The woods around Springhollow grow taller and thicker than any wood should. The trees caress Heaven with their verdant tops too high for the human eye to perceive. The trunks, so aged and wide, not even the sharpest axe and strongest woodcutter can dent them. The woods are a fortress; a barricade to banish outsiders to the mercy of trees that creak as they dance and sway. Hoarfrost chills your skin black. Creatures howl and scream as the hunt begins. But if you are able to navigate a path o’er knoll and pasture, through muck and undergrowth, survive the bloodlust that thirsts in the roots of each bush and shrub, you will come to a river. Once you meet the river, home is a touch away.
The river is more unruly than the woods it waters. It does not trickle in bubbling, babbling serenity, carrying ducklings and trout through a crisp, cold and clear stream you would see in an artist’s finest work. Nay. The river cries and shrieks; the ferocity of each splash and crash erodes the stones beneath, drowning the banks, raging, murky and misty. It is a fool’s errand to swim in it, certain suicide to dip your foot in. Many times they have tried to construct a bridge over the damned river. It only rises higher and harder. Such eminence and chaos cannot be diverted by simple woodwork. In turn, the bridges snapped like skinny twigs and the current dragged them back into the woods from which they were cut. Aye, good men die in this river. Men on their pilgrimages to the Devil’s playground.
And yet, every so often, an unremarkable man will emerge from the edge of the woods. His feet and trousers dry and untouched as if the river were but a stepping stone. How could they accomplish such a feat? How could they con nature itself? What bargains could the unholy have struck to grant safe passage?
The answer is as plain as can be. Plainer than the trees and the mud and the grass and the river.
One autumn day, a young and weary traveller stumbled through the abundant amber leaves hanging precariously onto the trees they would soon abandon. Sludge and dirt ravaged his shoes and hands, while bugs buzzed around his hair of umber and hickory, chomping and sucking the blood from his cheeks as he blindly swatted at the stinging pains. Dazzled, he walked out of the shadowy cover of the trees into the tepid, aureate embrace of the eve’s sunlight. He had begun to think he had gotten lost. A sigh slipped his lips as his filthy hand mopped the dripping sweat from his forehead. His legs, from thigh to toe, ached and burnt from his quest. He would give anything for a warm, soft bed, a hot, aromatic meal, and clothes not torn by thorns nor soiled by the wilderness. He could all but smell Springhollow now. He could taste its reek in the wind. The centuries of death and terror perfuming the very air the citizens breathed.
His eyes of cedar and saddle leather downcast to the wrath of the river before him. He dunked cracked, calloused fingertips into the water. The pull of the undertow unbalanced him, yanking with such vigour he feared the flesh would be plucked from the bone. The traveller recoiled, cradling his strained wrist against his chest. He turned it thrice checking for damage.
It was then he saw it from the corner of his eye, obscured by the glooms of the woods. An abnormal radiance aglow under the beating sun. A figure, not human yet not unhuman, shimmered upon the surface the way a beautiful woman would do in a gilded mirror. A reflection of a mirage, like the dream of a fevered child that still flashes through their mind as they march towards the end of time. A long-forgotten face you have never looked upon before. A phantom echoing the light.
It had a face worn like a mask at a grand gala; stark white like flour, angular but undefined as if it was once handsome but now is dwindled and diminished. It was not distressed by age, nor life, but by the very lapping of the water in which it dwells. Its eyes were wispy fading clouds, glazing as they bore into the young man with the focus of a surgeon dissecting a cadaver and the gentle stare of a mother bereft. Enrobed in a sable cloak, a hood obscured its head and the wrap concealed its body. The figure was slender, short with small breasts that pressed against the thin, wafting fabric. It appeared to float, hovering inches off the ground, but the young man saw ‘twas not the sky carrying the ghost, but the water itself. Elegant as silk runs across a polished floor, atop the muddy waters, without causing so much as a ripple, it approached him.
He scurried back towards the blanket of the trees, clammy hand covering his mouth, stifling the yelp trapped in his dry throat. It must have been the heat, the insomnia, too little to eat and too much drink. Spectres such as this did not exist. For centuries stories had plagued his hometown claiming it to be Lucifer’s own menagerie overrun by demons of the night but these were mere fables to frighten infants.
