Chapter 1
Chapter 1 “The Green Man”
The mushrooms were the start of it. If Maple Threestep had never seen them things would be very different, and probably altogether worse.
There was a forest surrounding the large, sprawling house that Maple called home. The trees were tall beech and old fir, a stand of wood that had stood since the beginning of trees, and the ground beneath was a carpet of moss and pine bristles. The springy layer of lichens and shed leaves served to muffle the sounds coming from beyond the forest so that while the trees stood near the edge of town, the noises of cars and other passing sounds of life were muted.
Maple was returning from school one fine autumn afternoon, humming along to a tune that had been stuck in her head all day. As she skipped along, little bells sewn into the seams of her jeans jingled gently. She had a habit of working a skip into her walk to the tempo of whatever melody had caught her fancy that day; the problem with this was that sometimes this exuberance would get in the way of looking where she was going.
A rather innocent pinecone suddenly found itself being stepped upon. In accordance with physics it shifted slightly, and Maple’s feet went flying up into the air; with a short yelp she landed on her back, her bright brown eyes blinking. She chuckled at her own clumsiness; the soft ground hadn’t even knocked the wind from her. She sat up, brushed the hair from her eyes, and adjusted the strap to the old camera case that hung at her side. She opened it up and exhaled in relief to find that the old, instant film camera that it held was safe and sound. Then, something at her feet caught her eyes.
Less than a step away was a group of brown, button mushrooms. Maple stood and brushed herself off, saying, “Well, looks like it’s your lucky day, little guys. If I hadn’t tripped, I would’ve stepped all over you!”
The mushrooms seemed friendly enough, but even so they didn’t respond. Maple gave them a little salute for a goodbye, but then she stopped. Then she cocked her head. She put her hands on her hips and said with mock severity, “Well, I’ve heard of mushroom fairy circles, but never a little mushroom man.”
The fungi, who were growing in a vague, one-foot outline of a man with one arm upraised, said nothing again.
Maple took her camera and snapped a picture of the oddly shaped group of mushrooms, and plucked the film from the camera’s aperture, flapping it in the air. In faded color tones was a perfect picture of the formation. She tipped it towards the button mushrooms and said, “Good one of you.” They simply repeated themselves in silence. Humming again, she wrote on the back of the picture, Odd Mushroom Circle. She had neat, if spiky, handwriting, and wrote with the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth.
She put the picture into her camera case, when a sudden idea hit her. “I’ll be back in a bit, little guys. Don’t wander off!”
#
Maple walked up the path to her home, a paved walkway that led up a hill to the ancient, sprawling building at the top. Threestep Place, for that was the name of the manor, might have looked intimidating except for the fact that it was so charming. It was rather like a strict old grandfather that scowled and grunted, but would slip their favorite grandchild a sweet or a dollar with a wink and a smile.
Threestep Place sat in the middle of Threestep Wood, near a town called Threestep. The building and town had been the home of a millionaire a century or more ago. The man had built both and was named Jonathan Threestep, and Maple was in no way related to him. Threestep Place had been converted into an orphanage, where Maple had lived her entire twelve years of life.
Maple Threestep, you see, is an orphan.
But this isn’t to say that Maple has no family. She had lived under the care of the orphanage’s head, Mother Tansy, since she had come to the orphanage wrapped in a blanket, laid in a wicker basket festooned with bells. She had held an orange maple leaf in one tiny fist, so Mother Tansy had named her Maple. It was perhaps a good thing that Maple had had ended up on the steps of the orphanage, as the old establishment was soon set to be shut down.
The great-great-great-grand nephew of Jonathan Threestep, Michael Threestep, and the man in charge of the funds for the orphanage, had arrived to tell Mother Tansy that the orphanage was closing down. But a baby Maple had smiled up at him, and he found that he didn’t have the heart. He changed his mind and funded the orphanage instead.
Maple lived there for several years before Michael Threestep asked her if she would like him to be her father, to which she replied that she thought he already was, that Mother Tansy was her mother, and the other children her brothers and sisters. Threestep Place was her home, and she had lived there ever since, helping Mother Tansy and the other orphans that passed through.
