By April Russell

The woods around Harper’s Ferry are alive. My Aunt had told me this the first day I arrived here. But that was years ago, back when my hair still had some shine to it and my legs found it easier to run than to walk. Now, as I watch the blue-blackness of night bow down to another morning, I stretch, remembering it all once more. I can’t say I believed her that day. But none of us did, really.

Aunt Georgie was the oldest person we knew. “She’s gotta be at least a thousand,” my sister, Sarah would say when we huddled in our bedroom at night. She’d lean forward, bending at her narrow waist to where the bones of her spine poked through her thin cotton gown. Slowly she’d step, placing one foot after another on the dusty pine floor, imitating Aunt Georgie’s sluggish walk. She was two years older than me and Mikey, so naturally she thought that made her our boss. After dinner, when Aunt Georgie went to bed, she’d make us wash the dishes before we could go outside. Reading the book she’d brought along the day they told us to pack everything up, she’d sit at the table while we scrubbed away. We had to tiptoe to reach the big, rusty sink and our calves would burn like fire by the time we were finished.

Covered in greasy dishwater, we’d burst through the screen door and run through last few minutes of daylight, our skinny legs slicing through the tall blades of grass. We had never seen a place like Harper’s Ferry before. Everywhere you looked, you saw green. Our only experience with nature had come from our long walks to school, when occasionally we’d stumble across a weed that had fought his way through the hot asphalt carpet that covered the city. A few people in our apartment building had flower boxes in their windows, but the smog that hung over us like a dirty ceiling usually stopped anything from growing in them.

As I make my way towards the shed out back, a cool breeze brushes over my skin. The weather today is perfect, a subtle reminder of why I returned. The leaves have started to change colors and a rich blanket of orange and yellow swirls around my feet. A layer of dirt and oil cover the old rusty jug in a grimy coat, sliding across my hands as I pick it up. Inside, the shed is quiet and dark, except for a small slice of sunlight that edges through the crooked doorframe. I wipe the can with a handkerchief I keep in my back pocket and look around. So many things had been forgotten here; so many had not.

Aunt Georgie’s house sat at the top of a steep hill about a hundred yards away from a patch of woods. From the front porch swing you could see them, spreading out across the horizon like spilled paint. They curved around the valley in the shape of a horseshoe, hiding the river that runs behind them and kissing the air with the sound of their waving leaves.

Something about them intrigued me. For hours I would sit and stare, waiting and watching for something to happen. I remember Aunt Georgie’s face that day we showed up. Pointing at the mass of trees, her finger trembled. “Don’t you go near those woods, none of you’s. They’re alive.” With that she snapped her lips tight, as if her own flesh might betray her. She swung her hip upwards, spinning on the cane in a deft, smooth motion towards the door.

It’s four hundred paces exactly to the edge of the woods. I haven’t counted them out like this in years. But this is the last trip I’ll take down the hill, and it feels wrong to break tradition. As I step inside, the leaves crack under my weight. My eyes still search through the branches for someone or something, hoping that they never find it. The jug hangs at my side, heavy in the grip of nervous, aging hands. For a second I think of Georgie and have to stop.

Most of the time we tried to ignore her and she did the same for us. We lived separate lives, coming together for meals, and then returning to our jobs like factory workers. Georgie taught us the important things though, whenever she could. She showed us how to drive the old noisy tractor so the fields could get mowed and we could ride it into town to get the things we needed. Sarah learned to cook and sew, even though she never did either one with much skill or enthusiasm. She’d roll her eyes whenever Georgie turned her back, spinning her index finger in circles around her ear to indicate our Aunt’s insanity.

Watching Sarah’s display never failed to send the two of us into fits of laughter. Georgie would stare with narrow black eyes across the kitchen table, our cheeks puffed out like squirrels. Unable to contain it in any longer, we’d lunge forward, our mouths open wide and grasping our stomachs for support. Eventually, we’d slide off the chairs and into the floor, flinging our legs through the air and howling. Georgie just shook her head and went back to her meal. I wonder now sometimes, just what it was she was thinking.

