Labyrinthine

The yellow grass lay flat for a second in the blow of south wind. The old woman felt the heat of her neck under the shirt-collar trail away from her body, as her shirt pressed against her already aching back, and her clothes filled up and rustled with the air, which ran up the hillside to get caught in the sprawling branches of the trees encircling the bare slope of the hill. The woman made towards the trees at a steady pace. Dry blades of grass and thorns brushed and hooked themselves against the skin of her ankles, and filling her head was her heartbeat, the pulse of blood-flow rising to the surface, more perceptible and integral to her strain as ever before. Feeling aired and dry in the heat, her steps slowed naturally to a lighter speed.

The woman took steady, shorter breaths. But she must keep on going, gather power for the last push which will throw her forward and to the border of the woods and their soothing shadow.  What are those red birds there? She could come back soon and wander into the other part of the wood which from here stretched farther than the horizon. Between the thick branches of two trees on the other side, a stretch of soil gleamed out from the dark. It might be a path, but she should stick to this direction, straight upwards towards the peak of the hill. There was no other way. It is only a hill, an upwards climb through the wood, the peak, and the descent, it shouldn’t feel like a maze, it is simple enough. The woman began untangling and pulling at her shirt and caught skin, holding onto her straight, white dress, in desperation not to give into the wild and chaos of the land darkening between the trees ahead. I must be insane, she was telling herself, this is not the right venture for a weak, old woman. Her thoughts were sharp and defined, a face-levelled presence, which made them just as powerful as words that might be shouted into the air filling this empty space on the cleared hillside, and holding her in a firm grasp like something dense and physical, able to choke or push her away if, and when, it would decide to give the command. An instinct, above, and outside her.

A glow from the darkness held in between the trees grew bright, and the woman’s eyes wandered over the floor of the hillside there, tracing a route in the natural veins forming a tangled net of paths slithering up the grassy rolls of the slope. Her feet were stumbling now over the irregular ground beneath her. A piercing crack and hollow thump vibrated between branches around the epicenter of sound which pulled the woman upwards, to her senses, and physically, over the last bumps of the field which, already, were the long roots of the trees. Through the wet canopy above, a sharp wail shook her, made her glance up into the dark and tangled body of the tree before her, which trembled too, as if in retaliation to the sudden sound. Right below, a splintered shell of interwoven shoots and twigs lay folded out on a cushion of moss. Two feathery bodies lay flat and shaking in the breeze, and from a thick nest cradled high up in between two black arms in the canopy, a great grey bird sailed and floated down into the broken pieces of its home. It’s white head reflected the brightness coming in from the field, and the raw, wide eyes stared into the woman’s face, over the beak which now parted to let out a sharp, hoarse cry. It jumped around, circling the site of the destruction of its life’s work, picking at shrapnel of wood. The beautiful, crescent wings spread out, and the bird shot up back into the tree, it’s head emerging out of the nest with frightened offspring held by the back of their necks as their parent placed them close together,  higher into the nest.  The bird screamed into the forest in a mournful rhythm. It then became quieter, and the woman could see the bird, twigs held together in its heavy beak, beginning to patch up the ruptured nest.

She still felt the cry deep into her bones, and it chilled her body down so that she felt almost cold. Her eyes remained wide-open. With a clear mind, the woman stood in place and felt the moisture across her skin evaporating into the shade, with the intention, now, to cool off. Her thoughts were vivid, and her aim pure. With  her mouth corners tensing downwards in discomfort, she felt out of place, maybe even disturbed. At the same time, a sense of respect and strength filled her chest, and she gave herself a moment of total rest and full breathing, to gather the energy lost after the climb. I understand, she thought. I need to get up. She then wiped her forehead with the handkerchief tied around her small bag, and, taking a balanced stance, forced her tense shins to push her up with the thrust of several long steps, finding herself encircled by the first layer of the dark, veiled trees which rose unevenly to the peak, where bright light could be seen blinking through the fingers and foliage of the furthest trees.

