back – we don’t even know what’s up there? What children-eating dragons and demons lurk in those branches?”

“This is a brightly nurtured holy tree, evergreen, showered by loam; from it come the dew that drop in the valleys and from which the bees feed. You have nothing to fear.”

“Let’s go, this is a trick,” Polly said, tugging at Willy’s arm. “Some weird magic. We’re being sent to certain death – maybe it’s some kind of pagan sacrifice. I’m tired of playing bait.”

“I know, but don’t walk away or he’ll fire his arrow,” Willy pleaded. “What if he’s right? I’ve read quite a few legends around a central tree in many cultures of the world. Do we have a choice?”

“Let’s wait till nightfall – he said he loses his eyesight, didn’t he. We could bolt then,” she whispered.

“But I’ve good hearing – I can bring you down by the tiniest sound you make. Com’on, it’ll not take you more than half a day – and you’ll help – do a good turn to a suffering man. The gods will bless you and maybe even give you what you seek.”

“Really? Do you think we can find Grandpa’s wings?”

“The white ones, wide like a cloud, their shadow covering the vales,” asked Dain.

“The ones,” Willy exclaimed. “Have you seen them?”

“They come and go from the marshes. Why don’t you ask the Norns – they’ll be sure to know? That’s another good reason for you to climb,” the dwarf replied.

“What do you say?” Willy turned to Polly, grabbing her arms; his eyes shone with excitement. “You could stay back and wait for me.”

“Nothing doing.” She shook his hands off. “If you’re going, so am I, we’re friends, remember?”

“Yes, but, he said the kids never come back. I can’t have you put to risk. That’s what friends are for, too.”

“We’re going together, as a team. We can watch over each other,” she said, pouting.

“Fine then, let’s climb,” Willy said, giving up. He was quite relieved, in fact, at her coming along.

“What do you know about tree climbing,” asked Willy, as they stood under the tall tree with high branches.

“I have swung from a few branches myself,” answered Polly, rubbing her chin, not sure at all how she was going to shimmy up the smooth shaft. Willy cupped his hands and Polly stepped on them. She arched up but still couldn’t reach the lowest branch.

“How do we do it,” Willy wondered aloud. The dwarf was of no help and they couldn’t very well float up. He rubbed his wrist; he realized the bracelet was bristling. At that instant, there was a ‘whoosh’ sound and an object fell with a thud at their feet. It was a canvas rucksack.

“Now where did that come from,” Polly cried.

“Let’s open it.” Willy bent down and undid the cord on the sack’s neck. He dug into the bag and removed its contents: steel spurs, harnesses, gaffs, and karabiners, two of each.

“Where did that come from,” Polly squealed, looking skywards. “It sure didn’t fall out from the tree?”

“Naah.” Willy decided to confess – he felt it was time to start trusting Polly. “It’s grandpa’s gift.”

“Where’s he?” Polly looked around, bewildered. There were no wheelchair-bound old men pulling presents out of their hats.

“It’s magic, or maybe science that we know not of yet,” he explained. “He sees and hears through this bracelet and teleports these – you can say, these cheats. The bracelet is made from legendary animals.”

“Awesome,” Polly cheeped, stroking the curious string. She withdrew her hand and then stepped back. “Is it really fair to use cheats,” she asked in a low voice.

Willy opened his mouth but then changed his mind. He stood up and began to put on the harness and spurs. He adjusted the line and the karabiner and tested his weight by leaning against the tree. “Are you coming,” he asked, looking down after he’d climbed a few steps. Polly shrugged and kitting herself the way he’d done, followed him up the white ash tree.

After a hard climb with much panting and heaving, the sweating children arrived at the first level of the tree. Sturdy branches spread out as far as the eye could see, each branch linking with another where it started to finish. They perched themselves on a thick limb and rested. It was dark up there, the thick canopy holding against the sunshine. Slowly, as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they thought they were sitting at a banquet table with a rich spread before them. And as a swarm of fireflies suddenly took electric flight, the boughs were illumined.

