A Symphony of Cicadas (5 page)

Four

I
leaned up on my elbow,
a slow
panic growing inside me
.
I turned my head to look around. The gnarled trunks of trees surrounded me in all directions. I was alone, trapped within my forested cell under a canopy of pine t
hat reached up into the fog.
I didn’t know where to go or what to do.
The workers and the broken car had vanished; it was unclear whether they had evaporated into the forest or had simp
ly
gone without my noticing. The on
ly
sounds were a few distant birds and the stirring in the creaking trees around me. Even the insects had
ceased
their buzzing where I sat
.
I was left with an eerie silence that covered me like a protective bubble, keeping me separate from the world I was no longer a part of.

“Joey!” I called out. The word hung in front of me, trembling in the air but traveling no further than the space around me. “Joey!” I tried again, on
ly
to have my voice swallowed by the thick atmosphere surrounding my presence. I took a deep breath and screamed his name once more, using all of my power to force his name to travel with the wind
, hoping it
would reach
his ears.

“JOEY!”

I could sense a sudden release in pressure as my voice shattered whatever was separating me from the rest of the forest. I was joined by a
thousand
cicadas, casting their deafening mating call in the trees as they
,
too
,
screamed for someone they loved. A flurry of birds broke out of the trees, creating a dark cloud in the sky. With each gust of wind, the cloud of birds above the forest rippled and shifted in shape, soaring and dipping through the sky in an ebony wave. I watched as the mass swirled above me. It was like a ghost
ly
presence, the haunting movements of the birds growing and shrinking, becoming small before expanding to a large fog. The cloud above the forest grew darker and darker, pulsing in a hypnotic beat as if part of a dance. The hum of the cicadas around me mirrored the movements, keeping time with an urgency that ebbed and flowed.

I got to my feet, moving with care not to disturb the dance going on around me. I wasn’t sure what was happening. It was clear that I had affected the forest in some way, but I didn’t know why or how. All I knew was that the increasing energy that surrounded me was mirrored within me. I could almost sense the thought of every living creature
reliving
the scene around me. I lifted my arms out to my sides, closing my eyes to feel the rhythm going straight through me. The vibrations on
ly
got more intense as I submitted myself to the energy. Could they understand me?  Could they maybe help me find Joey?

“Where’s Joey?” I whispered. The sound of my voice sent a murmuring surge through the hum, reaching the skies with a shiver that rippled outward and then inward again
before being handed back to the singing cicadas that surrounded me.

My mind was flooded with a million images and sounds
in one instant
, a static electricity that blinked rapid visions of the forest, the sky, the sound - everything that was happening right in this moment from copious points of view. Every thought included a small glimmer of light that shone around where I stood, wavering with a comforting brilliance.

I gasped when Joey’s body appeared on the forest floor, the thoughts around me zeroing in on him like a kaleidoscope before focusing on him as a single image in the exact spot I was standing. I reached my hand out to touch him, forgetting that he was
just
a thought and nothing more. His body was bruised and cut up
beyond repair
, though the peaceful expression on his battered face gave the impression that he was sleeping. The image of his broken body sent a shock of pain through my chest as I saw my child hurt beyond repair. To keep from unraveling, I focused on his halcyon expression, willing him to open his eyes and see me, too. Instead, a small spark of light, the same light that had been sent to me earlier, emerged from his forehead
and hovered
just
above him. His body and the encompassing forest glowed under the small glimmer of light,
the glow adding a haunting beauty to the entire scene
. I held my breath. The light grew in intensity, showering the surrounding area in a bath of white, swallowing it all with its blinding brilliance. And just as
sudden
as it gained strength, the light dimmed again. Joey’s body appeared once more under the weakened glow from the light, but my focus was
on the dying ember hovering above him. It gradual
ly
faded
altogether
, evaporating into thin air
,
leaving Joey’s body abandoned on the forest floor.

