I think of Holly's present and feel regretful for not opening the journal. But Holly's books are usually always filled to the brim with moral stories of the great Helios, his brothers and sisters, told through prophets, the gifted, the blessed, and the damned.
As I think back on the old prophecies and false treaties of nations, as I enter a small space between trees that leads into the prohibited Wickery Woods of Saying behind my home.
The priests in the small church in our village warn everyone to enter the woods. I find the stout fattened men ranting on small platforms in the town square, forever pointing to some invisible evil force. They say beware of the forgotten souls that wander the woods. Encouraging everyone of the safety in never leaving the village because men with bandaged heads will find you and steal the souls of your family or worse. They repeat these stories to create fear. The fear they emanate from keeps their lovely villagers in check.
Little do the people know that the woods contain stunning wild creatures that make a well-fed meal. Little do they know how the moon looks burning through the thick canopy. How the vines sprout strange flowers that small bees suckle on. How the greens and blues of small rivers bring about peace in your soul.
I slide my gloves off, it feels as though I'm peeling a second skin. I allow my hands to touch the leaves as I pass. How it welcomes my touch into a graceful wilt. So much life surrounding me. But here, I am simply a part of a cycle, nothing more nothing less. The flowers dry and the grass wilts, but its death doesn't lessen the Woods' beauty.
I find a small stream of water flowing down the tilt of a hillside. I dip my hands in and wash them roughly, glancing at my reflection emerging from the rippling water. Brown freckled skin and my tired blood red eyes staring back. I shake the excess water from my hands before heading down to a small hut I made of gathered branches and stolen brick and mud from the stream.
I sit down and grab a chunk of grass and flowers that grow swaying by the side of the bank. The small yellow weeds wither and dry but even in decay they smell of earth and sweetened polllen.
My hands move and weave until a small crown is made. I place it in front of me. But I do not dare place it on my head.
I remember my mistake of bringing home such a thing by accident. My mother's wrath, my sister's screams, and the blood dripping from my eyes. I remember. Although I wish I didn't.
I continue my weaving until my hands bleed from sharp edges on the dead grass, my eyes threaten to close and darkness begins to overshadow the sun. Soon Im surrounded by a grave of wilted floral crowns and night is about to descend. The repetition calms me. It helps me empty my head from the sadness and loneliness that plagues my mind. I gather each and every dried flower crown and walk back to the stream letting each one drift with the light current.
I head back exiting the forest the same way I came.