1
It’s been more than fifty years since we last saw each other, and I can’t say I’m not nervous after all this years, to be able to see her again. It’s been some hard fifty years, not only for me, but for my world in general. All my hope now is placed upon meeting her again in that old rendezvous point, the place only we knew. It might sound tragic or melancholic to some of you, but I am just stating a fact. My own sanity and soundness hinge upon a meeting with someone who I haven’t seen in five decades.
You see, my world is at war right now. Everything I ever knew or cared about has been destroyed. I wasn’t drafted for the war because I am old and not physically well, but even if they had called upon me, I would have refused. I’d rather they shot me dead and be done with it. War has been ranging for five years now, and what for? It’s done nothing more than poison nature and destroy our pride. That’s why I long for the good old days. And yes, I am aware that people tend to say that along with a sparkle of nostalgia in their eye and a beer. But if you could see my world and what they have done to it, you’d see what I mean. Those were really the good old days.
Now I walk down a path of well-known empty land. There used to be thousands of trees in this field, but now most of them are gone. The ones that remain are horribly misshapen, their leaves a wan yellow color, their branches brittle and loose. The path, which was lush and green all those years ago, is now downtrodden and dead, just an afterimage of what it used to be. I still plod on, for my sake, and butterflies flutter in my stomach with every step I take.
My story with Amathena is not exceptional by any means, but it’s magical in its own special way. You see, she’s not from this world. She’s from the one next door, and we met each other by accident some sixty-odd years ago, when I was twenty years old. I was walking down this exact same path under the shade of a dozen oaks and birches, just wandering about, no exact purpose or destination in my mind. After some time, I reached a felled tree that spanned a river from bank to bank. The river was treacherous and the tree trunk unstable, but I kept moving anyway. I wasn’t afraid of falling and I believe that’s what kept me alive.
Anyway, I crossed the river and then walked a little bit more. When I grew tired, I found a nice strong tree to rest, but the moment I leaned on it, it gave in and I found myself lying on the ground and looking up at the inside of the tree. I got up and looked around. The inside of the tree didn’t look like a tree at all. It was way bigger than the actual trunk as it looked from outside, and there were thousands of lights floating in the dark, a myriad of incandescent colors illuminating the hollow bark that reached farther up than my eyes could see. There were weird plants and flowers that smelled like old books and wood, and in the center of everything, there was a four-tiered fountain with a bronze rabbit at the top, water sprouting from its ears and into the lower levels. In front of the fountain, a marble bench just big enough for two. There was someone sitting there already.
Looking back now, as I reach the river for the first time in so many years, I wonder if the fallen tree remembers me. Its branches, though now rotting, seem to regard me with affection. Or maybe it’s just an old man’s afflicted brain, I don’t know. I cross without looking down and without fearing a fall either way. Not only because the river is now dry, but because the tree, though now dead and brittle, won’t betray me now. I know it like I know the back of my hand. I reach the other bank of the river—or what was a river in the past—and continue down the beaten-down path.
Sorry, rambled away from my tale. I’m prone to do that, you know. The thing is, you probably know who was sitting in the bench when I entered the tree that day. She was a short, young woman with long aqua hair that reached her lower back and small eyes the color of rich apricots. She wore a purple dress that reached past her knees and a necklace with what looked like a small animal's tooth. I stepped on a twig and cracked it, and that got her attention. She looked at me inquisitively, and invited me to sit. She asked me who I was, and I told her my name.
“I’m Amathena,” she replied proudly. First of my name, daughter of Gwydeon.”
“That’s a funny way to talk,” I put in. I never mention my mother whenever I introduce myself.
“Well, that’s how I talk,” she replied. She looked hurt.
“Sorry, that was rude of me,” I amended. “Where did you come from?” I asked, looking around. The only opening in the tree was where I came from.
“From there,” she pointed to the exact opposite place where my hole was. I saw nothing; it was just bark.
“I don’t see anything,” I replied.
