Flashback
The only way to get water for our small farm was a half-mile walk down a winding dirt road.
A well lay on the edge of woods that I had yet to venture in, mostly out of fear.
Stories circled the woods by the well, and at nineteen, I’d learned to heed their warning.
However scared I was when I retrieved water, I was also mesmerized.
Feeling eyes on me that could not possibly be there. The townspeople would talk of demons within those woods. A warning if you made your way deep within, you did not come back the same. That is, if you came back at all.
Seeing the well within sight, I pick up my steps. My daily chore of retrieving water has become one I both anticipate and dread. The ground crunches beneath my feet, littered with the recent cuttings of dried millet stalks.
I lower one large water pail into the well, listening to hear the familiar splash of water as the pail hits its now rippling surface.
I drag it up, keeping my eyes on the tree line ahead, feeling my work a show for whoever roams within.
The pines, oaks and hickory hum their siren song to me in the form of leaves rustling in the breeze.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. My vision is always playing tricks on me at this time of night. There are deer that live within these woods, so I account it being one of them trying to evade my notice.
I turn to leave with two buckets full of water, but a hawk sits in the middle of my trail.
It stands still and regal, blocking my path.
Its eyes reflecting the lowering sun, a perspective I would hope to see in another life.
Eyes that speak of something else, too. A hidden secret that it wants to tell.
Before it seems it may speak, it flies off with something dropping from its talons and landing amongst the hardened stalks at my feet.
I scoop it up, seeing that it is not some rotten piece of dead carrion like one would expect, but a ring made of a dark golden metal.
Metal leaves and opaque green stones are laid within as I examine it inside the shallow dip of the palm of my hand.
Turning it against my fingers, I hear a whisper that directs me back to the tree line.
I hold the ring in my fist, and walk closer to the forest, eyes searching beyond the wooden trunks.
I could walk in. It would be so easy, and the curiosity flowing through me is nudging me further.
The toes of my bare feet skim dangerously close to the edge where the first tree appears.
Deep within, I see larger wooden tree forms whispering words of encouragement in hopes I will come see what the forest holds. One large tree in particular tugs at my attention. I can almost feel the grip of its branches on my body as I go to take a step in.
The bell on the farm rings, meaning Mother has made supper. I startle, falling back on my heels, and turn back toward the path leading to my house. Saving my ‘could be grave adventure’ for another day.
My mother always has some instinctual feeling when I am about to do something I should not. I curse her sixth sense. It would be a cold day in hell when I can finally break the rules she has so firmly set in place.
I carry the water back, glimpsing behind me at the forest every few steps. Once out of sight, I exhale the nervousness that filled my lungs. The first bucket I take to the pigs and goats, and the second I bring up to the house for our own personal use.
During supper, my mother looks at me skeptically. It is only us at the table. My aunt, who lives here too, retired early for the night, unhappy with my delayed return.
“What took so long?” She finally asks. I respond with a shrug and feed her some lie about getting distracted by the beauty of the sunset. It works since I am often awestruck with how nature can wholly consume one in its being, and my mother knows this about me.
She is fragile, and has become more so as time goes by. Sometimes I think it is because she worries about me too much, but I know it must be something more. An ailment that makes her pale and faint. One that gets worse as we live on this barren land.
I don’t lie to be defiant, but to protect her. I’d hate to have her bedridden because of a risk I almost took. As I finish my supper, I think about this, toying pensively with the ring in the corner of the small pocket of my dress.
After I clean up the dishes, I scoop up a cup of leftover water, grab a clean rag and make my way up to my bedroom. Dipping the rag in the slightly cold water, I diligently wash off the stubborn dirt staining my skin, and shrug into my nightgown.
I keep the candle lit on my nightstand as I study the ring within my fingers.
Turning it over and over to memorize every detail.
It looks about my size, so without hesitating I slip it on my left hand.
It slips easily onto my ring finger. A tingle starts, then swells into a rush of unwelcome knowing that floods through me.
Visions curse me. Visions of heavy wooden doors intertwined deep within tree roots, opening to a whole new world under this one.
And of a woman with willow branches for hair holding me as a mother would.
Of extravagant beds with messy sheets involving a shadow of a man with dark brown hair and markings resembling tree bark, who lurks beneath the earth.