Five: The Cabin
He'd never been in a place so green.
Even the air smelled green, of earth and moss and growing things left to their own devices, to find their own way without hindrance. He brushed the ferns with his fingertips, an owl teasing his ears with soft calls from somewhere out of sight.
That was when he saw the cabin.
It was nearly the color of the landscape itself, its weather-worn walls nearly overgrown with moss. The path to its door was barely visible, no more than a forest trail, but there were footprints–recent, if he recalled his scouting days correctly–in the spongy dirt. He got to his feet and moved through the emerald jewel-box of a clearing, heading toward the cabin.
His hand hesitated on the bronze doorknob. What was inside? Should he just turn and walk away? Maybe it wasn't a cabin; maybe it was more like a witch's cottage in some Grimm's tale come to life. If that was the case, he should turn and run.
He'd always been curious, too curious for his own good. He had to know how things worked, what made them tick. An unanswered question like this was too tantalizing to pass up, so he turned the knob and stepped inside.
He expected to find a cold, musty room filled with cobwebs and shadows–or an evil witch presiding over a groaning table of sweets–but to his surprise, the room was warm and smelt of rosemary. The furnishings were plain but well-polished; oak, he thought, lightly caressing a shiny tabletop. By the window there were two old wingback chairs, ornately carved and upholstered with dusty green velvet. Between them lay a squat oak table, which at this moment held a tray with a Franciscan 'Desert Rose' tea service. There was steam wafting from the pot, and a plate of golden shortbread cookies lay nearby.
He walked to the table and picked up one of the cups, turning it over in his hands. He'd always liked this pattern; it felt sturdy enough for someone like him to use. One corner of his mouth curled in a fond smile; it was certainly tough enough for a family of five boys who were sometimes a bit careless. It had a good supply of open stock, too, in case one–or several–of those boys were to drop a plate by accident.
He'd been so engrossed in studying the familiar tableware that he hadn't heard the soft steps come up behind him.
"Hello, Virgil," said a warm feminine voice. "You're just in time, sweetheart."
He whirled around to face the speaker, and the cup fell from nerveless fingers to thump against the boards.
"–Mom?"