Imaginary

 “Don’t wander too far now,” said Billy’s mother. 

“OK, OK,” said Billy as he ran down a hill and into the forest.

A symphony of birds warbled in lush trees above, and Billy’s Converses slapped the dusty trail below. He tried to run faster, but his bony, hairless twin engines had reached their maximum speed. Summer was awesome, thought Billy—the weather was hot and the air thick, the forest alive, and best of all—there were no grown-ups in sight. He could yell, jump, do cartwheels, throw rocks, and even spit! No one told him to be quiet and pay attention, no signs told him to do this; no blinking lights told him to do that.

The sun flicked warm specks of bright light across his face through the leaves, like a light bulb on the verge of burning out. The trail climbed a hill where there was a brief clearing in the trees, and tall grass, sprinkled with dandelions, blew in the wind. To his left and down below, Billy saw the Hudson River sparkling like a quadrillion blue rubies in the distance. He couldn’t understand why he lived in a high-rise building with windows looking out at nature when he could just live in nature. Billy then wondered for a moment if he could see the city from here, but he didn't bother to look, because unless Godzilla arrived before sundown, it would be there when he got back.

Descending the hill, Billy continued down the trail to where the brush crowded in on both sides causing him to slow to a jog. He stopped when he saw something lying across the trail a few yards ahead of him. Squinting, he took a step forward. Whatever it was, it wasn't moving. It was long and gray, and Billy thought it might be a snake; however, upon close examination, he saw it was just a stick. He darted for it as if another kid might grab it before he could. Billy gripped one end with his hands and swung it left then right. It was straight, about four feet long, with zero cracks along its shaft. Billy whacked some bushes, testing its durability. Usually, the sticks he found were too small or too large, or they broke apart after a few minutes of play. But this one was amazing. It was perfect!

Billy’s eyes narrowed again as he looked over each of his shoulders and lowered his stance. He drew the stick in close to his body and gripped it tight with both hands. The forest around the kingdom had become a dangerous place as of late—full of hiding bandits, sleeping dragons, and greedy trolls. King Edward III had summoned Sir Billy of Chainsworth to the royal court. There, the king requested his help in restoring order to the forest so that the citizens of Shallcal could travel to and from their villages in peace. Billy raised his mighty sword, a piercing blade forged of blue steel and a handle constructed out of dragon bones, into the air and told the king he would gladly answer the call!

Billy suddenly heard footsteps behind him. He spun around just as an ax, shaped like a half moon, came crashing down toward his head. Billy lifted his sword to protect himself. The weapons screeched as they collided, and bright orange and yellow sparks erupted. An ugly bandit with a scraggly beard and black rags hanging off his body stood there before Billy. The guy’s muscles bulged, and veins in his neck swelled up like balloons. He had to weigh at least ten times what Billy did. The man withdrew his colossal ax, grunted loudly, and swung again, but Billy jumped back just as the blade swooshed past his stomach. Thrusting his sword with all his strength, Billy stabbed the guy in the gut. The bandit dropped his ax and collapsed to the ground dead. Billy breathed deep, trying to catch his breath, but before he could gather himself, another bandit, dressed in the same black rags, screamed and popped out of the brush and sprinted at him with a three-pronged spear. Billy sidestepped his enemy’s advance and swung his blade slicing the guy’s neck. The bad guy’s body went limp, knees hit the ground, and he tipped over dead. Savage war cries rang out from every direction. It was an ambush! If he was going to make it out of this alive, Sir Billy knew he had to get to higher ground—so he ran into the brush and up a hill, heading north. Dozens of bandits’ footsteps thundered behind him. There must have an entire army, he thought. Up ahead there was an old, knotted tree with dozens of crooked limbs; it looked like a giant with multiple outstretched arms. When he arrived at its base a few seconds later, Sir Billy dug his feet into the earth and spun around. Crouching and holding his sword out in front of him, he prepared for a final showdown. But to his surprise, the footsteps were no more. Only the wind blew, and the birds chirped. Mysteriously, all the bandits had vanished. What happened? he thought. Were they too scared to fight him?