The tree indeed was charmed. The branches were encrusted in chocolate; the leaves green tea spit cookies. Mixed berry galettes grew on one sprig while peanut butter buckeyes dangled from another. Thyme glazed carrots grew in a bunch there; here in the crook of a twig nestled herb roasted turkey breast. Fat beetles crawling the bark were banana and caramel filled; pie pops of budworms slid down the stem. The sap from the bark was green tea fudge, over which roved the moth with frosted wings. Chirping crickets were tarts with summer berries; flowers were lavender cupcakes with honey frosting. Grasshoppers light of leap were peach popping bobas; the dancing gnats smelt of parmesan-roasted potatoes. Overpowered by hunger and thirst, Polly reached for a bunch of pink and white marshmallows and jello acorns. Willy slapped her wrist.

“Don’t forget, this tree is charmed. Don’t touch anything.”

“But I’m so hungry,” she wailed.

“Here, have some water.” Willy offered her the canteen full of the sweet water he’d filled from the spring near the tree. “And you can take this as well,” he said, taking a bite from the protein bar and offering her the rest.

“Are you sure,” Polly asked, looking longingly at the sumptuous treats around her. Her stomach still grumbled from hunger. Willy shook his head and offered her the canteen to drink up.

“I wish these dratted fireflies would go away,” Willy remarked, swatting at them with his gaff pole. He didn’t want Polly getting any more tempted with the sweet aromas and mouthwatering visions that assailed their senses. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop her if the cravings got any stronger. He drank some more water to keep his stomach filled and decided it was best not to stay at that level anymore.

“Com’on we ain’t got all day. Soon, it’ll be dark,” he said, helping Polly to her feet. He made her climb above him so that he could make sure she didn’t look down again. They climbed for another hour and then came to the second level of the tree. Here, it was cooler and some light trickled through the canopy above. Willy realized they were getting closer to the top level where the maidens would be. They decided to rest before climbing again. The branch on which they sat seemed slimy. The winds were strong here, for the branch seemed to sway and move under them. When Willy probed the branch with his hands he realized they were sitting on something live – something crawly, creepy, and slithery – a huge serpent. He jumped, and nearly fell out of the tree, had Polly not grabbed his collar.

The serpent, its green eyes flashing, its scales bristling, reared its dark head. Its red forked tongue shot out of its mouth and flickered close to their faces. It was Polly’s turn to shriek and shoot out of the tree had not Willy grabbed her, prepared as he was for the same reaction from her.

The tongue of the serpent must have been several feet long, his head being quite far away from them. It flickered like a spitting flame, darting in and out, smelling them, and studying their frightened faces. Shortly, it receded, settling back in the vast cavern of his jaws. He seemed to be satisfied with his study and wasn’t interested in pursuing his examination of them any further. His green eyes drooped and closed as his head once again settled within its coiled plate.

Willy motioned to Polly to make themselves scarce as fast as their bruised knees would carry them up the tree. Using the coils of the serpent around the trunk as rungs, they climbed much faster, and just as the sun was settling over the treetops, burning the sky a fiery orange, they reached the final level of the tree. Clouds covered the branches; their moist coolness refreshed and invigorated them and their exhaustion quickly vanished. As they didn’t see anybody yet, they continued climbing till they reached above the clouds and could see the clear blue skies and the green-brown earth beneath them. The branches here were smooth and wide as roads and they could easily walk on them. Their walk brought them to a lush meadow with a well, where sat the three maidens dressed in silken white robes, their equally white tresses falling down the curve of their backs right till their unshod feet. The maidens rose in welcome and pulling up water from the well, offered it to them. They introduced themselves as Urdi, the one who knows the past; Verdandi, the one who knows the present; and Skuldi, the one who knows the future.

Once the children had drunk of the well, the maidens spoke. “What remarkable adventure brings our young guests out to this place; what difficult task worries ones of such tender years?”

“We were compelled to come here by Dain, from King Hogni’s army. He says he deserted the battlefield and as a punishment wolves were set upon him. They tore his legs so that he could never run again. His punishment is eternal and he wants us to ask you his destiny, and if possible, grant him relief from his endless cycle of misery.”

“But what are you doing in these parts?”