A few of the other children waved at her as she walked up to one of the doors that led into the house, specifically a side door that led into the kitchen. Threestep Place was more akin to several small buildings all connected by rambling halls and cubby-holes, and had more than seven entrances.
The kitchen, Mother Tansy’s domain, was a huge room, almost a hall unto itself. An ancient, massive, butcher-block table dominated it, six feet wide and twelve feet long; the table had been a part of the house for as long as the place had stood, and Mother Tansy joked that they must have built the house around it. There were cavernous cupboards and sinks you could bathe in, refrigerators like small icebergs and ovens that could have been commissioned by Nebuchadnezzar. From the ceiling hung pots and pans of copper and cast iron, and one whole wall was devoted to cooking tools. Walking in gave one the feeling that they were only half as tall as they really were, as if they had stumbled into a giant’s home at the top of a beanstalk.
“Hey, Mother Tansy, I’m back,” Maple said as she strolled in. Cookies were cooling on the counter, so she took one and juggled it to keep her fingers cool.
Mother Tansy, an expansive, severe looking woman who, like Threestep Place, was entirely gentle despite a tough look. She had a mane of gray hair that she kept up into a tight bun, and piercing gray eyes. She pulled a tray of cookies out of the oven, unleashing a wave of delightful cinnamon smell, and set them on the butcher-block table saying, ironically, “Well, help yourself to a cookie, Maple.”
Unabashed, Maple bit into the warm snickerdoodle. “Thanks, I already did. Hey, you know that book on fungus that was in the old house library? Where did we put that?”
Mother Tansy chuckled and thumbed over her shoulder as she put cookies into the oven. “I think I put it under the table in the pantry to stop it wobbling.” She looked up and called after Maple, “If you’re going to take it out, put something back so it doesn’t wobble.”
Maple waved confirmation and ducked into one of the many pantries, although this was by far the largest. It had shelves and shelves of food that seemed to never really deplete, no matter how much Mother Tansy cooked. There was a table in here that, against all logic, needed things under all four legs to stop it from wobbling. Maple pulled a small gray book from under one leg and, after a moment’s thought, put a tin of sardines in its place.
The title was Fungi of the World, and as Maple leaned back against a shelf, eating her cookie, she flipped through it. It was, frankly, boring. It could only be of interest to those who for some reason already found mushrooms to be entertaining. Those sorts of people must be easy to please anyway.
About halfway through the volume, and her patience, she sat up and read aloud, “Fairy circles are a phenomenon observed when mushrooms or toadstools grow in, appropriately, a circle. Legend says that this phenomenon was caused by fairies dancing in the night, and upon the morning the mushrooms would sprout.
“They also were cultivated purposefully by gardeners to give a garden a mythical feel. If a gardener was skillful, they could coax the fungus to grow in shapes, such as animals or even people. One famous specimen was grown in the shape of the Greek god Zeus and eventually reached some thirty feet in length. Some enthusiasts would even plant other plants around and inside the form to give the outlines color and shape.”
She sat for a few moments with her hand on her chin, thinking. Then, inspiration struck. She hopped up and hurried out of the pantry. As she rushed by, and grabbed another cookie or two, she called to Mother Tansy, “I’m going to Pascal’s, Mother Tansy, I’ll be back later!”
Mother Tansy chuckled to herself as Maple yelped and juggled the fresh-from-the-oven treats.
#
The Forget-Me-Not Flower Store was run by a cheerful, blousy African American woman named Mrs. Rite and her husband, Mr. Rite. She was also the mother of Maple’s best friend, Pascal.
As Maple skipped in, the heady smell of flowers and rich, dark soil folded over her like a warm blanket. She inhaled and exhaled happily, then stepped up to the register with a jingle of the bells on her jeans. Behind it stood Mrs. Rite, who put down a newspaper and burst into a smile as she came up. “Well, if it isn’t Maple. What can I do for you today, dear?”
“Hiya, Mrs. Rite. Is Pascal here today?” she asked.
Mrs. Rite nodded. “He’s restocking the tulips.”
