Clay: The Silence of the Woods

1: Cold Days

The cold days came rushing like cars on the other side of the road, sending gusts of chill air. The front of the house gathered piles of autumn leaves; they crunched dryly as I trod on them until I almost felt sorry for their thirst, and I hoped the rain would hurry up and come.

It hadn't arrived in weeks. The sky was covered with a thick layer of gray moving with the wind uniformly, as though keeping itself from bursting on Longwood.

I tightened my hands around my waist and waited for Clay to arrive. I gave him that name the other day, and I don't even know why. He would look at me through the trees, his pale face smooth and green eyes glowing out of them, clear as a pristine forest pond. At first I was silent, like him. Then I would call him: "Hey!", "You!", and he'd still remain silent.

Somehow, in that silence, it seemed we shared much more than I did using all the words I had spoken my entire life. Maybe it was an illusion; maybe Clay himself was an illusion. Why would a handsome young man wander in the woods, mutely? In a small town like Longwood, everyone would know about someone like that. But it seemed only I knew of Clay, and I had a silence of my own.

I waited a few more minutes in the cool air, trying to block the shrill noises of dry leaves rubbing against each other. Mom yelled at Al inside the house, a distant, muffled voice. My nose began to leak.

His dark figure formed between the shadows of the forest. At first it seemed like another mirage to me. But then his pale skin returned some of the light, and his green eyes looked at me again through the branches. Thin, pink lips were stretched in a straight line, eternally glued together.

"Clay!" I called without thinking.

He didn't turn around and run away, though that was always what I expected him to do, as if he were a deer in the wild. He only left when I tried to get close. Today I didn't want to take that risk.

"Clay, it's good to see you," I said quietly. I wanted to tell him that he was the only thing that dissipated my loneliness. No, more than that. He was the only thing that managed to disperse the dense, stagnant cloud in my head, the mindless boredom that surrounded me and choked my thoughts. Everything was too dull and... I couldn't think.

Clay continued to look at me from the woods. The first time I met him, before I noticed his height, I thought he was just a boy. There was something in his gaze that was innocent at the time.

Today the look was different, somehow. It wasn't obvious, but something sharpened in his eyes. His mouth was tenser than usual.

"Clay?" I asked.

Soft rustles began to rise from all around. A tapping of raindrops created a hum in the background as droplets hit leaves covered with dust and dirt. The sky opened tiny cracks.

Something inside me formed slowly, covered with thorns like a hedgehog. An ominous feeling gnawing at my chest.

"Clay, is everything all right?" My voice wavered a little toward the end.

Clay stood there for another moment, staring at me. It was hard for me to decipher his behavior this time. He bent down, folding his full height, and reached forward.

I squinted to look, not daring to approach him. He held a broken, thick branch. With three quick strokes, he scratched something in the ground and then straightened up to his feet and fled into the forest.

Thunder roared overhead. I hadn't even noticed the lightning which came before it. The sprinkle continued to give nature tiny water droplets, like a man who showers a beggar with pennies.

I crossed the yard in a few careful steps. The last thing I need is to fall and break my leg again. I held onto a slick rock to descend to the forest level and my boots collected mud. I moved cautiously toward the carvings Clay had left me.

"RUN".

I looked at them for another long moment, searching for another way to read the hasty, big, crooked script. No matter what I did, all I saw there was "RUN".

A chill ran up my spine and I tightened my jacket around my body. What is there to run away from? What did Clay mean?

Maybe he really was just crazy, as everyone would say if they knew of his existence. A paranoid person who ran away from home, maybe. The thought saddened me more than I thought it would. I climbed back up to the yard and left my boots outside. Mom washed dishes in the kitchen and Al probably returned to his room with a sour face as he often did.

"Sweetie, how's the rain?" Mother asked from the kitchen.

"Weak," I replied.

"Oh. That's a pity."

I closed the door behind me quietly, and the cool breeze puffed its last breath into the house. "Maybe it'll get stronger," I said.

The sound of scrubbing continued from the kitchen, merging with the dripping outside into a silent whisper.

"Maybe," Mom replied.

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