The Well Wishers ( a story I wrote)

Christina 

Dr. 

Writing 482

The Well Wishers

The land is treacherous and full of mists. Harriet feels powerless. Goblins stare at her in the dark, through tree limbs. Her only source of happiness in the cool damp climate is the light source overhead. She blinks her eyes, staring. Is it the sun? The world is strange, vacant. A man stands in front of the sun on the cliff of a mountain that reaches up. “Keep fighting, Harriet. Don’t give in; I will be with you soon.” It is Henry speaking, but at first she does not recognize him. She only knows that the voice comes from the light. The man emerges in front of the sun, light all around his silhouette. The sun is not hurting her eyes and appears three dimensional, as if receding in space. 

Harriet is lying down on the cold moist ground. Just before her is a riverbed, devoid of any life or water. Trees are everywhere, but they almost look dead. All the leaves have fallen and are muted. They are not fluorescent oranges and reds of a new fall, but yellow and crumbled and aged as if snow had fallen and rotted them and yet there was no snow. It is not cold, just moist and damp.  Moistened air rises up, not luminous white fog you might expect to see. She speaks to herself faintly, “If I do not make it to the light I might die, just like this land has. I am shivering. I need the sun’s energy.” She attempts to pick herself up and collapses.

The voice from the light speaks again. She begins to recognize Henry’s voice, “Harriet come toward my voice; you cannot stay in that world you are in. You must find the light.” Henry is the only way she discovers she is in another world or perhaps dimension. Obeying the voice she starts to stand, the dark fog around her legs rivets her, wrapping around her legs and pulling her; as if trying to sink her in, like quick sand into the darkened Earth. Grabbing an overhanging tree branch she maintains her balance. She cannot pick up her feet without pulling on the branches for strength, against the intense gravity. She screams, no one answers, no one calls her name, and all is silent. Even the voice from the light begins to fade. She cannot see the silhouette or hear her name called any longer.

The dark mist stretches out and moves around her. It begins to take the shape of fingers. The phalanges reach out towards her legs and feet and ankles, always hovering just below her knees, as if they cannot reach above this certain threshold. Disoriented and tired she speaks to the hands groping her, “I cannot bend down and reach after you. You might pull every part of me in. I might never live again.” She continues forward pressing. Again she looks up to the only source of communication she can find, the sun and the man in the silhouette. She calls his name, not sure if it is really even him. “Henry?” Darkness uncovers the light again, she sees him more clearly now. He does remind her of a man she once knew and had fallen in love with. His name brings warm feelings to her yet she cannot remember that she ever loved him at all. It is a faint remembrance that is foggy in her mind. And yet part of her feels certain that she does love him.

Peering at the man, Harriet shields her face from the sun. As she looks into the light her eyes adjust. She can see the man. He is alone, wearing casual clothing. A button up shirt and trousers, all shades of white. Like the dress she woke up in, plain but long and flowing and white. The only difference, a rope around Harriet’s wasted acting like a belt. His face has familiarity, she is still trying to recognize. When he speaks she feels she can trust him. The man addresses her again and his voice carries as if he is standing next to her and there is no separation. “Harriet, it is me, Henry. They called us here together, the Well-Wishers did. You must find your way to the light. I already made it past the world you are in. I can’t come back, it is your journey”. He fades. She yells out after him. There is no answer. She wonders if he can even hear her, her voice is so thin.

***

Rain showers down upon the glass pane. Harriet looks out over the horizon from behind it. Grand Marais was always so suffocating this time of year, in August, full of sweltering heat followed with intermittent heavy storms. Harriet watches the canoe rocking back and forth from behind the glass. It looks like Papa had tied it up snugly. On the window ledge she presses her chin on a white down feathered pillow, just to get a good look at it. She gazes sleepily, watching the shadows of clouds that pass, leaving tiny sprigs of sunlight shining through the drapes of gray that loom beneath the sky. She draws in her breath and mumbles, “I am coming, just a few minutes”.

Unaware if her grandmother had even heard her, she continues to pass the day behind the tiny sheet of glass. It was another summer in northern Minnesota on the little island where she visited her grandparents yearly. The moment she boarded the plane from Arizona she missed her mother and father dearly, yet the flood of childhood memories that initiated the transition erased any uneasy feelings. In Minneapolis (where she flew in) she was welcomed by her aunt and uncle who would make the four hour drive up to the Canadian border after spending a few days at their place. This was the yearly transition. Grandma would always have some sort of pie waiting for them when they arrived, after loading things onto the motor boat Papa welcomed them with. Then they would all sit together sharing information and talking about what everyone in the family was doing. Harriet had loved this annual event, but this year things were different.

Divorce, settlements, emotions, and consequences, she had heard it all before, but it was worse when she saw Papa in the middle of it. He was so old fashioned. She hated that her parents had done this to him. Her parents had separated that spring and had decided to send Harriet to her grandparents cabin, in hopes that their daughter could get away from things; sad things. Harriet had been reluctant to go, thinking if she could stay she could fix things; her parent’s things.

The night before Harriet, watched her aunt and uncle fade away from behind the same sheet of glass she always watched visitors come and go by. Watching them fade into the mists off the shore she vowed to never bring up the complications of the divorce again. She didn’t deserve it and neither did they. She knew too much and it wouldn’t be fair to her parents. Avoidance brought her to the window. A place to not think and just to see, she gazed out the window thinking about the conversations she had heard the night before. They drifted in and out of her mind like little strips of paper folded up with writing on them that didn’t belong to anyone. They were not her words or theirs; they belonged to no one in this new world she was creating. 

It wasn’t that she knew too much; it was that she knew too little. She knew too little of life and marriage and divorces. And why people she loved made wrong choices; even at all the right times, times when otherwise she sensed only happiness? And why things couldn’t be fixed? She had pleaded so much. They were never quite fixed again the way she liked it. And she could almost sense that the whole world she had always known had now faded, like the sun she stared at on the lake’s horizon. Fading slowly as it sunk back into the world everyone said it was, a world that brings bangs, and scrapes and bruises. And yet staring out the window she began not to believe this had happened. That life had really happened this way. She began to escape brilliantly from the disillusion into the memories of her grandparent’s island and back into her childhood.

Harriet heard her grandmother calling up the stairway that lead from the kitchen to the little attic bedroom made just for the grandkids. “I was gathering a few bags to donate to Goodwill while we are in town this afternoon. I wanted to see if you could rummage through some of the items I showed you earlier. Do you want anything you saw?” Harriet groaned. All she really wanted to do was lay her head on the windowsill and watch rain drops collect and race down; each little drop gathering enough strength from others, until all at once they would slide down and escape off the ledge and down to the soppy meadow below the sill. Her grandmother must have sensed her despair. “What do you think Harriet?” Her grandmother was holding a little porcelain cat with jewels on it. You could put it up in your room or take it back home?” The little woman polished the figurine on a vintage apron tied around her slender waist before offering. Harriet answered politely, “I love the cat. Thank you for saving it for me. I think I will set it up right here.” Harriet gestured to the ledge where she had been half asleep daydreaming, picking up the pillow and holding it to her chest.

The old woman gave Harriet’s hand a squeeze and placed the calico cat on the shelf. After raising six kids she had learned to tell when not to press things. “Harriet is just going through the grieving process for her parents,” she often reminded herself. Making her way out of the room she turned back to smile. Harriet reminded her so much of her own daughter, Abigail. Harriet noticed her grandmother staring. She felt silly to smile at her grandmother, like she felt like an eight year old little girl smiling back at her through the years. She could feel tears welling up inside her eyes, she briskly restrained them; hoping her grandmother wouldn’t notice. She missed the days when she could curl up in her lap on her rocking chair and everything would suddenly be okay. Her grandmother’s hair had come in nicely she thought instead, although she missed the chestnut color she used to die it.

Grandmother was thin and aging, her face still luminous. She had beautiful smile lines in just the right creases. Harriet remembered her grandmother explaining to her as a child that women with lines around their eyes and mouths had evidences of internal happiness. She thought of her merry eyes and how they were always dancing with happiness, even in trying times. They still had light in them. Harriet wondered if she smiled enough and if she might have those same wrinkles and creases and learn to love them with affection as her grandmother had. She had been told by her family that they both carried the same physical likeness. She thought mostly about their lanky arms and legs and inability to fit into sizes; legs too long and waist too small. It seemed her grandmother and she were the only ones that shared the misery in it. 

            Hearing sounds from the kitchen, she supposed lunch had been cleared. Harriet stood lazily, tossing the pillow alongside the others that had quilted roses against white onto her daybed. When she was younger she would read on “rainy cabin fever” days like this and think of thrilling adventures to go on once the rain stopped. These days she had too much on her mind to daydream. She just didn’t feel like she was her usual self since the divorce happened.

She wandered about the room and caught herself in the mirror, standing in a robe, pajamas and pink satin slippers. She grabbed a brush and sat down taming her long, naturally curly hair into lose waves, hoping the curls wouldn’t pop back out. Her hair was the same shade as her grandmother’s when she was younger, chestnut (grandmother had called it). She turned to examine herself in the mirror. It was a challenge to accept that her friends envied her slenderness. She was missing all the right components because of it. She turned to the side to make sure they were still amiss. Nope, still flat in the front and flat in the back. No guy was ever going to want her. This is what she told herself every day since she started waiting for the skinniness to vanish. This time instead of getting angry at herself for something she had no control over, she thought of her grandmother, Elizabeth. And how she too had once looked like this. Then she thought how Papa had said so many charming things about grandmother when they had met at her own age; at seventeen they started “courting”.

            She straightened her hair into a side braid adjusting in the mirror. She always perked up when it came to putting mascara on her azure eyes. She knew they were her one true beauty which stood out against her pale skin and dark brown hair. Looking at her braid she thought of her mother and how she had always tied it, even now that she was seventeen. And if she was sad or depressed, like she now felt, she would somehow sense it and take her out shopping for things she didn’t need. She reminded herself that things were no longer the same. After all they had already discussed the new budgets and trimming on the house, and car, and even her college. Why did things have to fade away?” she wondered. Then she remembered yelling at her mother after the shock and betrayal of her father moving out. “No. No. No. Dad isn’t leaving, you aren’t leaving. You two are going to work this out. You are going to work it out. I have a friend, Sylvia. Her dad did that too, Mom. He did. They got counseling, I never told you. You have to go back to him!” Then she remembered her mother sobbing on the living room sofa draped in Kleenex barely breathing for days.

