A Grove In The Barren
By: Adam Benson
It was cold and the snow whipped around my face in tight curls. I had been walking alone in The Barren a long time, as long as I could remember, and never found anything or been found by anything. I used to hold my hand out to feel my way along, to try and strike a solid wall, but always when I outstretched my hand it reached infinitely far, contacted nothing and became lost in the crystalline white void. Some time ago, during my bouts of vertigo, I would drop to my knees and vomit, but even then it looked blank and white and the bloodspots were instantly buried deep in fresh snow.
Time, according to the rise and fall of light, was useless. It always remained the same dull glow, and so I could only measure the passing of time with memories, feeble examinations of various thoughts, considerations and moments. Occasionally, in the vast space between the bones of my skull, the chronology of these memories jumbled like a handful of snow blown up into the wind where it would dissipate and every appearance of coherence it once had would be lost forever.
I had a minimum of supplies buried down in pouches underneath my coat: a small metallic hatchet, matches, flint, canteen and a knife with a long blade. I held on to these with all hope. Removing the knife and glimpsing at the shimmer of the blade through the blanket of white gave me a moments perspective into what could lay hidden in the emptiness; a possible object, a thing other to myself, that existed out in the white field. I began to run with the knife, searching for something to plunge the blade into. Quickly I became tired of running and the knife remained perched in my hand, unable to find a resting place. In the emptiness of The Barren items operate like useless currency— tools without purpose.
Once, in between memories now lost to me, I felt the muscles in my legs quaking as never before. This violent shake made me stumble and I flung my arms about in all directions grasping for a hold when no longer able to resist I collapsed to the ground. The force of my body falling made a small cavern where I fell and the fresh falling snow quickly bedded me deep down underneath the surface. Wrapped in the freezing ground of The Barren I tried to continue to muse but soon felt myself drifting off.
Upon opening my eyes I was surprised to find myself transported out of my imprint in the snow to the center of a small grove of pines. Still weak and tired I gathered myself. I rose and looked at the vibrant green of the surrounding trees and heard the wind over their tops and outside their boughs. In the calm of this shelter I loosed the hood of my coat and started a small fire with the matches inside my pocket and dead branches I found lying at the base of a tree well. I hadn’t been there long, it seemed like mere minutes, when another person, face hidden behind the fur of a coat, glided into the grove and sat down across the fire from me. I looked up, my lips quivering from the cold, and asked the persons name in a slow, stumbled voice. Seconds passed and I got no reply so I asked again. The reply came silently; the person slid the fur hood gently off her head. I saw her long black hair and the dark skin of her face, taut in a smile, all freed by the falling of the hood. I sat still and said no more but tried to return the smile but the frozen corners of my mouth gave off a painful appearance. She looked away from me and I felt embarrassed and looked towards the ground. When I glanced back up she was removing her gloves. Surprised at her deft movements in the cold I watched as she reached deep inside her coat with agile fingers and pulled out a pot, filled it with snow, and held it over the fire. The metal belly warmed in the heart of the flames and the handfuls of snow transformed into bubbling, boiling water. She continued to smile at me and reached back into her coat; a market of ingredients came— potatoes, carrots, spices, and red meat. She tossed each into the boiling water and soon a rich smell rose up, pressed the crease of my lips and drifted up into my nostrils like perfume on the neck of a lover—insatiable and delicious. She stirred the pot with her head slightly down, shifting her glance back and forth between me and the boil from the corner of her eyes colored like oak grain. After many turns of a wooden spoon she picked up the pot, ladled some into a bowl, and handed the stew across the fire. My hands warmed and softened under the warmth of the bowl and the steam rising up covered my face like submersing the body into a hot springs. I thanked her in mumbles of gratitude and shaky bows but she ignored my praises and beckoned for me to eat by bringing both her hands up to her lips, still pressed in a smile. I composed myself, returned the gaze and nodded in understanding. Slowly I bent my head and brought the bowl up towards my lips when she began to move. Surprised, I watched her from across the fire. She began to loose her coat by pushing each individual button back through each hole and then untying the straps around her waist. She lifted the coat off her shoulders and let it fall softly to the snow-covered ground. Still holding the stew before my lips, having not yet taken a taste, I saw glimpses of her skin through the orange and yellow flicker. It looked smooth like bone but soft like fresh leather; the reflection of flames in her eyes like oak grain showed two freshly burning coals preparing to stoke a great fire that was now only an imagination. Right in front of my eyes the once small grove in The Barren began to expand, quickly becoming more vast than The Barren itself. The wind began to sing low in the treetops and steam rose up from her warm body when it contacted the cold night air. The Barren vanished behind a veil when the steam drifted ever closer to me, pressed up against the crease of my lips and came up into my nostrils like the perfume of a lover—insatiable and delicious.