White Rabbit Chapter 4

4.

            Delores felt dreadfully guilty for killing the cat, then not, but then dreadfully guilty again. She felt tremendously tired as she came upon a large gulley of oak trees that had faces and spoke to her as she passed. Every one of them politely said, “Good evening, ma’am,” and she replied in kind.

            “Tell me, sir.” She yawned to one such tree. “Is there a place a girl can sleep around here?”

            The oak thought upon it for a long second or two and replied, “You may sleep where it is you wish to sleep. One place isn’t any better than another. Or is it? I wouldn’t know, I sleep where I sleep. I have roots. You have no roots.”

            “Well, thank you, sir.” She began to go about on her way when the oak tree called back to her.

            “But these woods are dangerous this time of day, well, any time of day. There are marauding Torgans, mischievous cats, and warthogs about. You might want to find a safe place.”

            “I have met a cat but not the others.”

            “Oh,” he replied. “The others are worse. Far worse.” He said dramatically. Delores looked about in panic, sleepily. She still had the butcher knife and she pulled it out of a leather satchel that she had taken from the effects of the dead cat in which she had placed her belongings. In that bag there was nothing besides a deck of cards, some strange coins, a pocket watch that didn’t work, and a book. It was a curious looking book called, White Rabbit, that she hadn’t bothered yet to read. She hadn’t the time, she said. But in truth all she had was time because there was no such thing as time where she was. That pocket watched worked fine because it was always 6:30 in the evening. Nothing aged. “Perhaps, you would like to rest here. I will make sure no ill fortune befalls you. And my leaves, well, they would make for a soft bed.”

            Delores looked up at his old face wondering if she could trust him. There seemed to be no clear way to determine who could be trusted and who couldn’t. But all she could do was believe her instincts which told her that he was sincere. “Can a girl trust an oak tree?” She asked plainly partly to herself, partly to him.

            “Surely.” He smiled. “But never trust a locust, or an elm. Horrible lots.” With that she lay down beneath him and closed her eyes looking up at his large ash gray branches which he leaned over and bent around her.  “They will have to cut me down before I let them get to you.”

            “Thank you.” She smiled.

            “No. Thank you. You give me purpose.”

            “Purpose?” She questioned softly out loud but half asleep.

            “This is a love story, you know? The greatest love story of them all.”

            “A love story?” She faintly asked with her eyes closed drifting away.

            “Yes.” He said smiling. “And you will make He, and us, better. You are the one.”

            “Me?” She drifted asleep. She wouldn’t remember it when she woke up, nor would she be in the company of an oak tree. For where she was, where you go to sleep is never where you wake up.