Maple thanked her and ran off. She found Pascal in an aisle, a tall boy with very white teeth and pitch black coils of hair that he had tied away from his face. He was whistling to himself and putting tulips into flat plastic trays, though he stopped and grinned as he heard the jangle of the bells on her jeans. “Hey Maple, what’s up?” he called, before he even saw her.
“Pas!” She said in greeting. She handed him a snickerdoodle. “First, here. Mother Tansy was making cookies. Then, have I got something to show you! Take a look at this.” Maple showed him the picture of the mushroom outline, and explained her plan.
Immediately, Pascal was interested, as she knew he would be. Pascal was nuts for anything green; Maple joked that he had a green thumb that went all the way up to his elbow. He swallowed a mouthful of cookie, and said, “Yeah, this shouldn’t be too hard! Come on, I can help you pick out the seeds and stuff.”
They both walked around the store for a few minutes, picking out seeds and small flowers, putting them into a basket along with a small spade and gloves. When they had gathered all Maple needed, she reached into her camera case to grab her wallet, but Pas put up a hand. “Hey, don’t worry about it. An early birthday present, but only if you get me a picture of what it looks like when you’re done!”
“Aw, thanks, Pas! Wait, why don’t you just come with?”
“Oh, I gotta help Mom with the store while Dad’s gone. That reminds me, tomorrow we’re transplanting those roses you helped us plant a year or two ago. You want to help?”
“Sure, I’ll be there.” Maple waved goodbye and called over her shoulder, “I’ll get you that picture!”
#
Maple ran through the forest to the mushroom outline, and skidded to a halt in front of it. “Well, hello again!” She sat the basket down and took gloves and a spade from its depths. “Let’s see about making you look respectable, hmm?”
With care she removed the turf from the inside of the outline, all save for the face, and tossed it aside. Filling in the divot with rich potting soil, she then broke out the seeds. For trousers she seeded the ground with tiny flowers like moss that Pascal told her would turn a rich yellow. For a coat, she seeded the ground with grasses that would turn brilliant blue. At his hands she planted a single living white flower each, like a glove, and at his feet were soft-pedaled brown flowers for shoes.
Over his head she planted a black flower that sat jauntily like a fancy top-hat. In his out-reached hand she planted a long-stemmed white mushroom that looked for all the world like an umbrella. Then as a finishing touch she took a bottle of water and gently sprinkled it over everything.
Sitting back on her legs, she wiped her brow, regarded her work, and smiled to herself. The outline seemed somewhat forlorn, with wet, black potting soil filling it in. She chuckled at it. “You know, if you expected a suit to be tailored immediately, that’s not the way it works. You’re going to have to wait for the flowers to grow, but I promise when they do you’ll be very, very spiffy.”
Sunset was approaching, so she set the flash on her camera, and went to take a picture. As she clicked the button there was a bright flash, bigger than her camera could possibly make. She stumbled back a pace and rubbed her eyes. There was a white dot floating in her vision, and when the fuzzyness faded, it was still there.
Bobbing in the air as if held aloft by a gentle breeze was the white mushroom she had planted minutes ago. Maple stared at it for a moment, and slowly raised her camera. The mushroom floated forward slightly, putting itself perfectly in focus as if trying to help.
Maple snapped a picture, and regarded the developed film. It showed the white mushroom bobbing in the air, just like her eyes told her she was seeing. “Huh,” she said. “That’s…weird.” She stowed her camera, and realized that the mushroom outline was missing.
Maple spun around, looking in a small circle, but right where the outline had been there was only the weightless mushroom. She furrowed her brow and reached out to touch the mushroom.
The floating fungus smoothly moved away from her fingers, staying just out of her reach. She took a step forward and it floated a step back; she realized that the mushroom wanted her to follow it. Maple was curious to a fault, and she took off after it with barely a second thought.
She knew the woods like the back of her hand, and the mushroom led her along a route she knew quite well. There was a small clearing where only grass grew in this direction, she knew, and the mushroom seemed to be leading her straight there.
When she reached the edge of the clearing the mushroom glowed slightly. Maple put her hands over her eyes just in time to block out another flash of light. When she lowered her hands, she gasped.
