COXLILIA

Copyright 2015 Michael Adams

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This book is licensed for personal reading only.

All aspects of this work are intended as fiction.

The Story

You stand at your village’s border at nightfall, looking into the forest because your time has come: at the moment that the today and tomorrow meet, the emerald coxlilia will appear and you must capture it to save the life of your sister which will disaparate before the sun’s next set.

You feel the weight of the fruit and cheese in your pocket. It’s going to slow you down. You also feel the weight of the necklace she gave you. “For luck,” she said. Your mother just won’t let you grow up.

You walk into the forest–the wettened leaves, the sticky bark, the hollowed logs–and you know it’s impossible to do what you set out to do because so many have told you it was so: the emerald coxlilia will appear for one minute under any wettened leaf, on any sticky bark, or in any hollowed log.

You continue to walk. You will camp for the six hours and then, at the moment the two days meet, your search will begin. You will search frantically: stomping leaves hoping to hear the juices of the coxlilia spill then collect the bug and the juicy leaves; throwing yourself against the trees hoping to shake the coxlilia from the branches where it will lose its grip on the sticky bark and fall and fall and fall until you will hear it splatter against the wettened leaves; and rolling log after rolling log after rolling log until the coxlilia spins out onto the wettened leaves, too dizzy to take flight. This is how it will be.

Time is passing, and you do not know how much because thinking has a way of speeding up the minutes and slowing down the hours. Your knees wobble and you sit. Your body aches. You figure hours must have passed. You hear the crickets. The leaves are drying and now have more of a crunch.

Your eyes begin to close. Your legs tingle with rest. Your head bows. You realize sleep is intoxicating. And you tremble. You tremble as you realize–

A spark.

You know your eyes are closed, but you know you saw it: a spark through a hollowed log.

You try to open your eyes, but you realize they’re already open. They’ve always been open.

The spark.

You crawl to the log and look through.

Spark.

Spark spark.

Spark.

You crawl into the log, and

Crawl, and

Crawl.

But the spark gets farther and farther

Away.

You realize how pointless.

So much time wasted.

The emerald coxlilia

Does not spark

By any story

You’ve heard.

You place one hand over the other to turn

But find the log hugging your sides.

You place one hand behind the other to recede,

But you bump bark.

You look back,

But darkness.

You sigh. Looking ahead:

Spark spark.

Spark.

Spark spark.

You crawl. You need to find

The coxlilia. So much time

Wasted. You crawl faster.

Your sister is ailing. Your stupid

Curiosity will be her death and,

If it is, you will make sure it is

Yours also. You swear.

You crawl

And crawl.

The spark sparks:

Spark

Spark spark.

It moves farther away.

You collapse. You stupid moron.

You won’t live and you don’t deserve

To because you now know this

Is why no one has ever found

The emerald coxlilia.

You cry.

You scream.

You bang against the log:

You’ll break through and find

Yourself back in the forest then

Burn this log for its trouble.

You stop banging–the side

Of your hand is bleeding.

You crawl

And crawl.

Spark.

Spark.

Spark.

Your eyes close.

If you’re going to crawl

For eternity, if you’re never

Going to find the emerald coxlilia,

Then you might as well sleep.

You lay yourself down.

Inhale.

Exhale.

You reach down the log

And feel the stretch.

Your hand touches something.

Like silk.

You scramble to your knees, feeling,

Feeling,

You find it. A gagamush weed.

You laugh, pulling the flattened

Silky tapers, then biting off just

The amout you need–some other

Curious fool may need some–and

Wrap it around your hand.

You feel a coolness, a tingling, as if

you have just been

Teleported to a mountain’s peak.

You crawl,

And crawl,

And crawl.

A squeak.

You stop.

Another squeak,

A flash of darkness,

Down the log,

Towards the spark.

You take crawling chase.

There is an end.

And you know like you know

This is it.

At long last, you know–

“Oomph.”

You fall

And fall

And fall

And fall

And fall

And hit stone.

You see tiny sparks.