The figure unveiled a bony, frost-bitten, deathly pale hand and stretched to grab the young man’s shoulder. The wetness of its skin soaked through his shirt. The drip, drip, dripping of water hitting the lush grass at his feet. The joints cracked like thin twigs and the bones shifted as its grasp tightened again. The air around him was reborn into that of deepest midwinter. His breath fogged like dragon’s smoke.
Reeling, he released a scream that spooked the birds from their nests. He stumbled to the ground, throwing his arms around his face.
“Spare me, apparition of doom! I know not what you are but I mean you no harm. I am a man of innocence with much life left unled. I pray, mercy!”
Silently, it offered its hand.
Cowering and curling further into himself, a tremor kissing his lips, the young man wept, “If you are God, nay, Devil, I beg only for time not absolution.”
“I am neither God nor devil. Nor man nor ghost.” The voice of a woman. Local, unburdened by age, like a bell or a lullaby. A voice that did not match the ragged haunting of her form. In fact, it calmed him. His hand hesitated a whisper above hers.
“If not God nor devil nor man nor ghost, what are you?”
“I protect the in-between. Consider me a guardian.”
“An angel?”
A song-like gasp emulating a laugh escaped her. “Moreso a display of what befalls those unsuited for such an honour.” She crouched onto her knee. “I am not going to hurt you.”
He took its squelching, skeletal hand in his and rose to his feet. “Pray, angel, if you mean me no harm, tell me your name. Consider me a friend.”
“It has been many decades since my name was last said. I no longer remember it. I doubt anyone does,” she said without quiver or woe. “But permit me to learn yours, traveller, let me know you better.”
“Asa. Turner. Asa Turner. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He could not hide his uncertainty. Whether this was indeed a pleasure or a most dramatic displeasure, he had yet to decide.
“The pleasure is mine, Asa Turner. You are headed to Springhollow?”
“I am.”
“You are a child of Springhollow?”
“Yes. I lived there my first twenty-four years.”
“What are you, Asa Turner?”
“A man?” he hesitated. “A living, human man? I am a painter too.”
“The prodigal artist returns to the debaucherous blasphemy of a town most unbecoming he had long turned his back on. I fear I have heard this tale before. These waters are perilous, Asa Turner. Century old bones and death knells flow through more freely than any plant or critter.” Once again her macabre arm of torn muscles and tissues frozen in momentary rot stretched out, presenting the river as if it were a gift. “Only I can help you.”
“Speak, nameless horror, what must I do?”
“All you need do, painter, is answer my question. I will give you three guesses, I shall even guide you in the right direction if your first guess is wrong.”
Asa did not need to think about such an offer. A safe passage home guaranteed for one question. A man of his intelligence and cultured exploits should know the answer to all questions. He nodded once. “A deal.”
A whistling hum, like a breath stuck in her lungs, whipped around her. “Why do you need to cross my river?”
“That is the question?”
“Aye, but answer correctly, I will know if you lie.” Her voice had lowered, softened as had the rigidity of her ghostly body, appearing now fluid as the river and transparent as a glass window.
“I want to cross this river because…” He thought of his paintings, the decadence of the idyllic life he captured in smudged moments upon canvases he could hardly afford. Painters were poets with a different weapon. “I do not know why nor what is causing this impulse but there is something waiting for me there. Purpose, destiny, fate, meaning, I cannot know. But the heart that thumps bloody behind my ribs yearns for home after so long in my self-sentenced exile. It is ushering me there, guiding me by the hand. I know it sounds foolish but no other words speak sense. There is an answer to a call beyond your waters. You are the final obstacle between me and the truth my very soul pleads to know.”
She wheezed another choke, reminiscent of a sigh. She looked upon him with a stern look etched onto her fleshless face. Like a bonfire caught by the autumn’s chill, her shining visage twinkled before losing its lustre. “Asa, I did not take you for a liar,” she said with down-pitched disappointment, turning away from him.
“A liar?” the painter protested, stepping towards her. “How can you know what is true and untrue?”
