The Magic Forest 

by Luke van Wyk

As I get older, I am terribly nostalgic. I think about when I was growing up and all the adventures we had. I've been back to visit the scenes of those memories, but alas all has changed.

I've been down to the creek where we used to swim. It was a lovely little spot where the water flowed freely in the shade of trees lining the banks. A big old tree carried a rope just perfectly positioned so you could run along the bank, then swing out over the water, skimming your heels across the surface.

There have been some heavy floods in years past. The tree is gone, along with its rope, and these days the water is sluggish and patched with weeds.

Up the road from home, there was a place we used to ride our bikes on dirt tracks. The area wasn't quite a forest, but certainly a scrubby wilderness, and it was dominated by a massive fig tree. We would climb up to it, and lookout across the whole area before us. Today, it is suburbia with houses, roads, and light posts.

Then there was the magic forest, a favourite place of beauty and serenity. The years have seen it transformed, to backyards, retaining walls and swimming pools.

I'm sitting and waiting in reception. I'm going to go back; you see this appointment is with a hypnotherapist, and I want her to take me back to that time.

We've discussed it, planned the approach, and today is the day. I've even got fresh pine needles to give me that association, to help trigger the memory of the magic forest.

Before long, she calls me into the treatment room. After exchanging some pleasantries, it is down to business. I lie back on a couch, the lights are dimmed, and she begins speaking to me in a gentle tone, probing, reaching, taking me to a time long ago …

I'm walking through long grass, amidst the gum trees. I feel like a passenger. I'm not sure, what is happening. I'm wondering if this is me? I think of my home, and turn and look back, and there is my childhood home, the backyard.

I'm a little stunned, but I turn away and continue walking through the long grass, amidst the trees and lantana bushes. I know where I'm going, even if it doesn't seem like it is really me.

Steadily progressing through the long grass, I look down at my bare feet, my child legs. I climb through a barbed wire fence, delicately holding those barbs away and performing the feat with the swift assurance of experience.

I catch the scent of pine trees and feel an instant rush of anticipation. As I approach, I realise it is mid-afternoon, because the sun is shining through the trees. There are small white moths in the air between the tree trunks; they flit about and glisten as the sunbeams stream through.

Up higher, in the branches, are small birds. They chatter amongst themselves and flit down, chasing the moths. Their little song is heard above the sound of trickling water. It's not quite a brook, but it has character, if not volume or intensity. The trickle of water provides enough to support the growth of thick green moss, like a carpet of green.

As I always imagined, a carpet for magical creatures that must live here. The serenity fills my soul as I take it all in; a pleasing assault on my senses, the satisfaction of long-held desire.

A sudden shout disturbs my reverie, and I see some boys coming. One of them is carrying an air-rifle, a pellet gun. This can't be good. The boy raises the rifle and aims up at the trees. What…? … the birds …

I yell as loud as I can. The birds are startled and scatter to the treetops. The boys look to me, and hurl abuse. I'm angry, so angry, how dare they bring violence to such a place. I yell again, telling them to leave.

They look menacing and advance toward me. The boy with the gun takes aim, and suddenly I feel sharp pain down at my ankle. I glance down and see blood welling from a small wound.

There is no fear, simply fury. I charge at them and leap at the boy with the gun. He holds it across his chest protecting himself, but with my momentum, we tumble to the ground. We wrestle with the weapon. I want it. I want to destroy it.

The other boys stand and cheer their companion, but I am able to bring my arm down between the boy and the rifle, and with a twisting effort, break it free from his grasp.

I scramble to my feet and swing the rifle by the barrel in a wide arc, warding off their clutching arms. Swinging it through the air, I aim high and release it.

We all watch it sail through the air, and it lands on some boulder further up the creek, splintering the wooden stock and sliding down into a small rock pool. I turn and run. They're chasing me. I feel heroic.

I hear a bell. It chimes softly. I open my eyes. She has a look of concern and wants to know if I am okay. I'm a little bewildered but reassure her that all is well.

Later I look at my leg; a small round scar is there; I've never seen it before.