Salt

          It must be dawn by now. There is a magnetic current between the rising sun and falling moon that moves over the earth as a new day lifts into the sky. It’s easy to forget to pay attention. Humans often do. I’m sure I had, before. Now that I am less than, the parts that have not yet left me are what I cling to. There isn’t much left.

          There are some kind of evergreen trees around me. I can smell them, even now. Their needles fall silently and rot. Nothing is safe from the consequence of living. It might be raining now, or maybe it was sometime in the night. The urge to shiver itches somewhere, inside or underneath, I’m not sure which. I try to remember the texture of wool blankets, the sensation of warming up after being caught in a winter storm.

          It’s hard to keep track of my consciousness. It has become some number of frayed threads that lead to dead ends, knotting together in the wrong pattern. I wonder, sometimes, how long I’ve been here. I try to count the days as if I can measure time in any way that matters. Where am I? Somewhere. There must be a name for it, a spot on a map, a latitude and longitude that converge. But nevermind.

           I can conjure glimpses of my life like one reel picture shows. Here I am born on a withering plot, the last felled fruit from the barren womb. There I am running, running, running. Between there and here I am spooning broth into wooden bowls and flipping the pages of books. My hands were rough but my cheeks were soft. My hair fell down my back in red ribbons. My blood fell in ribbons, too.

          I drift to and from, in and out between worlds. Sometimes I fall into a nothing place, but I always come back. In my mind I open my eyes and time has passed. Would that I were dust.

          An animal trots over me with gentle feet. There is an old wives tale that says you shiver every time someone walks over your future grave, and I know that it is true. The animal roots around in the grass for a moment, and then it is gone. I wonder if it’s spring and if ripe apples have fallen from orchard trees, eaten by worms. I roll the memory of the bright flavor around on my tongue, longing for hunger.

          A light rain has rolled in and the earth becomes rich and fragrant. It’s bittersweet to feel the comfort of a storm without feeling the rain on my skin. The last sensation I felt was burning. They tied me to a tree in the night. The rain falls harder now, and bugs scurry underground. I hear the dull rumble of thunder.

          The storm thrashes overhead violently. The wind whips through branches and the world howls. The raindrops sound like men marching. I am underwater, a shipwrecked landthing. My lungs flutter, my heart pumps panicked blood. A will to live is a heavy burden. I pretend that I am floating, that there is nothing left to fear. Water is just as vicious as fire.

          The rain passes, and the world blooms under the sun. Worms slither to the surface to be plucked by birds. The earth drinks in the water. Life keeps moving.

          I long for creature comforts. Tobacco in a pipe, the ripe kiss of wine, butter melting on warm bread. They came in the night and tied me to the tree. Poured the oil. Lit the match. There were potatoes in the pan turning golden and then my blood was on the floor.

          I spent my days curing meats and hanging flowers from the ceiling to dry. I washed my linens with water from the lake and hung those, too. In the spring there were so many plants to harvest. So many ways to cure illness, to heal wounds. To heal burns. The day moves slowly past me. Crickets begin to chirp.

          I wonder if there is a moon out tonight. Someone has a fire going close by. I hear faint tendrils of the song she’s singing. Can she see the stars? There was no moon the night they came but the blaze lit the sky. My blood danced in the firelight. The song comes to an end, and the fire is put out. The smoke hangs in the air. The traveler is alone, quiet and peaceful.

          The girls came to me in the night, too. Little things, slender and rosy cheeked. They brought me rabbits and shyly asked for tonics and herbs. I crushed petals and poured them into glass jars and sealed them with cork and wax. I said a prayer and pushed them into their hands. I was not welcome in their church or at their tables, but they were always welcome at mine.

          A hound bays somewhere out there. It’s a lonely sound, the sound of longing. Companionship was never something I needed, but I enjoyed company from time to time. Men, mostly, just passing through. They stayed with me for a night or two and then they moved on. Some were gentle, others were not. One of them asked me to come with him. I didn’t. Of course I didn’t.

          The girls came for love potions and spells. One brought me milk on a balmy night. She said it was for my baby, the one growing inside me. She said she could tell because of how my skin glowed. I gave her a little bottle of lavender and cinnamon and she kissed my hand and kissed my belly. She skipped down the hill. They dragged me down the hill and lit the match.

          The night falls silent, even the nocturnal creatures have crawled into their nests. It must be the witching hour. It’s bad luck to be awake now. The stillness makes me want to scream. The silence hangs heavily over me. He was silent when he came. My boy. He came out pink and perfect and silent.

          They lit the match and I burned up. There was nothing I could do. There were potatoes in the pan turning golden and then my blood was on the floor. They cut my skin and cut my hair and dragged me naked down the hill.

          The women, they came to have their babies cut out. They brought me gold and salt and asked for something for the pain and I helped them. They called me witch, devil, hellwife. The last one had yellow hair. She came in the night with a babe still at her breast and she begged me, and then she died. She bled for days in her bed. She told the truth and she died and I burned.

          They used knives to slice me open and blood poured out of me. They stripped me naked. I ran and they caught me. They dragged me down the hill. They tied me to the tree. They poured the oil. They lit the match. They buried me.

          It must be dawn by now. The earth is damp and I want to shiver. An animal trots over me with gentle feet.