Someday he will awaken again… or perhaps he will not.
At last he falls and comes to rest. Eternity's deepest sleep envelops him, dragging him beneath thousands of gallons of salt water—the same water that, not long before, had been fresh. His body floats like seaweed, settling gently toward the ocean floor. His arms stop thrashing, then his legs. There is no longer any point in fighting.
At last his eyelids close over his eyes; he cannot prevent it. He looks upward as best he can, toward the place he longs to reach, but the surface seems impossibly far away. Something within his own body overwhelms him, something he cannot control. His life ebbs further with every new yard he descends into the depths. Resigned, the back of his head resting against a smooth, rounded rock, he lets sleep claim him upon a wondrous bed of autumn leaves.
He draws one long breath. He sinks into a profound sleep, though the peace he yearns for remains beyond reach. He removes his polished shoes, tucks his white shirt into his dress trousers, and tests the cold water of the tiny pond with his fingertips. It is as though his own efforts are carrying him somewhere against his will.
He makes one last desperate attempt to swim. He must hurry, must go as far as his lungs will allow. That is what Hormi tries to do. Even so, he makes very little noise as he climbs down from the galvanized metal roof. Once on the ground, he advances with painstaking stealth, disturbing the autumn leaves around the pond as he approaches that small body of fresh water.
He looks around, taking in a living landscape—an impossible autumn postcard. As the first light of dawn begins to break along the distant horizon and its colors blend into the surroundings, Hormi watches the glow illuminate two angelic faces. He remains there, hypnotized, spellbound, as though not even in dreams could he have seen them this way.
With time pressing inevitably upon him, Hormi studies one of those faces. It belongs to the exquisitely feminine and extraordinarily beautiful Hirmi, asleep with her even lovelier little daughter, Nuu, held in her arms. Mother and child dive through the depths of sleep.
The rest of the early morning passes in a mild chill, though not an unpleasant one, and without further disturbance. Hormi grows drowsy several times. He feels the strange urge to yawn again and again, yet he knows that doing so is impossible in that place. The more he longs to hurry, the more urgently he struggles, the deeper he sinks into the thick blackness that smothers him.
"Be quiet!" young Hirmi snaps, already exasperated.
Autumn leaves, ranging in color from deep red to faded orange, drift softly around Hormi like an inescapable rain unfolding in slow motion. Each leaf settles gently onto a ground already buried beneath a dense bed of foliage. Together, their colors stain the medium-sized enclosure.
The air is mild now. There is no wind, only a breeze that from time to time stirs a strand of Hirmi's hair. Her skin is almost as white as her sleeveless, high-necked dress, which falls to her knees. Hormi suspects she wears nothing beneath it. Hirmi's long blond hair, smooth and silky, falls across her forehead in a fringe that stops above her eyebrows. She is barefoot.
Little Nuu wears an outfit similar to her mother's, though hers is pink. She has the same hair as Hirmi, gathered into two long braids. She, too, is barefoot.
"How inconsiderate," Hirmi tells him, disappointment written across her face.
Upon waking, Hirmi shifts on the galvanized roof and, still cold, sits up. Nuu lies against her right shoulder on the same sheet of zinc, which is barely reinforced with rusted rivets. Her round face rests upon her joined palms, as though she were about to recite the Lord's Prayer.
Hormi remains standing two paces away.
"As you wish," Hormi replies.
He tries to look elsewhere so he will not have to meet her eyes. His gaze returns to the bed of leaves, which appears enormous from atop the galvanized roof. Then he looks toward the pond a short distance away.
"You'll never come back… Do you think I don't know that, Hormi? The moment you vanish into that damned pond, you'll be dead to both of us," Hirmi declares furiously.
She stares at him, her eyes wide as plates. He answers her gaze with sadness.
"You won't think that when I return with help for you," Hormi replies calmly, irritating her even further.
"Liar! You'll leave and never come back! If you do this, you'll be dead to me. And to her as well," she concludes, pointing at Nuu.
