Sort of Dead

43 - Blindfolds, Trees, And Stranger Things

'Blindfolds? For what?'

'For your own safety, Mar,' Mr. Om says. He does not feel the need to elaborate.

Aar won't have it. 'How does not knowing where we are help us in any way? We're going to fall into a ditch or something!'

'You have to - '

'No, we don't!'

'You will do exactly as I say!' Mr. Om roars. My bones rattle. 'Or you will not survive for a second out there! Do you understand?'

Aar opens his mouth to protest, but Bee keeps a hand on his thigh, quieting him. 'Of course, Mr. Om,' she says. 'As you wish.'

'But, Unc - ' I catch myself on time. 'I mean, Aar's got a point. It'd be pretty hard to walk around with those on.' I point to the stark black blindfolds - let's call them BBs, for the sake of convenience - in his hands.

'And what about Es?' I point at the spirit in question. 'Or See? You intend on blindfolding them too? 'Cuz I'd pay to see you try.'

'Ah, well,' he sighs, yielding. 'Fine. But you will wear them once we reach the lake.'

'The lake? What lake?'

He doesn't answer. Soon enough, we'll see for ourselves. Assuming we make it there.

We exit the jet - I don't know if it took off behind us or not, nor do I care in particular - and move for a couple of minutes until we reach a clearing.

Mr. Om decided it would be better not to take Dad's corpse with us. It would only cause hassle. So we left it back in the jet.

We are an unusual party in an even unusual-er (let's say that's a word; again, for the sake of convenience) place. Gnarled trees on either side of us, their rows and clumps going on ceaselessly, and in between - the jagged, muddy, dirt road we walk on.

Reminds me of some poem. Which poem, I can't remember.

'You do know where you're going, right?' I ask Mr. Om.

'I'm almost thirty percent sure,' he replies.

'That doesn't sound very good,' Aar chimes in. I agree, but do not word my doubts. I can just hope the only grown-up in our party knows what he's doing.

See lags behind at times, sniffing at burnt twigs and strange, giant, purple, horrendous, man-eating plants. Es has wandered off into the woods around us quite a few times in between. Apparently, she has ventured miles into the gnarled trees, passing right through them like they were not made of atoms but of bubbles.

We can't see her through the thick, dark trunks and branches - which trust me when I say seem to be moving imperceptibly yet perpetually - but her hissing can still be heard. It is eerily quiet here. Here wherever-we-are.

At times we hear her voice go 'Oh! Nice to meet you, big ugly swamp monster!' followed by a loud dinosaur-y growl or maybe a 'Oh! Nice to meet you, big ugly spider, how do you do?' followed by sharp, vigorous clicking of pincers. Anyway, she makes it out alive.

And when she does, Mr. Om says to me: 'Mar, if your spirit friend keeps going off like that, she's going to get us all killed.'

I transmit the message. 'Es, stay on the trail with us.'

She pulls a face, but grudgingly agrees. Occasionally making snarky remarks like: 'Why are there no rainbows in this place?' or 'Why is the sky so grim? Did the clouds beat it up?' or 'I found so many strange creatures in there, none quite as strange as hoo-mans.'

She is swirling right over my head right now, as a matter of fact. It's irritating, but I guess there's nothing I can do about it.

After those silent, dreadful minutes end - our wristwatches and mobile phones or any electronic device, so to say, don't work here, for some reason; in fact, they won't even open - we finally reach "the lake."

And boy, is it a sight.

Thanks for reading.

Also, Happy Birthday, Meh.

meharmarwah