 Harriet walked over to the porcelain cat and re-arranged it. She couldn’t focus very well, staring out the window she noticed the canoe rocking back and forth, gently. That canoe had been the source of so much pleasure. It was where she longed to be in times like this, paddling as far away as she could on many occasions she scouted out a tiny island to spend the day, bringing a long a book to read and a little knapsack for sandwiches and a coke. Just then her grandmother re-appeared in the doorway. “Papa will be unloading the boat soon. We want to get in before supper. The rain is supposed to be clear for about three to four hours this afternoon. Are you okay with that or would you rather stay here?” Her grandmother looked at her, surveying her face with worry and concern. Why couldn’t Harriet keep anything hidden? She must have looked like a wreck. “I’ll stay here if you really don’t mind. I do want to get up the mountain and check on some bird feeders Papa and I made last summer,” Harriet answered. “If you insist, I was going to be stopping by the fudge shop after”. Her grandmother gave it one last shot. It didn’t work. Not surprised the old woman explained where the milk was in the basement fridge and how she had wrapped some enchiladas. She cautioned her about being out too late, knowing that Harriet couldn’t get into too much trouble since she hadn’t met the new neighbors yet. The boy who lived on the next cove over was a somber kid that kept to himself a lot. He was around her age, so perhaps a friend, but her grandmother wanted to be the one to arrange that. Then she sighed to herself and left.

                                                                           ***       

A year had passed for Harriet and her family and the divorce she had dreaded. After that previous summer on the island she came home to live at her mother’s house and trailed off to school and entered a college campus for the first time. The divorce had felt so shattering until Henry came into her life that rainy August on the little harbor of her grandparents’ island. With gentle persuasion he managed to get her to leave her perch up in the little loft bedroom overlooking Lake Superior. He saved her from sweet misery and helped her accept her parents’ decisions. He had become her voice of reason when she had felt the world unreasonable. Having Henry there brought her back to reality, just talking and hearing herself talk non-sense cleared her mind of fantasy and illusion. Talking to Henry in some ways prepared her the grief that lie ahead, coming home to two separate houses. “Harriet, your folks are going to love you no matter what. It’s not like one of them died or something.” He had said. And it was true, she did still have them both and there were perks to having two of everything, accept having two garages. She still only had one car, they had bought her together, after graduation. In the beginning it had all seemed so frightening and in the end, reality had become a bargain. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it was better than what Henry suggested. At least she still had both her parents. Thankfully this year, after coping for 12 months she was coming back to the island for other reasons; Henry reasons. She had missed him and thought of him often while she had been away.

Returning to the island had always felt like returning to childhood times. It was a place where fairies lived in little tree houses and where Papa pointed out mermaid treasures left on the shore (mostly seashells dolloped with grits of sand and mud) and where fishing explorations became nights away at sea with Captain Harriet. Maybe this is why Harriet always felt like as if a small child upon returning to the island; even with Henry there. Harriet announced stepping off the “ship” into Henry’s outstretched arms, “First one to the top of the mountain wins.”  After visiting with her grandparents for a while, the couple conspired a hiking trip together to take place at daybreak the next morning.

Harriet reached back slinging the repelling rope over to the ledge where Henry stood. He missed it twice already. He smiled while she made fun of his lack of climbing skills.

            “Do you want me to come over there and carry you the rest of the way?” she teased.

 “Didn’t I climb all the way up this way last summer, when we first me?” Henry said.

 “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. I almost wondered if you had planned it on purpose. No one knows about this place!” she said, thinking back to their first meeting.

“You know I still remember that look on your face when I caught you talking to a cat in the middle of the forest” Henry said.

“I wasn’t talking to Skippy. I was just talking to myself.” Harriet said, defensive.

“And that’s better?” Henry said laughing now.

“Honestly, it was adorable Harriet, adorable, what else can I say? I was madly, deeply, in love with you, on the spot, no question.” Henry finished demonstrating his affection with his hands cupping a heart over his chest just before he reached out again and finally grasped the swaying rope.

“You know you are a dork, right?” Harriet almost hated his open affection and silly ways of telling her of his love and devotion.

“It’s funny; I seem to remember that day differently. You standing in a big ant pile, staring at me until you realized you were being bitten to death. You screamed and begged for mercy, and then when I started laughing you tore your socks off and hopped around on one foot until you fell down next to me.”

Harriet looked at Henry and smiled, his blonde curly hair was thick and bushy. His eyes were a paler blue than hers and instead of the pale skin that covered her body, he had a tan and muscles hiding beneath cut off shirt sleeves. He had to know he was handsome, although she never had the guts to say it. Henry was her first serious relationship.

 The couple continued climbing the mountain, teasing each other on the way up. “So when are you going to transfer to Duluth?” Henry had been plotting her move since last summer. He was in college too, a couple of years ahead. He studied mostly at home and online. She just didn’t think she could leave her mother, but that wasn’t the only reason. “If you weren’t so mysterious all the time, maybe I could trust you.” she wanted to say, but never did.

            The truth was he was different. He was quiet and he spent large chunks of time at home doing nothing. He said he liked to write books, yet refused to show her anything he had written. She believed him the best she could, but without proof his writing remained inexplicable. After a year, he should have shown her something? During the year she had called to talk and his mother would say he was in his room writing, like he couldn’t even be torn away from it for a quick chat. Always writing, writing what? This was his mysterious side, the side she loathed to think about.

            With Henry close behind she was grappling for good footing as she heaved herself up and over the final ledge. She walked forward to the old log where they usually sat while she started to take off harnesses’ and climbing fragments. She knew it would be a few minutes until Henry made it. Taking off the gear she thought, “What am I talking about? What the heck is wrong with me! He is charming and sweet and writes books and is embarrassed. He is not mysterious. Why can’t I just let it go? Why can’t I just trust him?” Hoisting himself over the ledge Henry beamed at her happily. No matter how long a hike they made up the cliffs, he always bounced back resilient. “Good old Henry,” she thought to herself “Maybe he will carry me back with all his energy?”

            They spent the day together gathering wood for the little fire pit they built. Checking bird feeders, Harriet always brought up new seed and scoped out what new animal tracks could be found. While doing so Harriet tried to find the right words to say. She wanted to bring up his writing somehow, someway but she always felt rejected when she hinted at it. She had to know. After all she did love this man.

“So, what are you working on now?”

“What do you mean working on?”

“You know the writing stuff. The stuff you take all day doing when you aren’t out here with me.”

“The writing?” Henry scratched his head looking at her apologetically.

“It’s just chicken scratch, Harriet”.

“Is that how you treat your work? You spend hours on it each day and it’s just chicken scratch in the end?” Harriet was upset.

Her blood was pumping. Henry always avoided this topic. First it was because he wanted to finish some book he was writing before sharing, then it was he had too much school work to talk on the phone about it and now this year it looked like she would be getting the same old answers; nothing. After waiting to casually bring things up, at the right time, all he was doing was shrugging it off.

            “I hate it that you leave me out of your writing. Why can’t you share it?” Harriet said, finally.

Henry, felt motionless. His eyes searched Anna’s with a pang of regret. He should have told her, but how could he tell her?

            “I am sorry, it’s… just not… I haven’t finished it yet.” Henry knew not to look at Harriet’s eyes, but did.

Henry looked at her gaze squarely. There was something behind her eyes, as if him not sharing was somehow hurting Harriet. The real Harriet, the one he only at brisk moments caught sight of; moments like these. Harriet looked away and walked to the edge where a canyon jutted out into the trees, revealing a vast expansion of dark ever-green with an aqua marine horizon. Henry followed, standing just behind her.

“I love it here.” Harriet said finally, trying to remain in control of her feelings.

“I love you.” Henry said, for the first time.

Harriet kept staring out across the horizon unable to return the favor.

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t treat me like this. Why are you letting your writing drive a wedge between us? I can’t believe you would take things that far. I’ve always been honest and open with you.” Harriet said in a flash of anger. 

She started down the path below and into the distance.

***

            A month had passed since their last hike up the mountain when Henry had said “I love you.” Now they affectionately kissed and said I love you many different times each day. Harriet longed for more explanations but she found that they came when she was softer and less direct. “Love comes softly,” her grandmother had told her. Climbing the mountain this time a cool refreshing breeze washed over her. Patience had paid off in the end.

            The familiar trail filled with thick tapestries of Evergreens, Maples and Birch. Harriet paused surveying the land, letting the aroma of trees fill up her breath. She felt reverence for the beauty around her and anticipation for the events ahead. She looked down noticing tracks inlaid in the mud. With closer examination she made out the faint resemblance of what looked like bear tracks. She hadn’t seen this variety in ages. Fleeting memories of the last occurrence popped in and out of her head.

“Watch your step,” her dad had said, “I want to take a couple of snap shots. Stand by them, Harriet.”

“What kind are they Daddy?” Harriet remembered asking.

“Black Bear,” her dad said calmly.

 Harriet’s little body had stood trembling, imagining a ferocious beast and then she had stood staring, at a familiar face, smiling. And then she started smiling, “cheese,” she had said finally. Harriet walked over to the tracks Henry had just past, inspecting them briefly.  

“I miss you Dad. I miss times like this. I wish you would spend time with me.”

She said under her breath. She thought briefly about the divorce and the changes and how her dad had almost gone amiss. The sadness encroached her feelings and she drowned it out with Henry. She quickened her steps, letting the mud squish underneath her feet along with the forgotten prints. 

            Harriet had worn her thick long mane in a pony tail that day. She let it bounce, swinging it from side to side as she walked hand in hand with Henry. She had decided to wear summer shorts and a tank top, Henry’s favorite. “Does Henry really love me?” She thought quietly.

            “You just want to hold my hand because I’m hot.” Harriet teased.

