They were standing just over the edge of the hill’s crest, all looking down and to their right, at the river. The shadow approached from the road, to their left, and went unnoticed among the shadows of grass and uneven ground and the three boys. The girls were already halfway down the hill to the river, shedding shoes and their silly scarves as they went. No one smiled, but the mood was light, all the same. Beuti was the first to reach the end of the grass, to step onto the worn, damp dirt of the bank. The boys still hadn’t moved and the shadow slipped among them, not touching their own shadows. If it had been seen, noted at all, it would have been passed off as the shadow of a cloud or an insect flitting across the ground. The sky was mostly clear, the sun a brilliant disk but not too hot, yet. A faint breeze came up the hill to graze the boys’ calm, expressionless faces as the shadow slithered down. Trehbelle followed Beuti onto the bank, sitting down, throwing away the last of her scarves – a long stream of shimmering blue material – and untied her bootlaces. Beuti looked back and stretched her lips, briefly, mirthlessly, at Trehbelle in her pale, faded jeans, intent upon her boots. Sinamyn stopped just short of the bank and crossed her arms, tilting her head up to examine a patch of sky indistinguishable from any other. Beuti finally looked up the hill at the boys, not seeing the shadow that skimmed among the blades of grass, snaking from side to side. Maedleir dropped his chin, just slightly, in acknowledgement. The boys, moving almost as one, started loping down the hill, unknowingly following the shadow’s path. Dhanc’s longer stride slowly put him to the front, so he reached the bank just as Beuti stepped into the river. Claqueuirk settled beside Trehbelle, played with the laces of the boot she’d already removed. Sinamyn made an impatient noise and caught Maedleir’s arm just as he passed her, so, arm-in-arm, in step, they both strode into the river. Dhanc dove dramatically, full-length, just as the shadow had done moments before, into the cold water. Trehbelle wrenched her other boot off at last and ignored Claqueuirk’s proffered arm, hurrying toward the river impatiently. He followed – as he would always follow – unperturbed and they sank beneath the surface in the same instant. The breeze blew a little while longer, the sun shone, uninterrupted by clouds. Then the Gate shut and the land swallowed the riverbank – boots stuck with Cold Iron, the grassy hill, the road, all – all at once.
But that was either the past or will be the future – it doesn’t matter which, only that it is not the present. The present gifts us with another scene: the dusty square of a small town. A grocer’s storefront slumps in the shade of an awning, what might be generously called an ice cream parlor to its right, a barbershop bracing it on the other side. Across the way, a funeral parlor glowers back at the sun glinting wanly off of the brass caps to the barbershop’s striped post. The weakly reflected light owes more to the tarnish than to the sun’s efforts – it is nearly as bright as it is hot. Barely room for two cars to pass each other between the storefronts but the air in that space wavers thickly, making the opposite façade of shops seem just that – a shimmering illusion of small town commerce. The funeral parlor presses snugly up against the left wall of the used book shop, whose door's placard proclaims it to be out to lunch. The final storefront is the only to attempt to demonstrate any alertness – a crisply lettered, unfaded sign in the window display area declares that, yes, Dante’s Apothecary is open. The door is even propped open with a heavy flowerpot. The pot contains a jade tree that is making a valiant effort to survive the moisture-sucking air, but failing nevertheless. Labels: Home, stories