Standing in the clearing was a small green man, a little bit shorter than Maple herself. His fine houndstooth trousers were yellow, and his coat was blue, with a brown mushroom in the lapel. Upon his head was a black top hat. His feet were shod with brown shoes, and his hands were gloved with soft, white gloves. In one of those hands was a furled white umbrella.
His face was impish with skin as green as broccoli. He didn’t see her at first, instead he stared at nothing, as if there was something on his mind.
Then he noticed her presence, and turned to her. His eyes were dark green, the color of lichen, aloof and old. But when he saw her, they changed slowly, becoming as brown as her own and no longer ancient and haughty. Now, they seemed kind.
He raised one hand to the brim of his hat, and said, “Hello, Maple. I like your name.”
She grinned back hesitantly. “Hi.”
He spread his arms and examined himself. “Rarely do I get incarnated with such fine clothes. Thank you.”
With nothing else to say, Maple merely said, “You’re welcome? Who are you?”
He smiled. “I am the Green Man, the spirit of forests and trees.”
He held out a hand, and she shook it. His hand felt warm and reassuringly real. “I’m Maple Threestep,” she replied. “But, I guess you already knew that.”
“Maybe I just guessed. You look like a Maple, you know.” The Green Man chuckled at his own joke, then asked, “Do you like stories, Maple? Ones with magic in them?”
Maple shrugged. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”
He held up a hand. A soft green orb of light sat in his palm, and he held it out to her. “For you, a bit of magic.”
She reached out, and when she touched it, it disappeared with a flicker of light. The Green Man winked. “A gift for a gift. Magic for such fashionable clothes.”
She looked up at the sky, which suddenly swarmed with rainclouds, and back down at the Green Man. “Am I dreaming?” she asked. “Did I trip again and knock myself out.”
The Green Man shrugged. “What do you think?”
Maple thought for a moment, and said, “I don’t think I am. I’m pretty sure I’m awake. But all this is a bit too magical to be real, isn’t it?”
He merely shrugged again and held out his umbrella. “I’m not sure about real, but I’m pretty sure about magical. Here, for your walk home.”
She unfurled it just as the first drops of a gentle shower started. “Won’t you get wet?”
As the rain touched the Green Man he started to grow, becoming taller and taller until he was as big as the forest itself, until he was the forest itself; and just like one can’t see the forest because of the trees, he too became to big to see. His voice spoke once more, soft as a flower’s touch. “I don’t mind; I like the rain.”
So Maple walked home with a skip or two, protected from the gentle rain by an umbrella that looked a tad like a mushroom, and wherever she skipped, flowers grew.
#
Maple arrived at Threestep Place a bit after the sun went below the horizon. She felt tired, and with barely a good night to Mother Tansy she climbed into her bed and fell asleep to the sound of rain outside.
Maple woke the next morning feeling fresh and new; from an open window came the smell of autumn rain on wet ground. Maple’s room is one of the most remote parts of the old manor, a former attic on the third floor. Outside a round window stood an old, dead tree that was the home of several birds that chorused the dawn.
She glanced over, and the white umbrella that looked like a mushroom, still wet from the night before, was leaning against her bedpost.
Maple sat for a moment on the edge of her bed, remembering the little Green Man. It couldn’t have really happened, she thought. It seemed like a dream.
There was a flutter of blue outside her window, and a small noise that drew her attention. Standing on the sill was a tiny woman, no more than four inches tall, dressed in blue, with gossamer dragonfly wings fluttering gently on her back. The tiny woman waved.
Maple blinked, and went to open the window. She bent down and looked at the fairy, and said, “Um, hello.”
The fairy shook as if laughing, but no noise came. With a hop, the fairy fluttered into the air and zoomed off into the distance. Following behind like a shadow came a gentle breeze that rustled the bells on Maple’s jeans.
She chuckled to herself. “Cool!”
#
Chapter 2 “The Cinnamon Tree and the Painters.”
The day after Maple met the Green Man, she met Verum in the forest surrounding Threestep Place. She could hardly have met him anywhere else.
