Linked

Twenty-Three : Pine

I take a plastic bottle for myself and let the backpack fall. It slides a bit on the moss so I know to tread carefully. Water licks hungrily all along the rocky shore, spraying white bubbles onto my boots, cleaning off crusted days-old mud. Corin sits on a low outcrop, bare feet dangling into the swirling river, swigging from his water bottle. He has knobbly, hairy ankles.

I hobble over a few slippy rocks and kneel eagerly beside him, leaning down to scoop water into my own bottle. The current is so strong it's nearly dragged from my grip. You think water tastes like nothing, until you're parched to the point of trembling hands, cracked lips and swallowing razor blades. When you reach that point, the first mouthful is paradise swirling through your mouth, sending your taste buds singing. It's the most delicious thing ever to have passed your lips. And I've had Mrs. Plum's red velvet cupcakes. After a few refills, my tongue tastes normal again. I'm sharper, more optimistic. Corin and I take off our beanies and lie on our backs over the ledge, soaking in the pale sunlight and taking turns pouring icy water over each other's hair. I run my hands through my greasy mane, screeching and giggling with the shock of the cold, attempting to untangle the knots that have formed. Surprisingly, since the motel in Lovethorn, I haven't even thought about doing my hair or slapping on some makeup. A side effect of being busy trying not to die, I suppose. My hair is so long, the ends ripple in the water, black seaweed tossed around by a changing tide. I wonder if I would even recognise myself in a mirror at this point. Would I be shocked by the reality of my new reflection?

Satisfied I no longer reek of fish, I decide to wash my face, too. Rolling onto my belly, I stretch further over the river and cup both hands into the water, catching some. Before it all trickles through my palms, I bring it up and splash it directly into my face.

I don't know if it's the sting of wintry water, but I shoot upright as though I've been electrocuted. There's nothing but blackness for a moment, my senses engulfed by severe tingling spreading from the tip of my nose to the nape of my neck. My face feels like it's smothered by a swarm of irritated bees. But I can't move. There's nothing I can do to defend myself. Then I see a tree. Which sounds ordinary, but this pine is the tallest, most monolithic tree you could imagine. It stretches for the clouds, towering above its neighbours, reducing them to matchsticks. It's trunk is thick and pockmarked, bark patched and peeling like the aftermath of a bad case of sunburn.

"Benna, you alright?" Corin's hand squeezing my shoulder snaps me out of it. The tree disappears in a few blinks, and I am back, crouched on a rock perched by a roaring river. Water drips from my eyelashes. I wipe it, roughly, with the crumpled fabric of my jacket sleeve.

"I - I think... "

Corin nods eagerly at me. "Go on," His hand slips from my shoulder. He breaks eye contact, embarrassed at his eagerness. Probably remembering last night, a fresh punch to the gut.

"I think I was just sent another direction, by the... well, the spider. Who ever that is."

"While you were awake?"

"I know!"

Corin chews on his lip a moment. "I guess this is a good thing, yeah? That you don't have to be asleep to receive messages, or whatever they are."

"Didn't we decide they were directions?"

"I suppose we did, yeah. So what was it, the direction?"

I ease myself upright and start squeezing the river out of my hair. And describe what we are looking for.

***

It doesn't take us long to find our target, even though our pace is relaxed. Ambling alongside the chattering river, our spirits lifted by the water sloshing in our bellies, clean hands and faces, and the knowledge we have something to look out for. However, our clean hands do not touch. Like magnets of equal charge, I step closer and Corin propels himself away. Keeping a comfortable distance of course, satiating that ever-present rubber band looping us together. Forcing brushed shoulders and sleeping bag spooning. All of a sudden, the impending cover of darkness I was speculating about earlier is filled with dread. I have made things so unbearably awkward. How are we going to go on like this? Corin hasn't even tried to link, the way he usually does when he can't be bothered speaking aloud. It's like I've created some sort of jagged crevice, splitting further open with every stretched silence.