by T. Wyse
She watched his breath tense up as he spoke. “…forty eight incidents, yes all open, but you have to understand my position…” He stopped, and then listened in silence. The tension in his lungs unwound slowly, returning to their normal rhythm.
“Yes Mr. Ellis, thank you.” His voice remained rumbling and dry, but flowed clearer, his breaths slowed.
“Yes, that’s, very generous. Thank you.”
The phone clicked back into place. The odd calm that usually washed over the principal after Mr. Ellis had called on her behalf wasn’t all there. There was an odd hint of sadness, a catch in his breath as he rose up once again, this time with his back to her. “He reminded me of something this time.” The man confessed. “Something I’d forgot a long time ago.”
“It must be something to have people looking out for you like that.” He glanced back, sad eyes punctuating a weary smile.
“Regardless, it still stands that I fear we have nothing to teach you here.” He paused, placing the expulsion paper back in his desk. “Unofficially I’m giving you a suspension for the remainder of the week.” He sucked in the clearest breath she had seen him take yet. “I want you to think about returning to homeschooling with your parents, in full or in part.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he motioned for her to rise before she could begin. He opened the door for her, ushering her out of his world. “Just give it some thought.”
She passed him a final tissue as she broke the threshold, the ensuing cough was muted by the door gently clacking into place behind her.
The air beyond the door fluttered with lighthearted abandon. Currents and flows danced with lazy curiosity lapping at the vents above, forking out into the hallway, ending the entombed feeling of that tarred air.
It was almost comforting to be back in the office. Raised letters simply claiming “Paola” glaring at her from above, the ‘Saint’ remaining spelled out in the wall in the absence of cigarette tar stain. The entirety of the school seemed haunted by such ghosts, bodies slain by an attempt to boost enrolment in faltering times leaving bible verses and calls to prayer for only those sharp eyed enough to spot their outlines.
A faded poster of Gandhi, declaring “Be the change you want to see” sat plastered above the ghost of a plaque that had once carried the ‘golden rule’. A similar poster of Einstein looking somewhat somber stood on an opposing wall, though the message was lost in the clutter of a bulletin board. The ghosts of no fewer than two crucifixes haunted the office, one just under “Paola”, the other more obscure stood over the doorway.
Amanda stood leaning forward on the counter, elbows up. Her conversation with the receptionist had quieted when Amelie had entered the room, and she shot a subtle glance prompting her to continue into the hallway.
Amelie waited there, back to the unsatisfyingly smooth painted brick, eyes dazzled by the track lighting of the hall. She did her best not to hear the conversation, not to even allow her attention to filter into the wind of the room behind, to obscure the emotions betrayed by the words they shaped.
Instead she forced her eyes open against the light and practiced her attachment with the coloured world.
Colours were something of an enigma to the girl who knew the wind. She had spent the vast majority of her life at home, sheltered and schooled by her parents. They had certainly tried to help her with the connection, coming so far as tying brightly coloured flags at various places outside the windows that blew merrily with the wind. The connection was still an unfamiliar friend after all these years, still a dull screen of confusion compared to her sight upon the wind, an ever moving world of textures and dimensions, a cluttered and indescribably brilliant labyrinth of chaos that would keep even the most deficit of attention wordlessly intrigued.
The rich red of the wood that made up the fortress that was the principal’s desk and seemed the fond choice of framing for the school’s windows and doors spoke of neither speed nor warmth to her. Instead they reminded her of the cloth wrappings that her parents used to store their curator pieces, of the stale air punctuated by a pungent and dried sweetness with a lingering citric taint that hung in her sinuses. The smell was like apricots mummified in the desert sun, though the actual concoction was a secret of her parents. Red spoke to her of ancient things, whispering of weight and mystery.