She had found that the world had become fantastic after she had met the forest spirit. Whenever she would feel a breeze tussle her hair she would look up to see a little blue woman fluttering nearby, and whenever she opened her umbrella it would start to rain.
She decided to backtrack, to find the clearing where she had met the little Green Man. So early that morning she set out into the woods, still wet with rain, and headed to the clearing. A few blue fairies fluttered overhead and the falling leaves rustled, and amid the rustling she heard a rustle of another sort.
On the path in front of her was a little rabbit, but on its head between its ears were small antlers, and it had a pheasant’s tail instead of a cotton one. It wiggled its nose at her and zipped off in the direction of the clearing. Maple chuckled and followed.
The clearing was normal, it seemed, and there was no Green Man in it. There was also no sign of the odd rabbit. “Well, it was definitely here. I’d like tell to someone about this whole thing.” She thought for a second. “I don’t think I can tell Pas, he wouldn’t be able to see everything anyway.”
As she talked to herself, she walked, and a tree root hidden beneath the bright carpet of orange leaves caught her toe, causing her to stumble and run heavily into an old tree. “Oh, woops, sorry,” she said automatically.
Maple had always had a good relationship with trees. She climbed on them and they seemed to humor her acrobatics, but before right then, none had ever spoke to her. But this one did, and it said, “Oh, it was my fault, really.”
She was not really much surprised that a tree was talking to her, but as she brushed herself off she glanced around and said, “Who exactly am I talking to?”
The voice of the tree was dry and dusty, and quite friendly. “Well, my girl, I am Verum, the spirit of the Solitary Cinnamon Tree.”
And from the tree, as if stepping from the bark itself, came a person. He was dressed in dusty brown and seemed quite old. He had a beaky nose and a widow’s peak, and his very tan and lined skin was nearly the same color as his hair; in fact it almost looked like bark.
She held out her hand and shook his. “I’m Maple Threestep. Pleased to meet you.”
“Oh, I like that name!” He motioned to the trees surrounding them. “Most of these trees are maples, and they are as pleasant of company as you could ask for. But I am the only cinnamon tree.”
Maple took her camera from the case by her side and asked, “Do you mind if I take a picture of you?”
“I would be delighted!” replied Verum, and he looked even happier when she turned the camera to the tree and took a picture of that. As she examined the Polaroid she asked, “How come there’s only one cinnamon tree?”
Verum waved a hand and a root rose up from the ground, which he took a seat upon. “Because this country isn’t where cinnamon trees normally come from. I was a seed brought here by a rather lost bird, about two hundred years ago.”
“You’re pretty old then,” said Maple, writing “Verum” on the back of the picture and stowing it in her camera case. “How come I’ve never met another tree before?”
Verum tapped the side of his nose. “I would imagine that they are a bit starstruck. You are quite a celebrity among us trees, Maple; it has been many, many years since the Green Man has shared his magic with a human. When I heard the Green Man had shared his spirit with a human, I had to meet her! I am a staunch royalist, you know, so to meet the spirit-touched of my king the Green Man… well, it’s a great honor! You should be meeting more nature spirits here soon, I should imagine.”
Maple had a sudden thought. “Did you trip me on purpose?”
Verum smiled sheepishly, the crow’s feet around his eyes deepening. “Here, let me make it up to you.” He touched his tree, and a piece of bark peeled away. It curled in his hand until it became a cinnamon stick, which he offered her. “Cinnamon?”
She took it, held it to her nose and inhaled. “It smells delicious. Alright, you’re forgiven,” she said with mock imperiousness.
Verum nodded back with his own mock solemnity. “Very generous of you.” His crow’s feet returned a moment later however, and he made a cinnamon stick for himself, which he stuck into the corner of his mouth. “We cinnamon trees have a rhyme, you know, about the most delicious thing in the world:
Honey of the cinnamon tree,
Made by the cinnamon bee,
And herein lies the problem.
For cinnamon bees do not exist,
But the world goes on without them.”
“Cinnamon honey?” asked Maple. “I’ve had cinnamon in honey before.”
