When Edna gets to the trees she hesitates. She knows she is being foolish, especially considering the scary incident at the boat. But as soon as she considers turning back, the moment of clarity is replaced with the prior stubbornness, and she picks up her pace, which is not noticeably faster than she is already going. Edna’s stubbornness is birthed from the unholy union of confusion and fear—a fear who’s object is something other than danger. If danger were Edna’s main concern, there would be no confusion about staying with her friends.
As Edna wanders deeper into the trees, her heart tightens, and she is met with a familiar feeling. It is a feeling that she has not had for quite some time. If Edna let herself think about the feeling long enough to describe it, she would say it is as if her chest begins swelling with the tangle of emotions she has managed to push away—emotions that are always on the periphery, waiting for an opportunity to seep back inside. And she would say that her limbs feel light, contrasted with the heaviness in her body; so light that they seem detached, leaving her emotions exposed—to herself and to others. This is why when Edna was agile enough, she would curl up in a tight ball. It was as if holding her limbs in place was all she could do to push the emotions down, outside the borders of her consciousness.
The ever-present ache—the one that began to intensify as Edna followed the fireflies—is what stands in place of these unwelcome emotions when they are kept away. When the ache becomes intense, as it was earlier, and as it was after her divorce, the intensity is an emotional foreboding of what she is now experiencing. She much prefers the ache. And it is easier to fall asleep—to escape—when it is only the ache.
In this state, Edna begins to contemplate all the instances in Storia that she has pushed to the back of her mind. She feels sick remembering how she cried when she first met Pixie. The shame she felt when she let the fairy hold her comes back, and she is mad at herself for acting like an imbecile since then; excited about mermaids; trusting Pixie and Twynne. They just sat there staring at me, amused, when I was struggling not to fall, like I’m some clown, she thinks.
Edna kicks at the leaves despairingly and she slowly plods forward, wallowing in her thoughts, as though desperate to feel resentful, rather than what she is feeling. And what she is feeling—what these tangle of emotions tell her—is that there is a chasm between her existence and everyone else. But not an insurmountable chasm, for that would imply that something stands between her and others; and if that were the case then that something is to blame for the disconnect; and it does not belong, even if it cannot be removed. But these emotions tell Edna that the chasm is her very existence—she does not belong.
Her thoughts are suddenly broken by what sounds like voices, ahead of her. She hides behind the closest tree, and peeks around the side. The voice stops and is replaced with the crunching of leaves. The crunching stops, too, as quickly as it started. Edna stands there for a while, waiting. She knows, by the prickling of her skin, that the silence contains something. Her heart begins to pound, and she curses herself for not staying with Pixie and Twynne.
“You,” someone says behind her, “are a clever creature to wander alone. You humans are always stuck with chaperones.”
Edna turns around, and right behind her is a centaur. She knows what it is because her son once dressed up as a centaur for Halloween. Edna needed to make a costume that made half of her son into a horse; half man, half horse, her son had explained to her. Half boy, half horse, Edna had responded; half mom-humor, half mom-reminder. To Edna’s relief, the ache has returned.
He is beautiful. Edna thinks, as she observes the centaur. His upper body, the human part, is lengthened and flexed, and it is a rich lavender-bluish tone; it is no earthly shade of human skin. And over his creamy blue-lavender skin is a sheen that reminds Edna of male models in magazines. “Do you oil your body?” Edna asks him. “Where do you get oil here in Storia?”
The centaur’s pectorals flex; his fists clench and unclench. Edna thinks she sees a look of irritation, or pride, but she cannot be sure. She then thinks of what the centaur has just said.
“But it’s usually children that come here, children should have chaperones.”
“Well, your kind is always so trusting. The first creatures you meet, you just go along with everything they say,” the centaur says.
“You don’t think the kids should trust the first creatures they meet? How are they to know that?”
“Isn’t that common sense? Not everyone is trustworthy. Isn’t that why you’re alone?”
“No, I just needed some time to myself is all.”
“Independent, I like it.”
“Were you talking to someone?” Edna asks, peering around him. “I thought I heard voices.”
“Imaginary friend,” the centaur says, with a side smile.
Edna looks confused.
“I’m joking. I like to talk to myself.”
“Oh,” Edna says, suddenly feeling antsy. “Well, I’m supposed to be meeting my friends at the public house, so…” Edna’s eyes cannot leave the centaurs, and words she had not planned parade from her mouth, “if you want, we can go together.”
“Sure!” he says, “something tells me you need another friend along your journey. Someone helpful.”
“Why do you say that?” Edna asks.
“I don’t know, just a feeling,” he says. Edna gives him another odd look. He quickly adds, “fairies and trolls aren’t known for their helpfulness; that’s all.”