It was then that Billy first felt like he was sinking. He looked down and yelped when he saw he was standing in quicksand. The bandits must have known this was here. That’s why they hadn’t followed him. He had to do something, and fast! He couldn’t see his feet any longer, and within no time the quicksand would swallow him whole. Billy slid his blade down the back of his shirt and reached out for one of the jagged tree branches. Taking hold, he struggled to pull himself out of the sandy abyss. He wrapped all of his extremities around the girth of the branch and held on for dear life. He turned his head to the side and laughed and shouted, “Not today, quicksand. Not today!”

For the next hour, Billy hung out in the tree. He crawled to the trunk and then climbed up using the endless network of branches above his head like a ladder. He stopped when he got too scared to continue. Straddling a limb about twenty feet in the air, he held his hand to his forehead and looked out over the other trees—their green leaves sprouting toward the thick blue sky as far as the eye could see; they looked like broccoli; Billy hated broccoli. As he always told his mother: if it’s green, it’s trouble, and if it’s sweet, give me double.

Billy rocked back and forth on the branch and heard it creak and groan from his weight. The high sea was rough today, he thought. As he peered down from his lookout, strong gusts of wind caused the enormous white sails to swell and flop toward the front of the ship, and below that, Captain Billy saw his seamen scurrying about the shiny deck of the Queen Elizabeth.

“There she blows!” hollered Billy with his hands clasped around his mouth. To the left on the horizon, at his ten o’clock, were the Pirates of the Blackwater with their red and tattered flag raised high. Billy yanked out his sword and made two circles above his head before pointing the tip in the direction of the enemy ship. “Full speed ahead!” he ordered. “Ready the cannons!”

Puffs of smoke came from the front of the pirate ship, and seconds later cannonballs rained down from the sky, crashing into the Queen Elizabeth. Wood splintered and cracked, and Billy lunged forward and held on for dear life. “Fire!” Billy roared. “Fire! Fire!” The cannons on the deck below erupted into a thundering frenzy, and as the smoke rose, Captain Billy surveyed the damage to his precious ship. They’d taken a mean hit on the starboard side of the ship, or was it the port side? Captain Billy could never remember. But in any case, they were taking on water—lots of water.

“Reload. Reload,” said Billy. The sailors worked in teams of three: one shoved a stick into the barrel, packing it full of dynamite, another dropped in the cannonball, and the third aimed and lit the fuse. They fired again.

As for the pirate ship, its sails were tangled and several fires ragged all over the deck. The ship was only a hundred yards out now and headed right for them. On its bow was a giant human skull with a sword clinched between its teeth.

“Turn the ship left so they don’t ram us,” ordered Billy. “I said do it now, you wenches!”

Billy didn’t exactly know what a wench was, but he’d heard the word used in all the pirate movies, and he knew his mother didn’t like him saying it, which was all the more reason to do so right now. “Wench! Wench! Wench!” he shouted. Captain Billy giggled, satisfied with his deviance.

The vicious battle raged on for another hour with the pirates trying to board the Queen Elizabeth. But Captain Billy and his crew were successful in beating them back and ultimately sinking the enemy ship. No prisoners were taken.

Afterward, Billy climbed down from the tree and ran deeper into the woods. The trail eventually dipped into a low-lying area where the dense leaves above blotted out most of the sunlight. It was cool and quiet here, and for some reason this made Billy slow to a walk. The path veered right and then hard left and when Billy came around the curve, he noticed a bunch of empty soda cans strew about. Some were silver and had pictures of snow-covered mountains on them with the name Coors Light on the side. Then there were others with a picture of a crown like something a king would wear on them and the name “Co—” Billy’s tongue flicked against the roof of his mouth as he tried to sound out the word: “Co—Corona.” Most of the cans were smashed and twisted, their jagged edges as sharp as knives. He’d never heard of these sodas before and wondered what they tasted like. He’d ask his mother to buy him some when he got home.

Suddenly a rustle came from the brush nearby. Billy turned his head, lowered his stance, and held his breath, waiting to see if whatever it was would jump out and reveal itself. He hoped it was a deer or something, for he hadn’t seen any animals yet. But nothing came out, and all remained still. Billy stood and walked over to the opposite side of the path where the noise had come from. He stood on his toes and peered into the thick foliage. He couldn’t see anything. Maybe whatever it was had left, he thought. But then the rustling start up again—although now it came from his left a few feet over. Billy tapped the brush with his sword a few times, and the rustling grew louder. The leaves shook and rattled violently. A shrill cry blared out, and something launched over Billy’s head. He ducked and covered his face. What was it! What was it! His heart raced, and he jerked his head in every direction.

