Short Story #6: Time to Rest
The 6th of my short story vignettes. I write these in one-go, no revisions, no rewrites. I hope you enjoy.
The autumn leaves crinkled and crunched underfoot as the young man made his way down the trail. The blending yellows, browns, and reds all around him caught the golden afternoon light, casting everything around him in a warm and pleasant glow. The faint musk of the earthy trail and the heady scent of the trees filled his nose. The wind playfully tousled his hair as it passed him by. The heat of the sun was only just beginning to wane, and the air danced on the edge of comfortable warmth — his body was unsure whether to shiver or relax. The young man put one step in front of the other, his eyes glazed over, looking at nothing in particular. The world around him was trying to invite him in, to show him a beautiful moment that might never occur again, but he didn’t want to see it. He put one foot in front of the other, the thudding footfalls of his steps falling in time with his slow, aching heartbeat.
The wind, bless her heart, tried again to make him smile. She danced around him, throwing leaves into the air in delicate spirals, the gusts sweeping through the branches and pulling a shifting, haphazard cascade of color all about him. The gentle caress of her touch on his cheek, his lips, and the nape of his neck were meant to comfort him. The soft tugging and rustling of the wind through the young man’s hair was meant to make him smile and relax, as if being held by a lover. He had always loved the wind, and she had always loved to make him smile. His expression did not change, and his eyes remained as mirrors to any who could see.
The young man continued down the dirt path that meandered through the edge of the woods. His eyes registered only grey stones and lifeless dirt beneath his feet as he walked. A passerby might have thought him lost, if not for the constant and decisive pace of his slow steps. This man knew exactly where he was going — but nobody, least of all him, could say whether he wanted to. The smell of the earthy trail was slowly infiltrated by, and then overpowered by, the sharp smell of pine. It tickled his nose, and he took a slow, deep breath, relishing the smell.
His eyes prickled as the smells dredged up the memories. Not yet. He wouldn’t want to think about that yet.
His slow march carried onward, deeper into the pine grove. The sharp smell pierced his nose, and the wind’s gentle caress struggled to reach him here. The fading warmth of the sun was gone from this place — only the soft shadows and watchful pines remained. The young man stepped forward, towards a clearing in the grove. The trail had ended, leaving only the quiet grasses to bear witness to the culmination of the young man’s pilgrimage.
In that clearing, in the center, was a small, still-growing tree. In many years, it would become a beautiful maple, stretching its arms across this clearing and basking it in color. The sun’s rays would pierce through its many branches and leave dappled warmth beneath. That same light would, in time, pass through the leaves with a glow reminiscent of home and a family’s love. But for now, this small tree was just that: small, young, unproven. The young man stepped towards that tree, and knelt at the base. From his pack he produced several things: two large bottles of water, a sandwich wrapped in a paper bag, a rawhide chew, and an old and battered Frisbee. He carefully placed the chew and Frisbee to the side, setting them down on the soft grass as gently as possible. On the other side he placed his lunch and one of the water bottles, placing them quickly and without care. He slowly turned the cap on the remaining bottle, twisting it off with ease. He took a deep breath and carefully poured the water out onto the mound the tree stood upon. The young man took care not to splash the water around, pouring close to the ground to not disrupt the carefully shaped mound. The water fell upon the thirsty ground and ran down the sides like tears on a baby’s face. The dirt sucked it up greedily, and so the young man continued to pour, painting aquatic circles around the young tree until it was well and truly sated. The wind flickered into the shelter, lightly ruffling his hair, before fading away again.
When the bottle was emptied, the young man leaned back, calmly replaced the cap, and sat back. He sat there for some time, listening to the wind anxiously dancing about the pine grove, trying to find his words. He’d never been good with words, at least according to him, but he was earnest. He did his best — I always knew that. He sat there for so long that the blue sky above had given way to the stars. I sat opposite him, looking at him over the sapling. I moved to touch him, to try and wake him from his reverie, but I knew it would make no difference.
The wind, however, was not so powerless: she threw a leaf into his face, concerned and frustrated with his stubborn melancholy. He sputtered and broke free, looking around in surprise. After a moment, he sighed, and looked at the gifts he had brought with him. He picked them up and weighed them in each hand — weighing not their mass, but the memories tied to them. He gently placed the rawhide chew in front of the sapling, between me and him, and leaned the battered red Frisbee — with its many small holes and frayed edges — against the dirt mound. He opened his mouth, gasping for words, but the only thing that came out was a choked gasp. The bitter tears he had been holding back for so long came rushing forth, burning his tired eyes like acid. With that one crack, the dam broke completely, and there was nothing I could do to help him. Not anymore. He gasped and choked on his tears, the salt of them doing nothing to soothe the tightness in his throat and chest. The wind’s frantic ministrations only served to chill the wet skin of my partner’s face, but she didn’t know better.
