Friday, April 25, 2014

The Forest Calls




Had it been hours? It certainly didn't feel like hours. ...Why would it feel like hours had gone by anyway? Was there a significant reason for this?  ...She couldn't remember. With each step, the more she forgot. 

Laughing. Clear, but a ways off. 

Gentle steps, silent steps. The fallen needles from the pines cushioned each footstep she took. She bent to pick up the occasional pine cone, scrutinizing its size and rough edges. She looked up...and up to the tops of the pine trees where the cones once resided. The sun was in her eyes. She couldn't see the tops. With the shield of her palm she blocked the rays of the sun, peering through the gaps of her fingers at the tops of the trees. So still they were. I wonder what I must look like from so far down below... A shadow swept over. The sun had moved on. 

Distinct smells. Signifying the time of day. Was this important? 


Meandering. Arms outstretched...touching, feeling. Flickering catches her eye. Tiny dancing diamonds of light borne from the sun's rays stream down on to the last of summer's leaves. The various shades of brown shimmer and twinkle. She turns her face upward and breathes deep. The air has turned chilly...but I don't feel cold. The sunshine warms my face. Does it warm you, too, trees? The sudden arrival of red followed by a familiar staccato tweet came, as though in reply, to this question. ...She smiles, for she understands his answer.

Three bell tolls. Or was it four? ...Had she actually heard the bell? Perhaps it didn't matter. Perhaps.

It was cold now. The sun was becoming sparse. She sat on a solemn, fallen tree; with fingertips she stroked its moss covered wood pondering how long it had been since the tree, now nature's bench for wanderers such as herself, had stood upright, sun on its tops like the noble pines. ...But wait. What was this distant beckoning she heard? She blinked. For a moment - clarity. She turned to glance at the path she had aimlessly trekked...but there was no path. Honest perplexity washed over her face as she stood, suddenly seeing the engulfment of the wooded wonderland around her. As if in opposition of this abrupt interruption the wind blew. The cold had taken on a bitterness: it kicked up the dead summer leaves and bowed the trees, whose branches creaked and bodies groaned in tantrum against this interference with the visitor's intoxication. ...What was briefly lost was soon rekindled. The wind calmed, but its bitterness remained.

Voices. ...Should they be answered? What is it they're saying?

Dusk. Why is the dusk the most inviting of all? An unseen crow caws in reply. She follows in the direction of its call. Deeper, deeper, and deeper still. Moment by moment the sun disappears down behind the pines. The wind whispers through her hair and rustles lifeless leaves...they detach and fall, now only contributing a silence-shattering crunch with each of her footsteps. She liked the sound of the crunchy blanket beneath her feet that once was summertime's green shade against the sun. ...Hooting. Evening's predator is about.

Voices again. Frantic. ...But why?

A kindly oak, great with age. Tell me all that it is you've seen, Oak. Fires? Frost? Or perhaps the bloody battles of war? She sits at the oak's base and thoughtfully watches its weepy, hanging moss. She reaches her hand up to finger the moss. But it sways lazily away from her grasp in the cold wind. ...A soft chuckle gives form to her breath. 

Darkness. With her head leaned back she closes her eyes and listens. The snap of a branch...the hooting of the owl...the wind in the leaves...the reminiscing of the oak. Resting against its tired but sturdy trunk, she contemplated this lionhearted tree's past. 

Footsteps. But not her own. They come closer, and quickly.

Now numb, the visitor is enveloped in the bitter cold and pulled towards sleep. The songs of evening caress her, the activity of nightlife lull her. A sudden presence. In an instant her eyes open, and beholding a familiar face she, in all contentedness, fixates her eyes on his. Their gaze is held...until the wind picks up once again in defiance to this new intrusion,  breaking the gaze and snapping her to attention. She blinks. The familiar face holds out his hand.

"Please. It's time to go home." He spoke quietly.


~~~~*~~~~

Daylight. Crisp and cloudless. The sun shines and spills through the trees. A burst of red swoops in and out of the bare branches, its familiar staccato tweet pitches in excitement. ...There will be a visitor this day.













*A short story, inspired by Anthony J. McGirr

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