***

The path had flattened out a while back now, and the woman was pushing on in between the rocks and prickly shrubbery at an even, upbeat pace. The black density around her began to thin out into fresh green and yellow flora, until almost a meadow, when she realized that the path split up ahead into separate, winding trails. Stopping and staring straight into the space between her and the split, where a rock broke through the ground, as if splicing through a river, the woman knew that one path would move her towards the peak and let her come off at the yellow northern slope of the hill, while the other will mean a diversion from the right direction, unexpected danger, or, just as well a safe, level pass, touring the hill in a closed loop. The path on the right continued on, higher, through black rocks flung around in deep valleys and monuments. It reached the peak only a small distance away. The left was the soft, even avenue which continued far into the thinning woods. Without stop, the old woman bent into the right lane, sweat streaming down into the powdery ground, and arms enveloping the juvenile birches standing over it. In full grip of the trees, she eased herself up a degree higher at a time, with the promise of rest on the first black cliff projecting onto the path right ahead.

 

***

The sun hung still overhead, and there was no time to waste. She must come out of the wood and begin the walk down, into the village, before the sun would rest to stare out right into her eyes from the west, where she would be headed.  The humidity seeped through her hair, which now clung onto the forehead in streaks and dashes of white and blonde, how long was it, since she had last walked these woods, in total communion with herself as an integrated body tearing through the path before it, left to its own senses and judgments? That was not all that she felt, walking through the familiar, arcane landscape of the hills. The woman felt her purpose, the years she spent studying the life of these lands, the control of nature so as to make room for the pursuits of humanity, and the complications that catalyzed her decision to cut her own pursuits short. She paused to fix her head-tie, fumbled with the ends, and in one swift pull unwrapped it from her head in exasperation. The thick air filled her fully, as her body gasped for air and her arms’ muscles demanded rest, laying themselves out on the rock layered with winding moss which upheld her back. She felt potent surges of energy try to push her off, but her tired body remained unmoved in rest. A silence, loud in its movement, rushed through her head as if the wind itself blew through her, as through a shell of a tree. Her face itched from the effort of the trek, and the pure excitement and alertness which pulsated underneath her skin, renewing and invigorating the networks of muscles which had not felt such need and energy, to achieve and conquer, for decades, gave her full focus and mindfulness of her entire being. A small opening in the thick brush let an array of blues and reds project through to her attention, and squatting down she recognized the heads of several types of berries, ones she could recognize so well, years ago, laying in her white, creased palms in blood contrast, as they lay now. They rolled from the pillow surface of her left hand onto the smooth skin of the prosthesis, and back again onto the palm where she could feel their cool weight again. For the first time since the morning, when she had locked doors and made way for the hills, she allowed herself a little more than an inkling of reflection on the past, remembering nevertheless that a longer mental venture was out of the question, as she must pass over the peak before the afternoon. But she sat here, now, and took in as much energy as she could, from the soft quivering of life around her, the oscillation of the wind, in which were swept up beetles and flies of rich coloring and voices, the sunlight hitting branches, being divided into infinite specters of hue, floating and connecting angularly, over and around her, and the  echoing rasp of distant birds, among which was recognizable the unmistakable shape of accents and drops in the cry of the great grey bird at the edge of the woods, on its own quest, which would determine its future. Self-sufficiency and survival, were what this scene meant in itself, the only thing that this life, circling around her, focused and depended on . At this moment, to the woman, it seemed absurd, almost macabre, that this should be the principle. The harmony and purity which constructed this beautiful system of respect and fulfillment of every individual entity in the abstruse web of nature, required so much destruction and striving for survival, in order to stay so true and pure.
This is the principle of all that is.

But her fulfillment was brief, and long ago. She could only feel a distant, bitter weight in her abdomen in its place. Although it was still there, it was too late, too far, or perhaps too much of an effort to reach out for it again. What was she here for, then? She had woken up with the feeling, that soon, she was to die. She took no second thought before the decision was in place, she would walk over the woody hills, to see the nature she had spent her life around, and understand what went wrong in her direction. She dropped each berry singularly into a tin jar, which she wound into a plastic sheet and placed upright in her bag, closing it up briskly. She would plant them once she arrived, and finally begin work on the gardens.

