The Northern Path

Return to the place of divergence.

An unconscious man poured out on the floorboards.

In each conversation, when we speak of travel, he tells of a road in the north.

“At first it seems common. . . If there are gentle hills, these sidle by like lambs toward a clover. Never a curve ahead.

But the dark earth pulses. . . ley-lines strung loosely on telephone poles. Sometimes we balance on them and feel ourselves pushed along above the thick, oak branches. When clouds shadow the path, young ivy creeps along its edges.

Dark, square sedans hurtle along the length. Every exit swings on hooks, they rotate on their racks like gates in a pinball machine.

Once your feet have taken a single running step on its surface, once you hurtle forward, once you send the wind retreating to the parcel (still in the hands of careless men), thoughts of flight seem vulgar.”

Tempest’s fingers worry the hem of her skirt as she sits watching Briggs run from tree to tree with a loud exclamation to each encountered trunk. There is a level of mischief in his play today that would concern her if she hadn’t spied the dark patch that had appeared in her lace.

“Bark!” Briggs proclaims.

Tempest glances up.

“Bark!” he repeats, and his finger asserts that the pine is guilty indeed. He glances up, smirks, and then looks around to see if any canines enjoy his pun. If a housetop had been close-by, no doubt he would have found further inspiration.

“Funny,” she says, glancing back down at her dress, but the disapproval seems to encourage his grin.

“It is, it is.” Her brother said, “They don’t say it, but we say they do.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Dogs. They say ‘bahr-oo’ or ‘brak’ or ‘rouw,’ not bark, but we don’t pay attention. That’s why we can’t hear them.”

“You really should try not to harass the trees with your theories.”

“That’s just so they know I get it. Leafs aren’t like dogs. They whisper.”

Tempest thought for a moment and nodded. Sometimes Briggs thought of things so strange that they made sense. A clarity like madness. For the moment her thoughts went back to her dress. A stain. It was preposterous. Normally Briggs and herself resonated like opposite poles of a magnet. He drew dirt to himself and she seemed to repel it. This didn’t seem like a stain she could have gotten outside either, it was almost a purple-grey. It was as if her dress had fallen and bruised from the injury. The strange incident darkened her mood.

The late spring sun crested on its periwinkle wave, and the trees broke beneath it, their shadows falling in a plummet straight for the forest floor. Tempest feels her black hair warm as a gap in the branches above permits a few errant rays to slip through. Her large blue eyes tilt upward with her head to check the time.

“My stomach grumbles like a beehive bumbles,” Briggs said.

“Oh, rhymes and puns, what other wonders will you work with your mouth today?” she asks and continues, “But, yes, it’s lunch time. We should head back.”

Tempest walked through the glade to their path and set off smoothly at a moderate pace. Briggs would run ahead, then linger behind collecting acorns and snail-shells. Grasshoppers leapt and moths fluttered in the grass as they walked. The occasional gust of wind encouraged them along after they escaped the trees’ windbreak. Stepping along the edge of a field, they turned and cut back at its corner to access the meadow next to their house. Just over the gentle hill they could see it, a small farmhouse all square except for the one peak of roof on its side. Not a bold-triangle gable or rounded decoration in sight. Even the weathercock was fashioned from square rod-iron and seemed to spin in halting quarters.

Then Briggs breaks into a race with his arms and legs in the lead, but his stomach seeming to catch up. Tempest almost feels the percussion of the back door closing after his entrance. She continues her pace, grasps the handle moments later and steps inside.

Slipping thru the utility room into the kitchen, she finds Briggs mid-sandwich. Their mother had laid out grapes, cheese, ham and lettuce along with a fresh, yeasty-smelling loaf of bread. Her brother is nibbling on a wedge of the cheddar between fast mouthfuls of grapes and sandwich.

“Is there anything I can get you, dear?” her father asks as he appears out of the hallway. He glances at his son and smiles, “Getting ready for winter, Briggs?”

