Free Range

The town was a cluster of squat two-story buildings painted vibrant colors against the dank air; squat, vibrantly-colored patrons hustled in and out. A little hunched woman draped in a red coat lurched across a crosswalk, waving her hand at the line of cars stopped impatiently behind the painted line. I stared at her as I jogged past, aimed at the old church.

Along the stone wall, a tidy row of Celtic crosses: the church's Reverend Fathers from years past lined up along the street, awaiting eternity. There was no room for anyone else, and I wondered where the current priest would be buried; there was simply no place for more time to pass, or more holy men. Was this because of an oversight -- the road built too close by -- or was it a quiet architectural prayer for a swift Second Coming?

There wasn't time. I had to conquer the hill before night fell and traffic could not see me in my long dark coat, and so I did, placing heel before toe, the muscles like taut rubber bands in the back of my thighs. The road curved, revealing another slope; I groaned; I conquered it. I was at the top.

Mountains in the distance, blue, like the worn-down teeth of a dog. Clouds that shifted, changed, morphed as I watched. A patchwork of fields in green and gray, separated by hedges -- sheep -- a cluster of multicolored cows -- at the bottom, there, the lake, the bog, with its shining unpredictable currents and still man-made patches of muck that could swallow a stick, or a person -- all of it separated from me by a thicket of sticks that served as a fence. I could see the curve of the world, a little yellow blossom in a hedge, but I had no time to marvel -- I had to go down.

After a hurtling descent and a few near-somersaults, I found myself on the road that led to the home, or at least I thought it was -- but the light was different now, near evening instead of pure noon, and so I traveled, constantly questioning. That was not the path. That certainly was not? Did I turn, before? Did I see this hedge? Was this rather long and unremarkable road part of the journey? Was that stone wall --

As I was on the point of near-panic, I saw their field, and everything changed, was made solid. I drew a deep breath and whistled -- they looked up, shook back their blankets, trotted over, and welcomed me. Go on, the deep-brown one said, you're nearly home. She licked my hand, then tried to bite it. I offered her grass and stroked her neck.

It was nearer sunset when I walked in the door, footsore. Two white heads looked up.

"MacROOM!" the older one said. "I would've taken ye there meself!"

"Do ye like it there, in Macroom?" the younger one said, brandishing a teapot at me. "Tea?"

"There's tart there, in the pan," said the elder, lighting the wood stove. I couldn't see what she did, but flames flared up right away.

"And custard. They were tryin' to eat it all up," the younger said, flipping the switch to make the pot whistle, "but I wouldn't..."

"Granny, read my book!" whistled the young girl at the big wooden table, brandishing a sheaf of torn white paper. The elder waddled over.

"The princess and the frog look at each other, and begin to kiss," read her Granny. "Sophie, this is lovely." Then, with a practiced air: "Didn't this happen to you, Auntie May?"

"Kissed a few frogs meself," said her sister. "But they stayed frogs."

I put down my coat, poured custard on my pie, and began to eat.

....

What I'm trying to say is that I now live in a Neil Gaiman book.