Joy

“We live in an endless world of fun.” she said, soberly.

“I beg your pardon,” he retorted, almost snorting.

“Well of course we do – silly,” and poked him playfully.

“Hey!”

They were travelling again, though away from the city for once. Time slowed up as the last of the built world whirled by the train window – fast in contrast to her slow grin.

“What – you and me?” he offered, whilst musing internally on how he’d missed the opportunity to poke her back.

“Yes, but everyone else as well.”

She was staring out the window now – her eyes jogging to and fro as their attention was repeatedly caught and then released.

“Surely you can’t mean that?”

“Why not?”

“Well . . . so many people suffer don’t they?”

“Do they?” her eyes found his. “Look at how everyone lives . . . Every wish is answered. Every problem has a solution. And not only that, but every solution has been refined to be made easy and it just keeps on getting easier. It’s effortless. I don’t even think I’m going to die.”

“Really?” he blurted, shocked.

There followed a long silence during which he looked at her anew. She still had all that tumbledown air of ubiquitous charm. Her curly hair still swept haphazardly around her feral features. Her clothes still clamped together a myriad magical material moments. And her eyes still shone brightly . . . but . . . now . . . where had his city girl gone? . . . Eventually she looked away again and a distance opened up between them. He stumbled for an utterance but could only find his emptiness. This made him feel uncomfortable. Had he misjudged her? She’d seemed so strong – yes – but . . . rational . . . What could he say? . . . At length words materialised though they were trite.

            “Perhaps we could get a drin –” but she cut him off in his stride, her eyes catching his, her mouth intent with words.

            “Everyday . . . I don’t know why . . . I try and try to touch the sky . . . And even though . . . I can but try . . . I don’t know . . . it’s do or die . . .”

            “You’re rhyming.”

            “Yes . . . does that bother you?”

            “Well I . . . I guess not.” he said, suddenly abashed. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

            “Are you sure?” she said, gazing at him knowingly. He glanced down, shaking his head and smiling.

            “No no. I – I mean yes . . . I’m sure.”

            She nodded and started up again, slowly – emphatically.

            “So everyday . . . I can be found . . . on a hill jumping up and down . . . And though my feet hardly leave the ground . . . in for a penny in for a pound.”

            “Is that a riddle?” he scoffed, and she immediately kicked him under the table.

            “Ow – what?”

            “Who are you Anthony?” she balked, incredulous. To which he looked back confusedly. So she composed herself and repeated herself, this time carefully choosing her emphasis.

“Who . . . are you?”

Anthony thought this ridiculous – but he decided to humour her anyway.

            “You know who I am. I’m me ~ Anthony Joseph Ringel. I’m a lawyer.”

            She waited  for more . . . but it seemed he had nothing else to say on the matter.

            “What, so that’s it is it? You’re just a name and an occupation?”

            “No. Obviously not, it’s just . . .” but he’d lost her to the window again.

            “Oh, we’re here!” she exclaimed, and jumped up, grabbing her luggage as she slipped away.

            “C’mon,” she teased, looking back.

He gave chase.

 

*

 

They’d met in a bar in the city. A spilt drink, an accident, but she didn’t believe in accidents and he was tired of pretty much everything else – so he’d listened to her – she was new. A long night passed and they’d agreed to meet again the following day. They’d become friends. And now, on a lovely late spring afternoon, they’d arrived in the countryside to visit a castle in the woods where she lived. It could be seen from their approach - piercing the tree canopy like Walt Disney himself had designed it. She'd imprisoned them in a deux cheveux at the station and he'd thought "how appropriate".

            Once free from the car, she veritably bounced off down the yellow-bricked track that led towards the cottage that stood in a clearing in the distance. It was clear that she knew the place only too well and loved it, dearly. Before long they were hid inside and a fire was lit along with laughter and smiles. Food was prepared and their conversation cast an incantation of ease. He broke that spell.

            “On the train earlier . . . what were you getting at?”

            At once she set off to answer but immediately stalled. This time, it was she who looked him over. She hadn’t seen it before, but now noticed how he looked slightly bedraggled. His hair was getting out of shape – it had obviously not been cut in a while. He had a thin beard and his eyes, though kind, were somewhat jaded. He’d lost the sparkle and sense of joy she imagined he probably had, once upon a time. Whereas she knew she would always have hers

            “I was trying to get at you – Anthony Joseph Ringel,” she mimicked. “I want to know what you’re thinking. What does a lawyer dream? I want you to tell me this and tell me everything. And I want to know – ‘what’s your scheme?’ ”

Anthony looked at her in disbelief, pursed his lips and shook his head decidedly. But the shadows had crept up around them now. It was late and all at once he felt quite world-weary. The room rapidly receded save the glowing fire, which not only lit up her face but also his heart in his chest . . . from witch . . . without mind . . . words pressed up and opened his mouth to speak – though he knew not what he would say.

