The Trail
Anna unloaded her bike, drank in the canopy of green around her then took off down the trail. She ticked away the miles, breathing deeply, smelling the land and the loam, basking in the sheer green of it all. She passed ancient rock walls covered in vines; she could see the layers of rock, limestone, sandstone, and quartz; ageless, passing ‘time out of mind’ and into a ‘when’ where man didn’t even exist—She saw these things and for a moment, felt a part of them, as if she’d stepped back in time, into ‘long ago.’ She leaned forward over the bike’s handlebars, pedaling faster, propelling herself along the shadowed path, eating up the miles the way a stopwatch eats up the minutes, pushing farther away from her grievances with Frank.
She was nearing one of her favorite places along the trail and slowed.
There was a carpet of yellow Forget me Not’s sandwiched between the trail and a giant wall of stone that soared into the treetops. She got off of her bike and walked around the bluff’s edge, gazing up at the rocks coated with moss and trailing vines; she inhaled the scent of the forest. The path forked to the right, declining abruptly into a shadowed tunnel of trees. She’d never noticed this part of the trail, and yet she’d stopped here countless times.
Anna looked towards her bicycle and surveyed the area, confused, perhaps she’d gone further along the trail than she’d realized. A sign next to the path indicated she was 13 miles from the trailhead. This was her customary stopping point, the mile marker left little doubt but it didn’t seem right. The tree tunnel was musty and damp, like autumn rain. The soil grew rocky, the trees falling away from the path in a sheer drop; the forest valley lay far below whispering with shadows. She walked along the cliff’s edge. At the far end of the rock shelf, the path resumed, plunging in a spill of boulders and tree roots. She peered down the natural stairway: tendrils of fog curled around its base; a fine mist had settled into the valley below. Where’s the fog coming from? She worked her way carefully down the crude stairs. The valley was walled in on three sides by bluffs. The rock wall to her right rose a full 30 feet above her. Skeletal trees struggled from its ledges. A delicate green moss covered the cliffs; shimmering the air, as if these ancient stone fortresses were alive and breathing. She felt like a child discovering a secret garden in a Fairy Tale.
A loon’s forlorn cry echoed through the forest. Its eerie call was unsettling.
Anna thought of her older brother; he’d chased the monsters away when she was a child. Mark kept the fear at bay, appointing himself as her guardian angel. He’d even kept an eye on her until she’d graduated from college. They’d been kids then; now things were different.
The loon cried again. Its eerie song rose and fell in a haunting volley between the canyon walls.
Anna looked up at the canyon’s rim, but there was no sign of the bird.
Further down the path was a glade of trees; they formed a small circle among the boulders. Ancient vines hung from the trees, like the jungle. She entered the glade. The mist had formed a caul at the base of the trees. It was otherworldly—Poe’s version of heaven. A place where Christians might exile sinners—fuck religion—Her parents had hidden behind the church’s doctrines in the name of humility and avoided a family legacy they were afraid to face. You couldn’t change the truth no matter where you came from. She’d grown up feeling something was wrong. Her parents had tried to bury that legacy, but it had always been present, like a boil filled with puss. The poison leached out a bit at a time; it couldn’t be avoided. Her brother had known; a painful awareness had settled into his eyes during his teen years and had intensified when he was in his twenties. The poisonings had been too much to handle; he’d been overcome, in and out of mental institutions ever since.
More fog rolled in, ringing the glade in a misty veil.
The loon cried again and was answered by a screeching wail that was almost human, like the cry of an infant or small child. Anna remembered being three or four years old, when she’d been awakened after midnight by a keening wail. The sound had intensified in volume then faded into a pitiful moan, repeating over again. It wasn’t the sound that had disturbed her, but the quality of the cries; if she’d known the word, she would have said the sound was feral; dangerous. She had felt like she was sinking, her belly empty and sick; those moans sounded human and worst of all, they brought her face to face with the secret that her parents were determined to bury, the thing they refused to talk about.
Anna didn’t understand why her parents were so afraid, but she did know that whatever ‘it’ was, it held great power. Those moans had been worse than her fear of the dark that summer evening, because they personified a savage need, an animalistic urge that was out of control.
The birds called back and forth in an echoing question and answer game. She hurried back to the trail; it was time to blow this joint and go back. She climbed several steps, ‘hightailing it’, as her Dad would have said.
The fog was much thicker, making it difficult for her to negotiate the steep path. She stumbled and fell, slamming her knee against a stump. She looked at the damage. There was a rip in her pants, a jagged little hole rimmed with blood.
A metallic whooshing sound cut overhead; it was like an old pair of scissors opening and closing. What the fuck?
