Strongwill Shorties

The Wild of the White

Liriko Season 2 Christmas Special Round Entry
Song: Winterwonderland
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Also part of PNY 12: A Benefit Project

Let's run away, he said for the hundredth time (or was it the thousandth?); and his words, his voice— the tone of it, urgent and at once gentle—weigh down in my mind as I slip through my bedroom window and balance myself on the sill. I jump off, crisp breeze brushing my cheeks, and gracefully descend to the ground as a feather. I crouch, unharmed, but every inch of me trembling. I start for the forest at once, the pumping sound of blood echoing in my ears.

I pause by a young redwood and lean back on its trunk to steady myself. I look upwards— towards the moonless heavens barely concealed by the silver foliage of the trees surrounding me. The wind has silenced.

"Devonne..." a voice hisses quite above me. The shadowed frame of a young man promptly projects from the tree, and even before I can sigh his name out of relief he has has taken me in his arms.

"You're cold..." Eric breathes to my ear. Tonight is the eve of Christmas, and I had been looking forward to this since September— since he and I started arranging this secret rendevous.

"Of course." I manage to chuckle. I nuzzle him in the neck to breathe in his sweet scent. I am sure he has had some hint that I am not solely shaking due to the freezing weather. Something has gone terribly wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

But he doesn't ask. He just embraces me tighter. "It will be okay," he says, as if he could read my mind, as if he already knows what had specifically gone wrong. He releases me and dusts the fresh snow off the lapels of my garment. He lightly kisses my left cheekbone, which has gone purple from being hit by my father's fist last week. His lips are warm against my skin.

"Don't worry about 'nything." Eric reaches for my hand. He tugs at it once before we start to brisk through the forest.

In the darkness Eric and I are easily a pair. Both wearing faded crimson frock coats and bonnets and boots. The only thing I have brought is a purse that my late mother had given me for my tenth birthday, which is small and flexible enough to tuck easily in my inner pocket. It contains, as instructed by Eric, a medicine kit (lest something goes awry), a handful of assorted nuts (to snack on through the journey), and three boxes of matches.

Eric is the one with the rather big leather backpack. I know exactly what it holds: food (that must last for at least a week), a small tin cup (to drink melted snow with), a thick blanket (to make a tent or hammock with on the trees to sleep in or on), a few changes of inner shirt garments (which I will have to use, too), and his stepmother's pearls and gold (to bargain with other possible necessities from strangers on the roads). The sack's straps clasp tightly over his shoulders and under his axillae because of its weight. It also keeps on jumping and bumping quite heavily on his back. But it doesn't bother him. He has a strong body from working at the farm.

A good distance away from the cabin where I used to live, I hear kids sing "Silent Night," accompanied by a guitar and little bells. My spine tingles upon hearing their angelic voices— as they grow softer and softer at each step I take with Eric.

Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar.
Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar,

I shudder once again as they sing the last line in a ghostlike inflection. The one about sleeping in heavenly peace. Sooner or later, someone would enter that cabin and find out a table of molded untouched turkey, and cheese and bread, and wine, and burnt out candles; beside which, on the blood-stained wooden floor, a body lay, knife through its back.

Schal in himmlischer Ruh...

I steal a glance at Eric. His countenace is drenched in darkness, but I can still make out his profile. I have traced it a thousand times with my finger before anyway, on nights he would linger in my room, ready anytime to escape through the window once the sound of my father's voice rang through our cabin, deep and maleficent. Each time Eric's heart would be heavy because I had again turned down his plea to run away. He probably never thought a day would come that I would finally fight my fears and acquiese.

Hours of trekking later, Eric and I have cleared out the forest. I gasp at the scenery. The stars are illuminating the blanket of snow that covers the fields and mountains. Over the white landscape are strange towns yet to be discovered with Eric.

I wonder if we are facing death instead of salvation: shall Eric and I die of hypothermia? Shall we be eaten by a pack of wolves? hunted and shot down by authorities— he for theft, I for murder?

Or do we make it? Do we meet Mr. Parson Brown at the next town and get married? We then start a new life. Have kids we would love with all our hearts as we never were by our own parents, and when they are older, Eric and I would tell them the story of the time we were given new births, too, on the eve of Christmas, somehow like those who believe on the Messiah.

The mere thought of it sends goosebumps all over my body. With my breathing heavy and my temples throbbing, I squeeze Eric's hand. He squeezes back.

And we run.

Each second a little farther and further away from what we used to (and mistakenly) call home— from the Righteous Rod and the heartaches it had imprinted on our souls. Here we are. Together... and we run.

Into the wild.

Into the great White.

T!=^