Free Rising by Stephanie Judice

called out the window.
    I turned away from town, shifting into fifth
gear and zooming past the sugar mill.   Clara had said nothing at all.   Skillet
pulsed out of the radio, singing about secrets beneath the skin and monsters within.   I sped down the open country road where no
more tractors bumbled along hauling loads of sugar cane and blocking our
way.   I downshifted into second and
turned onto a dirt road, almost hidden in a nest of trees.   If you didn’t know it was there, you’d pass
it right up.   Glancing sideways, I
couldn’t help but think how wildly striking she looked with her reddish hair
whipping around her face and her gaze set steadily ahead.   All her fear had disappeared somehow, and
that hypnotic numbing sensation was back again.   What was it about her that made me feel this way?
    Tall maples, oaks, and elms hovered closer as
we wound our way deeper into the woods.   This place always made me feel calm.   After a bumpy ride about a mile in, the trees opened up and we rolled
into a small clearing.   I came to a
sudden halt at the bank of Bayou Rouge.   There was utter silence when the engine died.   Clara glanced at me, obviously wondering
where we were.
    “Come on,” I urged, heading toward an oak tree
fallen halfway into the water.
    Clara followed me.   I stepped out onto the thick trunk first,
offering my hand to her.   I was prepared,
pulling up that emotional wall to block out her vibe as much as I could. When
she touched me this time, all I felt was a stream of warmth shooting through my
body.   I couldn’t help but smile, guiding
her along to a flat spot where we could look out over the bayou.   She was not as comfortable as I was balancing
over the murky water.   Our bouncing
movements caused the trunk to send waves of ripples out toward the opposite
bank.   Once we were settled, she finally
broke the silence.
    “Okay.   I
give up.   Where are we?” she asked.
    “It’s my grandfather’s land.   He has a cabin a little ways in that
direction.”
    I pointed toward a trail behind us and to the
left that had once been used regularly.   Now, weeds and brush had taken over the well-worn path.
    “Don’t you go to the cabin anymore?” she asked.
    “No, not really.   We used to come when I was little.   And, my grandfather came here a lot with my
grandmother.   But, since she passed away,
he just doesn’t want to anymore.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said.
    “It’s okay.   That was two years ago.   Pop’s
been living with us pretty much since then and he’s fine now.   Well, I guess as fine as a crazy, old man can
be.”
    Clara laughed.   It was a nice laugh.   I didn’t
tell her that I come here sometimes when I’m completely exhausted from feeling
the emotions of other people or when I’m just too tired of holding up that wall
to block everyone out.   There was nobody
out here.   It was the perfect place to
find some peace.
    For several minutes, we both refused to talk
about the dream and what it could mean.   We just sat there looking at the water.   We both had our hands bracing our bodies on the tree trunk.   Clara shifted her weight and her hand, pressing
it right against mine.   I felt a sudden
jarring shock. It was a hypnotic feeling being so close to her, skin on
skin.   It was Clara to finally break the
silence.
    “Gabriel.   How could you draw something from my dreams?”
    I thought a minute, staring out at a white
heron dipping its beak along the shallows.   A fat turtle that was sunning itself on a cypress stump plopped into the
water.
    “Because I’ve been dreaming about them, too.”
    “What?   But, how?”
    “I don’t know,” I said, shrugging.   “Tell me, do you dream about a storm and a
swamp and several of these creatures flying around?”
    “Well, yes and no.   I don’t dream of a storm or a swamp, but I do
dream about several different monsters.   They’re like the one in your drawing, but different, too.