2: Falling In Reverse

I was a child again. I stood in the pear orchard, watching my father grab a few pears from a low-hanging branch and place them into a basket. I stood on the riverbank- my mind still a whirl of confusion, but my body replaying these actions as they happened- this was a memory. My current consciousness was held captive, unable to affect the outcome. Terror surged through me, was I stuck inside my own mind? I wanted too badly to pick myself up, run to my father, and warn him of that terrible beast.

A small boy's hands came into contact with my shoulder blades and pushed my small form into the murky side of a riverbank. My body slapped into the mud along the river's edge. Cattails poked my hips as I went down hard. If only I could control this body, I might have been able to stop myself from falling. But instead, I sat there motionless, a crying child throwing a tantrum. I glanced again at my surroundings as much as my weeping body would allow me to see. The pink blooms of pear orchards were beautiful; so much life was teeming here, different from the cave. They had once been white blossoms- but had unexpectedly turned pink; I remembered we took it as a good omen. 

I, the child version of me that is, sat on that riverbank, muck seeping into my skirts that were once girded up to hold the fruits. It was strange to feel everything around me but not be able to alter what was happening. The pears now bobbed in the algae blooms. My father walked, with purpose, towards us both. Grabbing the young boy by the ruff of his neck, he said, "Jacob Hatter, should I catch you hurting any other young ladies, I'm sure your father and I can find a punishment most suitable." The boy's eyes widened in fear.

"It was an accident, mister," he cried, "please don't tell my Pa. I swear I won't do it again." Jacob pleaded to him with prayerful hands. Finally, he released him, and the boy took off, running towards town. I remained in the same spot during this exchange, my pout becoming exaggerated. 

"You don't need to take that from anyone," he said, extending his worn hand towards me, "especially the little weasel that the Hatter boy is." He lifted me to my feet, not in his arms as I might have wanted, but righted me and told me to keep my chin up. 

How could I have left them to die? My mind let the feeling of grief coil tightly into every fiber of my being. My father's face became unfocused and distant. Heat once again seared through my neck, and as if I was being turned around by huge unfeeling hands. I was no longer in the pear orchard and, although still a child, not relatively as young as the last vision. Instead, my father stood before me. I watched through these memories' eyes, wanting nothing more than to wrap my arms around his neck and pull him close. My father was the parent whom I most resembled. He was a large man, tall and broad through the shoulders. Not neatly muscled as the young men in my town, but powerfully so under the layer of plumpness softening the ligaments provided graciously by my mother's cooking. His name was Abraham, but the people in my village had always called him Abe. He was a quiet man but a thoughtful one. 

Abe had boxed in his youth; his ears were textured like cauliflower from fights long since past. I can't say I ever saw my father truly fight, but I saw how the other men would give him a wide berth during harvest festivals. Swinging around his large frame as though they were small moons stuck in his gravitational orbit, trying desperately not to get pulled too close and chance some minor offense. However, the women in our village enjoyed his pull, even if he only had eyes for my mother, Aquila. Father loved few things more than our family. He was sometimes overprotective of us to a fault. 

After the hatter boy had pushed me, he told my mother he wanted to teach me a few things, some sparring techniques that might help keep me safe. She did not resist, knowing that it was best to get out of his way when Father had set his mind on something. So we trained slowly in stolen moments throughout the days of my childhood. Never in public, but I learned to spar between mucking our plow horse's stall and splitting firewood that we used to heat our cozy cottage. My father showed me how to place my feet and use every ounce of momentum I could muster in my young body to make those punches count, swinging for maximum impact. He would take my girlish hands and show me how to form my fists so I didn't break my thumb. So the flat part of my knuckles would hit with crushing blows. He had me spend a few minutes nearly every day hitting our poor defenseless sacks of feed grain. Sometimes those cotton bundles would split open where my hands made an impact if I was putting my whole heart into it. Most of all, he taught me how to try to anticipate what my opponent might do. Child me stared at him as the memory played out. 

"Cordelia, breathe." His foot gently kicked my toe, nudging it to the correct angle. He swung his arm slowly towards me, waiting for my block. I pivoted my foot and met his block with the back of my forearm. I did it quicker than he might have anticipated. He smiled, "I know you feel it clicking, Cordelia. It's just repetition. Think before step, do it right the first time, and eventually, it'll be muscle memory. I know you can do it." 

During our first training, I could feel that my body was strong and muscled, even for being a girl of just twelve years then. There was a heavy load for the farmer's only child, whether a small girl or not. Unlike other families nearby, my parents had not thought of adding more to their brood. They never spoke of it, so I assumed it had not been an option to give me a sibling. I resembled my father more— his dark hair and dark eyes were striking, and I was glad to have received them. Maybe I was less pleased that I didn't receive my mother's lithe frame, but I gladly accepted her penchant for daydreaming and storytelling. That was frequently the fuel that kept my body going during all the training my father gave me and the daily work on our farm. Every part of myself craved adventure and adoration. I would muse that I was some spring nymph spreading wildflowers through enchanted fields as I fed sheep and chickens. Magic being all such folly until now.