“Yep, I saw lotsa grasshoppers, and it reminded me.”

“You need to read the story again,” Tempest said, “the point was to save some back.”

“I am. Just in my tummy. See?” and lifts the bottom of his shirt to show his well-stuffed stomach.

Tempest ignores him, “Do we have cucumbers and onions?”

“I believe so.” He turns and checks the pantry, “Yes, indeed.”

He and Tempest assemble her lunch quickly and she cuts her sandwich carefully into four even triangles. While she eats he talks of people met in town, the new librarian and the book he’d found on carving. Her father was a sort-of high level tinker, fixing most anything that needed repair around the county and creating lovely things to sell when things were slow. Most of his art had been in casting and other metalwork, but lately he’d taken an interest in woodworking. “In this, each one has to give. The wood has something in it and I partner with it to reveal it. Not as easy as metal, but more rewarding when you can keep from destroying it. Knowing when to stop is the hardest part.”

Her mother had said that she thought some of his new interest had to do with Briggs. Metalwork was a fine medium, but far too dangerous for a curious boy. Briggs was approaching the age where careful use of a pocket knife or file under supervision would be possible.

She listens to her father and thinks about all this until her mother steps into the room. “Well, it seems that lunch has started.”

“Briggs was starving, and honestly, so was I… a little,” Tempest replies.

“A good appetite will never get disapproval from me,” her mother replies and smiles, “So what did you two do today.”

“Briggs barked at trees, mostly”

“I didn’t. I was explaining to them.”

“I hope you didn’t leaf anything out,” her father replies seriously, and four female eyes roll upward simultaneously.

“We mostly just explored the woods, … and Briggs looked for snails.”

“Just watch for sinkholes,” her mother says, then glances down at her daughter. “It looks like you found something as well.”

Tempest felt her mood, which had been raised by her father’s conversation, sinking yet again. “Horrid stain, I have no idea where I got that,” and fingered it in annoyance.

Her father took a look and said, “Looks like you picked up a bruise too.”
Surprised, Tempest looks where her father had indicated and sees the discoloration just above her ankle. It is a darker purple than the stain and shaped like a crescent moon, as if someone had pushed half a coin into her leg and left a mark. She couldn’t remember falling or bumping into anything and said as much.

“Are you sure you weren’t running around? It’d be easy to collide with something,” her mother said.

“No, Tempest wasn’t running,” Briggs said, “She likes to explore, but she’s more careful than me.” Briggs was always covered with scrapes and bruises.

“Maybe that happened yesterday then,” her father replied and the matter was dropped.

But Tempest looked at the bruise shining on her ankle. She touched it. It felt strange and tender, but not like a normal bruise. Strange shape, strange feeling, strange color. And she certainly didn’t remember where she got it.

Familiarity would have rushed in if a clatter had followed. If the floor had been just below, no doubt it would have bounced, spun and clicked as it came to a rest.

Instead, it’s surface sung in the wind. Dropping past clouds, through darkness and the first beams of dawn. A few may have looked up and seen the last second of it’s trail. The streak ended, and momentum left it, buried, in a surrogate mother earth.

≈Φ≈

…And with a surge, the soil lifted. Pillbugs rolled circumspectly to safety and earthworms slid slowly away from the affront.

Ibex planted his horn happily, and thrust deeper into the open soil. Slipping it past roots and grubs, his front legs pressed down and surged for the heave.

Up went earth and disintegrated, scattering crickets and startling ladybugs low on blades of grass. Ibex hopped and snorted, rifling through the fallen clods, searching for flashes and reflections. Nothing. He found a small piece of wet, dead wood and chewed, distracted, for a while.

Beams of light called to Ibex. Every sparkling shard of glass and shining piece of foil drew him relentlessly. He collected everything he found and placed it around his bowl-shaped home in an old, dead tree.

Once more, the ground parted. His shove stopped short as a staccato note sounded beneath the ground. He had hit something. His pace was furious now, legs pumping, clearing the dirt, eyes searching, mandibles grabbing… and he found it. Perfectly round, with a sheen peaking from the covering dirt, and four small holes in it’s center.

