Interfictions (12 page)

"Who are you?” she asked.

"We are your brothers,” one said.

"We died for you,” said another.

The dream ended.

She ran into Scott (accidentally on purpose) in front of the building where he taught his summer course.

"So you live in Inwood now?” he asked as they walked toward his office.

"Yeah. Right by the forest."

"There are some interesting cave formations up there. Do you want to come explore them with me?"

"Sure, that'd be cool."

"Okay. Meet you by the baseball diamond at noon tomorrow."

He went into the building and was gone.

Brenna sighed.
Twenty-four hours. Yeah, I'll survive.

On the eighth night she dreamed again. The cabin, again. This time the young men were already there.

"We're hungry,” one said.

So she cooked them dinner.

They were each careful not to stain their white shirts.

The dream ended.

Scott took her up the hill to where the village Shorakapkok used to be at the base of a cliff—black rocks piled on one another, embedded in the soil, rising up and up and up farther than Brenna was willing to look.

"See up there?” Scott pointed. “An opening. Want to go take a look?"

"Uh—.—.—.” She didn't want to admit that she'd always been afraid of heights.

Scott started making his way up, hopping from one large rock to another.
For an old guy, he certainly is spry.
He looked back at her.

She was torn. Should she go up? Risk being that high? If she slipped she had no wings to spread, to catch the air, to glide higher.

If she slipped and stumbled and fell she would die. She just knew it.

"Don't worry,” he said. “I won't let you fall."

She carefully made her way to him, then went ahead, glancing back to make sure he was close.

He talked while they climbed. “This was an Algonquin village. You can still see some of their markings on the rocks."

She focused on climbing, taking her time—finding the footholds, the handholds, the way up.

"You're part Native American, aren't you?” he asked.

"Yeah, on my father's side."

She did not look down. She did not look up. She only climbed.

"And on your mother's?"

"Black and Irish."

They reached the shelf he'd pointed out. Brenna timidly peeked over the edge and down to the bottom. She'd always been afraid of heights, but loved high places. She'd discovered this two summers before while rock climbing in Arizona. She'd been trying to impress a guy then, too.

"Did they really live in these caves?” she asked. The opening seemed awfully small to her.

"No, the caves were used for different purposes.” He pulled an aluminum flashlight from his pocket and started to crawl in.

"You really should see this,” he called back a moment after his legs had disappeared.

She poked her head into the opening—still dark, even with the faint glow of flashlight ahead. The cave, not much wider than she was, felt oppressive and smelled foreboding.

"Initiation rituals,” Scott's voice bounced back to her. “Remember the Glastonbury Druids I discussed in class?"

She made some affirmative reply, but could barely breathe. The walls were pressing against her. The darkness was pushing her out. The flapping of wings. The call of ravens. Panicked, she scrambled backwards, catching herself just before falling off the shelf.

A while later Scott slid out, head first, and smiled reassuringly at her.

"No initiation for you today, huh?"

"I guess I'm just not ready.” She smiled back.

Later, in her apartment, she showed the feather to Scott.

"It's not from a crow,” he said.

"It's not?"

"No. Not a feather that big. That's definitely from a raven."

She stared at it.

"They're rarer than crows in New York, but not unheard of.” He stared at her.

She invited him to stay longer. He declined.

On the ninth night, she dreamed again. The cabin, again. The young men were asleep. She went outside, into the forest, but there was nothing to see. In the garden behind the cabin, twelve lilies grew. She picked one for each brother.

The sound of wings. She looked up. They were ravens again, flying away.

The dream ended.

"It's a symbol. You have to find the meaning,” her psychic friend said.

"It's nothing. You're overtired,” her non-psychic friend said.

"Ravens are messengers from the otherworld. Someone there wants your attention,” her psychic friend said.

"You probably ate too many tacos before bed,” her non-psychic friend said.

"Past life regression.” The psychiatrist spoke with authority.

It sounded like something her psychic friend would suggest.

"I assure you, I am serious,” he said to the look on her face. “I've done them before and they've helped my patients every time."

She said she would try anything once. And if it didn't work, at least she'd get some sleep.

She lay on the couch listening to his words. She went back and back and back. Back along her life's path, growing younger with each breath. Back through high school, middle school, her first kiss, her first pitch, her first word, until she came to a place, comfortable, warm, familiar, red, the place just before birth, her mother's womb. Her arms wrapped around another, protecting him. She knows that she must hold on tight and never let go. She cannot lose him. But she is going back and back and back and his eyes open and his heart beats along with hers and he looks at her (I am your brother—I died for you) then the sound of wings.

She did not know when she began to scream, but she knew it took a long time for her to stop.

As a child she had desperately wanted a brother. She would try to adopt the neighborhood boys into her family. She would try to walk away with babies at the mall. Other girls her age had crushes and pretend boyfriends. She had pretend big brothers.

When she was nine her mother told her that she was a twin. She had had a brother in the womb with her, but for some reason he died in the eighth month. Her mother told Brenna that on the ultrasound pictures she seemed to be hugging him. The doctor advised her mother to give birth to both of them naturally. The labor was difficult. Brenna held on to her brother until the end—he was born first, though born dead.

Her parents had named him Benjamin. When she was twelve, her mother finally took her to see his grave. Beloved Son and Brother. After that, the thought of a brother only made her incredibly sad. She no longer wished for one. She pushed it out of her mind and forgot about it entirely. Intentionally. Until now.

She was reluctant to go to Scott. Lately he'd been quiet, restrained, uninterested. But she was desperate.

"The shrink didn't know what he was doing,” Scott said.

"And you do?” she replied.

"Yes."

She believed him.

"Don't worry,” he said. “I won't let you fall."

