Aztara turned towards the weak winter light. Dripping water, the only sign of the storm earlier. A thick mist clung to the knee-high ferns. The moisture in the air dampened her face or maybe sweat from the climb. If only she wasn’t frightened, she could slow down, perhaps think through the fear the threatened to swamp her.
Panting now with the gentle to steep climb, she tried to slow her breathing. Trying to calm herself, it wasn’t the climb she realized. She actually fought panic. The low hanging branches parted to her left, uphill. A shaft of sunlight warmed her brow, like a touch of hope. Aztara paused her step, closed her eyes and turned toward the warmth of eerily glowing light, fighting through the damp air.
A flicker of light caught her eye downhill as she opened them. Not light exactly, like a metal. Like a gold metal. Curious, Aztara turned toward the shimmering metal. Her fear receded as her curiosity surmounted her foreboding. Maybe this was what she searched for, why she was troubled. This gold could be what she was vainly searching for. The lightening of her spirit was the hope of completing a quest. Aztara’s thoughts turned as the trail did. She felt hope, yet the trail grew steeper, rockier. The water and moss caused her boots to slip. Slowing to stabilize her hike, she balanced herself with an upraised hand against a tree. A sharp pain in her palm caused her to snatch her hand away. Blood welled up from a small prick. It stung, but the crimson on the stark white of her wet hand served as a warning. Looking up at where her quest for gold had carried her, Aztara sucked in her breath and stilled herself.
Surrounding her was a thicket of blackened sharp branches. Leaves lost to winter frosts, the branches appeared to cage her. The vapor from her breath flowed over and around the thorns and bramble. It was hard to turn her shoulders, the branches seemed to encroach on her. Without turning her head, she carefully slipped a foot behind her. The ground glistened with dew, her foot slipped. A sharper pain pierced her hip as her body rotated into her slipped foot. Her arms windmilled as she tried to arrest her fall. More pricks of pain, but she was able to grab a thicker branch, catching herself in midfall.
With a shake of my head, I returned to my couch. Reading the Times could have that effect on me. Overwhelmed by the entanglements of stories. While probably true, very disturbing. It was easy to become entangled in hopelessness of headlines. The glimmer of distraction is my ability to pull out of the morass of news into a hope of creation, if only a drawing and a blog. My escape.
tim hernandez 