The last great gift.

When I was younger, and visited my cousins in the country, there was this one place along the road that always conjured the same image in my mind. It didn't matter what kind of mood I was in, or what weather it was, whether it was cloudy, or bright sun; bare and grey or green and flourishing. This feeling would come over me and that place shifted and grew dark and stormy and the sky started to rumble with lightning. And out there among the trees I saw two figures. One was laying on the ground, weak and pitiful; and the other was leaning over her, huge and omnious and with torn filthy clothes. There was something unworldly about him, and the vile and unruly storm somehow seamed to be the cause of his presence. Every time I passed this place this was what I saw, and that was something I always looked forward to. Because, somehow, it seamed so real. Like I was watching something that had, or someday would, actually happen. 

     I don't know why I chose to write it down now, but lately it seams that feeling has started to come over me again. And I would lie if I where to say I haven't missed it. But perhaps this time I needed an ending, because I never saw what happened when we drove by that grove. So here you are; the last testimony.

It was raining, and it was dark. So dark. The forest around her seemed too hostile; tall dark trees looked down on her with silent resentment, she could feel the spite reeking from their stems. The sky above rumbled with wild, fierce desire; its fiery arms reaching for the quiet earth, electrocuting the very ground she lay on. She could hear no chatter of beasts and no movement sounded anywhere. The world seamed a big, ferocious, moving nothingness. It was full of noise and yet nothing was there. So empty. Except for him.

     She could feel his heavy step through the ground. His breath hissing with each effort. He was so slow, and yet she couldn't get away. She drew herself along the ground, groping for roots and grass that broke and slipped and cut her hands; clawing the earth for support. She couldn't feel her hands anymore and everything hurt, but all she could think of was the thunder above and that hissing breath, getting closer with each aching step. She could hardly breathe and the tears and rain blurred her vision, but she kept on crawling; trying to drag herself with only the support of her arms. She found a bush and managed to crawl under it. She new it wouldn't help, that it was no use, but the roots and branches that tangled in her clothes somehow gave her comfort; the last arms to hold her on this earth was that of the nature she loved, which she'd always protected. Although this night it seemed to want to sweep her off the world she'd guarded so faithfully, and so lovingly.

     She hugged the ragged stem and wept, and she whispered to the shrub how sorry she was, that she knew it didn't matter; that it was too late, but she wanted it to hear her; to know.

     The beat of the heaving steps stopped, she could see his muddy boots through the roots and branches. The hissing voice cried out in fell, delirious triumph. And she knew it was time. And she wept for the world she was leaving, and she wept because she knew it was her own fault, because she couldn't save them. Any of them.

     She reached out and grabbed his ankle, and pulled him down, down into the earth. The soil closed in and poured down his throat, choking out his cries.

     Above the dark and leafy forest floor, the trees stood in silent witness, the wind drove away the noisy clouds. Everything settled and the night fell still, the storm passed.
It was her final gift to the world. 

Quiet wonder.