Nanowrimo Procrastination

Crista daintily sipped her cherry cordial and looked over the inn with pleasure. It was a windy autumn night outside with orange and red leaves constantly getting plastered to the glass windows and torn away by the ravenous wind. The fireplace crackled merrily, circulating warmth and a pine-aroma throughout the room.

Bons was attempting to roast chestnuts on the hearth (as the old songs always said one should on such autumn nights) but reaping a rich harvest of singed fingers and burnt nuts. He muttered away quietly to himself, but not loud enough to disturb the peaceful atmosphere: indeed, listening to another’s troubles can always enhance one’s own sense of peace.

Crista looked over the assortment of chairs, sofas, rugs and pillows spread out before the fire, taking in each relative that occupied the comfortable positions. Her brothers and sisters were on the rugs and pillows, the elders in the chairs and sofas, and the aunt and uncles merely standing above the chairs. Her own seat was the large overstuffed armchair to the left of the fire (It’d been hers ever since she’d claimed it at a thrift shop), but it had been occupied by Dorsa, her adoptive sister, one Crista’s departure from the fireside.

Normally Crista would have been right in the middle of the group, enjoying the tranquility of the evening, holding a quiet conversation with her sisters, teasing her brothers, joining Bons with the chestnuts or even just sitting still and thinking; eyes closed, firelight on her face and arms, head thrown back to let her mass of auburn curls catch the warmth. But tonight she wanted to come apart from it all; to stand back and enjoy it as an observer. She sipped the cordial again, a little deeper this time, and drowsily mused over the next few nights, the coming snow, the spring and the summer after that: her thoughts traveled in quite a circle and ended up right amongst the happy autumn nights where it’d started.

Suddenly a desire overcame Crista and melted through her being, seducing her with its curious and alluring outlook. She set her glass down and shrugged on a light jacket, escaping the house through the backdoor. Silent, unseen, Crista made her way among the massive piles of raked leaves that were toppling from the fierce winds. Up the street a short way was a lone telephone booth, looking for all the world like a stranded piece of equipment: there wasn’t another house besides Crista’s for three blocks in every direction.

Her right hand, numb from excitement and the chilling air, grasped the handset as she inserted coins into the slot and dialed the numbers with a trembling left hand. There was the usual beep, then static and then the crackling sound as someone picked up the phone at the other end.

“Hello?”

“Daryl!” Crista couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice as she spoke. “It’s me! Crista!”

“Well hi, Crista!” Daryl, Crista’s school friend since the first grade, seemed equally happy to be talking to her. “How’re things at your house?”

“It’s a nice evening,” Crista explained. “We’re all sitting around the fire: Another fifteen minutes and dinner will start, and after that we’ll have games or a movie.”

“That’s sounds really nice, Crista.” Daryl’s voice sounded strained for some reason.

“I just wanted to invite you over,” Crista said. “That’s why I called.”

There was silence for a moment, then:

“Pardon?”

“I want you to come over to my house,” Crista repeated, a little louder. “My parents won’t mind at all.”

There were rustling noises in the background and Crista almost thought she could hear someone whispering, but then Daryl spoke up.

“Um, fine, yeah, sure. That’d be…uh, great,” he stumbled over his words, but Crista could tell he was thrilled. “I’ll meet you at the pine tree.”

Crista hung up and squealed with happiness: nothing could be better on a night like this. She skipped back down the street towards her house, but turned left into the forest before she reached it.

The pine tree that Daryl had spoken about was the tallest and oldest tree in the whole forest, probably the whole valley. It was blackened at the top by repeated lightening, but had managed to survive every attack. It was here that the two would meet whenever apart, the most recognizable landmark around and the quite a beautiful place.

A stream flowed downhill just a hundred yards from the tree and it was facing this stream, seated on a flat, white stone, with her back to the rough tree that she found herself most comfortable. She’d only waited a few minutes when Daryl came through the forest, dead leaves and twigs cracking under his footfall. A smile spread across Crista’s face and she stood, awaiting his emergence expectantly.

When at last he turned the last bend in the path and stood before Crista, she was shocked to see his face streaked with blood and tears. Large purple bruises the size of apples disfigured his face horribly. His eyes were red and burning with anger, his mouth was set in a thin, tight line, and his black hair was filled with leaves and dirt.

“What happened?” Crista asked, drawing near but keeping her distance: afraid, somehow, but more for Daryl than for herself.

“My old man,” Daryl explained, rubbing his hands as he spoke. “We…had an argument. He didn’t want me to come out here, and then…well, we tussled a bit, he threw me out of the house –heh– hit the ground so hard my eye went ripe almost instantly.”

Crista listened with tears brimming her eyelids: how could anyone with such problems laugh (even sarcastically) over them? Her evening was not, as many would have believed, shattered or ruined, but somehow not so very important. She sat beside Daryl and put a comforting arm over his torn body.

“Daryl, I…I don’t know what to say…” Crista had never dealt with the ugliness or complexity of life: hers was the easy and carefree way. “I want to help you but…”

Unable to express her feelings, and ashamed that she should cry, Crista buried her face in his shoulder. He smelt like blood, dirt and sweat, but it only made her press closer, longing, somehow, to help, but not knowing how.

“Hey, hey, Crista,” Daryl pulled her back and looked her directly in the eye. “I’m fine, this happens all the time. Just a little worse this time than the others, that’s all.”

“How can you say that?” Crista whispered. “No one should have to put up with this…this, inhumanity!”

Daryl couldn’t answer her: his eyes were shiny and bright too now. He leaned back into the tree and looked up at the green, green needles. All around them were red and yellow leaves clinging for their dead lives to the scrawny twigs that held them, but the pine was a symbol of life, of resilience and vigilance when all other trees slept. Something spoke to him through the tree that Crista’s weeping and his father’s brutality could not…unfortunately, Daryl didn’t speak tree.

He hugged Crista tighter, both sharing in the grief and somehow adding to it by their tears. Finally, Daryl rubbed his eyes dry.

“Crista, it won’t help any to bawl our eyes out here,” he stood as he spoke, looking up at the now dark sky. “We should get ho–”

Crista looked up as his sentence cut off lamely and understood.

“What did he say?”

Daryl dug his toe through the leaves and found the hard dirt below, his hands went to his pockets but they had been torn from his jacket.

“Told me to ever come back,” he mumbled. “But I’ll sneak in when he’s asleep: probably be sober tomorrow.”

“You stay at my house,” Crista offered. “I’m pretty sure my parents won’t mind: you’d have to share a room with my brothers though.”

Daryl smiled and held out his hand to her. Crista took it and he pulled her up into his arms. Leaves swirled behind their feet as they walked, talking, laughing; normal once more.

“How’re we gonna explain the shiner away?” Daryl asked.

Crista’s answer was lost in a cheery laugh that cleared the air and freshened Daryl’s worried mind: it was good to cry, but laughing truly was the best medicine.

The old pine tree almost seemed to smile at the retreating figures around the bend in the path. Laughter reached the old needles and stirred them…ever so slightly.