"Loss" by Peter Dahlgren

Flowing water, a river of dreams, rushing through a desolate landscape of forgotten memories. At the riverbank stands a woman, lonely, watching the murky water swirl endlessly by. Her face is streaked from tears but she can weep no more, her heart is empty. She speaks with a hollow voice filled with immeasurable sadness. Her words carry far over the dry earth, echoing through time.

“Have I not suffered enough? Must I still be thus tormented, that my soul will not be allowed to find peace?”

The wind answers. It brings a herald carried on black wings, feathers dark as night, foreboding. In the guise of a raven the messenger finds rest on the dead branch of a withered tree. Silent, without emotion, it studies the woman as she looks straight at it with eyes lost in misery, without hope. It speaks.

“It is an enigma to find one such as you in this place.”

Its voice is clear, cutting sharply through the air, penetrating the woman’s despair to linger in her mind. A wind strikes up a symphony as it tugs at the fabric of the world and yet again silence falls, only broken by the tranquil sound of running water. The woman has not moved. She stands there, staring at a horizon dark with heavy clouds. This country is not like the world she used to know. Like a painting it seems thin and insubstantial, yet strangely compelling. It possesses a hauntingly fragile beauty. She almost expects someone to tear through the canvas of time and render it utterly destroyed. The raven speaks again.

“You do not belong in this borderland. Your path lies elsewhere.”

Snow starts falling. Fat crystals of pure white scatter the light to create a blue shimmer as they cover the ground in silence. Melting against the warm flesh of the woman’s cheek the snow washes away her dried tears. The raven shrugs its wings and a single feather drops from its shroud to join the snow. It makes a startling contrast against the snow-covered landscape, a blight upon the cleansing beauty of the white blanket. The woman takes the feather in her cold hand and speaks.

“You tell me I do not belong here but I have lost my path. I have lost everything. Here or somewhere else, it doesn’t matter any more.”

She drops the feather into the river and watches as it’s swept away along with her hopes and dreams.

“Loss is a burden that is yours to bear.”

“A burden too heavy. I cannot endure it.”

“Then who will honour the memories of that which is lost?”

“Someone else. Not me.”

Time flows by with the slow determination of a stream of molten lava. It envelops everything, seducing the woman to forget, to be lulled into an endless sleep. Yet she feels the past in the air around her. She feels how memories try to take root in her mind. She finds herself reliving her pain as she remembers.

“No.”

The woman’s breath turns to mist that slowly dissolves as it ascends in the increasingly cold air. She looks absent, all but her eyes, they are cold and hard. The raven cocks its head. It knows no compassion, no remorse as it fixes the woman with its gaze through the heavy snowfall and urges her to once more open her mind. Her eyes open wide as she is invaded by fragments of the past. She fights it with grim determination. She wins. The raven is relentless in its pursue of its task.

“Deeper, look deeper.”

“I will not. I cannot.”

The water of the river stops in its path as it slowly turns to ice with small, crackling sounds.

“Give in. Let yourself be lost and the path will be clear.”

The woman looks at the raven. Her eyes are tired. She comes to a decision, her body relaxes, she closes her eyes. She remembers. Memories she had long since forgotten surface once more and she remembers what it truly was that she had lost. A single tear rolls down her cheek, melting the snow where it falls.

And then, oblivion.

The raven stretches its wings, leaps into the air and flies away over a green landscape.