The green of the uniforms, and indeed of the school’s banners, was not of vegetation, nor freshness. The link to plant life was something she could grasp at least, as she had certainly seen more than a few living plants. To her the green was more the abrasive itch of the unwelcome uniform against her skin, the way the crude cloth clung about her neck and wrists. To her green was the odd outcropping of defiant plant life upon the mountains, mysterious enough that it warranted inspection and always rewarding in the little worlds inside.
The wind had always been closest to yellow to her, though even bringing it down to that level was the crudest comparison. There wasn't any justification, it simply was that way inside her mind. It had perhaps been why she had been thrilled at the gleaming yellow carpet that lay the ground of her bedroom when she had first seen it those years ago, despite Victoria's assurance that the colour itself had no place within either good taste or sanity for that matter.
Blue, blue was the colour that she found she could love. It promised the clear day, it promised the infallibility of the wind for the coming afternoon, and an escape that would make every ugliness of the day irrelevant with its touch. Blue was the promise of new things to come, of the sky after the storm, and of empty potential yet untapped.
There was no blue to be found here. The glass cases holding trophies and accomplishments unknown shimmered blue, but their worlds were casketed, closed to the wind and beyond her textured sight. The school was a place of brown carpets with neatly red trim, of brick walls painted white long ago, flecks of tired orange washing over in spots.
“…Okay.” Amanda’s voice pierced Amelie’s musing.
“I need you to pick her up tonight, since you’re going home early too.” She couldn’t fight the vision of the receptionist’s lungs as she spoke. They weren’t as far gone as the man’s but the signs were the same.
“Okay, I will.” Amanda chimed.
“Be good, ‘Manda.” The woman was better at stifling the coughs, but with her daughter safely out the door she brought a tissue to her mouth. The buds glowed softly, strained hisses feeding the hooks into her blood.
“Amanda, she’s got wors-“ Amelie began.
“Shhht.” Amanda pivoted, eyes burning. “Stop. No.”
“But…”
“No, this…things like this need to stop.” The girl snarled. “Sometimes even when you think you should speak, sometimes you shouldn’t.”
They paused there in silence a moment. Amelie itched at the cartoon cats, trying to focus her hazy eyes down the hallway.
Amanda sighed. “Not expelled?”
“No.”
“Well that’s good.”
“Suspended for the rest of the week.”
“I’ll walk you, I have to pick up my sister today.” Amanda sighed, hugging the book and setting a pensive pace. “What’s it at now, Forty five?”
“Forty eight.” Amelie caught into step.
“That’s bad, you do remember that right?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re relieved, more than usual too, every time this happens it’s like you’re about to be released from prison.” Amanda muttered with irritation.
Amelie faltered, slowing her steps.
Amanda stopped, not turning back. “You’re still feeling that dread you told me about? It’s not getting better?”
“No. Worse.” Amelie choked on the words. “I’ve tried to think about it in the ways you told me to. It’s not the summer coming. Even the fact that Victoria’s going to be silent to me for weeks now, that isn’t making it much worse.” She paused, searching that chill presence behind her, feeling like a forgotten responsibility scream
ing somewhere beyond her hearing or sigh. “I don’t know what it is.”
“Did you write the letter to Tabaka?”
“No.” Even that didn’t feel like it filled the shape of the shadowed monster, though a clenching guilt rose in her throat. “I just don’t know what to write. I tried, I promise I’ve tried.” Amelie glanced up, “You could-“
“No, remember? It has to be from you.”
“Yeah.” Amelie’s air caught in her throat. “Can we go? I really…I really need to go up.” She found the wooden tie in her hair and gently tapped it.
“A suspension is bad though Amelie, you shouldn’t want it.”
“It doesn’t matter, I just…I need to go up. I need it right now.” Amelie trembled, touching the wooden hair tie. “Everything’s wrong today, but talking about it feels wrong too. Victoria’s going to be mad at me again for months, maybe the summer…again.”
Amanda drew a great and weary breath, lungs pausing in fiery brilliance. “Fine. Fine you win.”
And with that her friend turned to her and ended the vow of restraint that had lasted months. “If you want Vic to not be mad at you, give her a response about the cottage thing.”