After saying this, she looks as sorrowful as she is furious, abandoning for the first time in decades the hardened posture she has maintained. Hirmi covers her lips with her right hand, creases her brow, and struggles to contain the first light of an imminent sob, but fails. Hormi looks at the child, afraid that Hirmi's angry cries will wake her.
He is relieved to see her sleeping peacefully, motionless and unaware of the conflict around her.
"That's not true. Why would you say that? It's just that… someone has to get out of here. We're trapped among these trees, Hirmi. Can't you see?" he explains with the convincing air of a teacher.
"Coward! That's a lie! All you care about is saving yourself. You don't care what might happen to us," the young woman protests furiously.
"No. That's truly what I believe," he says, retaining his usual infuriating composure.
"Liar," Hirmi fires back, now more furious than sad.
"I'll find help and come back. That's all. I promise," Hormi assures her, without convincing her.
He crouches until he is level with her. Their eyes remain bound together at close range, never straying, scarcely blinking.
"We can't swim that far. What is it you cannot understand, Hormi? We would drown almost at once," Hirmi reasons aloud.
Her words emerge as whispers now; his gaze forces her to soften her voice. Her anger does not fade. Helplessness joins it, and her sorrow deepens. Hormi watches her and nods. Despite everything, he understands.
"You won't be coming with me, Hirmi," he states with absolute certainty.
"You're going to leave us alone," the woman insists with almost childlike simplicity.
"Perhaps. Listen, the pond leads to the ocean—or at least that's what it seemed like when I woke this morning," Hormi explains.
He studies the palm of his right hand as though he might read a map there, or fate, or something beyond both.
"That is how he escaped…" Hirmi remembers. She draws in her arms and shudders.
Her voice breaks. Trembling with fear, she wraps her arms around herself and scarcely dares even to glance sideways at the pond beyond the bed of leaves. She is terrified of seeing him again, just as her mind relentlessly reminds her. Tiny waves, like those of a Lilliputian sea, disturb the mysterious water. She is petrified.
"That is how I arrived as well…"
With those words, Hormi tries to remind her of something, but it is already too late. He cannot restrain her, much less calm her.
"Through the pond…" she says with a nod, holding his eyes with her beautiful gaze and refusing to look away.
"How did he escape this place?" Hormi asks in a flash of inspiration.
No question could have been more ill-timed. He asks it in a voice that sounds exhausted, frightened, and confused all at once.
"That is precisely my point," she insists, nervously running her hands through her golden hair again and again, unable to stop herself.
"No," the man states firmly, deliberately burying every path the conversation might follow.
The conversation resumes anyway, whether he wishes it to or not. It restarts like an old computer intent on proving it can still function. A pair of silent, unreal moments have passed in which they have grown older and more anguished, while the rest of the world has gained far more than those additional clusters of all-controlling seconds.
"Would you have left your wife and daughter here?" Hirmi asks pointedly, almost aggressively.
"And the little one," Hormi states.
To her surprise, each word now slips between his lips like a whistle, barely audible but certain. His muted tone makes the statement sound like a question. He looks tenderly at little Nuu as she sleeps.
"No…"
That is all the woman adds. She feels exhausted. She draws breath to say something else, but for whatever reason, no words follow.
"That doesn't speak very well of him," Hormi decides, unable to conceal his anger.
"Yes," she answers with unmistakable resignation, shrugging her shoulders.
"He escaped alone," Hormi says.
He already knows the answer contained in those words, though they form no question.
"Of course. He abandoned us here. Just as you will," the young woman insists, finally looking away.
"I don't mean to pry, but… that man hurt you deeply. Didn't he?" Hormi asks with gentle concern.
He wants to help her—desperately. To protect her, caress her, hold her, perhaps console her. She looks utterly heartbroken. In truth, he lacks the courage to move any closer than he already has, or even to touch a single strand of her golden hair.
"No… he doesn't deserve that," Hirmi answers after several seconds, profound contempt on her face.
"Do you miss your husband?" Hormi asks, though he believes he knows what she will say.
He never stops looking into her eyes, even though she now finds it difficult to meet his. She tries to appear distant, but manages to convey very little coldness, either in her face or, least of all, in her heart.