“We were passing this way searching for Grandpa’s wings when this injured dwarf stopped us with his arrows.”

“Cowardice is indeed a shameful misdemeanor,” observed Urdi, and the other maidens nodded in agreement.

“But eternal punishment,” cried Polly, “that is severe!”

“Well, that’s how the gods dealt with crime in the good old days. It was very effective, I assure you, and gods and humans alike behaved quite well. You seem very concerned for him even though he detained you against your will?”

“Just have one look at him – anyone would pity the poor fellow. And we’d hoped you’d look into that well of yours and tell us about our wings too.”

The maidens laughed: it was like nature’s music filling up the air. “Tell us, how did you manage to avoid the temptations on the first level,” asked Verdandi.

“Team work – we’d vowed we’d keep a check on each other. Are you going to let us return – Dain said no child ever came down from the tree?”

“The first and the second levels are tests. The first level is of temptations – most children succumb to them and then they become cursed. Cursed to a lifetime of gluttony and fattening on these never-ending branches till they grow old or become lost or get sick and pass away.

“What about the second level – the serpent didn’t hurt us,” Polly asked.

“The serpent is never meant to do you any wrong – unless you attack it or harm the tree or fall out in fear. Again, that’s a curse for seeking that which you do not deserve; a curse for being over-ambitious and soaring toward the sun.”

“Like Icarus?”

“You’ve heard of the legends,“ observed Skuldi.

“What happens to those that fall out?”

“They keep falling, never reaching the ground.”

“You guys have a pretty nasty notion of punishment – don’t you think it’s overdoing things a bit,” asked Willy.

“There are very few, it at all any, offenders like Dain left in the worlds,” replied Urdi. “Many good children around the world have secured their release from eternal misery and endless cycle and helped them reach the heavens. Things are changing: there aren’t enough empty hills to roll up stones each day. The punishment manual is being revised by the gods to suit modern sensibilities.”

“Well, it’s getting dark,” Willy urged. “We would love to chat with you all day but we have to move on. Could you please, ladies, tell us Dain’s destiny?”

“Only Dain’s? What about yours? Don’t you want to know what’s in store for you?”

Willy nodded his head and opened his mouth but Polly shushed him. “No, Madam, we’ll figure it out ourselves. All we ask is that you tell us who’s got Grandpa’s wings. That’ll make him happy and we’ll be along our way.”

“There’s no need to look in the well for such a simple thing,” said Skuldi, who knew what shall be. She snapped a twig and a leaf off the tree; she broke the twig into two pieces and handed everything to Willy. “Give one twig to Dain – let him fashion a spear out of this with his blade. Then, at sunset, when his legs grow again, he must rise to his feet, seek forgiveness of the gods, and plunge the spear deep into his heart. His misery shall be over and he shall be released from the endless cycle. And the other twig: it’s a healing stick of this holy tree. Use it as you wish; you can use it only once, so use it wisely. Now leave,” bid the maidens, rising. “It’s time to water the holy tree so that it remains green in all seasons,” Verdandi said, drawing up water from the well.

“But what about Grandpa’s wings,” Willy cried.

“The moorhens by the marshes have them. It’s with the Queen Moorhen – she had them stolen. We see her often, flying past over the forest, the marshes.”

The children thanked the maidens and scurried down the tree so that they could give the twig to Dain before dark. Willy would have wanted to stay back and see Dain’s misery end, but Polly wouldn’t have any of dwarves plunging spears in their hearts. “I can’t stand the blood and gore stuff,” she told him, dragging him out of the passage in the woods toward the marshes.

An hour’s walking brought them to the edge of the marshes – the ground was beginning to get soggy. They decided to pitch a tent for the night and enter the marshes in the morning.

“We forgot to ask her about the leaf,” Polly observed, turning the brown-green leaf with nine leaflets in her hands. “Should we keep it?”

“Never spurn a gift, however trifling it might seem.” Willy took the leaf from her, folded it, and carefully placed it in his breast pocket. “Good night,” he said, pushing away the fat dog that wanted to lie over him.

