Wild One

The woods I walk through are both real and imaginary. It’s a nice day to go hiking, a bit cloudy, cool, but mild enough that I don’t need a hat. Perhaps later I’ll need an umbrella. I sit down to rest in a grassy patch near the power-line road cut through the pines. All is quiet except for the trilling of insects and the occasional chatter of squirrels. Summer is new and the earth is cracked with drought in places, while puddles gleam dully from tire ruts in the wide dirt trail. I lie back. The smell of hot dust and woods-after-rain mingle in the air. The sun, just cresting the tops of the pines to the East, evaporates the first of the morning dew off the brush. The clouds above me hint at rain in a couple hours. My thoughts wander.

Like the earth, I am in a period of change. Today is about a month or so after my eighteenth birthday and I graduated from high school a week ago. I stand at a crossroads - no - at the edge of the precipice, staring into the abyss, and the abyss is staring back. What do I want out of my future? Soon, I will be off ... doing it. Whatever it is that I want to do. I’m going down to Pocatello for college, but I don’t know how I’m going to get it paid for. My parents are divorced and money is tight on both sides, so I can expect very little from that direction. I know one thing for sure, I don’t want to go through the heartache they did. It wasn’t as messy as some, but definitely not as civil as others. I want a marriage that will last until ... forever. Not one that frays at the seams. I know that those are hard to come by, and I don’t expect it to be perfect, or even easy, but I want to be able to weather the storms. There are very few circumstances, I think, that would cause me to get a divorce. But maybe a strong marriage just wouldn’t happen. Who can say what their life will be like in ten years ... twenty years. Maybe I’ll have five divorces and fifteen kids by then.

Yeah, and maybe I’ll grow two extra ears and get superpowers. Even though I don’t know what I want out of life, I know what I don’t want. I don’t want a divorce, and I don’t want fifteen kids. If I had to choose though-

Without warning, an ... opening appears in ... the air, I guess. It is accompanied by a whoosh of air, and my ears pop as the pressure changes. Withered hands take a young man and shove him through the tear. Just as quickly as it appeared, the hole disappears, taking the hands with it and leaving the boy. He is tall with curly black hair,  deep reddish-toned skin and blue eyes. He is also completely naked.

I stand shocked, not sure where to look. I am unable to move or breathe, let alone speak.

“Please, do not be frightened,” he says formally “I mean you no harm.”

I manage to choke out a quiet “You have no pants.” I don’t know why that is the  first thing that comes to mind, but somehow it seems most important.

“Pardon?” he asks, then looks down. “Ah shit!” As he covers himself I come to my senses and turn.

Thoroughly overwhelmed, I shout at him, “Why are you naked?!?” Even though naked people aren’t a common occurrence in my life, people appearing out of thin air are even more unusual, so I don’t know why I’m focusing on his nudity.

“I don’t know why I’m naked!” he shouts back. “Why would she take my clothes?” he mutters.

I stare at the trees not thinking about who the ‘she’ was who took his clothes. “Who took your clothes?” I ask.

“She did. Her! The Crone,” as I am still turned away from him, I can’t see him, but I hear him stumbling around in the brush.

“Don’t come over here!” I squeal. This is the first time I’ve ever seen a guy naked. I want to sneak another peak kinda, but I also don’t want him near me with his - self - exposed. I focus on what he’d said. “An old lady took your clothes?”

“Not an ‘old lady.’ The Crone!” he says, as if it is obvious who he is talking about. Then he pauses, as if listening. “You don’t know her?”

“Know who!” I ask, exasperated.

“Look, I don’t know what else to call her.” He says, rustling around in the brush some more. I tense up and start away from the noise, like a nervous horse. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m not coming over there, I’m just looking for something to cover myself with.” What he thinks he’s going to find, I don’t know.

“Is she an old lady?” I ask tentatively. Is he talking about whomever belonged to the withered hands?

