by Jack Carneal
He was riding his bicycle on a small worn path through a brilliantly green field of clipped grass. The path itself glowed underwheel. The surrounding field was beautiful but had about it a false, otherworldly, too-perfect sheen. Fitz was ecstatic and riding effortlessly, following his brother. Ogden said, “There are little people out here, I’m sure of it.” He stood up on his pedals and swept his vision over the emerald landscape. “Great,” said Fitz. They kept riding.
My legs feel fantastic! thought Fitz. They were slightly swollen like legmuscle-shaped balloons and it was easy to imagine riding forever. It really and truly was. It was easy to imagine riding to the sun. From in front of him Ogden said again, “Yeah, man. There are little people out here. I’ve seen them down along the coast.” “Fantastic,” Fitz answered. And he meant it! Not being sarcastic or dismissive. It was fantastic that he was following his brother and felt the urge to ride his bike as far as the sun, fantastic that they might stumble upon some little people down along the coast, fantastic that he could say this word Fantastic, well, it was joyful, simply glorious to be able to say this word and mean it! He glowed with the power of these words and thoughts and glowed with the power of his legs and lungs. There was no stopping, no limit to the amount of joy and strength and curiosity and love he felt for all people and all things, especially but not limited to his brother up there in front of him in cutoff khakis and some kind of weird dashiki that only Brother could get away with wearing, but also his mom, dad, sister, cousins, grandparents. All part of this joy. What could limit it? Not death. Death was the only parameter against which to measure this joy. There were none other. Without death, no joy. This was simple. His brother’s forearms emerged from the yawning sleeves of the dashiki like two pieces of molded bronze and ended in hands wrapped loose around the handlebars of his bike that looked like each should be clutching a war hammer and of course the light from the middle of his head.
Presently they came around a small brilliant hillock on which bright sun played among the whispering blades of grass. Before them lay a serene, silver-blue ocean. The sun was rising or setting—setting he supposes now—and its light upon the ocean was blinding, dazzling. Orbs of silver light merged and separated in a constant and infinite dance out there on the surface of the ocean and he knew in these moments that the light did not perform this miracle for him or Brother only, or for them only, some shared thing, but instead the light did this always, infinitely, and for no reason that he or anyone could understand. There was no understanding this. There was no meaning to anything. Meaning is something we try to apply when confused. To explain things. But understanding this he could not begin to understand or to know anything really at all ever in the world. This alone was satisfying and he wasn’t embarrassed to realize that tears were forming in the corners of his eyes and that his sinuses were filling with salt water. He was crying! He couldn’t believe it. But there was also a joy in his heart that he could look around and behold these things and feel such joy that might move him to tears.
“The little people are near the marina,” said Brother over his shoulder, disappearing down a gulley in a cloud of dust and dirt. He watched as Ogden fell off his bike to the side but caught himself with those legs made of burnished wood but immediately his brother had sprung up and was laughing and up on the bike again and cruising down the other side of the hillock, a huge, grass-covered slope towards a crescent of beach visible in the distance. And of course his brother had both eyes in the vision, two headlights out of which shone some golden light.
In a small frame house built back from the beach they enter and a small brown woman sits at a card table mending someone’s socks. Her eyes are as green and otherworldy as if she is filled with green light and her eyeholes have been carved into her by a perfect round tool. Her breasts are beautifully round and he is able to see that their weight pulls her chest skin taut. Ogden is watching the woman in a way that causes a quick shadow to cross his brother’s joy. The joy is dimmed now, compromised. Just like that. Behind the joy is a sound, a threatening sound. There are things to be done here. The things to be done do not have to do with, are separated from, his joy. He must remember this, both the joy and the non-joy and how they interact. He must always remember the pure joy because the impure one had power.
Outside are three thin decorative trees. Awkward lumber benches form rectangles around bunches of stinkweeds and devil’s walking stick and scrawny privet. A pallet of new lumber sits as if unloaded in a hurry and forgotten. Tall musty grasses have grown up around the lumber. Fitz watches as the grasses continue to grow before his eyes. Soon the lumber is swallowed. A circular tower of indeterminate purpose rises ominously from the woods. Guidewires fall from its sides and are connected to deep metal spikes set in the ground. The tower is almost completely covered in emerald green moss and glows as a flock of seagulls wheel in the sky behind them. A few cows low and move slow around the base of the tower, watching them watch the brown woman.