The first year in Harper’s Ferry I never entered the woods. I spent that time moving closer, daring myself to move up an inch or two each day. I knew when she’d caught me, her deep voice rolling down the hill, shaking me from my trance. “Get up here, boy. What’d I tell you?” On the front porch above me, she looked huge. In her hand she held a brown leather strap, the ends studded with bits of silver. She only used it on me once. After that, we buried it in the back yard, covering the dirt with a pile of rocks. We felt a small shifting of powers that day as we marched back towards the house as proud warriors.

When Aunt Georgie got sick, she couldn’t watch anymore. She rarely left the lonely room except to bathe, and most of the time she made Sarah give her the baths in bed. I remember how she’d stomp her feet across the floor as she carried the pan of water, sloshing half of it out before she made it to the door. Of course, we laughed at this too, running through the puddles in our bare feet until she yelled at us to clean it up. We’d slap each other with the wet towels afterwards, taking our battles outside to the forest below.

I feel the hollowness of my stomach as I trudge across the leafy floor. Searching deep in the wool pockets, I find only the faded matchbook put there this morning. The jug is empty now, the last few drops soaking into the dirt as I toss it to the ground. The woods seem to swell around me: cold and angry, as if they know.

Mikey was hesitant to go in at first. “I don’t know, Ben. What if we get lost?” He bit his bottom lip and scratched at his bony kneecap while I stepped backwards through the brush.

“C’mon, don’t be a chicken. It’s just trees.” I grabbed his hand and jerked him into woods. “You’re acting like a girl.” After that he never argued with me again.

It soon became our haven, our escape. We’d spend hours marching through dense haze of branches and leaves. Each trip we’d go deeper, marking off our paths with rocks and sticks. I lied when Georgie asked us if we had been in the woods.

“I’m serious, boys. It’s evil, no good,” she said, squeezing my hand tight. For a moment, I forgot who she was.

“You’re strong!” I cried out, impressed with the old woman’s strength. She tipped her head forward, as if to look through me, and smiled. I think it was the first time I saw her look happy. I almost felt bad for lying to her, but I was still just a boy.

They appeared out of nowhere. I didn’t even see them at first. Mikey nudged me in the side, speaking hushed, broken words. Annoyed, I turned towards him. His jaw hung frozen, the dark eyes wide and afraid. He raised a frail arm in front of him and pointed to the figures standing before us. I can still see them now.

The men moved swiftly, their white gowns fanning, encompassing our eyes. There must have been at least ten of them, maybe more. I didn’t stop to count. We turned awkwardly, dropping the rocks and twigs as we ran. My legs felt heavy and stiff. The faster I tried to run, the slower the ground seemed to take me. Mikey was far ahead. I saw him look over his shoulder as he followed the route we had marked along the dirt. Behind me, I heard them speaking, the sounds ripped from hidden mouths. I felt the empty eyes trace over me as I pounded through the web of green. It shattered with each step, bouncing up and over as I moved.

The daylight tore at the soft canopy. I didn’t hear them anymore, but I kept running, afraid to look back. I felt my lungs giving out as I came through the front door. Aunt Georgie was already standing there with Mikey beside her, clinging to her robe. She extended her arms as I collapsed into them, struggling to regain my breath.

“I know what you saw,” she said, her voice fading with our innocence. “There’s no good way to say this. Words don’t ever do enough.” As I stared up at her, I noticed the light freckling under her eyes. I had never seen it until then, just how much she looked like me. Her skin was lighter though, a milky tan where mine was like coal.

She moved slowly towards the porch. I can see it from here. The boards dip low in the center now, creaking, snapping at the point where they meet. So were we with the world. As we struggled to find the words for love, she grasped for those of hate. Neither were simple, but somehow I think we all understood.

My wrist snaps. The blue spark sends the sulfur drifting into the crisp fall air. Under my nose the smoke curls as the match shrinks against its flame. I drop it quickly, the warmth lingering in my cool dark fingers. It hits the leaves quietly, then shoots a golden arm across the ground, eager and fast. The fire streaks over the bed of limbs and grass in long orange waves. The stripes expand as they find the gasoline, flaring up into the tops of the trees and dancing overhead.

I count the steps up the hill again: four hundred still. From the tired porch swing, I watch the horseshoe spread its heat around me.