Letters From The Lost And Found

'Like a shadow, I am and I am not.' - Rumi

Dear my darling G,

I am writing this to clarify the catastrophe left for you. The one that you will no doubt- amidst an oblivious daze- slam face-first into, like an entirely transparent sheet of glass.

The sounds of your mother’s footsteps thumping against the ground, as loud and rhythmic as a heartbeat, still reverberate through my memories like an increasingly distant echo. I ran a few feet behind, guarding her back from any that the Night might have let slip through its infinite span of fingers. A hundred metres ahead the gates loomed, creaking on ancient hinges that sounded as if they wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. Behind us alarms rattled those immersed in slumber and guards sighted bullets our way; only for one such silver nugget to embed itself among blood and bone. Your mother had reached the gates. Flinging them open and away she reached out to take my bloody hand and we stepped into a sort of freedom. The sort of freedom with a price tag and without warranty.

A rundown apartment became our haven where for four months I watched your mother's belly swell with the wonder that is you. She glowed with the power of life as you filled her up. In June you were born,blooming from her womb into a vibrant Azalea. Never have I been so attached to a bunch of flowers; too soon it was time to give your soft pink blossom away. For months afterward her sobbing was the only thing that lulled your mother to sleep. Hollow and broken she became proficient in apology. She would apologise to the sky as she left in the morning; whisper 'sorry' as she pulled back the duvet; sob for forgiveness as she caressed thestoic coffee machine. She became a prep teacher, 'to atone', she said. I think she merely hoped to see you.

Do not make the mistake of thinking that I did not care. But when a rock ceases to be a rock, what will then hold everything down? I took a job at the bottom of the chain of the Green's Party; keeping an ear to the ground. The Fey were busy- swamped with politics and issues of global warming- yet not so busy to organise a man hunt for the deserters of their own creed. Within days of our leaving they'd severed our link to the Lands and we became the epitome of 'without'. We are without a home, without a people, without you.

In late December the Greens had instigated another round of propaganda to infiltrate theminds of the unwary. After a particularly stale conference with the board, the devout party spilled out of the conference room, branching off like the dispensable ants they are. Fluorescent, environmentally sustainable lights flickered overhead much too closely resembling sanitised hospital hallways as I strolled into the parking lot. By then, the lot was a desolate space interrupted only by my bike, pathetically sprawled across the asphalt. Picking it up by the handlebars I spun towards the road and collided with someone. Stephen Harrow clasped my shoulder to steady me, leaning in toward my ear, 'They've found the Princess's son. He was left outside the gates only last night.' With that, he was gone. A ruse? Surely not. A time ago I trusted the Harrows.

I kicked off the pavement and peddled toward the apartment, my tie flapping like the lead of a dog released. Your mother would have been home by then, simultaneously preparing dinner and watching the blasted news. I could not bring myself to tell her, and yet I could not lie to her. I also couldn't bear the thought of committing, arguably, the greatest crime- inaction. I planted my foot on the sidewalk, my black leathers scuffed and fading like an old love. It is not in our nature to lie. Deceive, perhaps, but not lie. I knew- inevitably- that once I got this ball rolling it would tumble only to stop at my wife's feet.

The sun was slipping down below the horizon. Across the road a petite woman- one of the Fey- strummed the silky strings of a harp, enticing mortals and the like into the depths of the building behind her. 'Wings and Witches' the plaque above read. Groaning internally at the irony of life, I kicked off from the pavement once again and instead of taking Barsbry Avenue to my endearing wife and cosy apartment, I took a sharp right and sped down the hill to the bush below.