But there is nothing, no one. I stand, breathing hard. Fuhh. Why am I even doing this? Not for her. Well, maybe partly for her. Okay, I don't really know why I am. My eyes lose focus, stopping my mind. A small wave laps just shy of my feet. I guess―I guess it is mostly because—he is missing. And the world is lost and broken enough as it is. I cannot stand for anybody else to be gone.
I lean over the cool and silent lake. No, he does not happen to be floating, breath held, just above the shelf of sand. Okay, maybe he was sitting on the hill, and I just didn't see him. Strike two. There are only the shivering poplars. Only ascent or precipitous descent.
The cave! But it is empty. No sign but a pile of acorns, crimson berries, a swatch of black fur. Of human animals, nothing. Oh. But I was so sure.
And now what? Fine, I was totally wrong about this, but where else is there? The village—no, I very much doubt it. Or the other side of the forest, to which I have never been.
Sinking onto a mossy log, I feel like Winnie the Pooh trying to think. Yes, exactly. And just as I have finally decided in a fairly muddled kind of way to head, indeed, for the Other Side of the Forest, the snow begins to fall. You are absolutely right—it is late summer. But such minor details do not matter anymore. The weather does exactly what it feels like. Unless it is that my Winnie the Pooh moment was so powerful, I just created the Mother of all Blustery Days.
Gusts arise, a handful of pellets strikes my face, and I move reluctant under the ceiling of rock edging the cave. After a few minutes of further and increasingly frigid muddle, I give in. I will not be going anywhere else today, not tonight. Already, dark plaits itself into the thin ribbons of cold white; already, the circle of cave behind me shifts and settles, wanting to be pulled around my shoulders like a cloak. Small noises of bird and scrabbling squirrel begin to sound like lullaby. Already, pillowed leaves become blanket and bed.
Questions of the night.
Mom. Underwater. How long? Does she have a clue?
Signor Mondo. Where?
My stone! I can't figure out where I put it.
And what about me?
Certainty. What would that be like?
Suddenly despairing, I look around. Shadows of shadows. Impenetrable air. But maybe yes. The certainty of cave.
Already, sigh becomes yawn, and I fall. Already, sleep.
In cave dream, I find them every one. Benedetto, my father. Mom. And more besides. The finger-sized doll who one day disappeared, never to be heard from again. A red diary from when I was eleven. The best marbles my father still had from his father, and gave one by one to me. The kind of fine order I at one point held within my grasp but never reached. My sweet innocence. That whirling sky above us, that time… A fire of red and gold and green. Stories of buffalo. This almost-peace. This joy. The bear.
Seriously. Only the last on the list remains when I shift, crawl painfully toward light, sit hunched around myself with eyes still closed. Sighing, open them to the wild cascade of snow-turning-rain that curtains the entrance. Blink at a sound behind me, and look back to where I lay. Curled, it would seem from the imprint, against the still-sleeping bear.
Oh. Is this why I am left feeling ponderous but strong, entirely unknowing of danger, safe in my skin? Energies transferred perhaps, in sleep and dream. And what on earth did I give? A massive paw twitches, then curls closed. Another delicate snore. Let me roll again into your loving arms; oh, let me rest.
But day, despite the scrim of rain, moves in; there is no hibernation for my kind; I've miles to go. Bear snuffs and grins (I swear) as I smooth away my bed of blanket leaves, place a spray of berries in the great soft paw, and leave.
Drenched and shaking. Tripping through bunchgrass and sage. Day night day, and Bear becomes memory becomes dream becomes touchstone. As I pound across frozen fields, Bear is the drumbeat; when I spy the footprints that will mean I find my step-father, Bear will be my cry of relief. Tonight, now, under Ponderosa pine, I am falling into righteous sleep, the thought of Bear my blanket and my tent.
Vanilla. Wait, pause on the sleep. How can I be smelling vanilla? Sitting, I open my arms, breathe in. Okay, I remember. Remember as if it was in another Age—Stone, Pre-Cambrian, Industrial, Oil, Post Fuck-up. Which would be when we were realizing the destruction that spun from our spiraling desires. When we began to duck them all, past present future; began to cover our eyes and shield our fragile heads. When still we squinted sometimes hopefully for hope, believed we would survive.
