“See that rollercoaster over there,” he tilted with a perk brow, cutting across our silent exchange about the ageing of the grass and the tickle of the seed.
I followed his quick gaze but saw no rollercoaster.
He spied my frown before I did. “There,” he wrapped his arm around me; came to my level. “Look closer.”
I looked closer and deeper and further than I’d ever looked before. And the kaleidoscope settled and I saw a new kind of truth. There, in the tall grass, was a rollercoaster. It was small and emerged from the detail: of the aged grass, and of their loaded chandeliers.
I saw how each chandelier broke under all the pressure — of the unforgiving weight; of the scorch of the sun; of the jeer of the wind. And each seed would fall, one by one, guided down the tracks of the stalks, deep into underground tunnels burrowed by roots — of anything at all — and emerge again, bursting kinetic!, only to be lost forever. Perhaps until next spring.
“What rollercoaster?” I teased innocence, looking at him with bright eyes.
And he painted it with his fingers, and a golden moth followed his light.
We continued walking, trespassing, pioneering. And with every turn I saw new rollercoasters, even with my eyes closed.
**
And so I first learned: there are many truths.
**
He told me about his empire. The empire that his family had built, and which he had inherited.
The rollercoasters weren’t safe. They shouldn’t have passed the safety standard.
He told me how so many had fallen. But each year, fresh life collected at the front of the queue. They pushed through the gates; each car ran to escape being overrun.
But there was no remorse — his family did not, after all, hide the danger. They saw life, and they bit.
**
I glimpsed life, and I begged him, without saying a word, to have a ride.
“No, not yet.”
I said I was ready. But yet never came.
**
I took him to the river bank. I wanted to show him the water. The cleansing of it. The depth of it. The life in it.
And he came willingly, hand in my hand. And we sat by the river bank. And he never looked down. But he joined in my song.
**
I looked down anyway, because I so loved the water. But I couldn’t see him. He was just out of reach.
**
And so I first learned: secrets belong to those who hide.
**
We returned to the river bank many times.
One day, gazing into the ripples of the river, I saw my friend. Instantly recognisable, even if cut up.
He said, caught by my friend, “Oh! We were just talking about the flowers and the bees and the trees.” (Which we were.)
**
I didn’t see him for a fortnight.
I went, each night, tongue-tied to the river bank. I took in my gaze, lit — and extinguished, with grace — by the moon pulls. And a fallen seed grew inside me.
**
And after the fourteenth night, which I didn’t know meant a thing, he came back to life. He wore ash on his cheeks.
“I’ve just escaped from prison.”
Stopping momentarily to judge my silence, he continued anyway, “Why was I there?”
“I was caught in a place where I shouldn’t be. Wrong place, wrong time.”
“But alone in the cell, an angel came to me.”
(Was it a fairee?)
“And gave me a leatherbound book, with blank pages.”
(Magic ink, or to write our own story?)
“No time for questions — she’d fled.”
He paced up, and down, and up, and down. Impassioned. Wearing truth.
“And when I took the book, it turned into a sword.”
“And I cut my way out of the cell.”
I don’t know what my face gave away, but —
He lamented, horror in his eyes, “I’ve just come from there!”
“Straight to you.”
**
“Don’t tell anyone.”
**
“Don’t tell anyone.”
**
It might be about the rollercoasters. They’re not licensed; they’re effectively illegal.
And if they were felled, there would be no forest.
No more creatures.
All the creatures which have their own lives. They don’t care about you or I.
**
And so I first learned: our gaze falls where we let it lie.
**
And I nurtured his secret.
I didn’t tell.
**
And he told me of a child.
A forbidden affair.
His own stepmother! So beautiful.
His blood congealed an army.
That shed ever more blood. The ‘multiplier effect’.
**
And the seed became toxic, but continued to grow anyway, in the way of growth.
**
Until one day, the wooded seed burst, splintering inside my every body.
**
And the rain poured down, and formed a lake around us. We could no longer find the river.
There was nowhere to escape.
Immersed, blissful, held by the water. The water doesn’t lie.
And I looked down and saw his reflection.
I couldn’t find him there.
There were no rollercoasters.
And I looked up, and he was gone.
**
And I remembered what I’d always known: I can trust the water.
**
It was a thousand times said, the lessons harvested in teen-hood should serve us well.
**
And it is true! One plus one equals two. One plus one equals a window.
I think therefore I am. A man hurt therefore men are monsters.
Also true — my brother is good to me; so is my father. And most of the men in my life.
There are many truths.
**
And it is true! The numbers don’t lie. We had them audited and they’ve been smothered with an inky stamp of peer-reviewed scientific approval.
Also true — if you close your eyes, you can’t see the numbers. They don’t need to matter if you don’t want them to.
**
Also true — you don’t even need to wear dark glasses anymore to pretend you’re not looking at the numbers.
**
Also true — winning is the only thing that really matters. (Don’t listen to your teacher. There can only be one winner.) Turn it into a game — win yourself over more and more each day by ignoring even more numbers than you did yesterday.
**
Because it’s true. Numbers only tell part of the story.
**
What will I teach my daughters?