can still make out the shapes burned into the ground, and it shorts my mind again. But this close I’m able to see the man. My gaze falls upon him and I am lost.
Fiery red hair, cut close to the scalp, almost buzzed short. Eyes closed, dark lashes against pale skin. His nose is flat and angled, like it was broken at some point and not set correctly. There is a smattering of faint freckles across the bridge, dotting to the cheeks. Lips slightly parted. Dark stubble covering his cheeks and chin, above his mouth, like rust. Neck exposed, pale skin that is almost like milk.
Clothes? There’s… something. A vest? A cape? Sleeveless, strong arms spread on the ground. A bronze band strapped around the left arm near the shoulder. Clear definitions of ropey muscle under deep red hair that grows thicker toward his forearms and then thins on the back of his hands. Hands that are twice the size of my own. His legs are exposed mid-thigh down, covered with red hair that looks like fire covering muscle. Feet as large as his hands.
Who is this? What is this?
A groan comes from the red mouth, low and rough.
I scramble back as quickly as I can, suddenly sure that I don’t want him to see me, sure if he does, I’m dead. My mind is screaming at me to run, to run so very fast. Why the hell did I think it was a good idea to follow something that had fallen out of the sky? I turn and plan to do just that, to run until I’m back up that hill and down the other side, until I’m at the river that I’ll cross so fast it’ll seem like I’m walking on water. I’ll get in my truck and get the fuck out of here and go back to Little House and pretend none of this has happened, that this is all some fever dream that I’ll eventually forget as I get back to my perfectly quiet and mundane existence. It doesn’t matter that I’m clutching a feather in my hand that came from a nightmare, squeezing it so that the bristles poke against my flesh. It doesn’t matter that I’m haunted by something I don’t believe in. It doesn’t matter that I’m drowning in this river. None of this can be real.
Another groan comes from the man (Man? I think desperately. Man?). Even though I’ve convinced myself to run as fast as I can, I hesitate at the low moan, my feet seeming to stick to the ground. Run! I shriek at myself. Run, you son of a bitch! But I don’t. I slow as I approach a tree that has been partially uprooted on the edge of the clearing. It’s tilted at a precarious angle, its thick trunk looking as if it would only take a gentle push to send it the rest of the way down. It’s this tree I stand behind, pressing my back up against the rough bark, hearing the high-pitched whistling sound coming from my mouth. My skin, still damp from the river crossing, feels like it’s crawling with electricity. This can’t be happening, I tell myself. This isn’t happening. I’m dreaming. I’ve fallen asleep at the store and I just need to wake up. I hit the back of my head against the tree. A dull pain. It’s not enough. Wake up. I hit my head again, harder. Wake up. Again, the pain bright. Wake up!
I’m still in the clearing.
Then there’s movement, from behind me.
I follow the angle of the tree toward the ground until I come to the partially exposed roots. I crouch down and peer through the maze of dirt and roots, seeking protection. The shallow crater is visible, and as I watch, the man sits up. Incredibly, the black lines that had been burnt into the ground around him also rise from the ground, as if they’re attached to him. Flecks of scorched earth fall to the ground, like it’s snowing ashes. They look like burnt bones, remains of something that should be glorious instead of ominous. A feeling of dread rolls through me and my teeth begin to chatter. Sure he can hear them even from the distance that separates us, I grab my jaw to hold my mouth still, ignoring the way my hand shakes. My grip bites into my skin and I know I’ll be bruised there tomorrow, but the pain pushes through the fog that