by Jenny Morris

An old man was climbing a hill.  Every so often he had to stop to rest.  His head appeared to be huge and malformed - because he had a bird feeder strapped  with bandages to his battered hat.  It was a shallow wooden tray filled with seeds and nuts.  He loved all birds and wanted them to help themselves while he was out walking.

    The autumn sun was low in the sky but bright, casting long shadows.  The trees loomed copper, yellow and red against the vivid blue.  Wood pigeons as big as hens eyed the feeding tray but stayed away and the man was glad for he feared being knocked over if they were to descend on him.

     Reaching the summit, he made his way to an ancient oak tree and began to climb the low branches.  It was hard work for him and when he reached the centre he was wheezing and groaning with his efforts.  He sat there, still as he could in a convenient hollow space, while he calmed down, and after a while a blackbird ventured out of a cranny to clatter about on the feed tray and peck a few bits.  The old man listened with pleasure and kept very still.  He was invisible high up in the huge trunk surrounded by foliage, for the oak leaves had only just begun to fall.  This was his favourite place.

     Two children came slowly up the same track.  The girl had stuck pheasant feathers in her hair giving her a wild look.  The boy stood near the oak tree and stared down the valley.

     “You can see your aunt’s house from here.”

     “And the sheets on the line.  They’re tiny...   My legs hurt.  Let’s sit a bit.”  She made herself comfortable on the mossy grass among the roots.

     “Shall we try these mushrooms?”  He pulled them from his pocket.

     “What if they’re poisonous toadstools?”

     “They’re never.  I’ve had them loads of times.”

     “What, raw?”

     He threw one in his mouth and munched.

     “I’m going to wait and see if you die,” she said, contentedly.  After a while she shut her eyes.  “I didn’t get anything I wanted for my birthday.  I asked God for all sorts of things.”

     “Perhaps you weren’t good enough and he thought you didn’t deserve them.”

     “That’s not true.  I’m always good.  Not like my smelly old sister.”  There was a long pause.  “Anyway I don’t believe in him any more.”

     The boy’s face was shocked.  “He’ll strike you dead for saying that.  You watch out!”  He moved out of God’s range to sit under the tree.

     “I don’t care.  He’s just not there at all.  If he was, he’d answer my prayers.”

     “Don’t shout.  I can hear you.  Perhaps he thinks it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to have a kitten or a puppy.”

     “Or even a rabbit.  A rabbit wouldn’t hurt.  I would feed it and clean it out.”

     “I heard you didn’t feed your gran’s budgie and it died.”

     “It was old age.  It died of old blinking age.”

     “Like your gran?”

     “Exactly.”

     “Did you forget to feed her, too?”

     “Don’t be so stupid.  I wish I’d never come all this way with you.  I wish that poisoned fungus would hurry up and get you.”

     “I know a mushroom when I see one.”  He ate another one.

     “There was a bit of horse mess on that.”

     “Never.”

     “There was, too.  And a maggot.”

     “Ha, ha.  Full of vitamins.”

     She puffed out her face.  “I don’t understand God.  All the nasty girls at school get really good things for their birthdays.  And the nice ones get nasty things.”

     “You’re awful enough, so why don’t you get the good things?”

     “You just shut up.  You’re not so clever.  Anyway, what makes you think God is up in heaven?”

     “Because everyone says so.  And what would be the point of going to church and having Christmas presents and Easter eggs and all that, otherwise?  And I’ve seen the pictures.”

     “What pictures?”

     “At Sunday school and in my bible.  He’s got a beard and a smiley face and a brown robe.”

     “Grandad smiles and has a beard and a brown dressing gown and sandals.  Everything like that.  And he’s not God.”

     “How d’you know?”

     “Don’t be daft.  He swears and makes mistakes all the time.  God’s supposed to be perfect and know everything.  And be quiet.  Grandad’s bossy and shouty.  All men are bossy.”

     “They have to be, to rule.  You can’t have women in charge.”

     “Why not?  Miss Toft at school is the bossiest person ever.  Even my Dad is scared of her.”

     “I bet he isn’t really.  I’m not scared of anything.”

     At once a branch above them began to shake and clouds of leaves drifted down.

     “What’s that?”  He looked up anxiously.

     “Just the wind.  Anyway, Miss Toft is really scary.  If there is a God it’s probably a lady like her.  A sort of Mrs God in charge of everything.”

     “So why didn’t you get anything you wanted for your birthday?”

     “Because I’m an unlucky person, that’s all.  They thought I wanted this stupid doll.”  She pulled it out of her backpack.  “I’m miles too old for dolls.”

     They stared at the rigid creature with its blonde hair, smirk and silver net dress.

     “Let’s take her prisoner.”  He found some string in his pocket and began tying her arms and legs together.  “We could bury her here.  Look, the earth’s soft under this root.  Or we could hang her.”

     She watched, but said nothing.

     “Or look,” he was excited.  “I’ve got some matches.  I pinched them from home.  We could set fire to her.  I bet she’d melt and fizz and make a stink.  Let’s do it.”

     “No.”

     “Why not?”

     “Because.”

     “Because what?  You don’t even like her.”

     “I know.  But I don’t want to hurt her.”

     “But she’s not even real.  She’s just a thing.  A made up thing.”

     “She could be real.  Like God could be real.”

     “God is real.”

     “So God is watching you all the time.”

     “You’re stupid.”  He lit a match.  “I’m going to set fire to this tree.”  He ignited a pile of dead leaves against the trunk.  They blazed up and he found more and added them to the flames.

     “What are you doing that for?”  She stood up and shouted at him.  “You’re crazy.  God is watching you.”

     “You said you didn’t believe in him.”

     Smoke curled up into the tree.  He threw more leaves on the burning heap.  They crackled.

     At once there was a loud cough from high up in the tree.

     “Oh, God!”  The boy’s face paled.

     The girl kicked the fire in an attempt to put it out.

     There was more coughing from on high, then a male voice, deep and quavering, began singing above them.

     “Jesus bids us shine with a pure, clear light.

     Like a little candle burning in the night.

     In this world of darkness so let us shine,

     You in your small corner and I in mine.”

     Silence.

     The boy was frozen in a submissive attitude, hands clasped together.  He jumped on the little fire which died.

     “I’m sorry, God!”  He shouted up into the branches.

     The girl picked up her doll.  “I’m sorry, too,” she mumbled as she ran away.

     Together, the children stumbled down the hill, every so often turning to look back at the oak tree.

     “Anyway,” the boy panted, “that was no Mrs God.  You were wrong about that.”

     “There’s still time for you to be poisoned.  So you shut up.”

     Small birds came flustering out of the oak tree branches and flew high above them, circling and singing their way towards the distant wood.