They swell to twice their size, until I have to muscle one around the other by lifting with my arms. Hair, ropy strands of matted hair, grows over my forearms and hands; it tangles in my fingers as I struggle to wrangle my elephantine legs. The baby is gasping for air between heartrending sobs. Then the baby is just gasping. And then silence, momentary silence, is followed by rushing air. This is no ordinary wind; something ancient and angry is rustling through a grassland, which rises under my feet as I still struggle to maneuver my lifeless limbs. Seedlings sprout at my feet, then grow to my knees, burgeoning and expanding until broad flat fronds slap at my face and block my progress.
Darkness gathers as leaves the size of patio umbrellas unfold above me. And all the while the wind increases in intensity, a roaring tunnel of air, lifting me off my feet, my grotesquely swollen toes floating like red balloons, and then slamming me to the ground with a menacing peal of laughter. I land hard on packed dirt frozen solid. The chill instantly sends sharp coils of pain drilling deep into my bones. “Please, not cold,” I shout out loud. The gale whips above my head, a swirling mass of blowing leaves and twigs, until it becomes a determined mistral river flowing in a single direction. I have no choice now but to crawl, snakelike, using the currents of air to propel me forward. I grasp, with Neanderthal arms, at stalks of plants the breadth and width of barrels, until my chest and legs are scraped raw on the icy ground.
Again, a child’s cry; it’s muffled by the wind but pulsing, tauntingly, before me. How could an infant survive, even a moment, in this harsh and foreign jungle? It needs protection; it needs shelter; it needs warmth. I drive forward. Along the darkest of forest floors, I make one final advance, my legs dragging behind me like the tattered train of a moth-eaten gown. Again, the sharp mew of a newborn, and I, finding a last bastion of strength, claw myself forward another ten feet. Suddenly, the wind subsides and then there is light, glorious light. Newly energized, I manage two more pulls and then feel something warm ladle over me until my legs grow lithe and slim, and my arms smooth and sleek.
I am at the edge of a clearing; enormous stalks encircle a ring of soft grass. In the center lies a tiny babe, naked atop a bed of soft leaves and petals. Tufts of dandelion fluff float in the air, which is perfumed with flowers. The child’s arms flail and her legs kick. A girl, I realize with a glance at the crease between her legs. She holds in each hand, and even with her fisted toes, a curled vine laden with purple flowers, which close as they draw my attention and ribbon slowly over the child’s body.
I am so entranced by the scene before me, I fail to notice the perimeter of the clearing. As the baby settles into a contented coo, my gaze falls on four large stump-carved seats surrounding the grassy ring. The rough chairs are spaced evenly apart, seemingly at the four points of the compass, with the child equidistantly centered to each. Then there is a rustle in the trees, and I watch as Jaelle, wearing a long flowing white gown, walks quietly into the clearing.
“Jaelle,” I call. She can’t hear me. “Jaelle, it’s me, Kat.” No reply. “Jaelle!” My voice increases in volume and intensity, yet Jaelle still does not respond. She takes a few steps farther into the ring. She approaches one of the stumps, runs her hands along its rough-hewn surface, and lowers herself into the chiseled seat. She then reaches behind this forest bench and pulls what appears to be an orange cape over her shoulders. She settles it comfortably about her shoulders, so that I am at first fooled into thinking it’s a cloak of sorts. As I watch, though, flames lick up the back and onto Jaelle’s neck. She doesn’t seem to notice. Terrified for her safety, I call to her: “Jaelle, be careful!” She still doesn’t hear me,
Darkness gathers as leaves the size of patio umbrellas unfold above me. And all the while the wind increases in intensity, a roaring tunnel of air, lifting me off my feet, my grotesquely swollen toes floating like red balloons, and then slamming me to the ground with a menacing peal of laughter. I land hard on packed dirt frozen solid. The chill instantly sends sharp coils of pain drilling deep into my bones. “Please, not cold,” I shout out loud. The gale whips above my head, a swirling mass of blowing leaves and twigs, until it becomes a determined mistral river flowing in a single direction. I have no choice now but to crawl, snakelike, using the currents of air to propel me forward. I grasp, with Neanderthal arms, at stalks of plants the breadth and width of barrels, until my chest and legs are scraped raw on the icy ground.
Again, a child’s cry; it’s muffled by the wind but pulsing, tauntingly, before me. How could an infant survive, even a moment, in this harsh and foreign jungle? It needs protection; it needs shelter; it needs warmth. I drive forward. Along the darkest of forest floors, I make one final advance, my legs dragging behind me like the tattered train of a moth-eaten gown. Again, the sharp mew of a newborn, and I, finding a last bastion of strength, claw myself forward another ten feet. Suddenly, the wind subsides and then there is light, glorious light. Newly energized, I manage two more pulls and then feel something warm ladle over me until my legs grow lithe and slim, and my arms smooth and sleek.
I am at the edge of a clearing; enormous stalks encircle a ring of soft grass. In the center lies a tiny babe, naked atop a bed of soft leaves and petals. Tufts of dandelion fluff float in the air, which is perfumed with flowers. The child’s arms flail and her legs kick. A girl, I realize with a glance at the crease between her legs. She holds in each hand, and even with her fisted toes, a curled vine laden with purple flowers, which close as they draw my attention and ribbon slowly over the child’s body.
I am so entranced by the scene before me, I fail to notice the perimeter of the clearing. As the baby settles into a contented coo, my gaze falls on four large stump-carved seats surrounding the grassy ring. The rough chairs are spaced evenly apart, seemingly at the four points of the compass, with the child equidistantly centered to each. Then there is a rustle in the trees, and I watch as Jaelle, wearing a long flowing white gown, walks quietly into the clearing.
“Jaelle,” I call. She can’t hear me. “Jaelle, it’s me, Kat.” No reply. “Jaelle!” My voice increases in volume and intensity, yet Jaelle still does not respond. She takes a few steps farther into the ring. She approaches one of the stumps, runs her hands along its rough-hewn surface, and lowers herself into the chiseled seat. She then reaches behind this forest bench and pulls what appears to be an orange cape over her shoulders. She settles it comfortably about her shoulders, so that I am at first fooled into thinking it’s a cloak of sorts. As I watch, though, flames lick up the back and onto Jaelle’s neck. She doesn’t seem to notice. Terrified for her safety, I call to her: “Jaelle, be careful!” She still doesn’t hear me,
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