What Fools These Mortals Be

Who is she?

Is she Hermia? Chased by a man she doesn't love?

Titania? Blindly giving her love to an ass?

Helena? Pining for a man who turned from her in favor of another?

All three, then, but without Oberan's secret hand guiding Puck to the flower that could set things to right. Lord, what fools these mortals be.

An Ode to a Drizzly Morning

I like this weather.

I'm standing outside my front door. The sky is gray, but the hazy burn of the sun is still visible. Drops fall, enough to make a pleasant noise, leaving the world damp. Rocks that are normally gray now look dark and glossy, like polished marble. Glassy wet. The flowers lining my walk tremble from tiny drops that fall from trees above them. I like watching beads of water slide down the curve of leaves, and the way the water hangs at their pointed tips. I'm watching one, wondering how long it'll take before it gives up and falls. And there it goes! I counted to twenty-four before it lost itself to gravity. But it fell too fast for my eyes to follow, and I didn't see where it landed. Such a pretty world.

Meow?

Watchful eyes. The twitch of a tail, but otherwise as still as stone. He blinks, a slow, decisive movement. I call to him. He doesn't move. I turn to leave and abruptly he's on his back, paws outstretched. I stroke the soft fur along his chest. His eyes close in approval. Suddenly he's on his feet and moving away from me. He regards the world with cool disdain as he steps back into his favorite spot. I turn to leave and am halted by a questioning, "Meow?" When I look, his eyes are alert and engaged. His head tilts. Want to play? I laugh and join him on the floor. He pounces. We play. But with fluid grace he turns; the game is over on his terms, for he is a cat. Again he retreats to his favorite spot. His gaze is unfathomable and unfeeling. I look into those eyes and see no remembrance that we ever played. Without a sound he leaps to the window sill. Without a backward glance, he's gone.

Dreams

Sh-sh-shh.

It was only a dream.

I shake my head. Despite my best efforts, my mouth doesn't form words. But my eyes stop her.

She returns to my bed and pulls up the blanket. Her gaze is direct. "Only a dream."

My lips part. But, it wasn't a dream. 

Moments hang in the air. She looks tired as she watches me. "Dreams aren't real. They can feel real. They can scare you. Tell yourself over and over, it wasn't real, and it'll be as if it never even happened." She kisses my forehead. Her face comes close to mine and she whispers, "It wasn't real."

I try to speak. 

"It wasn't real." The words carry the force of all the mothers before her. "You will forget."

My voice slips away from me. 

It wasn't real.

Dreams aren't real.

She turns off the light. And I forget.

The Boy in the Tree

Once upon a time there lived a boy who spent his days sitting in a tree. This boy's name was Archer. Archer watched the world from above but wasn't overly preoccupied with the goings on of everyone below. He had all he needed in the tree. Food from the fruit on its boughs, shelter from winds and storm, and best of all he was hidden from view; safe from others.

Until one day, another boy chanced along a path that led near the tree. This boy's name was Quentin. Quentin looked up into the branches and decided he was in the mood for an adventure. He would climb to the highest branch and declare himself king of all he could see.

Archer paled at the sight of the boy now climbing his tree. He realized too late the difficulty in hiding up a tree, namely, that there was no escape if someone came up after him. The only thing he could think to do, at first, was remain very still. Still as the branch beneath him. Still as the leaves growing 'round him. He would remain unseen.

But like the branch beneath him and the leaves around him, Archer shifted and moved, and the other boy came ever closer. Branch by branch the climbing boy rose higher and higher, grunting with effort and making the tree shudder and shake. "I shall be king of the world!" the boy declared.

Archer gripped a stick he kept nearby. Would this other boy want to fight him? The boy's dirty fingers appeared on the branch below Archer, followed by the boy's leg as he swung it over. At last the boy forced himself up and stopped with raised brows, staring right at Archer.

Archer lifted his stick. "Don't come any nearer. I'll swing this hard on knock off your head if you do!"

The boy glanced at the stick before returning his gaze to Archer. "That's a great stick. After I become king of the world I'll find one to match, and we can jump down and battle."

Archer lowered the stick. He glanced at the grassy floor beneath the tree as a fine sheen of sweat formed along his neck and down his back. "N-- no." He steadied his voice, lifting his chin as he added. "Not because you would win. Just because I shouldn't like to battle you. I don't do anything I don't like."

The boy frowned. "Not even to have fun?"

"I don't need to have fun."

"All right."

Archer watched as the boy continued his climb and reached the very highest branch.

"I'm the king of the world!" The boy yelled this several times in every direction. He turned and looked down at Archer, breathless and smiling. "Come, climb to the top and be king of the world with me."

Archer noticed the way the branches bent under the boy's weight. He saw how anyone might see the boy as he stuck his head out of the top of the tree. He saw how he might not be strong enough to reach the highest branches, and then the boy would think him weak. "N-- no," Archer said. He cleared his throat and added more forcefully. "Not because I can't do it. Just because I shouldn't like to climb. I don't do anything I don't like."

The boy frowned. "Not even to be king of the world?"

"I don't need to be king."

"All right."

Archer watched as the boy swung down the branches and jumped onto the grass below.

