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House of Leaves

Word count: 3,361

Author: Tim Wilkinson

House of Leaves

The youthful pair walked in easy silence, hand in hand beneath a leaden gray sky. The dead, by all appearances unaware of their passing, made little of their presence and afforded no greetings as seems most typical of those long deceased.

The grounds before the couple, damp from an early morning dew, shone bright with a thick verdant carpet of well-manicured grass. The cool crisp air, betraying the changing seasons with the waning heat of summer yielding to autumns impending chill, hung heavy with moisture and cloudy white banks of thick morning fog.

Breaking the comfortable quiet as they passed beneath the wide steel arch marking the gate of the main entrance, Vickie spoke, her delicate face askew with hesitant expectation. “Charles, why do you adore this place so much?”

At this, the neatly trimmed black-clad figure beside her slowed his step, his own features assuming the aspect of one absorbed in brooding contemplation, until, with an instinctive rise of his brows he responded in kind with his usual and often maddening way of question for question.

“Why indeed?” he asked, the tone of his voice pregnant with feigned wonder and skepticism. “How could I not? After all, it’s quite beautiful here and so utterly peaceful. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, peaceful I will concede you. But beautiful? Really, Charles, I think it’s all rather creepy.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong my dear, dead wrong.”

“And I suppose you think that was funny.”

“I do actually,” he replied with a brief but hearty laugh.

“Then where? Where is this beauty of which you speak? Show me it, because try as I might I do not find it.”

“Of course you don’t. Most people wouldn’t either. Because, like you, they aren’t looking through the right set of eyes. These,” he said, glancing her way while tapping one finger against the flat of his left temple. “These are your true eyes; the eyes of the mind. The others are only windows, translucent panes through which we gaze to catch a fleeting glimpse of the veiled reality inhabiting the other side. And yet — -despite what lies beyond, or rather what we perceive to be there, however base or lovely it might be to one, we each define beauty in our own personal and peculiar way. You ask me where the beauty lies. I say, ask yourself, Vickie, does everyone perceive beauty in the same way? Is every woman a treasure to all men? Or rather, does each choose his own ideal, form his own definition of beauty, of perfection, and truth? Because, you see, it isn’t the woman nor the flower that is changed when viewed from behind a different set of lenses, but only the perception of the viewer.”

“Then there isn’t such a thing that is beautiful to all?”

“There may be, I suppose, but I cannot name it.”

“Then what of me? You tell me that I am beautiful. Is that also not true, or perhaps not always?”

“Vickie, surely you must know that to me no flower has ever grown more beautiful than the face which holds the two green orbs through which you look lovingly at me. Neither is there tree, nor stalk — -statue, nor stand of stone more perfect in my eyes than your own feminine figure. Likewise, I know of nothing more polished and finely smooth than your supple white skin and long-fingered hands. But to another…Well, who can say?”

“Do we not all see the same thing then, when looking through a window?”

“We do not. Looking isn’t the same as seeing. Many are they that look, but few actually see.”

“Yes, I know, the eyes of the beholder. Every child knows the adage. But the scene beyond the window — -the scene is the same for us all, is it not?”

“No, don’t you see? Windows become cloudy with years, dirty, smudged, and smeared, scratched, and scraped, and scarred, scoured by the hot sandy winds of memory and time. Look about you. What do you see? I see trees and green, dew kissed grass, and amber toned leaves. I see hand hewn stone, wood and limb, shadow, shade, and meadow, all beneath a steel-curtained sky. I see the seamless charm of hand polished marble, granite, and limestone. I feel the chill of fall on weathered stone, slick and cold against my fingertips, glossy and firm as a young woman’s unbound breast. And I see life.”

“Life, Charles. Here?”

“Yes, here; here most of all, and in abundance. Where better, I ask? Where better to prove the joy of a sunrise then within the abject gloom of a moonless night? Where better to witness the birth of spring than beneath the bare and leafless branches of winter’s killing frost? But these are my truths, my visions. What of you my dear? What do you see?”

“I — -I see a fallow field devoid of cheer, a tended plot of tainted soil surrounded by black iron fencing. I see muddy unkempt paths and moss encrusted stone. I see dissolution, decay, and sorrow.”