“Yes! But that’s not the point! She’s evil!” he says, more frustrated than enraged or fearful, I think. “She took my clothes and left me out here for dead!” He pauses in his search again. I can tell because of the lack of snapping twigs. “Where is here?”

“Uh, Idaho.” I say. “Just outside Spirit Lake.” Shouldn’t he know this?

“What planet?” he asks, as if that information was what I should have given him first. When I think about how he’d appeared out of nowhere, maybe that is the first distinction he needed.

One of us probably has a mental health issue.

“Um...” I say, temporarily at a loss. This whole situation is a lot to process!

“Are you dumb, or something? Because its alright if you are” He says caustically.

I turn halfway, indignant. How dare he insult me! “You’re the one naked in the middle of the woods!” I shoot back, full of vitriol. “You don’t even know what planet you’re on! You keep nattering on about old ladies stealing your clothes! I, ‘sir,’ am not the stupid one in this equation!” I fume for a second, then turn my back to him more fully and say, “Can you find a big leaf or something, or your pants?”

“There. Are. NO. Big. Leaves. In. This. BOG RAT INFESTED. FOREST!” He says, his hiss turning into a primal shout. “AND SHE TOOK MY PANTS!!!” He rages at the trees. With almost deadpan calm he says, “I told you that.”

“Well, here,” I say, trying my hardest to be kind to this child. “Take my basketball shorts. I’ve got spandex underneath them, so I’ll be good for the walk home at least.” I quickly shimmy them down and over my shoes. When I stick them out behind me he crunches over to me and takes them. I wait a beat, then ask, “Are you decent?”

“Yes,” I turn and we take each other in. He is - striking - to look at. His hair is tight black frizzy curls, his skin is dark, but with a ruddy hue, his eyes are the bluest I’ve ever seen. They are bright robin’s egg, and the color of the horizon at midday, but with a decidedly Asian slant. His nose, almost middle-eastern in shape, nearly overbalances the rest of his face, but somehow he wound up looking darkly handsome. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, and full lips make him mesmerizing. The most hypnotic thing about him though is the way he is looking at me.

His perfect blue eyes take every inch of me in. He seems to see everything: my flaws, my favors, my fears, and my fantasies. His gaze curls up my body lazily, taking details in. Strangely, I don’t feel self-conscious, even though I’m a mess with no makeup, nearly finished with an hour-long walk. Like a snake charmer, he has me fully under his spell. I’m not sure what it is about him - maybe his eyes - but instead of obsessing over what he thinks of me, I find myself staring at his body.

He seems to be about seventeen or eighteen physically, but his stance is confident, almost regal, giving him an air of authority and age. Lean muscles make up his arms and torso, the kind a cross-country runner gets at the end of the season, and he is tall. I’d say about six-four to my five-seven.

Abruptly, he puts his hands together in a formal-looking gesture and says, “I apologize for asking if you were stupid. I can see how it would be offensive to a lady of your obvious intelligence and beauty.”

“Thank you.” I say, caught by surprise. The only people who’d ever described me as beautiful are my family and friends. I take intelligent for granted, I know I am smart (hardworking enough for it to be any use is another issue entirely), but beautiful? I’m white with sad little tan lines. My hair is a mousey brown, lightly curled and corse. My face is intermittently spotted with freckles and a few zits, and I am about twenty pounds overweight, although I am also well-muscled. My favorite thing about me is my eyes, light green - almost colorless in some lights - with long white-tipped eyelashes. Besides, I am in workout spandex and a holy tee shirt with no makeup on and dirt caked under my fingernails.

“Thank you.” He said emphatically. “The ‘shorts’ are a great help.”

I laugh. “Your welcome, but calling people stupid isn’t usually the best way to get help. If you do it again, I’m going to take my pants and leave.”

He grins flirtatiously. “I’d love for you to try.” He winks.

I blush, shocked. No one has ever spoken to me this way.

Unaware of (or unwilling to acknowledge) my embarrassment, he asks “What planet is this?” more politely. 

