So It Goes

The damp soil packed deep into Clay Thompson’s ears. Tasting of moss and earthworms, the dirt fought its way into his mouth. He tried to scream but only managed to get more dirt crammed down his esophagus. Tears created mud. It seeped into the corners of his eyes at a snail’s pace invading his sinuses. Grit and pebbles were matted deep into his thick hair. Still he fought, still he climbed, still he clawed his way out of the earth.

The fingertips of his right hand finally broke to the surface. The air above was still and cold chilling him to his very core. He got both arms above the ground and pulled up on himself. His head pushed into the frigid atmosphere. He was blinded by the pale blue moonlight as he yanked his feet from deep under the ground. Mud spewed from his mouth as vomited the earth that had dug its way into his stomach.

Looking around he realized the hole from which he sprung was undisturbed; it was somehow already closed. He knew he was dead, that he was merely a specter of himself. Though the earth he stood upon seemed untouched, more unsettling was the lack of a headstone. Whoever had buried him out in the wilderness did not want him to be found.

Though crisp and fresh, the air was so cold stabbing him in the lungs as he taught himself how to breathe again. The scent of pine and mud danced on the gentle breeze and soothed the knots in his stomach. His head hurt badly and there was tightness in his heart that he had not felt when he was alive but the smell of the trees calmed him. Suddenly, the scent of flowers subtly touched his nose.

“That’s odd,” he thought, “to find the smell of flowers in the dead of night like this, especially on a night so cold.”

The smell grew stronger and drew Clay towards the east into the dens thicket away from the harsh light of the moon. The leaves and pine needles crunched under his feet as he followed the scent of the flowers towards some unknown destination. He searched around him and saw no flowers and wondered where the smell could be coming from.

“Surely all the flowers would be closed up,” he whispered.

He stopped suddenly when the smell was at its strongest and as quickly as it appeared, the scent of the flowers melted away into the cold air. It brought him to a lonely tree whose bark was brittle but strong. The tree looked familiar. He walked towards it, the roots raising the ground it grew on in small mounds. Walking around, he could see that others have found this lonely tree before having carved their initials into the trunk. One marking stood out. It read, “Clay + Rose” and voices suddenly echoed around him as if a memory had sprung to life.

Rose was his wife’s name. He suddenly remembered sitting at the tree, just days prior. His wife was in his hands laying her head on his chest. They talked of yesterdays and nothings that mattered only to them at only that moment. He seemed to be living this memory and yet seemed apart from it. His ghost recollecting the good times of yesterday, but why? The ground gently rumbled but he wasn’t scared. His focus honed in on the carving. There was something different about it; something he hadn’t remembered. Trembling, his outstretched fingers slowly approached the aged bark of the lonely tree. There was a large knot that didn’t seem to be there naturally. As he touched it, his body and mind vibrated violently. The memory was changing.

Wearing the same dress, Rose stood away from the tree, away from her husband. She was weeping. There was great sadness and anger in her voice. He was confused then and he still was confused watching it the second time around. He thought he heard another set of footsteps, but no. His priority is his crying wife who stood just a few yards from the tree, his hands still upon it. Without warning it felt as if a searing hot rod had struck him cleanly through his fragile skull. He thought he heard a faint pop, but the pain radiated throughout his entire body before he could deduce what it was. He screamed in excruciating pain and the memories stopped instantly as he dropped to his knees. Just a bird or two scuttled about at his yelling. Only the lonely tree, the moonlight, and his ghostly self remained.

Alone with nothing but the cold, his hands still upon the carving, he realized that the tree had been shot. It was not a knothole in the tree; a bullet had left that scar. He precariously caressed the hole and felt fresh sap seeping out of. It was wet and the inside was still warm and still smelled weakly of gunpowder. The emotions of that memory came flooding back to his mind, but the facts of what truly happened refused to present themselves wholly. Despondent, his heart sank feeling as if Rose had left him. Of course! She wept because she did not love him anymore.

“Perhaps,” he thought to himself, “she left me. I couldn’t bear to live anymore if that were the case. I must’ve shot myself.” He paused, sure that that was why he was left to wander the woods cold and alone.

“Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,” he muttered. “At least I still remember my Shakespeare.” He paused and looked back at the tree. “But that can’t be! How could I have taken my own life and buried myself in an unmarked grave?”

Giggles emanated and echoed southeast of the lonely tree. The gurgling of a brook grew louder as he walked towards the happy sounds of laughter. The yeasty smell of bread warmed the still air and led him to a narrow creek that cut through forest floor. Surrounded by small saplings, the smell of bread and soon wine filled the air. The giggles grew into boisterous laughter. Warmth drew Mr. Thompson to a flat spot on the northern bank.

He sat down and felt the warmth of the sun on the ground and yet moonlight ruled the evening. Darkness all around and yet it was as if God had allowed a singular beam cut through the thick treetops to shine on this particular spot. Curious, he reached both his hands into the warm ground around him, but he did not feel the earth. A thick cloth, in the tradition of any picnic blanket, was there instead. It was another memory, more vague yet happier than the last.

Once again Rose was there lying down beside him in her delicate red summer dress. Butterflies fluttered about her as if she were an actual rose. The young couple fed each other bread and drank wine and could only feel each others’ touch, hear each others’ voices. He leaned in for a kiss and felt her lips, soft and warm, press up against his. Their fingertips found each other, then their palms. This was the last night we made love, he remembered. He could still feel the silkiness of her long brown hair. The smell of her perfume was the smell of summer flowers. Her warmth stayed with him, haunted him. Again, he thought he heard another set of footsteps but it seems that love had deafened his ears as well as blinded him.

The forest began to spin dizzyingly around Clay Thompson. The earth opened but did not swallow him. Instead, he remained suspended in air as the universe swirled into a chaotic cyclone all around. Suddenly, he saw the memories one more time. As he held his wife in lustful embrace by the brook he saw a strange figure off in the distance. When the world stopped twirling around him, his feet touched the ground and he walked towards the mysterious stranger hiding behind tall pines. As they made love the stranger lurked in the shadows, his face unrecognizable.

Suddenly this ghost was back to the lonely tree. He witnessed his hands on the tree, his wife yards away weeping. This memory was somehow clearer to him now. She wore the same red dress. It must have been the same day. All the smells were stronger, the colors more vibrant, the sounds echoed throughout the wilderness. Again he saw the stranger hiding in the shadows. He walked toward the vision of his wife and listened to the words that fell from her mouth.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice wavering.

“Why are you crying,” the ghost echoed. Suddenly the footsteps became more apparent. The stranger crawled from the veil of shadows and pulled out a gun. The pop that Clay Thompson remembered exploded out of the nozzle of the gun in the stranger’s hand. This specter approached the assassin. The scene seemed to freeze at the spirit’s own will. The murderer had a face and the victim desired to know it and know it well. The forest fell apart as the ghost of Clay Thompson screamed upon laying his eyes on man who took his life.

“Richard?” he sighed as the breath escaped his lungs. He could not believe his own brother would do such a thing. In the distance, another scenario played out. Clay could see it was Richard burying him hastily in the earth that his ghost struggled to get out of. To no avail, Clay yelled at his lifeless corpse being stuffed into the broken earth. His own voice shook as it escaped his throat. He felt his body dissolve into the air, marbling like smoke birthed from a flame snuffed out in the wind.

“A local couple was found dead in their house early this morning,” the news would report two days later. “There were no signs of forced entry. Local police were baffled to discover that though it appeared they were shot in the head, no bullets were found at the scene of the crime and none of the neighbors reported hearing any gunshots or seeing anything unusual during the alleged time of death. To add insult to injury, the young woman was pregnant. DNA tests show that the male victim was the father. The bodies were discovered when the female’s parents came over to surprise their daughter who had apparently just spoken to them just mere hours before.”

By the next day, the police were able to put together the pieces of the story and a local hiker stumbled onto Clay Thompson’s makeshift grave. While news of Rose’s affair and resulting pregnancy spread quickly throughout the neighborhood, there was never a complete explanation as to how Richard and Rose were murdered. However, everyone was somehow sure that Clay would finally rest in peace.