Verum raised a finger. “Cinnamon honey, to be the most delicious thing, must be made by a brown bee called the Cinnamon Bee. But they don’t exist in this world.”
“Aw, that’s too bad,” said Maple, copying Verum by putting the stick of cinnamon into her mouth. “I’d like to taste the most delicious thing in the world,” she slurred around the stick of cinnamon.
He saw this and seemed pleased. “Do you like cinnamon, Maple?”
She nodded. “Quite a bit. I make snickerdoodles all the time!”
“Then please, accept this, a gift.” He held out a box about the size of a deck of cards made of a wood that smelled heavily of cinnamon, with a cinnamon tree engraved into the lid. Verum opened it up, and carved on the underside of the lid, was a bee. Nestled in the bottom were neat stacks of cinnamon sticks. “This should last you forever, I believe.”
She took the box and looked closer. “But there’s not that much in here.”
Verum laughed. “So? A tree doesn’t get to be my age without knowing some magic!”
She smiled back. “Well, thank you.”
“Thank you, Maple. It’s an honor.”
Maple put her cinnamon box into her camera satchel, tucked the umbrella under her arm, and said, “Um, if you’re a tree spirit, maybe you can help me?”
“If I can be of any help at all, it would be an honor,” said the old tree spirit affably.
“Who was that Green Man, and how come I can see tree spirits and stuff?”
“The Green Man is the spirit of forests and trees, the personification of green things,” Verum explained. “If I am the personification of my tree, the Green Man is a personification of all of them! I am a tree, the Green Man is all of the forests in the whole world.
“It’s very rare, but the Green Man seems to have given you a bit of his magic, his own spirit, to you. I’m not sure what else it did, but at least it opened your eyes to things that other humans cannot see or hear, such as we tree spirits. Does that help?”
Maple nodded. “That’s a pretty good start. If I have more questions, can I ask you?”
“Maple, I would be disheartened if you didn’t,” Verum replied. “I saw you were chasing a wolpertinger, the little rabbit with antlers. I believe one has a den a bit east of here, if you’d like to go look.”
Maple’s eyes lit up. “Thanks, Verum!”
As she scampered off, a brown bee that hadn’t existed in the human world ten minutes ago buzzed up to gather pollen from the solitary cinnamon tree. Verum looked at it and hummed along to its buzzing.
#
It was not long after meeting Verum that Maple met Reddox the rust man.
Later that very day, Maple was helping Mrs. Rite and Pascal with the transplanting of several young rose bushes, bringing them in to protect them from the upcoming frosts. Each gardener was bent over a bush, carefully digging with hand spades so as not to destroy the roots. The sky was driven with dark gray clouds and there was a chilling breeze, but the two young ones barely noticed.
With a grunt, Pascal heaved his plant out of the ground and into a pot. He hmm-ed again in a satisfied manner, and brushed his gloved hands together to clear the dirt. He flashed his white teeth at Maple. “Well, that’s mine done. Need any help, Maple?”
She grinned back. “No thanks, Pas, I think I almost have this one out.”
Mrs. Rite sat up and snorted. “Oh, don’t mind me Pascal, I’ve got this one myself.”
Pascal put on a mock-hurt look. “I was just about to ask.”
Maple heaved her bush into the pot and dusted off her own gloves. “What’s the matter with that one, Mrs. Rite?”
“Oh, it’s just old, and we old things get stubborn,” said Mrs. Rite with a wave of her hand.
“I’ll go get a shovel,” offered Maple. She leapt to her feet, racing to the shed.
The little building was old and wooden, and smelled of rust and dirt, but Pascal kept the hinges well-oiled and free from grime, and with just a touch the door swung open. There were shelves along each wall that held hand tools, and at the very back of the shed were the larger implements. Maple set her hand-spade on a shelf and grabbed a shovel. She turned to leave, but stopped. There was a tiny, perhaps three-inch tall man standing on the shelf, studying her spade.
He wore all rust colored clothing, and had a beret and painter’s smock on, all in rusty red instead of a painter’s normal white. He held a palette in one hand, with tinctures of burnt sienna, tawny, and pale yellow, and twirled a fine brush in the other. With infinite care, he mixed two nearly indistinguishable red colors together, dipped the brush in and, carefully, touched a point on the spade. In front of her eyes, a tiny speck of rust appeared. He ran his fingers over a thin, pencil moustache as he considered his next stroke with pursed lips.