In the morning, they continued their march along the river. After a few hours, the path along the river turned into a small fork and the creek petered off into a shallow pool. They rolled up their trousers and waded across the bog. Willy, who’d been to the swamps many-a-times with Grandpa, led the way – gliding, rather than walking, taking the second step before the first one had completed, making sure both his feet were on the ground at the same time. Polly and Ninny hastened after him, carefully trailing his footprints by the glow of the silvery skies on the white swamp.

The children noticed the tracks made on the slippery sands by the swamp snakes and crocs and fervently prayed not to run into them. The small party soon entered the scraggly black mangroves that grew close together. Willy grabbed Polly’s hand and steered her on the cattails and reeds that supported them on the marsh. By noon they’d crossed over the swamp and reached a spotless pond on the edge of a firm mud flat. They lay on the ground and removed their wet boots. Ninny shook the water off her fur and took off after a grey squirrel nibbling on a nut.

One particularly frisky squirrel approached the kids and raising itself on its hind legs, eyed them boldly.

“Hey, squirrel, what do you want,” Polly asked, reaching her fingers out.

“Have you any nuts?” the grey squirrel squeaked.

“Another speaking animal – what’s with this place?” Willy raised himself on his elbows and watched on in amusement. He reached into his rucksack and dug out some almonds Mrs. Stirsauce had packed. He held out his hand and the squirrel, looking hither thither hopped over to him and grabbed the nuts.

“Keep the dog off me, okay,” it said.

“Okay,” Willy chuckled. “She’s harmless though, quite silly.”

“Where are you off to,” the squirrel asked, munching appreciatively, his brow furrowed as he savored every flavor. “These are nice and juicy, not from these parts.”

“We’re looking for the Queen Moorhen.”

“Ah, the eggalted lady herself. Smartly dressed always – quite chic. But she plays fowl – what do you want of her?”

“We want our wings back.”

“They’re yours, eh – the fair ones, loud as a cloud? She got too fat – commandeering pizza from the boats on the river I guess. Couldn’t take off on her own wings – so she had yours stolen. She does that all the time – eggtorting from people. She lives just across the pond, close to the river bend. Quite an eggotic species - reads bedtime stories to her eggs.”

“We should be off to her then – the eggalted highness.” Willy rose and helped Polly to her feet.

“But be careful,” said the squirrel, holding out his hand for more nuts.

“Why?”

“She’s got a gatekeeper – to keep nosy kids like you out. It’s Karura: a giant bird with the body of a crane; and wings, head, and talons of an eagle. It wears a crown and has flame-colored feathers. It doesn’t use its wings to fly, but to wade through water. Whenever it sees intruders it flaps its wings rising up a storm – such a blast of wind that a stout oak will split midway like a stick. I’ve seen heads of lions ripped off their chests. I wonder what will happen to skinny shrimps like you – and you can’t get past it – it can see for miles and hear your hearts beat.”

“Would it do that to children – I mean, rip their heads off,” Polly asked, wide-eyed.

The squirrel shrugged. “It’s work in progress – the compassion, I mean.” He dug up at the root of a tree and after glancing over his shoulders hid the packet of California almonds that Willy had handed over. Before bounding off, he gave one last bit of advice: “I like you – stay away from the bird. By the way, it nests in the largest tree in the swamp so it’s not hard to miss. All ya gotta do is whisper to arouse the bird’s wrath.“

“Now why would we do that,” Polly whimpered.

“I don’t know what he meant.” Willy gathered up his rucksack and kids headed toward the river bend. As they neared it they came upon a clump of trees. One tree towered way above the others; they could gather that the Karura nested in that one. They crouched down behind a clump of weeds and waited. The tree’s branches swayed gently in the breeze but nothing else moved.

“Should we call it out – like the squirrel suggested,” Polly whispered, placing her hand over her chest to see if her heart was thumping too loud. “There’s nothing to hold on to either when the storm comes.”

Willy snapped his fingers softly. “I’ve got it. We shouldn’t hold on to anything when the wind blast comes.”

“Why?”

“Because then you’ll get ripped off. If you stay erect you’ll break. We should allow the winds to carry us away – in fact – we should float on them. Like leaves do. I remember, I was sitting on this school bus stop and this leaf floated, rather swam on the breeze before settling down near my feet.”