Peering into Joey’s face, I was taken aback by how unrecognizable he was. Even though it was still the image of the boy I had raised with all my heart for thirteen years, he looked more like a stranger than my son. Tears streamed down my cheeks as this image also faded, the thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

“But where is he?” I pleaded
in a whisper
, afraid to amplify my voice any louder under the quiet murmur around me. There was no answer this time, on
ly
the steady hum of a symphony of cicadas, singing the same song that had been sung now for hours. “Please,” I said, “just show me where I can find him
.”
The cicadas continued to ignore me, their hum growing quieter as they went about their business.
But I was desperate to get an answer, feeling wild in my resolve. “Was he the light?”  I begged of them. “Is the light still here?  Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

It was no use. The hum
continued
to waver, losing the amplified energy that we’d been drawing from each other before as the sounds of the forest began to take on a more natural resonance. Fearful
this was the last
chance I had of finding my son, I took a deep breath and threw my arms out wide.

“Where’s Joey?!” I screamed at the birds, the insects, the forest. I used all my force, doing my damnedest to ensure I wasn’t going to be left without an answer. A resonating crack thundered nearby,
and I jumped
at the sound. The trees
were
blown
around by
a violent wind that burst through the forest, whipping
through
my hair before crashing into the trees with great force. The crack sounded again, this time right above me. I moved just in time as a branch splintered from the tree, crashing through the branches below it before landing at my feet.

The birds burst away from the sky, the cloud they had formed now divided into a million pieces of vaporing ash. As they scattered, the
afternoon
cloud
s
moved aside to offer a glimpse into the universe. I watched as the millions of stars within this window of space increased in brightness, revealing the planets and their moons, soaring meteors, and swirling galaxies billions of light years away. I stood mesmerized by this mystical image,
for the moment
forgetting the storm that was brewing around me. But the
clouds
moved back into place, concealing the heavens
with their angry darkness.

A bolt of lightning crackled from the sky, landing its brilliant tip at my feet with an electrifying sizzle. It sent me to my knees in fear. Flames materialized upon the pine-needle-covered ground, licking at my skin without burning me. The fire grew larger and larger, surrounding me as it tore at the trees around me. I whipped off my sweater and swung at the fire, trying to keep it from spreading through the whole forest. If I didn’t concentrate on the branch of the tree, my sweater sank through it without even touching the bark. But when I focused all my energy on making a connection with the tree, I managed to hit it with a satisfying blow. Unfortunate
ly
,
the process of trial and error
as I re-learn
ed
how to do simple tasks
left my firefighting skills
ineffective
. Every time I managed to get one flame out, several more would start up around me. Soon I was engulfed in flames. And while it didn’t burn my body, I still felt the intense heat from the fire against my spiritual skin, and the sting of the heat in my ghost
ly
lungs as I panted from the effort I was making.
It felt like hours had passed when
I fell to the ground and gave in as the fire closed around me and devoured the trees that once held
thousands
of humming cicadas.

In its final gesture, t
he sky broke, sending large drops of water from the black clouds above. It started out as gentle taps that landed with a sizzle on the fiery ground. And then it picked up
with gradual
speed until it was a torrential downpour. The water waged a war against the flames, coming in like white stallions that trampled the flames into a quivering death.
Soon
the forest was reduced to a blackened and soggy skeleton of smoldering stumps and ash. I lay in a protective ball in the middle of it all, curled up in a fetal position to protect myself from any further attack from the elements.

I couldn’t understand what was going on. It was unclear how long I had been here, how long the forest had been raging against my presence. It seemed like time was more of a suggestion than a rule. It could have been hours, or even days.

And what of this place I was in?  Was I the on
ly
one?  Did we all have separate worlds to
occupy
when our human lives had passed and we found ourselves in the afterlife?  Is
that why my son wasn’t anywhere to be seen in the place where we both died?

And what made the lightning bolt start the fire?  Or the rain that put it out?  Was it me?  Was it God?  It felt strange to wonder that
,
given I wasn’t even sure there was a God. But
with everything I had just been through,
believing there might be a God seemed like the least co
mplicated of all answers –
an ironic revelation since
the idea of God seemed
so
complicated while I was still alive.

