LitHit – Craig Spence

Into the Hermit’s Trail

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From Flibber T. Gibbet
The most mischievous elf in all Chemainus
A soon-to-be-released adventure story
set in MuralTown
* Asterisk indicates a note below

Story Craig Spence / Illustrations Diana Durrand

Lincoln didn’t really want to go farther. He knew Nana West and Grandpa Grumps would be upset and angry when he made his way back to their house on Maple Street*. But he just couldn’t stop, and certainly didn’t have time to think. The yellow footprints hustled along at a gallop, barely visible on the crunching gravel of the E&N trail.*

“Slow down!” he complained.

But the pace quickened, as if the footprints were trying to lose him, either that or draw Lincoln on and tucker him out at the same time. He fell behind at one point, making his way up a steep grade, but rallied and caught up, hurtling down the other side.

Then, suddenly, the footprints veered off the trail, plunging into the bordering forest. Lincoln lost his footing, changing course so quickly on the loose gravel. He fell and skinned his knee. “Ow!” he cried out. But there wasn’t a moment to lose, rubbing the wound. Scrambling to his feet he peered between two boulders at the head of a trail, which disappeared beyond a stand of gigantic cedars.

For an instant Flibber T. Gibbet made a ghostly appearance, spinning wildly atop one of the boulders, taunting, cheering, daring Lincoln into the dense forest beyond the cedar pillars, then dashing ahead once again, become an infuriating set of tracks plunging into the bush.

Bushwhacked! If he could have spared the breath, Lincoln would have smiled at a remark Grampa Grumps might have made. But, gasping for air, warding off the clinging stinging blackberry canes, and trying to keep up with the manic elf, he was in no mood for joking.

Common sense warned him to stop. Give up the chase. “No way!” he rebelled, urging himself farther and farther up the Hermit’s Trail.

Suddenly, Flibber T. vanished into what seemed an impenetrable thicket. Lincoln dove in after him, warding off the clutching branches, leaves and thorns with his arms, crouching low to the ground, where glints of light penetrated through chinks in the dense vegetation. He’d only advanced a few steps when, without warning, he broke into a clearing. Dazzled for a moment, it was too late for him to react before he realized the ground had sloped away from under him. For a puzzled moment Lincoln pedalled desperately in midair, then pitched forward, tumbling down what he realized through his battering descent was a flight of stone steps.

“Yaagh!” he bellowed and thrashed all the way, amazed to find himself coming to rest on a stone terrace, looking up into the clear blue sky through an overarching canopy of trees. The teasing babble of a brook mocked from nearby.

The first thing that frightened Lincoln about the place he’d landed was… no pain? Bruised and sore as you’d expect to be, having landed with such a thump, he felt nothing. Sedated, he floated in a sort of dream, cushioned by the swaddling air, which seemed to sooth any sensations that might have made him wince or groan.

What is this place? he wondered.

He tried turning his head to get a better sense of his predicament… Tried again, but couldn’t move. No matter how hard he strained, his muscles wouldn’t respond. What’s happening! he pleaded, desperate to twitch a finger or even an eyelid… Imagine yourself a stone with a brain, able to see and hear and smell everything around you, but totally paralyzed, and you’ll get an idea of the state Lincoln found himself in.

What would you do? What could he do, but panic!

Notes

Lincoln has been lured from Mural #36 The Hermit, onto the E&N Railway Trail in Chemainus.
Flibber T. Gibbet leaves yellow footprints wherever he goes, but they can only be seen by people who believe in elves, and the vanish quickly ‘like invisible ink’.

Influences

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 This morning’s sun dawned on me,
 a bleed of light in the ambient air,
 impressing with its metaphor of glory.
 
 And I asked: Is this the shining way…
 the path?

 And I asked: How many dawns
 have bathed me in their
 blare of blinding light?

 And I say: Dawning’s beyond conception.

 I don’t remember my mother’s face,
 from that first day she held me
 swaddled in her arms.
 My earliest memories
 are assembled pastiches
 retrieved from jumbled collections,
 fading images in forgotten albums...
 Brothers, sister and me
 in defining moments picked
 from the scrabble of growing up...
 Growing old.

 And I ask: Is this the past I wanted?
 My only possible inception?
 
 And I say: Their love was good enough
 to endure a lifetime.
 
 And what of my own sons,
 misunderstanding, misunderstood,
 good as me at finding fault?
 Is their's a future untold,
 stories in the making,
 or a history already
 that I’m to blame for?

 In the midst of this day’s dawning
 a flight of geese honked and gabbled
 up our street;
 our suspiring phalanx 
 of cedars, arbutus, and Douglas fir
 stood firm, and jagged against the sky;
 a frog croaked in the yard,
 awakening my admiration
 for ants, and beetles…
 and lowly worms.

 My morning mantra harkened,
 urged me to complete
 The Circle…
 
 ‘We are defined
 by what we are-not
 As much as by
 Who we think we-are,’

 The moment I sense my self
 I disappear,
 become part of the very nature
 that shapes my solitude...
 my joy, my fear.

Hard Work

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LitHits are snippets of prose and poetry. They can be stand alone provocations, collaborations, or excerpts from longer works that encapsulate completely an insight or feeling. Got a LitHit in you? Want to get it out there? Send it my way…