Out of The Woods (4 page)

Finding the trail was simpler than she expected. After the first few hesitant steps, it became obvious, and she wondered what she’d been worried about. Leaves crunched gently under her feet, dusty brown, vibrant red, orange as warm as a campfire. The different colors were a wonder. Walking with Fernando, they had all been brown. She had never taken the time to look before.

A line of ants moved across the path, and she stopped to watch. They were carrying food over their heads to their nest in a tiny ant convoy. Careful not to crush them under her heavy boots, she stepped over. It was so easy not to do harm. All it required was paying attention.

Soon the going became effortless, and she made quick progress. Without the weight of the backpack, her step had more of a bounce, and her arms swung freely. The air was still, and she felt an unexpected sense of peace. She stopped and slowly removed her long-sleeved t-shirt, breathing deeply, taking her time to tie it around her waist on top of the windbreaker. She smiled to herself and resumed walking.

I like not having to look at Fernando’s back all the time. I never realized how much he blocked the view. The trees look like they’re lifting their arms to encourage me. It’s like walking inside a cathedral.

Near her legs, there was a sudden crackle in the bushes, followed by the appearance of a large bird in full flight. Halley jumped. Through a clearing in the trees, the bird flew to the wide sky above.
That was an eagle
. It weaved in the sky until it disappeared from view. She continued on.

A few moments later, the trail took a sharp turn to the right, and began to track steeply downhill. The gradient made her speed increase, first to a faster walk, and then – as she was reminded of the joy of speed – she increased the speed herself to a spirited run. It was not a fleeing sort of run; it was a run of celebration. The exhilaration of running downhill! There it was, in the sound of her feet on the loose leaves, in the sweat that formed on her brow and arms. The world flew by in a fast-moving blur, and the ground slid effortlessly beneath her. She skirted rocks covered with green moss, not slowing her pace, but moving side to side like a Billy-goat down the steep slope.

The downhill ended abruptly, and she slid to a halt. A set of rough-hewn stone steps led upwards. With the back of her hand, she wiped the sweat from her forehead. The steps were steep and large – she’d have to stretch her legs to climb them. It looked like they carried on to the top of the hill. She began to climb, the muscles in her thighs burning. Fifteen minutes later, she came to a lookout, where she stopped to catch her breath, hands on her knees, panting. Sweat ran down the groove in her back. The view was masked by thick cloud.
On a clear day, I’d be able to see exactly where I am, or at least where the forest ends
. She made her way across the lookout. The trail continued down the other side of the hill. It was steeper, and she loved the bounding down, leaping from one leg to another, keeping her footing, keeping her balance.

When she reached the bottom, she kept running, following the path through the trees. The ground was studded with small rocks, which were the perfect footing for pushing off, and she augmented her run with a few extra leaps and bounds. As well as rocks, underfoot were pine needles. The scent reminded her of Christmas.

Further on, the trail became grooved, as if water flowed down the center of this trail in rainy times. Halley stayed on her toes, one foot on either side of the upraised edges of the groove, adjusting to slight variations in the terrain. It was like dancing at speed with an agile partner, a meditation in motion. Her breath came fast, but she moved with assurance, with an underlying sense of knowing that this sprint through the woods would take her exactly where she needed to go.

The waterfalls that crossed the trail came as a surprise. Gushing down the hillsides, they made the footing more treacherous. She slowed her stride, until finally coming to a halt on a stone bridge with worn wooden railings, where she stopped, breathing hard, to observe one of the more dramatic waterfalls. The outside edges of the falls were bounded by large, black rock, furred with green and yellow lichen. Bushes and small shrubs held on as far as they dared. At the inner face of the waterfall, where the water roared down thickly, only weedy grass could survive, growing tightly in rock crevices, hanging long and lush and rebellious in the abundance of fast-flowing water. Halley imagined climbing up the waterfall, feeling the cool flow of the water against her skin, using the bushes and rock to pull herself up. Her eyes moved downward to explore the river bed at the base of the falls. “Butterflies…” she whispered, in surprise.

Hovering over or resting upon the rocks, were a multitude of butterflies, their wings the blue of sapphire. They were outlined by the finest of black lines, as if drawn in at the last moment with the thinnest brush of a very careful artist. This black edging gave them just the slightest bit of substance, for their blue seemed ethereal and holy. Grouped together as they were, they made the world seem abundantly full of butterflies. Gossamer-winged. The river lent a slight, wispy fog to the air. Halley stood and watched the butterflies, her brow suddenly furrowed with concentration.

“Butterflies! Butterflies!” she was shouting. She was four, and her voice had the enthusiasm and volume of someone new to the wonders of the world. “I’ve never seen so many butterflies in my whole life!”

Her father smiled as he raised a finger for quiet. “Shhh – you’ll scare them off. These are called Ceylon Blue Glassy Tigers.” He paused, as if for emphasis. “They’re a very special butterfly.”

Her daddy knew everything! All about plants and all about some strange place called Asia, and even how to climb the rocks that surrounded their mountain home. She knew this because of the thrilling bedtime stories he told her, all about his adventures.

And now it seemed he knew about butterflies too. He held her small hand tightly in his large one, and she felt very safe, and very, very loved.

Halley – the grown-up Halley – was shaking: her parents were dead. Their memories were carefully tucked away, like a cherished wedding dress preserved in tissue paper. As if they would crumble if taken out and held, turn to dust in her fingers. The memories of how much they had loved her were tucked away so tightly that she could no longer feel the strength of their love. Or, more importantly in her view, the pain of their deaths’.

The butterflies made her miss her father with a sudden, wrenching ache. Grief soared through her, flaming and searing. Her arms wrapped around her of their own accord.