“Oh, okay, sure.” Edna says, trying to remember when she had mentioned her friends; fighting physical and mental exhaustion to stir up the memory. The centaur seems to notice her fatigue and offers assistance. “Would you like a ride on my back?”
“Oh, I guess I’m tired.” Edna says. Her face feels like it is full of cotton, and she has a headache.
“I don’t know if I could handle riding on your back, I need to lie down, I think I need to rest a minute.”
“Oh yes, of course. Take all the time you need,” he says.
Edna looks around; the ground is not covered in moss like the island was, but there are plenty of leaves. The centaur comes quickly to Edna’s side and glides his arms under hers, “let me help you,” he says.
“Oh, well thank you so much.” She switches her cane from her right hand to her left and holds tight to his shoulder with her right hand. The centaur spreads his front legs and slowly lowers his body as he helps Edna to the ground.
The ground is hard, and colder than she imagined it would be. The dirt and leaves offer no cushion or insulation and neither does her body. She shivers as she curls up on the ground. She would have never believed that she, or anyone her age, could manage what she has been managing: sleeping outside on the ground, and on rickety old boats.
“I can hardly keep my eyes open,” she says, and falls right to sleep.
While Edna sleeps, she dreams. It is a reoccurring dream. Well, more like a reoccurring nightmare. At first, she is walking, and she cannot move her head; she can only look forward. Out of her peripheral vision she can tell that there are people on both sides of her. They seem to wave, but she cannot tell if they are waving to her, or past her to the people on her other side. They begin to disappear, and the light disappears with them. And she is left to walk alone in the dark. And she does not know if there will ever be light again, or if her walk in the dark is eternal. Her skin prickles as she is suddenly overcome with fear, and she anticipates that at any moment she is going to be attacked. She regains the ability to move her head and begins to frequently look behind herself, expecting something to grab her; but she cannot see without light.
Edna spends the rest of that day sleeping and dreaming, and night eventually comes on while she sleeps. She is awake off and on throughout the night (quenching her thirst, when awake, with leaves lying next to her that are full of water), though she cannot tell the difference between wake and sleep. And fear clings to her skin throughout the night like the damp air. But this kind of sleep (weaving in and out of consciousness, and the fear) is not unusual for Edna. And it is not even unusual for Edna to sleep for so long. Sometimes Edna has nothing within her to face the rest of the day, so her escape via nap turns into an escape of the day.
In the morning, warm sunlight filters through the trees and greets Edna as she opens her eyes. She lays there for a moment allowing the sun to warm her face, and she recollects the events that have led to her sleeping on the cold ground. She has spent two mornings in this world now, and each morning she has been able to recall the preceding events. Upon this realization she is overcome by an intense moment of sorrow for the time she has lost to dementia.
There is something comforting about this sadness, though; she knows the reason for it. Usually when she is sad, she does not know why; she never knows the reason for any of the the overwhelming feelings that engulf her. When she was sad after her divorce, for example, the sadness she felt then was too intense; it seemed to span beyond the divorce. It is not knowing the reason for an emotion that makes them so unbearable to Edna.
Edna focuses on the comfort of the sadness she is currently feeling.
“You sure were tired,” The centaur’s voice breaks through her thoughts. “You slept the rest of the day and through the night.”
Edna looks over at the creature who is speaking to her, but she does not want to break her contemplation. She feels like she needs to feel this sadness for a while. Her instincts tell her that to do so is the way to begin undoing an emotional knot that began as a child and has only gotten more tangled over time. And this sadness does not hurt, it is not scary, and it does not feel like it is going to suffocate her. It makes her feel normal.
“I picked some berries for us, go ahead and dig in,” the centaur says. He seems a little anxious to get Edna talking. Edna figures he might be concerned about her since she slept for so long. So, she abandons her contemplations and begins to sit up. The centaur quickly moves to her side to help. Her whole body is pained and stiff, but Edna is relieved that it is no more so than usual. She thinks of what Pixie said about time being different here and wonders if that is why sleeping half a day and through the night on the cold hard ground has done nothing worse to her body than she would expect from a typical night at home.
Edna notices the pile of berries that the centaur has picked. She is famished, and the berries are a pleasant sight. “Those look delicious,” she says, “I have a loaf of bread we can eat, as well.” She pats the ground around her, forgetting where she put it. The centaur spots it and hands it to Edna.
They both quietly eat the bread and the berries. Edna feels content and hums happily to herself as she eats. The bread is thick and moist, like banana bread, but savory, and the berries are perfectly ripe and warm from the sun. She had thought they were blackberries, but they don’t taste familiar to her—though they are just as good.
