Briar Lantern

They, From The Briar

Here is what you have forgotten. 

 

When you were young you lived with your mother in the Briar. Your cottage was quaint and small. You did not have things like a mailbox or a street address, there was no need for them. There wasn’t anyone else to send you mail or walk up your street. The world ended at the edge of the briar like the end of a thought, or the end of a story. 

 

You have forgotten your bedroom, your little bed, with drawers for your toys underneath. You have forgotten the mural of a mountain range that you and your mother painted on the wall. You have forgotten what the mountains look like, there are no mountains in the briar. 

 

You have forgotten the bright kitchen with your mother’s little herb garden living in the big window over the sink. You couldn’t name the herbs even then, but she knew. You have forgotten all about her breakfasts, her snacks, the painting she made, her laughter, and her face.

 

You have forgotten the bright, dark purple evenings underneath an unclouded sky when she taught you about the stars and what they mean. How they can guide you and teach you about yourself. You can’t see stars within the briar. 

 

Sometimes on those evenings yellow and green fireflies would flicker out of the edge of the briar to swarm in the grasses and the garden that you tended for her. Where you picked tomatoes for her, where you kept the chickens. You used to sit out there with her and look at the moths that would flitter over to your porch light. Do you remember?

 

No, you do not. It’s alright. Don’t worry little one, when the story is over you won’t have to remember anymore

 

You have forgotten also the child that came out of the briar one warm summer night like so many fireflies. 

 

They were smaller than you, and when your mother rushed over to them to gather them up in her arms you have forgotten now how that made you feel. You didn’t know any other children, or people, or cottages, or fireflies, or briars, or memories.

 

But gather them up she did and she asked you if you were old enough now to give your bed to them. You weren’t, but you wanted to be, so maybe in that way you were. And you did.

 

They recovered and you learned their name but you’ve forgotten it now. Your mother made you both breakfasts and snacks and paintings and laughter. She taught them about the stars, and you taught them about the garden, and your mom taught you about how the sofa pulls out into a bed so you, such a big kid now, can watch the stars and the moths and the garden all night through the window in the living room.

 

And they taught you things too. They taught you the names of the trees that grew tall in the distance. Pine, they said, and Oak and Poplar. They taught you about what a street could be like. They named the fireflies and the moths and called the groups of stars by something other than what your mother taught you. 

 

They were always smaller than you, through that summer and the next one. They taught you about the roots of the briar that summer. How the soil there, deep under the bed of red-brown pine needles that you’d never thought to notice before, was richer than that of the garden. That’s why the briar grew so big, they said. They taught you that but you’ve forgotten it now, the soil underneath the pine needles. 

 

They taught you, and you forgot even then, that if you dig for soil or roots at the edge of the briar only do it when your mom isn’t looking. You’d begun to forget how she taught you that children shouldn’t go into the briar, it seemed a little distant, like the edge of a thought or the start of this story. You’ve learned a lot since then and forgotten as well. 

 

They were smaller than you, perhaps that meant younger, perhaps not. When it was the three of you they were timid. They hid behind your mother’s legs when you tried to teach them about snakes in the garden. They came and ran to you for bravery when they heard creaks in the night in your old bedroom. You could hear them scamper down the hall to where you slept under the stars and fireflies.

 

But between the pair of you, they were braver. At first in the daylight when they taught you about trees and roots they went into that briar past the first low ferns of it, and you were scared. More than of a snake or a creak in the night. They stepped there so easily, without a thought, and you saw in their eyes that they remembered to be scared after they saw it in you. They rushed back and hugged you but they didn’t shake like you did. 

 

And it became something more than an accident. A few thoughtless steps in over one summer, during the day, when your mom wasn’t looking. And they playacted fear, a little less each time. 

 

But then, of course, you’ve forgotten why. You’ve forgotten all about how they decided they were a big kid, just like you, and they didn’t need toys any longer. But they weren’t their toys to begin with. you’ve forgotten, but you’re sure they had not. Which toys were yours in their room. And they outgrew them all and got rid of them, you’ve forgotten how. 

 

The toys were not theirs to get rid of and you shouted at them, the first time, and you’ve forgotten now the look on their face when you did. You’ve forgotten now how they cried and shouted back and how they ran off and how they slipped into the briar and stood in the ferns just out of reach and looked at you. You shook then, and cried and apologized and told them you were mistaken and you were too old for toys now anyway. They came back before your mom caught notice of it. 

 

You’ve forgotten the shift between you then. How now they knew how to win when you shouted at them, and since they knew how to win, it seemed there was no more sense in preventing you from shouting, as long as mom was busy. 

 

Sometimes at night you would sit awake beside the picture window, looking at the stars and the moths and the distant pines and poplars. You heard the creak of the wind against the cottage and you heard a door and a scamper. You smiled then. They were still family after all, and it had been a long time since you were the brave one. You turned to tell them it was just the wind, even as they opened the door and the wind came in. 

 

They left. You watched them walk out through the fireflies, through the garden, turning back ever so often to see if you were following. You did not. At first. And now you’ve forgotten why that changed. You knew they walked out past that first line of ferns in the briar that night and every night afterwards. You worried about them. They were, are, even now, so much smaller than you. 

 

So after a time you followed too, nervous in the glow of the moon and the bright dark sky in a way they never were. You shook against the wind like the cottage would, and they simply slipped into the dark of the briar. 

 

They didn’t stay there long. It was a game perhaps. To see how much you cared. How frustrated you would get before you, with tears in your eyes, would shout that you were going to tell mom if they didn’t stop playing where they shouldn’t. 

 

It worked until it didn’t. You’ve forgotten that. A month, perhaps it took, of their game before you shouted and turned and instead of laughing and teasing you for getting upset over nothing they just… stayed. And you faltered at the door. 

 

You have forgotten why. 

 

You didn’t want to let her down, perhaps. You were a big kid now, not a child who runs behind her legs because of a snake or a challenge. 

 

They didn’t listen to you, even though you were older, probably. And you’ve forgotten that short angry march through the garden and the fireflies, focused on their grin in the forest, past that first line of ferns to grab their hand and tug them home. You’ve forgotten all about it.

 

You’re in the briar now, and you’re holding their hand, you’re not sure who they are. They are smaller than you, and they look scared. You are taller, older perhaps, and so you think, given nothing else, you need to protect them. 

 

Behind you, a line of ferns in the dark. All around you, pines, oaks, poplar. Fireflies in any direction. It’s dark in the briar and you don’t know how you got here. They tug your hand forward. You were moving forward a moment ago, it must be the direction you have been traveling. To where? From where? 

 

So you go forward into the darkness of it all, leaving those thoughts behind you until you’ve forgotten them all, drifting off into the darkness like the end of a thought, or the end of a story.