black cats and {broken} mirrors // danny

Whoa, I hear the quiet now
Of paper airplanes falling down
Whoa, the branches of every tree
Bend like a cathedral over me

The cold of the hardened earth seeps into my fingertips and I briefly bring them up to my lips, blowing hot air on them and glancing at the discarded red mittens on the snow. I've never liked winter - the ice freezes over the ground where all the herbs grow, and though most plants stay in tact beneath the layers of snow, it makes it all that much harder to dig up the roots. I don't relent, though, simply burying my face further into my knit scarlet scarf and sinking my digits further into the hardened soil. A string of yellow appears suddenly against the brown and I start before my face spreads into a wide grin. I gently prod around in the dirt, trying to find the source of the root without breaking it, and am rewarded with several more golden strands. At last my half frozen fingers wrap around their prize, yanking it out and pulling down my scarf to breathe in the bitter smell. Perfect.

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Tossing the root into my basket, I yank my mittens back on and rise, my eyes flickering up toward the quickly darkening sky. Sunset came and went about half an hour ago, and now dusk erases the shadows from the snow and warns of a swift approaching night. The ghosts will be out soon. I bite my bottom lip anxiously and draw the worn black coat closer to my body, breath leaving little trails of silver on the air as I begin my long trek home, following my own footsteps in the snow. The branches spread in great archways above my head, last night's snow still clinging to the thin limbs. Darkness nips at my heels and I quicken my pace, glancing over my shoulder briefly. A strong gust whips suddenly through the forest and tugs at my basket. I grit my teeth together and pull it around to my front, using my body to shield it from the wind. "Forget it!" I call out loudly, my voice echoing into the silent night. "These are for my Mum! I'm not giving them up again."

The frostbitten gale becomes harsher and I cringe as my hat is whipped off my head, releasing a tangle of cornsilk curls. I give a small shout of protest, dropping the basket into the snow and chasing after the quickly moving flash of red. The crudely made hat is more important than the basket of fresh herbs - it's the only one I have, and we can't afford to buy another one. The wind carries it along for a while before it momentarily catches on a small twig sticking out of the snow. I take advantage of that split second opportunity, diving forward and grabbing onto the hat, giving a triumphant cry. Snow has managed to work its way between the fibers of the yarn but I can hardly bring myself to care, yanking it back onto my head with a grin and proceeding to dust the ice off my front as I rise.

The smile quickly vanishes off my face, though, when I catch a glimpse of my surroundings. Night has fallen completely now and I can no longer make out my own footprints in the sheet of white on the ground. The trees don't look familiar, either. I look for the telltale shape of my basket, but that too seems to have vanished, probably blown away by the wind. Panic quickly settles into my chest. The ghosts have come out - if the freezing winds don't get me first, then they'll surely finish me off. I spin around a few times, trying to figure out my location, before choosing a random direction and fleeing through the trees. A few branches pull at my jacket and scarf and I give a small yelp, clawing at them. "Let go!" I shriek, finally stumbling out of their jagged grasp and dropping to my knees, out of breath.

A small crunching sound breaks through the sound of my ragged gasps. My head whips toward the sound, eyes round. Another one sounds after it. Footsteps. "Leave me alone!" I shout, wrapping my arms tightly across myself and swallowing the tears that threaten to spill over. "I gave you the herbs, now just let me be!" The footsteps continue and I shrink further into myself, peering through the darkness. And then I see it. A figure moving through the trees, seemingly in my direction. "I'm sorry!"

But then it comes closer and I make out the features on it's face - his face. It's a boy, unmistakably human. I shudder, clambering to my feet and starting toward him. "You're... you're not a ghost," I say, eyes still wide. "You scared me. And what are you doing out here, anyway? Don't you know it's unlucky come into the woods this late?"





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