Wandering Through A Forest

Wandering through a forest in order to pass the time, here goes Moss Murray and his raggly clothes and neatly packed sack of superfluous items tacked nicely to the edge of a winding stick. In his ill-fitted, six-toed shoes he climbs and with his oversized leather mittens he dives through the miles of brobdingnagian herbage and patchy underbrush. He passes a wooden sign on his way, warning off any stray rover. “Ignore This Grove. Leave the Wizard Be,” it announces, but Moss Murray does not notice. Crowned with verdant canopies he asks himself, “Where am I to go, what am I to see?”

Almost as soon as he has arrived in the grove so appears before him a brown sludge of a path guarded by a silver-slicked horseman with shield and sword. Behind his chestnut steed sparkles fizz out like a mist, as if it had appeared there only moments prior; Moss Murray dismisses this as a trick of light. “Halt,” says the horseman. “What is your purpose here? Don’t you know a deadly warlock lives in this wood?”

“Why, what a thing to know!” answers Moss Murray. “I am Moss Murray and I am here to pass the time and wander through this wood.”

“Well, stranger Murray,” replies the horseman. “I should not let you pass. But you seem a decent fellow, leather mittens so large and bundle of items so nicely tacked. You would do well as a knight such as I, if you will join my rank.”

“I thank you, kind sire,” replies Moss Murray, flattered. “But I dream not of battle. I wish only to discover the wise secrets of this forest that I wander to pass the time.”

“What a loss,” says the horseman. “But very well. Should you come to this wizard on your wanderings, the creator of magical and mystical things, wish only to be sent back to me and he will spare you from his dangerous spells. Then I will lead you home from this place in safety. Hurry now,” continues the horseman. “Or I shall soon forget you in this great forest.”

Moss Murray then stumbles through rotund shrubs of green and his hands examine great curled vines and blooming ivies. He passes a second sign, much shabbier than the first. “Turn Around. He Will Not Help You,” it decrees, but its message is lost on the wanderer. As he comes to a stop to hear the water of a distant river rush, a voice speaks from behind a trunk. “Whoever you are, state your purpose,” it says, lofty and concerned. “For I am a keeper of this forest and you may not pass.”

“I am Moss Murray,” says Moss Murray, bemused by the presence near him of such a being. “And I am here to pass the time, wandering through this great forest of yours.”

“Well,” says the Keeper. “You seem a pleasant trespasser, clothes so raggly and superfluous items packed so neatly. I feel that you would appreciate the whims, and avoid the dangers, of this forest at my station.”

Amazed, Moss Murray cogitates this highly unusual concept. As he looks towards the tree, he can see remnants of some glitter float away on the breeze. He answers finally, saying: “Kind spirit, I must refuse. I wish to uncover the richness of this forest on my own terms.”

“What a traveler you would be if not,” says the Keeper, annoyed. “But beware, there is a wizard near in this green, he is the creator of weird and worrisome things. If you come upon him, wish only to be stationed here with me and he will spare you from his dangerous spells. Then, I will teach you the secrets of this grove. Hurry now,” the Keeper continues. “Or I shall soon forget you in this great forest.”

As he ventures on, Moss Murray decides that the shimmers behind the Keeper and the knight were coincidental, (for what else could they be?) and allows himself to be swept up in the wonders of the foliage. Nestled within the brush he descries a rotten sign, admonishing those that find it. “Leave Now!” it warns. Hesitantly, he continues on.

Over the boundless brush and through webs and waggles of green, he soon spies a chalcedony castle with windows and gold filigree galore. In a candle-lit foyer stands a footman, dressed in lavish lapis and white. As if mistaken for some gallant prince, Moss Murray is escorted immediately to a high room filled with purple satin and flowers of every shape and size. In their midst stands a woman wrapped in silk, something glittering suspiciously away on the train of her fantastic gown. “State your name, fair prince,” she says. “For I know not who you must be.”

“I am Moss Murray, your highness,” says Moss Murray, looking uneasily behind her. “But I am no prince. I am only here to wander through this forest in order to pass the time.”

“Well, Lord Murray, I cannot accept your excuse,” she says. “Only a beautiful prince who wishes to be disguised would wear such ill-fitting shoes and carry such superfluous items. You must become a guest in my castle, for I have been lonely far too long.”

