In The Hills

"Why do people do drugs when smells like this exist?" I say aloud, stretching my arms open to the dappled sunlight and green canopy. The cool air, heavy with the smell of this morning’s rain, kisses my exposed collarbones and peeking ankles.

"I do not know." is my sisters frustrated answer. She gives a final heave and out tumbles all her luggage onto the damp gravel. From the little red car we've been in for hours, almost seems to come a relieved groan. I didn't bring anything.

Perhaps it is not only the smell of rain, the forest is as lush and as vibrantly green as any you've ever seen, filled with the twittering of small birds and the hushed swaying of heavy boughs. Gravel crunches under my feet as I approach the fence that lines the train tracks. Moss squishes between my fingers as I lean forward, peering at the trees that grow thickly down each side, making a green tunnel, lush and whimsical looking. In all that deep green, in the shadows, the wind seems to whisper to me. What a life I could live chasing the wind, trying to hear her secrets.

Lila quickly hands me two bags and we walk over to the little train station, bags knocking against our legs with each step. What a stupid amount of luggage for a short trip. I want to run, but my lacy white shoes would do me no favors on this gravel. A quick glance at the tiny platform tells me nobody else has arrived, but still urgency grips my heart, letting anxiety swell. Samuel isn't here yet.

"Come on." I say to Lila. She gives me a dirty look, pursing up her painted red lips.

Behind her, the car, a small bright red contraption, stands out like an invader, forest looming up on all sides. The flora was threatening to swallow this quivering, untouched, metal invader, mocking the small patch of dirt bordered with a quaint white fence, trying to hide. Next to us, the old train tracks have more little white flowers growing than the stones meant to lay there. Very small and very old, the train station is coated with faded, peeling red paint, adorned with a rusted green corrugated iron roof, held up by aching, sun bleached wooden beams. Still, it is beautifully decorated with heavy, pink blossoms that creep across its veranda with green fingers, reaching high, its outstretched hands touching even the crooked light post way overhead. They cast cool shadows over the train tracks where we crossed over, or rather tripped over, with as much elegance as we could, dinging our ankles.

We sit down on the iron bench on its porch, crossing our feet elegantly amongst the blooms and smoothing our skirts. Lila pulls out a pocket mirror and peers at her reflection and chooses to touch up her lipstick. She wants to look her best for this wedding.

"I hope Samuel is here soon." I comment idly.

Lila clicks her tongue in disapproval. "I should hope he doesn't come at all."

Lila has never liked Samuel. Perhaps she sees in me all that I feel I should be. She probably blames him for what I am instead, like all older sisters should. She once said this to me: "You can't expect a rose bush to flower if you're watering it with piss."

She says I'm some tragic heroine, a poet, dashed by a lesser man. But I find him a rich and enchanting muse. I feel as though I have never seen anything beautiful in my life until I saw him, and all art that had come before him faded and withered, carried away on the wind like mournful ash.

"Don't be like that." I say. "I really need to see him."

"So you keep saying." She replies with obvious disdain.

"He'll be here." I say more to myself than to her. I may be the only person who thinks so, but he's turned being late into an art form. He's not late yet, but the artist already has me tense with worry.

"I'm surprised he even agreed to come today." Lila says with a cynical raise of her perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"Honestly, me too."

"I thought he hated us."

I don’t answer that. "He's not as bad as you think. He's a kind and good man."

"You describe him differently when he's hurt you, and then I think, you are much more honest."

"Then I am much more angry. No words spoken in anger are ever to be taken seriously."

"I disagree." She says, an air of self-perceived wisdom in her voice. I try not to let her see me scoff. "I think that words spoken in anger are words spoken without any of the restraints and polite mannerisms society would have us adopt. Anger makes us true."

"Speak for yourself." I say, sliding back in the seat and folding my arms. "Anger makes me petty."

"Regardless, I've seen of your anger and hurt and learned that he is a self-absorbed man child."

"Aren't all men." I say sourly. She mumbles some kind of agreement.

Just as silence was about to begin its descent onto us, a car comes out of the forest on the hidden road and the crunching of gravel again fills our ears. It's an old yellow van, not the cute kind, all decrepit and weird smells. Out spills 3 children, their poor mother and an older woman who can barely get a word past her own teeth because of all the grumbling that gets in the way. You can tell that the children do not get along with their dressy clothing just by the way they behave. The moment the car door cracked open they bolted out of their mothers reach and began to battle each other with sticks and grenades made out of a fistful of leaves. Collars become unbuttoned, ties loose and socks fall down to their dusty little ankles. I smile with my tongue in my cheek as their mother, my aunt, tries and fails to herd the little cretins. Manners they may not have, but their unapologetic ardor and wonder stirs a certain kind of envy in me. How much prettier this place must be to them.

