Disappearing forest path

⏱ ~6 min reading

In the Enchanted Forest, among the old pines and curly ferns, there is a path. Narrow, soft, covered with needles - as if someone had laid out a carpet of saffron silk. It winds between the trees like a calm river, goes out into a clearing with daisies and returns to a small stream, where the pebbles shine like copper coins.

But this is no ordinary path. That's its secret: it's not visible to everyone.

They say this path is older than all the trees in the forest. Older than the gnarled oak by the spring. Older than the century-old spruce with three crowns. It has its own little heart and knows very well who to let in and who not to let in.

Children who go to the forest to look at the flowers, listen to the woodpecker, or gather fragrant moss in their palms, walk along the path easily. It lies before them, open and welcoming, as if saying: "Come in, little one. I've been waiting for you.".

And those who go to break branches, hide beetles, destroy anthills, do not find it. It seems to dissolve in the grass. Instead of a path, there are nettles. Instead of a clearing, there is a patch overgrown with beets. Instead of a stream, there is a swamp with mosquitoes.

That's how it is in the Enchanted Forest.

One July morning, two boys came to the forest. They lived in the same yard, but they went to the forest with different thoughts.

The first one, Nikolai, was carrying a wicker basket on his shoulder. He planned to pick berries—strawberries and blueberries grew in the Magic Forest, sweet and sweet. Nikolai himself didn't know why, but he liked picking, not picking too much. He would pick a berry, look at its shiny trunk, then put it in the basket and move on.

The second one, Artem, carried a long stick, beveled at both ends, in his hand. A defiant mood was buzzing in his head. Yesterday he had quarreled with a friend, and today he got up on the wrong foot. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he definitely wanted to give someone a damn. «If someone happens to be on the road,» he thought, “that’s why he’ll fall for it.” Not a person—it won’t hurt a person. But some frog. Or a spider. Or an old mushroom—mushrooms don’t notice.

The boys entered the forest together, near an old birch tree. The path began between two large moss-covered stones.

Nikolai stepped on it and was amazed. The path seemed to spread itself under his feet - soft, gentle, with a sweet smell of resin and warm needles. A tit flew over his head. Somewhere nearby, a grasshopper chirped. Nikolai walked calmly and picked berries - now one, then another. He sat on a stump by the stream, drank cold water from his palms. The water was so clean that it reflected his cheeks and bangs.

Artem followed. But when he set foot on the path, there was no path under his feet. Instead of a soft rug of needles, a nettle branch flattened out under his feet. Artem shuddered, pulled his foot away, and gasped loudly. Red spots had already appeared on his ankle.

"Hey, Mykola!" Artem shouted. "Where have you gone? I can't see you!"

Mykola turned around - he was five steps away from Artem. But the path had already done its job. It was as if an invisible fog had enveloped Artem, and every step took him back to the wrong place.

"I'm here," Nikolai shouted. "Come up here!"

Artem moved towards it - and again found himself in the nettles. Then he tried to go to the left - and his foot fell into the mud. He tried to turn back - and got tangled in the rose hips.

"What is this!" he exclaimed indignantly. "This is some kind of enchanted place!"

For an hour Artem walked in circles. Nettles, rose hips, swamps, snags. He had already torn his shirt and dirty his boots. The stick in his hand became as heavy as a brick. Mykola called out from somewhere in the distance:

— Artem, are you leaving?

Artem didn't answer. He sat down on a stump under an old pine tree. His throat felt tight. Tears welled up in his eyes—not from anger, but from resentment. Why is it easy for everyone else, but not for him? Why is the path hidden from him?

He cried softly, covering his eyes with his sleeve.

Nearby, under this same stump, sat an old mushroom. Large, orange, with a cap that looked like a leather pad. He had seen many such boys in his life. And he never once started a conversation first—except when asked.

"Why can't I get through?" Artyom finally asked no one, the evening air, the squirrel on the branch. "Why?"

The mushroom coughed softly. Artem shuddered and looked down.

“Oh, you’re alive,” said the boy.

"We are all alive here," the mushroom answered gently. "All of us. You just didn't notice. Well, little one, tell me this. Look into your heart. What is there today?"

Artem at first wanted to brush it off. And then he thought. Honestly. Really.

There was something prickly in his heart, like this nettle bush. He remembered how he had gathered himself this morning. How he had thought about spiders that could be beaten with a stick. How he had imagined hitting a green bug. How he wanted to break the biggest branch so that his mother would say at home, "Well done, you're so strong.".

Artem looked at his stick. For some reason, the stick in his hand already weighed a lot.

"I was angry there," he said quietly. "I wanted to hurt someone.".

The mushroom didn't answer. He just listened.

Artem thought a little longer. Then he stood up, swung his stick and threw it far into the bush. The stick cracked in the nettles, but Artem didn't care.

Something strange had happened in his chest. Lighter. Cleaner.

And at that very moment—he couldn't even believe his eyes—a path appeared before him. Narrow, with red needles, with droplets of resin in the sun. Quiet and open, as if it had never been hidden.

"Go," said the mushroom. "Now you can. Just remember one thing. This path leads to the beauty of those who carry beauty. Not a stick. Beauty.".

Artem nodded. He walked along the path calmly, breathing in the scent of pines and wild sorrel. On the way he saw a small clearing where bluebells and daisies grew. He squatted down. He picked one. He picked another. And more. He gathered a small bouquet — not for himself. For his mother.

When he returned home, his mother was surprised. For the first time in a long time, Artem was not angry or frowning, but quiet and a little thoughtful.

“Where did the flowers come from?” she asked.

"From the forest. I gathered some for you.".

Mom took the bouquet and put it in a glass. And in the evenings, before going to bed, Artem sometimes looked at the ceiling and thought about the little orange cap of the mushroom, about the path that opened only when he threw the stick. And he wanted to be that boy from whom the paths do not hide.