I turn around and everyone’s gone. I’m left alone with my bloody, shredded fists, screaming obscenities at the night sky. “What? You too, God? Are you going to abandon me as well?”
They all want me, the little kid, to go home.
But I won’t. I can’t.
In front of everyone I exposed what my brother had done and now I want them to pity me?
The cool fall air closes around me as I turn up the street, away from home, toward the ghetto. The cool air and burning, throbbing pain in my fists sober me.
What have I done? Oh, what have I done? I can never fix this, never make it better, never get my family back to normal.
My cigarette is splattered with blood as I put it to my lips.
Ashes should be my food. I deserve no better. I ruined him.
And for what?
My feet pound forward step after step. I light one cigarette off another as I walk further and further into run down housing.
The air grows colder, the night lonelier, the neighborhood more unfamiliar. I weave through back streets and alleys. There’s the house I always wanted to own. I walk on.
A blast of warm air washes over me. I pause and back track.
A twenty-four hour laundromat. I sink down under the huge dryer vent and absorb the warmth. Curling my knees to my chest, I lean against the wall. There’s no way I can ever go home. I can’t fix this. Ryan can’t fix this. The shaking overwhelms my limbs, threatens to shatter me upon that gravely cement.
I smoke another cigarette. My mouth feels like it’s filled with ash. I flick it away. Not one of these things ever helped. I watch it burn on the sidewalk.
Curled up on the gravel-strewn cement, half in the cold, half in the damp warm of the dryer vent, my gaze catches a box in the alley. The picture is the same as the vision at the Willow’s Branch. Rolling green hills. So green, so inviting and not a tree in sight. Pressing my cheek against the gravel, I stare at the picture. Heavy with sorrow, my eyes close.
*
I awake comfortable, not sore, with a blade of grass tickling my lips. I’m not on concrete. I’m not under a dryer vent in the middle of the ghetto. I blink, my eyes adjusting to the bright green grass all around me, bright blue sky overhead, and a radiant sunshine. Just like my vision in the club, and just like the box in the alley, but real. Oh, so real. Miles and miles of soft green grass.
How on earth did I get here? Did someone deposit me here while I slept? Or am I in a deeper dream, one that feels like waking. Like Alice in Wonderland, or Dorothy in Oz.
Whatever it is, this place has been beckoning me for a long time.
I sit up, groggy, dusting my cheek off. Gravel from the alley falls onto my lap. My clothes are damp and cool, even in this warm sun. Is that from dew or the dryer vent?
With how throbbing and bloody my fists are, this can’t be a dream. Last night washes over my memory like a septic shower. How can I have done all that? And woken up here?
There’s something dangling from my neck that hadn’t been there when I went to sleep. I lift the delicate chain and see a key. Where did this come from?
A corgi-size creature stirs on the grass several feet away from me. I shove the key back under my shirt.
Lying on this soft grass is a brilliantly white lamb. It looks so much like the lamb from my vision that a smile climbs up my cheeks. Perhaps this place isn’t horrible.
The lamb bleats sweetly then pushes itself to its hooves. I swear the creature says, “Welcome,” with its bleat. But maybe it’s that I feel so welcome by it. It walks over to me and presses its cool, snuffly nose to my nose then brushes his soft nose against my cheek. “Let’s get that gravel off of you.”
He really did talk! I’m afraid but at the same time not afraid. Yet I tremble.
The lamb touches my nose again. His warm breath washes over me. He turns and begins to walk away, then glances over his shoulder. “Follow me.”
I rise to my feet. The lamb looked tiny when I sat, but I think he’s grown. He’s the size of a Great Dane now, although very much a lamb. He looks sweet and frail.
I want to hug him, wrap my arms around that milky white neck and soak in his welcome for a thousand more years. “I will follow you anywhere.”
And for the first time since I was ten, as I walk behind the lamb through this lush green grass, I feel a hint of purity inside.
You will arise and have compassion…
for it is time to show favor to her;
the appointed time has come.
~ Psalm 102:13
Chapter 15
The Willow’s Cottage
I follow the beautiful white lamb over soft green hills and through deep green dells.
As we walk together, the lamb tells me stories. They aren’t stories about him or other animals, they are about people very similar to me. I want to be like some of the people in these stories. They are so brave and generous and selfless. I wish I could write stories like this.
In the distance, a blue cottage with a thatched roof sits on the tip of a hill. It’s the only visible house in that wide, green land. Crossing the distance takes more energy than I have to spare. But if a lamb is capable, so am I.
My legs are jelly by the time we reach the hill across from the cottage. I can see the cottage better. It looks old, like it was built during the time of Shakespeare, but it’s been kept well. Whoever owns this cottage likes visitors. I don’t know what makes me think so. Maybe it’s the flowers spilling over the stone wall. Maybe it’s the arched windows and doors. Whatever’s inviting me, I want to go there.
The lamb gently nudges my leg. “It’s time to get your key.”
“How do you know about the key?” I ask.
“The one on your necklace.”
I lift up the silver chain and remember where it came from. It’s the key the willow woman gave me two years ago, on that day when I danced over dew laden spider webs.
