The sunlight sharply defined the uneven edges of the glass that still clung to the sides of the window frame. Odd curves and jagged points. The glass that had fallen to the cement floor lay in shadow, cold and still. Some pieces were the size of small plates, some, like the piece the boy pulled from the back of his wrist, were no larger than coins. A strange currency. He let the small shard fall to the floor where it clinked against cement and fellow glass.
With his left hand still wrapped in a small towel to protect it from the nasty edges, the boy reached up again and knocked out the remaining glass from the window. A line of blood moved from his wrist to curve around to the underside of his arm, mingling with dirt and sweat.
The window clear, the boy freed his hand from the towel and pulled himself up to the opening. He wriggled through the small window out onto the hard ground and dry grass. He lay still, listening, afraid to breathe, afraid to move. Silence. He turned his head to look back into the room, at the cot, the pile of blankets in the corner, the rope. Someday he would come back and burn the room. Burn the whole house down. A sudden spasm of adrenaline brought the boy to his feet. He began to run.
He was sprinting. His legs had taken over, his bare feet thudded on the ground, a noise that echoed in his head. His breathing, at first small gasps mixed with whimpers, soon evened out to match the rhythm of his legs, and he ran faster.
There were no obstacles; all was flat and dry and heat. The grasses were harsh and whipped his shins and ankles, scratched his feet. No fences, no trees. In front of him just the sun, to either side nothing but distance.
He turned to look behind him as he ran. There the house, dirty white with empty windows that glared in the afternoon light. Except the basement window, where there was no more glass. The screen door hung crooked on its hinges.
His eyes watered and he blinked against the brightness of the sun. Tears escaped as he blinked, and were pushed away from his eyes by the force of air against him, to mix with sweat and slide down the edge of his face. His legs were numb, the muscles in his side started to cramp as his breathing grew more labored. The air felt heavy.
Below the sun a dark line stretched across the horizon, like a deep cut against pale skin. The boy’s eyes fixed on it, and he found a way to make his legs move a little faster. He could hide behind trees maybe. He could blend in with the fallen branches and groups of ferns and bushy undergrowth. He could find a hole to crawl into, and be gone forever. He took a quick glance behind him again, could not avoid the impulse. The house was smaller, but still close. The man stood on the porch.
The boy’s breath caught in his throat, his legs lost their rhythm for the briefest of moments, and he felt pain in his feet. His mind went blank as he regained his balance and set his legs to do quick work. All he knew was running. His breath sought to even itself out, and came in regular, short gasps. Close your eyes and run. Cement walls, rope scratching at ankles and wrists. The cot. His eyes opened, stayed on the line of trees. He blinked away more watery tears. Don’t close them. Can’t close them yet. Just run.
The sun disappeared behind the trees. The dry grassy field ended abruptly at the foot of the first trees. Ahead were thick leafy branches and sticky bushes and strange smells. To the right and left the trees stretched out like a giant wall, and among them the boy ran, barely slacking his pace as his feet left hard dirt and grass and encountered fallen leaves, damp and cool, sticks and tree roots that had pushed up through the soil.
He ran, arms held up to shield his face from little reaching branches that whipped against his skin as he ran through them. His legs jumped over lowly plants and old tree branches. Something plucked at the sleeve of his dirty white tee shirt but the force of his running freed himself almost instantly, leaving a scratch beneath the cotton.
He reached out his left arm and wrapped it around a young tree as he ran by, to halt himself, give him something to lean on while he fought to fill his lungs. His legs were shaking, his stomach was sick, his ears were filled with the pounding of blood in his head. The boy looked behind him, around the tree he was leaning on. No forest edge, no yellow field. Just trees. The air was thin and cooled his lungs. His feet stung where blood escaped through cracks in his skin to sink into the forest floor.
He pushed himself from the tree and took a step forward. His legs were weak, so tired. They could not support him and he fell to his knees, his head weighed down so that his chin nearly rested on his chest. His eyes stared at the ground. Twigs, leaves, pieces of wood, plant, dark soil. He wanted to lie down, to rest his face against the cool of the dirt and debris.
Far behind him the sound of breaking sticks and crushing leaves. The boy’s head jerked up. He tried to stand, his legs gave way beneath him. There, just a little ahead and to the left, a fallen log. An old, massive thing, too tired to stand anymore, it had toppled over to rest on the damp, dark earth. Its roots stretched up tall into the air, ferns grew where once it had stood, and all around where it lay. The boy crawled towards the tree, eyes fixed on it, hands and knees supporting him, hurrying him.
There was a hollow in the dirt, underneath the sleeping tree. The boy lay on his stomach and pushed himself through the ferns. They tickled his skin. He turned his face to the side, out of the dirt. The rough bark of the tree scraped his cheek as he pulled himself under the tree, to rest in the little ditch there. He lay flat on his stomach, legs stretched out, arms at his side, the tree large and heavy above him, the line of ferns in front of him like little soldiers standing guard. They were still now, no longer moving from his disturbance. The boy’s eyes were wide, staring out through the green lace to the tree where he had stopped to rest. He breathed through his mouth, trying to slow it down, trying to quiet his heart, which beat so loudly.
Past the tree where the little boy had first stopped stood the man. He was still, though his eyes moved to and fro, looking. Always looking. They moved like wasps, quick jerks of flight. The boy watched him take a step, then another. The man saw the fallen tree, saw the stand of ferns, saw the smoothed out ground where something small had slid over it to lie beneath the log; tired, shaking, afraid. The man took a step forward.
The boy jerked where he lay as the tree above him shook. Something heavy landed there, and paced above him on the tree, the ponderous thuds reverberating through the wood, causing dirt to fall from the underside of the tree onto the boy. The man stood still, his eyes fixed on the moving thing, his hands clenched in fists. He cocked his head to the side, and took a step forward.
The tree shook and creaked as the pacing thing lept from it to the ground between the boy and the man. Its tail flicked from side to side, its front paws kneaded the ground slightly where it stood, ruffling the fallen leaves and twigs that lay there. The boy gazed at the creature, eyes fixated on the deep orange of the fur interrupted by black daggers striped along its sides. The man stood, one leg still in front where he had stepped forward. He pulled it back slowly, head still tilted to the side, balled up fists now opening, now closing again. His mouth moved, curled up at the sides like burning paper, grimace and grin. The man turned, walked back through the forest, disappearing behind the trees.
The boy stared at the tiger. It moved its head, looked behind him past the ferns, at the boy. It turned its body and began to walk lightly back to the fallen tree, its movements smooth, like liquid. The boy would run his fingertips over the orange and black, would sink his hand in the fur till it reached the skin. The tiger stood at the tree among the ferns, head down to peer into the hollow. Two faces inches apart.
The boy fell asleep.
(c) 2009 thepontificators.com
I love the poetic style of this piece. It’s a very rich and vibrant picture you paint.
Thanks. The boy is quite dear to me, and I find myself thinking about him often.
Yeah, you really do feel for him. I was going to say by the end of the story, but it happens right at the beginning actually.
And that man is pure evil. I wish you’d had the tiger chomp him. (”He is evil and must be destroyed,” as Reese would say.)
Haha. Well, I had someone else tell me that too. But the timing was never right in my head. Retribution never seemed to fit here for me. That’s in a different story.
Oh, the boy and the tiger part two? “The Man Feeds the Tiger,” perhaps?
hahaha! No. If retribution is had, it will be by the boy.
I see…
I remember this! I love it!