03:03 Nov 06 2008
Times Read: 670
At the back of my neck.
In the corners of my vision.
I whipped around time and again, knowing someone was there. The blood rushed through my body, suddenly becoming a roar in my ears while my breathing came in short, ragged gasps. When called to be alert, few can match me.
I had been squatting beside the small pond, arms wrapped around my knees and lost in my own thoughts while absently watching the catfish swim slowly by in the murky water, whisker-like barbels giving their dark ghost shapes an other-worldly silhouette. The sun had dropped beneath the lowest branches of the cyprus trees and the evening had taken on a stillness that was contagious. The sky dressed itself in garments drenched with the rich and glowing shades of an amber stone held up to a lamp, and it seemed the whole world held its breath in awe. Even the cicadas delayed their evening songs on this stillest of August dusks.
The quick flitting movement continued just at the periphery of my sight. I reached slowly for a stick that dangled from the bank into the water's surface. The instant my eyes moved to the stick, I felt a definite stirring along the back of my neck and the hairs along there stood on end, all my alarm bells ringing loudly in my head. My mind reeled through its library, trying to find an animal that moved this way, ruling out the curious animals blocked from drinking at the pond by my presence. This was something else.
Could it be the Nicomedi back so soon? I took inventory of my body, still bruised and aching from my last encounter. So battle weary. Would I be able to keep fighting? Even if I could, I wondered if there were even a purpose to it anymore. What if I just surrendered simply did not fight any longer?
“Yes,” I thought, “this is not my fight alone. It was never meant to be and I am sick to death of it.”
I longed then for nothing more than to simply lie down beside the pond and sleep until I was no more. But, what we wish for and what the long years have taught our bodies are very different. I could no more lie down in the face of danger than a soldier could turn and stand with his back to an advancing enemy line. Already, my eyes were narrowed and searching the way no human eye could.
“Come out,” I spoke calmly to the dusky trees. “I know you are there and you know that I am here. There is nothing to be gained this way. Tell me what you want or go your way.”
As soon as I had spoken this short speech, my ears began to pick up a familiar crackling sound. It was very faint, but drawing nearer. The temperature dropped at my right hand, where I still gripped the stick. I had drawn my left arm before my body and my knees were slightly bent in a stance that demonstrated that I was cool and ready for what came next. It was a posture that lied, but too long a habit for my body to relinquish now.
The cold spread across the back of my hand and into my fingers, loosening my grip slightly. The soft crackling sound increased, like a radio not tuned exactly to the right station. Without warning, a stinging shock went up my wrist and the stick fell to the ground. I spun to the right instinctively, crouching slightly to face my attacker. Nothing met me but the humming in my ears and the slight chill that raised goose bumps along my skin. It did not matter, though. I knew. I stood and rubbed the sting and cold from my hand, relaxing even as I stretched.
“There was no need to knock the stick from my hand. You know full well that I cannot harm you,” I spoke to the empty air before me.
The static charge in my ear yielded a thin, self-conscious giggle. The air before me shimmered like the road far off on a hot afternoon. Before me appeared a slight boy who looked to be about nine years old.
“I don’t like the hitting,” he said shyly, the frequency of his voice slowly attuning to my ears. He was not yet fully incarnate. The trees were still visible through his short-waisted jacket, but his face was gentle and graced with large, kind eyes that sparkled blue without need for any light. “My name is Paul, but everyone just calls me Pal.”
A ghost child. My loneliness felt so oppressive as I gazed into that cherubic face. I never had a chance with Pal. I loved him instantly.
“I am Violenta,” I replied, “and I have been known by many names. I will be pleased to answer you by any you choose for me.” He tilted his beautiful face and a blonde curl fell over his right eye. He brushed it away absently and then smiled so openly that whatever I had left for a heart completely melted at the sight of those perfect dimples merrily situated on either side of his cheeks.
“Via!” he exclaimed. I studied Latin with my brother. It means ‘the way.’ He taught me about the Via Sacra in Rome. It was the most important road that went to the most important city in all the world. It sounds like your name. Maybe you’ll be my way.” He added the last in a boyish manner, with his head lowered. I wanted to hug the darling and stepped forward. His look of alarm halted my feet and when his form wavered, I feared that he would fade completely and leave me alone again. When he was incarnate once again, I exhaled my relief.
His voice was tinny and distant, like an old radio station, and the white noise was back again. I know that I have never heard words uttered that were as heart-breakingly sad as his, “I can’t be touched.”
It had been so long since I last smiled. I wasn’t sure if the muscles of my face would remember the way, but I smiled at the child before me and said, “I am much the same. But we are to be friends, so we will find a way.”
“Via.” He returned my smile and just like that, I was alone no more.
COMMENTS
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Beastt17
09:51 Nov 06 2008
Two sentences in and the words nearly faded to transparency revealing the story to play out in visual form.
captainglobehead
22:23 Nov 07 2008
Thank you (oh thank you, thank you, thank you)