Young Writers Society

For some inexplicable reason, as Ming and Petro draw closer and closer to the spiky black trees at the edge of the forest, Ming feels an odd and unusual need to analyze Petro’s face. It isn’t the usual kind, either, where she has to know that he feels safe with whatever nonsense they’re up to, or when she has to know when he’s hungry and thirsty and tired because he never ever complains. She just wants to look and memorize, so she does.

In the orange light of sunrise, Petro’s skin seems darker than it is. His copious freckles disappear into the light, and his mousy brown hair turns into orange fire. He walks with the same confident caution that his father has, and locks his sharp, angular jaw in the same tense, stoic frown. He has his father’s thick hair and thick eyebrows, but his mother’s rounded eyes and thin, pointy nose, which casts a long, dark shadow across his cheek.

He stares straight ahead, unyielding, though Ming knows Petro is terrified.

“You’ll be okay,” she reassures. She knows better than to tell him not to worry. “You know how to set up camp and hunt, even without me.”

“I’m not worried,” he says, but his voice quivers, so he obviously is.

They walk along a jagged dirt path that skirts around the edges of the farming plots. Most of the fields are brown, but a few plots still burst with a late-growing strain of tall, golden wheat. Scraggly green potato plants dot another plot nearby, their shriveling leaves a sign that they’ll be harvested soon. Near the edges of the farming ring, small, stout orchards rustle in the breeze, their branches heavy with fruit.

The path bends around a late patch of cabbage, and further up, it disappears into the dark of the forest. Ming tugs on her backpack straps and frowns.

“Seriously Petro,” she says, her voice sterner this time, “You’re just as capable as me. Yeah, sure, this is supposed to be our big coming-of-age expedition, but we’ve been out a million times already. It’ll be a walk in the park.”

Petro gives her a long, hard stare, and then breaks into a tentative, close-lipped smile. “Where does that phrase even come from?”

“Ha!” Ming snorts and picks up the pace. It’ll be better to get Petro into the forest while they’re busy chatting about silly nonsense. “Every time I ask Grandmother, she gets all weepy eyed and starts babbling about the good old days and walking her dog. I asked her if she meant the anglerdogs, and she said no, they were just dogs.”

“Antho’s bees,” Petro swears. “Your grandmother is crazy.”

“And where does that come from?” Ming continues. She flings her arms out, exaggerating her confusion. Yes, she’s curious, but right now, the discussion is for Petro’s sake. “Who the heck is Antho? Why do they have bees?”

In his low, contained way, Petro laughs, and Ming mentally pats herself on the back. She grins, smug and self-satisfied, and keeps going. “You don’t think it’s related to that birds and bees phrase your dad uses every time he tries to bring up how children get born?”

“Oh gods,” Petro mumbles. His face flushes, and if he notices his feet crossing into the shadows, it doesn’t show. “He’s so embarrassing.”

Several steps into the long shadow cast by the newly risen sun, the trees begin. They grow like a tidal wave, dark and tall and dense, their black-brown trunks twisting and unravelling into heavy clouds of needles and branches. As the path transitions from hard, packed earth to spongy, dark dirt, the sound of Ming and Petro’s footsteps slides from rhythmic clopping to light, squishy noise.

Ming keeps track of their direction as they walk. The path winds and squeezes through the thick forest flora, and the black canopy overhead blocks so much sun that Ming is only vaguely certain that they’re still headed east. She keeps up a constant stream of chatter, pointing out mushrooms and game tracks and particularly charming patches of ferns, doing her best to keep Petro out of his head and block out the ominous rustling of the trees around them.

When at last the forest breaks into a bright, flowering meadow, Ming sighs in relief. Her throat itches with overuse, and she can’t think of anything interesting to say. Now, with the morning sun beating down upon them and a clear line of sight in some directions, Petro will calm down enough to give Ming a moment to think.

The meadow stretches out like a cat. Its edge is sinuous and lazy, curving in and out with broad, easy strokes, and the trees on the west side glow a healthy green under the sunlight. Red and violet flower petals peek out from between the thick grasses, and glittering black marshes simmer several paces away from the path. As Ming leads Petro into the meadow, she notices great teal dragonflies darting to and fro, soaking up the lingering heat of summer.

They are near the fork in the path. It breaks in the meadow, where travellers can see the sun and know their direction, and as Ming and Petro near it, she hears the squelch of Petro’s footsteps grow heavier. His breath quickens. Ming glances over her shoulder at him and offers a smile.

“It’s only a few days,” she says, keeping her voice cheery. “We’ll be back together in no time at all.”

“I know.”

Then, before Ming can give Petro a warning, they round a bend in the path, and the grasses part to reveal the fork. From here in the meadow, neither branch looks very different from the other. They both meander through the grass and reenter the forest soon after. They both have soft dirt and carry the sounds of a quiet breeze and burbling marsh. There is no sign stuck into the ground, and no indication that either path is different from the other.

Ming looks to Petro and tries to smile, but he only hunches in on himself, hoisting his pack higher onto his back.

“Here we are,” he says glumly.

“Yep.” Ming pops the ‘p’ and puffs out her cheeks, not sure what to do next. “A hug for the road?”

Petro opens his arms, and Ming wraps herself around his torso. His hands clasp her shoulders, and his nose tucks into the awkward strand of hair that always falls in front of her ears.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispers. His voice trembles, and his muscles tighten under Ming’s hands.

She pulls away and beams. “I’ll see you soon!”

And then they turn away from each other. Ming walks south to the lighthouse, Petro heads north to the clearing of undead fish, and neither of them looks back.