As the day goes on, mosquitoes begin swarming around the water, prompting me to abandon my rock. I know I should go back, but I can't bring myself to do it. Not yet. Who knows how long it'll be until I can get away again? The sun is high in the sky now, just starting its trek towards the west. I have a couple more hours before I'm truly missed, or so I tell myself.
Instead of going back the way I came, I slip farther into the woods. The deeper I traverse into the dense trees, the louder it gets. My ears are filled with the songs of dozens of birds, frogs, cicadas, and crickets. I follow the creek for a while until it becomes shallow enough for me to sling my boots around my neck, hike my skirts, and not-so-gracefully pick my way across the slimy, slippery, rock-covered bottom. Safe and mostly dry, I feel rather proud of myself as I slip my feet back in my boots on the other side of the creek. It's been so long since I've had a real adventure. I crave the danger and excitement. Pushing away any thoughts of getting lost, I stray away from my landmark and wander deeper into the woods. Half of my life was spent in these woods, after all. If anyone can navigate the area, it's me.
My walk is pleasant and peaceful, if not a bit warm, for a while. I meander at my own pace, just listening to the sounds of nature, taking in the greenery, and admiring all the colorful wildflowers growing in patches of sunlight. If I just had my sketchbook, the day would be perfect. Instead, I sit on a fresh log under a tree and assign myself the task of memorizing everything around me so that I might sketch it later. Just making myself believe all this can be recreated at a later time brings me solace.
Sitting still down on the ground under any sort of air circulation is uncomfortable, at best. It's not long before my face is sticky with sweat, and I wish to trade in my heavy attire for the light, shorter dresses of my girlhood. The heat mixed with the day's exertion wears on me, and I'm struggling to keep my eyes open.
Something jolts me awake. I sit up and listen intently, but am met with absolute silence. Nothing. I rub my stiff neck with my good hand and pull myself to my feet. I don't know how long I was asleep, but things have certainly changed from the steamy, chattering environment from earlier. Not a single creature makes a peep, and a chilly breeze blows back strands of hair that had fallen out of my braid in my sleep.
A storm is coming, and it's coming fast. I begin walking back as quickly as my skirts will allow as thick, gray clouds engulf the sun. Not five minutes later, icy raindrops hit my face, and I regret not sneaking inside to fetch my hat before leaving.
All at once, it feels as if the bottom of the sky bursts open as rain pounds the earth with a raging intensity. Lightning flashes across the dark gray sky and I feel the rumble of thunder in the soles of my feet. The wind blows rain into my face and eyes, and I can't see a thing. I put my arms out in front of me to grope around, but it slows me down considerably. It feels like forever before I make it back to the creek, but I do make it, much to my relief.
The creek is overflowing with water, trapping me on the wrong side. More than anything, I want to jump in, race across, get out of the woods, and warm up inside by the fire. I'm already wet anyway, but I know it would be a fool's errand to get in the water now. If I didn't fall and break an ankle on the slippery bottom, I'm sure to be carried away by the current rivaling the wind in speed. Perhaps even if the rain would stop long enough for me to see clearly, but alas. I can't cross right now.
Instead, I make my way farther upstream in search of a fallen log, or a significant narrowing of the creek for me to jump across, or a miraculous spot still shallower than my waist. Much to my disdain, the creek only widens, but I keep walking anyway.
The water continues to very noticeably rise and my heart races. I feel my pulse beating violently in my wounded hand, and I squeeze it hard with the other one to distract the feeling. My stomach is unsettling, and I swallow hard. Sometimes it rains for days at a time. I can't be stuck out here for that long. I can't.
My feet start running, seemingly before my brain is even able to tell them to. I hold my hand over my eyes as if shading the sun, and it keeps some of the rain out. Enough for me to see where I'm going, anyway.
It all feels like a dream. Colors whip by; greens and browns and grays, mostly. Endless trees and water streaking across my vision. My lungs burn, and my skirts are getting too heavy with water to run in. I keep going and going and going and then freeze. I'm in a sizeable clearing, one I don't remember ever seeing before. I cup both hands around my eyes and look around. The creek stretches on and on, still too wide and deep. Perhaps I should have tried going the other way from the get-go. Upstream is proving to be a waste of time; maybe I'll have more luck farther downstream.
I pick up my skirts and take a step, and then freeze again. A gasp flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. There, in the corner of the clearing, is a dingy canvas sheet draped across a few trees in what can only be a makeshift tent. A bell goes off in my mind like the one at church during a storm or fire, warning everyone within earshot to flee to safety, but I can't make myself heed it.
One could have many great reasons for camping out in a sorry excuse for a shelter miles outside of town, and every single one of them is shady. I need to get out of here, hurry back downstream, and duck under an uncommonly leafy tree, and wait for the rain to stop. My legs have been nailed to the ground though.
"What are you doing out there in the rain?" A voice calls from under the canvas.
My head jerks around, trying to find the source of the voice.
"You're soaked to the bone. Get out of there," a head pokes out of the makeshift tent, and my breath catches in my throat.
It's him.
Even from all the way across the clearing, I have absolutely no doubt. It's him. It's Mr. Davis. He's hiding on our property.
A murderer is making himself at home on my family's property.
"Are you alright, miss?" Mr. Davis cocks his head to the side. I open my mouth, but my head is empty. What do I say? He mutters something I can't quite make out before stepping into the rain and striding straight towards me.
I don't know how hard hearts have to work before they just stop, but I'm worried I'm about to find out.
He gets closer and closer, and then he's in front of me, and this whole day must be a nightmare. Things like this don't happen to me. If this is real, I must not be me at all, but someone else.
Mr. Davis places both his big hands on my upper arms and guides me into the tent. I'm too shocked to even attempt a protest. "Didn't your Momma ever tell you to stay out of the rain?"
YOU ARE READING
Mercurial
Teen Fiction"Routines are as predictable around here as the train running through town; always right on schedule with little to no variation. The only difference is that the train gets to travel around the country, going to new places and carrying new people. W...
