Riveder le Stelle, Part IV

Luke Altman

This is part of a serial story. Click to read the first, second or third parts.

IV.

“If you remember Her, you’ll not be lost,” Bell had said long ago. “Or, if you cannot remember Her as herself, then at least remember what she looks like. That will keep you going strong, my boy.” Bell had said this to Lane countless times, from his boyhood onward. His constant referral to “Her,” or “She,” always confused Lane. The first time he had heard it he was eight years old. At that time he had not yet taken any interest in the “shes” around him. Yet, Bell spoke of this “She” as someone of greater importance, and soon after Lane always put himself on the watch for Her, whenever She would come along, so he could remember what She looked like.

“If you remember Her, you’ll not be lost.” Those had also been the last words that Bell had told him. By that time Lane had met Tara. By that time Bell knew Tara quite well, almost as well as Lane knew her. And though Bell held Tara in high regard, both he and Lane knew that “She” was not Tara.

“Remember what She looks like, Lane, my boy,” Bell had often told Lane in his gruff but even voice. “Lots of them will try to look like Her, but not many do. You’re lucky when you find one who does look like Her, and so is She.” Lane never understood that until Bell died. Even now, as he recalled what Bell told him he could not understand it.

That was the only thing Lane could remember at this point. His memory was now almost completely gone. Right now, all Lane remembered were those few, meaningful words of Bell. He did not remember why he was walking with a bloody knife in his hand and a hot rifle slung on his shoulder. He did not even remember how or why he had gotten into these woods. Nor did he remember how his left shoulder had gotten to hurting so badly. Obviously he did not remember when night had fallen, though he did have some suspicion that it had been a long time since he had seen the sun. He did not remember his destination, nor his origin. He did not even remember the city. All he recalled were the small bits of counsel Bell had given him, a few sentences out of so many that held meaning.

Regardless of his lack of memory, he did know quite a lot. At least he thought he knew a lot, considering the situation. He knew that he was hurt and bleeding. He knew that it was dark all around him. Lane also knew that he was lost, for he did not remember where he was at all. From that knowledge he deduced that he was looking for something, but he could not recall what he sought. He also knew that he was very tired. It must have been from all the walking he had done to get himself lost in this forest. Lane knew that he was hungry and thirsty, for he did not remember that he had both food and water in his pack. He did not even remember that he was wearing a pack.

None of that made him sad, though. He did not remember Her, and that made him miserable. He could not remember Her face at all. Nor could Lane recall what She looked like, so he was not able to search for any that looked like Her. He knew that Bell would be ashamed of him. Though he did not remember, Bell’s talk about Her had been the subject from which all his advice, counsel, and teaching had began.

A few days before Lane’s eighth birthday his parents had disappeared. No one ever knew what exactly happened to them. Some said they ran off, away from their home in the city. Others said they died. Still others claimed they heard the jackals hunt and kill them. No one did ever know, though, which was why his parents never appeared in the obituaries. Then again, the obituaries never mentioned Bell’s death either. On his eighth birthday, his caretakers introduced him to Bell. Soon after they also disappeared, leaving Bell to raise and tutor Lane from then on.

Now, though, it was dark. Bell was nowhere to be seen or reached, and Lane barely remembered him, much less the majority of his teachings. He was faltering, also, the wound progressively getting worse in his shoulder. He still was stumbling through the wood, now more stumbling than actually making his way through anything. His head was swimming, drenched with sweat and throbbing from all sides with the painful realization of the agony in his shoulder. Lane had no direction at this point, and his plight was made worse by the fact that he could not remember anything else that Lane had told him. Frustrated, lost, hurt, and tired, he longed for any respite, but none was markedly near. He felt himself beginning to lose hope, not only the hope that he would find his way back to where he would not be lost, but hope also that he would remember Her and find Her or someone that looked like Her.

“Hope, yes, that was her name.” The sentence leaped up in Lane’s mind suddenly an unexpectedly. He remembered part of a conversation between him and Bell, years back when he had first met Tara.

Lane had asked, “Hope was Her name, sir?” placing the special emphasis on “Her” like they always did when talking about Her.

Bell had responded to this, saying, “No. Hope was not Her name, but it was the name of a lady I once knew who looked like Her. She looked so much like Her…” Here Bell had trailed off, and the conversation soon shifted. In later years Bell admitted that he had never met Her, though he had seen a portrait of Her once. “But her name was Hope, Lane, and she looked so much like Her. Just like Tara kind of resembles Hope.”

Suddenly, as Lane remembered this brief interchange of theirs, light appeared in the Eastern sky. It still remained quite dark, but that was for no fault of the heavens. Lane looked up and saw a large, shadowy mass in front of him, towering above him so high that most of the sky was blotted out. It looks very much like a mountain, Lane thought to himself.

Indeed it was a mountain. In fact, it was the mountain to which he had set out from the city. As the light began to illumine the sky, colour sprang out of the mountain’s sides, slowly making its way from the sides to the central slopes. The mountain stood high above him, and Lane remembered vaguely that the ground had been sloping up ever so gently for quite some time. And still the light grew in strength behind the mountain. At first it had been a lightly orange glow surrounding the edges of the mountain, but now that orange had passed through bright yellow to a blue sky, though the mountain still hid the source of the light. Nevertheless, Lane could now make out individual trees and rock formations on the mountain’s slopes. Now forgetting the pain in his shoulder, Lane stumbled forward again, and still the brightness grew.

Now the area around him was illuminated well enough for Lane to see where his feet would fall with each next step. He could see that he was emerging from the woods into a sort of clearing, just before the mountain’s slopes leaped up tremendously, leading to the heights. Lane could also see a path leading from the clearing to the trees on the mountain’s slopes. He stumbled in that direction, as all the while the light grew in intensity. Now he could clearly make out each green blade of grass in the clearing, every red, purple or white flower that sprang out of the carpet of grass, and every stone, however big or small, in and around his path. He would stumble no more over them.

Lane was about halfway across the clearing, already on the path leading up the mountain, when he saw someone sitting beside the path. As Lane drew closer he saw that it was a woman, seated on a stone right before the trees became a little thicker going uphill. Now the light became slightly but comfortably warm. Lane continued to draw nearer the entrance to the mountain’s forest, and as he did she caught sight of him and stood up. Lane stopped.

The woman began walking towards him. She carried herself proudly, almost regally, in his eyes. The light was strong enough now, though not yet out from behind the mountain, that Lane could easily discern her features. The woman was average height, probably a several inches above Lane’s shoulder but still a good measure shorter than he. She was well-proportioned for a woman, not too delicately yet not overly robustly either. She was dressed in traveling clothes; a slightly weathered blouse, khaki pants, expeditionary boots, with a jacket wrapped about her waist and a pack slung over her shoulders. As she drew closer Lane noticed her particular features. Her red, evidently long hair was tied back in one full, slender ponytail. She had a long, royal neck, completely supportive of her head and face. Her face was shaped like a wonderfully even oval. Her small ears were pulled back neatly and tightly to the sides of her head. Her cheeks and nose stuck out just enough to make her eyes seem restfully reclining in their places, and her eyes were set just far enough back to make her nose and cheeks seem as if standing attentively at ease.

She walked up to Lane and now he could see her eyes, bursting with mirth and light. Their hue was a mixture of a light green and cobalt, always a very emotive colour. Her lips, rosy and skillfully contrasted with the bright fairness of her skin, were parted in what may have been near disbelief. She moved them, and, as the sun burst forth from above the mountain, out from her lips came, “Hello, my dear Lane.”

Relieved, he said, “I remember you.”

Continue to fifth part…

Commenting is closed for this article.