He set my feet again and moved his arm up like before. I repeated the move I had just made to block it, only to have him switch the weight onto his other foot, changing his arm and direction. Although he came swiftly towards me with his fist, he lightly tapped me on my head and frowned. "Well...eventually become muscle memory." He shrugged. It wasn't a big deal, but I hated letting him down. 

"I'm sorry, father," was all my memories body said. I was sorry now too. 

I'm so sorry I didn't try harder to save you and Mother.

"You need to look where you place your feet before committing to a step; you'd be fine if you slowed down." His thick mustache bobbed around his lips as he spoke. My tiny body turned to the barn doorway and saw my mother with a basket full of freshly picked peas. 

"Alright, you two, that's enough practice for today. I need Cordelia's help getting these wax beans prepped to can." She acted annoyed, but I know it warmed her heart to see my father teaching me. How could she be gone? My mother, whom I considered the most beautiful person, was the softness to my father's marred form. She was the same age as my father but seemed untouched by wrinkles or grays, a timeless beauty. I wished I possessed more of her grace. Mother's expression for both of us was always one of such love. What I wouldn't give to be able to run into her arms now. 

"I suppose we could wrap up in a few minutes. Think you could pickle a few batches of beans too, Aquila?" He smiled, and she rolled her eyes at him. "Only if you promise not to take every jar to the tavern— I'd like a few here for snacking." My mother motioned for me to join her. 

I knew it made him proud to see me learning to spar. My heart ached to return to this spot. I wondered how he might boast if he'd been lucky enough for me to be born a boy. Maybe he would tell his friends how strong his boy was instead of this quiet pride for his only girl. 

Just as I reached for my mother's hand, something I wanted so desperately to touch, the vibrating feeling returned. I screamed for her, even though the lips of my body wouldn't move. Blackness crashed over my vision with that lifting feeling. I was being taken somewhere again. Was this my life flashing before my eyes— If this was death, these visions couldn't last forever, could they? Maybe I will be back with my parents soon. However morbid, this calmed me. I felt the winds and snaps of energy all around me.

If this is death, please just let me be with my family. My parent's faces flashed through my mind. Soon we could be reunited. The afterlife was better than the whiplash I had sustained— my home being ripped out from under me to these memories I was held captive to. Then, without warning, an enormous burst of pressure pushed down into my chest. I choked as any air they had retained was forced from my body. I was no longer ascending but plummeting again. Please, anywhere but the cave! I thought, raising my hands to guard my head protectively. 

Everything stilled. There were no winds or sparks of electricity around me. I was lying on something soft. I smelled sweet herbs. I released my arms from their defensive stance into warm summer grasses, opened my eyes, and saw a field lit with sunset's comforting and golden light. I was no longer in the cave, no longer in the damp and dark prison; I had desperately wished to escape. Instead, I was at the bottom of a hill. I looked up and saw a figure backlit by the radiant sun. A woman stood atop that hill in layers of intricately woven fabric. A long layered skirt slung low on her hips echoed with repeating patterns in colors I'd only seen in my dreams. A cream-colored blouse with loose flowing sleeves held together with tiny buttons gathered at her delicate wrists. The top's neckline was much lower than would be considered polite in my small farming village. 

Her hair was dark and tightly curled, the flyways turning golden in the last rays of sunlight. She leaned close to the flora in this field of purple wildflowers, which I didn't know the name of the blooms. She plucked her fingers into the petals and pulled the stamen. As she pulled, the stamen lengthened and turned into a golden filament. The thread continued to expand until she extended her arm over her head. She grabbed a small pair of golden snips hanging from the beautifully woven belt at her waist with the other hand. She clipped the thread quickly. The woman tossed it into a basket strapped to her back, dropping the scissor to her waist. 

Illustration by Ana Kajaia

I didn't know where I was, and I didn't know if the person atop the hill was friend or foe— maybe it wouldn't be worth the risk to find out. I braced myself up on my elbows. As I righted my legs and attempted to put weight on the soles of my feet for the first time in god knows how long, the pain in my left ankle blasted stars behind my eyes as tendons snapped and fresh pain cracked through my foot and ankle. I didn't scream so much as make the guttural noise of an injured animal. Finally, the curled haloed head of the figure on the hill snapped her gaze towards me. She started taking long strides down the slope with her eyes fixed on me.

"Girl, whom do you belong to?" Not a yell, but almost like a bark. That was an order, and I realized I had no choice but to respond.