In The Glen, Amidst The Flowers

Oh, how I wish you could have been here when Father and I made our way into the glen. Discouraged we were for several days after our separation from you and the others, for we couldn’t figure when and where we strayed from the caravan. During that mighty storm is when our segregation most certainly happened. Who would have thought it would maintain such a ferocity for days on end? We couldn’t see the wagons before us or behind, and the deluge flowing from the hills impeded all attempts to stay on course with an almost malicious intent. Father, staunch in his faith, believed that the storm displayed such vigor that the Noahic Covenant most certainly had been broken, but I urged he keep his thoughts to himself, lest we forget what holy scorn can be delivered for such comments. Lacking the skill to backtrack, trebled with diminishing provisions and waning optimism, hope of seeing you again all but faded.

As we wandered, despite Father’s pessimism and my onsetting nihilism, I found myself still able to enjoy this scenic route: dense clusters of white birch interspersed among tall wild grasses. There wasn’t a leaf on them, yet it was already Spring. The sky was a clear blue - I had yet to see a cloud since the storm - with rays of sunlight bouncing off the pale shedding of the trees. This picture lasted for many miles and, for a time, distracted me from my worries. It was Father who soon noticed that it had become unnaturally quiet: the sounds attributed to life and their rhythms were falling out of time, off-beat and faltering. Less often would we hear some animal make a dash through the grass, insects humming in the air around us, or the chirping of birds overhead. Father didn’t like this at all. He took shelter in his scriptures as we rode on. I, in turn, grew rather unsettled as the din of the woods gave way to deafening silence. I so desperately yearned to turn back, to find you and the others not far behind but, not knowing where we were, had nowhere to turn back to. So we kept our course, for we had no other course to take.

The air about us soon only conveyed whispers, as if trying to keep secret the existence of the forest’s inhabitants. Keep from whom, I couldn’t say, for I felt the subtle dread of a warning worth heeding that I had yet to grasp. Oh, imagine if I stayed the thought in my mind for a moment longer, the difference it would have made! In an instant, however, my attention was drawn elsewhere, towards a scent in the air that, put plainly, smelled of life and tickled the olfactories - I had forgotten the silence altogether. It was just noticeable at first, hardly warranting the attention, but it lingered. No matter what direction we took, the scent became stronger, as if it were leading us. I began to daydream of good times back home with you: dancing under torchlight and each of us having a healthy dose of spirits. I even thought I heard your sweet nothings lead me on, along the holts. My uneasiness began to fade and I even felt the pangs of malnourishment subside. Father kept his suspicions up but something about him made me think he was experiencing a similar effect.

Almost abruptly we came upon a glen. The trees and grass gave way to a plethora of wild flowers: solidago, purple larkspur, Queen Anne’s lace with its white tops, waxflower, gomphrena, daisies, daffodils and many others, some of which I can’t name. Every color one could imagine was peppered across the glen, intermingled together. This is where the scent was emanating from, and it nearly overwhelmed me. Near the center of the glen appeared a bothy, old and withstanding. A soft lichen grew up its side and laid claim of the dwelling, as if attempting an escape from the colorful expanse that surrounded it on all sides. A little run down, the small cottage appeared to have been here for many years. Father and I, in part from the rejuvenative qualities of the air, as well as the prospect of finding someone who knew where we were, perked up almost instantly. We parked the wagon just outside the glen and made our way towards the bothy, delicately at first as to not trample too many of the flowers. Neither of us bothered to investigate, but there seemed to be much debris under the petals, for it was uneven terrain and we stumbled at times along the way, quite nearly falling. As we got close we saw, next to the dwelling, a large swath of marigolds pooled together.

Father was first to note that we were at the exact center of the glen. From a bird’s-eye view it must have been something to behold: a brilliant marigold pupil with a rainbow-speckled iris peering up out of the forest right at God, Himself. But who was looking at him? I wanted to inspect the interior of the bothy but Father, finally in better spirits, decided to stay outside and look about more closely - to smell the flowers, so to speak. I left him to his whims and went inside. There were no windows and the only light penetrating the interior was that which was let in through the doorway, imposed only by the dust floating in the air and my exaggerated silhouette stretched across the floor. I stepped in. There was a small table, some bedding in the corner neatly made, a large cauldron hanging over a fire pit at the center of the room, and scattered throughout, various run-of-the-mill necessities. No one has been here for a long time, and in spite of its surroundings, this place felt cold and dead. As I ruminated, I heard a soft thud from outside. I swung around and made my return to the lush garden. “Father!” I called, looking about. There was no answer. I continued to call out and search but I must note that I was not in a panic. The intense aroma flooded my senses once more and I was in such a state of calm that I don’t think hardly anything could have bothered me. Not consciously thinking of where I was looking, I made strides toward the patch of marigolds. I stared at them for a moment, taking it all in. It felt as if they were looking back at me and then all of a sudden, I heard your sweet nothings again, calling me to lay down amidst them.

I gently swept some aside as not to crush them and turned to lay on my back. It was cool and welcoming beneath the surface and the odor of the damp earth below only added to the ensnaring bouquet, but yet, there was something bitter in the air, almost rancid. This too seemed natural however, and didn’t detract from my state of calm. As I laid there amongst the flowers, I gently turned my head side to side to examine this new perspective. The light that pierced the petals created an incredible light, providing an orange hue to the dense green of the stems. I then noticed something: bits of white poking out of the earth all around. Very sleepily, I reached out towards one of these deposits and pulled it from the soil. I brought it towards me and, as I inspected, came to the sudden realization: I was clasping someone’s hand -better put, the remnants of a hand. It was stripped of tissue and cleaned thoroughly by time. I then readjusted my focus to further along the swath and noticed father facedown in the dirt, peering almost in my direction. He didn’t blink, nor did he call out. He just lied there. Whether he had died or not I could not say, but I couldn’t bring myself to go over or call out myself. I simply gazed back. I remained there, lying and looking up. Not all at once, I realized that this is what we had been stumbling across as we entered the field; that as this abundant sense of life flourishes and wafts about the flowers, below their surface, carrion and bone litter the soil.

I take a deep breath - the scent fills my lungs and then some. I have never been so calm, so at peace. I don’t think I’ll get up; not for a while, if ever again. Oh, how I wish you could have been here when we discovered the glen…