Perhaps she was feeling impish from the brisk air or perhaps the tiny man seemed so timid she couldn’t help herself, but she snuck up on tiptoe behind the tiny man and said, “Boo!”
The rusty man leapt into the air and gave a squeak, spinning around and holding his brush out in front of him as if to ward of some monster. When he was confronted only with the pleasant face of Maple, he just stopped, and sighed in relief. “Oh, ‘tis only a human.”
“A human that can see you,” said Maple.
The rusty little man froze. “You can see me?”
Maple nodded.
“But…” he slapped a hand to his forehead in realization. “You must be Maple Threestep!”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, and he enthusiastically shook the tip of her finger in greeting. He pulled his beret off his head, dropping his brush and palate. Instead of clattering to the ground they just disappeared.
“Well, I must say, ‘tis a very great pleasure to meet Maple Threestep!” He beamed up at her. “You are quite famous among the right circles, you know!”
“I didn’t know, no. But what’s your name?”
“Oh, excuse me! I am Reddox, the Rustman!”
Maple pointed at the tiny speck of rust on the spade. “You make rust?”
“I do indeed!” he said, puffing out his chest. “I am the painter of the slow flames, the old man of red!”
“Well, for an old man, you look very young,” said Maple, and had to stifle a giggle when the spirit preened at her flattery.
“Do you think so?” He brushed at his red hair. “Well, I do suppose I might.”
Maple patted her shovel. “Well, I should get back to what I was doing. It was very nice to meet you.”
“And you!” The miniature man put his hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, “And you didn’t hear it from me, but the hinges on your camera could use a tad more oil.”
Maple winked back conspiratorially, and gave the tiny man a wave.
Reddox watched her go, then his face fell and he nervously wrung his hands together, muttering to himself, “If I saw her, so did he. Oh dear, oh dear.” Then he disappeared.
“Here’s that shovel, Mrs. Rite,” Maple said.
The woman smiled in thanks and said, “This is the last one, Maple, thanks for your help. Why don’t you and Pascal go get something to drink?”
“No problem. Hey, Pas,” Maple said to her friend as they walked to a refrigerator that held water.
Pascal raised an eyebrow and handed her a bottle. “Hmm?”
Maple had the urge to tell Pascal about the spirits and the Green Man. They usually told each other everything, but there was no way she felt she could tell him. Even if she did, he wouldn’t be able to see the spirits, so how could he possibly believe her? So instead she just waved her hand and said, “Oh, never mind. I’m going to go home, see you tomorrow?”
“Sure, see you later, Maple.”
As Maple walked home, umbrella under her arm, she mused over the day. She was glad that there was someone she could talk to in Verum, but her first instinct was to talk with Pascal, or Mother Tansy, or her guardian, Michael Threestep, about anything that was happening in her life. The fact that none of them could see what she could weighed on her mind.
She entered Threestep Place through the kitchen door to an empty kitchen. The lunch meal for the other orphans must have already passed, as usually Mother Tansy was busy in her domain cooking. A savory aroma was in the air, some sort of roast cooking in one of the smaller ovens. Maple sniffed appreciably and rooted through a drawer. “Hmm, I know I left some oil in here somewhere…Oh, here we go.”
The oven was warming the kitchen, and she shucked her light jacket as she walked to the butcher-block table. She took her camera out and checked the hinges, and wiped sweat from her brow.
She stopped, noting the moisture on her hand; the room was becoming extremely warm. She knelt down to look into the oven, but the roast was still cooking gently. She shrugged to herself and turned back to her camera when a clank came from the oven behind her.
She startled, jumping slightly and looking closely at the oven. The temperature was oppressive, now, hot enough that the moisture on her forehead was evaporating as soon as it touched the air. “Mother Tansy?” she called. “I think the oven needs to be turned down.”
There was no response from the deeper reaches of the house, so she reached out to the dial when the door exploded.