The wind slowed to a cool breeze, the rain subsiding to a light mist that brushed against my skin. I held my hands at the base of my neck, the way we had been taught as children during earthquake drills - as if our tiny hands could withstand the crushing blow from a falling ceiling. My hair was matted from the rain and charred pine needles, my clothes full of dirt and ash. I moved my arms underneath me and hoisted myself into a
seated
position, hugging my knees against me. The clothes I was wearing were the same ones I had worn to the bridal shop
; a time that felt like a thousand years before.
They were the remains of a nice blouse over a pair
of what used to be white pants;
not the kind of clothes meant to withstand a car crash and wild fire. At this point
I was no longer wearing shoes.
I didn’t know where I’d lost them, but it didn’t seem to matter. The jagged rocks and pointed pine needles
I w
alked on weren’t noticed at all
as if
my feet
were calloused from years of walking barefoot. Pain wasn’t an easy thing to come by in this world, and yet I welcomed the way it made me feel somewhat human in
those brief twinges. Even the terrifying heat from the fire had felt somewhat energizing.

But now I had nowhere to turn. I couldn’t understand the point of this, why I was here, where my son was...I was tired of being stuck in this world hidden within the on
ly
one I had ever known. I no longer wanted to be alone. I wanted answers to all of the questions I had burning inside of me with no one to ask. But most of all, I missed the sound of someone speaking to me, and hearing me when I spoke back to them.

“Well, you’ve real
ly
created quite the spectacle,” a voice said next to me, almost making me jump out of my skin. “Are you done with your tantrum yet?”

Five

I
scrambled to my feet and whipped around to meet the face behind the voice.

“Aunt Rose?” I stammered.

I had been ten when she had passed away. She was my mother’s aunt, and no longer young when she had succumbed to an illness that had made her weak and frail. But before that, she’d been a vibrant part of our fami
ly
, encouraging my sister and me to take risks that our parents would never dream of. It was Rose who encouraged me to balance on top of the playground equipment blocks from her house, cheering me on as I shuffled
with fear
on the tiny beam that stood eight feet above the sand,
and
applauding when I
was successful in making
it to the other end. She let me roller skate across the wood floors of her house, ignoring the scuff marks I left behind with my clumsy feet. Her large smocks became the
costume
wardrobe for Sara and me when we perform
ed
plays and musicals in the front yard. We’d try on her large-brimmed Easter bonnets, giggle as we slipped on her large bras over our dresses, teeter along in her heels, and spin around in satin sleepwear that became the magnificent ball gown of a princess within our fantasy-fueled imaginations.

Rose would let us jump on her bed, a sharp contrast from our father’s reaction, which would be a swift spanking across a bare bottom. At night, she’d let us sleep in the large bed
cozy with quilts
, giving us the best room of the house while she slept on the couch. Breakfasts were always feasts of waffles or pancakes, bacon and eggs, or the sugary cereals our parents denied us. She always listened to us with great interest, feeding off the stories we pulled from thin air over a slice of apple pie
with blackened crust
. We were never treated like little kids, even in our constant barrage of questions and tireless demands for entertainment. At her house, we were treated as honored guests.

One of her rooms held a vast array of paints and canvases. She’d often have a fresh canvas waiting for us, having painted over it with white to give us a clean start on a new creation. While Sara and I would mash the paintbrush against the canvas with hurried and messy strokes, Rose would app
ly
color with
delicate
precision on her own board beside us. She would soon transform her blank canvas into a mountain against an endless sky, a mysterious cave with wonders unseen, or even a green and blue wave ready to curl out of the canvas and lick the floor at our feet. The colors melted into each other
with unfailing detail
,
and we
could almost hear the ocean’s call if
we
looked deep enough into where the green faded into the reflection of an unseen setting sun. She’d paint clouds that rolled over waving fields of wheat, the movement from the wind coming to life with glints of gold and brown in the valley that expanded beyond the painting. Sometimes she’d even paint pictures of us,
capturing our likeness on the board while we slapped paint on our own canvases. Those she never painted over, but kept in a room she called her office despite her retirement many years earlier.