"Nothing," she answers curtly.
Her tone suggests that she wants the subject closed. Her manner leaves Hormi with far too many questions. It seemed to him that Hirmi meant to say more—she drew breath again as if she would—but in the end, she adds nothing.
"What?" he is compelled to ask, more curious than ever and, above all, confused.
"Me too…" the young woman adds.
Her gaze is utterly lost in the pond beyond the bed of leaves, which itself lies six feet below the galvanized roof upon which they speak. Nostalgic and reflective, her eyes remain fixed on the water as though nowhere else exists.
"I miss my wife. I love her," Hormi suddenly confesses.
He begins to feel cold in his still-soaked clothing and rubs both arms with his hands.
"The trees themselves will stop you, whatever you try. You cannot leave this place. Their branches are intertwined. It is a kind of natural prison—beautiful, yes, as you can see… but deadly as well. We were born here, and here we remain."
Hirmi pauses beneath a taut tension on the verge of breaking.
"If you manage to get out, by whatever means," the young woman continues, "they will be waiting on the other side—eagerly waiting. Yes, them: the D'Hirmi-D'Hormi-D'Nuu. You cannot reason with them. They do not think. They are savage and merciless, and they will disembowel you without hesitation," she declares with absolute conviction.
Merely saying it sends a shiver down her back, turning into a cold drop against her skin. What Hormi has heard unsettles him as well.
"You're saying there is no way out through the trees and undergrowth?" Hormi asks, still incredulous.
"Thank you," Hirmi says simply.
"I'll give you my jacket."
He offers it without waiting for an answer, even though the jacket remains completely soaked and has barely had time to dry. He notices that the woman is shivering slightly from the cold, though fear makes her tremble as well.
"Only a little," Hirmi admits with some shyness.
She looks down.
"Are you cold?" he asks, genuinely wanting to protect her, to help her somehow.
"Yes… it's true," the lovely woman confirms.
She sits before him with her arms wrapped around herself, while he crouches on the galvanized roof and never takes his eyes from her.
"So we're both parents…" Hormi remarks, attempting to change the subject.
At the same time, he cannot stop thinking about how to escape. His tone wavers between certainty and doubt.
"I thought I heard something…" the young woman tells him, unable to shake her fear.
She remains alert to every subtle sound in nature, trying to distinguish any noise made by the deadly, lurking, ever-recurring D'Hirmi-D'Hormi-D'Nuu. She is certain that merely hearing them approach would make her faint.
"What?" the man asks, both confused and impatient.
"Wait…" Hirmi cuts him off.
She listens intently to the sounds surrounding them. She believes she heard something that did not belong to nature. When she cannot identify the sound again, relief comes over her and she resumes speaking.
"Her name is Nuu," the young first-time mother says.
She smiles proudly while stroking her daughter's golden braids, woven by her own hands.
"Is that so?" Hormi says, trying to soothe the fears keeping the woman so tense. "I have a daughter too—very clever, very beautiful. In fact, she looks remarkably like your little girl," he says with pride.
He smiles, and color gradually returns to his cheeks.
"Is that so?"
For the first time, Hirmi's face brightens, the beginning of a smile taking shape. She never stops caressing the sleeping child.
"Of course. She's very pretty. She bears a certain resemblance to her mother," Hormi admits without hesitation.
Smiling, he studies the details of the woman's face. His words hold more meaning than he himself suspects.
"Are you married?" Hirmi asks now.
Her interest in the subject distracts her from her fears, although she cannot avoid feeling guilty. She realizes that she has been somewhat rude to him.
"It's a delicate subject. I'm sorry," Hormi admits, feeling the familiar tingling that comes with making an obvious mistake in front of someone.
"She has no father. Only a mother… me."
Pride fills her as she says it. Then she raises her eyes to the twinkling stars with a trace of disappointment.
"I don't mean to make you uncomfortable," Hormi says, keeping the smile stretched across his face.
Yet smiling hurts him. It does not come easily, and he knows it.
"Her lips are more like my mother's," Hirmi adds.
