Trembling With Fear 12/16/2018

Spring

He stands at the edge of the clearing amongst his brothers and watches the

horizon slowly stub out the sun, spitting fire. Smashed idols and thrown crimsons paint

the sky and he smiles. He hears the crickets hum their legs together and warm the

ancient chorus as shadows stretch and pool in periphery. He feels the air convulse

once–twice–and become still. He stands as his father and his father before.

As the sun disappears the wind picks up again and he smiles. She will hear his

song.

The girl appears in the distance, her image wavering and curdled against the sky.

She carries a book in her twisted hands and her hair is bundled and messy; tied like

straw above her head. Her shadow grows long and flickers and leaps over the stones

and tall-grass as she begins to run. The line of trees at the far end of the plot grows

closer and in that moment one might be unsure if it were they or the girl in motion. The

sky looms and lists drunkenly as insects buzz, suspended in time above the flaking

corpses of trampled grain. The air is tight; alive and expectant.

The girl—and maybe time itself slows, unsure.

He watches and his excitement grows. He will feed his brothers. He will make the

Fathers proud.

 

The girl stops and shades her face. Her eyes narrow and she tilts her head to

hear. Underneath the cricket-hum, through the loping breeze…down, down into the

loamy wormy earth she can feel it in her body. All other sounds fade and her senses

sharpen to a point. The air turns thick and she hears him.

Unearthly and earthy, an alien concerto: his voice is throbbing and sensual. He

sings and she is drawn to him. She sees his smile turn vulpine and she is attracted and

afraid. Every cell of her body is a screaming klaxon but the song pulls at her, all knotty

white knuckled anger that leaves bruises and promises. She sways and begins to lurch

unsteadily toward the tree line. The sun winks out and all goes black.

His task is complete and his brothers have been satisfied. Soon they will be

strong again but for now they slumber and swim through the distant memories and

ancient dreams of the Fathers. He can feel them waiting and whispering across the

cold, inky expanse of abandoned dead and distant worlds. On clear nights he can catch

fragments of their murmurs and tortured thoughts like tinny, ghostly voices from a

static-filled radio. They are hungry and time is short. But for now he will watch and wait

through the frozen winter until grey becomes green and life returns and he will begin

again. They are on the cusp of reunion. All is quiet, peaceful.

This was an easy one, he thinks. Sometimes he has to drag them by their hair.

 

The man wakes in a sweaty fit. A branch rakes against the window, cackling like

a witch and the wind is insane. He gets out of bed, loudly cursing his body, and

stumbles to the bathroom. He pisses and washes his face. Down the stairs, and into the

kitchen, now.

He grips the counter, and opens the twin windows above the sink. The curtains

begin to billow, and he pulls them aside and squints, looking out. The air is

cool–crisp–and he hears and sees nothing but moonlight.

Those trees have got to go. They’re hurting the crops; but it was just a dream, he

tells himself. It will be nine years in November and he still reaches for her in the night.

He stumbles and sees nothing but white lights blinking as his head catches the back of

a chair and he falls to the floor.

A branch reaches through the window and tickles his hand, offering buds. He

coughs, and grabs at the branch and eats from it. The branch begins to enfold him like a

glove and he feels safe. In that cozy place he hears the song, and he begins to hum

along.

The branch grips tighter, kissing his forehead, and the man sucks at his thumb. Now all

is chorus and he hears chanting.

“You will make our father proud.”

Over and over and over.

He can only hold out for so long.

 

The man seems to melt into the floor, seeing visions of alien worlds: where trees

are like people, and people are mouths. The man becomes immobile, and the branches

stretch, groaning; covering his face.