            “Hot? I know you are hot, but it feels kind of balmy under all these trees.” Henry teased back.

 “I am not peeking.” Harriet said, closing her eyes.

Henry had promised the book would be waiting at the top, so Harriet wouldn’t tempt him on the way up. Harriet closed her eyes now in an obvious manner just before the trees started to thin, and divide into an empty sprawl of weeds and flowers and yellow grass.

“Just don’t throw me over the cliff.” Harriet teased.

She held onto pine needles that slid between her fingers as Henry guided her up the rest of the way. This way it would be a total surprise. Even the way it looked, she didn’t want to see it until it was resting in her palms exactly.  

            “It’s the North Star,” Henry said.

The front cover had an embroidered star in gold thread set against the maroon antique leather that bound the book that Harriet had begun to caress. It looked ancient or at least a hundred years old or older. Harriet thought it looked more like a journal than an actual book, which is what she had expected.

“It’s truly beautiful, Henry. I’m impressed.” She said.

            Henry sat down on the stump of the tree the book had been hidden beneath hoping Harriet wouldn’t get too carried away with all her questions.

“It was my grandfather’s and then my father’s and now it’s mine; like a family heirloom so to speak.”

“So it’s a journal?” Harriet asked.

“Well-I guess maybe you could say that. It’s full of stories too, though; so it’s not exactly just family note taking.”

Harriet looked at the book and surveyed the width. It looked like it couldn’t have held more than 100 or so journal sized pages. She hadn’t dared to open it yet, but something wasn’t adding up already. Henry had spent so much time in his room, writing. And he had mentioned a book and he had never talked about an heirloom or his father; whom all she knew about was that he had passed away when he was nine. She was happy he was finally trusting her, but what the heck was this?  

“I know it’s hard to take, but I do want to read it with you. Maybe it will make more sense then?”

Harriet looked at Henry doubtfully. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to look at the writing. How fun would it be to discover secrets from Henry’s family and analyze the few memories and thoughts they took care to write in something so small and treasured. She was intrigued, but it just didn’t feel right, something was missing.

            Hours poured into late afternoon as Harriet and Henry sat together reading the pages. Harriet read a few passages from Henry’s father and grandfather (both of whom had passed away at early ages). There were pages with brief explanations from these men and pages with long winded paragraphs about magical places that Harriet herself couldn’t have dreamed up if she tried. There were all fascinating story-tellers, especially Henry. Reading made her feel closer to Henry. She loved the way he wrote; his word choices were eloquently said and there was so much strength and vitality his paragraphs. She made sure to point out the change in style between the writers and how his stood out more boldly without harming the charm of the other two men that had obviously influenced his life. She truly was enchanted. At least several passages she longed to re-read after she handed it back. It wasn’t just the content that was beautiful; it was his words and his cheer and his humor and his strength. She could see Henry in the words she read, reading evoked tenderness, but she still didn’t understand why he made such a big deal about it to begin with.

Stopped Editing Here!

            “I was younger when it started happening. I didn’t understand at first. I was swept away by Indians and giants and foreign lands. I met strangers in strange places and it all felt so real; so terribly real. Then I returned as if no time had passed, when each event seemed to take hours and days to complete; I would just wake up even though I hadn’t even laid my head down. And it was always when I was sitting in front of this stupid journal ready to write.” Harriet wasn’t sure what to say but something inside of her finally felt right. Without even thinking she opened her mouth and said, “Henry, I believe you.”

“You do?” Henry looked up at her surprised.

“I think so.” Harriet said, surprised herself that she had said anything.

“I wanted to show you for so long, but it just sounds so ridiculous. I didn’t think you would believe me.” Henry said.

“I do, Henry. I couldn’t write like that if I tried or think of those things; I don’t think you made it up.” Harriet said.  

“Well it’s not only that. It’s kind of hard to explain but the words I write, they don’t always stay the same. They change sometimes, like they erase.

“Neat, you have a pen with an eraser. I can do that too, you know.” Harriet was teasing but also feeling a little skeptical. She couldn’t help not wondering, are you crazy? But said nothing.

Henry felt a little blow to the stomach that made his gut wrench. 

“Right, I have a magical eraser. Never can be too careful with paragraphs and sentence structure, it might all of a sudden disappear.” Henry mimicked Harriet’s sarcasm trying to hide the pain.

“I’m sorry, Henry. I’m just trying to wrap my head around things.” Harriet said.

“I know, don’t worry about it.”

The couple stared at each other, frozen. Breaking the silence after what felt like ten minutes, Henry asked, “Can I show you something?”

“Okay.” Harriet said.

Henry kneeled down at the stump and took out a bic pen. Harriet kneeled too, looking at Henry.

“What are we doing?” She said.

“Just watch and see.” Henry looked confident again.

“Dear Well-Wishers, I wish…” Henry didn’t finish the sentence, but she knew she wasn’t imagining things. With each word and each letter that came out of what looked like an ordinary pen, light came out, brilliant light, like white star dust on paper. She wanted to touch the letters to see if the light was real, picking up the little letters off the paper to hold tiny alphabet stars in her hands. As the sentence lingered she watched the light burn out and turn back slowly to black pigment, like a slow burning ember slowly divulging its inner core, beneath all the white light. Harriet remembered as she watched pages written to Henry that read, Dear Henry but she didn’t say anything. Who was he writing to she wondered.

            The couple climbed back down the mountain in silence. Henry had put the book away just after he showed her the light. Harriet hadn’t said much but had grown tired and dazed. “Are you ready to go back home yet?” She had said. Now they had walked all this way in silence and Harriet couldn’t help the questions and thoughts arising in her head. Harriet longed to see the pen move and the light that followed it and to read the stories, his stories. She loved the scenes and the places and now she imagined Henry in them. “You should be a writer.” She wanted to say. “You should do something with this gift that you have.” She wanted to say it and yet she couldn’t say anything. She couldn’t think of words, words that would wrap her thoughts and empty them out of her mouth. How could she say what she felt in her heart? She believed in this man, Henry, she believed in him and at the same time she felt envious.

            “Henry, can I go with you there? I mean it all seems so real to you. Is it a place?” Harriet managed to finally say. “I don’t think so Harriet, it’s kind of a family gift, I think. I’m sorry.” Henry said. This bothered Harriet, unexpectedly. It wasn’t like she wanted to be strange and write in some secret journal on her off days, but something in her spoke out against Henry. “I want to write the story, too, Henry. I don’t just want to read your stories, I want to be there with you.” Then Henry stopped and looked in Harriet’s eyes. He was moved by her already, he had thought explaining things would change things. And yet she embraced him, she loved him and accepted him. He wanted to return the favor but how could he? It wasn’t something he ever even asked for. It was just something that happened to him when he was a kid, when his father passed away. He had found the journal and then he discovered the light and the rest was history. Feeling bad he realized Harriet had felt what he felt when he sat down to write. It was more than just writing, it was the feeling he had when he started each journey, it just felt right. “Then write your story, Harriet.” He said. “You don’t have to be like me to write a story. Just point your heart in the right direction and it will come out all right.” Henry talked encouragingly. “You know what I mean, Henry, I want to do what you did.” Harriet replied. Henry was feeling a bit upset. Go figure Harriet, the thrill seeking adventurer would say something like this. She was missing something though. The fact was that what he did wasn’t always fun and she didn’t even understand that side. “Look, you can’t write in my journal if that is what you are thinking, but don’t let that stop you from writing. If you want to write, write something. You don’t need magical light to write a good story.” Henry said. Harriet looked a little sad, but smiled at Henry. “I know.” She said. Henry took a deep breath, “Harriet, did I carry you up this mountain or did you carry yourself?” Henry looked back from where they had climbed down, making it obvious. “The journey is all yours. Climb a mountain if you want, just don’t forget to pack your own gear; I have my own mountains to climb.”

           

***

“Henry? Why is Henry here?” Harriet thought. To settle herself she decided it was all a dream, a nightmare, a vivid creation a lucid mimicry. To test her hypothesis she picked up a rock nearby. She noticed its texture, the density and even the dirt crusted, she scratched at the dirt and watched the mud and sand fall away. She threw the rock against the basin of the dried out riverbed. It ricocheted off and echoed in the canyon with jutted up walls that staggered against mountain cliffs farther down the river. When she thought of him, Henry’s voice often returned, softly in the wind. “Harriet, if I could cross the barrier I would,” he said. Harriet raised another rock, supposing she had imagined Henry and threw it up against the other one. “If you loved me you wouldn’t do this,” she said angrily. Henry faded and so did the sun, everything overhead became dark and dreary and dark clouds reigned in.

Understanding the world was real gave her courage. She looked up at the tall mountain cliffs in the distance. There were dark dense trees and a forest standing in between. With all the strength she could muster she said, “I must keep pressing. I am not going to give up searching, there has to be a way out of this place, even if Henry can’t help me.” She still wasn’t sure if he was real or not. As she started to walk, dense mist came in. She heard echoes of voices, like low bawdy hums or murmurs from the dark. Not distinguishable in speech, but dark feelings came along with their insertion. When Harriet listened she felt fear and overwhelming sadness. She felt she was walking in the land of the dead, hell’s dead. If she thought of death, she noticed the murmurs grew impatient and the mist more forceful in its indulgence. Remembering Henry she kept walking talking to the night instead, “Why would you leave me? Why would you do this?” She had begun to talk to herself while walking to drown out the madness.

 When she thought of him, Henry’s voice often returned as if alerted to start talking again. “You are in harm’s way” Henry said as if answering. He was looking down from the ridge he was stepping on, not on a horse this time. Just standing rigidly, peering in her direction as if he knew she were somewhere in the mists but not identifiable at the moment. This time she had been staring in his direction and just before he started to speak she noticed something different. It was as if he had come through a doorway. One minute he was there and the next he was not. In fact it looked as if he had stepped out of the sun, like it was some sort of tunnel that had an opening. “I can still hear you.” She cried. Henry had been pacing and his face was turned from her. “If you would let me I would go fetch her out myself.” He said to someone else. Then he directed his attention back to her, “Harriet, keep moving. Keep going forward. Don’t get stagnant.” Harriet felt his words, they became her driving force again. “I’m leaving for a while, but I’ll be back.” Henry left and she watched him press into the light as if it had an opening or doorway inside.

