by Ron Savarese
Mother looked at me. I could see she was thinking about whether or not she would allow this. But then she said, “No, not at all. I’ll just step outside for a while.”
Mother walked to the door, opened it, and walked outside. Ava motioned for me to come closer, and she reached for my hand.
“Do you understand what your mother and I are talking about?”
“Yes, I think so.” I said. I looked at Ava. She reached into one of her pockets and pulled out a silver disc, the size of a quarter. On one side it had roses like the roses that ran along the fence in the front of our yard. On the other side it had a circle with a dot in the center that looked like the ring of smoke from my dream.
Ava smiled. She held the disc over her heart for a moment, and then she handed it to me. “Here, I’d like you to have this,” she said.
THE SNOW CAVE
My head jerks and I wake up coughing and gasping for breath. It’s dark again. I’m cold. So cold. I try to move and then I remember the pain in my legs.
My whole body hurts now. Every bone aches. The peace and calm of the cottage, the woman in the rose dress, the little boy, the pastel light and colors from my dream—if it was a dream—are faint, but comforting memories. So I try to hold on to them. I try to go back. I try to fall asleep again, hoping I can get back there. But I can’t.
I try to pull myself up, slowly, gently, ever so slightly, to avoid the pain. When I move, particles of ice and snow bounce off my head and face. I cry. Somebody help me please. Tears flow down my cheeks. Hot, wet, salty water dribbles slowly into the corners of my mouth.
It’s so cold. And I’m afraid in the blackness, and the loneliness, and the despair, and the thoughts of death. I weep. I cry out for help. On and on, until finally, I exhaust myself.
Then out of nowhere, I hear a sound. I know that voice.
“Give me your hand,” the voice says.
I lift my hand high above my head grasping for something, anything. But I feel nothing. Yet I reach out, up into the darkness. But still, there’s nothing.
“Don’t give up!”
“Albert, is that you? Help me!”
I stretch even more. Then I feel fingers on mine and a small hand on my hand, and then two small hands reach in and grab my arms and pull me up out of the cave. And suddenly its morning and springtime and the sun is shining and birds are chirping and I’m standing in a field of tall green grass.
“How did you find me?”
“I heard you calling out. Come on, let’s go!”
The boy stands for a moment and then turns and runs. Is it Albert? If it is, he’s a teenage boy: thirteen or fourteen. I run after him.
“Where are we going?”
“To the river, Paul’s waiting for us,” he says.
Yes, of course, the river. I stop for a moment and look behind me for the hole in the ground and the snow. It’s not there.
“Albert, it is you. Wait up!”
The boy stops, turns, and runs back to me.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, “We have to hurry. Paul’s waiting for us.”
“But what about the man trapped in the snow, what happened to him?” I ask.
Albert blinks his eyes. He tugs on his dungarees to pull them up over his hips. “He’s dying,” he says. “Don’t worry about him anymore. Come on, let’s go!” He turns and runs again through the tall green grass.
We run as fast as we can past the old shamrock tree, past the three barking dogs in their kennels, over the crooked ditch, past the two shanties. The yellow sun blazes in the sky. We run and run. I reach forward to touch the boy in front of me, but he moves too fast.
I feel the sun on my face, the warmth on my skin, and it feels so good. We run until we reach the river. As we approach, I see another boy kneeling on the ground. When he sees us coming, he waves his hand high in the air.
“Come quick!” he yells. “It’s almost ready to launch.”
It’s Paul. He’s building the raft. He kneels on the ground and wraps a long twisted rope around an old whiskey barrel, underneath its planks of wood which are held together with rusty nails and hinges. He pulls the rope tight and asks me to hold the barrel in place while he ties the rope off with a sailor’s knot. “The barrels will make it float,” Paul says. “There, that should do it. Let’s push it into the water.”
We bend together close to the ground and push until the raft slides from the grassy river bank into a shallow cove away from the flowing current of the murky brown water. Albert takes his shoes off and rolls his pants above his knees. He steps into the water and holds onto the raft with one hand.
