Short Skates: Innocence


I | II | III | SSI | IV | V | SSII | SSIII | VI | VII | SSIV
VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | SSV | XIII | SSVI | XIV | SSVII | XV | SSVIII | XVI | XVII


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There has always been the woods, the ravines and lakelands, the sun and the rain. This is the world she has always known. She is ten years old.

Little sunchild, she sleeps in the boughs of elders and ashes. Oh yes, she cries sometimes, but her father always wipes away her tears, and she slips from him into the embrace of the forest.

She disappears for hours at a time on miniature adventures; follows butterflies and spiders down long paths, squirrels and birds up trees. But never is she lost. Golden threads call her home wherever she goes.

Her imagination is vivid. She sees herself as the princess of some undeclared kingdom, dressed in the clothing of the land, wearing on her head the crown of the sky. The plants bend and bow at the waving of her hands.

The dandelion sprouts, reaches up tentative leaves and flowers that she picks and eats. Sometimes she lets the dandelion flower shrivel up and watches as it puts out its furry head. Then she picks it and blows on it, making secret wishes, as the little seeds scatter like tiny fairies.

Outside this paradise, people call these plants “weeds” and “piss-the-beds”, and with chemical weapons they scorch them from the earth in the hope of impressing others with how neat and tidy their driveways are.

Here, she knows no nation, no pride, no sin. She meets the world where it is, and comes into awareness of herself.

Over time, she starts to become aware of her name. She starts to say it more often, feeling how it sits on her tongue. Liberty. Liberty Parish.

Her name feels strange in her mouth. For so long she has only known herself as Me, taking on any number of identities, never restricting herself to a name. Now, for the first time, she has a defined sense of self. She becomes aware of herself as a conscious subject.

How strange it is to be in the world. To shed youthful solipsism and see yourself as a thing that exists, not merely an observer of the world, but a thing to which the world happens.

All of a sudden, you become real, no longer an abstraction.

She feels afraid.

Soon, her innocent games are fraught with this awareness. No longer does she see herself as a princess of a magical kingdom, but the beleaguered ruler of a blighted and cursed land.

Realisation of selfhood brings with it a painful conscience of the finitude of all things. Those summer afternoons that once seemed eternal now seem to pass in the fleeting blink of an eye.

She discovers death at this time, and finds it everywhere: in wilting flowers, in the bones of dead voles, in the silent struggle of a butterfly in the beak of a sparrow.

Worse, death also loses its abstraction. It becomes real. She becomes terribly aware that she, too, must one day die.

At this realisation, she tries in vain to shed her name. To become Me again. Alas, she cannot. To be named is an entropic process, and she is, now and forever, Liberty Parish.

One morning, her father finds her crying beneath the trunk of an elm, her knees drawn up to her chest. He asks, “Libby, what’s wrong?”

“Why did you give me a name?”

“You don’t like your name?”

“No, there’s nothing wrong with my name. I just wish I didn’t have one.”

Her father kneels and seats himself beside her.

“Why don’t you want a name?”

“You’ll think I’m stupid.”

“Of course I won’t. I’m just trying to understand.”

She looks up at him, at his dark eyes.

“Well, if I didn’t have a name, I wouldn’t be anything at all. And if I wasn’t anything at all, I would never have to die.”

Her father ponders this a few moments.

“I see,” he says. “So you have learned of death.”

“It’s everywhere,” she sobs, covering her face. “Even the smell of the dirt is death.”

Her father observes her shuddering and shaking, droplets forming into tiny puddles on her knees, which she idly shapes into concentric circles around her kneecaps.

“I’m afraid I cannot lie to you,” he says, slowly. “Death is everywhere. So long as you live, it will follow you wherever you go. There can be no life without death. There can be no death without life.”

“But why should I have to die? It’s not fair!”

Her father closes his eyes slowly and puts an arm around her.

“Let me tell you a story.”

*

Once upon a time, many years ago, there was no Earth, no sky, no Sun. There were only two moons, one called the Living, and one called the Dead. In the endless dark, the Living spun, always followed in its course by the Dead, who in turn followed the Living.

They existed in harmony for many many years, until one day, the Living said, ‘I don’t want to be chased by the Dead any more. I will stay right here, and not move.’

The Dead said, ‘But if you don’t move, I will surely run into you. Then we’ll both be sorry.’

The Living was stubborn. It said, ‘I care not. I shall stay here.’

Sure enough, the Living stayed still in the great emptiness. The Dead slowed and slowed and slowed its movement, but since there was nowhere else to go, it drew closer and closer to The Living.

The Living said, ‘Stop, you fool! You’ll destroy us both!’

The Dead said, ‘I am not a fool. I am only following in your footsteps.’

The Living tried to flee, but could not escape the Dead. They collided, and in turn, both were obliterated.

All the dust thrown up in the great calamity became the stars, and all the stones thrown out became the planets. The Sun and the Earth and the Moon were all formed, and the Earth was seeded with tiny fragments of The Living, doomed to exist as a multitude forever.

Yet, even in this form, the Living was always followed by the Dead. Every aspect of the Living will die. But, remember, the Living always followed the Dead, just as the Dead followed the Living. So it was that from the Dead comes more Living. This we call the cycle of life. This we call balance.

You see, death is a necessary and important part of life. And nobody should ever try to upset that balance, even if it hurts. Because the Living must always follow the Dead, and the Dead must always follow the Living, and neither should ever try to outpace the other, for that will surely end in the destruction of both.

*

“Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Liberty says, sniffling. “But I am frightened of dying.”

“You are not alone,” her father says. “I am scared of dying. Every living being on Earth is scared of dying. And yet, we all must die one day. It is the one common experience of all life. Isn’t it curious?”

“Has anyone tried to live forever, Daddy?”

At this, her father’s expression darkens.

“Yes,” he says. “Once, many years ago.”

“What happened to them?”

He furrows his brow.

“The Great Ur sealed him away forever.”

Liberty nods. She wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands.

“I will not be like him, Daddy,” she whispers.

“I know, Libby. And I love you for it.”

He reaches down, placing two hands under her arms, and hefts her up on to his shoulders.

“Let’s go back home.”

Together, they return to their favourite clearing, which is filled with bluebells in the spring and brown leaves in the autumn. The clouds are darkening, and a light rain begins to pour through the tangle of branches overhead.

When they arrive there, they find a woman sitting on a stump and waiting for them.

On her feet she wears two skates of shimmering gold.

Her hair, Liberty thinks.

Her hair is the colour of bluebells.


Another time, another place…


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Illustration created using elements of an image by Liam Charmer on Unsplash

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ARC FOUR: BLOOD MOON
I | II | III | SSI | IV | V | SSII | SSIII | VI | VII | SSIV
VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | SSV | XIII | SSVI | XIV | SSVII | XV | SSVIII | XVI | XVII