“Then perhaps your windows are fogged, yellowed with the mists of preconception or irrational fear, blurred and imprecise through lack of attention and use. Perhaps what you see, or don’t, is only that which you choose, only that which you expect or desire. Can the eyes of a skeptic witness to magic? Does the cynic find mystery and wonder in the unknown, or the cold of heart feel the heat of unbound passion?”

“Oh, Charles, am I truly thus? Do you find me such, cold, callous, and bereft of awe? Tell me it isn’t so.”

“Vickie, were that it was so I assure you we would not be having this discussion, truly. Yet one must consider that there are those, those who’ve never walked in darkness for whom the light seems — -trivial and mundane, for they’ve never lived without it. When you doubt, consider whom among us appreciates a meal more than one who’s known the raw and cleaving pangs of hunger, or whom is there better to know the joys and delights of true love than one who’s felt the sting of an orphaned heart? And simply know that there are things in this world, things that one must grow to appreciate, things such as beauty, enchantment, and wonder, things, which like wine, women, or aged cheese, grow ever better with time. The only way to truly learn anything, Vickie, is through reflection of hard experience, and such teaches that for every darkness there is a light, for every evil a grace, and for every sorrow a joy.”

At this Charles stopped, turning his face to hers while gathering her hands unto his own. “Try this,” he asked. “Close your eyes. Now take a breath, deep and full. Taste it, gather in the drifting scents. Now feel, feel your surroundings. Feel the wind in your hair and the soft, damp earth beneath your feet. Quite your mind and listen, listen, smell, and feel.”

Doing as he asked, Vickie closed her eyes, filling her lungs with slow, full drafts of dew dampened air. “I…I,” she began.

“Shhh…” he softly scolded, placing a lone finger across her twin, wine toned lips. “Don’t speak, only breathe, listen, and feel.”

Doing the same, Charles stood silent for a moment, eyes closed, before speaking. “I find the sharp scents of cedar and pine filling my nostrils, the musky aroma of stone paths and fertile black earth tempting my senses and instilling my heart with glee. I feel the light, meadow-scented breeze tickling my flesh and tossing my hair in playful jest. Now you, listen. What do you hear?”

“I, I hear…nothing.”

“But I, I hear bird song and winds, the desolate drone of a faraway train, the chirping of quarrelsome squirrels and geese on the wing. And I see them in my mind, the squirrels dancing and playing in the leaf-filled branches, Mocking Birds perched on black fruited Elder branches, and geese soaring freely, blissfully through the skies as my spirit rises to meet them. I see, I hear, and I taste a dozen assorted things.” Then opening his eyes once more upon her lovely, youthful face, Charles continued. “And yes — -I see beauty, beauty all about and beauty all within. Now tell me, truly, what did you find?”

Opening her eyes once more, finding Charles own fixed upon hers, she hesitated, “I — -I,” she stumbled. “Oh Charles, I cannot say. I suspect I found what you told me to find, what you hoped I would. Yet, in truth, I found nothing but that which you described, except for the geese that is, and sadly — — nothing more.”

“Well, I sort of conjured up the geese, seemed fitting for the season; a little poetic license if you will. But you must admit it was a lovely image.”

“Yes, it was. And that’s the rub is it not? I see the pictures that you paint for me. I feel what you describe, and I strain to hear the music that fills your own ears. But for me, the music doesn’t play. The train isn’t desolate, nor lonely, nor much of anything but faint and dully familiar. And the birds — — I hear them because you point them out, yet not of my own accord. But for me it’s only chatter, devoid of song, poetry, or verse. What you find magical I find only common and crass. I look, but do not see. I listen, but hear only noise while you, melody and tune. I smell filth, and mire, and damp, while you, fertile earth and cleansing shower. Where is the beauty, Charles? Where is the magic and wonder you so easily describe? Oh, would that I could find it as effortlessly as you. Tell me, Charles, Please. How is it done? How may I see the world as you do? How does one see with another’s eyes, feel with another’s heart, or love with another’s soul? For I can’t. I don’t.”

“You found no beauty?”