You want to hurl

But mostly because the

Last thing you want to see

Is another spark.

And now,

You have dozens.

You lie against the stone.

Eyes closed.

The sparks dwindle from dozens,

To dozen, from dozen,

To nine, from nine,

To seven,

To three

To two

To one:

Spark.

Spark spark.

Spark.

You open your eyes:

A mouse, on hind legs,

Squeaking at you.

You look around:

Stone floor stretches out then

rises to stone walls that stop rising

then stretches out to stone ceiling.

You preferred the log.

You preferred the illusion of having

Some place to go.

But you are calm.

You take out the cheese wedge

And break off a piece.

You eat it.

The mouse squeaks.

You break off another piece

And hold it out in your hand.

The mouse sniffs about,

Then sniffs as it trails its way

To your hand, sniffs your fingertips,

Climbs in your hand to sniff

The cheese, then takes the cheese up

And starts nibbling.

You laugh.

But then stop as you become light-headed–

Woozy. You pray

The mouse

Isn’t

Diseased.

Shimmer.

You eat the piece of cheese

You hold in your paws.

You drop the cheese and look

At your body passed out

Against the stone wall.

You hate your life.

But on the bright side,

Mice have relatively short

Life spans. The woods

Are stalked by owls.

This will be over

Soon enough.

You sigh a squeak.

You eat your cheese.

But then you know–

You know like you know

That in the stone are

Holes big enough for

You to fit through

And you know all of them end

In dead ends except for one.

You wonder why you’ve

Rarely gone through that

One hole, but you remember

You weren’t always a mouse.

The mouse had everything it needed

Down the holes lined with berries

Growing from ivy leading to

Dry hovels.

But now you need differently

And berries growing from ivy

Leading to dry hovels will

Not suffice; so you will dare

The hole rarely travelled.

You think dare because you know you

Had your reasons–your instincts–

For never daring to go.

But now you have other instincts–

Other reasons.

You scurry up the wall,

To the hole where the stone

Wall turns into the stone ceiling

And climb in.

Darkness.

You remember the log.

You back out of the hole.

But you must–

Climb back in.

But the log.

You were trapped.

Back out.

The stone.

But you must.

And you did get out of the log, eventually.

And you were able to back out the hole.

So the hole is different from the log.

Maybe the stone works differently than the bark.

Of course it does.

You climb in and scurry, scurry, scurry.

It’s dark. You aren’t taking risks.

You scurry.

A berry.

Your stomach growls.

But what if the stone turns into the log?

You squeak.

Preposterous.

You stop and eat the berry.

You laugh.

You know before you

Never worried so stupidly.

You never worried at all:

You followed your

Animal instincts about

The holes,

The berries,

The stone,

The log.

The berry is good.

No regrets.

You feel energized. Alive.

You scurry faster than you have

Ever scurried before.

And you see it.

A hole at the end.

Getting closer.

The stone truly was not the log.

You reach the hole’s

Edge and look out:

Hundreds of men, on their knees,

Heads bowed.

You place your paw against the wall

To scurry down but slip

And fall

Fall

Fall

Fall

And hit dirt.

You scramble to your hind paws

To see the wall.

It is marble.

Turning:

Rows and aisles

Of men,

On their knees,

Heads bowed.

You go among them

And sniff, you smell–

Grapes!

You run between them,

Darting around,

And see the one

With the grapes: an old man,

With twig-like legs.

You shouldn't take his grapes.

He needs them.

You turn–

Oomph;

You bump–

Shimmer.

You look down at your

Ashen knees.

You hope she comes quickly.

You need to know when

The rain will fall. When

The famine will end.

You need to know before

You slaughter your last

Pig–so you know whether

To mourn. Or to feast.

You pray it isn’t to mourn because

You know you will not starve,

And you know you have the

Reasons to justify to yourself

And others what you will do

If your last plump pig is to be

Your last real meal.

You look out the corner of your

Eye to see Silas to your left.