Ibex trumpeted, flipped it onto his back and hurried home.

‘Round about misunderstanding, like plastic horses rising and falling to whims of Calliope (as if she were once again ascending, a Goddess of toys and amusement, when eloquence or even frank talk is most needed), only a bit of the one in front of us is seen in our winding track. Yet those glimpses and determination, endless chasing and somehow investing where all may be lost… they bring forth love unbidden.

More than we understood, our choice and a child-like commitment lead us somewhere and the motors stopped. Once in this atrium, light pours down and begins to bathe passionate love with understanding. In knowing, in gentle revelation and nakedness that both repels and attracts, fear gives way to certainty. Passion wends it’s path (a love of firsts) to a tree with deeper roots. And so a love overshadowing is revealed covering you and I. Its branches hold us and shelter all our dreams, while passion wraps about its trunk, wreathing our hearts with flowers… turning us about in twilight hours with gentle blooms of rushing blushes in the gentle wild.

The slightest breath of air from their parted lips, the smallest whisper, would add its’ thrust to the insane waltz. Yet as it the motion increased, the impulse to cry out in pure delight grew until it was unstoppable. Thus impelled, the exclamations came long and clear and passionate in their expression. So these pulses of air made each spin more ecstatic than the last. 

At first there was the urge to wonder, to try to spy some landmark or guiding star to ascertain their course. To find some level, to measure the tempo and where each should lead or follow was briefly sought. 

But in that ocean of stars, that blanket of warm dark, there is no up. There is no down. No level, no gauge… there is only the dance,… only Freedom,… only adoration,… and the constant light in your lover’s eyes. Stars may burn out and be born again, but that will remain.

Lace and cotton, by grass-stained denim, the pair are mirth and phantasia. Golden tress and dark black locks, their inclined heads mingle like day meets night. He babbles and she nods, and then a moment later the roles are reversed like some trick puppet, but the wonder never leaves their eyes. And in the dusk, when time to part, he clumsily kisses a tiny flower and she claps as she spies the first star in the east.

She is faster… just see her dart. The boy runs smiling and wide-eyed shows his adoration. When all is spent, in gasps collapse… her kiss finds flushing cheek. A hug, a gentle whisper and those tiny hands so softly woven, can never forget the weave. Playmates, confidants, protectors, and in time, so much more. 

So they may see us in this darkened world. 

I still only want to run and find your hand.

I think I’ve dreamed of you. I think your feet have walked that inner world at all times and though I never saw your face, I think you were there.

I think you whispered to me in my dreams of castles, of angels, of the perfect playground. I think your eyes inspired the adventures in oceans deep, that I swam and dived then as I do now… encompassed about by beauty. I think your hair, like gold, did adorn every sword hilt, did purchase my fare across arabian deserts and wintery wastes. I think your lips’ lovely curve was there in each cunning arch, each bridge from which I fed ducks and swans. I think they kissed me in the fair times, and spoke courage to me in the night terrors. I think your laughter made me fly.

I know I’ve dreamed of you. 

Of such intimacy, of such passion and violent love, I would have to agree. I never saw it. Can a blind man dream of color before his eyes are restored? You are my rainbow maiden, and I need not look beyond you for a pot of gold, that would be far too literal.

A single kiss, a joyful laugh and a sparkling eye would fill me to overflowing for all of time. Any more and the world will be overcome by our happiness.

I have many times sipped rich, dark wine that flows from your candied lips. The sweetness… the slight tinge on my tongue, so strong in it’s potency… the warming dizzyness that would fill my head. 

I was not ready for it.

Our faces pressed so close together, and as I began to speak soft words the sip became a slow trickle that could no longer be absorbed so easily. Your breathing quickened with mine, and I heard a tiny whimper… so beautiful. The trickle became a draught, constant and unrelenting. All my strength left me and my only thought was to cry out to my darling angel. Then, three words, and my world began to shake. The draught became a torrent and washed over me filling my room and my house, washing out into the streets. “Oh my darling!” I will never forget it. 