Lila stands up and waves to them. "Aunties! Over here."

The colorful little family bumble and bump their way over to the platform, Aunty Anna sets about watching her children pick clovers and Aunty Dorris sits on the wooden edge with a groan. And like water spilling out of a dam, one arrival led to the next and before long dozens of family pull into the train station. The adults find a place to sit on the little veranda, lighting pipes and squishing flowers under their bums, and children giggling in shady patches of grass and vine. I squish up between Lila and our very pregnant cousin on our little seat, our thighs pressed together. There's nowhere else to sit.

And still no Samuel.

"Everyone's here." Lila observes casually. She’s probably close enough to hear my jaw clench.

"Not everyone." I correct her. A couple family members glance in our direction. Aunty Dorris gives a less than subtle snort, smoke puffing out her nostrils.

Half an hour passes, and we all sit patiently, letting the fresh air sooth and lull. It's so hard not to squirm pressed between two people, peering out at cars, waiting for one more to pull in. More time passes and the sun grows warm, then comes a distant squealing sound. Everyone lifts their heads. It grows louder and a rumbling draws closer and closer, making the train tracks tremble and creak. From the tunnel of trees comes a small silver train. It's rusty, old with circular headlights and very large wooden window frames. And far, far too small for all of us.

"What's that?" One of the children blurts.

The oval door clinks and swishes open with some awful metallic squeaking and all the bustling dies down.

And there he is.

Eyes bright and confident, Samuel is here, hanging out the train door, half way down the stairs, a leg dangling over the threshold, all casual.

It’s instinct, my heart eases like nicotine in the lungs of Aunty Dorris, and the world warms. He smiles at me.

"Samuel!" I cry, limp with relief. "You're here."

He grins, like it was never a question. "Of course, and I've come on a train all the way out here, to find you."

I close my eyes for a moment. Who was I to worry? He's right here, with me.

'You've come on a train?" I say curiously.

He gives a boyish shrug and a charming half smile. His signature.

Lila cuts in. "What are you wearing Samuel?"

Indeed, he's got on a white buttoned up shirt with rolled up sleeves, dark brown slacks with matching suspenders that are a bit too loose. He's not even wearing shoes. He looks down at himself, unworried.

"You can't mean to wear that to a wedding?" One of my uncles asks gruffly.

"Ah!" Samuel replies, holding up a finger. "See, I cannot go to the wedding." He caught my eye. "Neither can you."

I place a hand on my chest. "Me?"

"Well, who else?"

"What do you mean you're not going?" Shrills Lila. I look at her, then Samuel, dumb as a doe.

He winks. "We've got to go to something bigger. It's outside this forest. It lays in the hills, in the wind."

I grin. I said that to him once. We’d been drinking coffee under a big window, watching the sunset and I had said "The future is out there. It lays in the hills, in the wind. It's where all destiny begins."

"You really mean it?" I ask, clutching my hands hopefully.

"Yes." He gives a reassuring dip of his head, and the sun catches his hair. A song begins to play out over the dusty old station speakers. Chills crawl down my spine, my heart surges with emotion.

"Come on sweetness." He reaches his hand out again.

"Wait." My voice is barely a breath.

No rush, you are just my type~

"For what? Let's go." He urges.

"Samuel." I say. He looks at me and I hold his gaze intently. "This is my favorite song."

It's called Stray Nights, by an artist called Stephen. It truly captures a lot of what all artists and romantics feel. The song has more power over my mood than my own mind.

Lose myself in your sweet motion~

"We need to go my love." He says. My family continues to squiz at him from the corner of their eyes, distaste in the lines of their mouths. He watches me impatiently, squirming under their derision. "Come on! The train is here. It’s here for you!"

The spell of the song breaks. "Of course, Samuel, I'm coming." I quickly bunch of my skirts and step over the legs of my family. Maybe it's his outstretched hand or the piteous looks pricking my back, but I hop right off the platform, forsaking the stairs a few steps away. Children scatter.

"Girl, you listen here!"

I stop, squishing dozens of little white flowers under my white shoes. It was Aunty Dorris who spoke.

"Your faith has made you blind, blind and lovesick. You will follow him only to find darkness. He does not take you to find anything in the hills."

"You're wrong. He's closer to me than my breath is to my lungs. I trust him."

She shrugs her shoulders in defeat.

I turn to Sam. "Let's go."

I take his hand, step into the train that smells like leather, dust and sunlight, and the door groans shut behind me.

"Watch." Samuel says, still holding my hand and turns me towards the window. The train jolts, and begins moving, even though there's nobody moving the levers at the other end. My family watches us as we pull away, shaking their heads, and quickly greenness fills the entire window.

"It's beautiful." I whisper to him. His lips at my ear, he smiles.

"Keep looking."

