for mama

 

            It was a quiet evening, not unlike any normal Saturday afternoon. I was on the porch, reclined in a knitted hammock. A jar of sweet tea with lemon sat on the table. The trees were shaking hands with a breeze from the beach, bringing the scent of saltwater to my backyard. The sun was just setting behind the tall magnolia tree which brought shadow to the porch, while my speaker hummed a familiar bluegrass tune. I closed my eyes and listened to all of the songs of the south that played in my yard: the bullfrogs, the cicadas, the songbirds... I was relaxed and I was alone. 

 

***

 

            I awoke with a start. The sky was black. It had forgotten I was enjoying its company. The animals had stopped singing and my speaker was coughing static. It was dead quiet. The trees were still rustling, but now with a chilling wind that could only be caused by a hurricane offshore. The only thing that looked familiar in the unrecognizable night was the blue glow around the Spanish moss that hung from the trees like honey dripping off a spoon. Even in the dark, I could make out its beautiful webbing, the moon’s glow radiating through it like the sun’s rays through stained glass. It was not ethereal, however, the trees now cast shadows. Long and slender shadows that imitated people running through the night. The songbirds had gone, leaving behind the black, taunting rooks. The cicadas and bullfrogs had hidden away as if to say to me, “go hide, now, before it comes.”

           

            I watched as the moss swayed through the trees. Hypnotically, it drew me toward it. I walked, mindlessly. The wind wrapped my long hair around my neck like a scarf. It pulled at me to go back, to turn around, telling me to stay away from the moss that hung like an angler fish’s light. Though, my eyes never turned from the moss. It seemed to glow brighter as the moon rose higher in the sky. It seemed to sing like a southern siren, calling my name as it rustled in the foreboding wind. As I approached the edge of the yard, my hand reached up to touch the shimmering moss. It was soft and easily tangled itself through my fingers. Was Sean Driscoll right when he said it tasted like honey too? I wondered for a moment as I brought a piece of the webbing to my lips.

 

            Suddenly, a high-pitched scream wailed through the darkness almost knocking me to the ground. Like the cry of a banshee or a bobcat, I had heard the sound before. It should have made me turn back. It should have been my last saving grace, but it was too familiar not to go to it. I ran into the shadows, my feet stumbling over every exposed root. The sound of crunching leaves echoed in the quiet woods. The southern heat was not extinguished by the chilling wind as drips of sweat formed on my brow. My shorts did little to protect me from clinging branches and vines. They scraped against my flesh like claws. Only now did I understand they were trying to stop me. My bare feet bled from running on roots and pine straw.

 

            I reached a clearing…

 

            The moon glistened through an opening in the trees. The dewed leaves beneath my feet sparkled, mesmerizing my eyes like diamonds as I walked toward the tree in the center. Roots curled through the grass like tentacles, the oak bark ancient. Masses of moss hung from the branches as if the tree were its hive. Again, it drew me in. My hand reached out to touch the trunk, its grey bark pricking my palm. I flinched away. My movement conjured a twinkling in the corner of my eye.

 

             At the base of the tree, a silver plaque hung. My fingers dusted the top as I tried to make out what it said,

           

“The Hanging Tree:

Creator of the Keepers.”

 

             The shadows on the ground grew larger, the black spot writhing beneath me. I looked up to see what was causing it. Bare feet. Legs with scrapes and scratches. Torn shorts. I looked higher. Long hair hung around her neck like a noose attaching her limp body to the tree.

My eyes found her face...

 

              My scream sounded familiar, like a bobcat or a banshee. A rustling came from the bushes, the sound getting faster and closer. Before I had time to run, the moss fell around my neck, pulling me into the tree.

 

Now I wander the southern woods, skipping through the moss that connects the trees, waiting to call out to another Keeper who may love the woods like me. I share my story to those that listen because there is magic in the South and it needs to be taught. All the critters and the creatures know, if you find yourself seduced by the moss, you must make a choice. You may never leave the southern groves once the moss has captured your soul.