The Rug

The flame shimmied in the kerosene lamp in hand as he stepped delicately along the floorboards, hoping not a sound would be made. Trying to get back into bed before anyone could see him; before anyone would know he’d been out that night. A moan called out from the wood below, “Shit!” he stumbled and nearly fell over a particularly thick rug. Other than the sweat dripping down his temple he was frozen; waiting. After a moment, just as he thought he could proceed again he heard footsteps from the very stairs he was headed towards. There appeared his Grandfather; grizzly with sleep in his eyes and annoyed that he had been woken. 

“Carson you bum what are you doing making a racket down here? You weren’t out again were you?” sighed his grandfather. Carson knew there’d be no point in denying it, and that his grandfather was only asking to make him feel ashamed. 

“Why’s this rug got to be here? It’s in the way; why does it have to be in the worst possible place? We all know how cramped it is in here already; can’t we move it?” Carson asked fitfully, trying to distract his grandfather. The rug lay between them, its faded ornate designs seemed to twist into a menacing smile. Carson felt it was listening; glad to have caught him once again. 

“The rug doesn’t move; you do. Leave it.” dismissed his grandfather.

 “But why? It’s just an ugly old rug.” spat Carson. 

His grandfather sighed, “ ‘Cause it was here first. The mountains were here before any of us. We have to trek up and around them every day, you don’t see anyone moving them do you? We don’t change what was here before us do we? That’s disrespectful of the past, you know that boy.” With an air of dismissal his grandfather turned back up the stairs. Taking the invitation for an easy way out; Carson followed up to bed. 

When morning came Carson stirred from bed; his ankle sore. That damn rug he thought to himself; always gets me. Gets me when I carry in firewood, when I’m in a hurry, when I’m trying to be quiet. What’s it got against me? Why do we even have it? It’s been there longer than I can remember. Maybe Gran will be more sensible, she wouldn’t want her grandson hurting himself. She’ll listen. Since he’d been out the night before he needn’t get dressed. Just a splash of water on his face from the basin in the corner of his room and a quick slither of fingers through his glossy hair; he was as good as new. The smell of pancakes encouraged him to rush downstairs to the kitchen. Well, the cabin beneath was all one room. Can’t really define one area as the kitchen. It was just home, all he really knew. Gran stood at the wood-fired stove. Pouring more batter in the family’s trusty cast iron skillet; despite the fact that a plate was already heaping with pancakes. She looked dainty, like she didn’t belong here in the woods; but her strong will made her more of a mountain dweller than any of them.

 “Good morning Carson, pancakes?” she chirped.

“Always Gran; thank you.” replied Carson as they do every Sunday. A ritual; pancakes on Sunday. Lobbing a few onto his plate she smiled at him; cheeks rosy and eyes sparkling. 

“You have a question for me don’t you? Something’s on your mind my dear. Tell me.” Gran was always one step ahead of Carson. He didn’t know his Mom; but he liked to imagine that she would have been a lot like Gran. Always in tune with him. 

“It’s nothing much.” He laid out flatly.

  She took the bait. “Why hun whatever is the matter it must really be bothering you, come on you can tell me, you know I’ll listen.” her voice full of concern. He figured if he seemed upset he may get more information from her than he did his Grandfather. He hated being that way; but he knew how to pluck Gran’s heartstrings. He gasped as he purposefully bumped his ankle into the table. Her eyes zipped down to his feet and back up to him, waiting. 

“Sorry, you see it’s just that I tweaked my ankle on the rug yesterday. Why’s it got to be there, Gran? It always seems to be in the way. Can’t we move it?” he asked in his best pitiful tone. Gran went erect. What was going on? What did he say? This is the part where she is supposed to swing into the chair opposite him and clasp his hands; telling him what he wants to hear. That’s what always happens next. 

A fearful smile cracked her stoney gaze. “Oh sweetie why would we want to move it? It’s just where it ought to be. You see, your Grandfather traded for that rug so long ago; when he and I were young; shortly after we moved in here. He came home and it was a great surprise for me. Something fancy and elegant; to spruce up the place.” the color returned to her cheeks as she wrung her hands; almost as if she were comforting herself. A silence settled between them for a moment. Carson drooped. Why did Grandfather go on with his weird analogy if he had bought the rug himself he wondered. Suddenly Carson thought he heard a knocking. He jumped in his chair and swung around. No one seemed to be at the door; where was it coming from? Before he could say anything Gran continued. “Please understand my heart just can’t bear to change something I love so much. You see, the rug has been in the exact same spot since your Grandfather and I first laid it out; it’s special. I feel that moving it would ruin its magic.” With that Gran stood and waltzed back to the stove; flipping the pancakes just before they’d have burned. 