Oh, right—we have. Or, some of us. So far. But that was not my point. Really, what is with the cinnamon, I mean vanilla? As I sniff again, it takes me back to the ancient past of agenda and backpack, bus pass, big city, true love. What I think we called Higher Education. My years as a student. When Land and Food Systems was a degree, Global Food Markets existed, and Fundamentals of Nutrition was a course rather than a distant dream. Hey, I was this close to graduating when the universities shut down.
Never mind. Right. Vanilla. That would have been Agroforestry 101. The field trip to the forested park that shouldered west campus, our uncertain naming of the trees, the careful mapping of old-growth and new- (the disturbing fact that there actually was none of the latter), rain slicking Kai's raven-black hair, the prof explaining that the old trees were resilient to climate change, yay, but, oh dear, not able to reproduce. Our unadorned conclusion: not good. Already in love, I learned that the outside of the Ponderosa pine is like a spice rack—bark like cinnamon-red puzzle pieces, and if you run your finger through a furrow, the dreamy wakening scent of, you got it, pure vanilla…
Wow. Back to reality, Perce. Leave it be.
Waking, I did not know I had intended sleep, do not know if I did sleep; where am I; where is Bear?
My gaze lifts higher and higher into hemlock. No, what am I saying? Through damp air, the perfume of the bark again. Of Ponderosa. We already went through this. And now drops that are more mist than rain slide beautiful, easy down earth-pointing needles, begin to pat gently all around me. One targets my forehead, and I sit abruptly, a mechanical doll, illumined. I know exactly where he is. Change of direction, and I am off.
Layers of cloud, black over gray over almost-white sail over a strip of blue. Unwinding beneath, a green ribbon of forest, waterlogged yellow of bending grass; here and there, the brown bottomland of good earth.
Feet pounding one stratum, arms rising and falling through another, it is as if I am jogging through geological time. Which brings me back, unwilling, to the Ages that I will not, will no longer list. Just let there be another one ahead of us (above, below—it doesn't matter). The Age of Waking Up? In which humanity gives its little head a shake, opens its eyes, and against all odds, eleventh hour plus, survives. The stuff of minor miracle. Begetting the Age of An Actual Liveable Future of Exquisite Sufficiency as Based on the Wisdom of the Past. Or something like that.
At which point, I fall into a hole. As holes go, it is not much of one. Definitely not Alice in Wonderland material. But I am seemingly stuck. Jack-knifed, butt down, in the mud. I gasp, try to get some leverage and can't, start to cry, then laugh. What could possibly be more ridiculous? Seriously, I am a cartoon of absolute stuckness. Metaphor. Epitome. Fool. Let's see… Persephone the Living Cartoon.
In a way, it is actually interesting, until I get hungry and then start needing to pee. Okay, maybe I have not been trying hard enough to get out of here. But apparently I do not have the upper-back strength or the core whatever they call it to hoist myself up. And no, I cannot get my hands over to the sides of the hole for some reverse push-up action—my arms are pinned by my sides and don't bend that way. I need a hand, help, another person to assist me. What a concept. I give up.
Eyes closed. Eyes open. Now all I can think about is that silly white mouse with the teddy-bear. There was this picture online. Sweetly asleep, paws circled around his tiny bear. It was not photo-shopped; I looked it up; his owner actually created these little stuffed animals for him. I made it my scr
eensaver. It made me cry.
Ever immobile, now I am trapped in my scrolling thoughts as well. Why, when we gaze at someone, at an animal, even at our so-called worst enemy, lying safe in sleep, does everything but tenderness fall away?
The innocence, perhaps; their tranquil breath. A picture of the respite we are all longing for. Free, in repose, of the worries and terrors, the unmet needs and here-and-gone joys of wakeful days on Earth. As if pure and simple and whole. I want the mouse to sleep, embracing bear, forever. I want us all to have such peace.
But hello, all I am embracing is myself, wedged in a hole. Just let there be no blizzards. Though dark, I see, is on its way.
I wake up head cricked back against a rock, hands fallen awkward across my chest, legs angled stiff to the pale morning sky. Throat burning, back in severe pain. Unbelievable. And then I hear the footsteps.
