Song in the Woods

The Song in the Woods

The song was all he had left; it’s why he never left and why he never came closer than the boundary.

He was strong -- months of living in the wilderness without home or comfort had strengthened his arms and browned the skin. His face, weathered and handsome with a peppered beard, was hardened from loss.

One survivor, a dark, lean man, lived his life separate from the others.

They had been so happy. No matter that their country was no longer a country but a large wasteland scattered with bones and few survivors -- no government outside the Party from which they had escaped. They were in the forsaken, destroyed hills of what used to be called the Midwest. Here, there were no rules, no medical care, or energy.

That didn’t matter to the man who loved the woman. She had saved his life, nursing wounds which festered with rot and maggot, spilling water into his parched mouth. He thought he was going to die, yet, through her care, he became more alive than ever.

Who knew love could exist when the entire world was nothing but death and abuse?

After the fever broke, he pieced together the words she had spoken. Actually, they weren’t words so much as they were song. She had been singing while she cleaned the wounds and bathed his feverish head. He himself had forgotten how to sing; melody was useless when it could not keep you fed or warm. Yet, she sweetly sang ...

The heart shaped locket belongs to you,

Keep it safe and near.

I keep inside a secret message;

My love is with you here …

Now, three years later, he murmured the tune while peering through the pines.

She was dead. His wife. It was his fault. His fault. He let her down.

He thought about leaving -- he remembered stories of gold miners in the hills long ago; men who spent their life spinning pans through creek beds, never finding what they looked for. They couldn’t leave; they would die alone than miss the chance of finding gold.

He was trapped like the miners of old. How long would he stay? Forever. He would die here.

He spent his days in heavy woods which bordered a small, stone house. In the years before the revolution, the land and home would have been pretty.

By the time he and the woman had found it, it was nothing more than a husk with a roof, a large field behind it and beyond that thick pines. A house so far from the Party, the only remaining authority since the revolution, that one could almost start to feel safe.

She had danced when they found the shelter -- no matter that the roof needed repair and the light fixtures would never shine light. It was home. He remembered the way she had danced -- arms above her head, spinning in circles, smiling, long brown braid bouncing at her waist. She was so beautiful.

They spent two years in that shelter. Fresh water bubbled in a small, crooked creek in the woods. The roof was patched with rusty tin and pine branches and a small garden provided them with potatoes and onions.

It was home. No matter that death surrounded them, that the Party was cruel and exacting, food scarce. Home was her, in his arms, together.

The third year, her stomach swelled. She had cried tears of joy at her discovery. “We won’t be alone -- the world can continue on.” He didn’t share her joy. Instead, he spent the months wracked with fear -- a baby, in this place? What could he offer it in a world so harsh? Would it survive? Would he be able to protect it? His stomach lurched with anxiety. Then, he heard the sweet melody.

Cradling her bulging belly she sang ...

This heart shaped locket belongs to you …

Keep it safe and near …

I keep inside a secret message …

My love is with you here …

He would believe life was possible as long as she was here, singing her song. As long as he had her safe and warm in his arms each night he knew they could make it.

The next day, he had started collecting wood for a baby bed.

Now, she was gone, and he was alone, in the woods, facing the field and the stone house.

He would never leave the house but he would never enter it.

They had found other people -- people who were trying to start over like them. People who had run far from the Party and never looked back. She had called them neighbors and brought handfuls of springtime lilacs in welcome. Once, she created a dahlia shaped mosaic out of broken glass she found and gave it to the woman she asked to be her midwife.

On the day her pains began he kissed her, arms wrapped in her dark, wavy hair. Then he ran. He ran through the golden field and into the dark, heavy pines. His legs carried him splashing into the crooked creek and fast over the forest floor till he arrived at the midwife’s house, a woman whose mother had been an RN in another time.

She packed the worn satchel with the few herbs she knew may be needed -- nettle, yarrow, and willow -- and they raced back.

The birth had not gone as planned. When they arrived, the dark haired woman lay unconscious in a pool of blood. “She’s lost too much. The baby may not make it …” breathed the midwife. His hands cradled the dark hair, his eyes sparking the same intense heat a cornered animal gives out. Her locket, the one she sang about, hung limply from her neck.

It was too much. Too much. He stood, shaking like an addict without a fix, tears streaming down his face. What was this world without her in it? What would this home be without her song?

