By Finnur Ricart, Y 13
The sun’s rays are still out of sight as I float down through the soft mist towards the heart of the city. It is not really a city, but a town. My feet land gently on the cobbled road: first the left, then the right. I fold my map and put it in the left pocket on the inside of my long, stone-gray coat. There is not a soul in sight as I stroll down the main street, lined with continuous rows of narrow, three to four story high brick houses. The clock in my head is put to work, compiling the information to tell me the time. Dim sky, low laying fog, absence of people. My clock senses a quiet stillness which puts the time at about… The thoughts of my clock are cut off by five counts of the bell in the old tower; 05:00.
I take pride in my steps. One after the other. Marking my territory down the middle of the road. With each stride, the silence around me becomes louder. But the silence isn’t quiet; it is a harmony played by the whiz of the subtle breeze, the swaying of the half-naked trees, the rustling of the leaves and all the other murmurs of the earth. Comfortably nestled in my woolen scarf, my ears are delighted by the silence. Especially the silence of the crispy leaves, scraping along the rough surface of the main street as they are moved by the wind, funneling them from the forest into the veins of the town. It is strange how the wind revives the dead leaves, giving them a flow of electricity, giving them life again.
I stop. There it is. There they are. My eyes look down at my boots. I lift my gaze, slowly, and look straight, straight into the seemingly speechless chaos right at the end of the street. The bearded trees draw a line in the pavement which almost calls out ‘beyond this point, our laws rule’. I start towards the forest and feel the wind pick up. I let my coat flutter to and fro like a cape hanging from my shoulders. I hold my head up high, letting my chin lead the way. My arms rise gently, and my wrists turn to let my palms face forwards as I feel the rhythm of my feet hasten. A tingly feeling goes through me. First on the surface of my skin making my hairs stand, but then deeper down, through my veins and nerves.
My limbs come back under the control of my brain just before I take off like a bird. The thump of a door shutting startles me. My neck twists to place my eyes on the action. I turn back, turn up the collar on my coat, take the last step across the line and disappear into the silence.
The city awakens at 07:00. Doors begin thumping. Cars rattle. People rush, aimlessly. Endlessly. The silence is stifled. It is a black hole of a city, pulling the sounds, the sights, the smells towards itself and swallowing them whole.
‘Man is merely a puppet, manipulated by the mind.’
As the last people return, the last doors close and the last light-bulbs go out. The silence returns, and the autumn continues. Not a soul remains as I come from my hiding. This story will repeat itself until the walls crumble. Until the man ceases to exist. He will forget about the autumn. He will forget about the trees. But the trees will observe this chapter closing from a distance and continue through the numerous chapters to come. The leaves will continue to rust, bringing autumn to every chapter until the book closes and the silence takes over. I know the rusty leaves. Their silence speaks to me. They told me to tell you this: ‘We are the autumn. You have seen us for your entire life. At the end of your time, you will not see us anymore. But don’t worry, we return every chapter thousands of times, with or without you. Enjoy us while you can and let the ones after you enjoy us too. You are small, but you have power. Respect that power.
