Margin Doodles

Chapter IV; [What should have been] The end

I should have turned back there and then.

I should have spun on my heel – well slipper boot – and headed back into bed for my first decent night's sleep in 48 hours. I should have found a camp leader and prayed that a monster in the woods was more concerning than why I was in a said wood to begin with. I should have hidden behind a towering ash tree, or one of the rocks if I really wanted to see the creature, or if I had a death wish. And I really should have set up a proper meeting place with Ramona beforehand.

I should have, I should have, I should have.

But I didn't.

Ash tree branches still damp from a weeks' worth of downpour, splintered underneath my feet as I shambled down the path. My legs must have moved with a will of its own because I couldn't begin to tell you where my lower mobility came from.

It was quite a long walk too – anything 10 minutes to 10 years. As the forest around me thickened the hum did too. It was a melody, soft and low, twisting around my head and taunting me with every chord and interval.

But who could be singing? Or more likely, what? Maybe it was one of those sirens the instructors were always banging on about... But the beach was quite far away. Could sirens walk? Or were there forest sirens? The image of a merperson swimming in lakes of grass did nothing to still my nerves.

The singing was getting closer. I could hear every sharp breath in, every tremble in the voice and every tempered note. The wind whispered through the leaves, and threads of moonlight sew silver lines in the gaps of the trees. Twin ravens hopped from branch to branch above my head, stopping only for an occasional scratch of the beak or a peck to eat. Dew drops littered my path.

Wait. Path? I didn't like where I was headed. Besides an early grave, of course.

My mind flickered back to the first day, past awkward first impressions and strangely nostalgic suitcase unpacking, to the first group meeting at Camp Drassil. I could remember three things: wondering if the leaders were supposed to sound so monotonous; wishing that I had unpacked my pencils as well as my sketchbook and the cryptic warning at the end of the speech.

"And if you ever do have to go into the forest, remember:

On muddy grass, you're on the right track.

But find a path, you must turn back.

When the trees stop, so does your heart.

So don't leave if you want to stay intact!"

(Whoever the heck thought that was an appropriate thing to say to homesick thirteen-year-olds should be behind bars. Or at the very least a mental hospital.)

The chilling phrase had done its job well. It was as comforting as a leather seat in the middle of a summer heatwave to know that not only was I walking to a creepy voice in the middle of the woods, but a creepy voice in a cursed clearing in the middle of the woods.

Said clearing was only a couple of metres away now. The grass thinned into even, trimmed clumps and the singing climaxed, a high, haunting melody under a backdrop of stars. A thin vine wall hung from the trees, like a garden tapestry, dotted with marigolds and tied off with curling ferns that twisted in knots.

It was now or never. If I was treading a fine line before, I was peering over the edge now.

My brain clogged. Too many choices, not enough time. Not enough choices, too much time.

I could.

I should.

I won't.

I would.

My empty hands itched for something to do, to draw, to feel. Something, anything to stop the hopelessness, the helplessness from overtaking me. Anything to take back control.

I pulled up my cardigan sleeves almost without thinking. No, no, not now.

Not again.

I could.

I should.

I won't.

I should.

During my hesitation, I stole a glance upward, and locked eyes with one of the ravens. Its eye was a glassy bead, with silver highlights shining in a spare beam of light. Thank goodness ravens can't talk; I wouldn't have been able to handle scrutiny from a bird. Besides, its point was clear enough.

I would.

I push past the memories, past my fear, and past the vine curtain into a small patch of grass and in front of a crop of red tinted black curls.

"Ramona?"

She turned to face me, surprise splattered like ink stains in her water colour eyes.

"Evelyn!" Ramona was sitting on a small, moss covered on the edge of the clearing. Instead of her usual large striped shirt, she wore an equally oversized red jumper, with a yellow band wrapping around the torso. The fabric on her poor slippers was covered in mounds of mud, and her headphones were on her head, but she slid them down as she spoke, voice dropping to a - still quite loud - whisper. "You came!"

"Was that you singing?" 

"You heard that? It was just a song I was working on." She hastily added, "Don't worry, it'll sound much better when it's finished."

"It was nice." There I went again. Can't come up with a decent comment to save my life. Thankfully, Ramona changed the subject before I had a chance to embarrass myself further.

"You can leave if you want to. I wouldn't blame you." She looked away from me. "I shouldn't have dragged you into this in the first place."

And this is where the story really should have ended.

Where I should have given up. Where I should have - 

I shook my head, and walked to the vine curtain, pulling it up.

"Aren't you coming? This monster isn't going to find itself."