What We Bury

She gave Ky the key and told him to go down to the shack by the beach.

He did not recognize the woman. Did not know anything of her clear, pale eyes or fiery hair. She seemed to come to him out of nowhere, and then just as suddenly she was gone again, the rusted key in his hand the only proof that she had ever been there at all. Despite this, though, Ky had decided to follow her wishes, something in her voice convincing him that she must be trusted.

The cool afternoon wind whipped around him as he walked along the shoreline towards the shack. People passed him without so much as a second glance, none guessing at the task he was being driven by. After nearly an hour of dragging himself over the sand, only the gulls wheeling overhead keeping him company, he rounded a headland and came upon a cluster of shacks at the base of the beach cliff. Some had been blasted to ruin by wind and sand, but the woman had promised him that the one he sought — green tin roof, crescent window, last on the left— would still be standing. Sure enough, it had escaped the fate of the others, all its weatherboard walls remaining in place.

When he walked over to the shack, he noticed that its door already hung open. The cramped, dank interior beyond contained nothing but maritime junk covered by a thick coating of sand, but before Ky could think to abandon his task, he saw something sitting nestled in the corner of an old dinghy. Straining his eyes against the day’s fading light, he could see that it was a small chest, the brass of its lock gleaming in anticipation of him. With the key weighing heavily in his pocket, he pulled the chest free and began to work at unlocking it.

All the while thinking constantly of her.

The Pale eyes. The wild red hair. A voice like smoldering flame, that felt like it was about to burst into sudden, brilliant life. She was only a stranger, and yet, he could not deny that in the brief time they had spent together that she kindled something deep inside him, as if touching memory he had long forgotten. Or perhaps, had only ever dreamt. To feel so intensely for a person he had known for only a matter of minutes scared Ky more than he would ever admit, and he could feel his hands begin to tremble as he tried to push her out of his mind. Finally, despite his unwanted shakes, the key managed to click into place, and he lifted the lid of the chest open.

Sitting inside were three small notebooks bound with string and hide. They were all old and worn, the pages long since starting to yellow, looking as if they had been forgotten by time. Ky lifted one free, turning the cover and flipping through the pages filled with fine black ink. Skimming over the text, he looked for something that would reveal why he had been sent to the shack by the woman, but none of the words he came upon seemed to hold anything of importance. There were lists of places. Scattered excerpts of poetry. Names after names that he did not have any recollection of. Standing somewhere between confusion and anger, and feeling suddenly very alone inside the shack, he tossed the book back into the chest with a shake of his head and reached for one of the others. As he did so, however, the page that the first book fell to caused his breath to catch in his throat.

Carefully, as though rescuing a wounded animal, he lifted the book back out of the chest again. It was not writing that filled the open page this time, but a sketch. The picture was not just drawn in the standard black ink, either, but in blues and greens and a riot of others. More than any other color, though, Ky took notice of the red that sat upon the page; the fiery hue that painted the hair of the woman in the picture, and filled her lips as she kissed the cheek of the man who held her there. Touching his face, Ky could almost feel the warmth of her mouth pressing against him. Without having to give it any thought, he knew who the man in the picture was.

He —and he alone ——knew that kiss, and he could suddenly remember it as if it had happened that morning. Feeling the warmth of a thousand memories begin to bloom inside him, he suddenly realized that he knew exactly who the red-haired woman was.

Where she had come from.

Why he had lost her.

And what she still meant to him.

Hands starting to shake once more, Ky collected all three books and held them out in front of him. Stamped in gold across their covers were the titles that she had given them: Our Story - Year I. Our Story - Year II. Our Story – Year III. He pulled them tight against his chest and breathed in their aroma, smelling not the musty damp of the paper, but the vivid scents of days gone by. Long afternoons on the water, fresh summer storms that rolled on forever, and the waning glow of candlelight. Excitement. Fear. Infatuation. He knew that it was all recorded there in the pages, taking him back to a time that he had chosen to bury for so long under the numbing safety of nothingness.

Desperately, he wanted to dive into the books and unearth more of what he had forgotten, but he knew that before he could do so there was something much more important that needed his attention. With the books cradled safely under his arm, Ky closed the chest and headed for the door.

After all this time, she had come and helped him to rediscover himself. Now, he had to go and re-find her.