"Leaves" Chapter 2

Standing downstream from the bridge again, he was quiet and staring into the pool of leaves.

"What are you looking at?" he asked himself.

"Not sure yet", the answer in his head.

The surface of the river was only broken by the rain, pricked here and there with the pinpoints of raindrops. The rain had brought that familiar musty smell.

"What is this mind looking at...I should have asked," he thought to himself. Did I mention that Paul was a little strange? Those of his friends that were kind told him he was "unique", or sometimes "enigmatic".

In the pool, he couldn't see anything out of place. It was uniform, in an impressionistic way, like a painting by Sisley - "uniform" deep reds, golds and yellows under the cold surface with the waving shimmers where the gray sky was reflected and the dark outlines of trees lay across it.
Continued...
He backed away from the railing slowly again - watching the ducklings had been joyful, whereas this watching was almost frighteningly focused. He walked slowly backwards upstream. He no longer cared if anyone was watching. He worked his way almost up to the bridge and still couldn't find it. Give up. He brought his eyes up to the walkway. There was a man riding a rickety bicycle up toward him. Paul began walking back down to and past the point where he'd stopped a moment before, looking straight ahead with just the periphery of his vision gliding over the water.

He was passing the pool of leaves and to the left was the old, empty playground and he wondered if he hadn't actually seen something in the playground, but then, there it was again, just between shimmers, a gap in the leaves, and among the burnt colors, a small patch of something, partly shining, partly opaque and cream colored. What was it?

There were metal rungs set in the stone wall that had replaced the stream's bank. He put a leg up over the rail and carefully found the first bar with his foot and tested it with a little weight at first. Would be wonderful to have a dunking here in the cold. And embarassing.

He worked his way down the rungs, testing each one before putting weight on it and gripping tighter than he might if he trusted this old stonework and iron more. He was at the bottom and squatted on the last bar above the surface next to the pool of leaves, holding on with his left arm above.

He reached into the cold water and pulled up a soggy branch brought down by the stream.

"What's wrong?" He heard a man's voice up above.

He looked up and saw an old man leaning over the railing. He was wearing a tweed cap and his face was wrinkled. He looked harmless enough. By the man's feet a dog's snout poked through the gap in the railing and Paul could see the nose working over the smells of the river and most likely his aftershave as well.

"Something wrong?" the old man said again.

Paul realized he was expected to answer. "Nothing's wrong," he said. "I just saw something strange down here in the leaves."

"What'd you see?" the man called down to him.

"Something white."

"Something white?" the old man repeated his words. Seemed to be thinking. Then he said, "Probably just a dead carp."

Paul tilted his head, doubting. Then he looked back out over the pool. Wondering.

Up above, the old man was tying his dog's leash to the railing. Paul was brought from his reverie when he heard aluminum creaking and looked back up at the railing and was surprised to see the man lift himself up and over the railing with a grunt. He hoped the man didn't fall on him.
Also, where the hell did he think he was going to stay down there?

The man climbed down to the rung where Paul had his hand and said, "Excuse me." Paul leaned out to the side and the man climbed on down and stepped right into the water. He was wearing galoshes, but Paul expected to watch him sink right down into the water and to have to help him back out. But the man didn't sink. He must've been standing on a submerged ledge.

"I fish here all the time," he said, knowing what Paul was wondering.

"Oh," Paul said.

"Where do you see it?"

Paul pointed with the branch. "Over there."

The man gestured for Paul to hand him the branch and with a shrug, Paul complied.

The old man sloshed through the leaves gingerly. "There's a big drop-off around here," he said, pointing just a few steps ahead of his feet. He stopped sloshing and poked the branch down through the leaves to show Paul how deep it was at the drop-off. The branch was about five feet long and the man's hand went all the way into the water.

Back up on the walkway, the man's dog was whimpering and sniffing.

"Probably just a carp," the man said again and stretched the branch out under the water, cleaving the bed of leaves, with them falling back into an eerie cloak in the water. The branch reached something solid near the white patch Paul had seen and the old man pushed against it. The branch broke, but just as it was cracking, the surface of the water rose all out from the white he'd seen and the leaves moved with the water, just a few inches, and looking carefully, bending to miss the reflected overcast gray, Paul and the man could see a face.

Paul was still behind the old man and the man did not turn around. The dog was still whimpering up above. Paul looked up and saw the snout poked through railing and sniffing. He looked back out at the river. The man's shoulders were shaking. "It's a girl..." he said in a strange, choked voice. Paul somehow wasn't surprised. The man's shoulders were shaking and he didn't turn around.

"Leaves" Chapter 1

It was the first very cold day of December. The leaves changed late that year and it had been dry and cold for weeks, but today the sky was overcast and promised rain in the early evening. It was very cold.

On the asphalt walkway by the sad little river, leaves had been falling for a few days and were ground under foot, beaten and powdered into colorful powders that looked like cured tobaccos under the cherry trees.

The rain started very softly and gradually so that Paul didn't bother to use his umbrella at first. He stopped and leaned against the railing over the high stone walls where they'd improved the river banks and he watched the widgeon ducks whistling and chirping and holding their heads under the water, foraging.

The maidenhair trees were pungent but still pretty. The bright gold leaves shaped like folding fans fell onto the water with the breeze and floated along gently with the current in a smooth and uniform procession. The ducklings swam among the passing leaves and the water was clear late in the season.

He closed his eyes and drew the moist air in through his nostrils. This was a strange country and although it was winter, the smells were most definately fall. The river and the fragrant leaf powders and the smell of stale butter. What was that? It must be the decaying ginkgo seeds, he thought.

"Well... it's not the winter solstice yet," he said to himself under his breath and opened his eyes, looking up and down the river, checking if anyone had seen him talking to himself.
Continued...
He backed away from the railing and went on downstream. When he came to the bridge, he crossed and continued walking toward the village. He wanted to do some shopping for supper.

Below the bridge there was a back eddy where the bright red and yellow cherry leaves had collected in a pool. It was deep there and very pretty, he thought.

Have you ever been flipping through the pages of a magazine when your mind catches a word that went by much too quickly for you to have read it and yet, you read it, and you have to go back through the pages one by one, slowly, searching carefully for the page where you saw it? A frustrating itch, closer to stubbornness than to curiosity, will not let you move on until you find where you saw it.

This is exactly what happened to Paul as he walked past the pool of leaves. He was trying to plan out his evening meal, and yet he knew he had seen something and it was no use trying to drop it. He stopped and turned around and began walking back up to the bridge with his eyes steady on the pool of bright red leaves as if it were a wild animal that might attack at any moment.

Stop and Start

Thinking about serializing a story here. Not sure if it's my style, but it might be interesting to see whether the result is quality or "qrud". ;-)

English

Hmm... I guess "tread-upon" is not correct. Oh well, it sounds better to me than "trodden-upon". And to think I'm supposed to be an English teacher... %-)