Feeble Silas. Even if the rain

Does come, he won’t live

Long enough to witness

Its bounty never mind

To take of it to sustain his own

Life. This is your justification.

Your reason for–

You tremble.

The thought is so–

So–

You touch the man next to you.

Shimmer.

You look at your bloody knees.

She will come and you will tell her

You must find the emerald

Coxlilia which will give you the strength

To kill that traitorous Mecales

For stealing your last cow.

He can have your heffer of a wife

But not your cow.

You will roast and eat her intestines.

One way or another, your cow will go

Where it belongs: in you.

You touch the man next to you.

Darkness.

Your eyes are closed.

You open them. Darkness.

You think: “She knows where the emerald coxilia is.”

A voice: “How do you know this? Who are you?”

“No one. You?”

“You are me. And you know she knows where the emerald coxilia is?”

You have reason to believe.

“Excellent. We will hold a knife to her throat—”

“Why is that necessary?”

“She told us she didn’t know where the coxlilia was.”

“Maybe she doesn’t.”

“You thought we had reason to believe she did.”

“But maybe the reason is wrong.”

“Oh, she knows. We know like we know. She will listen to us once more because she

pities us, but I can hear all, and by the way her bracelets rattle and clang I will take her, make her tell me, then slit her throat.”

“But if she tells–”

“No matter. She lied. Can’t have someone who lies. Now can we?”

“Yes. But perhaps–”

A drum beats.

It is time.

You pat the knife in your pocket.

You touch the man next to you.

You look at your bandaged knees.

You breathe deeply.

You must warn her.

But how?

She comes down, the tip

Of her toe touching each marble step.

Her hips swirl like figure eights.

Her bracelets rattle and clang.

“Oooooo sparkly.”

“Shut up,” you think. You must get to her.

“Oooooo sparkle sparkle.” You look

at the diamonds around her neck,

radiating in concentric circles.

“Oooooo sparkly.”

You squint. No thread or

String or wire connects the

Diamond shaped diamonds.

You touch the man in front of you.

You must warn her.

You touch the man in front of you.

You must know if she knows–

Touch.

Where the emerald coxlilia is.

Touch.

You can exchange–

Touch.

Your warning–

Touch.

For the information.

Touch.

Touch.

Touch.

You are in the front row. Centered.

To the left: spear carrying guards.

To the right: spear carrying guards.

Head bowed, you raise your eyes and squint.

Folds of her flesh rise around each diamond.

You gasp.

They are encrusted in her.

A squeak.

A mouse looks at you with juicy grape pulp

In its whiskers.

He felt no shame in eating Silas’s grapes.

“Grapes? Who has grapes?”

“No one,” you think.

“Liar. You know. We know. And we will

Dig deep within ‘til we find out what we know.”

You touch the mouse.

You stop licking your paws

And scurry to the wall.

You make your way between

The wall and soldiers’ feet

To the steps.

You scurry along a step

Until you reach a column

Ending in fire, and you climb and climb

Then–

You leap.

You sail towards her

And make your way to her

Hair before–

Shimmer.

You freeze. The drums stop.

All bowing heads rise.

You know like you know about

Certain things so you snap your fingers.

The fire turns ruby.

Snap.

Gold.

Snap.

Emerald.

Snap.

The fire vanishes.

You take the mouse out your hair

And place it on the

Column.

You must do something.

You know like you know about certain things.

You point to the drummers overhead.

They drum.

All eyes are on you.

You remember the time,

Before your sister was born,

You and your mother

Danced to the drums

Of the parade:

You lift your shoulders then drop them.

One more time.

You pop a hip. Whoa. These hips move further.

You pop it again.

You raise your hands so the backs of them face your chest,

And you pump.

Gasps.

You keep pumping. Pumping ‘til you can’t pump—

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

“Oh, ummm sorry, madame,” you think. “The coxlilia–”

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry.” You were looking for her.

“Well. I have returned to my senses.”

You apologize. “Sorry. So Sorry.” You were on the village’s border–

“Silence.”