Man or beast, lunatic or Bear? There is not much I can do. Step. Stomp. Pad. (At least it is not slither.) I close my eyes. Just get it over with.
Shuffle. Stop. Silence. They are right next to me now. I take a deep breath and squint one eye open, can't do it, try again. Breathe. Focus. Okay, so it is a—
What? No, this is actually not possible. But it is.
"What the—" He draws back, nearly trips himself, recovers. "Whoa. Percy?"
Kai. I turn my head away and work on disappearing. This so cannot be.
"Percy. It is you. Um. Would you like a hand?"
Would I like a hand? No, I am not actually here, can't you see? Would I like a hand? Yes, I would like a fricking hand. Just not your hand. No.
He leans over and touches my shoulder, lightly, kindly, but under these circumstances, kindness is like battery acid. Do this, and you scar me for life.
When sound returns, it is his voice. The sound. No words. My name, perhaps. "Persephone?"
Can I not stay silent, unconscious, still fainted away? Entirely vanish.
"Can you hear me?"
Yes, for god's sake, I can hear you. Now just go. It emerges as a kind of croak. "Gh—go." He does not listen, apparently I have run out of sounds, and then, suddenly, I am under a tree, out of the hole. Joy, until I realize that he has lifted me, held me against him. Held me. This time, a broken wail. "I was finally over you!"
His eyes widen. "But I—"
Dizzy as I am, I sway to my feet. "Stop! Do not say anything. Just go."
And then he laughs. "Stop. Go. Which is it? Make up your mind, girl."
My fist clenches. No—it's good. Good that you have reminded me what I could not stand about you, and now I am safe. I almost smile. "It's Go. You can give me a hug first. Oh, and thank you for the rescue. And Bye."
Confusion makes him stumble again. Never did he understand me. Doesn't matter. I get my hug. He squeezes me once more, then turns. "Okay, well, bye. Watch out for those holes."
"Ha." I lean back against the tree and watch him disappear. And so it is. Now, where was I? Oh yes, running through the strata of time. Which takes me back to the lost-and-found theme, which makes me think of Mom. Where would she be right now? Still underwater; clambering from the hot tub, trying to remember how to engender food; actually recognizing a carrot top, and pulling; letting meditation replace meals? There is no telling, nothing I can do. She's a big girl, by some definitions anyway. Let it go.
And also what the heck did happen to my stone? No answer here either. As I decide to stop the useless questions and stand up, suddenly energy rushes back. One look to get my bearings, and then I am back on the road. Watching out for those holes.
But of course there are no more, and again I slide down paths slippery with pine needles, bracketed by alder and unidentifiable brush and sudden ledges of emerald moss. 'The other other side', my mantra. Pumping, sliding, chanting. And then I am there.
Was I right? I was right. On the far side of that clearing, a figure, a faint voice. I stumble as if pushed from the last border of tall trees, move into the field, converge.
Benedetto. Hands waving wild to the heavens as if I were the Virgin Mary finally returned. Meh. Nevertheless, a pretty sweet welcome.
"Persefone!"
It is one of those miraculous moments. As if this silly name had been waiting all my life to be rejoicingly declaimed in perfect Italian cadence.
"Per-se-fo-ne! Bella!"
And I am in his arms.
Silence roars. His jacket smells like hay. I rest my head, then breathe myself away, step back and hear the click as part of this disconnected world snaps neatly back in place.
He holds me away from him now, smiles as if he maybe just invented me. "Nel mio villaggio, c'era una barca portafortuna col nome tuo…"
'In my village', I don't know, something about fortune, I think. "What's barca?"
"Is boat. The one bringing luck to all our village. Is called Persefone."
"Sweet." I turn toward home.
But he's not finished yet. "Brava. Sei incredibile."
"Sure." There is nothing incredible about me. But I do have a plan, Part B. When we get back to Mom, when harmony has been reinstated (when cows are milked and chickens fed, gardens watered and strawberries picked, bread rising), then maybe I will head out here again and track my dad. Father Finders Unlimited.
"Momento, cara. Fammi prendere la valigia."
It is amazing how much I am starting to be able to figure out. Valigia - valise—ha! suitcase. The crazy thing is he actually means it. Old-school, with fading stickers of Venezia and Agrigento and Hotel Cefalu`, it bangs against his legs as we rewind through field and forest, telling each other tales.
