THE LANTERN: WILD MUSHROOMS, WOOD SPRITES, AND SONGS OF REMEMBRANCES

BY HANNAH BROPHY

My nostrils twitched with the scent of pine swirling in the breeze. Beneath the fresh breath of the outdoors, an underlying layer of decay floated the musky odor of fungi — mushrooms, to be precise. Immediately, I visualized sliced golden chanterelles and tree-shaped morels sizzling in a pan of bubbling butter.

Tears welled in my eyes. How I’d loved the woods as a child. Collecting mushrooms, wild sage, and fresh mint for my mother to cook, along with a bouquet of colorful flowers garnished with Queen Anne’s lace. Times were different then. That was in the days before I understood the evil in the world.

A tune I recognized played faintly in the background and my mind automatically hummed along — Für Elise, one of my mother’s favorites. I thought about her often now, and the lessons she strove to impart. What a failure I’d been as a student.

Sword ferns lining the path wrapped themselves around my ankles in a light grip designed to lure me toward the woods. Even the wind encouraged me to step over the plants and dart behind the trees. Flickering beams frolicked through the tree as daylight reverberated between the branches. As a child, I’d believed it was stage lighting for dancing wood sprites or fairies. Once, I was sure I’d spotted the gossamer, sparkling wings of such a creature, but like many things, it had been only a product of my imagination. Because no matter how long I searched, I could never find anything beyond that initial glance.

“Enter,” the forest whispered to me, “be one with the mystery.” The wind murmured that I could be free like Dorothy landing in Oz. I could escape the dreariness of Kansas or, in my case, prison.

I restrained myself from glancing around (as only a guilty person would do) to see if anyone would notice if I stepped off the concrete platform and simply disappeared into the foggy wilderness. I could dimly make out the mountains in the distance. How many days walking would it take to reach them?

Still, I hesitated.

Freedom came with a price that I must face: no safety net (which was a huge risk), but the thing I dreaded the most was being alone. No one would have my back. Everyone would wait with anticipation for me to be recaptured and brought back into the fold. There might even be salivating at the thought that rabid animals would get me first.

Returning would bring me more than anguish. The knowledge of the silent mocking and pity would play out in the stories of how they’d cheered for me, longing to be as daring and brave. But secretly they’d tell their friends how they would have been tougher, stronger, able to endure more. No doubt about it, had they attempted it, they would have succeeded.

Yet even as the elements appeared to be sucking me inward, I could not convince my feet to move. It didn’t make sense.

All my life, I’d scoffed at clichés: “look before you leap” or “consider the consequences.” I shrugged off questions like: “What were you thinking?” I was a risk-taker. Everybody said so, especially those who’d imprisoned me for such actions.

Whether it was the gentle hand on my shoulder or the quiet voice in my ear, the forest released me with a loud plop. I turned to the woman, an elderly Black chaplain watching me expectantly.

I realized she appeared to be waiting for a response to a question I hadn’t heard. “What did you say?” I asked.

Her smile was without censure as she gestured to the alcove. “It’s so
real-looking, isn’t it? Inmates painted it from their memories, you
know.” She smiled with pride of accomplishment at the walls. Then
gingerly shook her head. “Personally, I prefer the wall of soaring birds taking flight.”

We both turned and studied the wall of bookcases, above which twenty or so bluebirds were in flight, leaving their too-small cage and soaring high into the air.

I opened my lips to say something — anything — but my thoughts had abandoned me. It was the chaplain who filled in the silence by softly singing, “Somewhere over the rainbow,” in a dreamy voice.

Maybe I’d venture into the forest tomorrow, but today I responded, “Way up high. There’s a land that I heard of, once in a lullaby.” | HB