Prose, Arcadia..................................................Helen Yenson ’22

Arcadia

Helen Yenson ’22

“Is this a good idea?”

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.

“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. “Now what?”

“Now—” She guides my fingers, curling them around the planchet. Her hand feels warm. “We wait.”

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.

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“Shh.” Her eyes stay glued to the board. The planchet trembles, shaking, before falling silent once again.

She groans. “Look what you’ve done.”

“I didn’t do anything!” The ivory falls out of my hands, hitting the board with a muted crack. It sounds like the board will split in two. “You’re the one who kept moving it.”

“Did not,” she retorts, shifting everything back into place. “Here— Let’s try again.”

I shuffle back. This is more than I bargained for. “No way.”

She puts the planchet back in my hands. The touch feels cool this time, crawling on my skin. “Come on.”

Some of her hair catches in the light, falling off her shoulder in waves. Her eyes have a nagging sense of hope, gravitating me back to the board. Tentative, I put my fingertips on the planchet. We wait for what feels like eternity. Silence fills the barn, so quiet I can hear my wristwatch, ticking. Time seems to move on without us.

After a minute, or maybe two, I say, “Told you.”

“No.” Her hands clench around the planchet, white stress lines forming at the knuckles. “It worked before— I’m sure it’ll work again.”

I sigh. Cool, dusk air seeps into the barn, raising bumps on my skin. The stars will be out soon. Cicadas sing across the meadows, the moon a pale white cloud. We wait, and wait, and wait, and the cicadas buzz, and the candles flicker, and the planchet doesn’t even twitch.

“I think we should go.” Her face crumbles—mouth sunk in on itself and eyes empty. She doesn’t reply.

“They’re waiting for us.”

Despondent: “I know.”

“It’s getting dark.” “I know.” I love you, I think, but do