Qulin came upon the long stretch of dirt road which lead to Potter's Bluff. Hobbled with stones and rocks and a carpet of dampened fallen leaves. The last cloud of a passing downpour fled over the horizon. He couldn't remember how long this pathway was, largely due to the amount of time that had transpired since his last visit here the night Cora was murdered. About halfway, his legs started to throb in the muddy gruel, not entirely convinced the earth wasn't simply swallowing him. For some time longer he struggled up the endless pathway, yanking each step out of the famished quicksand. The half-domed granite hill appeared just over the tree line. A strange sight, the bluff had always seemed misplaced. A random tumor protruding from mostly surrounding flatland. Perhaps that was its attraction, the chance to rise above the mundane and see the world differently. In its most useful purpose it had operated as a look out during World War 2, and long before that its thick and luscious shrubbery and forestry was a dedicated location for plant biologists. It was no Everest, but it was Derryton's premier hiking spot for a spat of time, or at least it used to be until the land was purchased and subsequently made private by the same telecom company that built the two metal phone towers which now stabbed the sky with dual flickering red lights.
A tall chain-link fence appeared and ran some one-hundred yards, disappearing into the thicket. Qulin stopped and read a graffitied NO TRESPASSING sign hanging from the locked gate. He couldn't help but detest the defilement. Kids, most likely; no respect, destroying things that weren't theirs. With all his uncertainty about returning here, to see a sign encouraging him to turn around felt more than appropriate. Maybe another sorcerer with half the amount of desperation would've taken the hint and turned around. But he had been called here.
The area beyond the fence was so foreign, yet so horribly familiar. Uncut bush grew wildly and swallowed the old path to the peak he had known. He followed the fence some distance, continuing to trudge through mud, looking for other trespassers. A section of the wired fence had been cut open. He ducked through the opening, letting the piece of fence snap back.
As he came to the base of hill, a heaviness saturated his legs. Tall, peeling trees, towered over him like sentries on post. The same birches, oaks and maples that used to greet him and Cora warmly, now leered down at him with accusatory bony fingers chastising him, recalling his sorrowful deed.
His waist shifted backwards as if lassoed. He closed his eyes, the darkness behind his lids failing to ameliorate the rising terror. Legs went from heavy to trembling. Cora's diary clutched in his cloak, he threw his body into the bushy row of craggy gatekeepers. The energy was immediately harsh, and stunk of pungent bitterness. Carefully, he moved through the muddy soil and started up the incline. The muscles in his thighs began screaming while every perilous step sent rivers of rocks and pebbles moaning back down the way he came. With his head down, afraid to take in too much of the surroundings, scared of what memories the scenery might thrust into his mind, he pressed on. Branches snapped under his feet reminiscent of licking fire. Where the natural scent of old earth should have cordially greeted him, mold and burned flesh prevailed in an endless flux. Every few steps, almost unconsciously, he'd glance backwards, as if something were chasing him.
Repeating Cora's name gave his pace the vitality it required till reaching the bending cusp of the bluff's peak. Breathless and stunned by the peak's strikingly unfamiliar appearance. The area had been excavated. Rows of hacked tree stumps glared back at him, like blank and splintered eyes. The vibrant purple lilac bushes Cora adored, were gone and replaced with untold amounts of trash. Low-hanging black power lines lurched from telephone poles and disappeared into the surrounding trees. The cellphone towers loomed overhead.
He observed, confused over his mixed feelings. The peak's gutted appearance both satisfied and bothered him. Before his eyes a corpse of things once cherished, and a corpse of things abhorred. To revel in the desecration of something once sacred was like burying the scythe used for murder that once procured the harvest Memories of boundless happiness, and of sickening shame. Sighing, he searched the peak, looking for the one familiar white birch with the low hanging branch. The birch closest to the edge, it was off to the northside. He started in that direction, remembering Cora in his arms until they would fall asleep under that birch, as if it was providing an unwavering protection, promising never to let any harm befall either. He arrived at a rotted stump. Groups of black mushrooms growing around its base like a dark colored skirt. He reached down and touched the cool, rough fibers, certain it was the one.
Certainly you never forget anything so dear and precious as the spot you fell in love.
In summer days before the flu struck, Cora and Qulin would climb to the top, watch the setting sun ignite the waiting sky into a mosaic of oranges, purples and pinks and wonder about life outside of Derryton. Aspirations of starting a little medicine shop in Boston, where their magic, insofar as they kept it secret, would be of greater use to a greater number of people.
The cool and damp stump sent thrills up his back as he sat. He tore a handful of the dark mushrooms, squeezing them till only a mush remained. They took his wife then, they took away his birch now. They, invariably meant the Derryton townsfolk. Every single one of them, whether living now or from the past, young and old, man or women, were to blame for the catastrophe his had become.
He glanced over his shoulder, certain he heard hurried footsteps approaching. His mind started with tricks, the tendrils of horrible memories, trying to slither their way in and demand his undivided attention. He shook his head, trying to force the good memories of Potter's Bluff—remember her poetry not her screams. He pulled out Cora's diary, resting it on his lap, the red leather binder his station of strength while he contemplated the mystifying ambivalence this place held as if the forces of good versus evil chose this very ground to battle. The day he met Cora. A slight smile touched his lips. That resplendent, hot August day—he felt the soothing warmth from that day on his skin right now. The town had commissioned the construction of a new church, for which granite was needed for its foundation. He needed more money for raw materials if he was going to eventually build his house at the end of that little dirt road which later became Cowell Drive. He volunteered and was sent to collect granite from the top of Potter's Bluff. Equipped with a wheel barrel and a pick ax, and with the Rusty Mule waiting down below, he made his way up the bluff in search of the rock. He worked for hours, swinging and pulverizing a particular section of the stubborn granite, although unbeknownst to him, he had selected a rather precarious segment, and had weakened its integrity, setting it up for a tragic collapse. In his negligence, he turned and laid the wheel barrel down for what he hoped would be the last time by the white birch tree. And as he did, a massive screech belted out from the granite wall. He tried to dive from the falling stones but a large slab trapped his foot. His calls for help fell on empty air, his foot reduced to a fractured meat. Cora, sitting at the opposite end of the bluff hidden by thick lilac bushes busy writing her poetry, heard his cries. She hurried to Qulin, who was writhing in agony. He recalled the first sound of her voice, so gentle yet assertive, "I'm going to help you in a special way," she said, her face aglow with a resolute focus and kindness that assuaged his anguish. Qulin hadn't the slightest clue what 'a special way' could've meant at the time. Without hesitation Cora closed her eyes and began murmuring a quiet hymn, like a lullaby. The stone lifted from his leg.