Though the traveler refuses her request, in most prettiful words indeed, the woman is too busy to hear. With a snap of her fingers, a luxurious gauze robe materializes into the air. She motions to her servant to place it upon the guest.

“No! Please,” he begs. “I wish only to gain the formidable knowledge of this forest through my wanderings.”

“None have ever responded thus to me!” shouts the woman, frightening the stranger. “If you try to leave, know that there is a wizard near in this green who creates things that are gross and gobsmackable. Before long you shall find him; if you wish only to be placed here with me he will spare you from his dangerous spells. Together we shall live in my castle and you shall want for nothing.

Hurry now,” she calls as Moss Murry flees and begins to rapidly descend the stairs. “Or I shall soon forget you in this great forest!”

Leaving the castle behind in a fright, he finds rivers of thickets and underwood that lead to a large coppice of green. Another sign stands guard of this place, proclaiming “YOU ARE UNWELCOME!” Behind it booms a blue-bricked manor with sturdy parapets and glassy windows for eyes. Though he runs the other way, Moss Murray is somehow carried inside by a robed man and sat in a library. Around him sparkle countless ledgers and titles and tomes. “Reveal yourself, traveler,” says the scholar. “I am growing tired of these games.”

“And so am I,” says Moss Murray. “I am Moss Murray, as I rather suspect you know. I am here to wander through this forest only to pass the time!”

“Your ruse serves only to annoy me,” says the man. “Only one with wits that match my own would invest in such erroneously toed shoes and wavy-ended sticks. I am looking to retire and shall teach you the ways of my influence, so that you may also be a ruler of this land.”

“No!” yells Moss Murray, searching for an exit. “Leave me be!”

“I will not leave you be,” says the scholar, incensed at his reply. “You have unwelcomed yourself into my home, but I am luckily learned in the ways of gentility and ethics, a gift I intend to bestow upon you, vagabond Murray.”

“I beg you, sir,” says he. “To only allow me to wander this forest and pass the time, I want no part in your scheme.”

“Well then!” bites the scholar. “I hope you meet the warlock near in this green, the Duke of awful and avoidable things. If you dare, wish only for him to return you here and he will spare you from his dangerous spells. Then I will pity you, if you are kind. Hurry now,” the scholar spits. “Or I shall soon forget you in this great forest.”

Confused, but safely out of the manor, Moss Murray yells out to relieve his frustration. “What sort of wizard would never show himself!” he says.

Almost as soon as he dissolves into the greenery past the coppice, Moss Murray hears a sound in the branches ahead. It starts as a rustle and then transitions to a grumble and finally explodes to a whack! as the maker of the sound emerges from the foliage.

Wandering through the forest in order to hide from the passerby, here comes Mr. Wizard Bowman, dressed in yellow cream and butter-colored shoes, mumbling angrily about having been interrupted. From his pockets spill gilly goldfish and from his fingers fly miniature flocks of crows.

“You have run past my soldier and Keeper, my princess and scholar. I cannot think of what you wish for but I wish you would leave me alone!” cries Wizard Bowman, spiders crawling desperately from his hair. He comes to a stop before the traveler and asks, in a defeated sort of way, “Who are you?”

“Great Wizard,” sighs Moss Murray. “For I assume you must be he; I am Moss Murray. I wish for nothing but to find where I am to go or what I am to see while I wander through this forest in order to pass the time!”

“Well, you are to come here, as everyone is,” says the wizard, exasperated. “And you are to see me, as so many others do,” he continues, as if it were more than obvious. “You fool me none at all, with your clothes so raggly and a stick of items so wavy. Only someone who desires a massively magical wish from me would be prepared thus. You force my hand, disruptor Murray…”

Wizard Bowman mumbles something, a spell perhaps, under his breath and awaits instruction–visions of the glorious knight, the rich castle, the wise keeper, and the powerful scholar flash before Moss Murray as a distant promise.

“Well I should take your offer of a wish,” says Moss Murray as he mulls the proposition over like simmering a wine. Fondly, however, he recalls the illusions and their splendor—as well as all of the thrilling adventures held for him therein. “I should–but you have already bestowed it upon me. Now please, leave me be so I may wander this place and pass the time. I shall soon forget you in this great forest.”