Found || Dead Poets Society

nine

The air was still, the only visible being in motion the blooming smoke of her breath. Amanda could sense it even through her thick wool robe and the wavering glow of her lantern. She hoped that no one noticed the small speck of a flame amidst all the darkness of the woods. She liked to pretend that the light was greater than it actually was; she believed that if someone thought hard enough for something, it would become real. Suddenly, she began to regret this decision. Well, she thought. Nothing we can do about that, now. And henceforth she continued her search.

She traveled deeper and deeper through the trees, cautious. She was cautious of every piece of bark, and the crunch of every leaf she stepped on with her soft slippers. She became weary of the time from her small wristwatch: midnight, precisely. Was she late? Did Neil give her an early time, just to be sure? And, the worst:

Were they even there at all?

She tried to physically shake the notion as well as the chilly air out of her. The answer expressed itself to her as a glow a bit bigger than her own, and the murmur of recognized voices. It felt warmer, and she followed the soft voices, then finding the cave.

"You think she'll actually show?" Meeks said skeptically from inside.

Neil sat on a rock, rather than standing in the middle like he did at the last meeting, as the rest of the Dead Poets did. The pad of his thumb rubbed against the cover of his book. This time, it was not Five Centuries of Verse. However, he did have Thoreau's specific lines, the ones to be read at meetings, written on a separate piece of paper. That book seemed near to falling apart, anyhow, so he thought it best not to bring.

Meeks' question was answered as a rustle of leaves was heard just outside, and there stood Ms. Amanda Keating at the mouth of the cave. She smiled gleefully. "Hope I'm not late," she greeted, holding up a thin book. "And, I brought a work, Neil."

"Hey, that's great!" The others in the cave greeted her as well, with "Evening, Ms. Keating" or "Welcome to our secret society, Ms. Keating." The latter was said with sarcasm, of course.

She shook her head. "Oh, not here. I'm assuming that this hasn't been approved by the school, so I won't be Ms. Keating here. As stupid as it was initially, I'll be Ms. Brontë to the Dead Poets." She looked around at those who were attending the meeting. "At least, I hope I can be."

Pitts raised up a mock-glass, presumably filled to the brim with mock-wine. "Hear, hear."

"Ms. Brontë," they all said in unison, clinking their own mock-glasses together.

She smiled, taking a seat that was closer to the center of the cave as well as everyone else. "Thank you."

Neil stood up, stepping to the very center of their snug circle. "Tonight's Dead Poets Society meeting has officially begun," he announced. "We are accompanied by the members of the newly reconvened Society, as well as a legacy." They all looked at Amanda. "Todd Anderson, because he prefers not to read, will keep minutes of the meetings. And I'll now read the traditional opening message by society member Henry David Thoreau." He cleared his throat, and unfolded a tattered piece of paper. "'I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived."

A round of "Hear, hear's" went around, and Amanda clapped her hands together once in silent delight.

Neil turned, and for a second, Amanda thought that he was going to say something to her. "Meeks," he ordered. "Put down your coat."