Standing before me now, Aunt Rose was just as I remembered her. That is, before the sickness had taken hold and stolen the soft roundness of her features, and ultimate
ly
her life. Her long white hair was piled into a loose bun on top of her head. The creaminess of her fair skin was interrupted on
ly
by the rosiness of her cheeks and twinkling blueberry eyes. Her laugh lines and crow’s feet still lit up the roadmap of her kind expression, yet her face appeared more vibrant and youthful under its mature appearance. Her short and plump body was clothed in her usual painting smock over a pair of flowing pants, and she held a paintbrush in her right hand. I was so relieved to see someone familiar that I rushed over to embrace her, almost knocking her off her feet. It surprised both of us when I burst into tears, and I buried my face into her neck to try and stop the watery flow of emotion.

“Oh, my dear,” Rose crooned. “There, there. It’s all going to be okay
.”
She pet
my hair as I shook, her compassion opening the floodgates.
Free
to let my guard down, I stopped fighting against my fear and sadness, and allowed myself a good, ug
ly
cry
on
her shoulder. She didn’t try to stop me, on
ly
murmured comforting words while I let out all that had been bottled up since the moment I found myself in this new existence.

When I
was able to
come up for halting breaths of air, I pulled away and
swiped at
the tears in
my eyes. She offered me the hem of her smock as if I were a little child. I was grateful and wiped my face on it,
rubbing
at my nose with an embarrassed chuckle.

“Now then, feel better, darling?  You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you?” she asked. I nodded, my momentary good cheer replaced by sullenness as I fed off her maternal sympathy. “Well, let me get a look at you
.”
She stepped back and nodded in approval. “Oh darling, you are a vision!” she exclaimed. “You’ve become quite the young lady, haven’t you?” I looked down at my body, taking in the damage from the crash and the fire, touching my matted hair with my hand to try and smooth out the tangles.

“Oh, Aunt Rose, I’m a mess,” I said. “And I’m not so young anymore, I’m thirty-five.”

“Posh,” she countered, taking my hand in hers to stop me from smoothing my hair. “You’re on
ly
a baby. Thirty-five?  Darling, you’ve hard
ly
lived!”

She took her paintbrush and smoothed it at my hair, brushing it with gentle strokes before moving to my clothes. I touched my hair once again, surprised at its sudden softness, looking at the ends of the golden brown fullness it now possessed. I watched as she transformed my torn clothing into a light blue sundress that fit me snug just above my waist before falling around my hips. On my feet she painted a pair of gold-colored sandals that wrapped around my ankles and calves like those of a Roman goddess.

“I’ll have to teach you how to do a better job of healing yourself,” she said with sympathy as she stroked my skin with the brush, all the cuts and bruises disappearing under her touch. Then she stepped back to admire her work, letting out a low whistle. “Oh darling, you’re what they’d call a knockout!” she exclaimed
.

I giggled with both pride and shyness, checking out her handiwork. Holding my hands out and noticing all the details she’d created with a mere flick of her brush, I couldn’t help but agree with her assessment. My skin glowed under the morning sun, glistening as if still damp from the rains. I could feel my hair brushing across my back, and I shook my head to
feel
the new fullness. My nails were shaped in pink and white half-moon crescents, a far cry from the blackened stubs they had been just moments earlier.
My feet were no longer covered in mud
, caressed
now
by the new sandals that protected them from the elements. I felt beautiful, appreciating my new form with vanity, admiring the perfection it had become.

“Oh, thank you, Aunt Rose,” I said, throwing my arms around her once again. “You’ve made me beautiful
.”
She laughed and shook her head.

“Darling, you did that on your own. I just revealed it for you,” she told me, tapping her brush against my forehead.

“But the brush,” I said. “You did something magic with it!”

