James Friedman
Summer wind ran in currents, taking the night air by surprise. An ambush spoken in gusts turned trees into metronomes, swaying side to side in harmony. The scout was curious, and, luckily enough for him, he was alone. The trek through the sunken gardens, the pathway to his hidden “Terabithia”, was always best made by himself. It was his own little world; one he could only share with the fireflies and the moss. The colorful stones glittered in the rock beds overrun by gentle streams, and once he passed the gardens, he made his way due east past the cemetery. There the bushes danced ever so subtly as if the spirits all around were trying their best to hide their excitement for the boy. He crossed the limestone graves, the mausoleum, and the old rickety bridge, to finally make his way down the hill on the far side of the yard. As the harvest moon rose in the night sky, a portrait was drawn, and the boy could see the signs of Terabithia all around him. He was closer now, closer to the heart of the forest, the place where he once followed the migration of the red flares so long ago. He descended into the brush, only to stumble upon a clearing he had yet to see before. Clusters of pines laid the perimeter to a small pond reflecting the pale moonglow, and patches of tall grass spanned the grove, demanding exploration of the darkness ahead. The grass flowed evenly in the wind, whispering secrets and promises in a language the boy could only hope to understand. He passed the green blades, his arms outstretched, his hands riding the surf of the emerald sea he found himself in, and as he passed, the mayflies began to take flight, leaping from their terrestrial home and blossoming into the wind, fluttering like autumn leaves dancing in the air, hovering like notes in sheet music. The dancers led the scout to the water’s edge, where he removed his shoes, his socks, and his precious sash, and dove into the murky waters. He had practiced this dive for months. Holding his breath at the pool, in the bath, at the beach, he had often scared his relatives, but now he felt no fear at all. Two minutes passed before he reached the bottom of the depths.
It was dark there. Blacker than the pupil of the eye. Thicker than cataracts. Thicker than the wrists of a butcher drawing back to slice veal. There are some who say that Earth’s waters are more unknown to us than the inky palette that rests beyond, peppered with stars and nebulae. The difference between the nothingness in space and the absence of all in the bosom of that pond was this: you are weightless in space. But the boy felt the pressure build with every stroke, felt his head pounding, his ears burning, his lungs void of all but a scream that could not be let out. And as he drifted deeper below, he sensed less. He could not see any light from above. There was no luster in the mud bed below. If he stopped now, he would not be able to tell the end from the beginning, the past from the future. All was lost in the depths. All but one thing. Him. Why? Because he had a promise to keep. And that was when he felt the sightless touch of the nameless pondweed, who knew only darkness, who had never seen or felt the face of a boy before. They were both blind in the pitch. Him and the weeds. It gently folded against his arm to tell him, silently, what he needed most.
“Here”
Touching the muddy floor below, he began to scrounge, feeling his way in the darkness, hoping beyond hope that the prized object was there. And how warmly he was rewarded. He felt the grip in his hands and shook with excitement. Bubbles expelled from his mouth, and in a panic, the boy realized how far it was to reach the surface. Securing the prize in a tight grip, he looked up and swam with fervent determination. Though he struggled to maintain a straight path, he would not let the darkness deceive him. He was not to be lost in this sea; he was sure of that. This was not his grave, he told himself. He was to be buried under his mother’s willow tree, for the pond he was only a visitor. And the boy was intent on keeping his promises. His vision blurred, his shoulders trembled, he resisted with all of his might the desperate call to open his mouth and breathe in the water around him. But he was a scout, a son, a sturdy little soldier. A little soldier: that was what they called him when he said he’d walk until the end of the night to find it. Every day, for the past two years. This war of his was far from over. The darkness was dense, the hole in which he swam was a void. Truly nothing. He was not going to surrender to nothing. He knew better. He was going to Colorado this summer; he was going to be promoted to bear scout. He recited his oath, his promise to always remain curious, to never, ever surrender. And upon his third recitation did he make his return to the world above. He broke the boundary of the water and took on violent gasps, choking, fighting his way to the shore, where he coughed, rolled over on his stomach, and threw up a bluegill. He took in oxygen for the first time in 300 Mississippis, an achievement that boosted his pride, which he promptly swallowed in terror. “Is it still here!”, he thought to himself. He flipped himself over, frantically, trying in his frenzy to locate the treasure. He found its red handle floating at the water’s edge. He rushed over to grab it once again in his hands, and immediately all his fears were suspended. He had found it, just as he knew he would. He pulled it from the shallows, doing well to wipe the mud from the muzzle, yanking the grass and slime from the handle. Its red gleam once again showed. The name “Cusk” engraved on its side. It was a flare gun. It was Rachel’s flare gun. He had finally found it, after all this time. Though she had since moved away, the scouts had always remained adamant in finding it, so that one day they could continue their game. Overjoyed, the young boy picked his satchel from the grass and removed from it a singular flare. He fired the shot North, deeper into the woods, and held his head high, proud of his achievement. He could not wait to tell the other boys of his discovery. But before he would radio them, before he would return home to find the dismay of his parents, who were always troubled by his midnight arrivals, he would press further into the forest, following the path of the flare’s migration. He’d follow it all the way to where it made itself home, whereupon he would drop the gun, and leave it at its new resting place. Just like Rachel did two summers ago.