His head pounded, and his body was wracked by grief. The memories of running through the fields laughing, the memories of walking through the woods without a goal or direction, the memories of sitting beside each other in front of the fire at the end of a long day, all came rushing out of the depths. Memories we both cherished deeply, but memories that were another spike through his still-broken heart. I could not comfort him as he cried in front of me, in one of the special places we would always play. All I could do was stand alongside the wind, the grass, and the trees, bearing witness to the grief of a boy that had lost his dearest friend.
A rapid tattoo of thudding and crunching came from outside the clearing. The sound of rapid sniffing was carried faintly by the breeze, and the wind left the clearing to investigate. I could not go, I could not leave him like this. I already left him once. There were no tears left for him, only shudders and harsh breathing. His body shivered between dry sobs, for evening had come and the air was cold. He needed to get home soon, or he might get sick.
Suddenly, a certain sound broke the grieving air around us. The pitter-patter sound that I had heard before became much louder, and much faster — something was coming. The wind danced back into the clearing for one final time, dancing lightly and happily. The boy raised his head and turned towards the entrance of the clearing, looking for the source of the noise. He had barely turned his head before being struck by a rushing, barking, clumsy mass of fur. He fell backward, stunned, as the puppy licked his face in happiness (and managed to trip over his own excitement). After a moment, he smiled, and then laughed, framing his red eyes and tear-stained face with happy wrinkles.
“Was I gone too long?” he said, picking up the puppy and looking into her big brown eyes. “Did you have to come find me? Good girl!”
She gave a happy yip, her tail wagging ferociously. My partner set her down on the ground, and turned to leave. I watched him step away from me, turning to follow the puppy that was romping vaguely towards the dirt path. He took several steps, breathing in the deep pine smells and enjoying the chill of the night air, before stopping. I couldn’t help but turn my head as he froze, wondering what he was going to do. He looked back at me, sorrow and relief waging war on his face. The puppy came romping back towards us, and looked at him in confusion.
Why did you stop? I could almost hear her say. She would learn to speak to him, just like I did. And he would learn to speak with her, as he did with me. The pup turned and looked at me, and walked toward me. She sat as nicely as her still stubby legs would allow, and cocked her head at me. My partner was looking at her with confusion. I smiled at her, and walked around the tree towards the two. I nudged the well-loved red disk on the mound, and looked at him, at my boy. Her ears perked up, and she cautiously stepped forward and took hold of the Frisbee in her mouth, and dragged it back towards him. I nodded, and sat next to the soft dirt mound, waiting and hoping. The pup dragged the disk towards him, and dropped it neatly on his foot. He looked at her, and then at the tree, before slowly picking it up.
“Did you want to play for a little bit?” he asked, voice unsteady. The pup looked to me briefly, and danced in place with excitement. I stood and joined her, patiently waiting and watching my boy.
“Okay then. I’m going to throw this over there, you go get it for me okay?” He showed the pup the disk, and then threw it across the clearing. I ran first, feeling the wind as I did so, and jumped to catch it like I used to — only for it to sail right out of my grasp. After a moment, the pup ran up and bit the now-fallen Frisbee, and playfully growled at me (and it) as she tried to lift it.
“Good girl! Again!” He picked up the disc and let it fly. We followed it, racing each other in our simple games. The wind laughed in the trees as we played, as our boy finally laughed and smiled again. He threw, and we ran, over and over and over again. It wasn’t long before the pup had enough, and clumsily plopped onto the grass and started snoring. He laughed at the sight, moving to pick up the un-retrieved red Frisbee. He paused, looking at the beloved toy in his hands, letting the memories run and jump through his mind. He walked back to me, towards the tree, and gently replaced the disc where it had been set before. I stepped up to him, next to him. It’s where I had always belonged, and always will be — even if I can’t be there anymore.
“Thank you. You were always there for me, I’ll miss you.” He said softly, soft tears welling again in his eyes. He quickly sniffed, blinking back his tears. I stepped forward and gave him a quick kiss, right on the cheek, like old times. He jerked slightly, and felt at his cheek. He stood there, looking right through me, for an entire minute. Then he chuckled, and stood up. He turned, picking up the young pup out of the grass, cradling her as gently as he once cradled me.
“We’ll be back to play again soon, okay?”
I watched his back as he stepped away from me. I watched his back as he reached the edge of the grove, and I listened to the sound of his footsteps as we walked away from me. Once he was out of sight and out of hearing, I returned to the tree. I laid down around the young sapling, getting myself comfortable. The stars were always there, watching, and they could see as well as I that he didn’t need me anymore. My boy would be okay, and that was enough for me. I think it’s time to rest.
