litlinks 2022

Under the Surface

by Ebony Moss, Trinity Christian School

If, on a storm-soaked city night, you sit down by a puddle and watch the reflections tremble across its surface, you may be able to catch a glimpse of the Otherforest. A reflection from another place entirely, refracted across the rippling water for an instant.

It’s the place that exists just underneath the shell of what is tangible. It is beautiful, in a way. Here, far away from the frantic churning of the city’s gears, my mind comes alive.

There is a dim light in the Otherforest, but the source of this glow eludes me. Tendrils of shadow swirl about me, pushed by a zephyr that I cannot detect. It is difficult to determine what is casting the shifting shadows, because the scraggly trees are frozen in twisted shapes.

I mark one of them with a nail file from my purse, leaving a tiny gash that will tell me where I’ve been. I’ll walk north, then see how far the forest extends. If I’m methodical, I’ll be out of this alien place before long.

There are voices. They whisper at me, only just within earshot.

Someone is holding their breath just behind my shoulder, but when I turn around there is no one there. I walk onwards, systematically marking shrivelled trees as I go.

I am unable to decide whether it is a muggy summer’s night or a bitingly cold winter’s evening. The humid air condenses around my head, but it pricks my skin and sends shivers down my spine. Perhaps the shivers are caused by the persistent chatter of the voices in the darkness.

I have been wandering through here for some time, trying to find the voices. I cannot remember how many hours the hands of my watch have measured, only that they sometimes whirl through the numbers at a wild rate, and sometimes grind to a complete stop. I know, though, that I’m yet to feel hungry. I’m yet to feel tired, too.

I pass by a tree with an odd gash in its crumbly bark. A dim memory surfaces. That mark is important.

I can’t remember why.

There is a clearing between the scraggly, shadowy trees. My meandering path keeps leading me back to this spot. A well sits in the space between the shadows, and a sentry stands before it. Last time I came past, a wisp of a boy stood guard. He had rigid shoulders and wide, emerald eyes set in his ebony face. Something about his features struck me as odd, but I forget why. I try to focus on the voices. They cluster around the corners of my mind and drone on in a rhythmic chant, but I could not repeat the words to anyone.

Peering into the clearing, I see that a giant of a man has relieved the boy. I don’t think much time has passed, but it has been long enough for frost to form on his beard. He is hunched against the cold and his emerald eyes almost glow, ringed by the dark circles on his pale cheeks.

Before my eyes, a shadow detaches from the dense forest. It’s a young woman, her hands clutching a large, grey rock.

She strides to the giant. His emerald eyes bore into her.

“I am the keeper of the gate. You may not return,” he declares.

The chittering around me subsides in the wake of his powerful voice, then slowly trickles back into my ears.

The woman moves swiftly. The keeper hits the ground.

Otherforest time trickles past. I shuffle away, my mind full of large, grey rocks and horrible, chanting voices.

But mainly full of wells. I remember a puddle, back in some place where the air wasn’t as cold, nor as muggy. Where there were buzzing sounds everywhere, but not this formless chant. It was someplace safe, I think.

My dragging feet are lead in my shoes. One of them catches on a large, grey rock.

I pick it up. It’s rough and heavy.

I pass by another tree with a cut through its bark. Trees are like this. They grow gashes and branches in much the same way.

I reach a familiar place. The dancing shadows give way to a clearing, where there is a well. The well is important. I remember some water somewhere, with a reflection caught just under the surface. A puddle, I think. A moment of stillness in a world far away where water tumbled from the sky and rushed through gutters, creating a frantic backdrop to a world already full of constant motion. The well is important, and I would know why if I could hear myself think over the voices chattering in my ears.

A woman stands in front of the well. She has a large, grey rock in her hands, but so have I.

I emerge from the darkness. Her emerald eyes snap to me.

“I am the keeper of the gate. You may not return,” she whispers.

Return. That’s what I want.

I raise my large, grey rock over my head. Something in the back of my mind hates to hurt her, but it is drowned out by the voices tangling through the back of my brain. I wonder whether she can hear them too.

She lets her large, grey rock drop to the ground. I pause. Her emerald eyes watch me, and in them I see something like horror, and something like relief.

My rock crashes down. Somewhere in my mind, behind the wall of yelling voices, I am startled by that.

I peer into the well, and catch a glimpse of the place back on the other side of the insubstantial illusion under the water’s rippling surface. The image fades and I see my bright emerald eyes reflecting off the water.

I am the keeper of the gate. Nobody may return.