I inspect it in the palm of my hand. The key is sapphire blue, almost phosphorescent in the sunlight. I turn it over and it’s like crystal, as clear as glass. Through it I see the familiar lines in the palm of my hand. I can’t tell if it’s heavy or weightless. One moment it’s as if the weight of the world hangs around my neck. The next moment I glance down to make sure it’s still there, for all the weight of it dissipates entirely.
Slipping under the wisteria-framed arch, I gaze upwards, adoring the way the green vines and purple flowers make the blue sky bluer, as if it matches the sapphire of the key. I hold up the key and stare unblinking. The colors of the key and the sky are so alike that I cannot see the key except where my fingers cast a shadow.
I turn my gaze to the lamb, squinting, hoping this sublime creature will shed some light on this mystery. He looks back at me as if I get it already. Do I?
I set the key back against my heart. Do I hold a piece of the sky?
It’s such a ridiculous question. I dare not ask it aloud.
Perhaps it’s not the right question, but maybe it’s a stepping stone in the right direction.
I glance at the lamb again, but he’s looking at the door.
“It’s time to go inside.”
My feet are frozen under the archway. “Do I just unlock the door and walk in?”
He gives no answer beyond a stare.
I reach a foot out toward the first stepping stone. It’s so beautiful, I’m afraid to scuff it with my dirt-encrusted high tops. Each stone bears a mosaic. The first mosaic is of a pond in the woods. The second is of a girl with a paintbrush in a bright yellow room. My questions are silenced by the look on the lamb’s face.
“Go unlock the door,” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
As I take my first steps, the scent of the garden rushes through me. So many floral scents crash into me that I can’t distinguish one from the next except when I see each flower. Lilies, irises, lily of the valley, dianthus. It reminds me of Mom’s garden, but this weather is warmer, more spring-like than Mom’s ho
use right now. The scents infuse me and I skip to the front door.
I slip the necklace off and coil the chain in the palm of my hand. The key fits perfectly in the lock and turns with ease. I trace my finger along the wood of the yellow door. It’s familiar yet not.
I turn the heavy brass knob and the door creaks open.
“Ah, you’re here at last!”
A willowy woman peers around the corner of a room. It’s the same willowy woman I saw in the field two years ago, the one who gave me the key.
I close my fingers around the key and glance at the garden entrance. I’m hoping to see the lamb again, hoping to see those soft, welcoming eyes once more.
“He’s gone.” I don’t even see a spot of white in all the surrounding green fields.
The willow woman’s bark-like hand gently rests against my arm. “You’ll see him again.”
“But I felt so full when he was here, so…so much like a real person.”
She looks very tree-like when she frowns. “Come sit, Miya, you must be weary after your long walk.”
“You know my name…” I look around at the strangely familiar cottage, yet I don’t know why it’s familiar. These days, familiar and comforting don’t go hand in hand. Yet this place is both.
“Come in and eat. I tried my best to prepare food you might like that would also restore your strength.”
After a surprisingly delicious bowl of chopped, raw squash, I sit back, gazing upon the sun-kissed flowers in the back yard. What time is it anyway? And why didn’t I think about time when the lamb was around?
Actually, even though the walk seemed to last forever, the moments in his presence seemed all too fast. All too fast. I never missed anyone as much as I miss that lamb. The gaping wound in my heart didn’t hurt as much when he was around. I remember when Mom moved in with Abbie, and I missed her so much it hurt to breathe. I thought I would suffocate with sorrow between the Saturdays I could see her.
This is different. Without him around, I don’t see reason, and the hollow place inside me grows, the place where darkness and shaking overtake me, where terror and shame beckon me, befriend me, smother me.
“Come and rest,” the willow woman says.
“When will I see him again?”
“Who, dearie.”
“The lamb.” I feel so hollow.
“He has a few things for you. After you wake we’ll look at them.”
“Things for me?” I stand and look her in the eye. For the first time I’m unafraid of her strange beauty.
“Come. The bed is made for you.”
I’m so tired that my feet shuffle against the wide wooden floorboards all the way to the bedroom. I have to step carefully to avoid the train of the willow woman’s leafy green dress. As I see the small bed, I yearn for it.
The bedroom is small and has no closet. There’s an old traveling trunk off to the side of the room under one of the two windows. The bed is smaller than a twin sized mattress. It has crisscrossed ropes instead of a box spring and a thin mattress and blanket. I can’t wait to lie down there. Beside the bed is a night stand made of thin wood. The place is sparse but welcoming, the same sort of welcoming I felt from the lamb.
I miss Mom, but I like it here. I like how safe I feel. Although I wish I knew why I came and if I’ll be going home again soon.
The willow woman pulls back the blankets. “I’ll wake you in the morning. I’m sure you have lots of questions, but rest for now.”
“Will you tell me your name?”
“It’s Jewel.”
A giggle jumps out of me.
“Why do you laugh?” she asks.
“You’re so willowy, like a tree, yet you’re named after a stone.” I shrug off the urge to laugh again. “I’m sorry. The irony of it—just—I like it. You have a beautiful name.”
“Thank you.”
