from a collection of short stories. for ella.
Her dreams the night before had been extensions of her phobias, nightmares. She had seen the dam steeping over her ancestors, over her children. The shingles on the top of each home, a layer of lead blackening their bright red. The adobe, soaking up the toxicity, the ash. Looking up at the towering metal arch, she could see vultures circling. The structures around her began to crack, the livestock fussing. From the bottom of the dam a trickle of fluid emerged, a deep oily purple, not water at all. And then it began to ooze out of the dam, as if it had pores. Thick, suffocating movement, the liquid travelled down towards the village, unavoidably blanketing her home until everything was gone.
When she awoke, sweat beads on her forehead, a scream lodged in the back of her throat, she needed to be reassured the river was still there for her. Shakily, she left her home and moved down the dirt path. She only had to walk 5 minutes from her front door, a quick push through a patch of brambles to the rivers side. At the bank, she took a moment to breath, feel the pebbles, rough on the bottom of her feet, lodged between her toes. Then she stepped in.
Raven stared into the water. The rivers tide pushing around her thighs, pressing into her body. Her feet, grounded firmly in the pebbly sand below the current, looked white as a ghost through the water. If she stood still enough, the fish would come nibble on her toes, and when she wiggled them, they would scurry in all directions. And then she would find stillness again, and the fish would make their way back to peck at her once more. Above her, the cottonwoods swayed back and forth. They had begun to grow their leaves back after the harsh winter, and the spring sun bled through the canopy, trickling down onto Ravens skin. The ends of her hair, resting near her thighs, long and beautiful, were dampened by the fresh water. It collected in pendant-shaped droplets, scattered across her skin, on her fingers, her forearms, her nose. She loved her home; she cherished her life. A slow pace to live at, a comfortable one. Everyone knew one another, and when change came around it did not go unnoticed.
The men had come in wearing black, and with no indication as to why they were there. Raven had been sitting on her front porch with Micah and had watched as their caravan rolled over the dirt roads, inching closer and closer to the river. Just the fumes coming from the car were enough to indicate evil. Raven had watched Micah’s face as dismay began to form across it, brow furrowing, lips tightening, his grip tightening around the pencil and paper in his hand. The men carried a baleful aura with them, a clear signal of power. One man, seemingly in charge and wider than the rest, wore a pin on the collar of his suit jacket, a small silver smokestack, one red gem sitting at its highest point. At its base, three letters, FMC. The stench of fuel filled the air, circling around him. The townspeople watched the intruders as they moved through the village. They whispered to each other, observing. And then they left, stacking themselves into their vehicle, making their way back down the dirt road.
There was a grace period, a time of calm. It was assumed that the men wouldn’t come back, that it was just a brief malfunction in their lives, a piece from another puzzle, a quick collision of their world and another’s. But unavoidably, a day came where they drove up the dirt road once more.