“It’s distressing her,” she heard a soothing faintly familiar voice say but she saw nothing as she looked in the same direction. The voice reminded her of her grandmother, Elizabeth. “She feels his tension.” She heard again. Harriet turned around in the darkness, searching. “Maybe if she could see how powerful she really is?” Another voice chimed in. This voice she did not recognize. “Who is there?” Harriet managed to say and all the talking ceased.

 “Power, what power do I have?” She questioned. Everything felt so lonely and lifeless now. The sun had faded out with Henry leaving only bleak darkness. Fatigued from lack of nourishment frightened Harriet searched for food and found nothing. “I am always with you.” A sweet voice said in the night. She looked and saw nothing. By now she was convinced she was dreaming. Or dead? Harriet looked searchingly. Not even birds or crickets chirped in this place. And the river bed was dried and dead of life. “I am alone. Somebody help me.” She cried. “Die,” a voice shrieked back. She could not see it but felt it grabbing at her dress. Without concern for anything else she obeyed, lying down in the dark mists. As if to fulfill what had already been decided for her. She was too fatigued to stand any longer.

The vapor had only made her sleepier, more lethargic, and unable to really almost think. Elizabeth’s kind voice pervaded her consciousness, “Wake up, Harriet, wake up.” Kindly said words kept coming as if next to her. They were sweetly stating that she was loved and to quit sleeping. With each word her lids fluttered open and she just knew she needed to make them open all the way. Somehow she managed to open them. She wakened. “Where are you?” Harriet said, sitting up motionless; trying to discern where the words came from. “I am with you”, the voice said. She wanted to be frightened, but she didn’t feel frightened; the voice was too calming. They soothed her and made her feel alive. The mists departed, her legs and feet felt less weighted down as before. “It is your journey.” The calm peace spoke and then all was silent. She knew it was gone and yet she cried out, “help me, help me, I want to go home, I want out of here, please help me, I am stranded.” Harriet began sobbing.

Then she felt as if she were Alice in Wonderland and saw that the hours had been fabricated. In just a few moments her tears had wet down her cheeks and fell into the soft dirt, thereby creating a small stream (which was hard to believe) made up only of tears. And yet, she did not remember crying that much herself. The stream started making its way down the bank to the dried up riverbed that she had lain by when she first woke up in this land of enchantment, her tears not just wetting it but filling it into rushing water. Everything the water touched turned green again. In a matter of minutes all was tranquil and beautiful and a doe stood drinking the water at the edge staring at the young girl on the opposite side.

Like spring arose in the dead of winter, her hopes soared at this new life. For the first time since she had woken up in the strange land she believed again. Running to the stream for drink and water she fell into it, drinking, forming her lips like a straw. “And even the trees wept for the child.” She heard but saw nothing. She looked at the trees rustling. “I hear you.” She said. Then the leaves paused and rustled back. The doe paused while drinking and stared. “Hi.” She said. And then the deer trotted off. Harriet looked down into the pool of water below and noticed her reflection. It looked like Elizabeth’s. “Grandma?” She asked. “I wish you were here, Grandma. I miss you.

 Harriet washed her face, arms and legs in the cool refreshing water, as she bathed the doe appeared again. This time she didn’t talk. She smudged out the dirt from the bottom of her dress and rung it in her hands. She thought if she could see her grandmother one more time she would tell her that she had felt her strength. She looked at the water and said, “Maybe this is power?” The tears had become so much in just a matter of days. “If she could grow a river what else could tears shed?” She thought but said nothing. “Exactly.” Elizabeth said. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a woman standing where the doe had stood instead. “Grandma? Is that really you?” She said hesitating. She was brightened and shiny, like Henry’s image. She didn’t respond but stood staring.

“I wish I could go with you. It is your journey, Harriet. You have the strength, just don’t give up yet.” The image finally said before fading. Harriet called her name but only saw the doe in her place raising its head. “I believe in you, Grandma.” Harriet said to the deer. “Don’t talk to the dark, Harriet. Talk to the light. Henry is in the light too, Harriet. Trust him.” She heard this, but it was in her mind instead. It wasn’t the deer talking. “I believe you.” Harriet said out loud again.

When talking to her grandmother Harriet noticed the land had brightened. Beneath her feet patch of grass formed and berries grew on vines on tree trellises. Thunder cracked overhead and the low lying clouds that had kept Henry’s image obeyed, as they cleared the skies. Henry stood smiling. “I love you Henry, I just can’t do this anymore.” She said. She talked to the image, knowing he couldn’t read her lips. “I’m sorry I let you down.” She said as one lonely tear rolled down her cheek by accident. The river was too vast and gaping to cross with all her tears and she thought, “Oh, great, more water.” Looking down she saw the tear drop to the Earth before she could catch it and instead of water a rose formed.

Tired, Harriet curled down around the large and beautiful flower caressing petals. It was wet with dew and much larger than she would have expected, her whole head could have dipped inside and the petals looked waxy and plastic. She breathed into the sweet aroma and wiped her face on petals like they were Kleenex. Her face hidden in petals and leaves camouflaged an onslaught of tears. She let them collect in the base and hoped they would leak out. She watched her tears accumulate and spill over from the flower as it bowed its head with a great heave and poured out more water than she had actually cried. Then it popped back up again as if relieved of the grief that had strangled it. Harriet popped up as well and felt she too had been rid of whatever made her cry. Ashamed, Harriet went back over to the water’s edge and sat upon a rock. “If I have power, I have to be able to get out of this.” She said to herself. “What do I do? Cry all day to create things?” Harriet spent hours imagining ways she could harness tears and what they could make. She decided her best escape would be a staircase leading up to a mountain where she would hug and kiss a certain someone. Then she tried to fake cry and nothing happened. She even told the land her whole story, including her Mom and Dad and the divorce and some of her sadness, hoping to gain some sympathy; nothing happened. “I’ll never get out of here alive.” She said. And then she really did cause the trees the weep as their colors faded and started to send yellow faded leaves down at her; the lawn shriveling up at first in patches and then widening. “I hate this. Why me?” She yelled and started cursing, infuriated at all the sudden changes. She thought of the mists returning next and tried to quiet herself thinking of all the horrible things. Each thought had been like an eraser, erasing.

Harriet ran into the river hoping to save what was left. “I love you river, don’t leave.” She said. The river breathed it’s water back, insisting it wasn’t dead. “I will never be able to beat this world. I can never win.” She still said. Then she looked down and noticed an image appeared in her reflection, only this time it was not her grandmother. It was a haunting image and she became paralyzed listening. The face was royal blue, bluer than the water and it had black circles where eyes should have been. “I am evil; I am sin, when you see me you will grow dim. When I suck out all your light, you can climb in this river to die.” Strange blue lips said. In her mind she thought of the flower giving life and dumping out tears and then springing back up again. It gave her the strength to look away. She turned around and grabbed a rock threw it at the strange face. “I am not going to die. I am going to live. I have strength and power. More than you know. I have a family and they love me. You can’t change that. You can’t take me away.” She yelled.

This is when Harriet saw a pouch hanging in the limb of a tree where she had stood gazing; it was just large enough to sit in the palm of her hand. “You did so well” she heard her grandmother’s voice again. “Now you will be blessed. Look inside.” Harriet couldn’t see what was in the pouch exactly but it looked like fine, smooth sand. It was the color of sand. “Sprinkle it in the water,” her grandmother insisted. She heard her but could not see. Harriet seemed to understand and went to the river where the face had been. It had frightened her immensely and she felt brave as she sprinkled dust and everything that had been lost returned, the trees growing new leaves and the grass turning green and widening.

Grandmother had always told Harriet as a child about listening to her heart. “I will always be with you” she said. She remembered her grandmother telling her this as she fixed her socks just right as a small child. She had her lie down and hand her two legs with feet attached. She pulled Harriet’s socks all the way up and then rolled them down again, examining the creases on her toes. Then she folded over the lace hem on pink socks and smoothed out the pleats on her dress. Making sure they were all in the right spots. Then she helped her up fixing the pleats on her dress. “Listen to your heart it will tell you things.” She said. “It will?” Eight year old Harriet asked. “It will. Even if I am far away you can hear me there, Harriet.” Harriet had started up at her grandmothers eyes. “Where are you going?” She asked. “Nowhere, Harriet. Just listen to the things I might say if you ever get lost. You will know it is me because you will feel it in your heart.” “Okay.” Harriet said. Growing up she had heard it many times different ways, “You know me well enough to know what I would say, even if I’m not there.” She would explain. “Never feel alone, Harriet. There are so many people that love you.” And things like that.

Harriet suddenly felt that she understood. This was a land, but it was also her land. It was her grandmother, it was Papa, it was her mother, it was her father, it was everything; even Henry. For an instant she felt like she had grasped things. If it really was her world then maybe she could change things. She reached in the pouch for more sand and threw it into the water and even the pouch as well. This time wishing with all her heart that the very staircase she had imagined would leap up from her despair. Instead a bridge formed. It was just a ways off from her but grew out of a sort of weaving of vines with flowers and wooded limbs curved over one another. It was a beautiful sight, but not anything she had imagined; dejected she thought it a marginal success. And lost sight of all the understanding she had begun to hypothesize. This wasn’t her world; that was obvious.

            Despite her ill feelings she decided to become thankful and said, “I can do this.” If she had at least a little power to change things then that ought to suffice. Perhaps it would be enough to carry her through the blackened woods the bridge pointed towards. She didn’t know how things would go, but the bridge gave her courage. The first step away from the light was the hardest. She remembered the haunting mists and looked out into the dark, wondering how much she could keep away from her at a time. It seemed when she kept a positive attitude, nothing collided with her strides. She thought she would have faith in herself and that might change things this time. And then she was alone in a pitch black forest.