She dismissed it. You didn’t hear that sort of thing in the woods. She climbed several more steps, wondering why the rim of the cliff didn’t seem closer then deciding that the fog had distorted her view. An ear splitting mechanical squeal echoed through the canyon, like a madman’s laughter. She felt its vibration before she heard it. Must be a tremor she thought, before the sound of screaming steel slammed into her, sending her running back down the Cliffside, looking for cover. The bizarre squealing stopped as abruptly as it had started. A worm of panic settled into her stomach. It was the same fluttering panic she’d felt the day she discovered Frank was cheating on her. She had been offered a partnership in the firm and had come home early to celebrate. After icing down a bottle of Champaign, she’d headed towards the bedroom and had heard Frank cry out. She’d yanked the door open, thinking he was hurt. Why are the bedcovers on the floor? Was that someone clapping?
Frank stood at the edge of the bed, naked, with his back to Anna, thrusting his hips to a juicy tune of [pop slap] pop slap pop.
Oh my God.
Her thoughts were gibberish. A woman’s laughter penetrated her confusion and at once, she understood two things. Her husband was having an affair and the other woman was her sister.
Anna stepped back, her hand pressed across her lips to stifle a moan. Frank turned around and said, “Hey Sugar, come join us.”
The animation disappeared from his face when he saw Anna.
Anna’s sister was on the bed. Frank looked incredulous, as if he were surprised to find her there. He glanced down at his crotch, eyes widening, as if his family jewels had escaped. What followed was total confusion. Anna’s sister jumped up from the bed, taking the blanket with her; the words tumbling out of her mouth were absurd—something along the lines of, “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Anna barely registered the comment; it was as if her mind had gone into convulsions. She took a step backwards to flee, the voices in her head were screaming, “No no, no…”
Her voice was waging a war inside her head, arguing against what her eyes told her must be true. The bathroom door opened and a young woman with blonde hair emerged, “Are you and Sherri ready for desert?”
Anna looked at the woman with disgust, then at her husband. She’d trusted him and he’d betrayed her. Her eyes ticked over him and onto her sister Sherri, then returned to the woman who’d just exited the bathroom. The scene was like Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew crossed with a Salvador Dali nude painting. A vice like grip of anxiety tightened in her mind; it was a regular family reunion. The blonde woman was her cousin. Anna turned and fled.
A sharp metallic sound sliced through the air and brought Anna back to the present. She looked up into the treetops and didn’t see anything unusual, but whatever it was had ruffled her hair. She shivered; it had sounded like a saw blade or knives scraping steel; if it’d been an inch closer, it would have scalped her. She checked the top of her head, okay, I’m not bleeding. The loon’s conversation had tapered off and an unnatural quiet tethered the air. The mist was thick. She felt walled in, claustrophobic. Water droplets fell from above, slap tapping against the leaves; the fog was condensing into rain. Well good then, soon I’ll be able to see. Something whooshed overhead, stirring leaves up off of the forest floor, disturbing the Loon. The powerful bird took to the air, screaming, and the path directly in front of Anna became a blur of feathers and fear. She threw her hands up and let out a strangled yelp before tumbling backwards. She gasped for air and looked up, following the loon’s awkward trajectory. The bird wheeled, righting itself. It vanished from her line of sight. The fog had lifted. A steady drizzle had taken its place. She sat up, nursing her bruises, then got to her feet. Now that the fog had dissipated, she was able to get her bearings. She had descended further than she had realized and was only a few steps from the forest floor. She really ought to head back but she was curious.
*
At the base of the natural staircase was a bed of ferns. New shoots curled into lime green pinwheels, as delicate and fine as the summer days Anna had spent as a child. She was surprised to find that the path was clear, as if someone had taken great pains to keep it open; it ran along the base of the cliffs. She walked next to the bluff’s edge gazing upward, marveling at the layers of rock that catapulted some 50 feet into the air. The rain fell faster and the shadows at the cliff’s base grew longer, filling the canyon floor with shades of darkness. Up above, the sun penetrated the mist at the canyon’s rim; weary rays of light wrapped around the trees imprisoned there, framing the treetops that strained over its edge. She looked up at the branches. The trees reached in a desperate wave, begging to be saved: Better hurry up and get out of here, looks like a storm is brewing. The forest was filled with the sound of scraping metal, train tracks, tracking time, where? The deafening squeal sounded again, ripping the daylight from the sky along with it. It became pitch black. She was trapped at the base of the canyon, like a bug in a bottle. She stood in the darkness, blinking, afraid to move until her eyes adjusted. The sounds of the rain washed forest were amplified; she could hear the drops tapping against the vegetation, rustling the leaves, layered with the chime like tones of raindrops hitting the rocks. It made her think of a bead necklace she’d had when she was a child; it was a cherished gift from her mother. The beads had spilled from around her neck onto the wooden floor in her mother’s bedroom; they’d jarred against each other, plinking. She had tried to catch them but ended up watching them roll away, feeling frustrated. She was sad about losing the beads, often wondering where they had ended up, still searching for them, even as long as a year later, she had asked after them, holding on to the idea that they might be found.
