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?"

The Story - Part III: In the Woods

Time lost its importance and its passage went unmarked. The trees blocked out all but the thinnest rays of sunlight. They rationed and measured everything. I knew activity only when they provided small meals or let rainwater pass through their branches and over their leaves to me. Even sound was muffled, and this is how I knew I was in a prison of their making. As I had walked in the edge of the gentle woods, on the outskirts of the Elders, the woods had been loud with the sound or rustling leaves, crashing pinecones and acorns, the crackling of trees stretching their limbs. Now they did not want me to know of the world outside this place.

At first I continued to struggle, to reason with them. I am not your daughter, I told the Elders. I do not fit here. Your ways are not suited to me. But they could taste youth in my words and hushed me as they would an inexperienced child, stretching more and more vines between me and my freedom, until I feared the vines would take over what little space remained to me, and I was silent.

So in silence I pushed attacked the woody vines, and they remained. In silence I sat with my back to them, and pressed my flesh against their hard unforgiving surface. They would not give way, so I pressed harder. They would not give way, so I pressed harder still until the vines clung to me, taunted by my pressure and pleased with my spine. They encircled me as an abandoned and desolate sculpture. The more I pushed the tighter they clung until I was uncomfortably restricted. I finally extracted myself like a spring bud escaping its branch. I found relative safety with my back against the roughness of tree bark, and I was still.

And I think this was when I first became acquainted with the scent of death. Until I knew its name, I could only identify the smell of fear in it and turn away. But death would lurk in shadows, intertwined in the vines surrounding me. So to find it, I rested my head against the trunk of a tree, barely moving, tilting my head inch by inch, until I could tell when the scent was the strongest. Then I stared at the shadows in front of me until they separated, until they took shape. The forms would gesture to me. It was then that I knew death waited for me.

Still, I could hear my friends. They were not loud or close. At times I worried that I only imagined them. I feared all that remained was my powerful longing for their company. But in a place of such stillness, where the scent of death is so powerful, even the smallest thing is a big thing. When sky’s breezy fingers probed delicately through the vines and feathered my hair, I knew it was my friend and not my longing. And when it sought me in this locked up place with clear sunny fingers, unafraid and tender, it gave me courage in a deep place inside. Days would pass and I would not hear from it, then I would see a ray of light pointing to a spot on the forest floor, revealing a small glistening bead of dew on a single blade of grass. I would edge toward it slowly, drawing little attention to my movements, moving a few inches at a time, stopping to sleep, then waking to move again. And when I reached the blade of grass, I would extend a single finger to the fragile fellow and the drop would coat the top of my finger. I knew it was a greeting from my friend, who despite the greed of the trees found something to spare for me. It was a miracle I could tell no one about, but I protected it in my heart.

This is how my life was reduced. And I had to participate. Because to spend my hours waiting on signs which were few and far between was to waste hope on what might not be. My mind thirsted for the next touch of the wind, the next cool drop of water on my fingertip. Eventually they would forget me, I knew, and the signs would stop coming. I would be left to this place for whatever purpose the trees had. My friends would find more engaging companions. Losing them, losing the hope in them would be worse somehow than losing my journey and my freedom. So I gave them up early. I stopped looking for their signs. Hope creaked to a halt and I was left alone with my worn and tired thoughts.

And the trees marked my days.