            Little by little she let the warm feelings and memories of her past drown out her sadness. She remembered her summer with Henry. She remembered kissing and exploring and telling him she loved him for the first time. She remembered how he had seemed mysterious and how it was a lot to take in all the book writing business. It had been hard but she trusted him. What seemed like days past as she walked on, it was hard to tell because the sun never faded and then she grew infuriated. “If I hadn’t learned about his book maybe this wouldn’t have happened.” And then she suspected that Henry knew it would happen. “So, this is why you showed it to me? So you could suck me into your stupid world? Oh wait, he said, the well-wishers did it. It’s not his fault.” She started mumbling as she walked in the forest. Each day brought strength back to Harriet’s mind and she no longer felt tired, she felt mad instead. Mad at everything that wreaked of a boy that kept calling her name up ahead. “I hate you Henry. I wish we never met.”

            Fog hovered around but not close enough to bother Harriet. The sky was hazy and reflected some of the burnt sienna colors of the ground that matched the base of the mountain that was coming into view up ahead. The rest of the world was gray and damp and foggy. The muted world is what sharply drew contrast around a little figure that stood in the path that made its way through the trees and seemed to be consistent in bringing her towards her destination. She saw colors of red and tan and yellow and green. She supposed it was another flower springing up bringing cheer. “That’s odd,” she thought, “if it is a flower is certainly does resemble the face of a troll from here.” As she drew in closer she realized it was a little man coming towards her. He looked determined and impatient as he rushed up to her.

            “Do you hate Henry?” The troll asked without even introducing himself. He sounded like a frog croaking and this startled Harriet. Looking down Harriet looked at beady little black eyes that squinted and large nose that drooped down over manly lips that were firm and vacant. His hair was long and black and tied back beneath a cap that was pointed and crimson red. It didn’t match very well in comparison to a green tweed jacket and mustard yellow pants and shoes. Forgetting herself in the moment Harriet just started, entranced. She answered him politely, as if customary in this land,

 “Yes, I hate him, how do you know Henry?”

 “I was sent for you. I am Troll, at your service.” The troll came closer to Harriet and bowed his head.

 “I could use some help, I am lost.” She said.

 A smile erupted on the troll’s face and she could see the yellow and brown that covered the enamel as he was now standing close enough for more careful observations. He obviously doesn’t brush his teeth she thought to herself. “I can help you Harriet, on one condition. Do you believe in me?”

            Harriet surveyed the scene and looked at him questioningly. She had no reason not to believe in the kindly beast that stood before her, what an absurd question. After all he was standing so close she could have reached out to touch him. And if this place really wasn’t a dream and truly was real then she mustn’t have any reason not to believe she was seeing him. Although he was an odd troll, she looked down noticing shoes much too big for him. It seemed as though they might have been stuffed just to fit. She thought of a little troll her Aunt had once given her as a kid and how that troll had the same unique outfit the troll was before her was wearing. She could remember even that her own little troll had had large feet like his and how it helped to stand him up on desk at home. Her Aunt had loved trolls during this time period and Harriet had often admired her collection when she visited. She missed her Aunt, now particularly more now than before, then the troll cleared his throat demanding her attention.

“I do believe in you.” She answered.

 “Dine with me” the troll said.

“Dine with you?” she said inquisitively.

“Yes, dine with me. I will show you the enchantment. If you have power, you can make believe. You can accomplish anything in this land if you have power.

This reminded Harriet of the bridge and the flower and the trees weeping and all the magical things she had seen. She felt excited to think she might get some answers that would get her out of the mess she was in. She smiled and nodded, yes. “Dinner for two,” the troll said and then he did he did two cartwheels just in front of her and leaped up and pinched the young girl’s nose with a merry wink and darted off ahead.  “Wait,” Harriet said as she ran following after him.

While walking Harriet (the troll keeping a safe distance just up ahead) began to wonder why she was traveling away from the place of Henry. “Maybe I should go back?” She started to say but a little waterfall with water flowing into a pond caught her attention before doing so. Then suddenly the troll was standing beside her, “Drink, its fresh.” He said. Looking into the water the image of the two travelers caught Harriet’s attention. She was frightened to see the strange stranger standing beside her. After drinking Harriet realized she had felt so overcome with the troll’s questions that she forgot to ask some herself. “How do you know my name?” She asked. “I know your name Harriet and you know mine. I am Troll and you are Harriet. Everyone here knows of Harriet and everyone here knows of Troll. We are not merely spectators you see. I am here to serve you and you are here to serve me.” Harriet still didn’t seem very convinced and the Troll knew this. “You see dear Harriet, you are special and all of this was created for you. It is your world you are creating. I am here to help you do whatever it is you want to do. Is there anything you want to do Harriet?” He asked. “I want to go home.” Harriet stated, staring at the little man that stood next to her skeptically. “Then all you have to do is follow me.” The troll motioned her up ahead and started back on the path with his steady pace.  

 Walking down the path Harriet noticed that the trees on either side the dense trees formed walls and overhead the branches curled over on top of one another forming a ceiling, shielding her from the lighted sky. The boughs of the trees looked like archways and they were mostly just tall enough to barely let Harriet through without scraping her head against branches. “If I were to go back, which way would I go?” She wondered to herself while walking. There had been turns along the way and other directions and crossings, but Troll lead her so briskly it was hard to tell which way lead her back from whence she came. Using her good sense she thought to tear some leaves and throw them on the ground just in case. Every few moments she paused in her steps to stop and listen for the water rushing, knowing she could follow her ear back if she had to get going. Only this time she didn’t hear anything. She turned around to see if she could at least catch a glimpse through the trees yet she knew she could not. “Leave now.” She thought but just stared off in the distance.

“Wipe your feet before coming inside.” The words awakened her from an awful trance as she stared vacantly. Upon turning around she saw a little door that had not been there before.  It had sprung up so abruptly that as she turned around her nose brushed the surface. She rubbed her nose feeling thankful that it wasn’t bruised and looked up to behold an enormous tree with a little door fastened; the door being the exact shade of red of Troll’s pointed hat and the exact height of Harriet’s head. “Perhaps it is a favorite color,” she said to herself backing up to get a better look at the ginormous treehouse. Looking back down she noticed golden letters on the door that read, “TROLL’S HOUSE,” then the door opened and she walked in, ducking her head barely to fit.  

The room was an enlarged circular space and it was not divided. The total circumference was much larger than expected for the base of a tree. A bed with green covers was at the farthest point of the room and nearest to the entrance was the dining area. It had a little knotted pine wood table and two matching chairs. The kitchen was in between and consisted of an old cellar stove that had to be lit, with a firewood basket in front. There was a porcelain sink with a pile of dishes and other dishes were stacked neatly beside, instead of being placed in cupboards. On the stove a pot whistled letting out steam that smelled meat and potatoes. Harriet immediately noticed that the flavors were so pungent that she felt she tasted the food she smelled. In fact, the taste was so convincing that she felt it necessary to start chewing, as if she were actually eating meat and potatoes without even taking a bite. The troll didn’t seem to notice or acknowledge this problem as he busied himself setting the table and moving around the dishes. He motioned her to sit down and then just before she took her seat he traded out his chair for hers, explaining that she should have the very best seat in the house; although aesthetically speaking, there was no difference. Harriet sat down in the small chair with her knees hunched up to her chin and tried to hide her face in a napkin as she chewed the main course still filling her mouth.

 Troll continued to work in the kitchen and she sat at the table, cheeks bulging. This is when she noticed that the food came at intervals depending on what she decided she wanted. If she wanted potatoes she would just think of potatoes. And so on with the meat. The only problem was that she could not turn the dish completely off. Then she thought she truly might vomit because her stomach contorted from fullness and everything stopped. Troll came over with a large sterling silver pot almost as large as him that he placed triumphantly upon red and white checkered cloth. Without asking he started arranging meat and potatoes on Harriet’s plate and explained, “You may have all the meat and potatoes you would like. It pleases me to serve you so much.” Harriet looked at the door and wished she could bolt. Troll smirked and winked at her as he filled her plate. Harriet replied, “I truly feel famished I have to admit.” She wondered if they were really her words and where did the words come from? It was like a loud burp you cannot control, and she even covered her mouth after she spoke trying to detain this from happening again. Troll just smiled expectantly and even tied a bib around her neck as he stood on a little stool next to her chair, eyeing a plate filled to the brim.

The first bite she examined looked like the same meat and potatoes her grandmother had always served. It even had the exact amount of salt and pepper and her seasoning preference. Out of obligation she took her first bite and began chewing only to realize there was nothing in her mouth. Not one morsel or crumb of food could be detected. To save her embarrassment she decided to bulge her cheeks and pretend she was eating something. At one point she even stuck out her tongue on the inside of her cheek and chewed on it. Relieved that at least she didn’t have to worry about spontaneous combustion she continued to fake chew and swallow as the Troll stared intently, watching. As she finished, Troll continued to refill her plate, explaining that she really must have all the energy could get for the long journey. In return Harriet “oohed and awed” and complimented; until at least forty minutes had passed and the pot was emptied.

After clearing the dishes, Troll came back to the table and sat back down looking at Harriet inquisitively. “Do you believe in me,” Troll asked. “I mean do you see me and believe in me, as a living Troll friend?” Before answering, Harriet wondered if Troll were not truly stupid for asking her these annoying questions over and over again. Clearly he was standing there and clearly he existed! “Yes Troll, I believe in you,” she answered politely. “Of course I believe in you, you dumb toad!” She did not say this part out loud. “You really look like a toad you are so ugly and I hate it when people stuff me with food for so long that I feel sick.” If only she could say one morsel of truth to him. Harriet just gazed at Troll with the best fake smile she could afford him. “Well that is all I wanted to know. If you believe in me then I will escort you.” Troll said. “But I don’t need an escort I have my grandmother and Henry.” Harriet explained but Troll did not seem to hear her and had already run ahead of her to open the door. He stood there smiling. “You see Harriet, I will not always be there to escort you. I have to do work here in the woods with the other trolls, but I will escort you in many ways. Just look for my gifts, you will know they are from me because they will know my name.” Harriet felt bewildered, yet anxious to get going. She thought it strange that the troll would want to bring her gifts and wondered if they would consist of more meat and potatoes, of which she was not interested. “Thank you Troll.” She said, as she ducked out the doorway and ran across bright yellow leaves laid out upon black soot.

