Rosie & The Forest King (1 of 9)

Leaving Home

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IT WAS THE FIRST DAY OF NOVEMBER, and Thanksgiving was coming. Roselyn, sixteen, dark-haired, and blue-eyed, checked over everything she was taking on her journey. The backpack had been ready for a month, but the basket had to wait until the last minute so it could be stuffed with cinnamon rolls, bread, sausage, and a pumpkin pie.

Normally, those wouldn’t last more than a couple of days, but Roselyn knew a little spell that would keep them fresh until Thanksgiving. It only required her to sing a certain song—one her mother had been humming to her all her life, in quiet preparation for this trip. She hummed it now as she packed. Even humming the tune held the magic. Or whistling. But singing made it stronger.

She knew a few enchantments like that. They were always songs, taught by her mother. Little melodies that helped with baking, healing, sleeping, or remembering. Her mother said she was special. Not everyone could sing the magic. Roselyn didn’t really believe that. Singing was just natural.

She had just finished packing when she heard her mother call.

“Rosie! Red Rosie picked a posy! Where are you, little red rose?”

Rosie winced at the nickname.

Red Rosie picked a posy, ugh!

Her mother always sang it in that teasing lilt—half nursery rhyme, half spell. But lately, the words sat heavier in Rosie’s chest, as though they belonged to something older than her mother’s voice.

She adjusted the basket’s cloth, checked the pumpkin pie one last time, and slipped the leather-bound charmbook into the outer pocket of her backpack. It was one of her few possessions.

She walked down the stairs. Her mother stood at the bottom, flour on her hands and something unreadable in her eyes. Pride, maybe. Or fear.

“There you are,” she said gently. “Everything packed?”

Rosie nodded.

“Do you remember what to sing if you lose your way?”

Rosie nodded again, more slowly.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” she whispered. “To guide me there, no matter how far.”

Her mother smiled.

“Good girl.”

She reached out and tucked a strand of dark hair behind Rosie’s ear. “You’ll be fine. Just stay on the path. Don’t stray for shadows or whispers.”

Rosie blinked. “Is that part of the rhyme?”

“No,” her mother said, turning back toward the kitchen. “That one’s just advice from me. Your father has the sleigh ready, and since it’s just you and you’re small, you’ll only need to bring Autumn.”

Then, she sang:

Autumn for your fall trip,
Don’t worry, she won’t slip.
Over Mystic, through the gloom,
Autumn is your friendly boon.

“Thank you, Momma,” Rosie said, giving her a big hug.

“Goodbye, Little Red Rosie,” her mother replied, with just a hint of sadness in her voice.

“Don’t worry, Momma,” Rosie said. “I’ll be back by spring, safe and sound.”

Her mother nodded. Said nothing for a long moment. Wiped a tear from her eye and said, “Of course you will, dear.”

AUTUMN WAS READY TO GO, munching on the tall grass by the mailbox. Rosie loved her dappled gray mare and snuck a sugar cube to her. She had a handful more in her coat pocket, just in case.

“Your sleigh is ready,” Father said, stepping out from the barn.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she replied. “I’m ready to go.”

“It does look like we’ll get more snow,” he said, eyeing the sky. “Will you be warm enough?”

“I think so,” Rosie said. She double-checked: coat, gloves, mittens.

“Oh, I don’t have a hat,” she realized. “My ears could get cold.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” Father said. He stepped into the barn and came out a moment later with a dusty red cloak. He gave it a good shake—dust, straw, and bits of hay flew off in a golden cloud.

“This was your mother’s riding cloak when she was younger. Might be a little big on you.”

He slipped it over her shoulders, straightened it, then lifted the hood up and cinched it snug around her face. He stood back, satisfied.

“There,” he said. “Now you’re Little Red with the Riding Cloak.”

“Or,” Rosie said, raising an eyebrow, “you could just use my name.”

“Okay, Rosie,” he said with a grin. “Have a good trip.”

She hugged him, climbed up into the sleigh, and flicked the reins. Autumn snorted and began trotting along the trail.

Rosie looked back. Her father was waving.

“Stay out of the shadows!” he called after her.

ONCE SHE WAS GONE, Father returned to the house, stamped the snow from his boots, and sat at the table, where a fresh cup of coffee waited for him.

Mother was already seated, staring into her mug. “There,” she said. “That’s done. No more sharing food with her.”

Father didn’t answer right away.

“She was a good kid,” he said at last, quietly. “I’m actually going to miss her.”

“She was,” Mother said. “But a deal’s a deal.”

She looked radiant, as the necklace. with its glowing gem. emerged slightly from the folds of her blouse.

“She called me Daddy,” he added, almost to himself, toying with the ring on his finger, its glowing gem illuminating his eyes. Then he took a long sip of coffee. “I wonder if the old crone will make it quick.”

Mother looked away. “She always was fond of spring flowers.”

“All flowers, really,” Father said.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Then they raised their mugs, quietly, without clinking.