“But you–”

“Silence.”

You’re still. They are staring.

“I see. I see,” she thinks. “Thank you. You may go.”

“But–”

“I said go.”

“But–”

“I said go.” She touches the mouse.

Shimmer.

No. She can’t. She has to tell you–

You run to the edge–

She glares: “You jump, I snap, furry one.”

Gulp.

You scurry down the column.

You are on your own. You always were.

But maybe you can make it back in time.

Maybe the days have just met and you

Have time to search for the emerald coxlilia.

Darting through rows and aisles of men,

But, oh no, the marble. The marble wall.

You stop. And turn. To her.

She dances to the drum.

Hips moving in figure eights.

You forgot to warn her.

You squeak.

But you know something.

She already knows.

And you know more:

You dart and dash and find your way

Back to Silas. He takes his hand

And shoos you. You tug

On his sleeve.

“This is what I get fer givin’ yer mah food.”

He reaches inside his pocket and takes

Another grape out. He holds his hand out.

You don’t want it. You squeak at him.

“Take it, yer dumb thing.”

You get in his palm and take it.

The hand closes around you.

You squeak and you squeak.

But then relax. You’ve been through

This before.

Silas crawls on his hands and knees towards

The right wall. You wonder

Why there hasn’t been a shimmer.

Ahead: guards. Oh no, oh no–

A spear spikes the dirt.

Silas looks up.

“Sorry…but umm…mah mouse friend here…I just gotta umm…”

You squeak. You’d bite the guard if you could.

“Maybe it would just be easier to kill it?” says the guard.

“No, no,” says Silas. “Little feller gots what he needs.”

Silas crams you into a hole in the wall behind

The soldier’s foot. You peek out.

Will he be okay?

“Don’t worry,” he says.

He reaches in his shirt and pulls out a golden

Medallion. He winks.

“Now get.”

You get.

The hole is dark.

There is only one way to go

So you go that way.

But then you reach

A space with three marble holes.

Oh no. You have to choose.

You sniff.

Cheese! Your cheese.

You scurry down the middle hole,

Go right, and see three stone holes.

You sniff.

You go down the right hole,

Scurry up the vertical tunnel,

Climb over its ledge,

And scurry until you

Fall

Fall

Fall

Fall

And land in your lap.

Shimmer.

You awaken.

You must get back.

The days will meet if they

Are not meeting now, if they

Have not met already.

You get up and the mouse

Falls to the ground.

Looking around: stone

Floor, to stone wall,

To stone ceiling. You’re trapped.

You fall to your knees and bury your

Face in your hands.

The mouse squeaks.

You take out your fruit and cheese and throw

It in a corner. The mouse runs for it.

You were so stupid.

So ahead of yourself.

But you laugh.

Because you know like you know.

She knows.

And now you know.

You walk to the far wall

Covered in shadow

And you press against

One of the stone bricks.

The wall moves. There is light.

You walk through.

You find yourself in the forest.

It is dark.

You turn to see the woods

Stretch behind you.

You do not know what time it is.

But you are not worried.

You are calm.

You walk on the dried leaves.

Past hollowed logs.

Past sticky barks.

You stop.

Bend over.

And pick up a leaf:

There is the emerald

Coxlilia, a flickering spot

Of reflected moonlight

On its back. Like a spark.

You put the emerald

Coxlilia in your pocket

And button it.

You sit against

Sticky bark.

You will sleep.

In the morning

You will better

Navigate your way

Home.

You know you’ll find home

In the morning.

Your sister will exist

In the flow of health.

You know like you know.

It is so.

You bow your head.

Close your eyes.

As you drift off,

It dawns on you

That your name is

Silas, but, as slumber

Intoxicates, you

Forget the significance

Of this rememberance.

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The Works of Michael R.E. Adams

Discover worlds of magic and suspense

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MICHAEL R.E. ADAMS writes stories in the fantasy tradition. He completed his undergraduate studies in English at Georgetown University and his graduate studies in English/Writing at Mills College.

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

The Story

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