The leaves held their promise and escorted her to a familiar place where she looked upon the only life that seemed exist in the vacant abyss. Startled she noticed, upon returning, the river did not look right. The rushing water level was still full, up to the river’s bank, but the water was flowing backwards instead of forwards and the small stream that filled it steadily, where her tears had dropped initially, was syphoning up the river like a straw back into the ground. She had an eerie feeling about the water causing a drought. She called her grandmother and Henry, but could see and hear nothing. She was alone, staring at the strange defiant river; wondering if it would all be sucked up.  

“Am I ever going to get out here alive?” Harriet cried. Folding up knees into arms she rested her head. This is when she noticed a little orange striped kitten rubbing its face on her legs, purring. Overjoyed Harriet reached down to the little cat that resembled her cat at her grandmother’s house, Skippy. It had on a little red collar with gold letters that read, “Dumb Toad Troll.” She gasped at the name. “Did I really say that?” Although she was quite sure she had not spoken a word to Troll, thinking back. Upon attempting to pick the cat up while rubbing its head, the cat vanished and only the bracelet was left, lying on the ground instead. She scooped it up and caressed the en-graven words. She put it on but nothing happened. “Henry, now what do I do?!” She looked up to the mountain for more directions. He was gone, the sun was gone, the sky dark again. “You really are an idiot, Henry. You are the one that got us into this mess!” Harriet wasn’t really the type of girl to call names but she found herself cursing him in her head. “You sure took the high road didn’t you, leaving me here to die.” Then she said, “I hate you Henry.” Again and again.

Harriet noticed immediately that the bracelet was bossy. It wasn’t alive and it didn’t speak but it seemed to be saying something. Grabbing Harriet’s hand she was pushed and pulled along until she bent over and picked up a walking stick that jumped in her hand like a magnet. Then the walking stick pulled to the hole where water was flowing backwards and Harriet shoved it in like a plunger and took it back out again; the water correcting itself and filling the river basin back up like a tub.

The bracelet acted in a way like a guide. It wasn’t talking to her but it was thinking for her. Or at least it was moving her in the direction by pulling her hand along. It guided her to a stick with the name, Dumb Toad Troll on it. She picked it up as if expected. The stick always a few minutes ahead of the rest of her body, knowing where to go, all she had to do was hold on. Then it guided her over to the isle of flowing tears, where everything was now backwards. Without even thinking she grabbed the stick with both her hands and thrust it into the hole as if she knew just what to do without even thinking of it. The water corrected itself and started filling back up the river basin like a tub. 

          The stick was power. She looked at the darkness outside the bridge and craved it. “This is it. This is the answer. I am going home. I just know it.” Walking she noticed that the stick repelled the mists and lighted the way in the night. She developed a sort of friendship. When Harriet felt hungry the stick instinctively lead her to places of foraging. She found berries just at the right time and water to drink and leaves that tasted minty and filled her tummy nicely. Once she was feeling fatigued and yelled at the stick for not knowing, “Why don’t you do your job and go get my food?” She said angrily. This is when the stick brought her to a pile of cow dung and froze itself like a wrought iron pole stuck in the ground. Another time it brought her to a pile of chewed up nuts a chipmunk had just emptied from its cheeks for storage. She refused to eat, the stick not moving until she graciously thanked it and tried some. Aside from a few incidents she was nearly satisfied on the meager diet of nuts and berries and tree leaves.

          Reaching the base of the mountain Harriet stopped and stared up at rocks that jutted up forming the canyon they had just walked in. She wanted to start climbing, but the stick suddenly froze again; she felt stiff and cold, as if freezing to death. Then what she supposed the stick, talked. “No one goes to the mountain of light; no one passes the great divide.” It said. Harriet still couldn’t move but her pulse quickened and anger flashed through her body. She imagined breaking the stick across her knee out of frustration. “You can’t do this.” She yelled. “Then put me down with the bracelet.” The stick answered, not allowing Harriet to move. “Just put it down and say I wished this three times and I will leave.” The stick answered but she noticed it sounded like Troll’s voice instead. Harriet looked around the best she could with the strain and still did not see anything. And then took off the bracelet and ran.

          Slippers and a long gown frustrated climbing efforts. Ribbons of yellow ochre and burnt sienna and taupe mauve and smoky purple where a great river might have flooded the valley producing well-polished rock frustrated things further. Looking up she saw fewer places for feet and hands. She looked for Henry but realized she was much too close to see him. She believed she heard him though, if only in her heart. She knew the things he might say like, “Keep going. And point to the light.” “I’ll beat you to the top.” She said remembering all their summer climbs.

 “Great, now what?” She said.

“Hey stupid, use your stick.” Troll said.

Harriet felt irritated, “I don’t need that crummy stick. Who said that?” She said.

“It is I, Dumb Toad Troll, I am with you.” Harriet looked around peering but saw nothing.

 “Not with your eyes Harriet. I am with you, Dumb Toad Troll, at your service. Look down” he said.  

          Harriet looked down and saw a thick rug lying on the ground, flopping. “Hop on.” Troll said. The rug was evergreen with yellow mustard leaves outlining the border. She wanted to step on just to feel the thick plush wool; she refrained not sure if she could trust. This time brave Harriet did not act so quickly; was Troll really her friend or did he just come to change her story? While contemplating Harriet noticed the rug could levitate and in doing so demanded her attention. Instead of Troll’s croaking noise she heard the rug’s womanly voice instead, “It’s okay, you can trust me. I will take you to Dumb Toad Troll, my friend. If you believe in me, you can fly your way home.”

          “If I believe in Dumb Toad Troll, you mean.” Harriet said, although the rug did not answer. “How convenient.” With sore feet, Harriet climbed on the rug. The plush carpet caressed her face as she lay down her head. “I will take you to Dumb Toad Troll.” The rug said before moving. “No.” Harriet said. “I want to go up, to Henry.”            

              Now right about here is when she first noticed that the carpet had feelings and not just words. It did not really say anything at all and yet she felt a sudden sense of danger and dread. Not only that, but the carpet was stiff and feverish as it suspended her in the air. They were now motionless and not moving. Then the same inner voice that always reminded her of her grandmother spoke, “Go to Henry instead. However hard, however terrible, it won’t be as hard as this terrible dread.” Almost answering the voice inside but really speaking to the rug instead she yelled, “STOP!” She then explained that she had no desire to go with the rug or the Troll or the Stick or anyone else. She just wanted to go up, back to Henry. To this the rug replied, “NO,” then suddenly wrapped around her whole body as if inside a candy wrapper or tootsie roll package. Her head stuck out one end and her feet the other and she was squished, suspended in air as she squirmed to lose herself of the hideous garment. She managed to ask, calmly and not panicked, “What are you doing?”  “I am giving you back to Dumb Toad Troll. He owns you.” The rug said.

         The rug went forward and stopped in front of a large tree, a living tree. Harriet watched it change, uprooting itself from the crust of Earth; roots intertwined and twisted until forming two long wooden legs. Eyes emerged where two hollows had been and a nose in the place of a knot hole revealing a woody man’s face. The transformation went quickly; limbs retracted and roots twisted and leaves fell. Hair was formed by shrinking long branches in and leaving the leaves sticking straight up of a stump head. The tree took on the shape of a man, a man with wooden skin and green hair and root-twisted legs. Standing upright the monster tree lunged forward towards Harriet and the rug; grabbing them both it started walking with long strides, toppling over other smaller trees beneath. “I do not wish this! I do not deserve this! Let me go!” Harriet screamed. The only response she heard was the echo of her own voice returning. And upon speaking out the rug tightened around her as if in collaboration with the giant tree. She could barely breathe. She sunk into the rug, accepting her plight and even caressed the fabric of the rug as if it were her own skin. Saying softly, “I am so glad not to be alone in this.”  

           “I am always with you,” she heard as she rested her head. It was Elizabeth. Or was it the love of herself mixed with a woman she most identified with? Whatever it was, she treasured the familiar voice and even spoke back lifting her head drowsily, “I love you grandma. I am so sorry I let you down. I am a failure. Please forgive me for being here. I never meant to come, it just happened.” Then the voice she loved responded, “I am never sad to watch my grand-daughter grow.” Harriet felt betrayed at first but continued listening. “You have grown so strong. Follow the path that was laid out for you and you will always have the strength. I know you believe that.” Harriet knew the voice was done speaking and was not surprised that her grandmother did not answer back when she called her name twice after.

           It had been a calming voice; a reassuring voice in the quake of danger, when all had been lost it had come in like a calm sea. “It is my journey.” She thought. And then a triumphant feeling arose in her breast like she was the leader of a grand army and she wanted to order the rug to surrender and she squirmed and was held so tight that there was not even an inch to spare. She wanted to call the rug a name, like she had Dumb Toad Troll. Only she wanted her name to stick and be worn by the rug so that it would feel its shame and know how evil it really was. Slithering Snake would be a name. And then she imagined the rug saying, “Is that what I am? Let me be that instead.” Harriet decided against it and kept her mouth shut; her hope fading. She yielded and rested her tired head.

          While laying, Harriet let her fingers caress the plush fibers, it had been so long since she had lay even in a bed. Then she said, “No. If I cannot call you a rug or a carpe or a snake or a friend then I will not call you anything at all. You do not exist.” Still resting Harriet pictured her favorite meadow with Henry and called the rug that instead.

          “I wish for Henry. I wish to go home. I wish to end this nightmare. I wish.” She said this thoughtfully in the most un-thoughtful place; lying in a rug in a tree, while watching other trees glide swiftly beneath.  And even though she thought so many times to wish she thought this time she would never stop wishing. Until the wish became so powerful even the birds chirped it, and so mighty even the wind couldn’t blow it away, nor the waters wash it, nor the landscape devour it, nor anything else that ever had mater or mattered at all could defeat the wish of goodness in her heart where it laid.