“It’s cold!” he says, as he wades further into the water.
Paul stands with his hands on his hips as he watches the raft bob up and down. “Look, it works. It floats!” Paul says.
The wooden planks of the raft bob on the water, buoyed by the four barrels. Albert climbs onto the raft, kneels and grabs a rope tied to the front of it. “Okay, now push me into the river.” Albert says.
I stop and look at the sky, at the puffy white clouds. They’re floating like great dollops of whipped cream in a gigantic blueberry milkshake. I remember this day. Then suddenly for a brief moment I remember something else—I remember being trapped in the snow and ice. I realize I’m half-remembering—half-hallucinating. And for a moment, just a brief, tiny moment, I’m back in the snow cave. And then—just as fast, I’m back on the river bank.
I push the raft into the flowing water. And the sun is warm on my face. And we’re together— Paul and Albert and me—all together again. And for a little while it all feels so real and so good. So I push, and the raft floats out into the middle of the river with Albert kneeling and laughing and yelling at the tops of his lungs and pumping his fist and raising a paddle high above his head. “Yes! Yes! It floats. Whoa! Watch me go.”
I feel the pain in my legs and for a brief moment the sky is getting dark and it’s almost night time and I know I’ll have to go back to the snow cave soon.
Paul stands on the river bank and waves to Albert out in the middle of the river. Then he looks at me. “What’s the matter Joe?” he says.
I snap back from the darkness and I’m on the river bank again and the sun is shining. “I’m just taking it all in—that’s all—it’s such a beautiful day—I’d forgotten how much fun we had together.”
Paul opens his mouth and raises an eyebrow and looks at me. I know he doesn’t understand. How could he? I don’t understand either. All I know is I won’t be with him and Albert by the river much longer. But I don’t let on that I know. I play along because it feels so good and so free and I don’t want to go back to the cave. I don’t want to feel the pain and the cold. I don’t want to lie there freezing in the dark. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. And most of all, I don’t want to die.
The raft floats along in the river current. I remember this day now. I’ve lived it. The raft will float slowly until it reaches the merge point, the spot where the faster water from the other side of the low ridge joins it. It will pick up speed and enter the dangerous rapids that lead to Sugar Falls.
Once it gets past the merge point, it’ll be too late. We’ve played down by the river in the springtime many times before and we know the danger of the fast waters that lead to Sugar Falls. It’s a long way to the falls from the merge point, but at that point, the rapids move fast and furious and it will be too late for Albert to recover.
Sugar Falls drops nearly thirty feet onto jagged rocks and ledges. An unlucky man rode a canoe over the falls a few years back; they found his body and pieces of his canoe in the lake a week later. When we were kids we’d shoot our pellet guns at empty paint cans we tied to the trees and floated in the water below the falls. The cans were perfect targets for us as we learned to shoot the pellet guns we all got on the same long-past Christmas morning.
Today Paul has a plan. Albert gets the first ride on the raft because he’s the oldest. Long before Albert gets to the merge
point, he’s going to paddle the raft over to the side of the river bank, to the place where we built our fort, and toss a rope to Paul and me. We’ll pull him over to the side, and he’ll get out and we’ll celebrate our first attempt at sailing a raft on the river. That’s the plan. But that’s not what happens. On this day, just at the point where Albert begins to paddle to the side of the river, something unexpected happens.
“Okay Albert! Start paddling this way!” Paul yells.
Paul and I run along the bank of the river and follow the raft, and Albert.
“Meet me at the fort!” Albert yells.
Paul jumps into the air, pumps his clenched fist several times, looks up and yells into the sky, “Look at him go!”
The river flows fast and carries the raft along as small ripples of white water appear. This is well beyond the spot where Albert is supposed to begin paddling to the fort. But he’s having fun. He’s caught up in the excitement.
Suddenly, one of the planks cracks and a whiskey barrel breaks away. “Albert—the raft—it’s coming apart!” Paul yells.
