A Question in the Clearing

*trigger warning: themes of domestic violence and death.

When people say they wish they had all the answers, they don’t really mean it. Or—they shouldn’t, at least. But we rarely do what we should, especially when we know nothing.

***

The man dodges gnarled trunks and low-hanging vines, eyes strained on the dim light filtering through the dense foliage ahead. He has come this far—a couple of plants aren’t going to deter him now. Only after every tree begins to look as though he’d seen the same one before, and the rhythm of pushing vines away from his face is etched into his muscle memory, only then does she allow him to reach the clearing. He inhales for what feels like the first time in days, and faces her, worthy at last. Seated upon a throne of moss, draped in fabrics of silvery webs, and adorned in twisted braids of grass, she considers him. But perhaps not only him, he realizes—for her eyes stretch wide and unfocused, yet still set upon something a far distance beyond him. As though the endless jungle weren’t even there, blocking the world beyond. He approaches, head held high and determined to claim her full attention.

“I have been sent to you, great prophet. Sent by my dreams and by the stories found in every city and town I have ever passed through. No man has confirmed your existence, and yet, all know, in their heart, that you are true. I beg you, please, tell me what to do. I am not the man I wish to be. I have done things to hurt those I love. I have failed at achieving my dreams. Tell me the path to redemption, to success, great prophet. I stand here, before you, begging for your wisdom.” She is silent, still distant, not looking at the man. At last, a slight smile rises along her face, and she answers his plea.

“How can a person be true? Or be the Truth? A goddess, maybe. But a person? I can’t be any more or less true than you.” He had not been expecting to receive precise clarity—not after all the dreams and stories. And certainly not after the clear warning signaled by the disorienting jungle. But he thought she would at least address his questions and desires. His purpose. Fine, he will go along with her games, for now.

“I was led to believe you are somewhat of a goddess, are you not?” Her smile widens. Her eyes remain far from him.

“No.” Had she ever been smiling, after all? It seems now that her face is incapable of it. He wonders if he’s begun to succumb to madness.

“Please, then. Man to woman. Can you give me the answers that I have fought for and sought for so long? I am so tired, and I just want to begin living the way my life should have gone.” He swears he can hear an echo travel through the clearing, bouncing off the grasses and wildflowers. Should, should, should. She gestures, with a slight hint of exasperation, to the largest, tallest tree behind him. So tall he cannot see the top. The echoes disappear.

“Then sit. Rest. And I will give you the only thing I truly know—nothing more and nothing less.”

***

Something hits me square in the stomach, and I jolt up, coughing and guts twisting. The frog scampers back down to the stream and escapes below the bubbling waters, safe where I can’t exact revenge. Huffing, I brush moist soil from my cheek and blink the sleep from my eyes, trying to rid myself of the hazy images stuck behind my eyelids. The impression of a man lingers; he faces me in desperation—and something else. Something beyond the jungle that I saw in my dream, beyond the gossamer spiderwebs dripping from a, much older, much taller, feeling frame. I had seen something else, beyond the man. And while I don’t really care to think too hard about some random dream detail I can’t remember, there’s something about it that is nagging me, pulling at my attention. I probably accidentally ate a little bad mushroom while we were foraging earlier. I shrug, shake my head, and call out for Lucas, who has disappeared. That’s what the crazy dream was all about. These stupid mushrooms. He better not have left me to walk home alone. Especially if the mushroom was toxic, not just crazy dream-inducing. I could probably die from it.

“Lucas! LUKE. ASS.” I yell into the trees again, trying not to feel the twilight that has started to creep into the shadows, blending together into one, dark, grey blanket that I could get lost in forever. Where is he? Breathe, Lidia. Nothing bad is going to happen. You can find your way home alone. It doesn’t help that I can taste a little mist on my tongue, which means more is coming. Nobody is going to hurt a twelve year old girl. That’s not a thing that happens in real life. Nobody else is even out here this time of day. Oh. The wolves won’t know my age though…

“Oh, good, you're awake.” He finally shows up, bursting through the treeline and dumping a pathetic looking pile of twigs at my feet. “I’ve never seen someone nap that deeply. Tired from all the walking? Feeling a little delicate today?”

