The Lost Heiress

 

CHAPTER 1-part 1

It was an October evening. Sunlight still hadn't left the day as Christine walked through the woods, crushing fallen leaves under her feet. The sound of it brought back memories, memories of bright green grass soaking sunshine, of a wooden see-saw that carried them up into the air and back to the ground, just as life would when the gentleness of childhood toughened. The laughter of her long-lost companion – raw and brisk, torn at the edges, crumbled like old paper, echoing down the dimly lit passages of her memory-the memory of her doe-eyed sister, who loved trees, who ran wild like a summer breeze on the same grounds the lifeless trees now looked upon. The trees die a strange kind of death, they come alive by spring, her sister wouldn't. Christine's father had once told her, “Men live once and die a million times as they do.” She hadn't known what he meant until the day she saw her little sister, Elli lie dead, enveloped in white sheets. She had died the kind of death that wouldn't come undone by spring, the kind of death you die only once. No one knew, Christine died that day too, the kind of death men die a million times, the kind of death she would die every day.

 

It was dark now. Autumn fog was gathering around her, Christine heard sounds, like there was something alive in the forest. The trees stretched out their branches in strange, sad shapes, curling in the mist. She quickened her pace, mother often said there were things in the woods, things she'd rather not run into. Something moved. The sound of hurried steps on dry leaves brushed against her. She looked around through the dense white mist. Something denser, something whiter moved towards her, past the dead trees, past the dying ones, crunching leaves as it moved.

 

It was a man, a very old man. Loose white cloth hung shapelessly from his body. His straight white beard came down to his chest. He had green eyes, stern green eyes. They shone through the mist with a strange light. A shiver ran down Christine's body. She didn't move, couldn't. He came closer, the wrinkles in his face moved, the lines around his mouth stretched, his thin, pale lips parted, “Anala!”

                                      -------- to be continued

Painting & story by Ritoja