The Creek

Saffron could feel the light on her face. She looked at the back of her eyelids. They looked red from the inside. She could feel her heart swell with contentedness. For once, she felt so happy to feel the sun on her face. To feel the soft warmth of spring. Bright and clear and yellow. The perfect day. Saffron opened her eyes and blinked. She touched the space beside her. Empty, yet still warm. Lysander had gotten up.

She picked up her head and looked over her shoulder to the creek behind her. He was there, crouched alongside the water, touching it again. His back was to her, but she knew what he was doing. He was letting the water rush through his open fingers, feeling its smooth fluidity. Feeling its bliss. He was savoring its wetness. She wanted to get up and touch it too, but she was so happy where she lay, just watching him.

Saffron reached her hand out and stroked a blade of grass. Grass! How lovely it was to touch it again.  It was young: short and stubby, yet still whole, and almost green. The creek had all but dried up last summer. There had been the drought, the sun scorching everything it touched; the grass had fried into a crisp yellow. It only ever looked like straw. It was always hot. Hotter than hot. The sun pierced through your skin like fire, melting your insides. The air lay over you like a thick blanket that you could never shake off. The drought had been lasting longer than anyone could remember now.

The fall had brought slight relief; a gentle, rainless breeze swept over the valley. But then, by a miracle, there had been a snowfall in the mountains over the winter. Now it was melting, trickling down the mountainside, sending ice cold, crisp water to she and Lysander. It felt like it was all for them.

And then yesterday it had rained! It was only a patter of drops that lasted no more than ten minutes, but it brought relief that she could feel in her cells. She and Lysander had stood out under the mist, shivering with the thrill of feeling water coat their bodies. The rain had been only a sprinkle, but it was enough to wake the ground that had been waiting so long for moisture. Saffron swore the straw that blanketed their lawn looked shinier. The earth remembers what to do.

“It’s always trying to come back to life,” she thought, as she stroked the tiny piece of grass in her fingers.

Today, they had taken a picnic to the creek. Lysander wanted to see what the melting snows had brought, and they had shrieked with delight when they’d seen the rushing, brilliant streams, the most beautiful water they’d ever seen. Without a word they had both dashed for the bank of the stream, kicking off their shoes and stepping in without any hesitation. The water wrapped around their dirty feet, making their whole bodies cold in an instant. They’d stood like that for a long time, relishing.

They had eaten their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and boxes of crackers, chewing slowly to savor every bite. The sandwiches tasted better up here, than they did down in the valley, where everything was covered in dust. These sandwiches, here on the mountainside, next to a living, breathing creek, next to each other, tasted like paradise. There wasn’t any fruit in their picnic, but maybe there would be fruit this summer. Maybe this summer would be different. Saffron longed for the hard, juicy bite of an apple. The clean sweetness it always delivered.

After their lunch, Saffron had dozed on the blanket, listening to the trickle of the water, and Lysander breathing beside her. Now, she turned to her back and lay with her heart toward the sky. The breeze flitted across her face, stirring her soul along with it. She stared at the blue and felt affection for it. It had been a long time since she’d not looked to the sky with disdain. Or not looked at all. The sky had felt like a traitor for so long. Never bringing any rain.

Saffron got up to join Lysander next to the creek. He was standing now, breathing in the air that wasn’t saturated with dust.

“Enjoy your nap?” he asked, as she squatted to touch the rushing water.

“Best nap of my life,” she said.

Then, “it’s so cold,” she almost whispered.

Saffron wished she could take the coldness with her. Feel it again later when they would lay in their bed, arms and legs splayed to try to keep cool.

Lysander crouched beside her, put his hand in the water again. Then he lifted a palmful of water and tossed it at her, soaking her neck and chest.

Saffron gasped, both surprised and pleased. The cold shock of her wet shirt was welcome.

She giggled and scooped water into her hands, sending it raining down onto Lysander. A laugh came from his chest, and she could hear it sparkle across the water.

They stood at the same time, and he wrapped his arms around her. She hugged him back and lay her head on his chest. His chest that had always been a comfort, even during the hottest nights. They stood there like that, trying to keep time still. Trying to hold onto the coolness. The fresh air. Each other. All of it.

“I think it’s going to be a good spring. And summer,” he said. She listened to his voice echo from his chest. Saffron closed her eyes and felt the vibration against her ear.

“I think we might even have rain,” he said quietly. Saffron could hear the hope catching in his throat. He wanted to hope. So did she. Spring always came with such promise, such hope. She wanted to be able to hope more than anything.

They turned abruptly, again without speaking, and gathered their things. Their movements didn’t need words anymore. They moved as one body. They faced the creek one last time and Saffron closed her eyes, trying to memorize it. Lysander took her hand, and they started their walk back down into the valley, towards home. Towards less promise.

“Tell me again what your name means,” he said. He thought her name was so romantic. He loved to hear the story of how her parents had learned that saffron was worth more than gold. How she was so precious to them, from the moment they knew about her.

“Saffron comes from the stigmas of the crocus flower,” she explained. She liked to tease him with the technical definition. “It is in the iris family that used to grow in damp woodlands and meadows,” she continued.

“Used to?” he asked. Saffron turned to look at Lysander, and his face had changed. He looked perplexed and he said something else, but his words were taken away by the wind.

Saffron opened her mouth to ask him what he’d said.

                                                                      ***

Saffron woke, the memory of the taste of peanut butter still in her mouth. This time there was no sun tenderly warming her eyes. No firm ground beneath her. No Lysander beside her. It had all been a dream.

She pulled her tongue from the roof of her mouth. She was thirsty. She was always thirsty; despite what they considered her “generous ration”. The water they drank now wasn’t what she remembered water to be. How could something that was supposed to replenish you make you thirstier? Hungrier? Sadder?

Saffron sat up and looked at the dim room. The gray and brown of the concrete walls made her shudder. It was always cold in here.

“Better than out there,” they would remind her. She tried to remember what it felt like to be hot, back then, in the desert, but memories rotted down here. She’d always felt like she’d have given anything to feel cold, and now all she wanted was that heat again. Of all the things they’d taken underground, warmth wasn’t one of them.

She hadn’t seen Lysander in what she estimated to be several months. They’d separated the men and women; procreation was carefully planned now. Scheduled accordingly to protect their limited resources.

At first, she’d tried to count the days. But there was no time down here. No moon cycles, no rhythm of the earth. Only routine: Wake. Eat and drink your rations. Work. Eat. Sleep. That was all. There wasn’t much else to be had. She’d tried to count by her rations, her workdays, but they all became the same day, and she’d soon abandoned it.

As she prepared to leave her walls to work, Saffron thought of Lysander and the creek. The perfect, flowing, sunny creek. His laugh that shone like glitter. The dream that felt like it could have been a memory. But she knew better. There had never been a picnic by the creek. There had never been a creek at all. There had only ever been sun and dust and heat and burning and dryness. Boiling heat that wound around you, squeezing your throat, asphyxiating.

Saffron left her room and thought of the peace she’d felt in her chest while she dreamt, and her throat swelled with a cry. She wiped a tear from her eye, smearing dirt on her face. She longed to go to sleep again, to dream, or to go to sleep and never wake up. She longed for the touch of Lysander on her skin, the cold softness of pure mountain snow water, the warmth of a gentle spring sun. The gentle sun that could only be felt in her dreams.