Your family is gathered in a picnic area by a lush forest. Your parents’ nimble hands make easy work of lunch. You stare at them with wide eyes and a rumbling belly until a sandwich is handed to you. You take off, zipping through legs and dodging the scratchy fingers of relatives trying to pinch your face.
Away from the hubbub of your family, you perch by the edge of the forest and eat. Red and orange leaves blaze a trail into the yawning trees. You pick up a leaf and it makes a satisfying crunch as you close your hand into a fist. The sandwich is forgotten as you leap forward to stomp on another leaf. It disintegrates under your foot and you laugh. You jump from leaf to leaf. Trees rise out of the ground and huddle around you. The wings of a yellow butterfly catches your eyes and you scamper from the amber path.
Time loses its shape as you follow bugs fluttering above your outreaching hands. The sun is warm on your back and birds sing as you pass.
You are watching a line of ants march across a tree trunk when the cool wind carries away the last rays of sunlight. You spring up, suddenly aware that you cannot hear the voices of your parents. Panic races through your chest and you dash through the trees the way you came from. You call out to your parents, but only birds caw back at you.
Stars shimmer overhead. You sniff and wipe your face with your sleeve. In the stories your mother told you, stars grant wishes. You spot the brightest one and wish to go back to your parents.
The star pulses and it descends through the empty space, down past the trees, stopping an arm’s length away from you; it’s so bright it creates an artificial day. Warmth washes over you and your heart slows to a steady pace.
The star stretches into the shape of a woman: Her skin is reddish-brown, her hair is black and thick and it falls past her shoulders in waves. Her deep brown eyes stare down at you. She has a solid build and she’s wearing a flowing white dress.
“Good evening, child,” she says, “I’m The Goddess of Lost Children and I heard your call. What would you like me to do?”
With quivering lips you say, “Please take me back to my family.”
Her hand envelops yours and relief washes over you. She guides you through the forest; trees glide out of the way, and stars descend to light your path. With her beside you, there is no darkness, fear, or pain; there’s only light.
“Prepare yourself,” says The Goddess.
You approach the edge of the forest and the image before you appears in splodges of black, red, and blue. A carpark comes into focus with a small group of people. Your family is amongst them and there you are: your body is being loaded into an ambulance. The gathered crowd appear to be frozen between one breath and the next.
You stand at the edge of the forest, heart racing. The Goddess embraces you and you sag into her body.
“My dear one,” says The Goddess. “You must now make a choice: you can come with me to live with the other lost children or you can stay here.”
Her right hand opens and through it you see another place of laughter and love. There is the sound of birds singing, the touch of a feather against your cheek, the smell of freshly baked bread, and the taste of your favourite food. “This here could be your new life,” says The Goddess.
She opens her left hand and reflected in her palm are images from your current life. In one, you are laughing with your parents, and in another, you are alone in a dark room. “Or you can go back and continue your human life. You will suffer, but there will be love.”
You look up at the ambulance. Time unfurls in pockets and your mother is the first to move. She squeezes your hand and you can almost feel it.
“I want to go back,” you say.
“Very well,” says The Goddess.
She places her hands over your eyes and the next thing you know you are on your back, looking up. Your mother starts to cry and you cling to each other.
A bright star glints overhead and you smile.
Cover image © Thalia Took
About the author
Alexander Te Pohe is a Māori writer. They mostly write YA fiction and angsty poetry and almost always have a book/poem/article/essay brewing. They founded Ruru Reads, a website dedicated to publishing work by People of Colour and Indigenous people. You can find them on Twitter.