Third Session
Mei’s picture sits in a frame by my bed, perched on the windowsill. The morning sunlight makes it hard to make out her face, so I pull it close, making sure her ribbon hanging on the corner doesn’t fall off. It’s the rich blue ribbon, the same big one tying her hair back in the photo. She’s smiling in it, me in the back; it’s strange to see her smile like that in photos, without her usual uneven smile. Putting the frame back I gently take off her ribbon. Holding it between my fingers, I let the fabric slide over my palms slightly. It’s soft, and I put it to my lips, thinking I’d feel it better somehow. I close my eyes, and she doesn’t seem as far away anymore.
I feel a shiver and rush to put it back, thinking Father Time would see this scene, but of course he’s been out of bed for awhile and off in the field, ready for today. There’s nothing intense I’m sure, since it’s a special one to mark my last day here. We’ll be talking and sitting, so I grab the ribbon and tie it around my neck, making a big bow in the front.
Right out the door, the Sun beats down on me. The sky is a clear blue, no clouds, a faint moon sits near the mountaintops. I take my path on the side of the cottage. It’s through a bit of bush with trampled grass I’ve already gotten scolded for. Between a couple of white rose bushes, a small thin white line is off in the distance. Father picked the furthest part of the field, and as I stand there squinting at the vague shape of the old man, I jump at a prick on the finger. I hadn’t realized I grabbed the bush, but looking for the thorn I was caught on, the green and white of the bush meshes into a spotted green sphere. A dizziness pours over me, pushing me into the other bush behind me. I feel scraping on my back and on my neck, but I don’t jump this time. Rolling my head to the side, using the last of my energy, I see the thin white line of Father. He’s laying on his side from some similar tiredness. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Slamming against the ground in a heap, my mouth tingles from the faint feeling of grass against my lips. I can’t see the horizon, just the green of the grass, the tips of the mountains. My eyes close, and the world fades away.
I don’t dream.
Without any grogginess, like a perfect nap, I snap back up onto my knees. The dizziness is gone; I don’t even feel like I’ve slept. The grass beneath my fingers is a soft dark bed, and I realize it’s now night. Around me, every bush, every tree, is a tangled forest of thorns and mottled leaves. The grass outside the bed in the shape of me reaches up to my waist, the flowers now dwarfed by the sea. The long blades of grass sway in the wind, waves of tinted moonlight wash over the mountaintop. In the distance, I don’t see Father; not standing, not through the grass.
Wading through it, the grass pulls at me, but I don’t let it slow me. I don’t let it make me lose sight of where he was, between the two distant mountain peaks. I travel straight until I reach it…the end of the mountain. Down below, streams of water roll down a flat cliff-face that reaches far below, connecting to the pristine landscape untouched by Council.
He’s not here.
I go a bit off the path, a little ways back. I’m not worried about kicking him now unknowingly; my hurried walk turns into a run. Peering over the grass, pulling it apart, I see no glints of his white clothes. I start retracing my path back to the cottage.
He’ll be at home at this time.
I leap over my bed of grass and push myself through the mangle of bushes, cutting my right hand on another thorn. I trip over a piece of stone, landing onto a soft black slab, my hands fall right through it like it’s liquid. Quickly, I pull it back out, trying to save the cuts from the blackness. It’s covered in a wet glob of rotted black wood and dirt, and I almost wipe it away on my clothes in disgust, but nothing will get close to Mei’s ribbon. The puddle of black rot and shrubbery reaches out to more stone slabs out in the clearing, like the one I wipe my hand on. Then I see it; the cottage is gone.
“Father!” My scream carries over the mountain, only my echoes answer me. “Horous!!” My throat hurts, but I scream again. “Horous!!...” Nothing is left on the mountaintop, my gaze looking out into nothing but planes of bush, grass, and rot. A sharp crack beneath my foot makes me jump. Beneath my foot, partially covered in slime, is Mei’s picture. I wipe the slime off from the corners, and carefully hold the glass pieces in place. Beneath the cracks, an off-white sheet sits, no Mei. I tilt the frame between my hands, letting some pieces fall into the rot causing a few gross splats, but I can’t see her any easier. The picture has been ruined. I let the rest of it fall to the pit.
“Horous!” I stumble over the stone into the garden, and wade through the grass again. Beneath me is my bed, the short grass in the shape of me still stuck in time; short young blades sit in the middle of giants. I take my right palm, take a breath, close my eyes, and hold my hand in front of me. In the dark, I hear the wind through the leaves, and over the grass. It’s all I hear; not a breath comes out from me. I focus on the shapes of the Hands of Time: one of two short swords, intricately weaved gold guards, a pointed sharp blade, a round grip covered in soft tape…I imagine the feel, until I don’t need to anymore, and in my hand rests one of the blades itself. I release my breath and open my eyes. One of the Hands of Time; weightless, perfect. I point it to the bed, and push it into the ground. The moment it pierces the dirt, the grass around it unflattens, pointing to the sky again, growing to match the giants around them.
Tick
“One week.” The grass has barely grown.
“One month...” The wind begins to pull at the sheltered blades.
I will the growth to stop as the grass reaches my ankles, but is still far from my waist.
“Oh my god...” I pull the Hand out, the tip coming out smoothly without a sound.
More than one year.
I take a breath, and bury the Hand in the ground again.
“Two years…f-four years……eight…” My eyes water, the interweaving grass becoming blurred, and I stop talking. The Hand shakes in the ground, my grip becoming shaky, loose.
Tock
The grass reaches my waist; I let the Hand stay in the ground, time already stopped at my command. I try to rest on the hilt, but the sharp blade doesn’t let me, gliding into the ground effortlessly. I fall into it, and under me the blade fades into nothingness, back to oblivion. Buried back into my bed, I roll over on the ground and let the greenery take up most of my vision; swaying grass reaching for the sky mingles with the blurred blue lines of my hair in the night breeze. Above me, sharp speckles of bright white clouds litter a quarter moon.
My eyes focus, and the clouds change shape, taking the form of glowing white rocks of varying colossal sizes. Chunks of the moon float over the night-sky, some turning slowly, silently amongst the stars. One last quarter of the moon sits among the debris, forever threatening to fall to the Earth in a monstrous storm of hail.
“I’ve been asleep for twenty one years.”
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