the woods are lovely, dark and deep
Weakness is punished, and strength is rewarded. If this is true, then I am being punished daily.
There is no snow. Winter has finally bled away, crawled off to die like a deer with a broken leg, and what has taken its place is the goldenrod rush of spring, all its flowers and sun. The library has been quieter recently—everyone takes their books outside to read. (I notice because I spent nearly every day in there.) This morning, when I woke, my bed was bathed in warm yellow light; the smell of upturned dirt and pollen came in through the crack in the window, and I smiled at the thought that things were coming alive again.
(There was music playing, somewhere, the sweet, high voice of a violin. But I could not tell then whether it was real or imagined, and thinking back on it I’m still not sure. I try to convince myself it would not matter.)
Of course, this is all in the past. Now the sun has set; the moon has taken its place, a thin sliver of radiant, almost-white light hung high in a deeply blue sky. Stars sparkle faintly through the boughs of the trees. Winter is gone, to be sure, but only recently. The wind still carries a kind of bite. As I walk, I tilt my head up to watch the tapestry of the night hung overhead: crushed dark velvet, striking silver.
Weakness is punished, and strength is rewarded. I am a weak girl, then: less in the heart and more in the body, which shivers against the gnawing cold of the breeze, and stumbles on the unpaved roads; whose head is clear, tonight, but so often pulses with crippling migraines and false old memories. I try to be thankful for that clearness. I try to enjoy it, breathing in the cool, fresh air, glancing with admiration at the celestial bodies that follow me through the forest. But instead I feel a little twinge of bitterness that I cannot always be like this—present, and calm, and healthy enough.
The path I walk is a narrow one. Really, it is little more than a deer-track pressed into the soft, dark dirt of the forest; a tiny, winding road of small consequence, at least in the grand scheme of the forest, which presses in on both sides of it. Pinecones litter the trail. Mushrooms sprout out from the dirt, or from cracks in the bark of so many trees. In a few places there are even beehives hanging in high spots, invisible but for the omniscient buzz of the insects inside. There are still birds awake and chirping in the comfort of their trees. There are still squirrels scurrying back and forth across the trail, swishing their bushy tails behind them like so many white flags of surrender. Even now, almost in the middle of the night, Delumine is alive and bustling with the lives of all its little animals. I look at them with admiration. I wonder if they don’t have it better than we do; if I would not be happier knowing nothing but the urge to eat and sleep and explore.
It does not matter.
Finally the forest breaks into a field. From horizon to horizon I see an ocean of grass gone pale-yellow in the moonlight, swaying and rippling as the wind blows through. It is a cool, calm night, and for a moment I hear nothing but the whoosh of wind, the sound of little scurrying feet, the call of birds to one another back and forth.
Then: “Good evening, Ms. Katerina.”
I start a little, unable to repress my surprise entirely. But it is not a jolt of fear; somehow, for a reason I cannot explain, I know who it will be even before I turn.
And I am right. He stands at the edge of the meadow, half-shadowed in the place where the trees meet the tall grass, and looks just as I remember him—handsomely built, perfectly black and white, his eyes the bright blue of moonstones.
“Mister Pravda,” I call back, dropping into the faint suggestion of a bow. My voice, I think, is kind—sheepish, even. “I'm not sure there is a reason, except that I’m very fond of walking.”
I press down a smile. “Although—sir—I could ask you the same thing.”