“And how do we do that,” she asked.

Willy smiled as he took out the ash leaf Skuldi had given them and dangled it in Polly’s face.

“That small thing?”

“I don’t know how it’ll work, but somehow, I feel it will.” He broke off two leaflets from the leaf and handed one to Polly. Ninny, he took up in his arms. “Let’s just hold on to the leaf and call out the bird, just as the squirrel hinted. That way, we’ll be sure to time it and be prepared for the force of the gust.”

“Are you sure,” she asked.

“Is there another way?”

She shook her head. Willy grasped her wrist and they jumped up from the bush. “Hey bird, hey ya Karura,” the children shouted. Nothing happened for a heart-stopping moment, and then a terrible shriek shook the forest. The giant bird rose above the tree and glared down its long beak at them. The children waved and showed no intention of running away. The bird gave another warning shriek and seeing it had no effect in dissuading the stubborn intruders, filled up its lungs with a deep breath and proceeded to flap its golden-hued wings. A terrible blast of wind shook the earth. The leaves that the children had held on to suddenly swelled in size, unfurling like sails, taking the children safely up and away. Bearing them, they floated over the ground and drifted to the riverbank where the moorhens lived. There they dropped gently to the ground, and as the children stepped off, the leaves shrunk again and floated away out of sight.

The riverbank was teeming with short fat bad-tempered moorhens given to much squabbling and belligerence among each other, busy chasing intruders from their stretch of water. Some dived into water; others pedaled furiously on water and lily pads, trying to take off in flight; and those that did succeed, flew low over the water in an ungainly fashion, their silly yellow legs dangling from their bodies as they flapped loudly with short stubby wings. Only a few swam, with a bobbing gait showing their white under-tail coverts. Some hid between the reeds, calling out to each other in a chorus of koks and kerks, occasionally walking out of the water and foraging and fossicking about. They were well fed and plump, dipping their short yellow bills under water to upturn leaves and eat whatever life was attached to them.

A few nervous moorhens near where they’d landed ran away as soon as they got too close. But a small group, a river patrol probably, on spotting the kids extended their heads and necks aggressively upward, holding them rigidly for a few seconds. Then they swam towards them, their necks craned forward and tails lowered in a swift smooth motion, their scarlet head shields displayed prominently as a mark of danger. Some of them flapped their wings and ran across the water, slapping the surface with the wings, screeching a repertoire of honks and toots.

They surrounded the children and threatened them by scratching and stabbing the air with their claws and yellow bills. With their slashing movements, they forced them to move to a large cup-shaped nest by the riverbed. There, preening her feathers was a big moorhen full of self-importance. Large white wings were attached to her plump, bold-black body. Couched luxuriantly in a seat of cattails, sedges, and feathery tamarisks, the Queen Moorhen snorted and looked upon her visitors with disdain.

“Young thieves, are you here to steal our eggs? How did you get past the gatekeeper?”

“A speaking bird,” Polly giggled.

“How dare you address me in that manner, impudent child,” cackled the skitty coot, nervously twitching her tail. “You think humans are the only ones that speak?”

A coot standing behind Polly nipped her with her bill. “Ouch,” cried Polly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” she said.

“What do you want,” the swamp hen demanded. “Does a hunting team follow you? I know your people like our flesh and our eggs, or worse, just hunt us for sport.”

“We’re not here to hunt, O Exalted Queen,” Willy spoke with tact, bowing in deference, realizing there was nothing to be gained by displaying superiority or hostility. “We’re here for Grandpa’s wings. Perchance, they’ve come in your possession; there’s been a misunderstanding. We’re here to clear things up.”

“A misunderstanding, indeed! Pray, how do you propose to remove these wings from my river,” she asked, raising her lobed feet in disbelief and looking around her coterie. The coots broke out in a repertoire of bizarre chortling, jabbering and sniggering.

“With your permission, of course, Good Queen,” replied wily Willy.

“And why would I part with them, in such hurry, and gladly, when I came to acquire them with such effort and cunning?”

