My Forever on a Lavender Wind
Autumn was dripping into the atmosphere on whispering little winds — the types of winds that scratch the corner of your ear and then kiss your sweaty scalp, like an uninvited lover. A house stood on the edge of the forest, and it was a molting sort of thing. Lead paint in crinkling crow’s feet on the warped siding gave the whole structure the appearance of a sagging elephant hide. A weathered chimney jutted from the peeling shingles. This place I call my home, and this home calls me its own.
That night, the moon was a colorless orb, and I could almost see the string that suspended it from the clouds. My lawn was a dance floor of unkempt bodies which writhed in the breeze, smothering the crickets. The silence was the type that bores into the windows as though begging to be let in, but the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall sealed the spots where the caulk may have been failing.
My nights are dull events, passed by traveling from my bedroom to the parlor to the kitchen and then back, and then acting as though it was all some grand adventure. The brittle floorboards that creak under me could be the growling of a lioness, and perhaps the whistling of the banister is a splendid tropical bird. Once my journey is complete and the perils have been beat, I lean against my counter and breathe on the linoleum. I engrave the fog with pictures until they’re erased by a new layer of steam. My tea is ready.
I like to watch the boiling water breathe into the atmosphere, and I divine figures and symbols from the unfurling fronds of steam. As I read the steam tonight, I see a flock of geese fly softly into the horizon, and I watch as a dog bounds toward me from the woods. Now foggy eyes stare into mine — the eyes of my grandparents, and my older sister, and a few faces I don’t recognize. A dull sensation of dread grips me around my ribs. Sometimes this empty old house surrounded by the ancient old woods feels less than empty, even though the only bodies in here are mine and perhaps the lonely mouse.
Of course, this sensation is not quelled by the sound of a light snap behind me. Both the steam before me and the very soul of my body dissipate instantly as I turn to face the emulsified back window. The only sight that greets me is the yellow kitchen lights and my own scared reflection, warped in the window like a rip-off of “The Scream.” I pivot back around to face my tea again (writing off the disturbance as the result of an unsettled house), and I place my quivering hands on the counter to steady them. My reflection comes to me again in the circular surface of my drink, and the liquified lights that halo my head give me the look of being on fire. I spin my cup to wash the image away and I drain half the jar in a single gulp.
Lavender and herbs melt away the chills that have nothing to do with the imminent autumn, but I still feel those fingers on my ribs. My eyes ricochet in their sockets as I shake my head, trying to sift out the unsettledness. In any case, though, it’s about time for me to trek upstairs and go to sleep. My empty jar joins the waiting room of dishes in my sink, and I put to rest the lights on my path to the stairs. The windows present to me one last time the woods standing sentinel outside, but seeing nothing abnormal, I take my ascent. Ghost-like curtains rustle to me a goodbye.
The door of my bedroom clicks gently to a close behind me as I fall onto my sheets. Plastic stars that glow in the dark wink down at me from the ceiling, and I make a mental note to call my brother in the morning. Ursa Major and Leo, which are stenciled above me, are remnants of when he lived here, but he’s far away living his own life in the big and loud city with its big and loud lights. I roll on my side to face the nightstand, where my parents wave to me from a plexiglass window with a polystyrene frame, and a navy melancholy replaces my violet dread. They have their own life now, too, and I am all alone in this skeletal grey house. Except for the lonely mouse that chews on the furniture.
Sleep lays itself on top of me like a thick, dusty blanket. After a while, the veiny red curtains that shutter my eyes are replaced with a luminous woodland scene. I am in a clearing in the woods that I do not recognize. Trees form a wall around me, and their leaves are glittering like a kaleidoscope of green. A stream that seems to be filled with molten copper rushes in a curve around my feet and then into the dark trees again. My spirit is robed in a flesh that is not mine, but similar, but better. Skin that is bronze has been painted over strong bones. Hair like molten chocolate pours gently over my forehead. Perfect teeth support a perfect smile that completes a perfect face. I am a ruler of sorts, and this space is my domain.