Quite relieved, furthermore stunned realizing he was in the presence of another spell caster. A most lovely sorceress, more powerful than him—he only dreamt of conjuring spells which levitated heavy stones. But she hadn't finished. Cora then pulled a sparkling salve from a leather knapsack, and began rubbing the balm onto his broken foot while continuing her incantation; his foot regained its normal shape, the pain vanished. He loved her from that moment on. Her courage, leaping to a stranger's aid. The openness to which she offered her magic; for all she knew, he could've fled terrified and turned her into the authorities, crying witchcraft. This risk never appeared to have crossed her mind, her dauntless eyes told as much. He came to later learn she acted as the town's medicine woman and offered her services regularly to the ill. But this courage, he'd benefitted from, would be her guiding light all the way to her last days. Courage—he thought, walking towards the bluff precipice, staring out over Derryton, was the one quality he lacked. He opened Cora's diary. Procure the essence of proper innocence. He read the line over and over, hoping the bluff would reveal its meaning, some new understanding.
"Please, Cora, I've come all this way—give me something," he pleaded to the air before him. His voice echoed and fell over the ledge. What did it mean? Proper Innocence? He waited as if the answer would crawl back up the ledge. Beyond downtown Derryton where Route 93 passed through. Alive with migrating little black cars like bugs zooming north to south and south to north. What manner of people were behind all those steering wheels. What, if like him, were they trying to escape? Were they speeding away from an awful truth? Were they seeking out their 'Proper Innocence', or running away from it? What was innocence, anyway. A fallacy at best—everyone was born with this illusion pasted on their foreheads, but brooding inside every man and woman was a inborn fear determining some future behaviors never thought possible. Whether it was some sort of emotional shortcoming or misunderstanding, lust or insatiable desire, or maybe just pure evil, this so-called innocence was soon dispensed with like the faulty light it was, and the horrors fell out into the world. The default position of innocence was nothing more than a laughable cover up. How could there be anything remotely proper from a false innocence? Innocence was long gone. Where was the innocence when the mindless creatures whose only predilections were to serve themselves, protect themselves, unleashed their violence upon his dear Cora? If innocence should exist, she was the paragon and still she perished.
His teeth grated harshly as Mayor Morton Kelsey's indifferent face entered his mind—that ominous nod and calloused smirk which condemned Cora to death.
He suddenly felt weak, his breath draining from his chest. Wasn't he one of those who only cared for themselves? His chest heaved through a growing tightness. Wasn't he as much to blame for Cora's...death? No, it wasn't true. He whimpered and grabbed his head, vomit spewed from his mouth. The awful truth. He had been so foolish to believe this place could be a respite from the agony of his house, and that unforgiving basement. Why did he fool himself into believing he'd find answers here. The ledge of the bluff suddenly yearned for him, opening wide, pulling him towards its edge. The curse would bring him back from death but he deserved the pain of crashing to the ground below. Proper Innocence—Cora screamed in his mind. He dug his feet firmly into the muddy soil, his arms swinging wildly as if trying to clasp on to the birch tree. A darker, utterly guttural voice supplanted Cora's—the beastly feline voice—Guilt, shame, chaos, forever.
He fled, stumbling over tree stumps running from the truth that unraveled him in this place. Everything blurred, forms blended into an imperceptible mash as he labored to the makeshift path that would lead him down. Suddenly, he heard voices. Not in his head. Off to his left branches broke and echoed under moving feet heading his direction. The floating orange pulp of a lit cigarette bobbed around. He ducked behind the nearest trunk. There was no time to dash over the bluff ledge, the group of kids were moving up fast. His only means of escape was to plummet through downhill. He ducked his head behind his forearm and bound into the thicket opposite of them. Shrubs and branches stabbed him across his body like pitchforks. He caromed indiscriminately downward, yet before the voices were totally faded he risked a glance over his shoulder, and lost his balance falling some ten or fifteen feet, his momentum only stopped by an oak tree. Pain rocketed through his pelvis. He bit his tongue hard to stifle the rising moan and laid still, peering between the trees. Did they hear? A woodpecker hammered into the tree above him. For a moment he was convinced the woodpecker was alerting them to his presence. But the groups of kids proceeded up to the peak unaware of sorcerer's wreck.
He descended the remainder of the bluff, and fled back to his house.
Later that night, in the dank living room he sat on the couch. He stared defeatedly at the feline painting above the fire place, its merciless and cruel red eyes glared back waiting to pounce at the stroke of midnight. He was absent heart, absent desire to work on the orchid elixir. Despair triumphed and he could sense its diabolical fingers seizing the reigns of his mind, preparing him for the hopelessness of eternity. Tonight, he thought, he'd lie on the couch and await the next wound the feline would render. He removed his cloak. It felt off, as if something was missing. His pupils dilated as they settled on the large void in the cloak pocket--Cora's diary was gone.