“So, shall we head off?” Edna asks, the first to talk after they finish eating.
“I’m ready if you are,” the centaur says.
He helps Edna to her feet with a gentleness that Edna appreciates. She begins to walk alongside the centaur, who goes at her pace, which she perceives must be painfully slow for such a large and muscular being.
They walk silently for a while, following the yellow forest trees. The centaur seems so comfortable with himself. He looks at his reflection in every pond or puddle they pass, and quickly flexes his muscles. Edna realizes that she does not know his name, and he does not know hers.
“How did we miss that?” she says to herself aloud.
“Miss what?” The centaur quickly responds.
“We haven’t officially introduced ourselves. I don’t know your name.”
“Oh. Yes, well, my name is—” The centaur thinks for a moment. His eyes search the sky.
“Cellu,” he finally says.
Edna laughs. “You’re about as bad as me and my comrades at home, forgetting your name like that. My name is Edna.”
Edna hears a rustling in the bushes and catches a look of irritation in Cellu’s face right as she turns to see what the sound is. A dragon bounces out of the bushes and runs straight towards Edna. She lifts the cane and thrusts it at the dragon when it gets close to her. The dragon dodges the cane and runs behind her. It stands on its hind legs and taps Edna’s back, gently but clumsily, with its two front paws, or claws; whatever they are.
Cellu seems to be lost in thought. He is staring at Edna’s cane, but his attention turns to the dragon who is now nipping at his leg. Cellu kicks his leg back, hard, but the dragon is already in front of Edna. It clamps its jaws onto Edna’s cane and growls while it scoots backwards; its thick tale shoots back and forth so quickly that it tears up the foliage underneath.
“Bad dragon,” Edna shouts. “Down, down!” She holds onto the cane with all her strength as the dragon tugs at it. There is a sharp whistle and the dragon gives one last jerk on the cane before releasing it and running off, and Edna falls backwards. She was so low to the ground that the fall was not too hard. Cellu helps Edna to her feet just as the dragon is turning around to bound back towards them; a man follows behind.
The man’s motions are slow. He takes cautious steps, as though he is walking through a newly planted vegetable garden. There is something about the scene—a dragon bounding towards her from the distance, and a large, slow-moving man—that makes Edna feel as though she is watching characters on an outdoor movie screen. The man whistles and the dragon halts. He continues to walk towards Edna and Cellu. He seems far away but is in front of them within minutes.
“I’m sorry about my dragon. Did she cause trouble?” The man asks.
He has an oddly thick frame, and each of his features—though no bigger than the average size of what she is used to—seem inherently enormous; his mouth, for instance, she would describe as cavernous. And though he looks human, it seems this is only because he does not look like anything else.
“Yes,” Cellu says, “As a matter of fact he did cause trouble. He bit my legs and tried to steal my friend’s cane.”
“Now Cellu,” Edna says, “he wasn’t trying to steal my cane. I think he was just trying to get me to play with him; and he only gave you a little nip.”
“Oh yes,” the man says, “My dragon is just a baby, a female. I’m trying to train her, but right now all she wants to do is play, and chew stuff up.”
“Oh, it’s ok, no harm done,” Edna says, rubbing her bottom. “Thank goodness. So, what are you? Are you, are you human?”
“No, I’m a giant. My name is Gargan.”
Edna snort-laughs. “How are you a giant? I have a son who’s taller than you, and he’s no giant. My centaur friend here is heads taller than you, and even he isn’t a giant.”
Gargan looks amused. “You don’t see how large I am?” His voice booms, and his words hit Edna’s stomach like reverberations from a drum.
Edna doubts her perception for a moment. She looks straight into Gargan’s eyes, yet his presence does make her feel like a blade of grass next to an oak tree.
“Why don’t you two come home with me for lunch? My wife’s cooking a delicious stew.”
“That sounds lovely,” Edna says. “My name’s Edna by the way, and this is my friend, Cellu.”
“We really don’t know anything about this guy,” Cellu says quietly. “We should head on. Aren’t you supposed to meet your friends at a certain time?”
“Oh, it’s ok,” Edna says, “They’ll wait for me. We do need to get to the public house as close to midday as possible, though, if we can.” She tells Gargan.
“I think we can make it work; we’ll just eat a bit early. Trust me, you won’t regret it. My wife’s a magnificent cook.” Edna is full from her breakfast of bread and berries, but she is excited at the idea of a hot, home-cooked meal.
“Okay, great,” she says. “Come on, Cellu. It’ll be fun.”
“Follow me.” Gargan says and walks back towards the forest in the direction he had come.
Renee Rushing 
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