“Do you think I should—“
“Nope, not deciding for you. Have an answer, yes or no, by Monday. Second thing, write that letter. You said you wanted to do it, you said you thought you had to, so do it. Tell Victoria or not, do it for you. Maybe that will help.”
Amelie stood, eyes open and looking at her shoes.
“Now if Vic, in her infinite mercy and charity, decides to forgive you for that let her handle the gawkers like you asked.”
“But if she gets hit the scars will stay on her.” Amelie rubbed the waning red lines on her cheek.
“If Vic gets hit the earth will open up and the fury of hell will follow.” Amanda’s voice dropped into a coy humor. “Believe me, she can handle it. If you want to handle the gawkers just do the roof show like you used to. Makes it clear at least. And, finally, you need to stop just flowing with things. You need to dig your heels in and figure out what YOU want. Without Vic and I to tell you what to do. You almost never follow my advice anyways.”
“But, you said we were okay, right?”
“We are.” A great puffed sigh and a faltered pace.
“Whatever it’s worth, even if you never change a bit, I’ll still be beside you. Vic might not say so, might not seem it sometimes, but she’ll be there too. Honest. Just, you have to try harder, get more force in you, that’s all. Again, she’s not mad because you wanted to show someone, if that’s what you wanted she would be glad to be your sideshow barker, maybe take paid admission. She was mad because you’d asked her to stop them, right?”
“Right.” Amelie breathed gently outwards, but that chill water in her stomach still lingered, her throat still clenched, both of them hurting more than some silly scrapes and a bruise.
Amanda took up a more deliberate pace. “Have to get going or I’ll be late. If you ignore this by Monday I’m going to be the one mad at you.” She stole a look back that Amelie couldn’t read. Look, if you want to make Vic happy, go to the cottage. Just don’t let her get you to try swimming again, whatever you do. Leave the dress behind, just be ‘normal’ for a while, fake it if you have to. If you spend enough time even pretending maybe it’ll grow on you.
“I’ll try.” Amelie forced the smile that Amanda often shone with. She would try. Not today though, Amelie touched the hair ornament with anticipation. Not today.
1
As the Crow Flies
The fading sun of another day cast its shadows over a tiny pocket of life. It was a bubble of pale green lichen barely clinging to existence in the chilled air of a mountainside. The plants held without emotion to their thin patch of soil, no urgency to soak in the last remaining rays of light before the oncoming night.
The coming of the sun each day shone life upon the tiny universe, projecting tall shadows upon the rock face beyond as if it were a screen into some hidden world. Within this shadowplay the trembling world had seasons within each day, within the shadowplay there was a cycle of growth and change. With the dawning of each day there was a field of rounded grass, sprouts of things beginning anew. There was also a strange nubbed cocoon, one that didn’t belong to the lichen’s backs, within the play. As the sun’s light grew so did the shadows, the sprouts becoming a jungle, and the nub becoming a beast lurking in the jungle’s depths. The creature paced its path exactly as it had each day for untold years, shrinking with the sun’s height, and growing once more into an even fiercer creature with the sun’s retreat. The shadows danced and grew with a desperate pitch in those last remaining hours of light each day.
In truth the great beast was as demure as the jungle’s source. It was the remains of a tiny mouse, bones laying prone in the centre of the pale green world. The skeleton was bleached from age, and the lichen seemed to peel away from it in a reverence or disgust.
The mouse had died alone, though unaware even of the idea of being alone. It never thought of its little world, ignorant of the strange shadowplay upon the rock. It had only known hunger, rest, cold, and whatever brief satiation of these things that could be reached within its narrow existence. Still, though unobserved, the shadowplay continued and would continue the memory until the creature and lichen had become dust.
A gentle breeze rustled the shadow jungle, the beast lying still amongst the trees. A great shadow approached it, though this was not the usual shadow of the incoming night. This was a darkened shape, a shivering orb, with a single appendage reaching downward.
