10X10X10
issue 2
| 05/26/08: Issue 2
The Green Glade
Isabel’s walks in the woods grew longer every day. Her quiet little journeys were no longer a matter of simple exercise, or meditation. She didn’t enter the woods to repair her mind, or to enjoy the cool beauty of the spreading dawn. She didn’t hike to kill time while her parents overcame their hangovers, struggling out of bed, groggy and unhappy and cringing in the sunlight as if it burned. Her walks had become a mission. She was an explorer, searching for the secret places that would give her power. Isabel had just turned thirteen. If this particular birthday held any significance, she didn’t know what it was, other than the number carried the ancient weight of superstition. It was the number of tragedy; the jinx that brought injury and loss to those unlucky enough to meet it. She pushed these thoughts away and entered a cool pine forest. Here and there a jutting island of granite, or an explosion of curling ferns captured her passing glance and she logged each landmark in the vast map she was composing in her mind. There were no paths here. She entered the trees not knowing if she’d ever find her way back. Not that she was afraid of losing her way; the forest would provide. Even now it whispered soothing prayers in her ears. A huge rotted log, enveloped in emerald moss, confronted her. In its shadow, small blue mushrooms grew, with stems as fragile and translucent as spun glass. She kneeled before them and began to eat. * * * Ezra Cobb trudged through the underbrush, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder, a shovel caked with clay in his hand. He’d spent all night in the graveyard, treasure hunting. He followed a small nameless river; a loud, rushing thing, charged and vigorous with late-spring snowmelt. He crossed a worn wooden footbridge and entered the pines, and after a few paces he spotted the girl. * * * The mushrooms were soft and clammy, with an aged flavor that reminded Isabel of mold and mildew, of antique books and damp basements. She knew that her parents would be horrified to see her eating strange, wild mushrooms. It was reckless, delusional, self-destructive and stupid. This was why she’d been locked away for a year; why she’d been drugged and supervised, surrounded by doctors, nurses and counselors; cursed with the pointless worry and concern of paid strangers. She said the word, “Schizophrenia,” and found that it had lost its sting. She ate another mushroom. * * * Ezra hid behind a tree, slipped the burlap bag to the ground and peeked out at the girl, holding the shovel in two tightening fists. He was directly behind her. He stepped from behind the tree and then froze and retreated. Good God, she was eating the blue mushrooms. He smiled and saw himself smile; a red, toothless crescent in a craggy, sun-baked face. He wouldn’t have to get his hands dirty this time. All he had to do was wait. * * * Isabel swallowed the final mushroom and then lowered herself to the ground, resting her head on a chilly pillow of moss. She closed her eyes and the woods sighed around her, Hush, hush my love...hush and drift safely to sleep... * * * Ezra waited. The girl did not stir. He waited. * * * Isabel could feel the moss growing over her; a cool, furry hug spreading across her prone body. It advanced in slow tickling waves up her legs, folding over her arms, weaving damp mittens over her hands. It spread across her face in a garish green mask. Tiny, hesitant tendrils curled between her lips, climbed into her sinuses, slipped behind her eyelids and filled her vision with an endless galaxy of writhing green patterns. Flowers bloomed, bursting like fireworks with sudden, violent colors. Huge blue mushrooms erupted like volcanoes before her, launching themselves into the swirling black sky like spongy, alien skyscrapers. She tried to move but the moss held her tightly to the earth. She tried to breathe, but her mouth had been sealed shut, her throat closed to a choking pinhole. * * * Ezra watched her twitch and spasm, and listened to her thin, hitching breaths. He leaned the shovel against the tree and came out of hiding to sit beside her and watch her beautiful demise in detail. * * * Isabel inhaled a waterfall, dissolving her tissues into a churning green sea. * * * Ezra leaned in close to smell her. She smelled clean, clean on top of clean. She smelled of green soap and hot water, deodorant and freshly laundered clothes. He licked her neck and tasted perfume and salt, then he leaned in for a second taste. * * * Isabel felt a warm slug ooze across her neck, leaving a trail of cooling, drying slime. She gasped and opened her eyes. A crying ghost was staring at her, thick tears spilling from large, kindly eyes, turning to phosphorescent emeralds as they traveled down the grooves and lines of his face. “Hi,” she said and her voice shook the trees, scaring off a flock of curious birds that had been watching them. * * * Ezra considered running away. He thought about grabbing his shovel and putting the girl back to sleep. When she’d opened her eyes, he’d been shocked, scared, but now, seeing her blue eyes and guileless smile, all he could do was say, “Hi,” and give her a little wave. * * * Isabel sat up. The woods were filled with thousands of squirming faces and thousands of hissing voices. The ghost floated above her, waving like an unfurled flag at the bottom of a river. He said, “Come with me, child,” and Isabel took his hand and they floated into the trees, together. * * * Ezra grabbed his bag and shovel and then led the girl through the pines, to a narrow path that wound to the small shack he’d cobbled together with dump pickings. Old boards, cardboard, and road signs had been banged, lashed and nailed together. The door was a heavy black flap of tar-paper. The front of the shack had been decorated with hubcaps and glass bottles and forgotten Christmas ornaments. The roof was corrugated tin that thundered when it rained. * * * The ghost brought Isabel to a small house decorated with iridescent jewels. The door was a tunnel that burrowed straight into black, starless space. He led her inside. * * * Ezra dropped his bag on the small round table in the middle of the room. “Have a seat,” he told her. The girl nodded and sat at the table. She folded her hands and stared at the bag. “What’s that?” she said. * * * There was something alive in the bag, Isabel was sure. It moved and breathed, struggling against its burlap prison. “What is it?” she asked again and her voice bounced and echoed around the room. The ghost smiled at her. “My treasures,” he said. “Can I see?” The ghost considered her request for a moment, then upended the bag, saying, “Of course, my dear.” * * * Ezra dumped out the sack and three moldering human heads rolled onto the table; dry, crusted skin over hard bone. Most of the hair had fallen out. Expressions were long gone, identities long lost, all erased by decay. The girl looked at them and smiled. “They’re beautiful,” she said. “What do you call them again?” * * * “My treasures,” he said. “I collect them.” He waved at the walls and Isabel looked around for the first time. An audience of strange faces surrounded them. A naked woman who looked as if she’d been frozen solid while singing was hanging behind her, lashed to the wall with loops of thick rope. But where was her bottom half? Isabel turned back to the ghost. “Oh,” she said. “I like them.” * * * “Thank you,” Ezra said, trying to decide how he should go about killing her. And then she shocked him again with her next question: “Can I stay here with you?” And he answered, “Of course, my child,” and then set about making some tea.
Hank Kirton has written ten unpublished novels. The first two he didn't bother to submit. The third he sent to St. Martin's Press, "just to see what a rejection letter looks like." Since then he's collected over 100 "Get lost!" missives. He constructs papier-mache busts of Priscilla Dean with them. For more information on Priscilla Dean, contact him.
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