Her throat strained hoarse as if she had attempted to yell but was no longer capable. “Is it not I who asks and you who answers? Speak to me not as a stranger, but as an old friend and the truth you know to be so will reveal itself. Why do you need to cross my river?”
“You speak in tongues and name it assistance.” He thought harder this time. Speak as a friend, speak plainly, speak as if you have nothing to prove. Humble yourself. “I want to cross this river because good things await me on the other side.”
“More.”
“I have answered your question,” he snapped.
“Without detail. You are an artist, paint me a picture.”
“I cannot be certain,” he threw his arms up. “The world is wide! And life so very long, anything could lie on the other side. If I never cross, I will never know.”
“A vaguer answer you could not have given. For a man claiming such artistic vision, your words lack inspiration,” she scoffed.
“The future is a mystery to mere mortals such as myself. Perhaps you already know what lies before me if I cross this river but I cannot foresee what awaits.”
“Then why do you want to cross my river if you do not know what lies on the other side?”
“Instinct? Adventure? Hope? Something to break the monotony? I need to go home to find out.”
Her gleam dimmed once again, now little more than lantern light around her form. Her face hung hollow and sallow. “Witness me. See what your lies have done.”
He massaged his temples, kicking a small rock that had settled by his foot back into the river that had spat it out. “I have to cross the river. I have to reach the town before nightfall, I cannot sleep another night with a log for a pillow. So tell me, wraith, spectre, phantom, whatever you are, what answer will satisfy you?”
She spoke almost too quietly to hear as if the very act pained her. “The truth, Asa Turner.”
“The truth?”
“Aye.”
“What happened to treating each other as friends? I thought that was the moral of your little interrogation,” he thrust his hands on his hips, “I thought this was a fair game between man and puddle,” he yelled, turning his back to her.
“It is more than a fair game, Asa Turner, it is an easy game.” Without a sound she breezed past him. Facing him once again, she asked. “Lie to me and you cannot cross. I will not manifest before your eyes again. You will either have to find another route, which we both know will take days on foot or you risk crossing unaided and find yourself stuck between worlds just as I am. Speak truthfully. Why do you want to cross my river?” Her words came almost too fast for Asa to comprehend.
“The truth?” He sighed. “Fuck,” he mumbled under his breath, pushing his hair back out of his eyes.
“If you cannot be honest with me, how can you be honest with yourself? Look inward, Asa Turner.” She reached out her sodden hand once again but Asa dodged her damp hold.
“I want to… I need to cross your river because,” he cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I want to go home,” he threw his hands up above his head, they slapped his thighs on the way back down. “I want to go home. I need to go home.”
“Why do you want to go home?” She said with something almost reminiscent of sympathy, the faintest hum of her unnatural glow throbbing back to life.
“I have to apologise to my mother. I have made a big mistake.”
“What mistake?”
He huffed, resting his hand in his hair, not daring to look her in the face. “I stole money from my mother so I could leave this place. And now I would very much like to go back, please.”
“Why did you leave?”
“To follow my heart, and I mean it this time,” he swore. “There was someone I cared for, very deeply. I was to paint her portrait and then I kept finding reasons to take as long as I could just so I could spend everyday with her. She was not particularly hard to paint, stout and plump with hair like the night and eyes like a cat. She insisted on wearing the most ghastly gown I have ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes upon, she looked like a strange exotic bird drowning in vermillion ruffles. She was not unpretty, yet I am ashamed to admit at first I thought little of her. But with each new day I found myself excited to wake and work. To hear about the book she was reading and the rumours of the upper crust that are of no importance to me. She spoke to me and I melted.” Although each word was a blade sharper than ice, he pictured her in his mind. He wondered if the final piece still hung central in her bedchamber. Or if she has slashed and burned it as he had every version she rejected.
“You were falling in love.”
“Nay. Just falling. She wore pins in her hair that cost more money than I make in a year. She always considered herself a rebel, so she bewitched the penniless artist to be able to travel with a companion while angering her parents. Being young and poor and foolish, I accompanied her. I stole from my own mother to pay my way. I stole from the woman who gave me life and raised me and held me and loved me.” He trailed off, sinking down onto a rock by the river side. Gently he chuckled to himself. “Love was not what I expected. It is frighteningly similar to hatred. No writer, no painter, no poet ever seems to mention that.”