“I don’t know Charles. Beauty? Here — -of all places,” she earnestly questioned. “Is it really so beautiful? Can it truly be?”

“Yes, Vickie, it is. I love it here. I always have. I’ve been walking here since my youth you know, treading these tree-lined paths, exploring each shady nook and hidden bower. Seems I never tire of it. But…Ah,” he said, hesitating briefly. “Perhaps you do not realize…No, of course not. How could you? I see that now.”

“Realize what, Charles?”

“That this is a special place for me, Vickie, and for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that it was here I found my only escape in those darkest of years, and here that I wrote my first story.”

“Ooh,” she coed. “You wrote it here? How very grizzly. And when was that?”

“Oh, when I was very young, but a child really. I couldn’t have been more than ten, or twelve perhaps. Of course, I can’t take all the credit. I had this place to inspire me, and a wee bit of help from my friend.”

“Your friend! Here?”

“Yes, here. Though suddenly I’m feeling as though there may be a few sides to me you have yet to see. Dare I expose them? After all, one never knows what one may find when lighting candles in darkened rooms.”

“I scarce believe that you, Charles, are afraid of a few shadows?”

“No. You misunderstand. One may loath the shadows he casts, but no man fears them. What he fears is the reaction of those for whom he cares.”

“Bosh!” she replied. “You needn’t fear that.”

“Needn’t I? Can you be so sure, sure that I’ve nothing to hide, nothing secreted away beneath the slimy stones of the dark, dank cellar of years gone by?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I know you far too well for that. You’re just trying to alarm me. No, there is no darkness in you, Charles, not anymore. And if there were I’d light a dozen candles and drive it all away.”

“Yes, I believe that you would Vickie. And I damn sure believe that you could.”

“Now, there’s a good boy,” she cooed. “And perhaps you are right, after all. Perhaps I do view the world through a smudged and darkened glass, miss the beauty and discount the song. If so, what is the cure? Can you teach me? Will you?”

“Perhaps,” he proposed with thoughtful consideration. “It is possible I suppose. After all…” he exclaimed. “Why not. And when better than now. Come then. Let me first introduce you to my friend.”

Taking Vickie’s hand, Charles led the way down a narrow, slate-lined path that shortly ended beneath the shielding cover of an ancient, old-growth oak. Stopping a few feet before the trees gnarled and aged trunk, he pointed to a battered, time-worn slab of grey stone leaning inwards towards the base of the tree.

“Let me present to you my mentor and friend, he who has the dubious honor of being the first, if not the greatest influence in my choice of profession. If not for him I doubt that I would have ever become a writer.”

With a look of disbelief, Vickie caught Charles’s eye, searching for that singular twinkle of mirth that ever betrayed his teasing jests. Seeing nothing, nothing but the clear and forceful conviction of his unwavering gaze, she turned and faced the stone.

“Now don’t be shy, my dear.” Charles coaxed, “Do say hello.”

At this, Vickie stooped, bending slightly at the waist, her eyes addressing the face of a lone tombstone centered amid the dozens more scattered haphazardly about. Catching Charles’s eye once more, as of yet still unsure of his sincerity and intention, she sneered at his lively wink and the animated features of his strong-lined face. Then remembering his words of but moments before, she straightened, looked up and searched the sky above. Seeing nothing but the full, flush canopy of the sheltering branches arrayed overhead, she closed her eyes and listened. Hearing only the flight of the capricious breeze caressing the trembling mass of leaves above her and the distant, mournful caws of a few resident crows, she once again opened her eyes and cast them downward.

“Oh my,” Vickie exclaimed in a whisper, raising one hand to her heart. Is this — -is this the friend of whom you spoke?”

“It is.”

“But — -but he is…”

“Yes, quite.”

“Oh, Charles, surely you jest.”

“I do not.”

“Yet, I do not understand, how…What have the dead to teach us?”

“Nothing, but everything my dear. Go on then, read,” Charles urged.

Breathing deep of the fresh, rain bathed air, Vickie let loose her grip upon Charles’s strong hand, dropping slowly to her knees as she strained her eyes in the gloom-filled space to make out the worn and faded letters carved into the weathered stone before her. Then reaching out, running her slim and tender fingers across the damp, lichen-encrusted stone she read aloud the few words carved upon its crumbling face.