She gazes lovingly at her child, caresses her with delight, and kisses the sleeping girl's cheek.
"She looks exactly like you. No question," Hormi adds, leaving no room for doubt.
"She is the most beautiful little girl."
Hirmi feels as though her chest might burst with pride.
"She's lovely…" he thinks aloud, smiling as he contemplates the child's undeniable beauty.
"Every night she falls asleep in my arms," the happy mother exclaims.
The gentle breeze barely reaches them. It is warm, stirring and whirling some of the leaves in the autumn bed below the galvanized roof where the three of them rest. Night arrives and the sun goes down. They have eaten their fill of red apples from the nearby tree. They have also shared stories and even laughed a little. Nuu wakes.
They remain seated in a circle, looking into one another's faces atop the thin galvanized sheet, held barely six feet above the bed of leaves by three rectangular wooden posts. That is how the evening passes.
"See? You can eat as many apples as you like. We'll keep you company. Tomorrow, you'll see, every one of them will be here again," Hirmi explains cheerfully as the sovereign sun lights her beautiful, angelic face.
"It's good… I mean, thank you… it's delicious," Hormi exclaims.
He says this after taking his first bites from an apple that is deep red, wonderfully sweet, juicy, and delicious.
"Here," Hirmi offers, holding out a bright red one.
"All right. To tell you the truth, I am a little hungry," the man confesses, with a hint of embarrassment.
"It's getting dark. You shouldn't leave after nightfall. The D'Hirmi-D'Hormi-D'Nuu move more easily through the shadows. Why not wait until morning, at least?" She pauses, reflective and nervous. "I know what I'm talking about."
Her words leave him thoughtful, watching the darkness begin to gather among the trees.
"Wait until the sun shines again. Then you may have a better chance," Hirmi reasons with tremendous patience—patience she does not possess.
She sounds convincing. He listens closely. Meanwhile, little Nuu amuses herself by following the erratic flights of small birds with yellow, orange, and red plumage.
"Tell me," Hormi urges, aware that an explanation is coming.
"Wait… wait. First I want to tell you something," the beautiful woman interrupts.
"Yes, I know. If I remain trapped here, I'll lose my life anyway. Nothing and no one will stop me. I'm leaving…" Hormi says before she can continue, almost out of patience.
"You'll lose more than your life. You'll lose your soul as well. I know what I'm talking about," Hirmi warns him, deeply concerned.
They stare at each other in silence for a long time.
"No… no… that isn't possible. I won't stay in this place for one more day. I'm getting out, whatever it takes," he insists with a trace of desperation.
"The branches give us new apples every day. What more could you ask for?" Hirmi asks, making another attempt at patience.
"You can't expect me to believe you've spent your entire life eating apples, or that they grow fast enough to feed you day after day—much less both of you," he points out while Nuu plays, distracted.
"This apple tree has precisely those qualities, whether you believe it or not."
She gestures toward it with both hands, palms raised, eyebrows arched, certainty in her expression.
"I don't know how you remain alive up here. I don't understand it. It's impossible," Hormi finally says.
He waves a hand impatiently, as though swatting away an irritating thought.
"Which part?" Hirmi asks, bewildered by his bewilderment.
"But how? What you're telling me makes no sense," the man adds, utterly resigned and with no patience left.
"What I'm saying, for heaven's sake, is that my mother conceived me up here—yes, right here. I have never set foot on the ground. She could not teach me very much, but she did teach me never to climb down, whatever the reason, because the D'Hirmi-D'Hormi-D'Nuu lurk mercilessly below. That is all you need to know. It should be enough for you," the woman explains, now exasperated.
She accompanies her words with nervous gestures, her hands moving as though sketching what she cannot explain.
"I suppose you mean you woke up here. You could not have been born here," he says.
Hirmi is not amused by the remark.
"We were born up here…" she repeats angrily, glancing at her little daughter to the left.
"Of course. Listen, how did you get up here? It doesn't look easy," he asks with curiosity and a touch of sarcasm.
"I…"
Hirmi tries to contain herself, but he interrupts her.
