BHS Inkwell 2017-2018

Friends of the Meadow By Emily Barron

are almost synchronized, sending tiny puffs of dust swirling through rays of early morning sun. We don't talk, comfortable in silence. I’m too out of breath, and Rufus isn’t particularly talkative in the mornings anyway. We slow to a walk as the trees thin out, and we enter the Meadow.There is a huddle of people up ahead, all dressed in black.The skin behind my ears prickles and my eyes narrow as we near them. “Hello,” I call out.They turn towards us. Several are carrying with them small leather bags or glass jars. A man in boots holds a limp rabbit by the ears, its throat slit open (presumably by the hunting knife hanging at his side). “Hello, friends,” one woman replies.They’re gathered around a bright red “For Sale” sign posted next to the path. “We are the Friends of the Meadow,” says the woman. “We take care of this lovely public Meadow for all to enjoy.” Rufus glances around at the yellow grass and dead shrubs of the Meadow. “Great job you’ve done,” he says. “Thank you,” says the woman, obviously not registering his sarcasm. “We’ve worked so hard. But now the town is trying to sell our beautiful Meadow!” She gestures to the sign next to her. “We must do something to stop this.The Meadow is for all citizens to enjoy.The town cannot just sell it!”Her cheeks are flushed red and her eyes dart back and forth. Her pale hands are curled into shaking fists, and I take a step back instinctively. “Um… good luck,” I say as Rufus pulls me roughly along the path. “Annie, let’s go,” he hisses. “Why are you in such a hurry?” I ask as we jog away, although I am slightly relieved to get away from those strange people and their tiny nature Crusade. “I don’t like them. I bet those are the weirdos that killed Stripes.” I roll my eyes. “Oh my God Rufus, nobody killed your cat. He probably got eaten by something.” “They didn’t just kill him.They sacrificed him.” “Riiiight. Here we go with this again.” Rufus shrugs. “You don’t have to believe me. I’ve seen them out in the Meadow at night. I know what they do. Did you see that man back there with the grey beard? He was holding a dead rabbit. Probably preparing for some sort of ritual.”

The freezing water around me is dark and murky, so deep that I can’t see the light of the surface. I can’t breathe. I can see faces, blurry and faded. The faces are insubstantial, nothing but smudged drawings from a sketchbook long forgotten somewhere in a dusty attic. Their eyes are dark like blackstrap molasses. It’s so cold. The faces stare down at me, grinning wide as I sink deeper. Too wide. Their teeth are not normal. The water is so cold and heavy… I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t – I’m swimming in blankets, not water, sitting straight up and gasping in the cool air of my bedroom. My eyes are open wide now, my heart jackhammering in my chest with the dream so fresh behind my eyes.The moon, waxing its way to full, sends a cascade of honeysuckle colored light through my window. I sit up and place my palm against the smooth cold glass. In the darkness outside, I can just make out the line of trees and greenery that slowly and steadily encroaches on my backyard. Somewhere in the darkness behind all the trees are the soft, undulating hills of the Meadow. I turn away from the window and go back to bed until the silence of the night is broken by birdsong, and the darkness melts into saffron and mauve. I slip into my clothes and wiggle my sneakers onto my feet. I move slowly, under a soft sleep-haze, even though I know that Rufus will be unhappy with me if I am late to meet him for our morning run. Rufus’s punctuality is his peculiar virtue, the one aspect of his personality that doesn’t fit in with his messy hair, or his penchant for getting lost, or the general chaos inside his skull. He’s been like this since I met him in third grade, organizing himself only by the numbers on the clock. I hurry out to the abandoned barn to meet him so that we can begin our jog before the sticky summer heat takes hold of the day. He is waiting there as usual, leaning against the weathered wooden wall of the barn. “Morning,” I say. He smiles and yawns, then we stretch and set off on the familiar path. As we run, I watch the shadows cast by the trees on either side of us.They flicker over Rufus’s angular face and turn his auburn locks red-orange. Our footsteps

8