“If only I had the Party’s medicines,” murmured the midwife as she dug frantically through the satchel on the floor. Time was passing too quickly and she knew soon the woman would be out of blood, out of time.

He ran. Out the door and into the field -- the weeds and waist-high grasses ripping his skin. He could hear the midwife calling his name, begging him to return.

Return to what? His beloved was gone, his child lost forever. What did he have to live for? What could possibly be worth returning when all he ever wanted was dead on the floor. The small paradise they had created crumbled into oblivion and he felt as lost and dead as he did on the day she found him long ago.

Time passed. Hours. Twilight entered the night sky, fireflies flickering light into the darkness. The midwife called his name but with less intensity; at one point, she left the stone house and returned with a man. Together, they called but he had little interest. In the morning, he would leave this place and never look back.

At some point, he woke, his eyes still wet from sobs and, through the dark, he watched the man and midwife carry a form into the field. The sound of metal hitting dirt, dirt hitting ground confirmed what he knew: his wife was gone, his baby unborn.

Chaotic dreams filled his mind with songs about lockets and his dark haired wife. Cries of a newborn baby pierced her song, whispers of a midwife still calling his name. Tears slid down his face. He didn’t know people could cry in their sleep.

He woke, sometime in the night, pine needles and dew covering his body. In the broken moonlight he found the patch of purple echinacea flowers they had planted and twisted the fibrous green stems till they snapped. His last gift to the woman who brought song into his life.

That was then. He intended to leave, to run back into the wilderness untouched by the Party and as far from her song and home they had created.

Until he heard the cry. The wailings of a newborn trilled nearby, fragile. Fear struck him -- could he be hearing his child? No, it had passed with the woman he loved. This must be insanity -- imaginary cries haunting him. Then, he saw a candle passing through the dark window and heard a song which broke the last ounce of courage he possessed …

This heart shaped locket belongs to you …

Keep it safe and near …

I keep inside a secret message …

My love is with you here …

His heart turned to water, his bowels shook in horror. He was seeing ghosts; hearing memories and hopes long gone.

He knew there was no way he would ever leave. He would never leave the house but he would never enter it. How could he when this was the last place on earth he could hear her song, even if it were just his burdened, broken mind?

He moved into the woods, building a shelter from pine, drinking from the creek. Every day, he watched over the house -- listening for the song. Every night, he saw a candle light and flicker through the window. Sometimes, he heard the cry of a child in the night and ran from his shelter, stopping just a few feet into the field which bordered the house. He would go no further -- he didn’t want to break the spell, lose the singing voice which always soothed the wails.

Months passed. He worked in the wood, weaving a basket from softened reeds found by the water. Then he heard it -- a laugh. The field grass waved and giggles emerged from the echinacea dotted grasses.

He rose, his brown eyes squinting as he scanned for the forgotten, unusual sound. His weathered hands stroked the peppered beard as he considered what sort of trick his mind was playing.

Then he saw her -- a young child tottering through the grass chasing a small butterfly, a heart shaped locket around her neck. The girl couldn’t be much more than a year, her steps uneven and clumsy. Dark, wavy hair bouncing, a giggle escaping her in glee. Then, a woman emerged from the stone house door; it was the midwife calling the child back. His quick eyes turned to the child who giggled and ran after the butterfly -- a small, dark haired copy of the woman he loved long ago.

Sorrow filled his heart, confusion flooded his mind. Was he entering into a deeper illusion of madness? Or, had he been mistaken about the death of his child? Was he completely lost to insanity or had the cries in the night been real?

Then, he heard it … a childlike version of the song warbled in a girlish pitch …

… heart shaped locket belongs to you,

Keep it safe and near … My love is with you here …

The tune was imperfect but very real; this was his child, raised by a kind woman. Alive and thriving.

He lay aside the basket, stepped through the pines cloaking his presence, and walked toward the field which had been his border for so long. Breaking a purple echinacea, the very flower he had laid at his wife’s grave, he slowly approached the laughing, running child.

Looking up, he saw the midwife draw close. “Her name is Dahlia; we’ve been waiting for you,” she said, tears choking her voice.

Dahlia, hearing her name, turned and saw the tall stranger. He held out the flower and she took it, a large smile filling her face, the heart shaped locket gleaming in the sun. Gently, she took his hand and pulled him toward the stone house, babbling as they walked.

It had been the song of the dark haired woman that saved him once, now it was saving him again.