by Beth Goobie
“Hey,” Adrien asked softly. “Did the spirits say anything to you when they passed through?”
Her aunt let out a quick groan of air. “Something I’ve been waiting to hear for a long time.”
“Music?” asked Adrien. “Singing?”
Her aunt’s eyes brimmed with tears. “They used to sing like that all the time.”
“They still are,” said Adrien. “Did you know you’ve got wings on your back?”
“What?” Aunt Erin gave her a confused look.
“Dream wings,” said Adrien. “They suit you.”
Darcie tucked her into bed, full of advice on how to sleep with a broken collarbone. Except for the two of them, the cabin was empty. Other staff were using the free evening to visit family and friends.
“But not me!” said Darcie. “Oh no—I had to welcome my best bud back. It’s been boring here without you, Grouch. No one complaining, pointing out all my problems, rebelling over the tiniest itsy-bitsy thing.”
“You’re a sucker for punishment,” said Adrien. “Did I ever tell you that I don’t like the color of your nail polish?”
“What’s the matter with fucshia?”
“It doesn’t match Camp Lakeshore T-shirts.”
“Blue, green or red?” Darcie demanded, making a face.
“You should try harder to fit in, Spart,” said Adrien. “Be a better role model. Don’t you realize your nails flash in the sunlight when you’re holding a bow? It’s very dramatic. The kids’ll get all confused if the colors are wrong.”
“Let me see,” said Darcie, rummaging through the bottles of nail polish on the dresser. “I’ve got a bottle of forest green.”
“Emerald green?”
“Nope, none of that.”
“Forest, then,” said Adrien, falling asleep.
She woke in the earliest part of morning and lay watching the emerald leaves play at the window. The light was calling to her—she understood without words. Standing, she crossed to Darcie’s bed and kissed her softly on the cheek.
“That you, Grouch?” Darcie asked sleepily.
“Sweet dreams,” Adrien whispered, and her roommate drifted back to sleep. She left the cabin and walked into the woods, huge with the scent of spruce. All about her the day was beginning, flowers showing their colors, birds opening their beaks with song. Beneath her feet, the earth seemed to be humming, restless with its own music. Leaving the trees, she crossed the lawn, her bare feet leaving tracks in the dew. Ahead, the horizon was vast with pink and amber clouds. She passed the clearing where the Wishing Tree stood, and an empty Prairie Sky. Then she was at the ridge. Here, she turned to look back at the place that had taught her how much she was loved. For a moment, she saw each dear one breathing easy in sleep, and sent a wish into their dreams. Then she descended the path that led to the beach. A late mayfly settled onto her bare arm and she let it ride as she walked across the cool sand. The lake was quiet, the storm that had been building for twenty years gone now.
She sat on the sand and stared out at the water. Two weeks ago, when she had first arrived with her parents, she had come to the lake immediately, as if called. It had seemed so familiar, as if she had spent the past two years here, dreaming a deep heavy dream. Now, she had come fully awake.
She could feel the wings on her back; they stretched wide on either side, flickering with colors she had never seen—deeper than black, brighter than white. The mayfly lifted off her arm, flying away. She watched it, wondering how long she would fly—two days? Twenty years? But wasn’t that a question everyone wondered? No one knew when death would come, or how. A long clean breath lifted through her, and Adrien realized she was normal. Maybe the greatest tragedy wasn’t how you died, but how you lived your life. So many people lived in full fear of dying. For her, that had changed. She had seen the spirits pass through; when her death came she would know how to follow. The same joy lived on both sides. It would carry her through.
Adrien stood, took two steps toward the great dreaming water. The gentlest of light touched her brain and she reached with her strong arm, welcoming the horizon.
“I’m alive!” she shouted, and her voice flew across the lake.