This Oak, These Skulls

I thought, when I first saw him, that he must be a statue. His skin was the kind of gray you might see Michelangelo bent over- tooth chisel in his concentrated hand. His eyes, his hair, though -they gave him away. Both were dark, almost black. He sat on a bench by the side of the road I strode to school each day. I didn’t know how I could have missed him before; I reasoned that must have been his first day.

There was a book in his hands. He was bent over it like it was the source of all truth, the fountain of youth, life blood- I suppose it must have been to him. It became so for me. The muscles in his face were taut, mirroring the stony determination that bled from his obsidian eyes.

My mind told me to stay away. I was curious, yes, but I had no wish to disturb him. He seemed content to sit like that, his back unwavering in its quest for the disabled confines of scoliosis. It seemed almost wrong to unsettle such a figure; almost a sin to tap the ridged edge of my pointer finger along the straight line of his shoulder as I wanted to do. I was but six feet away and he didn’t seem to notice me. I took this as a sign to walk on.

The road was the colored lines of a city map as I forced my eyes not to stray over my shoulder, neck not to bend back, tilt just the slight stretch of an innocent onlooker. My fingers felt like they had been gnawing at the trunk of a tree, what with the resolve it took not to rip the book out of his gray hands, drink from that fountain he seemed so enamored with. With a start, I realized they had turned white from the violent way they clutched the edge of my jacket. I heard a slight chuckle from the bench behind me. I turned to see black orbs mocking me, stifling another of the sort that had turned me around.

His finger was a scythe. Come, it beckoned. The voice in my mind turned into a screaming banshee. You don’t see his cloak, his hood? His shroud the color of death? I stood frozen, paralyzed with the effort it took not to respond to his command. His coloring? The pallor of a skull?

It wasn’t until I was three steps from his black eyes that I realized I hadn’t been listening. Obsidian is a healing stone. My brain thought up ways to slay the banshee. A stone of protection.

His hand went out to touch the room beside him on the bench. He planted it on the reddish wood, a steeple, the exposed roots of a mangrove. The banshee would not be killed. Her wounds healed as she wailed: La manzanilla de la muerte. Don’t forget the manchineel that grows in the mangrove. I threw a scythe of my own at her, leaving her to bleed as I sat next to him on the bench. It is only in battle that the uncertain realize they have truly taken sides.

He didn’t speak. His back had straightened almost imperceptibly, and he fought a smile as he slowly closed the small book, turned it over, and handed it to me.

The book felt heavy in my hands. Heavier than I should have expected it to be. Its cover was blank. White. The banshee made one last attempt to stand, muttering something about how that’s what guilt feels like as she fell once again to the hard ground. I cradled the spine, an oath between my palms, and peered inside. What I saw there were trees. Lots of spindly, fawn-like skeletons scattered along the pages like horses just born. They were all ashen toned, labeled birch and maple among blonde and jaundiced muddles I supposed were flowers. The whole of it was faded, a watercolor. I looked up, confused, into his gray face. what is this?

The Statue, as I came to call him for lack of a better name, did not speak, instead flipping through a few of the pages, nodding when he seemed to find what he was looking for. It was an oak; a deep, umber mast silk against the page, its roots planted deep in a gray mountain, its branches jagged against a somber sky. I held my breath, thinking it must have been the most magnificent painting I’d ever seen. It was then that I noticed the mountain was made of skulls. Thousands upon thousands it seemed, peeling and piled in such a way that made the banshee writhe and twist, freeing herself of her ailments, temporary death. She stood and yanked my breath from my throat, let go a pack of glistening fears to ravage my calm once again. I told you, she danced gleefully; now you see, I told you. 

I stood up from the bench, closing that strange book harder than I’d intended, handing it back to The Statue. I half expected anger- what I saw on his face was far from anger. It was confusion, something like sadness. He looked at me with such a mournful gleam in his black eyes, I was forced to turn away. My feet stumbled away on their own accord, making me trip twice, as I fled his pained expression. The sidewalk was a map again, only now the colors were turned black and white, a path of obsidian and quartz. I walked faster, afraid that he would follow, but also knowing that he wouldn’t.

Never had my home seemed so welcome as when I finally made out the blush pink curtains behind the whitewashed windows, door of cherrywood and brass. It was hard not to compare the wood to that of the bench, but I plastered my face with determination- careful not to let my brain howl silver-faced euphemisms in my ear. Once inside safely, I considered what I had done. Had I overreacted? You should have listened to me, the banshee asserted.