“Shut up. You’re a terrible twin.” I feign the anger, but I really still can’t shake the jittery feeling that had taken hold of me just a minute before. “And a worse Boyscout. What are you going to do with that? Make a fire for fairies?” He scoffs but then, grinning, kicks the twigs off the bank and into the stream. They follow along behind the frog, long behind him, but a little part of me hopes they’ll catch up to him and give him a firm little punch to the gut. Not really, though. I like frogs.

“It’s getting too misty to make a campfire anyways. Let's go home, sleeping beauty.”

I shove him and start off, running, following my memory home.

“Don’t you dare say ‘I win.’ ” Lucas flops down next to me, panting, and sprawls out along the steps. I lean my head against the railing and smile, finally calm again after having flung all the unexpected fear into the wind behind my sprint.

“I would never.” I mock. “Except that I do. Win. Every time.”

“You really should try out for track this year. Witherford’s always looking for anybody remotely fast. I bet you’d make it.”

“Witherford is creepy. And there’s no point if it’s that easy. Maybe the high school team will take me early. But anyways—”

“You’re late.” The shadow is defined even against the darkness, cast over us from the porchlight behind. “Your mother had dinner ready half an hour ago. What the fuck is wrong with you two? It’s a school night. Get inside.” I can tell Lucas wants to argue, say that Sunday doesn’t count as a school-night, that it’s still technically the weekend. Or that the smell of lasagna wafting from the new-open door signals leftovers. Which means they could just as easily be heated up a third or fourth time. But I pinch him in the side. Just don’t.

I hurry up the steps and push through the screen door. Lucas trails slowly behind me, biting his tongue. I swear I can hear dad’s teeth grinding together as he waits for us—well, waits for Lucas, mainly—to scrape mud from our shoes and make our way to the table. “Disgusting, coming home in such a state.” He sits at the head of our little square dining table—which means it’s only the head because he sits there—and starts eating, scowling at the cold lasagne. “Sunday dinner is to be respected, not come home to late and filthy. You’re not babies, for fuck’s sake.” Lucas and I share a look, thinking the same thing: since when do we do “sunday dinners?” I can’t even remember the last time dad was home for dinner. He works late every night. At least, I think he does. Something in me stirs at the thought, but I don’t have the time to figure out what before dad’s voice fills my head again. “Dianne, I honestly can’t believe you let your children waste their time doing god knows what in the muck all day.” Lucas hides a laugh by choking on a chunk of cold beef. Again, his thinking is clear. YOU literally work in landscaping and construction all day: otherwise known as, muck.

I shovel pasta into my mouth, trying not to be too obvious about my fast paced eating. I am so ready to be excused. Is that something we’re doing now? ‘May I be excused?’ Mom smiles placidly and takes little bites of the leftover lasagna. I don’t know if she even remembers the last time dad has said this much at once. It’s usually just a curse, or a grunt, or a single sentence packed with anger. Something’s wrong. There it goes again, my insides twisting in on themselves. Get a grip! What is wrong with you Lidia? You’re no scaredy cat, and this is nothing new. A few extra sentences, that’s it. But the dim kitchen lighting has begun to twinkle back and forth across my vision. I put my fork down and tilt my head to the side, squinting. Trying to get rid of the sparkling lights. “This is disgusting—why the hell can’t you make a normal meal like a normal wife and mother. For fuck’s sake. I get fired, fired! after twenty years of upstanding service—” I’m pretty sure he goes to work late and drunk half the days of the week— “and this is the comfort I’m met with. Rude, dirty children and cold, stinking tomato sauce.” A wave of nausea hits me at the word fired, and the imprint of a man burns the inside of my eyelids, which have tightly closed shut. Who is he? I know that he is real. It makes no sense, but I know that he is. It’s starting to come back to me, in flashes. Beef and soggy noodles churn in my stomach. I am definitely going to throw up. “Can we never order a goddamn pizza? Oh, no that’s right we can’t. None of you fucking babies have jobs— AND I JUST GOT FIRED.”

“May I please be excused?” All of their faces turn to me. It’s probably the first thing I’ve said in the house in months. I think my parents might have forgotten what my voice sounds like. Even Lucas seems stunned. “Um. I don’t feel good. I’m gonna hurl.” Dad smacks his lips together, clearly annoyed to be interrupted in the middle of his tirade. But he doesn’t seem to know what to do about it, so he just says: “well don’t do it here kid. Hey! Clean your plate up first.” I mutter something, I don’t know what, maybe trying to thank mom for dinner and ditch my dishes in the sink.