The raft splits in two. Albert tries to move onto the larger of the two parts. His foot slips. He falls into the water. He’s under for a long time. He comes up gasping. The current pulls him down. We see his head above the water. We yell, “Grab the barrel!” He reaches for it, goes under, and comes up again. We see his arms wrapped around the barrel. But he is close, too close, to the merge point.
“We have to help him Joe!” Paul yells.
Albert rolls in the water, arms clutching the barrel, but the barrel is slick and smooth and hard for him to hold on to. He’s grasping at it, trying to use it to float. Just beyond the merge point, far ahead of us, he’ll have only one chance to grab a large tree branch hanging from the other side of the riverbank just a few inches above the water, almost in the middle of the river. The branch has been hanging over the water for almost a year. We couldn’t get to the other side to see how it fell, but we told ourselves it was probably hit by lightening.
Albert streams along, bouncing up and down in the water. He sees the branch coming. He raises a hand and tries to hold on to the barrel with the other. The branch is coming up fast, and quickly he’s under it. He lunges for it, and he has it. The branch bends and cracks, but it holds him. The barrel slips away and tumbles toward Sugar Falls.
“He did it! He grabbed the branch!” Paul yells.
Albert holds onto the branch with both hands. He breathes fast. It’s not possible for him to swim to us because the current is too fast and he doesn’t have the strength left. But when he tries to pull himself further up the branch, it sags into the water. He’s stuck. If he doesn’t hold on, the current will take him over the falls. The branch is cracked and slowly splintering. We have to do something to help him.
I know exactly what to do. We keep an old inner tube with a rope tied to it on a tree near the merge point. I’ll run get it, and throw it to Albert, and we’ll pull him in. I see it clearly. The only problem is, for my idea to work, Albert will have to let go of the branch.
“Paul, meet me at the point. I’ll grab the tube. Tell Albert I’m on my way!” I run to the tree as fast as I can, untie the tube, and run to the merge point. When I get there, Paul is standing on the riverbank yelling to Albert, telling him I’m on my way.
I heave the tube into the water but it doesn’t make it far enough for Albert to reach. I pull the tube back and try throwing it again. It still doesn’t make it. The only way it’s going to work is for Albert to let go of the branch and swim. “When I throw the tube, let go of the branch and swim to it!” I yell.
Paul kneels on the ground, cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Let go Albert—let go and swim to the tube!”
Albert tries to pull himself up out of the water and further up the branch, but the branch cracks even more.
I yell, “No, don’t pull the branch—it’s going to break!”
Albert is scared. He’s cold and I know he’s tired. I look at Paul. I have another idea. If Paul can tie the inner tube rope around a tree, I can swim the inner tube out to Albert, and try to coax him to let go of the branch and swim to me. When I have him, Paul will pull us in. It’s our only chance. I tell Paul the plan. “I’m a better swimmer than you, but you’re stronger,” I say. “If I can get to him, you can pull us in.” Paul agrees. He ties off the rope quickly and within seconds I’m in the cold water swimming with the current, toward Albert.
When I get close enough, I yell at Albert to let go. But he’s scared and he’s holding on tight to the branch.
“You have to let go and swim to me Albert—the branch is going to break!”
Albert doesn’t listen, or maybe he can’t hear me. He lunges at the branch, but the counter-movement pushes him under the surface. The branch is going to break at any moment.
“Albert, let go of the branch—swim to me—grab my hand!”
“I can’t! I can’t! I won’t make it to you,” he wails.
Water splashes in my eyes and gushes into my mouth. I spit it out. I’m within a few yards of Albert’s outstretched hand. “You can do it Albert—just let go, I’ll grab your hand.”
“No, no—I can’t!” He begins to cry: big wrenching sobs of fear and frustration.
“You have to let go. The branch is going to break.”
Paul stands on the riverbank, holding the stretched rope, ready to pull us to the shore. “Let go Albert! Let go!” he yells.
