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Enchanted Series
Part 11: The Bird and The Worm
The hazy outside of LA air was as intoxicating as it was refreshing, in a masochistic way, waking him up with its nutty, rotting aroma and heavy mist. Sunlight flitted through the high treetops, leaving bright gold dapples on dark green leaves and rotting undergrowth as the crunch and drag of his thickly soled boots left tell-tale signs through the well trekked paths. He kept moving past the gently gurgling stream with its whispered secrets and a den of foxes burrowed deep into a crevice of a world that was both teeming with life and holding its breath.
Adam wasn’t sure why, but he felt like this little hike in the outskirts of LA felt like the best possible option for him to finally relax and enjoy the mountain air. To actually feel for once and not grieve of Brielle.
Hilariously, it was Stephen who thought of this as and I quote “the best God damn idea I ever had in two fucking years.”
He wandered, aimless and exhilarated. A slight chill had begun to settle and the mossy ground had begun to sport a coat of red-orange maple leaves. He felt the gentle, powerful slope of the mountain, the warmth of the sun kissing the back of his neck and he could tell it was a promise, guiding him through the trees and routes to somewhere only they knew.
Gradually, painstakingly slowly, the flecks of light on the leaves had begun to slant, crawling up bark and stem as the sun sunk its way west and the man looked, maybe surprised, in the direction, pausing for a moment towards the burning amber that washed the sky in gold. In that moment the world seemed to grow unimaginably silent, alight with a slow lulling warmth that promised nothing but endless sweet breezes and winking lights in the sky.
As he finally turned back to the track he now lost with the light, the moment seemed to pass and the sun’s set was like a gentle, lovely sigh as the world returned to life.
At first, there was nothing. This was the kind of darkness that was so complete that it made no difference if his eyes were opened or closed. He could hear the high whistle of the cicadas and crickets and saw the distant glimmer and wink of light from stars watching him through what few holes were there in the canopy. His path was lit by the pale, artificial white light coming from an LED torch and slowly, that too began to die. He stopped walking as it did, plunged into something that wasn’t quite panic as it was anticipation. Something that was in the air and told him that he was where he needed to be and to stay still. And that he should really, really pay attention.
It was a flicker of something in the corner of his eye that told him she was there; this was the kind of flicker that was not so much a movement of a hand than it was a turn of lips or the rustle of a skirt. How he knew she was waiting or that she was even a she escaped him. He turned but there was no one there to accompany the scent of cedar wood smoke that grew stronger as he waited. He felt her in the warm, pleasant prickle in his skin and the whisper of the forest wind down his back like the loving breath of a lady.
And as if it were possible, the night grew darker still and the summer constellations glittering through the heavy canopy began their journey through a sky that was more navy than black.
And through all this, he saw the slightest, smallest suggestion of light.
It was a display, he felt that even the grandest orchestra in the world could never have done justice to and it happened in complete and utter silence. The lights, he remembered, were the dancing of fireflies in the air or the spring of sparkles from fireworks and the dance of a flame from a campfire. Small but in the pitch black of the forest each fleck of floating brightness was a hanging sun that was small enough to flit behind a leaf and stain the world shades of green, pink and white. As far as he knew, it could have been midday in the high heat of July. The pinpricks of light danced across the pale exposed skin on his forearms and he imagined them waltzing to some imaginary music only they could hear. It was as if the luminous dust motes were falling and twirling in some kind of otherworldly foxtrot, he couldn’t quite see the choreography of.
Hypnotized and breathless, he followed the trails of brightness and powder for what could have been hours or merely seconds to somewhere that was either a million miles away of right where he stood.
There she was.
Like a fairy tale incarnate or the glittering of stardust in the Milky Way, she trailed light like a butterfly trails coloured powder and she was beautiful like no woman was ever or would ever be beautiful. He didn’t stare but his smile said everything as he took a hesitant step towards her. She stopped in her ethereal dance to look back at him. Try as he might, he could not recall how she looked but he knew he had stared long into her bright, teasing and young eyes and that she had been smiling, something wide, excited and so brutally honest that he had felt himself come to the realization that he was suddenly, completely and utterly in love, all in one single instant.
This was the kind of love that reminded him of astronauts looking down on the small, blue planet Earth from a million miles up in the sky. It felt as though someone had pushed him backwards, suddenly and without warning, into a swimming pool and he had discovered, to his delight, that he could breathe underwater. He found himself feeling stunned, finding joy at being alive and of being nowhere else but there and no time else but now.
He blinked his startled gaze at her and he saw she was the green glow of a fox’s eyes on midsummer night and the sparks of embers that jump from a burning log and the very same golden sun dappled leaves of the day. She smelled of warmth and of the rich rotting undergrowth and bonfire smoke. They were mere inches apart but neither moved to touch the other. Neither of them needed to. She stared back with eyes that held daydreams and cloud castles in them and her lips parted ever so slightly as if to whisper a secret. Her breath was the summer breeze and the heavy, damp night air and he swore she had said something of incredible importance if only he could remember now. And he had wanted to give her his word, shout it and proclaim it from mountaintops. He leaned in, promises and wishes hanging from his lips, suspended in an almost tangible atmosphere of sheer amazement and awe.
A bubble had burst or a second hand had ticked or a butterfly had beat its wings and the moment was broken.
And she was suddenly nothing more than the sprinkling and dusting of fireflies in his path. The lights he was so sure that had twirled and swirled around him had gone and as if waking from the deepest sleep, he the sensation of being rested, quiet and with the strangest sensation that something otherworldly had occurred. If only he could remember the colour of someone’s eyes or the turn of that person’s smile and white teeth, he just knew, with every fibre of his being that he would remember everything.
It was the kind of dream that would make him long and pine for days, for someone who was never real but in his head. And yet there he was, standing knee deep in nostalgia with dew clinging to his eyelashes and gold dust on his shoulders and the memory of a whisper…or a laugh…or a sigh, so soft and tender it couldn’t have been anything but the rich summer air and the high singing of cicadas in the dark.
How would such a heavenly creature he just conjured with the glow of the fireflies compare to the wormy existence that he was? The bird and the worm? Adam thought with a small chuckle as he finally headed back to his car and driving back to his apartment.
As he entered it was time for Stephen’s second phase in his plan, getting Adam a pen pal. Call Stephen old fashioned, but he did feel as though giving Adam someone to talk to outside of the city felt like the best way for Adam to vent his inner most thoughts, set aside the possible scams and potential creeps, Adam did admit that making a new friend was the best way to come out of his shell.
Luckily, Stephen found Worldwide Snail Mail Pen Pals on Facebook made by Martha Stewart apparently, which gave the option of sending physical letters or emails to pen pals, he chose to send emails, which was probably the best option– and the safest – so what else did he have to lose.
Sighing, Adam sat down and adjusted the filter to make sure no one below the age of 18 was in his list and scrolled through a random assortment of names, most of which flew by as he barely registered any of them at all. Sighing again, he clicked the name his finger landed on the mouse pad randomly, let destiny do its job, I guess.
Taylor Alison Swift. It read out.
Adam shrugged and began typing.
Hello, I’m Adam, it’s nice to meet you.
He didn’t expect someone to reply immediately, so he began to stand up and walk away, until the unmistakable ding of the notification bell alarmed his senses.
Hi, I’m Taylor, nice to meet you too. It read out.
Huh, Adam thought, he sat right back down and began typing. He thought it would last just a few minutes.
It didn't.
It lasted hours, literal hours.
Emails were exchanged back and forth; quick remarks were answered and little did he know that little sparks were flying across their digital screens.
But it was only the beginning.