“Because, Milady, they belong to an old, infirm man whose sole happiness was in these wings, for he has no use of his legs. Now he simply sits by the window and looks out with longing at the broad fields and lakes where he could have traveled.”

“And what would I do – sit here while some ambitious marsh hen takes over my realm,” she asked, covering the river and the marsh in a sweeping motion of her feet. “Just because some silly old fool wants to go trout fishing and butterfly catching?”

“You have wings of your own, My Queen.”

“Haven’t you heard of upgrades, child? Don’t people move on to faster boats, younger husbands, older wine, and such like? But since you’ve taken the trouble to visit me, lemme show you what a good host I can be. Hey,” she shouted to the minions, ”tie together these kids a raft. “ And addressing them she said, “ Be prepared to row yourself out of this place at dawn – tee-hee – only remember you gotta row upstream. I’m sorry I can’t give you a motorboat. Who knows, one day I might even commandeer one – wading through these waters just for an earthworm or a tadpole is so primordial. One needs to evolve and keep up with the times.”

“Yo, Queen,” one of the minion coots restraining Willy spoke up. “Can I adopt this skinny boy here and send just the girl and the dog home. See – his legs here are just like mine – the chicks will love him.”

“Bah! A human is a drain on the planet. He’ll do nothing but disturb the ecosystem and leave everything he touches in ashes. I’ll find you a nice brown mallard though; they make a much better ride. Take these kids away now, and drink them some leek wine. They have a long day ahead of them tomorrow. Ta da, send my love to the grand old man,” the Queen said, dismissing them with the wave of her paw.

Willy looked helplessly at Polly as the minion coots began to swing and slash at them again, shoving them out of the presence of the Queen. “Wait, “ Willy cried, in one last desperate attempt. “ We can trade.”

“And what do you possess that would interest me, ankle biter – some nuts?”

“No – it’s magic.”

“Magic? Halt!” she barked, bidding her minions stop. “Let the boy speak.”

Willy removed the twig from his bag and held it up. The coots broke out in a roar of laughter.

“If I ain’t mistaken, that there is a twig from the ash tree. I don’t eat grass, boy,” she slapped her thigh and burped.

“It’s not any ash tree. It’s from the World tree. The three Norns gave them to us to use wisely. It’s a healing stick.”

“I ain’t sick, I don’t need no healing – take it to the old man and cure him of his wild ravings.”

“If magic or blessings could have helped him, he would have been cured long ago, for he has plenty of both. It’s age, not a sickness, which is the problem. I think this twig was always meant for you – the maidens could see into the future.”

“What would I use it for,” the Queen asked, turning up her nose.

“It would make you fly again. It would make your body lean, your wings strong, and you could take flight, soar on your own, with what Father Nature has bestowed you with. And it would keep you that way, for as long as you live. These waters are yours to rule, my Queen, and bequeath to your chicks after you.”

“Hmm,” the Queen puckered up her mouth in thought. “Strong and lean you said – you didn’t mean I looked fat, did you,” she glared down her beak at them, her scarlet head shield flashing.

“Never uttered the word, Milady.”

“Hmm,” she muttered again, moving her paws in slow circles over her belly till she induced a loud burp. “I always root for organic stuff – only make an exception for pizza. Oh, those devilish Italians, with their bespoke suits and flirty accents, arguing us out of piracy with their wood-fired pepperonis.”

Willy held up the twig before her, waving it like a hypnotizing pendulum. The Queen stared at it till she was cross-eyed. “Oh, stop that, boy. Come, bring it to mamma.” She turned the twig in her hands, noticing the diamond pattern on the wood’s skin. “Naturally, if I accept this, you’d like Grandpa’s wings back?”

“Yes, Milady,” Willy replied, bending a knee.

“Oh, all right, I never liked the color scheme anyways – white on my beautiful olive brown. A shade of cream, a hint of pale brown would have looked better, don’t you think,” she asked the marsh hen who was filing her claws. The hen clucked sympathetically.

“Or gold, I always go for gold,” said the hen standing over the Queen, combing through her plume.

“See, we women have taste. White is too plain.”

“Yeah, we need something dashing to go with your style.”

