Ohhhhhh. I get it. #3
Then he was turning to me with a wide grin.
“Come on,” he said.
Before I had a chance to ask what was up, Auggie took off at a spring in a south-westerly direction, his bottle swinging at his side. Frustrated, but also amused, I took off after my friend, gripping my bottle at my side as well.
The two of us raced away from the graveyard, past Liberty Lane, The Pueblo, Blooms, and Mystic Molly’s tent.
I was barely able to keep up with Auggie’s lithe body, zipping here and there, heading off towards the woods, but I didn’t lose him.
When he headed down the trail that led to the clearing with the windchimes, I started to become nervous.
However, I kept pace with Auggie, following him along the tree-lined path until we were skidding to a stop in the middle of the clearing in the woods.
Auggie turned to me, his hair getting ruffled briefly by the breeze.
“Windchime Hollow,” Auggie said simply. “That’s what it’s called.”
I didn’t turn to him, but instead, looked around the clearing at all of the windchimes hung at the periphery.
Windchimes of all shapes and sizes—just as I remembered—hung from nearly every tree along the edges of the clearing.
Some tinkled in the breeze, some clanged, some were too heavy for the current breeze to move them.
Colored glass glinted in the sunlight and bottle caps that hadn’t rusted yet shone.
Leaves of green, as jewel-like as the Possibilian grass, swayed lazily in the hollow.
One would think that so many windchimes would create a cacophony, but it was peaceful in the hollow.
Maybe during windstorms it was deafening, but there with Auggie on a mild summer day, it was nice.
“People really think that…they can communicate with the dead here?” I asked the only logical question.
Auggie shrugged.
“It makes people feel better,” he said. “So…why not? You know?”
I just nodded along, unsure of what to feel or say.
“It’s not just the dead, though,” Auggie continued. “I guess people come here and add to the chimes or ring them anytime they’re thinking about anyone. Maybe it’s stupid or—”
“It’s not.”
“—okay, but it’s therapeutic. It makes people feel better. So, why not?”
I finally turned and smiled at him.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s nice, I guess.”
We stood there for a few moments, our eyes locked, before Auggie gave a sigh and stepped back. The breeze whispered through Windchime Hollow once more, ruffling our hair and causing the smaller chimes to make their tinkling noises.
“I’ll come get you tonight? About eleven-thirty?” Auggie asked. “To go see our ghosts?”
“Sure,” I nodded.
“I’ll go now,” Auggie said. “In case you need some time.”
I didn’t know what Auggie meant at first, but he cocked his head towards the windchimes across from us and smiled.
I understood then. Without another word, Auggie turned and headed back down the trail that led into and out of Windchime Hollow.
He didn’t race away, sprinting like he had when we arrived at the Hollow.
Auggie strolled away at a leisurely pace, pointedly not looking back. To give me privacy? I wasn’t sure.
After he had disappeared down the trail and the shadows of the trees that lined the path claimed him, I turned my attention back to the windchimes. The wind was picking up, cool and fragrant, carrying the smell of summer grass and the woody scent of the trees.
As I sauntered across the clearing, my eyes fixed on a windchime strung with old metal keys, hung from a large pine tree, I wasn’t sure what to think.
Was Windchime Hollow really harmless? Was it healthy for people to place their comfort in what was essentially an art installation?
The fact that no one really knew who had begun the tradition of hanging the chimes and adding to them made me more unsure of it.
With cell phones and letters and emails and other forms of communication, why would one ring a windchime for someone?
Even if they were dead, why wouldn’t someone just go visit their grave instead?
Or say a prayer at night? If someone was dead—and you believed they could be communicated with—couldn’t you talk to them… anywhere?
Was it ridiculous to ring one of the chimes and believe Auggie’s story? To buy into yet another Possibilian legend?
The decision was made for me. When I came to a stop in front of the chime made of keys, a gust blew through Windchime Hollow, and the keys fluttered as if they were nothing, clanging together.
People in Possibly say that if someone is thinking of you—alive or dead—that the chimes will make their music.
So, when the chime settled, I reached out, grabbed one of the heaviest keys, and swung it.
The windchime clanged again, keys tapping into keys, filling Windchime Hollow with the sound of metal clanging against metal.
It should have sounded harsh, like someone working in a factory. Instead, it sounded like a song.
Like a song I had in my head but could never remember the tune.