Lucas stands in my doorway, a few feet from me. I didn’t end up throwing up, just getting in bed. The room is a bit smaller than his—more of a closet, really—but I don’t mind. I’ve covered the walls in band posters and ripped pages from nature magazines. I wouldn’t switch with him now for shit. “You ok kid?”

“Don’t call me that. I’m two minutes younger than you.” He doesn’t give the usual retort, just stands there, waiting. He actually seems pretty worried. I scooch over to make room for him on the twin bed. Maybe he should be. “I guess. I dunno not really. Something is really wrong.”

“I can take you to the hospital. Been learning to drive the truck when no one’s around.” His chest puffs out a little. I can’t believe he’s been doing that without me; we’ve been talking about learning to drive since we first saw a car. But some things are more important right now.

“No, but thanks. I mean with dad. Something’s wrong. I figured it out earlier, but I couldn’t remember until dinner.” Actually, until after dinner. I fell asleep for a few moments, and had the exact same dream as before. But this time I remembered all of it when I woke up.

“You couldn’t remember what?” This is the hard part. There’s no way he’s gonna understand. Or believe me. I honestly probably shouldn’t even tell him; cause if he does believe me, who knows how he’ll react? Well, it’s not much of a surprise anyways. Not like I’m freaked out. About that anyways—I’m still freaking about how I know it. He might hate me for telling him! No, he couldn’t hate me—right?

“Ok. Um. This is gonna sound crazy. But I really know it’s true. And it’s not really surprising—I mean, you’ve been saying for months that you suspected he was cheating. So, yeah not exactly the shock of the century. But he is. I saw it. Sort of.” He looks confused. So am I. “In a dream. Sort of! It was more like a memory, but at the same time it hasn’t happened yet—or some of it. There were multiple things going on at once I can’t explain it. But I know it’s the truth. Her name is Charlotte. She’s twentysix and works for the construction company. It’s been four years now. Um. That’s all. I just wanted to tell you. Sorry.” Lucas sits on the edge of the bed; he doesn’t look at me. He’s so still, I wonder if he even heard me. Then his jaw clenches the tightest I’ve ever seen it, and he stares me dead in the eye.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Oh ma gosh so you believe me? Thank god, I was worried you’d think I was crazy. I might be but, phew I’m glad you—Lucas, where are you going?” He’d stood up so slowly I’d barely registered it, and now he’s walking out into the hall. His stride more confident then I’ve ever seen it.

“Of course I believe you, Lids. It’ll be better this way. Promise.” I rush to follow him downstairs, but am suddenly struck down to the ground. I can see it all now. It’s flashing behind my eyes seconds before the sounds of it reach my ears. Accusations. Laughter. God, so much screaming. My mom, slamming the back door behind her. The latch on the chest, clicking open. I can’t believe I missed it—I thought I remembered everything, but I’d only remembered the part that had already happened. Charlotte. My dad. It was only returning to me now, what I really saw. The part that was going to happen. That was happening. Now. GET UP. MOVE! I finally struggle to my feet and rush downstairs. But it’s too late. Which I know, already. Of course. I haven’t even reached the kitchen before the gunshot cracks through the house.

The gavel bangs down.

And the sentence isn’t short, unlike my brother’s life.

***

The man stands, finally, from where he had sat, back against the tallest tree and legs crossed beneath him.

“I have listened to your story, great prophet.” He comes closer, hands out in offering—or more rather, in asking. “I hear your pain and I understand your lesson. The secrets and answers we shouldn’t look for. Shouldn’t share. I swear I will not make the same mistakes. I will use what you give me for only for good, only to help my loved ones. Please, tell me what I must do. What I already will do. You know my future. Tell me, and I will wield the knowledge wisely.”

The prophet finally turns her gaze upon him, in a motion seeming both effortless and the most painful gesture possible. She studies this man, come in need and thrown before her mercy. She can tell he believes he has done a great task, listening to her warning. To her truth. He had not been expecting a life story other than his own. He is proud of himself for truly hearing her.

“Mistakes. An interesting judgment from the lips of a fully grown man. I have nothing else to give you but the answers I have given all those who have come before you: I have nothing else to give you.” He does not argue, at least, like most of them do. Only seems defeated, agonizing over where to go next, what to do. She lifts her eyes from the sight and sighs, feeling something close to pity. She will reward him for this, for almost making her feel something.

“And this. This I will tell you too. Do what I say you should. Go home.”