Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost
I am flat. (Literally or figuratively?) And I am cold. (Literally and figuratively.) When did the snow start falling? Or has it fallen all along, silent? There is no snow around me, I am not sure if I care. I am just so cold. The stars are so beautiful tonight. I raise up a hand to touch them. My logical side says stars do not come out when the snow is falling because clouds cover them. If I can see the stars that means there are no clouds and therefore there can be no snow. But then why am I so cold? Feeling flat has nothing to do with feeling cold. At least, I am pretty sure it has nothing to do with feeling cold. If it did, which would cause which? Cold causes flatness? Or flatness causes cold?
I am making no sense. At all. It is rather funny actually. Since when have I not taken care to monitor what comes out of my mouth? There is always someone to pounce on me if I misspeak in the slightest. If there is no logic in my thoughts, then there would probably be even less of it in my speech, and if I am talking and thinking illogical things, then I cannot be a true version of myself. I must be in a dream or something. That would explain why there is snow without clouds and thought without logic and stars that I can hold in my hands. But usually my dreams are rather orderly, with a specific point and purpose to guide me in the correct direction as I make decisions in my daily life. I usually find them rather helpful, but what does feeling cold and flat and staring at the stars have to do with anything?
Dreams should not be this horribly confusing (well, my dreams at least.) I am sure that my world is not this tumultuous. If it is, maybe I do not know it as well as I should. I mean, the world is supposed to make even less sense the further along a life is, but then why do people make it sound like when you grow up you get all of the answers? Because they want to feel morally superior to everyone else? Or are they just deluding themselves into believing that they actually have the answers?
If they do know the answers, how can the snow fall on the ground without touching me when there are no clouds in the sky?
I try to sit up, but the world pushes me back. I do not want to be flat. But the world makes me. I should be fighting harder, but the gravity pushing me back down is making it impossible to reach up and touch the stars now. But if this is a dream, then I should be able to change it, correct? I fall back, and my head hits the ground with a force that shakes my teeth.
I should be able to push this tremendous weight off my chest and fly away. Which leads me to conclude that this is not a dream. But if this is not a dream, and it is not real, what is it?
This time I put every effort into sitting up, straining against a rope that fights to pull me back to earth. I feel the beads of sweat form on my forehead, but I know if I stop I will fall again, and I will not try again. But it hurts—it hurts—to have the entire cosmos pushing fighting to push you on to the ground again. Only the fear of being crushed underneath it if I do not move keeps me fighting to sit. Even my memories betray me and work to crush me, from that first summer at Ron’s when I watched them throw gnomes over the fence and wondered about the moral implications to that last, perfect kiss before we rushed off to fight for everything we believed in. I reach an unsteady hand through the crushing weight to the sky, hoping for some divine intervention. When a cool soft hand takes mine, it is all I can do not to cry out in relief. The hand begins to pull me up and I begin to cry with the joy of it. Someone cares enough to help me fight off the world’s greatest treachery.
And then suddenly the pressure is lifted. I am not flat: I am on my knees. I am not cold: there is no snow. But my eyes cannot see for the blinding light that radiates from all around. It is white, I know that much. I squint, hoping that my eyes will adjust to it. My eyes pulse as the irises quickly contract. I am sure my eyes are pinpricks as I open them to view the world of white that surrounds me.
I scoop up a handful of the white and examine it. Salt. Why would anyone make a forest out of salt? This is probably one of those ridiculously intricate sandcastles people make for contests. How is a forest of salt practical? Any rain and the whole thing will be washed away. Why even build the thing in the first place? I throw the salt, frustrated and angry that this is a dream, but not a dream. I stand up and kick a tree. I have no reason to do so, but I want to make it go away. I want the forest that defies logic out of my world and this tree will be the start of it. Kick by kick, grains of salt trickle off the thing like it is bleeding. As I near the end of my deed, the tree does not fall over. It implodes, forming a pile of salt on the ground.
As look at the pathetic thing on the ground, I realize that the anger I felt is gone. I look at the poor shattered tree and regret what I did to it. Someone had spent hours of time working on it, put a piece of their soul into it. And I had destroyed it. Simply because I had not found logic in it. I felt shame creeping up my cheeks as I tried to think of a logical explanation for the destruction of the thing. But there was no explanation. I was just as illogical as the tree. So I simply cry over the loss of such a pretty thing for a while.
The world needs more pretty things.
My hair falls in front of my eyes and I raise my hand to push it away. With a shock, I realise the skin has become translucent so that I can see through my arm. I move to touch the pile of salt, but it passes through. This is just a dream, I tell myself, as I become clearer and clearer. “This is just a dream,” I whisper as I disappear physically from this world. I shut my eyes, hope that the whole thing will be just a dream and that I will wake up.
