Chapter 8 #5
Neither option seemed all that safe or wise.
However, when I realized that the woman was no longer gesturing for me to go to the woods, and had turned her attention to something on her table, I made my choice.
I turned left onto the dirt path and headed towards the woods.
I’d already walked along Twelve—I mean, Two-Mile Trail—so, what was one more dirt trail in two days?
The breeze tapered off a bit, but continued to blow through town, and the tinkling sound from the woods continued.
As I strolled along the dirt path, trying to be cautious, yet brave, the tinkling sound grew louder as the trees grew closer.
Moments later, I was within the trees, their branches towering over me, providing a cool shade, as I strolled along the path.
The tinkling sounded different within the dark, cool confines of the woods.
Well, not different, I guess, but…well, different.
Because it didn’t just sound like “tinkling” anymore.
It sounded like a lot of different things.
There was the tinkling sound, but also what sounded like pieces of glass tapping against each other.
Hollow wooden logs bonking together. Metal on metal.
The click-clack of stones being slapped together gently.
When I reached the end of the dirt path, I found that it had led from the street in town to a clearing in the middle of the small wooded area, no larger than was needed to place a building the size of the post office.
It wasn’t the noises coming from all over the woods that startled me suddenly when I found the clearing, though the myriad sounds coming from the trees was unusual. At the end of the path, I found myself stepping aside and ducking behind a tree, out of sight, because someone was in the clearing.
On the other side of the grassy area of the clearing stood a boy, and though his back was to me, something about him made me assume he was probably about my age.
He was a slender, wispy guy, with long limbs that looked like they could reach up to the tops of the trees, though he didn’t look like he was much taller than me.
Dark brown hair that was cut close to his head greeted my eyes, as did the strange camouflage cargo pants he was wearing.
Well, the pants weren’t so strange, other than it was summer and they weren’t the coolest choice.
It was the black fabric around his waist that draped down, almost like a skirt, which flowed with the breeze that blew through the clearing.
A simple white tank top was the only other thing he wore.
He didn’t even have on any shoes. At first, since his back was to me, and he seemed to just be staring into the woods at the other side of the clearing, I felt concerned.
Maybe a little scared? But then I realized he wasn’t looking at the trees, but what they held.
The source of the tinkling and other noises.
In the trees on the other side of the clearing, and even on the sides of the clearing, I found the source of the noise that beckoned me down the dirt path and into the woods.
Windchimes. Windchimes of all shapes and sizes, all made with different materials, swayed and jangled in the breeze.
Some of the chimes looked fairly traditional—metal chimes hanging from strings that were attached to a piece of wood.
Some had chimes made from shards of glass.
Or bottle caps. Or bamboo. One of the chimes appeared to have old antique iron keys hanging from it, clanging dully in the breeze.
I was so distracted by the sounds and sights around me, that I almost didn’t notice when the boy in the camouflage pants and skirt turned away from the trees and began walking back towards the dirt path.
I ducked back further behind the tree I was using as a hiding spot, letting the shadows of the woods swallow me up, yet I continued to peer around the tree at the dirt path.
The boy drew closer, walking along the trail back towards downtown Possibly.
As he got closer to my hiding spot, I could hear his humming over the breeze and the windchimes.
Who Do You Love? by Bo Diddley was his choice of tunes.
Obviously, he was an AMOR fan. I watched as he traveled along, first noticing that he was barefoot, his toes kicking up dust on the trail.
Just as he passed by, I realized that his hair was brown from the back—and even a little in the front—but some of it was white.
It took a moment for me to realize that the white in his hair was in a triangle shape, jutting up from his hairline to a point that jabbed at the crown of his head.
Even stranger, the white of his hair was mirrored by stark white skin that was in the shape of a triangle, jutting down his forehead and ending in a point between his eyebrows.
A birthmark, maybe?
I stayed behind the tree, keeping myself in hiding as I spied on the boy walking by.
He hummed and walked by jauntily, a placid smile on his face.
He didn’t look left or right, so there wasn’t a chance he saw me.
His eyes looked to the path ahead as he hummed his tune and practically skipped away, his skirt fluttering around his pant legs.
My eyes followed him along the path, away from the clearing, then he was gone, swallowed up by the light at the other end of the trail that popped out into Possibly.
And the breeze settled. The chimes stopped tinkling.
What was up with this town?