Pain, originating at the bend of the wrist, crept up the arm now, and she enveloped the joint in a strong grip, bringing it level to her shoulders, to shove it back into non-existence, from which it sometimes emerged. She found this to work quickly; what was, at the core, a direct ridicule of the very idea that discomfort might be felt in an extension of an arm which simply was not there. She sank deeper into thought now, and the rambling of ideas and opinions which by now blew up into an incomprehensible and totally unbearable whole stopped mid-sentence, before it was too late, as she pushed herself into awakeness and connection to the moment and place in which she stood, from which she was able to make a decision about her course. Gathering the items laying scattered on the path, and with an even determination, the woman placed her feet onto the next oblique step and pushed onward.

***

She breathed and counted evenly, continuing the rotation of steps, ascending irregularly upwards and around rocks thrown around the higher reach of the hill. The pump and spring of her shins felt light now, and balanced with her focus and speed, became an even routine which she could keep for over an hour. The peak neared, and then cleanly laid out before her. She did not look over the other side of the hill yet, she had to sit down into the dry grass and earth, to let her legs feel the weightlessness of the air for a change. She saw within herself the living satiation of purpose and action, felt so much importance and vitality in her trek to the hilltop, and felt the shade over her regrets clearing, the hollow bitterness she had felt being replaced by an animal excitement.

Winding through the tall, yellow grass, herbs and flowers, the old woman descended the gradual slope slowly, cutting through flat surfaces and leaning away from elbows in the hillside until she could see black asphalt running through the farm fields slightly below. She had stuffed a growing batch of wildflowers into pockets and spaces sewn into the exterior of her bag, and paused, to look over the land for a smooth path towards the road. The afternoon light she wanted to avoid loomed in the western sky, the sun throwing a spotlight into the thick shrub and grass, over which the silhouettes of beetles and wasps hovered and vibrated in asynchrony. The hornets and wasps trembled deep in the autumn greenery. The woman reached into a dense sprout of yellow Lucerne, laying a bundle of cornflowers onto her bag on the ground. As she closed her fingers onto a stalk and began to break it away, a swift, meandering flicker sped through the flowers and around her arms. A hornet pierced itself into the inside of the woman’s wrist, and she could feel another sting through her short pants. She quickly brushed the hornet off her arm and shook it, before quickly shooting it back into the bush to break off the flower. She rubbed her wrists together and reached down to collect her scarf and bag. She did not mind the stings, or the thorns scratching at her arms and shins, and she couldn’t help smiling, at the pleasing thought of the conquered hill behind her. The woman began moving, through the thickness of the afternoon air, the hornets vibrating through the grasses and earth, in frequency with her traverse. The dimming sun shone through her face and eyes, but she did not mind that now either. She knew the way very well from here.

 

Author's Note

Quick short story.

Reviews

[S.V]

I appreciate the reviews :) This was more of an excercise in writing, as I am recently really focusing on stretching my perception and imagination to help me with creating poetry. So to be honest, story-telling was not really a priority to me while writing this, but I agree completely with your notes!

[SweetNutmeg]

Well, I think maybe there is too much being shown, rather than falling into the typical problem of telling instead of showing. However I found it rather dry as well. I think I would have been able to keep reading if there had been a hook in the first couple of sentences of the first paragraph.

I can't say I like Virginia Wolfe that much, but remembering the bit I did read, she includes a lot of reverie and has an interestingly oblique way of presenting the emotions of her characters. I felt that this personal interest was lacking in your piece. I didn't feel much for your woman.

In the future you might want to focus on drawing the reader in and giving us something to identify with, emotionally.

I don't want to discourage you, though. You have a great deal of talent. You just need to work on making your writing more than excellent description. You have the ingredients for a very good writer, if you can learn to breathe life into your wealth of description.

[EJ McCay]

This is very dry reading. The use of detail is overwhelming. Show, don't tell.

[Aarea]

Ok first thing is first. I love your description. It is good and I can tell what your talking about. However, reading your story, I was totally uninterested. Maybe put in a hook or something to catch my attention. Your writing is very impressive though and it has great potential!