This time I am quicker to answer. “Legally, its ‘Terra,’ but we locals call it earth.” I’d read this fact somewhere once, and have no idea if it is true. I said it anyway because I want to sound intelligent I guess. Being wrong will probably have the opposite effect, but whatever. You can’t win ‘em all.

“Which planet are you from your suns?” he asks, seeming to try to remember something.

I correct him, saying “Uh, only one sun, and-”
“Really? Only one? How unusual!” He beams at me like I’m the most fascinating thing he has ever seen.

“Oh, it’s unusual?” I thought most solar systems only had one sun. “Anyways, we’re the third planet out. There’s nine - no, eight ... no, let’s see. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune.” I say, counting on my fingers. “Eight, minus Pluto.”

“Pluto?” He asks, tilting his head. His pure blue eyes hold me suspended on a thought. “Why minus Pluto?”

“Well...” I say, breaking eye contact to collect my scattered brain from the puddle at his feet. “Uh... Apparently Pluto is a dwarf planet.” Scientists. Always changin’ their minds.

“What is the difference?” He asks, enthralled.

“I don’t really know.” I answer calmly. The attention he is giving me makes me feel like a warm ball of dryer lint. Soft and fuzzy, but not particularly useful.

“If you don’t know, then I don’t know,” he says peacefully, giving me a contented smile. “How many satellites does your planet have?”

“One natural one. The moon. There’s a bunch of them that we built, flying around out there.” I wave my hand towards the sky and his gaze follows it, seeming to try to see the satellites that I’m talking about. I awkwardly let my hand drop back to my side. He watches it for a while, and I shift my weight uncomfortably.

“How fast is the lunar cycle?” He asks, bringing his gaze back to my face. Whenever he looks at me, my already flighty concentration flaps its wings for takeoff.

“29.53 days. On average from new moon to new moon. However it takes about 27.32 days for the moon to pass the same fixed star in the celestial sphere. This is called a sidereal month.” Sometimes I have a photographic memory. Why this particular fact sticks in my brain while other people’s names slide around like butter in a frying pan is beyond me. It’s probably because I care less about other people than about how fast the moon orbits the earth.

“How long is that?” He asks. He seems to be impressed by my knowledge of the moon. That might just be my ego talking.

“A day is twenty-four hours, and hour is sixty minutes, a minute is sixty seconds, and a second is about this long.” As I babbled this, my hand tapped on my bare thigh. He watched with an almost hungry look in his eye. I stop, and stand awkwardly staring at him.

He looks away from my hands to the brush beside us. He squats down abruptly and I step back, startled. He glances up at me with a disarming smile, pointing at the ground. “Now I know what planet this is! I recognize this plant! It’s called frailia.”

My gaze slides down his arm to where he points. “That’s called grass.” I’m starting to think that maybe I should walk away from this one. He is hot, but I doubt he’s the kind of person that simplifies your life.

He stands up, disappointed. “I was hoping to impress you. You will have to forgive me. As a visitor to this planet, I cannot be expected to know such things. Your words are alien to me.” He smiles in a very earth-like way.

He would be perfect if he wasn’t crazy. If I wasn’t crazy. I decide denial is my best course of action. “You’re not an alien.” I say, as if this were a child’s joke I was resolving.

He stares at me a beat. “But I am.” He says simply.

“No, you’re not. You look perfectly human, and you speak perfect English,” I say, more to convince myself than him.

“But I am... Didn’t you see me arrive?” He says, obviously confused.

“Well, yes ... but there’s a reasonable explanation for that.” There must be. People don’t just appear and be really hot aliens. Not in front of people like me. Not in front of  well-adjusted, mentally sound people like me.

“The reasonable explanation is that I am not from this planet.” He says, beginning to be irritated. His expression turns to concern. My arms feel numb and my skin feels clammy. I can smell saline in my brain, and sight, while still possible, is far away from my body. I hear a high-pitched whine and the ground zooms closer to my face. Strong arms break my fall. He is very warm. My brain ... stops...working.