There was a wooshing noise and the crackling of embers, and a loud clang as the oven slammed open. Sparks showered from the oven’s mouth in a miasma of bright spots, and Maple yelped as they settled on her, singing her hair and leaving black marks on her clothes.
A spirit stepped from the mouth of the oven, as if he was a contortionist who had been inside. He was dressed in a suit of reds and oranges, the colors of live coals. He struck her as hungry, excessively thin with sunken cheeks on a long, goatish face. He smiled, or at least showed his teeth. They were large and white, and sharp. “Hello, Maple Threestep.” The sparks died out, but smoke was billowing up from the floor where he stood.
All the spirits Maple had met so far had interested her, and some, like Verum, she had liked very much. But this spirit made her feel like she had been in the sun too long, and he smelled like sour smoke. She found herself disliking him immediately.
Maple slowly put her hand on her umbrella, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Who are you?” He seemed familiar to her.
“Don’t you recognize me, little moth?” His sharp teeth showed again, a decidedly sinister thing. “I am Fahrenheit, the painter of the fast flames, the young man of red. You met my other half today.”
“Reddox?” asked Maple.
“Hmm, yes, two spirits in one, one and the same, me and little Reddox. I am just a bit…” He hesitated, his long teeth flashing. “Quicker.”
“You’re flames, and he’s rust.” said Maple. “Both are oxygen breaking things down.” She saw why he had seemed familiar. He looked like Reddox, but thinner and hungrier.
“Oh yes,” he took one step forward, and where he had been standing were two charred footprints in the wooden floor. “Some might find me the more chaotic side of oxygen, perhaps, but I do hope that doesn’t scare you.”
“What do you want?” asked Maple, pulling her umbrella up and wiping her forehead again.
When his eyes lit upon the umbrella, Fahrenheit’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “What a… lovely thing, that umbrella, to be sure. What do I want, you ask? Well of course I want something, don’t I? The Green Man took a shine to you, Maple Threestep, so very rare, so very interesting. I’m very interested in the Green Man, Maple. I would love to have a look at the magic he bestowed on you, just a look.” He held a long, spidery hand out. “Wouldn’t you like to know what you could do with this gift? I can show you, if you would like. Just give it to me, only for a moment”
Fahrenheit wasn’t even looking at her. His shining eyes were fixed on her umbrella, and the look in it made Maple feel sick to her stomach. She grabbed her umbrella tighter. “No, thanks. I think you should go, Fahrenheit.”
The heat in the room became more incredible than ever as a frown stole over the thin spirit’s face. Fahrenheit stopped smiling, though his lips stayed pulled back from his teeth. “I want it! little moth! I want the Green Man’s spirit!” The flames in the oven leapt up, backlighting him in an inferno. He held out a hand again, more clutching and spidery than ever before. “Come now,” he wheedled. “What harm could it be, just to give it to me.”
She looked at his long, slender hand, and shuddered. “Go away!” she yelled.
It felt like time slowed, and Maple felt as if she wanted nothing more than for this spirit to leave. As if in answer, a rush of water streamed from her umbrella and slammed into the man of fire. There was an explosion of steam and he cried out in anger, but the stream of water kept jetting from her umbrella like a firehose. In a trice, the spirit was washed into the oven, taking all the heat in the room with him. The door clanged shut, and his angry cries were swept away. All that he left behind were his footprints.
As soon as he left, the water stopped streaming from her umbrella and vanished as if it had never been.
Maple swallowed slowly and looked at her umbrella with wide eyes. It was dry and seemed innocent enough. She shivered from the cold and put her coat back on.
“Maple?” Maple jumped as Mother Tansy walked into the little shop. “Did you call me?”
Maple looked at the oven. The roast inside was pristine, but no longer warm. “Uh, yeah, the oven must’ve turned off.” She scuffed out a sooty footprint with her shoe without looking down.
Mother Tansy tsk-ed and turned the knob. The heating element in the oven immediately started glowing, and Maple shivered. “Mother Tansy, I’m going to go, uh, hang out with Pas.”
“Oh, alright, have fun, dear,” said Mother Tansy.