Of your mouth,
I’m unable to speak
Or paint you with words...
I may have been hallucinating, lost in the autumn woods and parched with thirst.
Perhaps the unseasonable heat wave brought on confusion—why else would I encounter a beautiful woman in the desolate woods who was also the keeper of a well?
And why would I be so thirsty after only a few hours of hiking?
It all seemed surreal and improbable
“Come and drink,” the girl said, gesturing to the well.
I reeled up the wooden bucket and drank greedily.
“Be careful,” she whispered, touching my arm.
“I’m so dry, I can’t seem to quench my thirst.”
“Even lovers drown,” she smiled.
It was maddening. I felt I was in a dream.
“Who are you, the guardian of the well?” I asked half in jest.
“Something like that,” she said sadly.
I looked at her and felt conflicting emotions. She was enticing as a siren and yet as aloof as the Moon.
“What do you do here?” I asked, “Do you farm?”
“No, I’m a songwriter,” she said.
“Really? Have you recorded any of your music?”
“Oh no,” she laughed, “Nothing like that.”
“Could you play your music for me?”
She squinted at me in the sunlight, tilting her head to the side as if quizzically asking if I were sincere.
“Honestly, I would like to hear you sing.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re beautiful and I’m sure your music would be as well.”
“That’s very kind,” she said and leaned over and hugged me.
As she embraced me I smelt her perfume, soft, powdery and subtle as a fresh flower.
It was disconcerting though, because as she touched me I got an image in my head of Munch’s engraving of a naked young girl embracing a skeleton.
I shivered to my soul.
“You’ve to go,” she said.
“But I haven’t heard you sing.”
“I have things to do. You really must go.”
Her eyes pleaded with me and I couldn’t resist.
“Can I come back?”
“If you can find the way,” she laughed.
“I will and next time, I’ll bring water.”
She softly touched her lips to mine. It couldn’t be called a kiss—it was as soft as the brush of a butterfly’s wings, but it produced in me a sensuous release akin to what Jung calls a “petite death.”
“Go now—hurry!” she said, “It’ll be getting dark.”
I had forgotten it was October and darkness fell early. As I left, I turned and looked back at her standing before the cabin. The sky had grown overcast and a billowing white cloud rose like a canopy against the darkening horizon.
I walked for a few minutes and stopped.
I heard the sweetest melody borne on the wind. Somewhere a voice was softly singing, calling to me across the divide. I could distinguish no words—just the plaintive call of her heart.
I turned to go back, but thunder rumbled ominously above me.
Reluctantly, I forced my feet to walk on, but my heart was tied to the spot.
I have journeyed back many times since—sometimes figuratively in my mind, other times searching frantically through denuded trees—all to no avail. She’s gone and I can scarcely believe she even existed.
The mind plays tricks in the wilderness, they say. I’m told there are no farms in the vicinity—it’s all government land.
As I said, I try vainly to go back, to follow markers.
I spend hours trying to conjure up the slightest trace, but no vestige remains. What details do survive are fuzzy and blurred by tears.
Sometimes I imagine I see her in a crowd—her face, a white petal on black foliage.
Sometimes, I hear her voice on the wind.
But always, always, there is this thirst.
I am parched.
I drink to drown her memory and fill the emptiness.
Still, nothing can pry me from her arms.