Having finished breakfast, Carson rose from the table with a new determination. If they wouldn’t tell him where the rug really came from and why they wouldn't just move it, he’d talk to the man that knows him best. His father. 

Exiting the cabin he was greeted with open air; the world seemed to exhale as he opened the door. He felt some of his burden thaw as the sun shone above him. Scanning the meadow he thought where his father would be at this time. Ah yes, the spring he realized. Just a short walk away. Pine needles squeaked beneath him as he walked between overgrown elderberry bushes on either side; their sweet smell comforted him. He almost forgot why he was headed to the spring until he arrived and saw his father filling buckets of water from the nearby well. That’s right; the rug he remembered. A feeling of foreboding swept back over him. Why couldn’t he just let this go? 

“Morning Pa.” he said shakily. Dammit why was he so scared? 

“Hey son, what’s brought you here? You never like to help with the water; always spilling it every which way.” his father asked cheerfully. 

“Pa, can I ask you something?”

 “Why sure, what’s on your mind?” Carson’s father set down a bucket he was just about to fill and sat on a nearby log; motioning for him to join him. 

“Okay Pa, give it to me straight. Why does that rug have to be in the place it is? Gran and Grandfather won’t tell me one bit. It’s driving me nuts.” his eyes sank to his boots; losing hope. 

“Ah son you are just like your Mother. First time I brought her home she tried to move the rug herself actually; she had a plan. Believe it or not I used to sneak out just like you. I’d leave in the night to see her and one night I twisted my ankle on it so badly that I couldn’t make it out. She missed me, and when I’d told her what had happened the following night she insisted I move it. I never did though; just tried to be more careful. I don’t know where it came from, but it always gave me the jeebies. Something’s just not right about it.” replied his father, with a sadness in his eyes. 

Carson felt as though he’d been knocked back. His mother was involved in this. Did this have to do with why she was gone? Why she had left? Or did she even leave? Did something happen to her? No one would ever tell him what felt like the truth. His father saw what his words did to his son; shifting towards him he rubbed Carson’s shoulder. He had really done it his time. 

“Let me give you some words of wisdom son; forget about the rug. Just pretend we never had this conversation. It will only fester.” 

Tears welled in Carson’s eyes. “ Why won’t you tell me what really happened to Ma!? Everyone tiptoes around me like I’m something to be broken when it comes to her! Can’t you see, I’m already broken?” sobs racked Carson’s body. Leaping to his feet he ran back to the cabin. He knew Grandfather would be out for the day and he hoped his Gran would be too. Sometimes she goes out to pick flowers around this time on Sundays. Regardless he needed to know. He tore through the front door, it slammed back against the wall. He skidded to a halt as if on the edge of a cliff; right before it. The rug. What was it hiding? He started to shiver. He thought about running upstairs to bed to wallow instead. Not this time; this time he’d learn the truth. 

On his hands and knees he stared at the rug. He wouldn’t have much time now before his father surely would get here to deter him. With a crack of determination his fingers reached and gripped the rug. It itched and burned; like a secret. He wanted to let go, to forget, but he couldn’t. With a yank he pushed aside his fear and flung the rug to the side. It looked weak now; crumpled like a dead animal. Proud of his kill he thought it was over. That is until something pinched the corner of his vision. A groove. Turning his gaze to where the rug had been for so long he saw it in entirety now. A door in the floor. He lurched; feeling sick. What was this? WHAT THE HELL WAS THIS?! 

Seconds slowed to minutes and minutes to hours. He felt paralyzed. Carson knew this had something to do with his Mother. This had to be the explanation as to why he never remembered her. Did she remember him? His hands wandered to the door, but he wasn’t in control now. Something else was. Frantic he dug his fingers into the nearest groove; scrabbling to find a hold on the panel of wood. What was he doing? No! He didn’t want this! He willed his hands to stop but they wouldn’t. He begged them to please; please stop this. Stop this now! 

Too late, a hollow sound swirled around him. And darkness welcomed him. There was no breeze, no perceptible change in the air around him. Before him was an emptiness. Void of anything familiar. Yet it pulled him in. Down he went, and as he fell, memories on a film screen were burned before his mind’s eye. Sparks and flames engulfed pictures of his Gran, Father, and Grandfather. His home. The meadow, the spring. The sound of wind whistling through the trees, the feeling of rain on his face, the glimmer of sunshine that greets him each morning. Everything. He was forgetting everything. Like a dream. He was waking up; for the first time.