Sycamore Flats

It was late September when I first heard her voice. Oh, how I needed to hear her voice. It was as if I was dreaming and sleep walking out into the forested valley. She sang to me songs only I could hear as her words were woven into my unspoken dreams.  Her seductive music, pure and true, seemed formed from the very material of my creation. Each note would resonate within my physical body. My spirit seemed to be both set free and reconnected to my mortal soul at the same time. I guess I would have to say, her song made me whole again. The words she sang do not matter.  They did not matter then and they matter less now.  What did matter was how I felt when I listened to her song.  Everything she sang felt like she had read the desires of my mind and created the music I needed to hear.  I no longer felt as if I was a broken man. 

 I believed she was feeling the same attachment to my soul. Under this belief and in this state of mind, I answered the call to meet with her. We were to meet at the ghostly white Sycamore tree hanging over the churning waters of the icy river flowing in the valley below my home. The night was as specific as the time and place. We would find our blissful ecstasy at 3:00 AM on Halloween. I know, it felt cheesy to me as well, but I was smitten and the playfulness of the specifics just added to the mystique of her calling.

Her instructions were to tie a rope over the branches that canopied the river and swing out over the deadly waters where her spirit was trapped in a enchanted prison within the river. Her part was to jump up out of the waters current and meld with my spirit as I dropped from the rope. Her prison could not hold a mortal body and with her spirit united with mine, I could save her and we would escape together.

My heart was squirreling around in my chest at the thought of my transformation and deliverance from this hellish life I was trapped in as well. I could only imagine how she must be feeling being trapped in a literal magical prison. I spent over an hour grooming my imperfect human body to make it as presentable as possible to meet my soul's mysterious mate.

The night was cold enough to have ice forming at the edges of the river bank. I could see my breath fog the moonbeams in my eyes as I approached the whispering waters of the mist blanketed river. I could not see her, but I could hear, feel, and taste the ambrosia of her song. Every nerve ending in my body was standing at attention with the anticipation of joining with the seductress behind the magical voice.

I had tied a metal rod to the end of the rope. I threw the end of the rope out over the largest splotchy-white limb of the giant Sycamore.  I smiled with satisfaction at the sight of the rope hanging over the river.  The French Broad was creeping downstream like a wet serpent, slithering unseen below the condensing humidity of the moonlight.

I used my skill with my fly rod to hook the dangling rope and reel the metal rod back to the rivers edge. Then I tied a slip knot and secured the pendulum that would allow me to swing out to the place I could sense her voice. I also tied loops and footholds so I could stay on the rope swing if my grip got weak or wet. My neck was twitching with the tension of forcing breath into my resisting lungs. The time was now to claim my promised bliss. All I had to do was swing out over the water and get close enough for her to reach me.

 Her song became more urgent; a pleading I could not resist. A demand, commanding me from my very core to obey this voice, was the final push allowing my body to leap onto the rope and swing out to meet my fate. The stretching rope seemed to harmonize with the Sycamore as they screeched a sickening wail across the river valley.  This sound felt like rusty hinges breaking open within the depths of a forbidden dungeon.  I could hear the echoing within the swirling mist below my feet.

Something touched me.  Somehow, I did not actually feel the touch on the surface of my feet or legs because there was no weight to this grasp. Still, I felt the cold tendril of death twisting up inside me along the bones of my legs. I fought to escape as my anticipation turned to panic. I twisted my leg inside and around the loop I was standing in and tried to loop my arm in another twist of the rope. My flight was out of control as I careened back toward the slippery slime of the red clay bank. Just as quickly, I felt the pendulum accelerate me back toward the center of the river to meet my soul matched enchantress.

Suddenly, the rope was pulled tight to the middle of the now churning waters. My body was jerked by unseen hands toward the surface of the river.  I could not hold on with my hands because I missed the loop during my surprising and brief retreat. My leg, however, was locked tight into a loop of the rope.  Suspended like a fishing lure caught in a tree branch, I dangled above the pit of my demise.  I felt the bones in my leg snap from the increasing tension pulling my helpless body as I was stretched out, hanging by my entangled leg on the still complaining rope. Hanging upside down, I felt the abyss of hopelessness invade the marrow of my bones.  My immortal soul was peeled out of my mortal body as if some spirit knew how to “skin” my soul free with precision.  Pushed out of my body, my last remaining hope fell into the trap where the voice had been imprisoned.

The intense pain was followed by a much worse condition of nothingness. This state of living in a truly empty void made me crave to feel the pain again. I looked up to see my body hanging in the rope. The voice once seducing me with song was screaming with frustration and anger. The body she had stolen, my body, was trapped in the tangled rope. I watched from the swirling rivers glassy walls for what seemed like hours, as my body was writhing and twisting to get free of the rope. Finally the hanging body my soul once possessed lost enough energy and heat it could no longer sustain any life. Her voice gave a sickening howl as my body gave its last breath of freedom and life to her.

Two duck hunters found my body a few days later. The police came and ruled the situation a messed up suicide. I yelled and screamed for the officers to find me, but nobody could hear my voice from  within the river. Nobody has heard my voice for years, until now...

Lucky for me, you seem to hear me just fine. Can you hear the music of my song echoing off the river near Sycamore Flats? Maybe you can help free me? 

Reviews

[Rachelle]

In my country, this would have been akin to an encounter with an enkanto or enkantada - nature spirits - the basis of which were the animist origins of my forebears before Islam or Christianity set in. They would test the hearts of mortals they encounter by posing as an old woman or man seeking help. If you helped, they would reward you. If you didn't, you would be punished. If they liked you, you would have been spirited away into their world. Because of these beliefs, we would say, "Tabi-tabi, po!" or "Excuse me, sir/ma'm" to every rock, anthill, tree or bush we encounter after dark so as not to offend any spirit or deity that we might bump into in the dark.

[David Scott]

Thank you for reading.
I think you should write a story about your traditions. Sounds very interesting. I like learning about other cultures.
In the 8th grade I wrote a research paper on the spirits of the Hawaiian Islands... Interesting and spooky!

[David Scott]

Dear friend,

You touched me deeply with your powerful quill, this night, while I am writing again, and listening to the finest music, which brings me into other worlds, I can tell you your story just came into my radar on the perfect moment. There lays so much strength, and maturity and power in this character, by being such a pearl of selflessness...

There is a favorite song of the Sycamore tree,
I want to share here with you :) and look at the name of the artist ;)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8g_xpqjHKU

I love these old Jazz (free-flowing) heart full un-ruled pieces... It's pretty much like I am, but then with poetry.

Your story made me remind me of the song :) so wonderful....
I noticed your lately 3 AM coincidences, and I must say, I can shake hands with that time too, as I write this now pretty much after it, and have had some visions in the past, always around 3.15. AM lol... you bring a powerful storyline here.

A wicked twist on your ending, which reminds me only can be written by a tired, mind, in all rest of the evening, or night....

Intriguing, and captivating Mr. Scott!

- Your friendly friend and Baroness :P

[David Scott]

Ha. Yes dear Baroness, a tired mind indeed.
Do you realize it is Halloween Thursday? This is just a silly ghost story...
Yes, part of the 3:00 AM series now. ;)
Thank you for blessing me with your time and comments.

Yeah this goofball talked to Robbie a lot, and asked her lol, when Halloween was :P (We don't celebrate it here in the Netherlands), we have Catholic Carnaval... but, anyhow, I am acting if I know all about it with all my American friends lol ;) if we would celebrate, I def. would be a dark -haired gothic baroness for sure :P with spiders on my shoulder.... and black lips.

Always Scott, thanks for being such a good friend, even in blue times ... much love Eli x