Patupaiarehe

Philip Milne

Margaret Allen sighed and scratched at her scalp, finding the kitchen ceiling no more interesting than the wall. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and the gnawing pit in her stomach pained her. Ever since her dad had followed that high, piping call from the forest days earlier, her mother had been on edge until she, too, went to investigate. The hopeful smile she wore as she left, just after their last breakfast together, still lingered in Margaret’s mind. 

Since then, the bananas on the kitchen bench had started to brown, attracting fruit flies that multiplied by the hour. In an effort to stave off boredom, Margaret had tidied the kitchen and living room as best she could and swept dust and dead leaves from the porch. Even though she hated cleaning — and being forced to tuck herself into bed every night — she decided it would all be worth it; when her parents came back, they would be very proud of her. After all, their closest neighbour lived hours away, so it wasn’t as though she could ask them for help. 

But this morning, she’d woken up to an empty house yet again. The sun was already high in the sky and frost still clung to the ground outside from the overnight freeze. 

Her breath came out in white puffs as she padded from the kitchen to her parents’ room, her heart sinking when she found it unoccupied. Dread grew within her like a disease, unease and loneliness adding to the hunger she already felt. This seemed like something you should call the police for. But her parents had taken their cellphones with them, and she wasn’t old enough for one of her own.

Margaret could picture her parents sitting on the edge of their bed — her mother combing her hair, her father pulling on his work boots. She took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. “I’ll come and find you,” she said to their memories, her voice breaking the days-long silence of the house. 

She departed into the cold outside, closing the front door gently behind her. She’d put on her warmest clothes, her mother’s gardening shoes and her father’s winter coat. The bottom of the coat trailed on the ground, so she hoisted it up and wrapped it around herself, the familiar smell of cigar smoke filling her nose. She’d also brought with her the cloth doll given to her at birth — a pale girl with bright red hair and freckles, wearing a moss-green dress.

Trudging through the field, Margaret had to ask the sheep many times to please let her pass. They kept bleating, nudging her with their heads as she pushed past. They fell silent when she reached the tree line, their strange eyes following her. She gave a little wave, then turned and entered the forest. 

It was quieter than all the other times she’d explored, as quiet as it had been in the kitchen whilst waiting for her parents. Sticks and leaves crunched under her shoes, and droplets of dew hit the ground as she brushed by verdant ferns. There was no birdsong, no chittering insects. The further she walked, the harder it became to see, for mist was beginning to trail through the trees. 

Despite the midday sun, the gloom of the forest was overpowering. Margaret stopped to catch her breath, watching as her exhalations joined the swirling white. Doubt prickled across her skin, and she wondered if she should have gone to town and asked for the constable’s help. At least she would have been met with a warm meal.

Finally, she shook her head, clutching the doll to her chest. The important thing was to be mature and focus on the task at hand. It was what her parents would want her to do. She pushed deeper, crunching her way along the forest floor. 

The fog thickened, as if a storm cloud was billowing around her, and then she saw it. 

Her.

The woman emerged from the mist, her steps slow but deliberate. She was tall, taller than Margaret’s parents, with pale skin and flowing, rust-coloured hair. The woman’s clothes rippled in an invisible breeze, for they were as light as cobwebs, as silver as the moon. Circling her long neck and thin wrists were small bones, bound together with fine string, but Margaret couldn’t make out what animals those bones could have come from. 

The woman’s face, with its sharp cheekbones and equally sharp teeth, twisted into an expression of distaste. “Kāore koe i te wāhi tika i konei,” she said, her voice low and rasping. And although Margaret didn’t recognise the words, she could understand them perfectly, the wisps of mist feeding the translation into her ears. You do not belong here.

Margaret cleared her throat, trying to stand as upright as possible. She wouldn’t let this beautiful, cruel woman frighten her, even if she did look just like her doll. “I’m just looking for my parents, ma’am.” 

“Kei a mātou ō mātua,” came the reply. We have your parents.

That made Margaret pause. She’d suspected it, of course, but it was another thing to have it confirmed. 

“May I please have them back?”

All the woman did was shake her head slowly, her black eyes watching, unblinking. Then, with a flicker of a smile, she turned and disappeared into the mist, the white clouds embracing her like a long-lost sibling. 

Margaret chewed her lip, her mind wrestling with the impossible choice. But when the haunting, enticing sound of a reed flute floated through the trees and reached her ears, she sighed, her doll falling, forgotten, to the forest floor. In the depths, she could make out the silhouettes of her parents — one broad-shouldered and one thin, an arm around each other. They beckoned her, and before she herself became enveloped, she could have sworn her mother whispered, “Welcome home.”

Far away, back at the now-empty home, the sheep and cattle took one last look at the forest and began the slow, steady walk to the nearby township. They were in need of care, and that instinct all animals had told them their owners would not be returning.

—

Philip Milne is a secondary school teacher in Aotearoa New Zealand, teaching Classical Studies and other social sciences. Philip grew up on the East Coast of New Zealand and has always been an avid reader of science fiction and fantasy, but only started writing through lockdown. It was then that he began to write short stories, middle grade novels, and young adult novels. He is now looking to slowly publish these stories. Philip is inspired by nature and possible futures, and is fascinated by myths and folklore from all around the world, particularly Greek, Irish, Norse, and Māori. His dream is to disappear into a (well-stocked) cabin in the woods and just write, surrounded by greenery and bird calls.

Featured image by EmmaELf, via Flickr.