             The wind that had been blowing violently suddenly stopped. The tree pointed with long outstretched vine like fingers in the opposite direction they were headed. Harriet was unrolled from the carpet and left on the ground by on grass by yellow tulips. She noticed a familiar stream flooding a ditch from a length of tears that lead to it. “I am in the same place again.” Ann felt joy and anger and thankfulness and frustration. “How am I ever going to get out of here?” She said, upset.

           She got up and went over to the water. Then she looked up to see Henry standing faithfully. And “Harriet, keep coming.” He said. She almost wondered if he had anything else to say and if he were really there. Was it really him or just words he would say if she needed him? Turning her attention back to herself she waded into the water for a drink and to bathe. She saw deer and birds whistling in the trees. She talked to them, telling them to stay. She refused to look outside the border of the river’s wake. And after drinking and wading she went to look for berries and sat down and ate. “This time I must stay here. I love this little place. I could stay here all day.”

                 Harriet sat wood down she collected and started burning it in a little rock shelter beside the bank. “I love you too, Harriet.” It was her grandmother. She looked to see the woman standing just outside the fire, smiling as she always had, eyes dancing merrily. Although her face was missing some of the smile lines and creases and her hair had now turned back to chestnut. Her grandmother was waving to get Harriet’s attention and her Papa was there too, this time. They were both waving and it reminded her of an old photograph she had seen at their house where they waved from bicycles in their younger days. Papa had a brown fedora hat and bow tie and grandmother, a Polk-a-dot dress that was brown and crème.

            Harriet decided against barreling towards her visitors this time. “I want you to come home.” Her grandmother said as she left Papa’s side and started walking towards Harriet. She led her to the river and stared in.  “It isn’t always what you see on the outside that matters Harriet.” She said. Harriet looked at the two images in the water and couldn’t help but noticing they could be twins. “What do you see, Harriet?” the young old woman asked. “I see us.” Harriet answered back. “Yes, Harriet. Now look up at Henry, what do you see?” “I see a man I once loved.” Harriet suddenly felt guilty. “Look closer, Harriet, and try to hear him. What is he saying?” Her grandmother asked. “He says he loves me.” Harriet said sheepishly.

          Henry was pacing back and forth and he wasn’t standing anymore. He was on a horse and looked angry. She had never seen him angry before. Then she listened for his calming words urging her onward but he sent none. This time he ignored Harriet. It sounded like he was talking to someone else or a group of someone else’s. He was shouting and hollering in the opposite direction, frustrated. “If you don’t do something now, I will fetch her out myself!” Then Henry would come to the very edge of the cliff and looked like he might jump. He then he ran with a head start and plummeted backwards as if repelled. Harriet felt weak and fell too, it was almost too much. She blamed herself not being able to figure things out. Elizabeth, Harriet’s grandmother, put her hand on Harriet’s shoulder and yelled at Henry. “You have to be patient Henry. She is coming. You have to trust her.” Henry came to the cliff one more time and looked; only this time he angled his head just right as if he had spotted Harriet directly. Quietly he said, “Harriet, don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to us.” Henry’s sincerity struck a match in Harriet’s heart and she suddenly stood up. She felt like life was filling back up inside, when otherwise she had become numb and lifeless. “I need to get home. I’m not giving up.”

          Harriet’s grandmother took her hand again and bade her to sit down on a rock. “I know you are ready, but you need rest. Please take this.” She handed her a vile that was filled with liquid light, the same brightness as the sun. “If you use it sparingly Harriet, it will help you. Save some.” Harriet had no place to put the small crystal like container. She took the tweed rope wrapped around her waist and tied the neck of the bottle like a charm. Her grandmother moved away and walked over to the bridge. “Attention fellow well-wishers,” she announced. “I know that there are some that are worried, as we watch this daughter go through the torment and sadness that we all know full well is painful and exhaustive. It has been a hard journey to watch her climb up mountains only to be tossed aside.” Harriet was surprised that her grandmother talked of well-wishers as well. “Yet, I know Harriet has the strength to finish. Let’s watch her climb. Let the child find her strength.” Her grandmother smiled into the quiet night. It was as if she really believed she was talking to someone, something or some people that Harriet still could not see.  

          Harriet woke up hours later feeling chilled even though she lay in the light. She must have fallen asleep after drinking from the vile. She felt better and less tired. She also felt stiff and was shivering. She looked at her faithful river, now frozen. Little snowflakes flitted in the air and fell upon her cheeks and eyelashes. They fell from a clear blue sky. There were no clouds in sight. Looking at the frozen tundra she said, “Great now I have no choice.”

         Crossing the bridge, more out of necessity because she had no jacket, she stepped off the white blanket. The air had turned crisp on the dark side and was cool not cold, so she liked it. Stepping on a dry twig she heard a loud snap. This caught her attention because she had not heard any branches breaking previous; the ground being too wet and soggy which muffled noises. While looking down to investigate she noticed she had leather, walnut boots that laced up to her shins. They were her grandmother’s variety. She looked at the tracks they made just to be sure and noticed a tiny sprig with a green leaf in between her steps. It was only a millimeter tall, yet it was the first sign of life on this side of the bridge. She rejoiced in its livelihood, bending down to pat the leaf like it was the head of a very small microscopic child. She trudged on finding courage in her boots and in finding sprigs.

          Walking through the forest her thoughts turned back to her grandparents and how they were holding hands when she saw them. And how they loved each other and always had. Then she thought of her mother and father and how they weren’t even able to speak. She thought of Henry and of holding his hand. She thirsted on the details of her real life, the life she wanted back. She would stop at times gathering the sprigs that had begun to pop up on the ground. They were tasty and much better than tree bark and berries but only because she had tasted so much.

           Being alone this time, without a stick or carpet brought loneliness. She had never felt so alone in her life, aside from her grandmother and Papa and Henry, all of which never stayed. Her hope became her family and old memories. After rehearsing several favorite’s she reluctantly admitted she hadn’t thought much of her father in all this. The day with grandmother and Papa on the boat, when she had lost three fish, he sat with her too, but she hadn’t remembered that. “Keep trying. Don’t give up.” He had said. He spent the whole afternoon holding a net. When she finally caught one he told her it was the biggest fish on the lake that day. Then he stuck the net on his head after and said, “You caught me too, Harriet.” Harriet remembered smiling at her silly Dad. “I love you, Daddy.” She had said. Then Harriet thought about other things and about the divorces and how they were terrible things. She blamed him, her Dad. Then she said, “I hate you Dad.” And covered her mouth after.

            Harriet reached the base of the mountain a tapped the side with her boots, hoping they would help her climb. While climbing she thought of other things instead of her dad, “I want to write the story.” She remembered she had said this to Henry. “What an idiot! Now look at the trouble I’ve gotten myself into. Remind self: do not open mouth about writing in Henry’s journal ever again. Then her thoughts turned to Troll, “You see dear Harriet, you are special and all of this was created for you. It is your world you are creating.” Perhaps this was true? The she thought of her grandmother on the bridge talking to nothing but trees in the forest, “I know Harriet has the strength to finish.” Harriet believed all of the words, their words. But did she believe it herself? She imagined climbing each step was like climbing over the world she was in. “This is my mountain.” She declared. “Mine!”

          Then Harriet fell. It wasn’t a large fall; she landed about four feet below. She had not been careful straining to see if the river was still frozen. The wind knocked out of her and her head throbbed. She tried to rise, collapsing.

          This is when she first noticed a group of trolls in the distance, marching with weaponry. They had sticks and arrows and bows and knives. She saw blurred images of red hats and everyone looked the same; each reminding her of the troll she had met. “How could Troll do this to me?” Reaching for the vile that would give her strength she found nothing but a frayed rope instead.

          Across from Harriet on another berm that was enclosed with rock she plotted her escape. It was only a few feet away. If only she could sit inside the little cave that looked more like a tunnel. Then the trolls that were heaving legs over and arms and hands couldn’t attack. Harriet scooted away envious of other ledges. She noticed the covering of the ledge looked like a man’s arms folded neatly in a lap and holding things up were two legs that went straight down the cliff to the bottom. She looked up searching for a face but saw only bushes covering the landscape.

           Troll demanded her attention as he had just made it to the top. “This is my mountain.” He croaked. “I thought you were my friend.” Harriet stated back. Troll walked over to Harriet’s lying down face and tilted his head to see her directly, “Ha! She thinks I am her friend. The woman that called me Dumb Toad thinks I am her friend.” And then the trolls started laughing. While laughing the mountain rumbled. At first Harriet thought the trolls caused the shaking. The buttress she stood upon trembled and boulders fell taking down a few trolls in the process. She noticed the tunnel was changing shape beside her and that legs and arms she had imagined were now made of flesh. A man’s face emerged beneath bushes and he looked around as if just waking.

          Standing fully the man was half as large as the peak of the mountain. He wore remnants of animal hide around his waist and chest. He had black shoulder length hair that was wrapped with a woven band around his forehead; vibrant colors of turquoise and orange and dark purple encircled it. His skin was smooth and tan; with broad shoulders and muscly arms. “I am Nephi, thy brother in the light.” He said to Harriet directly.

          Then Nephi bent down and picked up little troll arms and little troll legs and placed them in his hand like little toy soldiers he had played with as a kid. “Attention.” He said to them. And the trolls stood up forming a line. “Well what do you have to say for yourself?” The giant man asked. Only Troll, the real Troll, spoke for them. “”It’s Harriet that wished this.” He said, squinting at Harriet standing behind the man. “Harriet wished to go up the mountain and was doing a good job.” Nephi said back. “Harriet named me dumb, so I can’t talk.” Troll said while turning his back with his arms folded. “And ugly.” He said after while he turned his head to the side and stuck out his tongue.

          Nephi looked down at the Trolls and cleared his throat, saying nothing. Instantly the line got tighter in formation. Then he said, “Turn around.” And they all do keeping straight. Then Nephi crouched down in front of Harriet and she could see his legs at first covered in animal fur laced up with twine and then his face came into full view. He was a handsome man, she thought when she viewed him. He took up two hands and showed her the trolls all standing correctly. “These are my little men.” He said. He placed them on the ledge and then stood up again.