The passion, the depth, the quiet warmth, and the sense that somewhere in you a propane flame burns scorching hot. Endearment after endearment followed, each one tossing me about like driftwood. All I could do was cry out to you, darling. All I could think is that I never wished you to stop. All I could tell was that I was drowning so completely. All I could say was, “I love you.” In each breath I said, “I love you.” In the quiet, “I love you.” In the tears… “I love you.” In the night, in my dreams, “I love you.”

I was not ready for it.

But who would be?

One day walking amidst funhouse tunes and clusters of sparking lights that only make your eyes grow dark I found a room. In the room from every surface, corner and outcrop hung a million gossammer threads. I walked, and as I did my body brushed hundreds of these strings. Each one told a story. 

Some were vulgar and base, and did not care to be woven into any life as useful, but rather only take a small compensation. I spied the creators; fat, bulbous spiders that would pounce on the string if it was touched and bestow a thorny kiss that left one feeling empty and more naked than before. I resolved to avoid these. Some were not so bad, plain homespun thread… they were honest but rarely true, they spoke but did not listen and so said not much at all. Some rose even higher, these I delighted in and wove them into my coat with savor. They spoke of heroes, subtle beauties, and worlds that every soul must travel to truely change. I felt my strength increase when clothed in such raiment, and, though I did not notice, I had grown.

My fingers reached up into a small corner higher than I had before and found a single thread. Images flashed before my eyes… a black horse, a host sleeping beneath a cold moon, a small beautiful girl, a skeletal dance. I gasped and pulled the thread closer, wrapped and wove it into the fabric near my heart. I sat there for a time, finding many threads about it almost as dear. I felt a sharp tug and I found that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light. I turned to see tiny fingers resting on the thread, just a short distance from my heart. 

I sat and watched those fingers for so long. Somehow through those threads each tiny motion of her hands was sent to me. I finally spoke. Just a few words about how lovely the story was… she sat in silence for a while, but then responded that she loved the old man who had crafted this and another who had placed her hand upon it. All the while I watched those beautiful, white fingers. I saw her begin to weave it so close to her heart with such care. 

As she did I began to see the tapestry of her gown, draping her tiny figure, and all the threads that made it. And each tiny weaving stroke pulled at my heart till I found myself face to face with her, looking into the brightest, truest blue eyes I had ever seen. What she saw in the dark, I was just beginning to see. So we sat for so long, looking into each other’s eyes, each devoted to seeking something more than glitter. When her tiny fingers touched my hand, I knew I had found it. 

So we sit, and we whisper mysteries. We walk and we weave our own tale, which we cannot even touch without weeping. All the sparkling lights have faded, and the music replaced by a gentler, nobler song, and we travel together at the new dawn.

I ran back to the spring where the first seeds of love were planted, and left for the rain of our friendship to succor. I stepped forward into the late summer, and saw the green shoot burst from the ground and watched it’s weaving. I climbed down the mountain and saw it growing amidst the hard rocks in autumn’s chill, struggling in the fiercest storms…

Then I saw a wonder… the plant, so hardened from those trials, stood in the deepest winter and broke forth into blossom. Unabashed, it did not deign the frost worth notice. 

I walked back to where we stand, in some sort of fairy winter, where there is all the brilliance of the snow, but none of the cold. I see that there is still much ahead, but the scars that mark us have all turned into the finest gold. 

Oh your lovely words… the story you told. I look at it all and think, what would have been lost if you had not been so inclined? It is fair, this love of ours, like your lovely skin.

It makes me cry to see how it all worked out. How at times we slowed our time together, how we would rush back wher really need, how all the time our hearts were changing and becoming fit to receive this amazing love.

You once asked if you would look back and say, if I had not done this or that would this have happened. We’ll never know, but I am satisfied.