Whatever it was was now behind him hiding in the brush on the opposite side of the trail. Again, he couldn’t see it; he could only hear it moving around. A sudden twinge of fear bit Billy. What if it was a lion or a saber-toothed tiger? Billy skittered backward with his sword cocked up behind his head, ready to swing. His jaw tightened and his eyes didn’t blink as he watched the spot where he’d last heard the noise. He wasn’t worried. He could fight off whatever it was with his mighty sword, he thought.

Screw that. “Mommy!” he yelled.

And just as Billy spun to run back the way he came, something fluttered across his line of sight almost hitting him in the head. Billy flinched and swung at it involuntarily but missed. His eyes darted around. What was it? What was it?

A bird flopped down on the ground behind him a second later. It flapped its wings desperately and hopped across the dirt path like a rabbit. Billy could see it was injured, for one of its wings looked as crooked as the branches on the tree from earlier.

The bird soon tired itself out and sat there idle, its little body expanding and contracting rapidly as it breathed. Billy didn’t know what kind of bird it was, but it looked like a pigeon. Then again, all birds looked like pigeons to him. But this one’s feathers were smooth, well kept, unlike those of the dirty ones in the city, and its body was white with gray wings and a little green under its chin. Billy had a sudden urge to hold the bird, to pet it. He stepped toward the animal and paused, then took another step and another. The bird cocked its head to the side and looked up at him. Billy crouched down and opened his left hand, only a foot away now. Lunging, he grabbed nothing but air as the bird chirped and took off in flight only to fall back to the earth immediately. It quickly hobbled into the brush as Billy reached for it again and missed.

Billy got down on all fours, titled his head to the side, and put his ear to the dirt. “Come here, birdy. Come here,” he said. He puckered his lips and blew, but it didn’t produce any sound. He really needed to practice his whistling. Giving up, he started snapping his fingers. “Come here, birdy birdy birdy. Come here.”

Meanwhile, the bird had crawled deep within the brush and was watching Billy, resting.

Billy straightened up and knelt there thinking for a minute about how he could flush the bird out. It was out of arm’s length—but not out of sword’s length, he suddenly realized. Standing, he began poking his sword into the brush. The leaves rustled and Billy could hear the bird making its way to the right, where in a few feet the brush thinned out. If he could direct the bird to there, perhaps he could then reach in and snag it. And Billy did just that. He slapped the brush to the left of the bird until he could see it clearly through the leaves and twigs.

He wondered what had happened to the bird. He imagined some epic air battle where birds from warring factions carried machine guns and missiles on their backs. This bird had obviously lost. Was it going to die?

Billy had never seen something die before. He’d seen his grandpoppy in the casket at the funeral about a year ago, but he had already been dead—he had been so white and wrinkly and had kind of looked like Billy’s hands when he stayed in the bath for too long. Billy remembered how his mother had cried and cried and held him tight against her stomach despite his pleas to be released. She said Grandpoppy had gone to a better place. That must be why he wore a suit and tie. He wanted to look good for this better place, thought Billy. Grandpoppy had been sick for a long time, and Billy’s mother said it was because he smoked like a chimney. None of this made sense to Billy—why would people put smoke in their bodies, and how could someone be a chimney?

Billy then wondered how his grandpoppy got to this better place. And if his body stayed here, in the ground, then what went instead? What did people look like in this better place? Did they get a new bodies? Did animals, like this bird, go there too? These types of questions hurt Billy’s head.

Suddenly the bird chirped and waddled quickly through the brush and flapped its wings. Afraid that it might take off, Billy stuck the tip his sword on its broken wing, pinning it to the ground. The healthy wing fluttered like crazy, and Billy could feel the wind produced by it on his face.

Keeping the pressure on the wing with the sword, Billy reached down, and when he touched the bird, it released a shrill chirp and pecked his hand. “Ouch!” Billy cried, jumping back. The bird lifted off the ground, but the foliage kept it from flight. Billy recovered and stabbed the sword hard and impaled the bird right in the neck where the green-looking feathers were. The bird went still.

