by A. Sparrow
So far Karla hasn’t come by since she faded. Either she’s so damned happy about being re-united with her sister that the roots don’t dare touch her, or she’s keeping her distance from me on purpose.
Whatever I feel happy for her. I really do. I don’t blame her for what she did. She thought getting free would be the best for the both of us. Turns out she didn’t know me very well. Not as well as I understood her.
I only wished I could be by her side when she went up the drive of Mrs. Ambrose’s place and Izzie came dashing past the rose bushes and into her sister’s arms. They probably had a lot of catching up to do.
She would make it back here someday. Happiness is always ephemeral in the real world, especially for dour and pessimistic souls like us. The powers-that-be in this universe find us expendable. That’s why they attempt to terminate our lives prematurely and stash us deep in the pods of Root for the Reapers to harvest and dispose of our souls.
And when she came back, Karla knew where to find me. A place untouched by war and root quake. A place that had never failed to provide solace and sanctuary whenever I needed it most.
***
Across the pond, a willow dances for me, branches twisting and swaying despite the absence of any breeze. The water’s stillness and sterility annoy me. Surface un-creased, depths devoid of fish or worms or even plankton, it may as well have been a pool of mercury.
I toss a pebble. Ripples expand and rebound off the shore, distorting the mirrored sky, cloudless yet grey. I toss another stone before the ripples can fade.
On a throne carved into the muddy bank, I wait, hopeful and calm, stable at my core. How much I’ve changed in the few years I’ve been coming here, as if all the neurons in my brain have been ripped apart and reconfigured. I’m only twenty-one, but I feel incredibly ancient.
A familiar shape appears in the air high over the plains—a dragonfly and rider coming my way. One wing tip is truncated, another tattered, old patches flapping as it corkscrews through the sky like an unbalanced arrow, the damaged wing dipping low. Clearly, this was Lalibela and Urszula!
I rise, befuddled, questioning my eyes. My all but vanquished hopes rally to flood me with relief. No more grieving.
I clap my hands and whistle for my bug. Tigger erupts from the ledge where he had been sunning himself. Wings pumping, he rockets right over me and keeps on going, heading for the open spaces of the remodeled plains, off to intercept the intruders like he always does. And always without me, of course. Why should this time be any different?
So I leap from my throne of mud and sprint towards the gap in the hollow, bare feet pounding the gravel. I make for the open lands where she can spot me more easily, my heart bounding, bursting with incredulity and joy.
*****
THE END
The Liminality, Book Five:
Loom
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