And then I’m in the snow cave again. It’s dark and cold and I hear Paul’s words, but the words are softer now, muted and gentle. “Let go—Let go,” Paul says. And I realize it’s me that needs to let go. I’m hallucinating and I’m dying. I’m between life and death and memories and dreams.
There’s a part of me that wants to be rid of the pain and the cold and the suffering—the part of me that wants to die. And there’s a part of me that wants to hold on, and that’s the part of me that clings to life, the part of me that wants to live. And I see it all so clearly: the enormous struggle between holding on and letting go. I see how I held on to things in my life that no longer served me even when I knew it was time to move on.
I see how I held on to what was safe and comfortable rather than letting go and following my heart. And in this moment I know. But how can I let go now. What will that mean? Will I die? Or will a part of me that no longer serves me die? I don’t know. I’m just like Albert in the river, clinging desperately to what I think is safe.
I hear the words again. “Let go! Let go!” And slowly the darkness fades and it’s bright again and I’m back in the river splashing and reaching for Albert’s hand and begging him to let go of the branch.
Albert tries one more time to pull himself up. He lunges upward in a desperate attempt to climb the branch to safety. There’s a loud snap. The branch breaks with Albert clinging to it, and Albert and the branch begin to float away.
“Let go Albert!” I scream.
Albert lets go and lunges toward me. His sinks below the water and thrashes his arms and legs in a desperate attempt to reach me. I feel his fingers scratching my hand. I feel his fingers on my forearm and I grab his arm and pull him toward me. He wraps his arms around my neck and his legs around my back. Paul sees him and he pulls on the rope using those big strong hands and arms, and brings us in.
When we get to the edge, Paul drags us onto the wet ground. Albert and I flop onto our backs and gulp air. Paul sits and looks at us. Then he looks at his hands, red and raw from rope burns. The sun is warm on my face as I lie on the ground, my chest pounding for breath.
But once again the scene begins to fade.
“Wait, where are you going?” Paul asks, as he tips his head to one side. “Stay here with us.”
“Can’t you stay just a little longer, Joe?” Albert asks.
But my time is up. The blackness sets in again and Albert and Paul and the river are gone. I’m back in the snow cave, in the darkness, with the pain and the terror, shi
vering and shaking, desperately and tenuously holding on to my life. And then, almost effortlessly, I drift into the other dream, or the unconsciousness, or whatever it is that’s keeping me alive.
1960
Ava was sad that day. I saw it in the way she smiled; the way she tilted her head and held her lips together, barely moving the corners of her mouth upwards in the semblance of a smile. The lines around her mouth ran in shallow crevices to her chin, threatening to hold her face in contempt at any sign of joy. She had aged in the five years since our first meeting.
On that day, as on many other occasions, we walked the path of herb-strewn stones that lead to the greenhouse just a short distance from her cabin. When we went in, as usual, I pulled my spiral-bound sketch book from my book bag and placed it on the table.
What was it? What had her so absorbed? Maybe she’d had a dream: a dispatch from another dimension, a bulletin from a hidden realm. She’d called them all of these things, over time. She was prone to these sudden revelations, she said. Part of her curse, she said. She made light of it sometimes when she was happy. And yet, she told me they were serious and precise when they came: these visions.
Some brought warnings of illness or misfortune; others brought promise of new beginnings or goodwill. But when they brought a message of certain death or impending doom to someone she loved, she mourned. And the sadness showed. She couldn’t conceal it. That much I had learned as she intensified her teachings during the previous six months.
She knew she could do nothing about the foreboding message when it came. The event could not be altered, the outcome could not be changed, the consequence had been established. It will be as it must be, she said. She could only take the insight into her soul and harbor it. She sat on it, the way the robin on the rose trellis sat on her chicks, guarding the fledglings from the gray striped cat who lurked underneath.
That day she told me she would teach me more about the significance of dreams and premonitions, and later, about the flow of time. That was her real gift, she said. When her insights began, she no longer talked much about her healing remedies. Now, except for a few varieties of medicinal herbs, vegetables and flowers took up most of the space in the glass room.