Over the next few days, I began to feel sure that I had acted too quickly. I didn’t even know his real name. I hadn’t heard his voice. The eyes are the windows into the soul. You saw enough. I started gradually to allow myself again the path by the bench. I assured the banshee that, should he be there, he wouldn’t recognize me. A chance meeting. I would barely remember him if it weren’t for his skin. And his eyes, she reminded me. Be careful not to look up. I had no use for her words, however, as he was never there. A good thing. he probably found some other bench, other girl. Are you crying? You shouldn’t cry.

About a month from that day I saw something that made me freeze. The sun had come out and I had been eager to shed my thick, wool jacket in favor of a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. I always passed a thrift store on my way past the bench. It had become a bit of a ritual, the passing of the bench. This day I had set out to get some new clothes for the fast approaching summer.

In the window of the store was a bulletin board. On this bulletin board, people put news. This news ranged from the shame-faced pictures of misplaced dogs and cats to the sort you saw on milk cartons. Kidnappings, missing persons. There was also an updated copy of the newspaper that was replaced every day. Man Wins Lottery for Seventh Time. It was never very interesting. Except for this day. The banshee was delighted. Man Drowns. A gray face was plastered on the front of the paper; obsidian eyes staring lifeless at passerby. My body went rigid. My legs felt jointless, like I was held up by metal rods rather than flesh and bones. My lungs ached and I tried to steady my breathing. It didn’t work. Walk away, you barely knew him. You didn’t .You were right to run, you see.

No.

You had nothing to do with it.

I did.

The bell over the door of the shop sounded as I opened the door, attacking me like the wails of a siren. I felt like an ice sculpture, a statue. The Statue. What have I done? I stepped inside.

There was a woman at the counter. She was small and pale with a scarf tied loosely around her head. She had dark hair. So did he. I walked to the aisle farthest from the register so I wouldn’t have to see her. I walked slowly, so as to be sure to hear anyone poised to sneak up on me. My fingers brushed over leather, the soft coarseness of cotton, buttons, and paper. My hand froze. The banshee told me to keep moving. There’s nothing but an old book. You came here for summer clothes, remember?

I bent to peer into the mess of shoes and various fabrics that was the miscellaneous shelf. Ah, you’ll regret this. You’d better look away before its too late. I pushed a pair of boots aside. Do you happen to remember what happened the last time you forgot to listen to me?

Shut up.

What did you just say?

It was then that I saw it. Nestled comfortably in a nest of scarves and various ribbons was The Statue’s book. I picked it up gingerly, taking care not to handle it harshly lest I slip and tear a page. Tamping down the ever-nagging voice of the banshee, I opened it, finding a signature in place of an author’s name. Adam Nyll. That’s strange. I tipped the cover so I could find the painting that had made me run. the pages fluttered, then settled, revealing the torn edge of a used-to-be, nearly right up against the center of the spine. There wasn’t much by way of an identifier, none at all, in fact, besides a small, gray skull interrupting the sawtooth edge of the paper. That was it. He must have torn it out. My hands shook as I flipped rapidly through the remaining pages. It was nearly all the same. The same somber yet lively scenes- bright and faded images- flowers, trees, yellow, green, blue, gray. My eyes widened to keep a tear from slipping down my cheek. These were his. He made these. This was his book that I ran away from.

My shoes seemed to clap almost unbearably loud as I made my way to the counter, Statue book clutched against the summer clothes that would yet be lonely in their drawer. The pale woman looked up. “Is that all?” I nodded. She brought out a plastic bag from under the register.

“This was Adam's, you know.”

What? “I know.”

“He was an amazing artist.”

“Yes. He was.”

“Don’t know how or why the water took him but, seeing as it did, I’m glad his book goes to someone who knows that. My son would have loved to know someone appreciated his art. Besides me, of course.” She smiled, her pretty black eyes glistening as she handed me the bag.

Suddenly, it was all very stifling. My breath came in short bursts as the banshee proceeded to pluck her hair out, strand by strand. “Why don’t you keep it?” I whispered. “Why put it with everything else?”

She swiped at her eye briefly, looking down at the tile as she struggled in vain to compose her features. “Take good care of it.” her voice came out strangled, hoarse.

I stepped away from the register. “Don’t worry. I will.”