1800–1828 Whiskey called, writer died.

“Looking up from the stone she smiled, a coy yet reverent smile while gazing deeply into the azure blue of Charles’s large, expressive eyes.

“So this?” she perceptively, asked. “This is he of whom you spoke?”

“It is so.”

“But how can this be, Charles? The dates…It isn’t possible.”

“Oh, but it is my dear. I can assure you he’s been nowhere but here. And I, his attentive student, have often cast my shadow across his veiled and upturned face.”

“Ooh, how very morbid. And to call him a friend. Well, it’s quite beyond contemplation.”

“Oh, quite the contrary my dear. In times of trouble I think that you would find him a most considerate and devoted listener. I certainly did.”

“But surely — -I mean you were only a child, long after he…”

“Yes, indeed I was. And when I had no one…Well, as I’ve said, I had a friend.”

“And you, you alone…Oh my dear, I feel as if I would cry. What a lonely child you must have been. I did not know.”

“No, of course you didn’t? For there are things in this world that one needs carry alone, are they not?”

“Oh, Charles, I cannot bear it. I cannot picture you so, so alone and bereft. No Charles, never, never again shall you bear such a pain in silence, never again shall you be alone without a comfort, without a hand, or a tear — -or a friend.”

“Yes my dear, and that is why we are here, why I show you these things. Yet there is much more here than meets the eye. As I’ve said, this is whom I call my friend, my friend when in all the earth I had no others.” Looking down Charles paused, averting her gaze as he continued.”

“He is…That is, what you see here is what I easily could have been, would have been, if not for his example, his silent council, and…” he paused.

“And what Charles?”

“Let me explain. You see, that day, the very day we first met I had been here, standing before him as I am now, bottle in hand, jealous of the peace that he had so early found, thinking to seek the same for myself. And, well — -let me just say that I was well on my way, until…”

“Until…Until what?”

“Until you.”

“And what has he, or this place to do with me, with us?”

“Don’t you see? Had I not come here that day, had I not spilled my sorrows and pains upon this stone, had I not read this inscription when most I needed to see it, had I not smashed my bottle atop the words chiseled upon its face and hurried off to the station to buy a ticket away from this infernal place, I would not have seen you standing alone upon the platform, and we, well we would not have been.”

“I see,” she softly muttered, looking up and about, admiring once more the full, leafy canopy above, “Then it truly is, just as you say — -A house of leaves,” she muttered.

“What was that?” Charles asked.

“Oh, nothing really. I was just remembering something you once said to me.”

“Something that I said? Oh, I’d advise you not put too much stock in the things that spill from my lips. One must remember that as a writer, fictions, half-truths, and melodramatic nonsense are the tools of my trade.”

“Oh, but it was such a lovely thing.”

“Dare I ask?”

“Seems so,” she continued. “You said once, that life is a house of leaves.”

“Did I? There now, you see. Proves my point exactly.”

Reaching towards him Vickie rose from the ground, taking his hands once more in hers. Then drawing close she placed a single, lingering kiss upon his lightly parted lips before whispering a few choice words into his ear, “Yes, Charles, you did. You said that life is a house of leaves, for every book has its leaves, and every leaf its season, and… I see that now. And yes, you are right. It is beautiful here.”

“And to what do I owe that?” he teased of the kiss.

“Don’t you know?”

“Oh, would that I did.”

“Let’s call it a thank you then, shall we?”

“Very good. And for what am I thanked?”

“For what, you ask? For everything of course; for you being you, for whiskey, trains, and tombstones, and for teaching me of beauty; but most of all — -for sharing with me all the lovely leaves that fill our home. Now come along, Charles,” she added with a sultry flourish of her long, auburn hair, “We have a book to write. You see, I too have some beauty to share, and where better — -than atop a bed of leaves.”

Saying nothing more Vickie turned to face the stone, curtsied slightly, then walked briskly away, pausing only once as Charles hurried to join her.

© 2020, Tim Wilkinson

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