"I'm going to journey to that mountain and reach the top," the boy said. He turned and looked up at Archer, ambition and passion smoldering in his eyes. "Come, be my companion and reach the top of the mountain with me."

Archer noticed the long path that led through dark woods. He saw how very far the mountain was, how high. He thought about goblins and giants, ogres and trolls and any number of wild beasts they might meet along the way. "N-- no," Archer said. "Not because I wouldn't make it. Just because I shouldn't like to journey. I don't do anything I don't like."

The boy frowned. "Not even to be my friend?"

"I don't need a friend."

Quentin set his sights away from the boy in the tree. "All right."

Safe in his tree, Archer watched the boy start down the path to the mountain. He wondered if the boy would make it to the top. He told himself he didn't care.

The Boy, Part 2: Island

(Continued from The Boy, Part 1: Water's Edge)

The warm water rushed over me, comforting. The boy's hands held mine. I felt secure.

"The island is beautiful," he continued. "Tranquil in places. Exquisite and dark."

"Is there danger?"

"Only the illusion of danger. Nothing can harm you there." He lifted my hands from the water, kissing them softly and leaving shining droplets on his lips. "Come with me. I know you'll love it."

I went willingly, longing for the island's beauty. The promise of excitement without danger. I wanted to go where he went, to feel what he felt, and I even urged him faster along. I could no longer feel anything beneath my feet, but with his hands holding mine it didn't matter. 

His grip loosened. Suddenly the water grew cold. The waves no longer gentle. I reached for him but he swam a few feet away.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing. I like to swim alone sometimes."

I nodded. "Okay." But his answer felt wrong. I swam alongside him but struggled to keep up. I felt the slow stupidity of my efforts and was sure he did too. "Don't leave me behind," I called out for the dozenth time.

"I'm not," he snapped, and the frustration in his voice emptied me.

"You feel far away," I said.

"I told you, I'm right here with you."

I reached for him and he recoiled.

"You're not swimming," I said.

His voice lacked warmth. He didn't meet my eyes. "I'm not going to keep swimming."

My chest hollowed. "But, what about the island?"

"I don't want to find it anymore."

The waves swelled high, pushing us further apart. "I'm afraid," I called.

I waited for him to tell me I had nothing to fear.

But he remained silent.

I treaded water. He swam in a different direction from where we'd come or where we were going. He swam to another shore. I tried to follow but he ducked below the water and out of sight. He was gone for so long I thought he might have drowned. But he emerged at the water's edge looking stronger than ever. 

He was fine.

He was fine without me. And I was alone.

I tried to swim on my own too.

But I had let myself get too far from the shore.

I began to flail, but he no longer cared. I called out, but he no longer listened. I refused to slip beneath the surface, but the pain of the frigid water filled every part of me. He had left me.

I made it shore, but not the way he had. Not strong, but beaten. Battered. Having fought for every inch as I swam to the sand I should never have left. I sat, huddled and soaked, trembling and broken. But the sun would dry me. Time would heal me. And now I knew better. I would never enter into that water again. The island wasn't meant for me, if it was even there at all.

The Boy, Part 1: Water's Edge

I smiled at the boy.

He smiled back.

"Come into the water," he said.

I shook my head. I never went into the water. I didn't trust it. Gentle waves that soothed, deceptively warm. But water could destroy. The simplest way to keep from drowning was to never get wet.

"Please?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. He took my hand. 

The contact made my heart beat faster. I glanced at the shimmering, still surface of the water. No. It looked calm and inviting, but it was dangerous. The tide could turn. It might become cold. Harsh. I inched away. My entire life I had kept safely out of the water. I would be a fool to go into it now.

"You can trust me. I'll keep you safe." The boy sat and pulled me down beside him. "We don't have to go into the water if you don't want to. We can just sit together and look at how beautiful it is. And once enough time passes, you'll see that I'll never let anything bad happen to you. There's nothing to fear. Then you'll want to go into the water with me."

I sat with him, watching the water, watching him, listening to his stories and telling my own. I hadn't noticed the subtle rise of the lulling tide, the calm water inching ever closer to our spot. A hushed wave rolled up and reached our legs. I started, tucking my feet up.

"It's okay," the boy said. "I'm right here. We're together."

The next wave brought water swirling around us. It was so warm. Surprisingly comforting, and the boy urged me further in. I trusted him. I could trust him. The knowledge filled a deep ache inside me and I wanted to go deeper, to feel the water surround me and fill me. I wanted what the boy wanted. I let myself go, into the water. I let myself go.

But we'd gone so far from the shore. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't feel the safe, sandy ocean floor beneath me anymore. I could feel nothing but the boy and the water.

"You seem afraid." The boy's eyes were gentle. "What are you afraid of?"

I shouldn't have told him. I should have smiled and said, Nothing. I'm afraid of nothing. But I said, "That the tide will turn. That the water will become cold. That you'll leave me alone."

"I'm right here, just as much in the water as you are." His lips came close to mine. "You have nothing to fear."

His words soothed me. Yes, the water was just as deep for him. He understood. 

"There's an island." He held me close. "It's beautiful. Come with me?"

(Continued in The Boy, Part 2: Island).