Nineteen Years Later...

The rabbit was sitting almost unseen in the tall blades, fur and grass alike gently stirred by a whisper of wind. There was a nick in one of its ears, perhaps a scar from a predator's claw, or even a territorial skirmish with one of its own kind; only the rabbit could know. It raised itself up onto powerful hind legs, nose twitching, prepared to flee at a moment's notice, exposing a white belly amid the grey and tan hair covering its lithe body.

Ten feet away, I watched without moving, my stomach pressed into the soft earth, my arms under my chin. The dying sun warmed my skin as it slipped lower and lower in the sky, ready to retire for the night. Insects droned on in the trees at the top of the knoll and a small shadow soared overhead, a hawk playing in the late afternoon breeze.

One ear still raised in vigilance, the rabbit sat itself back down with a soft snuffling noise, before freezing as its beady, black eyes found my blue ones between the swaying fronds. It tensed, muscles contracting, and then swiftly darted away, white tail disappearing into the forest ahead.

I turned onto my back, closing my eyes against the burning sun, and pulled the cloth from my lower face as my necklace rolled along the sharp line of my collarbone. The unfiltered air was sweet and fresh, and I breathed deeply though I knew my mother would not approve. Something small with several legs danced over my bare hand before scuttling into the long grasses, and I stretched out, shaking slightly as my stiff body tightened and then fell limp, sinking into the damp earth. It had rained yesterday for the first time in weeks and the faint smell of autumn was arriving, crisp and cool.

The hungry months were coming. It was the way of the world, an endless cycle of survival, but this year it seemed winter would be a challenge; the question remained as to whether my mother would be strong enough to travel to a warmer climate before the snow fell.

These days, I never roamed too far, not since my mother had fallen from a bench a couple of months ago. The injury had taken a lot out of her, both mentally and psychically, and sometimes I wondered if she had ever really recovered. As the years had worn on and I had grown into my body, she had shrivelled inside hers. It was upsetting to watch.

Underneath her shayla, her hair was grey, some wisps of white occasionally escaping the tight confines of her scarf. Though she clothed the majority of her body, I still sometimes saw the spots on her arms and the protruding veins, or the sharp outlines in her neck. She had asked me if I wanted to wear a headscarf as well when I had turned twelve, but never forced me to cover my hair when I had refused. Either way, we respected each other's choices: I always stayed silent while she prayed and took the few minutes to regard my own beliefs, and she never pressed me to divulge my thoughts.

A whistle sounded, strong and piercing among the chirps of the birds. I opened my eyes, emerging from my lazy dozing. The sun had sunk, hanging heavy and swollen in the scarlet-streaked sky. The breeze had picked up, ruffling my hair. I shielded my eyes from the light and brushed dirt and ants from my clothes, getting to my feet. The whistle came again and I answered with a call of my own before pulling my facecloth over my nose and mouth, following the rabbit into the forest towards the home I had built with my mother so many years ago.

The shrill whistling call echoed through the trees once more, and I sped up as the hut came into view. It was small, not even ten feet by twenty, and had taken months to prepare for and several weeks to actually build. The roof was made of strips of tree bark, trees which I had cut down by hand. The trunks had been shaved, sanded, and then stacked, crisscrossing on the end where notches had been cut to hold them in place—

I stumbled with a gasp as sudden pain flared behind my eyes, digging my nails into the soft bark of a nearby birch tree to keep from falling. My legs were shaking, chills running along my back and upper neck where the old wounds were burning. The world seemed to grind to a halt as I stood there, catching my breath while the pain receded.

No. Not again. Not—

An unbidden memory burst from behind my eyes, filling my vision with the image of—

A small child with curly hair is trying to piece together comically small logs of wood beneath an evergreen tree draped with flickering lights and colourful balls. A protective figure with wings is perched precariously on its zenith, overlooking the little girl with a serene expression as her chubby fingers fumble with the toys. A boy of the same size races around her building area, shrieking shrilly as a man with the same green eyes chases him. I watch from a couch (A COUCH?) with a smile and a feeling of wild happiness, feeling safe and content. The man catches the boy and lifts him up, spinning him high above his sister on the ground below while he laughs and laughs. She is becoming frustrated because the log cabin does not appear like the one on the box. She opens her mouth and—

"June?"

—begins to cry, racing over to curl up in my lap, her hair bouncing with every step. I comfort her while my husband tickles our son, who sees his sister crying and yells between giggling screams to be let go. Once released, he runs to her side and pulls her into a tight hug, kissing her on the top of her head like I usually do as she hugs him back—

"June?"

—and squirms out of my lap, her tears already drying. The children sit to play with the logs together, working to build the pretty picture on the box. My husband smiles and sits down beside me, turning on the television (GLOWING BOX). I put my head on his shoulder and look up into his face—

"June!"

I pulled myself from the memory with a sharp intake of breath, taking a few shaky steps forward before falling to my knees on the forest floor.

"June?" My mother was standing in the door of the hut, concern filling her face. "What—?"