“To the harvest,” Father said.

“To the harvest,” Mother echoed.

They drank in silence.

ROSIE SANG AS THE SLEIGH MOVED slowly through the path leading across the fields.

Over the river and through the woods,
To grandmother’s house we go;
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow!

The song drenched the sleigh with warmth and preserved her basket of goodies. Rosie relaxed as she guided the sleigh.

Autumn’s ears flicked at the sound, her tail swishing lazily behind her. The mare seemed content, trotting with a steady rhythm over the packed trail. She was a good horse—surefooted, calm, and loyal. Rosie had never known her to spook, even during storms.

Shortly before lunch, Rosie stopped Autumn for a rest. The sun was rising high. She was too warm and slightly hungry, so she removed the riding cloak, laid it on the seat next to her, and opened her basket. The pumpkin pie was for Grandmother, but the rest was food for the trip.

The roll, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, was delicious, if a bit sticky, and it filled her stomach wonderfully. Rosie pulled a canteen from her backpack, drank from it, and then tucked it away, putting her backpack on the floorboards.

When she looked up, she was surprised to see a dark-clothed man standing in front of the sleigh. Somehow he had appeared there without her noticing. She hadn’t heard him approach. But now she could see his tracks through the snow leading up to the sleigh. He had come from her left, around a small hill.

How had she missed his approach?

Autumn’s ears turned forward, nostrils flaring slightly. Her hooves shifted on the snow, just enough for Rosie to feel the sleigh creak beneath her. Not fear. Not flight. But tension—like she was prepared to bolt.

“Good morning, miss!” the man said, smiling more widely than she liked.

“Morning—” Rosie stammered, her heart pounding. “Who are you?”

“I am called Luke, by most,” he said. “Who might you be, traveling near my forest?”

Rosie glanced toward the looming tree line, much closer than she remembered. It, like the man, had arrived too suddenly.

She blinked. “I’m—uh—Roselyn,” she said.

As he moved closer to her side of the sleigh, Autumn snorted—soft and low, a warning exhale. Her ears twitched backward for just a moment, then forward again. Rosie gently tugged the reins, a silent calming gesture, and the mare stilled. But her muscles were coiled, not relaxed.

He moved to her left from the middle of the trail, approaching her side of the sleigh, making her even more nervous. But he had a pleasant smile and seemed young—only a few years older than her. His face was nice enough, though a bit homely. His eyes were too large for his face, and his ears stuck out awkwardly. His teeth, on the other hand, were perfect. Too perfect. They made her nervous.

“Roselyn?” he repeated, tasting the name like a piece of fruit. “I think Rosie. That suits you better.”

She stiffened slightly at the familiarity, unsure why it made her uneasy.

“I don’t mean to alarm you,” he went on, eyes twinkling. “It’s just rare to see anyone travel this path alone. Rarer still to see someone… singing.”

He gestured vaguely toward the woods. “The trees don’t hear many songs these days.”

Rosie cleared her throat. “I’m visiting my grandmother. For Thanksgiving.”

“Ah,” Luke said, drawing out the word like he already knew. “A family tradition.”

Rosie wondered how he might know that. Had her mother gone on a similar journey at sixteen?

He stepped closer, brushing snow from the sleigh rail with the back of his hand. His fingers were long. Almost elegant.

“The path into the forest is trickier than it looks,” he said. “There are forks. Twists. Places where the trail fades entirely. May I offer you a bit of guidance?”

Rosie hesitated.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: Stay on the path. Don’t stray for shadows or whispers.

She looked toward the woods. Then back to Luke, whose smile remained… fixed.

“I think I’ll be okay,” she said politely. “I’ve made the trip before.”

“You have?” Luke asked, raising an eyebrow.

“In dreams.”

“Dreams?” He chuckled. “Well. Let’s hope your dreams remember the way.”

He bowed low—too low. His coat flared slightly as he did. There was something that seemed unnatural to his movement. But then he straightened, all smiles again, and he appeared to be normal, his large eyes assessing her.

“Safe travels, Red.”

"Um, thanks," she said. "Nice to meet you, Luke."

He turned and headed toward the forest, moving more quickly than she thought possible. She watched as he moved, staying to one edge of the trail, along the high side of the road, and then he crossed over, sticking to the other side. It was almost as if he was hiding, or trying not to be seen at least.

Rosie started Autumn again. They moved along the path until she reached a point where Luke had crossed from the right to the left side of the trail. She stopped when she saw the crossing, but must have gone on by it, as his footprints weren't visible. There wasn't any point trying to back up. Best to just move on.

Then, something caught her eyes. Prints. But not that of a man. That of a dog or coyote or—she shivered—possibly a wolf. It gave her a start. She wondered if she might catch up to Luke eventually and wanted to be sure to warn about signs that a wolf might be on the prowl.

She made a mental note to do that in case she saw him again.

Then, she opened her mouth in surprise, alarmed.

He had called her Red.

She had not told him that nickname.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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