“Maybe because you’re not looking hard enough. I don’t see another opening. Didn’t you come in that way too?”
“No,” it was my turn to point. “I came that way.”
“I don’t see anything.”
I smiled. “Maybe because you’re not looking hard enough.”
And that was the end of that matter. One of the best parts of spending time with Amathena is that she doesn’t dwell on stuff she doesn’t understand, like the issue with the openings. She just accepts them and moves on to the next topic at hand. That day, she explained who she was and told me about her family and her land. She told me that where she came from, everybody has a little bit of magic (and demonstrated her point by creating a turquoise light and sending it to float with the others). She told me that she’d discovered the tree some days ago and that she’d come back every day because she had a feeling that something good would happen.
“Well, you met me,” I suggested.
“I sure did,” she grinned. Her teeth were very big, but they accentuated her full lips. “I have to go now. It was great to meet you!” And before I could call after her, she went through the bark on the spot where she’d pointed before. I went back home and decided to return the next day. Hopefully she would be there again.
When I arrived the next day, she was there, humming a mellow tune under her breath.
“Hey, wasn’t I the good thing that would happen?” I joked. “Why did you come back?”
She didn’t look at me, but said, “just because something is good, it doesn’t mean that it should only happen once.” She patted the marble bench and I sat next to her.
Soon after, we started making appointments to see each other, not just arriving whenever and waiting for the other. It was well established that I couldn’t see her opening and she couldn’t see mine, so we had to meet in the tree. We named it Somewhere Only We Know. After a while, she decided to take it a step forward and asked me to bring something with me the next day. I brought an old toy with buttons and lights, one green, one red, one blue, and one orange. She enchanted it as a means of communicating with each other. If it glowed blue, it would mean that she wanted to meet me, and if I wanted to see her, I could turn the orange light on. We would then reply with our own color to confirm and then go to the tree. It worked like a charm. We didn’t have to set a time for us to meet, we only lighted up the toy and went to the tree to hang out.
It was like that for about five or six years, until one day, when the toy didn’t light up with blue anymore. I tried for days on end to send her my orange message, but she wouldn’t reply. I even went to the tree to see if she was there, but it wouldn’t let me in anymore. The opening was gone, and no matter how hard I leaned on it, it wouldn’t give in. It didn’t feel hollow anymore. It was sturdy and full.
The years went by and everything around me went to waste. Nature deteriorated and my world went to war. I never abandoned hope and kept my old toy with me during all the years. Sometimes I would just stare at it for hours and press the orange button a couple of times, willing it to glow blue, but it never did… until today. The toy was propped on my nightstand, and I was making my bed when it turned on and glowed a bright blue. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, so I waited to see if it would do it again. After a minute or so, it did. I quickly pressed the orange button to let Amathena know I was coming, and that’s how you find me.
I’m now approaching the tree for the first time in many years. It’s the only one that remains tall and proud, as if the poisonous atmosphere just hasn’t yet found a way to affect it. I reach it and pat the spot where my opening was. It’s still sealed, but I know it will give in this time; I can feel it. I sit down and lean on it, and as soon as my back touches the bark, I hear the satisfying crack and then I’m looking at the beautiful inside of the trunk, the lights still up there and the fountain still running. It seems like we were just gone a couple of days. I stand up and dust off my clothes, then look up to find a slightly taller woman with a big grin and wispy mint-colored hair looking at me.
Her eyes are still the color of apricot, but they look sadder, as if during the time between our last visit and now they have seen the truth and callousness of the world, stuff she wished she could un-see, but knows that she is the wiser because of it. I guess I must look the same. Amathena pats the spot beside her on the bench and beckons me to join her. I sit down next to her and we hug briskly, then begin to talk. And suddenly, we are the same again, twenty years old and amazed by the world, full of wonder and expectations. We know it can be like this forever, but for now, we have each other and we know we’ll be alright as long as we stay somewhere only we know.