“It is life’s greatest adventure,” her voice squeaked, renewed with happiness. “It is what people live and die for.”
“Our love didn’t feel like love at all.” He stifled a dark laugh. “I was a pet, a story she used to seem immodest in front of her friends. She had no interest in travel, seeing the world, experiencing things that do not present themselves frequently in this life. All she wanted to do was sleep, eat, gossip and make love. She grew tired of me quickly. Said she was ashamed to be seen with a man who could not identify the different forks at a table during a meal. So I took the money I had, left her a note thanking her for her generosity and I walked away. I have spent all these years since trying to find a love worth all that suffering. There is no such thing.”
“But you’re a painter, love is the marrow of your bones.”
“I spoke of a feeling I did not know and did not understand. Love is not beautiful, love is ugly.”
“Love is both.”
“Then maybe I am not meant to understand love,” he shrugged his shoulders. “My paintings, my art, I look upon them in retrospect. Never have I captured love. Lust, yes. Envy. Longing. Violence. Passion. Loathing. Sex. But never love. Perhaps it cannot be painted just as it cannot be written.”
“You paint with love. If you did not love it, you would not do it.”
“I can spend three days without sleep painting, drawing, repainting, weeping, waiting for my masterpiece to appear and yet it never does. I have put my foot through more canvases than I have sold. Perhaps, by its own definition, that is love. But painting will not warm my bed, bear my children, or arrange my funeral. Art has limits. It cannot hold you or kiss you or tell you everything it hates about you. I want a love capable of mirroring the love I give to it. So now, I would like to go home and see my mother. I have the funds to pay her back every penny I took. I sold everything I had down to my last set of paintbrushes. Once she is repaid, I pray she shows me forgiveness I have not earnt. If she does not, her grudge will be justified and I shall wake every morning trying to be the son she deserves until her eyes can meet mine again.” He coughed back the thick tears loitering in the backs of his eyes.
She smiled as widely as she could. Her whole brightened face lifting. “You may cross the river, Asa Turner.”
“I can?”
“Aye, my friend. You have answered my question truthfully.” The wraith reached out her hand, beckoning him to take it. Her glimmer was now brighter than the sun above them. It burnt his eyes to gaze upon her yet he could not tear his eyes away. The longer he looked, the more she showed him. Hair the colour of straw, in tight, neat coils down her back. Eyes of hazel speckled grey. A shy smile hidden behind lips of blush pink. The grace of her movements, the poise of her body, the charm of her tongue, amplified as if he was looking upon her for the first time. The wraith was lovely.
He paused before he took her hand, finally able to speak. “You have been in love before. You spoke of it as if you created it.”
“I told you, Asa Turner. I am not a God or a devil. I was once mortal flesh and bone and blood.”
“You drowned here.”
“We both did.”
“Yet you haunt alone.”
“Love is ugly, life even more so. That is why we live.” There was a sadness in her smile. The grief of long-buried fantasies of happily ever afters, love stories, perfection. But her eyes perked up at the sides. She was content.
“How I see you now is how you looked in life.”
She nodded.
“I shall paint you.”
“Do not flatter me. Paint me as honestly as you see me.”
“Are you volunteering to be my muse?”
She chuckled faintly. “Paint me beautiful and paint me not. If both life and love are as ugly as we both know them to be then in my portrait, make me just as unpretty.”
“I will paint you a hundred times, from every angle. I will paint every memory of this day as if it were a dream.”
“And then you will find someone else to paint.” She curled her fingers, encouraging him.
He tightly held her hand as she began to walk him towards the river.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered.
He did, clutching her hand even tighter. He felt her hand slip from his when he opened his eyes. She was gone. He stood now on the other side of the river, safe and dry, the curves and edges of her face imprinted on the backs of his eyes. She was once again just water.
Blinking the sunlight away, rubbing his eyes in hope his vision would reappear, he turned back to the river. Settling mist, dew-kissed grass and eroded stones were all he saw.
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