yeland, part 3
Link to part 2
By the time I’d wrestled through the waxy thicket, I felt washed out again. My brain told my eyelids to lie down even as I struggled to keep them open. The warm soft sand on the shore beckoned me to rest some more.
What the hell’s going on here? This was my last lucid thought before I stretched out on the inviting warmth of the shore.
As I slept, strange eyes watched me from everywhere, plagued and tormented me. Like a hermit crab, I clambered restlessly trying to escape the eyes. Everywhere I hid, another eye opened and peered curiously into my dream. I awoke with a start expecting to find eyes, like stuffed olives, floating on the horizon. Luckily, I was quite alone. In the distance, I could see my house perched on the shore and was thankful that the island had stayed put while I slept. I couldn’t imagine falling asleep in this strange place. Usually I can’t sleep well anywhere but in my own bed.
Marilyn would be out of her mind with worry.
What was I saying? Marilyn worry? She’d probably headed off for work this morning glad not to have me underfoot. She was always after me to get out more. Could I help it if I liked staying home? Enjoyed the solitude of my castle? Wistfully I gazed over the river at my house. If I couldn’t find the boat, I’d have to swim for it, weak and tired or not. My muscles screamed at the thought, while my stomach rumbled and my mouth felt like the desert after a drought.
I had to find that damnable boat.
After searching the entire strip of sand, I concluded that I mustn’t have moored it securely enough.
Washed downstream, I mused, striping out of my shoes and socks and stuffing them into my pockets. Not the ideal weather for swimming but that’s what I got for larking out on an adventure instead of working.
I expected the bite of cold water on my toes. What I got instead was, knocked on my butt. As I approached the river—I swear I could smell river water—my face slammed into . . .
Into . . .
Nothing . . .
Don’t get me wrong, I slammed into something hard, but nothing was there. The horizon stretched before me, across the river and into my back yard. Yet, as I neared the river, I smashed into an obstruction: a barrier of some sort I discovered as I traveled down the beach and tried to get off the island at different points.
I could run my hands over the river view, like it was an artist’s picture. Stronger than mere canvas, I found as I bounced a rock off it with a sharp ping. The barrier holding me in place was smooth and cold. Little currents pulsated beneath my groping fingertips.
Madness edged across my cranium, as I pounded on the perfectly replicated waters of the Rainbow River. When my pummeling fists were raw, I slid dejectedly into the soft sand. My mind refused to accept this situation. How could this be? How could I gaze at these familiar scenes of home and be as far removed as if jailed?
As I watched, the river raged, clouds rolled, and the sun went down just like any spring day in Maine.
Continued in my next post
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