I blinked rapidly before looking up, the faces of the children (My children?) already losing their vividness. "It—It happened again."

"The memories?" Her heavily-lined face lost the remaining colour it had. "What did you see? The girl? The city?"

"A family." I stood up unsteadily, but quickly closed the distance between us, pushing past her into the small log house and collapsing onto a wooden bench. I pulled the cloth from my face and absentmindedly tucked it into my pocket. "Another family. My family."

My mother clumsily drew the door closed, sliding it slowly along its track, and secured it at the sides, her aged, feeble body struggling to bend. Normally, I would have helped her, but as my stomach churned with feelings that were both mine and yet not, I felt too nauseous to stand.

"June..." Her voice was soft, tentative, impossibly delicate. She hobbled over to the bench and sat beside me, taking my hands in hers. "Are you alright?"

"Not really." My eyes roamed over our tiny home, taking in the woven prayer mat in the corner, the two rolled-up cots against the wall, the stacks of book at the very back, a well-worn Holy Book on top, the chair that rocked back and forth on curved oak boughs...

"What can I do?"

I pulled away and reached up to clutch at my necklace, which was cool to the touch. The small, spherical pendant was filled with a white and black liquid that never seemed to mix, and according to my mother she had found me with it when she pulled me from the fire nineteen years ago.

Just another thing I didn't understand. But lately the things I didn't understand were piling up, building a house of secrets that fit together—

A flash of a memory, the little girl's curls, the little boy's green eyes.

"Ju—"

"What's wrong with me?" I gazed up into her lined, tired face, feeling like a child all over again, looking to my mummy for answers.

"Nothing's wrong with you." Her eyebrows drew together and the side of her mouth twitched. "Nothing at all."

"Then why am I..." I searched for a word. "...not normal? What are these things I'm remembering?"

She silently rolled the words around her mouth before responding. "I don't know."

"Why don't you know? Why don't I know?"

My mother took a breath. "Some things weren't meant for us. Some things are bigger than knowledge can define. I can only tell you what I know and that may not always be what you want to hear." She paused. "I can tell you what I don't know and what I think, what I wonder about at night when you toss and turn in your night-terrors. I can tell you what I've read."

My heart pounded. "That reincarnation crap. That I've lived before, lived other lives... You told me that the first time this happened, but that doesn't explain everything! This necklace, these memories—I shouldn't remember, shouldn't know..." Prickles raced up my back, shooting down into my hands and feet. "What... What am I?"

"You're my daughter." She swallowed and in that moment looked older than I had ever seen her, lids drooping over dilated pupils. Her dark eyes, so much unlike my own, glistened sadly with their eighty-three years. "June, you're my daughter and I love you. Isn't that good enough?"

I let go of my necklace, getting to my feet and walking across the room while my mother stayed sitting. "And I love you, but there is something wrong with me, whether you'll say it or not."

"But it doesn't matter." She got to her feet as well, though much more laboriously than I did, stumbling a little. "Not to me."

"It matters to me!" I turned on her. "Why can't you see that?"

"Don't shout at me, June." She set her jaw. "Now, I've always tried to do my best to give you anything, everything. I tried to raise you right. You are normal, June. You were a normal child, you had a normal childhood—"

"A normal childhood?! I hacked my childhood to bits!" I yelled, trying to hold back hot and furious tears, the memory of blood suddenly sharp in my nose. "You were there when it happened!"

"June, we put that behind us long ago," she said weakly, and then gasped, clutching at her head. "And stop yelling."

I threw my hands up and turned to the window, pulling aside the cloth covering. It had gotten dark inside and out while we argued, an event that had become more commonplace since the memories began a few months ago. The tall trees casted intimidating figures, stretching up towards the darkening sky with their scrabbling fingers on all sides of the little hut like shadow monsters, but I hadn't been afraid of the dark since I was little. It was the light I had to fear: it showed everything. The dark hid me, held me, protected me from harm. It was my asylum, which is more than I could ever say for the fire and light.

Something moved in-between two alder trees at the edge of the cleared area in which the house had been built. The dark may have been my asylum, but it was everything else's too, and cougars were rare but still a threat. After all, that was how Argos had died.

"Ju... June..."

Ignoring her, I squinted out the window, willing myself to see even if only by the shine of the stars. The shadows moved again, and I thought I saw a humanoid figure quickly darting between the towering outlines. A flash of eyes, electric blue eyes, eyes that were timeless and young, but then the figure was gone and so was the memory.

I was still at the window when my mother collapsed to the dirt floor, her shayla slipping as her head hit the ground.

I spun and was at her side in an instant, my stomach twisting in knots, my heart in my mouth as I grabbed at her clothes, pulling her into a sitting position even as her head lolled against my chest. "Mum? Mum!"

When she didn't answer, the tears began, without warning, without conscious effort, without the decision to actually cry. My mother hated it when I cried; she told me it tore at her heart, ever since I was a baby.

But from the unseeing stare of her empty eyes, I knew she couldn't hear me.

(2203)