“Something dark – like your natural wing color,” the marsh hen said with a touch of regret, running her manicured claws on the soft down on the Queen’s plump, youthful body.

“How does it work, this stick,” the Queen asked Willy.

Willy scratched his head – he’d no clue. “Wait!” Polly said. “Remember what Dain said: he said the sap from the bark would heal him at night. Probably he gnawed at it. Your Majesty, please chew on the stick,” she implored.

“Are you sure,” the Queen asked, bringing the stick to her nose and smelling. “It’s got no flavor,” she observed. The two minion hens fawning over her leaned in and inhaled too.

“I prefer vanilla.”

“I love frying bacon.”

The Queen grunted at the silliness of her cohorts. She shook her head and after a few agonizing moments of suspense bit down on the stick with her sharp teeth. Everyone stared at her as she chomped on the wood, her brow wrinkled in concentration. She shrugged. “Anyone notice anything,” she asked, rising from her couch. The underlings shook their heads.

“Why don’t you take a flight,” Willy suggested.

Polly had crossed her fingers behind her back. “In your natural feathers,” she added.

“Is this a trick,” the Queen asked, narrowing her eyes. “But wait, I feel strange,” she said, straightening up to her full, glorious height. She was tall: an impressive head taller than everyone around her. She looked a magnificent specimen – a few pounds ago she would have been the Queen she was now. “ I feel like soaring – in a long time I’ve not felt like stirring from my bed.”

She slipped off Grandpa’s wings and turned toward the river. Holding her majestic plumed head high and puffing out her chest, she ran toward the river. Running as fast as her spindly legs would take her, flapping her stubby brown wings, she hopped over the water, and over floating colonies of pondweed, and whorled fanworts and coontails, and then in one miraculous lift, took off into the wind. Her legs dangled briefly in flight, but she quickly folded them up against her chest, and then she soared: soared in a flurry of feathers over the red maple tops, the river, the marshes, the white pond, and finally, after an exhilarating trip, she landed on the river bed near them.

The entire marsh, the river bed, and the woods rose in thrill at her miraculous performance, and gave her a standing ovation of coos and quacks and babbles and burbles.

The exercise had given her a glow and already trimmed a few pounds off her waist.

“You look pretty, Milady,” Willy bent down and kissed her webbed paw.

“A ravishing beauty beyond compare,” Polly said, curtsying.

“I don’t know if it’s magic or inspiration, but it's worked,” the Queen announced to the throngs. Addressing the children she spoke: “Take the wings, children: let the old man dwell in them.”

The hens gathered in farewell as the kids climbed into grandpa’s wings and took off for home, taking the route over the river, careful to avoid the sullen gatekeeper to the marshes.

“I cannot keep up the magic forever, Willy,” Grandpa confessed, stoking the smoldering coals with a rod as they sat by the lake cooking buttery trout over fire. Polly was seasoning the fish while Willy turned the toasting rod. It was a beautiful, nippy, bright day. His wings, folded neatly, lay by the wheelchair behind them. “With each trick my strength drains and the spirit wanes. There’re no free lunches; everything comes at a price. I’m only good for a couple more spells; that’s all my frail body can take. You have to take over from me one day. But remember it cannot be a substitute for a stout will or the grace of a loving, kind heart. “

Motioning to Polly to come to him, grandpa took out from his pocket a bracelet similar to Willy’s and tied it on her wrist. “You’re a part of the family now,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling.

After eating, grandpa dozed off, and the kids wandered off toward the lake. They tossed pebbles into the water, munched on grass blades, and guessed what shapes the clouds floating past took.

“That one is a horse,” he said.

“No, that’s a cloud, silly,” Polly said, laughing.

“Your eyes crinkle up when you laugh,” Willy remarked, gazing at her face. “You’re so pretty.” He trembled as he leaned in to kiss her.

“Wait,” she giggled. Removing a small colored metal box from her pocket, she untied her bracelet and put it in. She stretched out her arm, gesturing him to do the same. She clicked the box shut and put it in her jeans after Willy had also put his bracelet there. “You don’t want Grandpa to see what we’re doing, do you,” she whispered as she let him crush her lips on hers.