I open my eyes.
I am not in my room. This is not the type of dream from which one can just wake up. If it is a dream at all of course. I lift out my hand to the light again and see absolutely nothing. There is not even the ghostly form of an arm. I suppose I should feel liberated. No one can see me and I can get away with anything. But this is not like when I used to romp around under Harry’s invisibility cloak. Not even like I have been Disillusioned. I have lost my Self. Completely.
If a Mind and a Spirit have no Body, can they exist at all? A Body and a Mind can exist without a Soul, for a little while. But I have never heard of a Mind and a Spirit existing separate from a Body.
Or maybe I have.
Am I dead? What if this is Heaven or Hell? But if I am dead, how can I not remember dying? I have done enough in this life that I should have been spared this loss. But then, when is life fair? I suppose I could be dead. But I want to be alive. I do not want my time on earth to be over.
I feel the wetness of tears where my cheeks should be.
Another tree shatters.
I look over. There is a fawn hobbling over on unsteady legs. Its mother is nowhere to be seen; yet he comes over looking rather proud of himself. He walks in my direction. He cannot be walking towards me. For how could he see me? I am Spirit and Mind. He should not see me. But he comes and with purpose stands right in front of where I am kneeling. He nuzzles what would be my hands if I had a body. He makes a tiny noise, and starts prancing around the pile of salt. He takes my fingers delicately in his teeth and pulls me into a standing position. Then he pulls until I walk out onto the salt pile. Beneath us, a hole opens up and we fall through.
We do not fall for very long, but when we touch the ground again, I find that the momentum has forced my legs through the ground so that only my torso protrudes. At least, that is what it feels like. I could be perfectly fine, but I cannot see. Blackness has swallowed me. I feel the fawn rubbing my hands again. I bite back a scream of hopelessness and I grasp him around the neck. He can pull me out, I tell myself. He does so slowly, taking his time. I just want out of the ground as quickly as possible, but I can see the logic behind this steady retreat from the earth. It hurts my legs to be separated from the earth. When I am free, I stay on my knees unable to rise. I sob quietly into the fawn’s fur, and pet him and tell him how wonderful he is for helping me so much. But then he drags me to my feet once more and we begin walking.
He is taking me somewhere. I do not know where, but I do not feel lost either. My guide leads me through a darkness so impenetrable that even if I had a hand I would not be able to see it. The fawn seems to know where it is headed at least. Only the feel of the fur underneath my hand lets me know that the fawn has not vanished.
I used to be afraid of the dark. I used to make my mother turn on the nightlight before she left the room at night. I did not want to be alone. And the dark made me feel so small. I felt like I was in a tiny box that got smaller and smaller. Like I was being crushed by the complete and total darkness. But this I am fine, with the fawn as my light and no body to be crushed by the dark.
When I step down on something cold, I realise I am barefoot. It is not intolerably cold. But I do not like the feel of it. Little circles of medal bite into my feet like barbs. If I had a Body, I would be bleeding. I hold tighter to the fawn and bite down on my lip. “What are they?” I whisper. Another tear rolls down my cheek.
Not daring to remove my hand from the fawn, I reach down with the other and grab one of the things so that I can see what it is later. They get thicker and thicker and cut into my Spirit, but still I walk. I am getting so cold. But I can see a light ahead of us, and I want to be away from the pain and the cold. Light generally equates to heat if this world is anything like my last.
I want to run, but I am loathe to leave the fawn. The light welcomes me and I do not want to lose it. I want to bathe in the heat of it. But I do not want to let go of my warmth. He slows as we approach the light and I find myself wanting to scream at him. He is keeping me from the light. He is almost at a complete stop by the time we reach the barrier.
But then we are through and I find myself looking at my Body. Two shadows stand over it. One is forcing water down my throat and the other is pacing. I do not know what to make of this. In the darkness I did not see the fawn change into a fully fledged buck. He is so beautiful that I just want to cry again. The deep rich brown of earth, he stands tall and proud. I am moved by the very sight of him. He leads me to my Body and places his nose on my Brow. In my next breath I slip back in my body once more.
When I wake, I do not see him, but the shadows slowly gain shape and form to become my friends. They jump in surprise when I start coughing and sit up. Ron kisses me and holds me so tightly that I worry I will break. Harry stands over us, looking at us with that worried gaze.
“You were so sick that we thought we were going to lose you,” Harry mutters to my questioning eyes. I do not even remember being sick. But I guess that the fawn healed me.
Later that night I reach into my pocket. I pull out a coin that burns like fire and cuts like glass.
***