I still don’t understand death. I could never really believe I wouldn’t see them again. Speak to them again. The finality of that silence between us unfathomable. Unbearable.

She watched the butterflies, and rubbed the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

I don’t want to look. I don’t want to think of them.

Nevertheless, the memories came fast: her father riding a bicycle he’d altered so he could sit upright to see more of the world; her mother buying the most useless, most vibrant items at neighbors’ garage sales; their Sunday walks; the cluttered home that never got light no matter how many lights they switched on.

So much I miss. So many things I wanted to say, that I’ll never get to.
She closed her eyes.
So many things in my life they will never get to know. Why did you have to die, damn you!

When she opened her eyes the butterflies were still there. Her stomach wrenched with the urge to throw something into their midst. She swallowed hard and looked down at her muddy green hiking boots and the rough stone bridge under her feet.

The butterflies flew: they were not concerned with her anger; they were simply butterflies.

“I love you, very, very much.” Her mother had written that in a birthday card. Halley had forgotten about the card, until she’d found it years and years after her mother’s untimely death, as she searched for herself in a box of mementos.

I love you very, very much,
Halley thought.
That doesn’t stop, does it, that love? I’ve got to believe it doesn’t stop.

She raised her eyes to the butterflies, and found her anger was spent, as if it had spread out among the rocks and the water, had lit upon the wings of the butterflies and been lifted away.

But the grief remained.

She watched the butterflies, feeling heavy and unable to move.

Some of them were at rest on the river stones, while others flew gently above. Some landed for only a moment, and others stayed for a long, long time. Like souls, living different length lifetimes. As if earth and heaven were that close, that one could simply alight from a stone and flutter above. And land, and flutter, and land. Could the difference between living and dying be so simple, so free of pain? Could death be nothing but a lifting off, a fluttering above?

Maybe they are right here with me. We love you, very, very much.

Standing on the stone bridge, she slowly un-wrapped her arms, suddenly conscious of the way she had been holding herself together. She placed warm palms onto the cool wooden railing of the bridge. Here, I leave my grief. She felt it flow from the cavities of her heart, down the blood vessels in her arms, into her long fingertips, and from there, into the railing of the bridge. From the bridge, it ran into the landscape, which was surely large enough to hold it. She let her hands drop to her sides.

She stood still a long moment, thinking and then rested her hands again on the bridge rail. “And here, I also pick up my joy.” This time she closed her eyes, and let joy and life pulse through her.

After a long moment of silence, she opened her eyes. The butterflies were still flying, but they were bluer than before. She allowed herself a small smile.

The pools of water below the butterflies looked cool and inviting, a welcome contrast to the heat of her tears. She took a deep breath, and bent down to the nearest pool. It was invigorating to splash her face and arms with water. The dirt that had caked on her slid off in long white lines. She drank deeply.

She was about to break into a run again, but she paused.
Mom and Dad would have told me to take care of myself out here
. She filled her canteen, capping it carefully. T
here, that will get me a little way at least.
She began to run again, feeling stronger and better fueled.

The black edging of the butterflies had soaked up much of her grief; their soothing, ethereal blue wings stayed with her, and lifted her as she ran.

Gradually, the dirt of the path changed from brown to a warm, brick red. It was studded with rocks, perfect for dancing along at a fast pace. When the path turned uphill, she slowed to a jog. Ferns unrolled long fronds into the moist air. Large leaves shaped like elephant ears were abundant. The solitude was up-lifting. She’d often wanted to run through the woods alone, but had always been afraid. Once, she’d seen a tall woman on a trail like this, running fast, with an air of confidence, of fearlessness. A golden aura protected that woman, an aura of the woman’s own making. Halley’s eyes had followed her as she moved off. She longed to be that free.

And now…now she was! She laughed with delight, and continued to run until her need to run was satisfied.

When she finally slowed to a walk, her pulse dropped quickly and her breathing began to quiet. The trail continued. The leaves crunched under her boots like old friends.

I haven’t felt this way in so long. It’s like I’ve returned to my body, after being away for a very long time.

The woods now seemed reassuring and welcoming. It was a glorious moment. She breathed deeply of it, drawing it in. The urge to turn back was gone. She stayed with this feeling, feeling its foreignness, embracing it. It had to do with releasing her anger and her grief, with picking up her joy. Finally, she stopped walking. She reached her arms up in the air, stretching her body tall, lifting her eyes to the tree canopy above, lifting her chest, as if praying.

As she lowered her arms, her eyes lit on her left hand, and she felt a sudden jolt of alarm.

I used to have a ring, didn’t I?

A strange buzzing filled her ears and gripped her with a sense of panic.

What’s happened to it? How come there’s not even an indentation to show where it was?

Holding her left hand in her right, she stared hard at the finger where the ring should be. It was hard to see – with dismay, she noticed the fading light. It was getting dark. Fast. She looked around her with rapidly growing unease.

The sun had already moved below the tree line, and the sky was becoming overcast. Suddenly night was here, leaping out at her from the shadows. Even as she let her hand fall back to her side, the trees were fading from green to grey; soon, they would be black. She felt a chill of fear, augmented by the suddenly noticeable coolness in the air.
It must be because I’ve stopped running. I need to put on more clothes.
Quickly, she pulled her long-sleeved t-shirt over her head, and slipped the orange windbreaker over the top, noting with dismay that the shirt was still damp. The extra layers didn’t help; she quickly began to shiver. Trying to generate warmth, she rubbed her hands together. Her fingertips would soon be turning white as her body preserved heat for her core. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath and looked around.