The the world opens beneath my feet, splitting the asphalt and gravel of the back alley, a glimmer of wet and pale rock at the bottom. Steam rises, tangles with the bread and cookie scent from the bakery on one side of me, the fresh clean smell of the laundromat on the other, and I stretch my legs wide over the crack into the Nevernever, flip flops slipping on the slush and ice.
”Hold your breath,” my mother’s voice says.
It’s autumn for her; it’s spring for me. The sun is hot on her face, her hair tied back at her neck, the nylon weight of her water-proof backpack, the straps scratching at her skin. “We’re going in deep.” She draws in a breath-- my chest expands, her feet shift, stepping on each other, a stone rolls under my heel, my clothes in a plastic-wrapped dufflebag, held in one hand.
Someone murmurs in her ear, the touch of a hand on her arm-- that morning, marmalade toast and coffee under the big open windows of a diner, the gleam of fluorescent light on deep red hair, Lea’s eyes squinting up in a smile, knowing how those lips would taste if she leaned over--
”Shh!” my mother laughs, “don’t distract me!” The roar of a car makes me twist, look back at the alley mouth, the street past it: empty. There’s a puddle near my feet, little green weeds growing out of the hundreds of tiny cracks in the pavement by the dumpster-- I hunch down, hide behind it a little more, the brick wall rough against my back, catching on my thin shirt, the whispery fabric of my swim trunks.
“Okay, Stars. Before we put on a show, let’s go!”
The bakery kitchen must be at the back; the air wafts warm from a vent over my head, cupcakes and melting chocolate carried on the promise of raindrops from the heavy grey clouds up above. My mother’s breasts are heavy against my chest, familiar and strange; I suck in a deep breath-- hold it-- and step into gravity going the wrong way.
The first thing is water. The second thing is heat.
I stick my arm out above my head because it’s what my mother does, her muscle memory mine, my hand hitting the same rough rock bottom hers does. We push off together, twist in the deep, clear water, kick up to where the ground was a moment before.
It’s farther than it looks-- her chest burns with mine, Lea ahead of her, pale feet kicking bubbles down-- I gasp when my head breaks the surface. I’ve come out into a cloud-- I cough, the air cold and thin, bright in my lungs like the spill of stars overhead, far and framed by the darker space of mountains, uneven lines of black on black and my ears popping at the change in air pressure, my own breathing the loudest thing I can hear.
The water in my hair freezes, I blink to break the ice on my eyelashes. The steam from the spring hangs in the air and I sink low, treading with my head just above the surface. I’m warm all the way to my bones, even the trickle of Winter in my core lulled, sleepy and loose. I pull my power back from the ruby in my pentacle and let my mother go, alone now, talking about a weakness in the world half a mile away that will take me to a place in the Nevernever where drops of light fall from trees like cherry blossoms in the wind.
I stay in the water until my head is spinning with the heat, struggle up onto the rocky, snowy shore until I can concentrate, breathing deep from the mountain air, a little sulfury from the spring, wet and heavy with steam, and dive down to dry land.
Two weeks later, I’m on my back, staring up at the silver smile of the moon, letting my front cool, ice beading along my ribs, the heat leeching the knots from my shoulders. The water laps against my sides like mother’s voice in my mind, her boots crunching through an overgrown field under the summer sun, chamomile heady and sweet in the air around her, sticking to her skirt, her bare arms. It itches, pulls-- I tip my pelvis into the water, let gravity pull me down until it’s washed away, come back up to the surface with her memory of an old thin teacup in her hand, my grandfather’s kitchen, that same ticking clock I know, the farm at night.
There’s a Way a few miles down the road from Eb’s big yellow farmhouse, past the alpaca farm, through a ditch full of wild strawberries. I remember my mother finding them, the way they stained her fingers, her dress, the prickle of dirt on her knees from kneeling, the sweat down her back, the first sweet taste each year she returned.
I breathe deep, brush the slush from my hair with wrinkled fingers-- and freeze.
There are eyes watching me.