“And not just any stone, a precious stone.”
Her olive skin is awash in a pink hue.
I throw my arms over my stomach. “I’m sorry. I embarrassed you. I’ll shut up now. That’s why I don’t talk much.”
Jewel rests her bark-like hand on my arm. “You didn’t embarrass me. You blessed me. Don’t be afraid to encourage, Miya. It’s powerful and life giving.”
I relax my clenched hold around my middle.
“Now, to bed with you. Rest is what you need.”
I take off my shoes and climb into the bed. I’m almost asleep before I hit the pillow, but her words stir my curiosity. Why do I need rest?
I start to sit up. “Jewel?”
“No questions tonight, sweet Miya. We’ll talk plenty in the morning. There’s so much to tell but you need sleep first.”
As if I could sleep now! The sun still shines through the western window and my heart is pounding.
…in my alarm I said,
“Everyone is a liar.”
~ Psalm 116:11
Chapter 16
The Chest
“Do you feel rested?” Jewel sits on the edge of the bed and runs her branch-like fingers through my hair.
“Yes, I do.” I sit up beside her. “I haven’t felt so rested in…years.”
“Are you ready?”
I shrug, staring at my socks. “For what?”
“The lamb has a few things for you.”
I bounce to my feet and look around. “Is he here?”
“Who?”
“The lamb.”
She smiles wide. “No, but you will see him again.” She stands and steps over to the traveler’s trunk against the wall. “In the meantime, come see what he has for you.”
“For me?” I stand and look her in the eye, for the first time unafraid of her strange beauty.
“You’ll need your key again.”
“Oh!” I take it off my neck and hold it out for her.
“Oh no, I can’t take it. I gave it to you because it’s yours. You hold the key and you have the responsibility to use it.”
I kneel down to unlock the chest. It’s dusty and creaks as I pry it open. The lid is heavy. I pause, frustrated at my lack of strength.
“Would you like me to help you?” Jewel asks.
“Yes, please.”
As the lid rises, and sunlight pours through the far window, light reflects off some long shiny piece of metal. It’s a sword.
I lift the weapon carefully, holding the hilt and resting my fingers under the tip of the blade. It would be barely more than a dagger for my brothers, but it fits my hands and height like a sword. “Whose is this?”
“Yours. Like everything else in the chest.”
My breath quickens. My head spins. “Mine? Who would trust me with this?”
“Someone who knows you need it.”
I set the sword gently on the bed and pull out a strange set of leather straps and metal clamps. “What’s this?”
“That is part of your belt. But you’re not ready for it.”
I look at my waist. Is it all the weight I’ve lost from throwing up most of my meals? The salad stayed down last night. The urge to throw up doesn’t hit me here. Besides, what’s all that getting sick for anyway? It hasn’t done me one bit of good. It takes more away than it ever gives.
I sit on the bed beside my new sword and the belt I’m not ready for. My gaze falls to my feet.
I love these shoes because they’re comfortable, but they’re worn through and completely grass stained.
“You just need to change your clothes first, then I can help you with the belt. I’m afraid you’ll have to keep those shoes for now. Your new shoes are in the house beyond the…beyond the forest.”
I wonder why she hesitates to say forest, but this other house intrigues me too much to ask. “What other house?”
“I’ll explain after you dress.” Jewel takes out a green shirt, a brown leather vest and a pair of skinny trousers. “Would you like help?”
“Am I supposed to fit into those pants?” I stare incredulously at the legging-tight fit of this ar
ticle of clothing.
Jewel looks at the trousers then at me. She holds them against me. “With room to spare, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Okay, I’ll put this stuff on. But—can I close the shutters, or are there curtains or something for the windows?”
“I will draw the curtains and leave you in peace. Tell me when you’re ready for me to help with the belt.”
She covers the window with a yellow, gauzy cloth and closes the door on the way out. There’s a mirror, stained and old but functional, filling the entire back of the door. I dress in the corner where the mirror can’t see me, where I can’t see me.
Jewel’s right. There’s room to breathe in these trousers. More than enough. The billowy shirt rests softly, delicately against my skin. The brown leather vest hugs me. I love the feel of it. I look stronger, almost fierce with my hair frizzy and wild about my face. I hardly recognize this girl in the mirror. And I like that. She wouldn’t have exposed Ryan in front of all his friends. She wouldn’t have scattered blame like thrown glass.
But I did.
And the shards of those memories slice through me. I cringe remembering now that the strong young woman in the mirror did all those things.
I can’t stand to look at me anymore.
“Jewel,” I call, opening the door. “I’m ready.”
She comes in again, as patient and sweet as she’s been since I arrived.
“How do you want me to stand?” I ask.
“Lift your arms.” She’s holding the leather straps of the belt as if they make sense to her. They don’t make sense to me. I humbly obey.
She wraps bits around my waist and some around my shoulders. She cinches it tight and stands back. “Perfect.”
“Thanks.”
“Look in the mirror.” She turns me about.
If I looked fierce before, I look like a genuine warrior now. “Wow. That’s interesting.”
“All you need is the sheath for your sword and you’re ready to go.”
Ash Eater Page 8