"La tua mamma?" he asks again.
"She's uh fine."
Shaking his head, he puts the suitcase down, raises his palms. "She learn some of the cooking you can eat yet?"
My eyebrows raise, cheeks fill with the absurdity, and we both crack up.
I manage a little flippy Italian-style hand gesture. "But she's fine."
And when we emerge at dusk from woods to wheat field, past pond and now-taller corn, still-toppled swing set, greenhouse, chicken coop, garden, shed; as he waves an arm for me to precede him on the broken path and up the shifting steps; when I hesitate before heading toward the hot tub, yes, I am right.
Setting a dripping branch of lilac into a vase, she turns and gasps. "Perce!" Runs to me, the branch like a banner, crushes it against my back as she enfolds me. "Baby."
"Hey, Mom. We're home." Lilac showers us. Benedetto stands in the doorway like a patient god. Centered on the dining room table next to the vase, I see, is my stone.
Kissing my mother's cheek, I beckon him. "Your turn. Watch out for the lilacs."
"Sei certa?"
"I'm certain." They stand looking at each other, and I scoop up my stone, start to nest it in my pocket, then flip it a couple of times as I head for the back door.
Across the yard, studying it as I go. It is perfect. What do I need with it? I raise my arm, stand momentary like the Javelin Thrower embroidering the hem of your standard Grecian urn, or maybe just a 2020 Girl in Ancient Pose, and skip it fast into the swampy pond. And now?
I wander back to check on the livestock. Chickens filing up onto their roost, and, a miracle, Hattie already milked. Well, a necessary miracle—if Mom hadn't figured that one out, the poor cow would be dead.
I sit with Hattie until dark. "You're not much of a bear, girl, but you'll do." Then I decide that wasn't very nice. I pat her nose but she just studies me for a moment and then goes back to her bit of hay. I forgot—cows are simply cows. And I stay a little longer, breathing in, mooing back, until I hear my mother's husky voice.
"Perce?"
"Yup. Coming, Mom."
Just enough light still. I feel around in the garden for cucumbers and a couple of patient carrots, maybe some lettuce? Part B, Subsection 1: we are at least going to teach her how to make a proper insalata.
Body Paint, Craig Spence
Honorable mention
I should have known at fir
st sight that with Alesha I'd end up in a predicament. But sometimes foresight only whets appetite: the greater the risk, the more appealing the objects of our intentions. At least that's how it worked for me, through high school, university, then a couple of post-grad years too... I always 'rose to the bait' you might say, and proved a bigger catch than any of my adversarial lovers could reel in. That may sound like chutzpah, but I'm not going to apologize. There's plenty of things I've got to atone for, brashness—as opposed to false modesty—won't be among them.
When I first caught sight of her, Alesha was body painting Raoul at her Moss Street booth, transforming him into a hybrid human-tiger. The Moss Street Paint-In, in case you've never heard of it, is a sort of artists' bazaar and carnival that runs the length of the byway it's named after from the Ocean up to the Victoria Art Gallery near Fort Street. That's where her booth was located. Raoul was to be part of her 'Menagerie of Endangered Species', an 'exhibition of visual and performance art expressing the solidarity of humanimal spirit'.
Kevin had emailed me a link to her web site under subject line: 'Tea and Oranges', a characteristic bit of 'wry wit'. See if you can get to know her—in whatever sense of the word is necessary, he directed. Our Alesha is not only a fully fledged member of the loon family, she also sits on the executive council of The Coalition Against Pipelines, the very epicenter of looniness.
Raoul wore a tiger-eared hood. Alesha had striped his back and shoulders copper and black with greasy body paint and was working on his face, meticulously daubing and stroking in whiskers, nose, the deceptively beautiful patterns around the man-tiger's eyes…only Raoul's eyes were green, not gold like a real tiger's, a discrepancy Alesha would later excuse as part of the 'humanimal mix'. His loins and buttocks were scantily covered in a pair of briefs that matched his hood. Raoul's legs were hairy enough in their native form to pass for humanimal, I thought. The get up was convincing in its own way, but only because Alesha's intentions were metaphorical—or so I believed. And Raoul's were something else entirely.
Winds of Change: Short Stories about Our Climate Page 7