It was a slippered foot, though the shadow gave little clarity, and the shadow of the apparition approaching gave no hint at what was connected to it. The creature was almost something composed of hot air balloons one would guess, and the foot landed with such gentleness upon the hard rock that it would have reinforced this notion. The creature touched down and lost what little clarity of form it had. It was now a blob, its sides formless and wild, a towering thing above the shadow garden. As if inhaling inwards, the blob’s figure blinked and focused, revealing the figure of a girl, though she still stood titan above the jungle below.
She was a canvas of white, from neck to where the hem of the dress tickled the ground. Only her face and hands lay uncovered, and therein the only remaining hints to the terrestrial girl. Her hands were smooth and confident, fingers yearning to be longer, not quite finished growing. Blue eyes shone wide with curiosity, though their focus was off, looking through the scene before her as if immaterial. Lightened brown hair tied back in a neat bun shimmered with woven gems of frost, indeed the entire dress seemed to sparkle and shine with the embrace of the lofty air.
Her dress billowed outwards, the fabric loose and rippling with the touch of the mountain’s breath. The design was neatly cuffed around her wrists and neck, simplistic patterns of black triangles decorated the arms, and served as a stark necklace along the front. The hem too carried this barrier, though it danced hypnotically as she strode. The only piece of colour on the dress was a belted design around the waist, in a fairly muted yellow but one that shone golden with the frost. Two stubborn pieces of fabric remained reaching from her back towards the sky. They were the remnants of whatever blobbed wings had taken her here.
An arcane motion with her hands, a quick flick of the wrist and fingers, and the dress seemed to calm, the billowing fabric in the back tucked itself away. The figure approached the little pool, each step shook off a little of the gemmed frost onto the world below, each breath against the chilled air creating swirling torrents of gnat-like snow.
Her gaze was affixed downwards to the pool, sharp eyes focused onto the sprig of white within the halo. The shadowplay’s storied performance trembled with her every move, yet somehow its practiced glory escaped her attention. She broke the magic of the halo, the slippered foot piercing the barrier’s green. Her footsteps were so soft upon the surface that they were erased by the wind eve
n as they released their weight against the lichen, but they shone polished into green emerald from her passing.
She knelt finally, the dress fanning out in her own circle within the circle, and she looked with lofty curiosity at the revered skeleton. There was no fear of what the skeleton represented, the child had not truly tasted sickness or the worry of the finite. There was no hesitation when she leaned over ever so slightly, and collected the skull of the remnants between naked fingers. No disgust as she examined it gingerly.
Indeed her expression would be a mystery entirely, as her eyes were unfocussed on the thing she examined. The visitor sat there in the world, and closed her eyes to the physicality of it all. A slight smile, the smile of a blissful child seeing interesting and vibrant patterns dangled before it, crept on her face, and lingered there as she stole the tiny treasure away into a pocket of the strange dress.
Her eyes opened with reluctance and she produced a rumpled piece of paper, dirty and almost intelligible, it noted things upon its surface. “Spring”, “Ice face”, “River source” among the few notes legible.
A nod of satisfaction, the girl stood once more, lifting the off white halo of the dress from the world. The shadowplay saw the reverse of before, now of the girl returning to the blob, and then being lifted swiftly but gently away from the secret world.
The grass of the shadow jungle persevered, shivering in the afternoon, the beast no longer stalking its trees.
The sun now shone onto the balconies of an oblong house on an immaculate lot, a square halo of grass and then a hedge framing it in a wide berth. It sat with a defiant humor, a squat midget contrasting the tall dignity of its neighbors on all sides. The colours, the angles, and the placement of the house all sang of some deranged architect, mind awash with inscrutable and occult purpose and meaning. It resembled a steppe pyramid at least in passing, with stories of varying widths rising out of the neatly kept lawn. The steeple roof broke the convention of the pyramid, as it bisected the house on both sides, but stopped at the ceiling of the first floor.