"I can understand. This is a very strange situation. May I ask her something?" He looks at the child before continuing.
"You'll have to forgive my daughter, but she doesn't like speaking to strangers," Hirmi says quickly, wrapping her arms around Nuu as though a tornado might tear the girl from her grasp. "We can wait for someone to come and help us. She is frightened too," Hirmi explains.
The child clings to her beloved mother's left hand.
"I cannot remain trapped here forever," Hormi reflects, firm in both his words and convictions.
"The D'Hirmi-D'Hormi-D'Nuu crawl beneath your skin. They slither and worm their way through its layers, between your muscles, until they reach the bone. Then, once they control everything, they bore through your insides until they reach your soul. That is what feeds them. When they get there, they destroy you without mercy. Whatever remains of your body will pay the price, and whatever remains of your body will pay the price before it fades forever. Yet you will not die… no, never. You will remain alive. But what is a body without a soul, after all? Isn't that so?" Hirmi explains as best she can.
Although she tries to appear strong as she tells him all this, fear makes her tremble from head to toe and tightens every muscle. Her nerves fracture her voice until her forehead and palms are wet with perspiration. Tears flood her beautiful sky-blue eyes.
"I don't understand. What kind of creatures are they?" he asks, unable to conceive of them fully.
"They wait on the other side. They lurk where you wish to go. That is where the D'Hirmi-D'Hormi-D'Nuu are waiting for you, hungry for souls," she adds, her face desolate.
"Then let's leave," Hormi resolves pragmatically.
"I smell coffee. I've smelled it for some time, as if a cup were very close. Can you smell it?" Hormi asks, looking around for the source of the aroma.
"Why aren't you soaked? You should be," Hirmi replies, confused.
"Why should I be?" Hormi asks, concerned.
"You couldn't have just emerged from the water if you're this dry. And yet something makes me certain you came out of that damned pond," the beautiful young woman concludes. Her little daughter remains deeply absorbed in her play.
"This pond leads to the ocean… I think that is where I came from," Hormi tries to explain.
He reflects on his own words the moment he hears them leave his mouth.
"Yes, from that pond… that damned pool is the only water anywhere around here. It could not have been another," Hirmi reflects, watching the small waves raised by the breeze upon the swirling black water. Then she adds, "The D'Hirmi-D'Hormi-D'Nuu emerge from the pond at night."
As she tells him this, she gazes incredulously at the small body of water beyond the bed of leaves. Horror seizes her again. Confusion shows on her face; what she felt before is nothing beside what now possesses her.
"Where am I?" Hormi wonders.
He is more than confused. Hormi looks upward and hears a noise. He circles the galvanized roof, steps away from it, and tries to see whether something is above. Three frail wooden posts hold a zinc sheet that seems to produce far too many strange sounds across its surface. He is certain there is something up there. He stands between two of those three supports, none of them broader than his arms.
The ground is eternally red-orange, carpeted by a thick layer of autumn leaves. The air seems warm. Then Hormi emerges from the tiny pond where he had lain motionless beneath the water. He looks around. For the first time, he understands that he is inside a small enclosure bathed in a rain of leaves that falls everywhere, continually feeding the bed beneath him.
When his eyes open at the bottom of that deep ocean, he swims with all his strength toward the distant surface, toward a ring of reddish light casting luminous beams into the saltwater depths. His head breaks the surface in desperation. He sees a beautiful woman watching him intently from high atop a gleaming metal sheet. A lovely little girl is with her, but she does not see him; she is asleep. He watches them both.
The enclosure is surrounded by dense autumn trees that prevent him from seeing what lies beyond. He hears only the multiple echoes of voices that do not belong to him, yet sound exactly like his own, alongside the voices of women and children. He feels empty. The rain of leaves is unceasing. They fall slowly, feeding, forming, and thickening the only thing that separates him from that mother and daughter—for now: an eternal bed of leaves. Beyond the enclosed perimeter, desperately eager and shockingly silent, the D'Hirmi-D'Hormi-D'Nuu are waiting to enter.
THE END