* * * * * * *

I stand in a large cave. I cannot get a sense of just how big, but that doesn’t matter. I am close to the center, I think, and there is a Star of David on the ground, cut into the stone. I am standing at the tip of one of the triangles. It is silver. The other triangle is gold. In the very center of the Star is a pool full of colorful balls. The pool is very wide and deep. Without moving my feet I hover over the pool. The orbs change color and begin to move and swirl around each other. They shake and shiver and dance. The motion is natural as breathing. A horrible fear fills me. I am terrified of the way they move. They are frightening me. They slow down and hold stillness. It is an unnatural stillness. I relax. Soon, they begin moving again. Their darting about startles me. I open my eyes.

I am looking at the sky. It is morning, I am in the woods. Disoriented, I try to sit up and get my bearings.

“I do not think you should sit up quickly.”

I turn my head toward the sound. “You’re right... What’s your name?”

“My name is Jude Xeuth.” He says, petting my hair soothingly. “What is yours?”

“Frances. Uh... Smith. I think.” After fainting spells my name can be a bit of a stretch.

“Good. You remember it.” He gives me a look of concern. “Why did you fall?”

I sit up slowly and hold my head in my hands. “The shock of meeting an alien, I guess. I don’t know. Sometimes I just pass out.”

He rubs by back. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t happen that often. The doctor said I would probably grow out of it and not to worry. If it was something that could kill me they probably would have figured out what it was by now, I guess.” I don’t have much faith in doctors. Medical science is geared toward alleviating symptoms, not healing people. There’s no money in healing people. Better to keep them sick and on medication.

Jude doesn’t say anything to that. I look up at him. He is looking at me. I am still dizzy, and a little nauseous, so I look away. “I think I can stand up now.”

He stands and extends a hand to me. I grab it and spring to my feet, trying to prove how tough I am. This was the wrong move. I sway, and quick as a wink, Jude adjusts his hold so he is supporting my waist and my elbow, standing behind me and a little to the right, the direction I was leaning. I rest against him for a second, then pull away. “Thanks.” I say. “I’m good now.” I turn toward him, and he steps up beside me, watching warily.

“Perhaps you should go home and rest. I shall escort you,” he says decisively.

“Oh, that’s really not necessary,” I say, he cuts me off.

“It will be an honor.” He smiles, a bit condescending.

“Oh ... alright then.” I am reluctant to show him where I live, but it would be rude not to. I start walking toward my house.

For most of the way, we walk in silence. I love the way the trees look in the morning light. They are shaded in blue at their bases, but their tips are bathed in gold. Small creatures stir in the undergrowth. Our feet alternately kick up dirt and squelch through mud. As we round a corner we come to a pristine black road cutting through the woods.

“What is this?” Jude asks. “Can we get around it?” He looks to both sides. “Is there a path?”

“Umm, this is the road.” I step onto it and he gasps. “It’s just asphalt.”

Tentatively, he joins me. “It is hard!” he says, shocked.

I laugh. “That’s what she said.”

He smiles curiously. “What who said?”

I run my hand over my ponytail. “No ‘she.’ It’s not really a person...” He gives me a blank stare. “Never mind.”

He smiles at me placidly without answering. “Anyways,” I say awkwardly, “this is the way home.” We walk along the perfect roads. There are no pot holes here. No shabby repair jobs either.

“Where does this path lead?” Asks Jude. On either side of it is seemingly uninterrupted forest.

“Well, all this was going to be new development. New houses. They were going to raze the trees and add extra town ... but then two thousand eight hit.” It had crushed Spirit Lake’s local economy.

“Two thousand eight what?” He asked, puzzled and looking around.

“Two thousand eight is a year.” I say, rolling my eyes. “In that year, the economy took the worst nose-dive since the Great Depression.” I gesture around. “All this here, these roads without houses, they represent the dreams that died. The roads are about seven or eight years old, but they show no sign of wear because no one comes back here. It isn’t even a ghost town. It’s like a town abortion.” 

Jude frowns. “That is unfortunate.”

I’ll say.