Suddenly, the green drops away. I gasp. Hills, vast and rippling, hills upon hills and perfect blue sky stretching as far as the eye can see.

"It's so beautiful." I breathe. “Incredible.”

"Just like you. “He spins me around, arms around my waist. "Look at your back dear."

"What?" I ask, puzzled, craning my neck to look. I gasp. "Samuel!"

A pair of wings, white and utterly flawless poke out the small of my back.

“Wow.” I inhale.

Sam kisses my cheek. "We match."

Sure enough, he has a pair, bigger and longer, sprouted from between his broad shoulders, just as white. Tentatively, I reach up and touch the downy feathers and Samuel laughs.

"How strange!" I answer with my own laugh.

"I told you. We're going to the future." He plants a warm kiss on my lips. The train is so fast, the cold wind penetrates its frail rattling shell and I pull my cardigan tighter.

Then, I notice it. My wings drop and shudder.

"Oh! Samuel look!" I point out to the front of the train, horrified. There, no hills sprawl, no windswept plains lay. Black, void, a wall of fog looms, right at the end of the tracks.

"Sam! What is that!"

"Hey, hey, it's ok." He grabs my shoulders gently. "It's just the destination."

"What?" Incredulously, I look at his eyes, calm and reassuring, then the great jarring blackness. Something in my gut coils sickeningly at the sight of it. "No, that thing is dangerous! Can't you see!"

He shakes his head. "No, darling, we all go there."

My body fills with trembling. He grips me tighter. "Don't be afraid."

The wind gusts against the train briefly, and my shaking is briefly quelled, but the fear remains.

What future is this?

"No! Sam! That will kill us! Look!"

"I don’t see any death." He says plainly.

He's not listening. I turn about desperately, for the breaks, for anything, running to the front of the train. Sunlight falls on my face, above me, is a little sunroof. God made this sunroof.

"Samuel! Come here!"

He huffs, but drags himself over.

I jump up, hitting the sunroof open. "We can escape, we can fly away!"

He gives me an skeptical look. "Kill us? It's not even all that dark my love."

"Yes, it is." I insist.

"It's not death. I don't want to fly." His voice woefully.

The train continues to soar down the tracks, blackness looming like a poised snake. What fear is there like this? We stare, that fear reflected in our eyes, gripping each other’s arms. My fingertips are numb.

"I can't stay." I whisper. A tear drops down his cheek.

"Don't leave me." He croaks. The train jostles us and I hold him tighter.

"Please come with me." I say steadily. There's no danger, not really. "Don't take this train Samuel."

"No." He shakes his head and releases me, stepping further back into the train. "I have to take this train. We all do."

I try to assure him. "We have wings."

He shakes his head again. "I promise you'll be happy there."

"Look." I point up at the sky above me. "I'll show you." I hoist up my skirts, grab the rim of the sunroof, and pull myself up, stepping on the driver’s chair. Samuel does the same after me, squeezing in side by side, and we face the approaching darkness, our wings folded in tightly.

"Look the other way." I say, propping myself up onto my elbows, my wings unfurling in the wind. I tip my head back, hair strewn out behind me, the hills racing away from us. He turns but worry persists, etched into his face.

Cold wind biting my nose and ears, I climb onto the roof, staying low, on my knees, hands shielding my eyes.

"Darkness is death for beautiful people like us, Samuel!"

"What are you doing!" Sam cries out, grabbing my wrist. "Don't!"

"I can't stay!" I shout, the wind rushing into my lungs. I point behind us. "I do not want to die."

"We won't die."

"I hope you won't." I say, my face still. "Who holds an angel in his hands and lets her fly away?"

His expression drops, panicked. "Don't." His grip loosens.

"Watching me, with wings of your own, you mourn."

The wind is in my ear. Tell the coward to fight.

"I love you." He says, anguished.

"I love you too."

I open my wings and with one flap, I'm taken up into the sky like a kite on a sudden breeze. The train falls away, it's one passenger watching me, tears falling freely. He watches me, his wings motionless, even as the train shoots like an arrow directly into the black fog. I hold my breath when it’s swallowed soundlessly.

He's gone.

I give myself one pained breath, but this is all a dream. For in dreams pain is not real, and I would never lose Samuel. God strike me blind in this very moment and fifty years after I would still know his face. Even then I would still marvel at it.

In life, I gave him everything, my mind, my body, my soul. In death and dreams he has become everything, and all that is of me, is a memory of him.

My first pained breath joins the whispers of the wind.

With lightness like breathing for the first time, I lift my face into the sky, my most faithful of friends and whisper, "I'm free! Where shall you take me?"

I don’t belong at weddings or on trains. I was made to love with a broken heart. The sky smiles down on her newly christened hero and gestures to the hills basking in the sunlight. She sighs,

Take your will and make it your destiny, child. Your future is around you.