          None of the trolls talked and they all stared directly ahead. Harriet felt strengthened by Nephi and stood up before the men. She looked at the little trolls that were only knee height. There coloring was not the same as Trolls had been and even Troll had been changed as well. They were all seaweed green trolls now. They seemed harmless to Harriet, although she knew better than that. “Shame on you.” She said. Then the giant bent down and scooped them all up again, sweeping them into her hand. Standing up the giant began to blow on the little creatures he held. Some of them grabbed onto their hats and crouched down in his hand. Others held onto his fingers trying to hold on. “The wind has changed. Go back.” He said. Then Nephi placed them gently on the ground and they trudged off.

           The man, who really was Harriet’s friend, took an arrow and held it in a fisted hand. He used the point to break off jagged edges and places for climbing and ledges for resting. “They won’t bother you again.” He said. “Thank you.” Is all Harriet thought to say. “Thank you for calling me.” Nephi said while dusting rock fragments off like little wooden shavings from a lumber shaft. “The men search in the darkness sometimes and I just keep hoping they will change.” He said. Smiling he climbed into his little cave, folding arms, letting his head sink beneath bushes the mountain kept.

          Harriet sat down and noticed just beyond where her feet lay, a little book with something bright and shiny on the top of it. She walked over and picked up a maroon book that reminded her of Henry’s, only this book had a picture of a bright sun on it. The pages looked like tea stained parchment and were bare except for the first two pages. Centered in the middle of the first page were familiar words,
“Always point to the Light.” The second page had a little prose or verse,

Shadows lurk in unknown places, people break in shattered vases. This is Harriet a righteous queen. This is Harriet who needs to see. That places where she wishes things are places that can grow evergreen. Where mountain’s bow at children’s feet, these are the places that Harriet sees. Now change everything.

 “I do not know how to change everything.” Harriet said after reading. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to change things, it just seemed an incomprehensible task. There were times when tears changed things. And times when listening changed things. And times when love changed things. And times when starting over changed things. But how did she change things?

Maybe the secret is really in your heart, like your grandmother says. Maybe a wish is a seed that grows with love and patience and time. Maybe a wish is like a star that never fades away, no matter how dark the sky.

These are the words that came flooding in.

          Harriet stood up, gazing at the fallen world. Henry was still standing, waiting as always. She looked at the frozen riverbed and the place where Troll lived. “I believe this land has changed because this land has changed me.” She said. Elizabeth spoke to Harriet, in the place she had always told Harriet she would. And Harriet listened to what Grandmother would say because she knew what grandmother would always say, whether she was with her or not, “Wherever your treasure lay, there will your heart be also.” They were Elizabeth’s words but they were Harriet’s now also.

          A tiny star fell from the clear blue sky. It spoke of the brightness of the sun and danced before Harriet’s eyes. It moved quickly and formed a little tail trailing behind; like a flashlight does when it is moved quickly. Harriet thought she saw a heart carved into the air before her before the little star dropped to the valley. It bounded from tree top to tree top, turning boughs from yellow honey leaves to orange fluorescent to emerald green. The snow melted and the water flowed again and the little stream where Harriet had cried dried up and covered grass over it. And all the world was green and blue and golden in the sunlight and there was no darkness. Little deer and sheep and birds and lions and horses dotted the landscape. And a little door in the distance hinged to a tree had only the words “Troll” on it. And all was well and the world was alive again. And there was signing that sounded like Christmas instead of murmurs in the darkness. Faint singing, joyful singing. And Harriet felt loved.

           Then the mountain rumbled. “Oh great, now what.” Harriet said. “Was it not enough to be happy for even an instant?” The mountain Henry had stood on rumbled as well and it began to bow down to where Harriet stood and Harriet’s ledge began rising to meet him, like an elevator shaft. The circle was much brighter than she expected. “Join me.” Henry said as he held out his hand and the two of them fell into the light.

          Harriet looked down at her feet and noticed she was clean again. She had on sandals (her favorite pair with crisscross lattices) and her toes were painted crimson with little white flowers. She wore a summer dress with straps and eyelets dotting across clean white linen. Henry was still dressed the same, kakahis with a button up white shirt. “I want introduce you to the well-wishers,” Henry said, “don’t worry. We are not in the old land. There is nothing to fear here Harriet.” Everything was white light and Harriet squinted as they approached what looked like members of her family. People she loved were standing before her, but they looked more like old photographs standing or a movie projected so she could see them more vividly. “These are not well-wishers.” She insisted. “Do they not wish you well every day?” Henry asked. “They are in your heart, Harriet. They feel what you say.” Harriet loved the people she stared at and said “I love you,” to each and every name. Each one faded out as her grandmother had when she called them. “Wait, where is my Dad?” Henry looked at Harriet soberly, “did you wish him well?” He asked.

          Behind her family lay a little scene more magical than even the fallen world lighting up at the end. There were people everywhere; busily moving about a little city. Nephi was there as well, binding up trees to move away on his back for other buildings. Each house was uniquely dressed and there were valleys and streams and trees and meadows and people everywhere.

         Soon, Harriet attracted attention and several by-standers encircled her and Henry. “This is Harriet.” He said. Leaning into Harriet’s ear he whispered, “I have to go now, but you will have more friends here than you will ever need.” Before she could say anything, Henry was gone. And Harriet was immersed in tears once again. “Why are you crying?” A sweet voice asked from the crowd. “I just want to go home and I miss Henry. Why does this keep happening to me?” Harriet answered back between sobs. “You have nothing to be sorry for, dear child. You just got caught in between.” A sweet woman, whom was not her grandmother appeared. She was young like Harriet and wore a blue cotton dress that was long and flowing. She held a flask. “Drink this and then sleep.” She said. “We wish you well Harriet.” Other voices said. And the woman brought her to a room with a bed and put white linen and blue cotton covers on her and kissed her cheek.

***

     “Where are we?” Harriet asked waking lazily. She noticed a book lying in the sunlight. She looked around at a familiar pattern, of Evergreens and Birch and Maple Trees all invading an open pasture. “Where do you think we would be?” Henry answered. “Where are the well-wishers? They were just talking to me.” Harriet asked trying to make out the scenery and where exactly they were sitting. “Well wishers? You mean the story you read about in my journal? You know I made that up right?” Henry was laughing. “Were you dreaming?” He asked. “You follow me kid? Dreaming, right?” Henry looked at Harriet nodding his head. “I guess that is what I was doing. How long have we been here anyway?” Harriet asked bearing a faint smile. “Just about ten minutes exactly.” Henry said.  

          As Harriet lazily sat up, Henry looked over at the stump and motioned her to come with him. He crouched down to take out a little book from the same crevice he had hid his for Harriet to look at when she was ready. He handed her a maroon book with a metallic gold antique version of a sun on the cover. “I bought this for you,” Henry said, “I thought you would want one like mine.” Henry explained. “Henry, how did you get this, Henry?” Harriet looked puzzled. “Consignment store, my Mom brought me to. I thought you liked old stuff? What’s the big deal anyway?” Henry said. “I love it, Henry.” Harriet answered, a bit confused. Henry started packing up his backpack and arranged his own book back in the crevice of the stump again. “I think I’ll come back later and get it. Sometimes getting away from writing helps, you know.” He said. “Where are you going?” Harriet asked. “I’m gonna go climb down a mountain. What do you think I’m going? You coming?” He asked. “I think I’ll stay here, actually. I have something I need to get done.” Harriet answered a bit shyly. She didn’t want to explain that she wanted to capture some of the moments she had just encountered in the pages that were sitting ready.

          Harriet started writing after Henry left. She remembered what Henry had said about writing and to follow the light with your pen. She looked down at the writing and squinted. Was it there? Had she really seen light in Henry’s book? Harriet wrote but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

           Harriet remembered that Henry had started out his page saying I wish…. She decided to think of a wish that could bring her a happy ending but all she could think of was her Dad. The one that she had left out of her world for so long.

Dear Dad,

          “I wish that we had a better relationship. I feel sad.”

          And then it happened. The light came shining through. Harriet was swept up again into the land she had just escaped from. Paul (Harriet’s father) had been entrenched in the bawdy mists with the low howling all evening. He couldn’t even lift up his head from the ground he had given into. He called out many times, “Harriet. Where are you? I saw your face.” But Harriet never answered him. She hid behind the tree watching a man named Henry instead towards a light Paul couldn’t see. She longed for this man that she was staring at, as if beckoning to come help her. “Where are you Harriet? I saw your face in the night. It was shining, where are you now Harriet?” He said. Still, no answer. Harriet could not hear her father because she could not hear a man she had forgotten. The only answer Paul heard was, “Do you see me?” Paul rubbed his eyes and looking at a very small odd looking fellow crouched down and leaning in to peer at Paul’s face, as if concerned that he might have to take the man’s temperature or check to see if he were still breathing. Paul looked into two beady eyes hiding behind a rather large nose and toppled over by a tall red crimson hat. “Do you believe in me?” The strange creature said. Exhausted Harriet’s Dad rolled over trying to hide his face, he had been in this strange land for days without food or water; he was sick and tired.

          Harriet, quickly returned to her sentence as if a moment hadn’t passed. She read what she had written but it had disappeared. Instead the words, “I hate you, Dad. Why did you leave me?” rested in its place. She looked at the ordinary bic pen, realizing it was indeed strange. And tried to recount what she had just written. Despite the words she saw, she felt sure she would never use the word hate. It just wasn’t a word she was willing to use so liberally. She thought of the Troll, and the rug and the stick and the giant tree. She said, “I may hate them, but I do not hate you Dad.” And then the words erased before her eyes and her sentence only read, “love.” Harriet felt confused with the new position of Henry’s accomplice. What strange things happened in this ordinary journal Henry had supposedly purchased her from a consignment shop. She decided to write a new paragraph under the word love,

            Dear Dad,

I know that you and I can work on things, but that it is important to believe in ourselves. I believe in you and that no matter what in the end we will be happier if we choose the right people in our lives. I want you to be in mine, even if you do listen to troll sometimes. I love you. Harriet.

She waited to see if anything would happen, but nothing did. Satisfied, she rose to her feet to go join Henry. She imagined he might carry her on his back the rest of the way if she ran fast enough to catch up with him. The end.