Of Phantasm and Fury

Of Espadrilles and Escape

23 Of Espadrilles and Escape

"Race...to the river/Where you'd buried who you'd been..." -E.H. Hanson

Day 4 to Day 5

Vineyard, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal

"HARRY!" she screamed into the whirling ether—

Her fists beat mercilessly upon a gnarled tree in the next moment, its branches contorted almost as if cursed in grief, reminiscent of the poor, unfortunate dryads, their fruit so haplessly stolen. Julian was a passing phase, but Harry—oh, Harry—with Harry, she craved permanence.

"HARRY—I CHOOSE YOU!"

The wind died down instantly, likely because, she surmised to herself, she had climbed—or crawled—upwards, toward the hilly apex, toward the eye of the storm—the place where all wind was naught.

At least, that's what her logical, cerebral self would have hypothesized. The alternative was too...strange. How was it possible—how could it be possible—for a simulated environment to be free-thinking? Sentient? Animate and alert? She banished the unsettling thought from her mind as she absorbed peace—

Serenity.

Quiet.

Unclenching her fists, she ran her hands along the rough-hewn tree bark, as if deciphering the most mystical of braille lettering, before standing upright, her back to the well-worn tree. She meticulously surveyed her surroundings, as the komorebi light flittered between the elevated branches some meters away. Komorebi, the Japanese word for brightness flickering between trees. 'How elegant...and poetic,' she imagined Harry would say, in that conversant crinkled half-smile of his, equal parts enigmatic and enthralling.

This scenery, too, felt oddly familiar to her soul, harkening back to her intake of that which was the Source. A powerful woman, she was silent no more—no longer beholden to Elders on pedestals—no longer answerable to invisible forces of light—of darkness. All there was—was truth, she sensed, her body aglow in amber, crimson, and gold, her eyes an unnerving auburn.

For that impregnable moment, she simply—was.

It had only been minutes—or seconds before—she broke past the mystical flame barrier encircling a similar arbre, where her youngest sister was restrained against her will. Macy, upon absorption of it—found herself the willing arbiter of justice, as her fisted flame catapulted with the dark garb of Parker's father, his prostrate form enveloped in her heinous heat, until he was—simply put—no more.

As smoldering ashes dissipated into the gentle zephyr, she became herself once more, eyes reverting to as they were, her body virtually unchanged. Turning her gaze to Harry, Mel, and Maggie, she registered their shock—or was it fear? She was not quite sure, in that particular point in time, but no matter, her inner voice had said. There is unfinished business—and she vanished to make haste, to complete the cyclical doing and un-doing, the making and the rending, the tearing, and conglomeration, of the universe's very soul. For she was, she knew, equal parts destructor and healer.

Beginnings were no longer such—middles and ends no longer held significance. And what of climaxes still? Everything, she understood, was entirely cyclical—infinitely, celestially so.

Fire and karma, rolled into one.

A certain La Puma musical came to mind—"One Bad Apple." The battle of the sexes, in which God was...a woman. Having brightened the crimson sky to a watery robin's egg blue, silenced the deafening screams of human torment, and turned back time...was this how it felt like? Omniscience? Omnipotence?

However, as she entered Vera Manor time and time again, each vignette more heartrending than the next—the absence of Mel, the sputtered speech of Marisol before her collapse—was it supposed to be as tragic—as lonely—as isolating—as this?

Her innermost insecurities had nearly swallowed her whole, as she spent time, hours upon hours later, in Vera Manor's attic, ghastly gusts tunneling through jagged octagonal window glass. "Stay away from me!" I am too dangerous. I am too powerful. I am unlovable. Everyone—

She choked on her words. Everyone leaves me.

But one sister, then the next, screamed assurances into the terrifying, torrential wind, their bodies parallel to the oaken floor, their grip upon the shelving never once wavering—

"We will never leave you!"

More words, needed words, words of strength, of being at her side, forevermore—her eyes softened, meeting Harry's own—

And you, Harry?

"Always," he proclaimed.

Tears flowed freely then, as she collapsed in a heap. It was enough for her psyche, such that the wind died down. A magical wave of the hand and everything was restored to its rightful place—broken glass mended, shattered doorframes repaired, and she—ready to begin the day anew. After, of course, dividing the Source into three separate fragments and hiding them every which part of the world, upon which Harry performed a memory erasure. No person should have that much enervating power.

And that was that.

A pond glimmered in the distance, it too, swirling in glassy glow, of crimson, ochre, and sapphire. Was it a function of this simulated atmosphere, that once-hidden memories tended to bubble themselves up to the surface?

"Twin souls," she heard a voice utter from the great—beyond? Above? And was that—Maggie? The oldest Charmed One thought back to her doctoral course studies of the blood-brain barrier's impenetrability. Was Maggie's voice emblematic of such—puncturing—of a parallel, otherworldly design?

An envelope dropped from the distant clouds—cumulus and cirrus...or cumulonimbus?—landing squarely at her feet, a recognizable waxen navy seal atop its vacuum-sealed perimeter.

Alba levi litterae.

Removing her black espadrille shoes, she sat beneath the tree, which sprouted more apples—this time crimson, striated with shimmering gold, positively glittering. Methodically tearing open its seam, a tiny bit of parchment flew out, which Macy deftly caught with a flick of her wrist.

Be patient, love. Arriving soon. Home, soon.

-Always yours, Harry

Her vision blurred as she swept away at droplets pearling at her slivered-moon eyelids. 'Always yours,' he'd written. "I...am...his—"

"'Bout time—" a rustle of vineyard branches later, as Macy gave a start, then realized it was Antonio.

She bit back a smile, patting the empty space next to her. Rather than coarse loam soil, she sat atop an Ascot forest plaid-printed picnic blanket. "There's room for one more—"

"Awesome, I'm starving—" as he brandished a picnic basket, filled with thick, mottled rosemary-olive focaccia bread, olive oil, Sopressata salami, and other comestibles, to Macy's questioning glance. "They go well with apples," he stated by way of explanation, as Macy began to understand where this was headed.

"We've got a long, exhausting day ahead of us..." she mused aloud, trailing off.

"But first—we feast."

Macy grinned, reaching for a knife to slice the focaccia. The couscous-stuffed Portabella mushrooms smelled delectable, and she knew the olive oil was as fresh as could be. The men in her life always knew a well-fed Macy was a happy Macy.