Again she went back and back and back, this time one hand in the physical world, safely tucked in Scott's, his voice guiding her back along the path of her life. She watched her life roll back and back and back like a movie on rewind, and when she came to the womb she was inside looking in, apart from the two small not-yet-people holding on to each other. The one that was not her opened his eyes (I am your brother—I love you) then the sound of wings.

She flew through the air, faster and faster and faster, flew back through her lives, each one freezing at one moment, a picture in her soul. She flew through them all until she came to the last one, the first one, and she could fly no more.

She is just a baby. They carry her out into the courtyard while they watch. Each son is led to the block, the oldest first, to have his head chopped off. And as the oldest falls, the next one becomes the oldest. Then he falls, then another, then another, until the twelfth son, the youngest who is now the oldest, is led to the block. He looks at her, his baby sister (I love you—I died for you) and he falls, too. She cries and cries. Her mother coos and cuddles. But there is no end to her crying.

"She cries for them,” her mother says.

"She could not possibly understand,” her father says.

She understands.

That night she didn't want to dream, didn't want to sleep. She lay in bed watching the stars roll across the sky like hieroglyphs holding all of the answers. Yet she could not read them. She looked over the pictures in her mind, the lives frozen. Twelve including this one, but not including the first. In each she saw a brother. In each he died.

She took the feather, her gift from the raven, and placed it beside her pillow. Her eyes drooped, then closed. She slipped into sleep, then into dreams.

She is flying. Back and back and back through her lives, frozen in place, until she comes to the first one and she can fly no more. So she speaks instead.

"Why are there twelve white shirts in the wash, Mother?” she asks the queen.

"Because they are not clean, Daughter,” the queen answers with sadness. She has always been sad, even when she is happy.

"What soils them, Mother?"

"Blood."

The dream ended.

The next night she flew back again.

She is in a garden.

"Why does this plot have twelve lilies and nothing else, Mother?"

"Because nothing else will grow there, Daughter."

"Why is that?"

"Because that is where your brothers are buried."

The dream ended.

The next night she flew back again.

"Why are all my brothers dead, Mother?"

"Your father had them killed, Daughter."

"Why did he do that?"

"So you could have all the wealth and kingdom for yourself."

She asked Scott, “Are they dreams, or are they memories?"

"What's the difference?” was his enigmatic reply.

Brenna was starting to get frustrated.

"Try asking your dream what it wants you to understand."

That was a thought.

That afternoon, she lay in bed; too afraid to sleep, too depressed to rise.
So you could have all the wealth and kingdom for yourself.
How senseless.

A raven stared through her bedroom window. She mouthed to him, “I'm sorry."

That night she reluctantly slept again, dreamed again. This time she did not pick a destination, but she still ended up flying back and back and back until she could fly no more. She was running away and into the woods. She had to stop herself. Stop and think and ask—.—.—.—ask what?

"You're a very inquisitive child, aren't you?” A voice from above. She looked up. From a tree hung a man. He hung from one foot, upside down. He didn't seem at all affected by it. “Go ahead, ask me something. I know almost everything now."

"Why—.—.—."

".—.—.—is the sky blue? .—.—.—do fools fall in love? .—.—.—do birds suddenly appear? You'll have to be more specific, my dear."

She was supposed to ask him about—.—.—.—about—.—.—.—"How—.—.—."

"Yes—.—.—."

"How can I bring my brothers back?"

"Ah! Now that is the question of the day, is it not? I could tell you—"

"Please tell me!"

"Oh, there are so many ways,” the Hanging Man said. “You could sit in this tree and not speak a word for seven years. Maybe a handsome king would come by and make you his bride, hmm? Or, you could sew twelve brother-sized shirts. Or, you could convince the stars to give you their key to the glass mountain. You could do all of that. And more. In fact, you already have."

"When?"

"Before."

"Before?"

"In another time. In another world.

"In a fairy tale. In a myth.

"In the stories your mothers would tell."

Once upon a time there was a princess
For a long time she didn't know that she had brothers One day she overheard people talking She was the one who had caused their misfortune
When night came she ran away and into the forest
I'm looking for my brothers I'll keep walking as far as the sky is blue to find them The way is hard, you won't be able to free them
The conditions are too hard
She went to the stars You would have to remain silent for seven years They were kind to her
You'd have to sew twelve little shirts for us
Neither speak nor laugh The morning star handed her the drumstick of a chicken
If you utter just a single word
You won't be able to open the glass mountain Everything will be in vain
All your work would be for naught

The fragments danced in the corner of her mind's eye. But were they real memories, or the memories of dreams?

As if on cue, the Hanging Man said, “What's the difference?"

The flapping of wings.
Twelve ravens perched in the tree—looking at her, watching over her.

"You say you want your brothers back? Here they are."

"They're birds,” she said.

"They're ravens."

"Why?"

"Because they're dead."

The ravens began to call out to her. Calling and calling and calling. She covered her ears and closed her eyes and willed herself awake. Struggled up and up and up out of sleep. But the calling continued outside her bedroom window. Twelve ravens on the fire escape—calling to her.

Fly with us! Fly, fly, fly!

"I can't!” she yelled through the window. “I can't fly! I don't know how."

You're afraid,
one said. Then the others.
You're afraid! You're afraid! You're afraid!

"I am not afraid to fly!"

Afraid to die!

The phone rang. She jerked awake. The room was silent. She looked out the window—nothing there but the night. The phone rang again and she quickly picked it up.

"What?” she barked.

A short silence. “I'm sorry I woke you. I thought you'd appreciate it.” Scott.

"How—.—.—.—how did you know?” She wasn't sure if she wanted the answer.

Another silence. “What are you afraid of, Brenna? Truly afraid of?"