Billy’s mouth dropped open—dark, red blood bubbled out around the tip of his sword. He hadn’t meant to stab the animal; it had just kind of happened. And yet, for some odd reason, the blood was intriguing, and he wanted to see more, and before he knew it, he pushed his sword further into the bird’s neck. The broken wing swung upward toward Billy and flapped as if to say, “Wait! Wait! Please wait!”

Using its healthy wing, the bird dragged itself across the ground an inch or two. Billy was mesmerized; the rest of the forest with all its wonder fell away as he wiggled his sword further into the neck; the bird thrashed and released a shrill chirp. More blood oozed out, staining the white feathers on its body, and then Billy heard a click, like someone lightly shutting a door. The struggling bird stopped and its body went limp. All was quiet.

Was it dead? Billy wondered as he bent over for a closer inspection.

The bird’s tiny feet suddenly twitched, and Billy jumped back. Apparently not. He then bore down on its neck until his sword protruded from the other side. It must be dead now, Billy thought. Its head was thrown back, its beak open slightly. However, now the bird’s wings twitched. How was it not dead? he wondered. It looked dead. Yet it still moved.

Stranger still, the bird’s black eyes were wide open. They seemed to watch Billy. It was kind of creepy. OK, it was very creepy. When something died, wasn’t it supposed to shut its eyes like his grandpoppy? Billy stood there, unable to move, peering at his diminutive reflection within the bird’s dark, circular, smooth pupils. He felt alone. And the longer he stood there staring at himself, the more his stomach began to hurt. He wanted the bird to shut its eyes! Why wouldn’t it? Why?

Billy dropped his sword and backed away slowly. This wasn’t like the video games he played or movies he watched—when something got shot or stabbed in those, it just died. But this was different. This was weird and no fun. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, and he looked over both his shoulders half expecting someone to be standing there to reprimand him.

Billy wished his mother would appear right there in front of him. She would make everything OK. “Mom,” he said. But his throat was sticky, and it was hard to speak, like when he ate a spoon full of peanut butter. “Mommy!” he cried, this time louder. “Mommy! Mommy!”

But what if she was upset with him? What if she told the police and they stuck him in one of those ugly houses with bars where grounded grown-ups went?

“I’m not a bad guy. I’m a good guy,” said Billy to an imaginary jury before him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to I hurt the bird. Honestly. I promise. I’m sorry.”

Snot crawled out of Billy’s nostrils, and he didn’t bother to wipe it away. He had to do something. He didn’t want to get in trouble.

Billy bent over and pinched the bird’s tail with his index finger and thumb and lifted it from the brush. He again looked up and down the path, making sure no one was around. He then ran further into the woods until he found a stream cutting across the trail. There the earth was moist and easy to move, and with the help of his sword, he dug a deep hole, dropped the bird in, and covered it up. Next he washed his hands and stick in the water and took off back the way he came. 

Coming to the hill with the clearing a few minutes later, Billy took a break and leaned on his sword to catch his breath. It was then that he noticed some of the bird’s blood had seeped into the tip of the sword. He scratched at it, but the stains wouldn’t chip away; the blood had soaked all the way through the wood apparently. Billy sighed and held his sword with both hands, admiring it. He knew he’d probably never find another one like it. Taking a few steps back, he shifted the sword to his right hand and twisted his torso, then ran forward and yelled, launching stick over a cliff—it spun through the air like a helicopter blade toward the sparkling Hudson in the distance.

After that, Billy retreated to his mother just as the sun had begun to depart for the other side of the globe. She would ask him what he had been up to, and he would lie.

On their way back home to the city where hyper grown-ups never smiled and blinking commands were at every vantage point, Billy ruminated over what had happened to him in the forest that day. He felt an immense range of emotions; some he knew well such as sadness and guilt, and others he didn’t yet have the vocabulary to describe—words like metamorphosis and enlightenment. And despite the litany of questions this day had produced, Billy knew without a doubt that something had changed within him forever. What exactly, he didn’t know, and he wouldn’t know until years later. But from that moment forward, whenever he played imaginary, whether it was with his toy soldiers, his friends, or his video games, he knew it was just that—imaginary.