“No darling, this brush has no magic in it at all.” She handed it to me for proof, and I swiped at the air on
ly
to have nothing happen. “Rachel, the magic is nothing more
than our spirit released from our earth
ly
bodies. We’ve had this power all along, even when we were alive. But being human has its limitations. However, when our spirit is unleashed from our bodies, the power we possess becomes unharnessed. You are capable of so much, you don’t even realize it
.”
She looked around at the tree stumps and blackened ground. “Well, maybe you have a hint,” she laughed. She took back her paintbrush and began painting small strokes against the ground. Tiny blades of grass and fern emerged from her paintbrush, multip
ly
ing across the darkened area in a gradual wave of green. “There now, that’s a start,” she said. She looked at me with eyebrows raised, smiling a small, meaningful smile. “The end of life is real
ly
just a new beginning.”

“I don’t understand,” I admitted, leaning down to touch the new growth peeking out of the ashes. “You say your brush isn’t magic, and yet you use it as a wand.”

“Oh sweetie, I forget how human your thoughts still are. First off, there’s no such thing as magic. Nothing I’m doing is magical at all, but on
ly
a part of the spirit. My spirit, your spirit, the spirit in the trees, the ground, the sky, and even these blades of grass...we are all pieces of the same source of energy. The lightning was a result of the energy being pulled from your spirit. The rain, that was you, too. Cleaning you up was a result of my spirit talking with your spirit. And this new life,” she said, gesturing to the greenery scattered around us, “it was there
the whole time
. I just helped it along by combining my energy with the energy of the forest.”

“But the wand, er, paintbrush?” I asked again. “You keep using it, even though you claim it’s not magic. Sure
ly
it’s helping you with all this,” I argued, waving my hand to indicate the greenery that peeked out from the ashes. Rose laughed, sticking the end of the brush through the bun on the top of her head to free her hands.

“The brush on
ly
makes me feel like all this is my canvas and I am but a painter,” she said. To emphasize, she placed her hand in front of her and moved it across the scene of the forest
in one slow motion
. The ash was soon covered by a thick blanket of green. Small buds pushed through the ground, unfurling to reveal leafy, vibrant ferns that reached out in all directions. The charred wood of the fallen trees was soon hidden under a spongy moss, as if the trees had fallen years before. The smell of smoke disappeared unde
r the damp smell of rain;
a carpet of baby’s tears covering a fresh layer of dirt. Soon there was no sign that there had ever been a fire, the garden of green around me so plush I felt I could just lay in it forever.

“I still don’t understand,” I told her, running my hands over the ferns that surrounded us.

“Oh darling, I know. I don’t expect you to yet. But it will all make sense soon,” she promised.

I wanted to be satisfied with this answer. I tried to let it be at that, afraid that all of my questions would eat at her hospitality and cause her
to lose her patience
. Yet, I was burning inside with so much that still didn’t add up.

“All this is love
ly
,” I told her. “But what if a person had been close by while you were creating this?  I know I never
saw anything supernatural like this happen while I was alive. But it doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility for someone to have come upon us while you, or rather your spirit, was drawing all of this out. How do you keep anyone from seeing this happen?”

“I don’t,” she said. “
Our vision and the vision of humans
are complete
ly
different things. Basical
ly
, they’re seeing things occur much
slower
than what we’re seeing
.”
Her eyes twinkled at my obvious bewilderment. “Time is a much different thing when you’re alive than it is in the afterlife,” she explained. “As a human, you exist on a string of time
.”

She took the paintbrush out of her hair and drew a thin line in the dirt. Using her brush as a pointer, she went on.

“There’s a beginning, a middle, and an end. Everyone’s string is a different length
;
some shorter
, some longer
. You can’t move backwards or up and down. The on
ly
way to move is forward.” She then drew a circle in the dirt around the line before filling it in so the line no longer existed. “When your spirit is free of your body, you are able to experience time much closer to how our source of energy experiences time. It still exists, but it’s not on a string. Instead, we’re able to go as fast or as slow as we want, jumping from moment to moment in the blink of an eye. You can move forward, backward, side to side. The possibilities are endless
.”

Rose reached over and picked a berry from a nearby bush and held it up.

“The reason is because all of this is happening at once, with no point of beginning or end, not even a middle. There
is no yesterday or tomorrow. The past is now. The future is now
.”