Fool's Woods
Chapter 1
Fool’s Woods is what we’d always called this place. Whether it was actually woods or forest or some other variation, I never knew. It was dense and dark, always wet, and filled with creatures no one ever saw but only heard. There was a pond, my father said, at its center, nearly two miles in " he’d never seen it, but it was noteworthy blimp along our property map.
Fool’s Woods, what we saw of it, started in our backyard, separated from us by a small green chain-linked fence, only four feet in height. It reached its end nearly four miles away, somewhere along the interstate. From its center, it ranged two miles each way, lending it a nearly twelve-mile sprawl. As kids, we thought it’d be the perfect place to hide bodies; zombies and ghosts frequently haunted our dreams.
Nothing ever came out of those woods, not a rabbit or deer or raccoon, all of which were inhabitants of our area. Nothing ever went in, either. Our dog, a stubborn full-coated Chow, never ventured pass the gate, though my father frequently left it open for him to explore. He thought about it, we were sure, but Bear never stepped foot pass the open gateway. He’d spend hours some days seemingly guarding that entrance, just sitting in its open path, leering into the untouched land. We were never certain if he was keeping us out or it in.
There had been incidents, nights when Bear would growl and bark incessantly into the darkness. My sister and I, and our cousins when they’d sleep over, would peek through our bedroom window and look for what caused his unease; we never saw anything. My sister and eldest cousin would fall back asleep, but Jodie and I would sneak downstairs, our sleeping bags and pillows wrapped within our arms, and setup against the glass sliding-door that separated the den from the backyard. Dogs didn’t bark without reason.
As we grew older, Jodie and I constantly planned to enter the woods. When she were ten, and I eight, we begged my father for his map of Fool’s Woods. He’d given it to us without thought, explaining how it was to be held and navigated, and pointing out key points relative to their location from our home. We spent hours mapping routes and trails; we would find the small slump of land that traveled alongside a river or brook that flowed into the pond, and follow it straight to the center of the woods. We were kids then, unfamiliar with nature, and our parents had been raised in the city; it never occurred that the topography of this land just wasn’t right.
We never made it into those woods as kids. Fear stopped us first, distractions coming in at a close second, and then we grew up. Fool’s Woods lost its allure as boys and pretty things grew into season, and we became more concerned with pierced ears and push-up bras than the mysteries lurking in some old forest. But I kept the old map, hidden in a wooden keepsake box with our initials carved all over the top. There we kept all of our possessions associated with Fool’s Woods; the map, a compass, some rocks and dried leaves we’d collected from within arms-reach of the gate. At the end of that last summer, when I was just eleven and Jodie nearing thirteen, we locked up the old box and pushed it to the farthest corner of the closet.
Fool’s Woods, what we saw of it, started in our backyard, separated from us by a small green chain-linked fence, only four feet in height. It reached its end nearly four miles away, somewhere along the interstate. From its center, it ranged two miles each way, lending it a nearly twelve-mile sprawl. As kids, we thought it’d be the perfect place to hide bodies; zombies and ghosts frequently haunted our dreams.
Nothing ever came out of those woods, not a rabbit or deer or raccoon, all of which were inhabitants of our area. Nothing ever went in, either. Our dog, a stubborn full-coated Chow, never ventured pass the gate, though my father frequently left it open for him to explore. He thought about it, we were sure, but Bear never stepped foot pass the open gateway. He’d spend hours some days seemingly guarding that entrance, just sitting in its open path, leering into the untouched land. We were never certain if he was keeping us out or it in.
There had been incidents, nights when Bear would growl and bark incessantly into the darkness. My sister and I, and our cousins when they’d sleep over, would peek through our bedroom window and look for what caused his unease; we never saw anything. My sister and eldest cousin would fall back asleep, but Jodie and I would sneak downstairs, our sleeping bags and pillows wrapped within our arms, and setup against the glass sliding-door that separated the den from the backyard. Dogs didn’t bark without reason.
As we grew older, Jodie and I constantly planned to enter the woods. When she were ten, and I eight, we begged my father for his map of Fool’s Woods. He’d given it to us without thought, explaining how it was to be held and navigated, and pointing out key points relative to their location from our home. We spent hours mapping routes and trails; we would find the small slump of land that traveled alongside a river or brook that flowed into the pond, and follow it straight to the center of the woods. We were kids then, unfamiliar with nature, and our parents had been raised in the city; it never occurred that the topography of this land just wasn’t right.
We never made it into those woods as kids. Fear stopped us first, distractions coming in at a close second, and then we grew up. Fool’s Woods lost its allure as boys and pretty things grew into season, and we became more concerned with pierced ears and push-up bras than the mysteries lurking in some old forest. But I kept the old map, hidden in a wooden keepsake box with our initials carved all over the top. There we kept all of our possessions associated with Fool’s Woods; the map, a compass, some rocks and dried leaves we’d collected from within arms-reach of the gate. At the end of that last summer, when I was just eleven and Jodie nearing thirteen, we locked up the old box and pushed it to the farthest corner of the closet.