            “Sometimes . . .” he groped into his darkness. “I don’t even know what day it is . . . It’s like I don’t know what’s been . . . And sometimes . . . I get this feeling that says: ‘I don’t know why I do anything’ . . . and I wonder . . . ‘what’s my scene?’ ”

            On hearing this she smiled, got up and vanished into the darkness – leaving him a lone face lit by the fire – only her voice drifting to him one last time before the day was through.

“Life’s nothing more than a dream Anthony. When you wake up, you’ll see.”           

 

*

 

The next morning the warm sun caressed Anthony’s cowled eyes till they blossomed like flowers. Vision restored, he looked blearily about and found himself draped in a blanket but still sat by the fire that had long since gone out. He rose, stretched and found breakfast on the kitchen table. Tied to it was a tag that said ‘Eat Me’. He followed the instructions and then poured himself a cup from the similarly labelled teapot. After drinking, he peered through a looking glass but encountered no discernable change in size. ‘Perhaps the two had balanced each other out?’ he amused himself. Then, curious as to where his host was hiding, he stepped outside into the sunshine whereupon he caught sight of her in the vegetable patch. She was pulling at what he imagined was a turnip. Both wellied heels dug into the black soil as she strained two-handed at the leaves and stems. But what was this? Wonder of wonders, a white butterfly – perhaps a Cabbage Patch – trembled across the blue sky and landed on her shoulder. Duly, the earth gave way and she catapulted backwards down onto the ground with a bump and a shriek. The turnip meanwhile, through a kind of sling shot action, landed in her lap whilst the butterfly, which had flown up from the fracas, came down again and alighted for a moment upon her hand. For a split second, the sight somehow struck Anthony of Snow White.

            “Well . . . that’s the last of them,” she laughed, getting up and tossing the turnip into an already full crate. “Have you eaten?”

            “Yes. Thank you.”

            “Great, then let’s go.” And she fetched up a shoulder bag from a bench by the door, which she pulled shut. “Apples”, she indicated. “Always best to eat your own,” she joked.

 

*

 

Ambling along they soon faded into the forest and he began to think of breadcrumbs but she stole the thought away with words.

            “Do you want a scarf?” she questioned, hinting at the bag.

            “Am I supposed to be ‘Rupert The Bear’ then?” he tousled.

            “If you want to be . . .” she beamed back and pulled one end of a multicoloured scarf free from the bag. He took hold of it, pulling it loose but she quickly caught the other end and whilst they were linked, drew him off the beaten track. Once there she started humming a tune. Anthony obliged her with a query.

            “Has it got any words?”

            “Yes,” she replied “I sing it every time I go for a stroll like this.”

            “Well please provide them for us then?” he said – to which she nodded and in a strong voice began to sing.

            “Take me to a place . . . I want to go . . . Take me to a place . . . but take it slow . . . For I don’t know. No, I don’t know – where to go . . .” She smiled at him, adding, “There’s more . . .”

            “Be my guest.” He reassured, and she struck up again.

            “Take me to a place . . . I want to be . . . Take me to a place . . . Set me free

. . . For I don’t know. No, I don’t know – how to be . . .”

            The words wandered away on the wind and disappeared over the rainbow on the horizon they found as they emerged from the forest. They belonged to the sky now. And the corners of Anthony’s mouth were just beginning to turn when he heard the shrill screech of a beastly bird – or perhaps, a child in distress? He couldn’t quite tell but it cut through the day so savagely that the hair on the back of his neck veritably sprung to attention. Spinning on his heels, he turned to face the sound and without a second thought, plunged headlong back down into the forest towards it.

“No, not that way!” she cried out after him but he ignored her and crashed on until he swore the sound came from behind the next tree where he froze at the sight before him. A fox, now spooked by Anthony’s sudden appearance, inadvertently freed a struggling owl that had, till then, been jammed in its jumbled jaws, and a horny back toad, having been similarly liberated from a brazen beak by the unannounced fox, burped up a rather befuddled fly. “I wonder why?” he thought.

 

*

 

Returning to the edge of the forest Anthony searched about but she had vanished.

And by the time he got back to the cottage, it was starting to rain, so he lit a fire.

‘ . . . It’s no good . . .’ he thought to himself.

‘ . . . This bird sure has flown.’

And so he wondered ‘ . . . why . . . had she run away?’

And then he recalled that time in a city park when she’d refused to go in his direction.

He’d stubbornly stormed off back down towards the car.

But just before he’d lost her, turned back - hoping she was still in earshot.

“Well, at least tell me your name? I never asked . . .” he’d called out after her.

“Guess!” she’d shouted back, her eyes glinting in the sunshine.

And she’d started to sing as she turned once more to the hill and the sky.

. . 

Back in the cottage he relaxed and looked outside.

‘I wonder if Joy’s in the rose garden?’ Anthony Jo[seph] Ringel smiled to himself.

~