by Mary C Smith
For a time we rode the crest of plump, acid green hills, that curved and rolled like the sway of a tired old horse, free at last from his heavy plow. Above us, to the north, rising through mottled vegetation, smelling of ginger, cinnamon and primal earth, appeared the regal, hooked nose, black volcano, known as The Angry One. A grey collar of ash mixed with a perpetual mantle of clouds, just above his imagined eyebrows, gave the Angry One a cloak of age as well as his name. Native tales claim The Angry One to be the Father of their island; not always a benevolent father either. To the south we occasionally caught sight, through holes in the writhing vegetation, of the breathtaking azure ocean, breaking onto the wide swale of beach, black sand stolen piece by piece away from The Angry One. Perhaps that accounted for his mood.
Before we completely tired of the rippling dips and humps of bare backbone roadway we plunged from the cloud-studded heights, flying down an undulating hip of narrow pavement, gaining speed as we skirted wide flanks of forest then nose-dived deeper into the neon tropics.
A vacuum of light and sound consumed us as we rushed through wormholes carefully excised from dense foliage. Fear gripped us as we imagined ourselves swallowed by this thriving vegetation, so thick you could not discern where one plant stopped and another began. Pinned to the seat in sweaty, mortal fear of the darkness, like children on a scary carnival ride, we emerged from the gloom, spilling out onto a sunny plateau with a momentary glimpse of the wide expanse of the bay.
The vegetation receded and immaculately manicured grounds materialized hosting colossal bulbous shapes sculpted from native red and black marble. Exceptional houses appeared on either side of the narrow pavement, separated but connected by extraordinary skywalks overhanging the roadway. These bridges, mostly appearing to be of wooden construction, elegant in their geometric simplicity, served as aerial decks, some adorned with patio furniture and others with banners snapping in the ocean breeze, but purposely devoid of vegetation. It was easy to imagine sitting atop a bridge taking in sweeping views of the ocean, the mountains and the occasional traveler passing underneath.
The road rose and fell as we rushed along and I bobbed like a top trying hard to maintain a level position in my seat, while my traveling companion, a small terrier, clung to me as we plummeted between stately manses. We dove, like swallows, swooping under the bridges at hard right angles. The tires screeching, trying to maintain contact with the pavement, the smell of burning rubber assaulting our noses, causing the terrier to sneeze loudly for such a small fellow.
I wanted the driver to slow down as I had never seen anything like the landscape nor the construction, let alone the contours of roadway we were now experiencing. Great trees in colors I had never imagined, adorned with globular flowers or vivid seedpods grew alongside the houses. The flowers complimented the exterior colors of the individual abodes but as hard as I studied I could not place what varieties of plants they might be. A chartreuse two-storied house with a triangle roof verily piercing the clouds was adorned with pink leaved trees, hosting plate sized, drooping bouquets of vibrant carnelian reds and oranges. While on the other side the road, flanking a turquoise colored tetrahedron shaped villa were the most unusual, stately, rust colored trees, bearing large copper colored flowers, hanging like ropes of bells used by Bhutanese monks.
By now the terrier was nearly on the top of my head, hanging on for dear life. I yelled up to the driver over the high seat but received no reply. When I raised myself over the mutton-covered seatback I was shocked to see the driver was not there, the car was somehow engaged on a track imbedded in the pavement. My former partners in tourism had vanished. Had I only imagined our conversations?
I somehow knew without instruction I should alert the car through speech to slow down and it would obey my commands. I did so and thankfully the car did as I wished and slowed down to a more comfortable speed. My obvious inclination to panic overwhelmed me, but I choked it back, clutched the terrier under my arm and clambered into the driver’s seat. I reasoned I may be able to overcome the controls if necessary and the view from the front seat was much more expansive anyway.
We neared what appeared to be the largest estate on the hillside and I instructed the car to slow even further so I might enjoy, at my leisure, the aspects of architecture so new to my senses. As the bridge between what appeared to be two halves of the great estate came into view I heard a party. Happy voices, like a flock of feasting water birds heralded our arrival. I “knew” of the legend associated with The Angry One but did not recall meeting anyone from the island. In fact, how did I know it was an island? Perhaps I might meet someone who could tell me where I might be.
The car followed a gentle arc in the roadway momentarily obscuring my view. When next the party came into sight there were no people to greet me, instead a great flock of storks lifted from the deck, long legs tucking under their massive bodies and for all their girth they glided effortlessly into the pure, fading light of evening. One chaste white feather floated into the seat next to me while the terrier maintained a constant siege of barking.
There was so much beauty compressed in these new surroundings, so much to occupy me, that it seemed a shame not to focus on that, at least for a short while. The terrier agreed wholeheartedly, licking my arm and rooting his head under my elbow for me to pet him while we admired the ocean, glittering gold and blue like a holograph, in the sunset. I asked the car to find a safe place to come to a stop where we might enjoy the full view of the coastline. At once there appeared a parking overlook where the terrier and I spent a good while inspecting the expanse of ocean, the setting sun painting gold and pink streaks atop the water, then the moon rising and stars abounding in their own colorful auras. As night blanketed us in a perfect temperature, the terrier settled in closer next to me, which was more reassuring to me, I am certain, than it was to him.
Try as I might I could not follow a thread back to anything known in my past. I reasoned I must be dead, but found it did not seem to matter, so my little companion and I fully enjoyed the evening, wanting for nothing, when we spotted car lights approaching us from the east.
Soon the car, which as far as I could tell was a pearl white Rolls-Royce sedan with an open drivers compartment, pulled alongside us.
When I saw the enclosed sedan I realized the car I was in was a convertible, a red convertible at that! I had always dreamed of having a red convertible!
“This must be the GREAT RECKONING!” I told the terrier.
The dog looked at me with perfectly soulful terrier eyes and snuggled closer.
I was not fearful. I was certainly curious, but neither fearful nor nervous.
It just “WAS”.
It was all “OKAY”!
In fact, I searched my mind for memories, for regrets, for failures, for shames. I felt nothing that I had done had been done in vain.
“IT WAS ALL AS IT SHOULD BE”.
I resigned myself and sighed. The terrier sighed.
But, just as the window lowered on the Rolls Royce a terrible thought slammed me headlong; HAD I TURNED OFF THAT COFFEE POT?!…
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