Curiosity, however, is a fickle mistress, and I am compelled to exit my oasis and enter the verdant desert. Even in the shade of the trees, this reality seems to be suffused with a gentle glow. Flecks of gold which percolate the leaves glance off my face as I walk. This place is remarkably like the woods at my house, but simultaneously the full opposite. Birch trees and evergreens and willows lean all together even though they do not belong. A sparrow rests on the head of a lynx as though they are not wired to be foes. This place is heavenly, yet I feel as though there is a poisonous vignette around my technicolor dream. Like a rare stone with a spider underneath. This suspicion is confirmed by the appearance of an odd house.
It’s a squat and barbaric little thing. Appearing more like a mound of stones than a building, the house declares its identity only by four twisted windows set deep into the wall and a triangle of moss like a hat perched on top. My heart begins to slap an urgent rhythm against my sternum, but my brain is numbed in this universe, and I am blissfully unbothered, entirely against my will. Tiny sticks like fragile bird bones snap underneath my feet as I circle the house. The dark orifice which is masquerading as a door is marked by a fox skull fixed to the top, and the trail of feathers and teeth that halts in front of it. Once again, my senses cry out in apprehension — blood rushes against my eardrums like an ocean of cicadas — but my eyes just blink in unison with the movement of my feet as they carry me to the hovel. My knuckles collide with the plate of bark.
In a millisecond which could have contained a millennium, the door folds inward and my grandfather steps outward. His skin is a gaunt hide stretched loosely over ancient bones. The crown of his head is scabby and bald, and his eyes are like two tunnels. Worn-sheer overalls hang like curtains from his shoulders. I look at him in the same way one may look at a second-hand shirt about which they are still unsure. An interaction is imminent, but any words I may have to say seem lodged in between my lungs and my uvula. The sunlight seems to pool between us with a malevolent brightness, and the cicadas in my ear reach a fever pitch, like a bassline pressing into drywall or a riptide about to break. Just when I think this whole universe may implode with the pressure of it all, his molding lips separate to reveal a hash of yellow teeth.
He seems to be speaking very rapidly, but nothing is meeting my ears except a solid wall of silence. I narrow my eyes and lean forward in an attempt to make out some hint of sound, and his matchstick arms grip my neck with a surprising force. He seems to be yelling now, and an earsplitting whistle bores through the silence and into my brain. Then, with the force of an engine roaring to life, the cicadas return as a blistering cacophony. Trees and rocks as they are stacked around us are all dyed amber, and the world appears to be on fire. I am certain my skull is about to snap in two. My brain certainly cannot withstand this pressure. My ears are bleeding, and then my eyes, and then —
A sea of linen is waving serenely around me, and my hair falls limp with sweat. My normal pallid arms force me into a sitting position as my lungs inhale with force. The dark room around me is a simple eggshell blue. In comparison to the dream, this place seems almost matte. No whistling or buzzing or shouting meets my ear; the ticking clock is the only thing I hear. A slat of silver-white is projected on the wall from my uncovered window. I breathe at it for a moment to force myself into reality, and I begin to feel at ease.
Until a figure appears, silhouetted in the moonbeam. Disregarding the rapid beating it had been trying all night, my heart seems to stop beating altogether. I am gripped by a desire to both turn around and run straight forward. My legs choose a compromise for me as I leap from the bed to the ancient wooden floor and back away from the window. As I move towards the door, my eyes initially cannot locate the figure from the shadow. Nothing outside the window is abnormal; it’s the tall forest like the entrance to a dark maze standing silent outside, as always. Then, I see something else standing silent outside. Blending in with the trees, a figure stands looking at me. It’s pale and formless, yet tall and thin. It stands thirty feet tall with stilt-like legs that should be too flimsy to support it. Boneless arms hang nearly to the ground. I regard it in the two black holes that must be its eyes.
In that moment, centuries pass, rotating rapidly like miles of film. A buried memory is conjured up to me. Little fingers carving swirls into a bearskin rug as it is illuminated by an orange hearth. My dear old grandfather, with a crown of winter snow, makes his way out the door to go collect some water. I hated that well water, because it always tasted of rust, but it tasted like love, too. But it was a love I was never meant to taste again. Grandfather never came back, and all they ever found was a tangle of white hair. At once, the air was thick with whispers of “the Carolina Walker,” and the terrible things it did to lonely people. It feeds off sadness, you see. And it seems like the Walker has come to have a feast with me, as my skin catches fire. I think I’ll go make it some tea.