Through the steam, two reflections of my pentacle, glowing back at me. I cut my will; it goes dark, quiet. The owl swoops away. I wait, push myself to the edge of the pool, hold onto the rough rock, worn down by water and time. I pull my dufflebag in with me, and sink down to the Way.
The first thing is water. The second thing is heat.
I don’t need my mother’s voice to guide me up to the surface, but she carries me with her anyway: we match our movements, each stroke, each kick. I let Lea surface first like she does, shake the water from my hair, my face, let things settle and spin when she isn’t there, no curling wet hair, no knowing smile and gleaming cat eyes. The sky is high and blue, the mountaintops white, the water clear and hot. It glistens on the pale rock walls and shore where the steam has settled, warm enough today that it’s only frozen where the snow drifts start.
We go to the Sahara this week, in what’s Chad for me, part of French territory for her, dry and scorching and her pants billow out wide in the wind. ”It’s a sharp drop, she says, laughs bright and wild, and the breath knocks out of us at the landing, sliding down a sand dune, hot and scratching against our back. From there, we step into something half oasis, half a djinn’s garden, fruit trees grown wild, a crystal pool at their center, water splashing, cycling in its own little waterfall, orange blossoms so heady in the air I don’t know if it’s them or the heat of the spring making me dizzy.
I break the connection-- her voice fades, but I can still feel her in my body, the stretch of the walk across the shifting sand in her hamstrings, where her arms reach at her sides, shorter than mine, the burn of the sun on her skin, pink and hot and tight. The water has had time to freeze in my hair, an icy mess that trickles down the back of my neck, burns when I sink down so just my eyes and nose are above the waterline.
There’s something tight and hard in my chest, in my gut, my mind shying away when I reach for it-- my hands suddenly shaking under the water, so angry I can’t think, my head pounding. I arch, stretch, try to get it to unwrap, to meet the hot water and dissolve away like ache in my back or arms after a hard day.
It’s a raven watching me this time, through the steam, black feathers rustling, strutting back and forth on the rock ledge. It tips its head at me, one way then the other, bobs its chest. I nod at it, and it watches while I tread sideways, grab my bag, and dive down.
Fill 1a/1: Maps
”Hold your breath,” my mother’s voice says.
It’s autumn for her; it’s spring for me. The sun is hot on her face, her hair tied back at her neck, the nylon weight of her water-proof backpack, the straps scratching at her skin. “We’re going in deep.” She draws in a breath-- my chest expands, her feet shift, stepping on each other, a stone rolls under my heel, my clothes in a plastic-wrapped dufflebag, held in one hand.
Someone murmurs in her ear, the touch of a hand on her arm-- that morning, marmalade toast and coffee under the big open windows of a diner, the gleam of fluorescent light on deep red hair, Lea’s eyes squinting up in a smile, knowing how those lips would taste if she leaned over--
”Shh!” my mother laughs, “don’t distract me!” The roar of a car makes me twist, look back at the alley mouth, the street past it: empty. There’s a puddle near my feet, little green weeds growing out of the hundreds of tiny cracks in the pavement by the dumpster-- I hunch down, hide behind it a little more, the brick wall rough against my back, catching on my thin shirt, the whispery fabric of my swim trunks.
“Okay, Stars. Before we put on a show, let’s go!”
The bakery kitchen must be at the back; the air wafts warm from a vent over my head, cupcakes and melting chocolate carried on the promise of raindrops from the heavy grey clouds up above. My mother’s breasts are heavy against my chest, familiar and strange; I suck in a deep breath-- hold it-- and step into gravity going the wrong way.
The first thing is water. The second thing is heat.
I stick my arm out above my head because it’s what my mother does, her muscle memory mine, my hand hitting the same rough rock bottom hers does. We push off together, twist in the deep, clear water, kick up to where the ground was a moment before.
