pocket diaries

Diary extract No. 19

I am missing my Woods desperately. I am missing Bea and Em and Tallie and even Clio. But mostly I am missing Kay because while I will see all the others very soon, she is gone away to China. For some reason it seems oceans and oceans away. I shan't see her again until after Christmas. I dream, sometimes, of what it would be like to have everyone all in one place. We would live in a grand canvas tent in my Wood. With bluebells to grow under our bare feet and ivy to twist itself around our tent. We would sleep on beds of goose feathers and thistledown covered with odd-patterned quilts. We would take walks with the golden deer they call the Forest Prince and dance in gilded ballroom that can sometimes disappear when you're looking for it. (It's never in the same place twice and only the Forest Prince can show you the way.) We would spend our afternoons baking the old hermit mushroom cakes and hiding behind winter wood piles trying to glimpse him. We would lay out in the meadow spinning pretty little dresses from spider silk and spotting birds and butterflies. Braid blossoms into our hair beside the lake with the island. Make up our own star stories. 

But these are all just daydreams. (They always start with the Lantern.) Nonsensical, really. Fleeting. A part of that Other History that is always flickering in the corner of my eye. At times, I think about reaching out my hand and snatching it all up. I know, though, that it will only slip through my fingers. It will always ghost right through them, cold and unforgiving. And I would be left trembling, as though having touched a ghost. Even if they are just daydreams, like tiny whispers of the magical history, I like to pretend they're Real. And that you are all there with me, pretending. Because it is wonderfully simple, pretending.  

I am forever wishing for Courage. It is so very easy to hide in my daydreams. My bones are forever feeling so very frail and my breath is so timid. Yet, I am always waiting for Adventure. A little girl knowing that she is bound to do something breathtaking, but hiding deep in my Woods. (Count to one hundred before you come find me.) I am wanting to fight Dragons like Saint George. But no. I am much too afraid because Dragons always have sharp teeth, but nobody knows because everyone's always too worried about the fire. Much too impossible to get close enough to worry about the teeth. Maybe, just maybe, if we weren't too worried about the fire, we could get close enough to realise that Dragons don't always bite. Perhaps they simply smile and we'll realise how daft it was to be afraid of such creatures. Perhaps Saint George wasn't the hero; perhaps he simply didn't understand. I wonder if he ever spoke to the Dragon. Perhaps we don't need Courage and Armour and Swords. Maybe words and a smile can be Brave enough.