She had no idea how to find her way back; the shadows had muddled the trail. She stepped away from the shelter of the cliff and looked up. The canyon rim was only a vague suggestion; she thought she could see the top but she wasn’t certain. She stepped back into the shadow of the cliff. It provided some protection from the rain, and it looked as though she wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. She hated being stranded and helpless—fuck—what bothered her most was being unable to escape. It didn’t matter where she was either. If she was at home without transportation, she felt trapped, and the feeling of panic didn’t leave until she got the car back. Even when she didn’t need to drive anywhere, she wanted the car tucked safely in the garage. It was her getaway car, in case she ever needed it.
On the far side of the canyon, something crashed through the bracken. A few moments later, she had the feeling she was being watched. She couldn’t see anything among the shadows and didn’t want to stay where she was either, so she walked along the bluff towards the area she thought the sound came from. The rhythmic tap of rain was joined by the steady [whoosh], whoosh, whoosh of displaced air; it was the sound of flight as a large bird sailed directly overhead and startled her. She ducked, raising her arms over her head and waiting several beats, making certain it was safe before she rose to a stand. Her eyes had adjusted; she was able to see shapes within the shadows, not that it helped much. She couldn’t tell anything important without getting close; she’d have to wear her ‘boogie shoes’ was what it amounted to, and if she had too, she’d run.
The Loon’s woeful cry fell from the darkness overhead, layering the canyon with sad questions, but this time, there was no answering call, only beseeching echoes. The rain had lessened to a sprinkle, which was a relief; her thin jacket had gotten soaked and although it was 70 degrees, it felt more like 50 degrees; the cold and damp had penetrated her skin and was seeping deeper. She stopped, staring to the side of the trail. There was something lying in a heap on the ground. At first, she thought it was a newspaper, but that didn’t make sense. As she got closer, she saw that it was a rag or piece of clothing. She bent over to pick it up. It was soaking wet from the rain, squishy between her fingertips. There wasn’t anything remarkable about it. The fabric was white cotton, like a t-shirt or a man’s briefs, but when she unfolded it, she saw that it wasn’t white after all but tie-dyed. A large swirl of bright red bloomed in its center; it looked like a child’s nightshirt. She was about to put it back when she felt a tingling sensation in the palm of her hand, as if something had bitten her or she’d pinched a nerve. She tossed the shirt onto the ground, feeling sick, as if touching it had soiled her. When it landed, she saw that it wasn’t a shirt at all. It was a blood soaked blanket crawling with beetles. She could hear them clicking against one another on its tattered remains. She took a step backwards; a low moan spilled from her throat as she backpedaled, her feet leaden and clumsy. She felt her gorge rising and swallowed hard. Her eyes settled on the faded cartoon characters that ran along the blanket’s edge; it was an infant’s receiving blanket. The cartoon figures stirred a feeling of recognition in her. She had a black, sinking feeling and feared the memory beneath. Her throat tightened with panic. She wanted to run, had to run. She ran back to her position by the cliff, pushing the memory away, blunting its edges. She was shaking, her heart a runaway train as she tried to catch her breath. She thought of her brother and the knowing look he’d carried; now she understood why he’d looked troubled, almost haunted. It was a look of horrified recognition he’d carried in his eyes, a look that had said, “This is too much to bear. Please help me, I’m dying, I can’t do this anymore.”
She shivered, goose pimples marching up and down her spine. She loved Mark; it was a fierce love born from protection—God how he’d suffered—the Loon wailed, as if it had answered her thoughts. She didn’t know what to do. Visibility was still bad, and if she tried to climb out of the canyon, she might fall and break her neck. She sat quietly, trying to work out a solution. The sound of crying came from the darkness, but it didn’t sound like the Loon, it sounded like a child. She could hear the brush rustling as someone or something approached. She stood rigid, on guard, ready to defend herself. The rustling was only a few yards away. A young boy appeared in front of her. He was whimpering, and as he approached, she saw he was limping, but even stranger, he didn’t seem the least bit surprised to find her out in the middle of the canyon. He looked to be around three or four years old. His face was filthy and streaked with tears, and he was wearing a torn pair of Winnie the Pooh pajamas. He swooned when he was within her reach and she caught him. She pulled him to her whispering softly, “It’s okay; I’ll take care of you, it’s okay.”
They sat with their backs pressed up against the cliff. The boy’s sobs quieted, but he refused to let go of her; his arms remained wrapped around her waist. In a few short minutes, she felt him relax and fall asleep.
When she was little, she had a pair of pajamas just like the boy was wearing, except hers had built-in feet; she had liked them because of Pooh but also because they’d kept her feet warm in the old drafty house where they lived. She looked at the boy beside her, figuring she’d stay where she was; let him sleep, it wasn’t like she had any place to go.
<<< read previous chapter sample
from "Rising" (a Devil'z Hide original)