The Story - IV: Scent of Ocean

I was dying. Memories of home faded. Neither past nor future called me and I did not wish for them. The day was pushed forward only by the sound of my breathing and the voices of the trees, telling me stories I did not know in a language I did not understand. But I had stopped scheming to escape this place, and I could feel death hover closer each day. I wondered when he would grow impatient enough to take me. I did not fear it because I did not care.

But one day the air changed. This would be such a small thing in a wide wide world, but where there are no breezes, even a small breeze is noticed. Did the trees notice as well? I did not lift my head to draw attention to it. They would notice movement from me like I noticed the scent which had traveled to me on the air.

But of course they would have noticed too, their heads all full of leaves, sensitive to every turn of the air and likely to talk about each one. But it wasn’t a breeze exactly. More like a scent in the air which was so distinct that it felt like a breeze. It was just a stir, but it felt strong. It was strong enough to hold me, waiting and attentive.

The leaves continued to gossip though as if nothing had happened. And there was no new stirring. The scent did not get stronger. Eventually it faded and I stopped waiting. It was not coming back.

And then it did come back. At first, the shock of recognition was sharper than its repeat performance. Still I maintained stillness in my body and the trees said nothing. And this time the scent was stronger, and I opened one eye wider to locate its source.

Vines above my head seemed different when I stared at them long enough. They didn’t move precisely, but seemed to bulge as if they carried a new weight, as if they’d grown new tendrils which added to their bulk. There was a difference there. And that was all I knew. So I breathed. And I waited. And I watched.

Days later, light reflected against something new between the vines. It was pale, but it was streaked in mud. It didn’t move though so much as it pushed. It was pushing through the vines. But it hadn’t broken free. So I breathed. And I waited. And I watched. And I felt a difference in my spirit.

Days later, the scent of the ocean grew. It triggered my memory of water lapping at my ankles and sun heating my face. I breathed more deeply to trap the smell in my lungs and realized I had grown stiff and heavy in my limbs, staring up at the bulge in the vines and the pale thing pushing through. I flexed my spine then, slowly at first. Surely the trees knew of this new presence. Surely I would not betray it to move, to notice it, to respond?

So I reached for it. I wanted to know so badly what it was. But I was afraid to touch it, afraid that it would pull away. It didn’t know me. It didn’t know I was safe. I moved closer to it, to see it more clearly. It was pale skin. It was a hand. Much like my own and yet harder. And when I brushed the tip of the finger, my touch was so light it did not flinch. It did not think me anything more threatening than a moth. And I breathed. And I waited. And I hoped.

The day came when the fingers of the hand stretched through the vine barrier, each one individually but with the same purpose. The hand wanted to break free. The hand wanted inside this place. So I steadied myself. I reached toward it, and with my fingers I brushed against the hard curling fingers. Without hesitation, they tightened over my hand so quickly I was tempted to pull away. But I didn’t. I stood my ground and I held them fast. I rubbed my thumb across the top of the knuckles, and it tightened just that much more. The hand was firm. The grasp was strong. The vines parted. And the air was flooded with the scent of the ocean.

The shadow of death grew still and then shrank.

David Wilcox, "How Did You Find Me Here?"