Green Mountain Miracle

It was a gorgeous summer day. The hot sun beat down on everything so hard, everything from the green leaves of trees to the dry, dusty earth seemed to shimmer and glow. My sunglasses were missing and because I'm very sensitive to light I was constantly squinting. I was at my old man's place, a quaint log home he'd built himself in the '80s on a small piece of land in Waterbury, Vermont. With my father's recent passing it was now my property in every sense of the word, although in my eyes it still belonged to him. But I knew I'd have to sell it soon. The taxes were too much for me to handle, and my writing career had nearly come to a halt since his passing last year. I knew if I didn't sell a story soon, I'd never be able to afford the twenty thousand dollar bill that was waiting for me in the not-so-distant future. But I still had hope, a part of me believed that the universe wasn't cruel enough to strip away the one thing that still made me feel close to the memory of my dad. I'd find a way.

I had just finished filling up the chicken's water can and I was now watering the vegetable rows and yellow marigold flowers that were calling out to me with their wilted leaves burning in the sun when I decided I needed a cold refreshment myself. I grabbed a cold, Vermont pilsner from my fridge along with my brown, leather-bound notebook which I hadn't written in months, and went back outside to the shade of the Oaktree. That tree has always been my favorite part of that property. It always reminds me of him, now more than ever. It was tall, sturdy, and always there, watching over me.

I took a few long sips of the mellow Pilsner while watching the Oak leaves dance slightly in the breeze. For a moment I almost forgot about the sweat covering my skin and the aches deep in my muscles. I felt very relaxed and then suddenly tired. I put my head back and drifted into a strange dream, that I can't quite recall. I woke up confused, trying to conjure up what dream I was just enthralled in, but all I could recall was a black notebook, some vague recollection of a great story, and a young petite girl calling out. As I came to I heard someone coming up the dirt road by my house. At first, I thought they were calling, and then I realized it was singing. A soft, high-pitched singing of a young woman whose voice sounded both beautiful and playful, yet sad, like a Mockingjay with no call to copy. As she came into sight I could see that she was bouncing quite literally along the dirt road, practically hopping. She wore a white dress and carried a canvas tote bag, it swung in her arms with each bounce. She had bright, light, blonde hair which reflected the sun like a mirror. It was difficult for me to look at her without squinting hard.

She'd almost passed my driveway when she caught sight of me sitting against the Oak. She walked over to me and as she drew close her brow knotted slightly in confusion.

"Hi, sir! Could you please tell me where I am?", she asked.

"Ripley Road" I responded, feeling a slight pit in my throat on account of her bright and stunning beauty.

"Hmm, I don't know it. Where's that?"

"Um, North East corner of Waterbury Center. We're right by Hunger Mountain, look" I said, pointing North towards the tall, round peak that stood just a few miles off. At the very top, it was bald, but the rest was covered in the lush green of maples, birch, beech, and spruce.

"Ohh", she said, her voice lilting slightly as if she was remembering something. "These are the green mountains, aren't they? Green mountains, Vert-mont, oui?" she asked, pronouncing Vermont like a native french speaker might.

"Yes, that's right..." I responded, slightly confused. I wondered how someone could be completely unaware of the state they're in. "So where are you coming from?"

"I don't know... lots of places! I think I just woke up, that's why I'm so out of sorts, or I think I might even be in the middle of a dream right now... All I can remember is the story. I don't know if I made it up or if it happened to me. Would you like to hear it?", she asked eagerly.

"Sure, I'd love to", I replied, feeling like I was in a story myself at that moment. As soon as she began telling the story I was utterly mesmerized, completely consumed by her words. It was so beautiful and although she spoke rather quickly, every word seemed to be the best fit for each sentence and the story as a whole, as if she'd thought of each word carefully before crafting the masterpiece that was now being recounted to me. The story was vivid in my mind and highly visual, I felt like I was in some sort of trance. Maybe this is a dream... I thought, feeling stranger by the minute.

"So, did you like it?", she asked after she'd finished.

"Like it?! That's the best story I've ever heard! You have to publish it!" I said enthusiastically, still awestruck by the magic that was her story.

"No, I don't think I will, I think it's time for me to go. Here, you can have it though", she said as she reached into the canvas tote and pulled out a small, black notebook. "Bye now", she said and turned to go.

I watched her disappear down the dusty, dirt road, she was headed straight toward Hunger mountain. Dazed and incredulous, I drained the remaining contents of my beer and lay my head back down, placed the black notebook on my lap, and tried to picture the fantastical story I'd just heard.

I came to much later, as the sun was low. It just poked over Camels Hump Mountain to the West, casting a bright yellow-orange like my marigold flowers into the sky. Confused, I woke up wishing that story hadn't been a dream at all, I could barely remember it, just that it was incredible and inspiring. I turned my head and found that my beer bottle was empty, the brown notebook I'd been hoping to write in earlier was missing, and a little, black notebook was resting on my lap. I opened it and found the story I'd heard from the angel in my dream, written in the most eloquent, curvy cursive I'd ever seen. I read the entire story, convinced that it was one of the best ever written. I closed the book and inhaled the summer air slowly, knowing I wouldn't be leaving the property anytime soon.