Arcadia Helen Yenson ’22
“Is this a good idea?”
“Now what?”
She looks back at me with a smile, soft at the edges. “Of course not,” she calls, ducking inside the barn. Everything materializes from a wooden cupboard: an ivory planchet, two candles, and an old, faded matchbox. She’s meticulous as she arranges it all, putting the candles in a circle and lighting them one by one.
“Now—” She guides my fingers, curling them around the planchet. Her hand feels warm. “We wait.”
“Are you coming?” she says, snapping me out of a dream. I nod, hesitant. My foot lingers halfway through the door. “What if I mess it up?” “Relax,” she says, and my shoulders fall, succumbing to gravity. “Here— Put the board flat on the floor.” I follow her instructions, looking back up. “Like this?” She shuffles. “Yeah.” A cough; a dead, hanging silence.
Everything in the barn seems to settle. The wind rustles against my side, blowing chills through the cracks in the wood. The candles flicker. My thoughts seem to wander, to the glow on her cheeks; the sad look in our eyes at the unmoving board; the ridges in the walls, faded red paint that splinters in the skin; the piles of damp hay, one push away from tumbling down; the way her ancestors have lived on this land for centuries, each breathing the same air I am, each dying the same way I will. She gasps beside me. I turn, watching the triangle hover over the letter H. Hello, it spells. Hello, hello, hello. “Stop moving it,” I hiss. continued next page
The Publication of the Arts
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