It’s farther than it looks-- her chest burns with mine, Lea ahead of her, pale feet kicking bubbles down-- I gasp when my head breaks the surface. I’ve come out into a cloud-- I cough, the air cold and thin, bright in my lungs like the spill of stars overhead, far and framed by the darker space of mountains, uneven lines of black on black and my ears popping at the change in air pressure, my own breathing the loudest thing I can hear.
The water in my hair freezes, I blink to break the ice on my eyelashes. The steam from the spring hangs in the air and I sink low, treading with my head just above the surface. I’m warm all the way to my bones, even the trickle of Winter in my core lulled, sleepy and loose. I pull my power back from the ruby in my pentacle and let my mother go, alone now, talking about a weakness in the world half a mile away that will take me to a place in the Nevernever where drops of light fall from trees like cherry blossoms in the wind.
I stay in the water until my head is spinning with the heat, struggle up onto the rocky, snowy shore until I can concentrate, breathing deep from the mountain air, a little sulfury from the spring, wet and heavy with steam, and dive down to dry land.
Two weeks later, I’m on my back, staring up at the silver smile of the moon, letting my front cool, ice beading along my ribs, the heat leeching the knots from my shoulders. The water laps against my sides like mother’s voice in my mind, her boots crunching through an overgrown field under the summer sun, chamomile heady and sweet in the air around her, sticking to her skirt, her bare arms. It itches, pulls-- I tip my pelvis into the water, let gravity pull me down until it’s washed away, come back up to the surface with her memory of an old thin teacup in her hand, my grandfather’s kitchen, that same ticking clock I know, the farm at night.
There’s a Way a few miles down the road from Eb’s big yellow farmhouse, past the alpaca farm, through a ditch full of wild strawberries. I remember my mother finding them, the way they stained her fingers, her dress, the prickle of dirt on her knees from kneeling, the sweat down her back, the first sweet taste each year she returned.
I breathe deep, brush the slush from my hair with wrinkled fingers-- and freeze.
There are eyes watching me.
Through the steam, two reflections of my pentacle, glowing back at me. I cut my will; it goes dark, quiet. The owl swoops away. I wait, push myself to the edge of the pool, hold onto the rough rock, worn down by water and time. I pull my dufflebag in with me, and sink down to the Way.
The first thing is water. The second thing is heat.
I don’t need my mother’s voice to guide me up to the surface, but she carries me with her anyway: we match our movements, each stroke, each kick. I let Lea surface first like she does, shake the water from my hair, my face, let things settle and spin when she isn’t there, no curling wet hair, no knowing smile and gleaming cat eyes. The sky is high and blue, the mountaintops white, the water clear and hot. It glistens on the pale rock walls and shore where the steam has settled, warm enough today that it’s only frozen where the snow drifts start.
We go to the Sahara this week, in what’s Chad for me, part of French territory for her, dry and scorching and her pants billow out wide in the wind. ”It’s a sharp drop, she says, laughs bright and wild, and the breath knocks out of us at the landing, sliding down a sand dune, hot and scratching against our back. From there, we step into something half oasis, half a djinn’s garden, fruit trees grown wild, a crystal pool at their center, water splashing, cycling in its own little waterfall, orange blossoms so heady in the air I don’t know if it’s them or the heat of the spring making me dizzy.
I break the connection-- her voice fades, but I can still feel her in my body, the stretch of the walk across the shifting sand in her hamstrings, where her arms reach at her sides, shorter than mine, the burn of the sun on her skin, pink and hot and tight. The water has had time to freeze in my hair, an icy mess that trickles down the back of my neck, burns when I sink down so just my eyes and nose are above the waterline.
There’s something tight and hard in my chest, in my gut, my mind shying away when I reach for it-- my hands suddenly shaking under the water, so angry I can’t think, my head pounding. I arch, stretch, try to get it to unwrap, to meet the hot water and dissolve away like ache in my back or arms after a hard day.
It’s a raven watching me this time, through the steam, black feathers rustling, strutting back and forth on the rock ledge. It tips its head at me, one way then the other, bobs its chest. I nod at it, and it watches while I tread sideways, grab my bag, and dive down.