Signs of Spring

 

Spring comes so rarely to our world that I am thirteen when I experience my first. Long have we prepared, but the adults worry that it won’t be enough, that we will find ourselves wanting before the dead and dying months come again.

            At midday, when we rest, the adults tell us youngs what to expect from Spring. It is Grandfather Casper who describes it the most vividly.

            “You feel it first in your bones,” he says. “A creeping ache that stiffens your joints so that even walking takes an effort. Then the flashes start: little white streaks across your vision that grow larger and more frequent, until, between blinking and the white flashes, you only see the world in brief moments.

            “Finally comes the Sound. It is the noise of many noises blending into a cacophony that rises above all else as Spring overcomes the world, blanketing everything in a prison of life.”

            This, among the many other descriptions of Spring, terrifies me. It seems impossible that we could survive such a pervasive enemy. We will be beset on all sides, unable to escape the bloat of Spring. Yet our people have survived it again and again. Everyone says this time will be no different.

            I must trust.

            But I fear the Spring.

*

The heaviness comes, as Grandfather Casper said it would. The air is warm and sticky; it is exhausting just to walk from one room to another. My parents tell me that I must walk, I must do my chores, or the weight of Spring will crush me.

The scent of Spring is a sickening mixture of floral notes and ripening fruits. I am nauseated, but my parents tell me to breathe deeply; I must get used to the smells or the struggle will be that much harder. I eat lightly for four days, forcing down every bite.

            Each day brings some new trial. The white flashes give me a headache that does not end. my parents give me medicine, but still I am not excused from my responsibilities. No one is. All suffer together.

            The sound is oppressive. It builds on itself, disturbing the natural quiet of the world, and it never ends. Day and night the living creatures shriek and cry as they hunt and play and mate and die, but the quiet sounds are somehow worse: the groan as plants and trees stretch out their limbs, growing larger every day, twisting and spreading until every inch of good, brown earth is covered in a wild spray of colors. Green! I sicken quickly of its many shades.

            All these things emerge in the first few weeks of Spring. I am weak, ill. How can I make it through months of this? The adults say that I will, that we all will, but I am not so sure.

*

Two months of Spring have come and gone. I have, little by little, grown accustomed to it. Though each day is still a struggle, though I long desperately for the comfort of winter, I no longer believe I will not survive the Spring. Our stores hold. We will see the death of Spring once more.

            Now that we youngs have grown stronger, we are commanded to explore the living world, with caution. One day, we will be the ones to prepare for the coming of Spring and show new youngs how to survive. We must gain knowledge and experience.

            We move slowly, with careful steps. The Grandfathers told us vivid stories of the careless: entangled and choked in vines; surrounded and eaten by predators; poisoned and tortured by unknown foods. The living world of Spring has many ways to kill, and it does not hesitate.

             “Remember this,” Grandfather Casper whispers. “Life is a jealous thing. Ever it seeks to snuff out other life. Do not underestimate its dangers.”

            Most of us heed the wisdom, but always there are those who think they are stronger, faster, smarter. Always there are those too eager to take risks. And always there are the foolish.

            We lose two youngs in our months of exploration. One challenged the living waters and drowned; their body was dashed on the rocks and lost to us. The other went mad under the bright, sharp sun, and ran blindly into a thicket of long, green thorns. A slow and painful end.

            After these two are lost, I fear to go out into the wild Spring. But my parents will not let me hide away at home. For a while, I am much more timid.

*

The height of Spring is upon us. The heat of it is nearly unbearable. The air is always wet. Mold grows in our homes and on our skin. At all times I feel disgusting, hideous. Like a disease Spring, crawls inside my body. I will perish. We all will.

            Yet even now, the adults do not relent. Our responsibilities stand, and still we must explore this awful world of life.

            Out of sight of the adults, we youngs often find some cool, dark place to sit and wait out the day. There is pain in moving, in breathing, in simply existing. My temples pound. My forehead will be permanently creased by the wrinkles formed when I lower my brow and squint my eyes against the bright lights both from without and from within. The faces of my friends are a mixture of suffering and torment and anguish; we all wish this was over. We all think that perhaps the two we lost were lucky, having escaped this endless torture.

            I am stained by the Spring. The hateful green has tinged my skin and bones; deep, muddy dirt is ground into my feet. My arm and hands are scarred from pushing aside the strong branches and vines and thorns of living trees. Even should I survive to see the dead months again, the scars of Spring will endure. I will forever live in dread of the next Spring, and the next…

            Is there no escape? Must we live our lives in fear of these living months and the pain they bring? Can we ever experience true joy, peace, or contentment in life knowing that this hell exists, waiting just around the corner? How could the adults ever laugh, the Grandfathers ever joke, knowing this time will come again and again and again? How could my parents bring me into this world, knowing what I will be put through?

            For days I refuse to leave my bed. No longer will I torture myself. I will wait until the end of Spring or the end of myself, whichever comes first.

*

Spring leaves as subtly as it came. I am exploring once more with the other youngs, observing the hunting patterns of the living beasts. Leaves and branches lift in the wind, and on that wind, I catch a scent I have almost forgotten: the faint, sweet scent of rot. There’s a touch of coolness to the air.

            The others, too, have noticed. We abandon the hunt and return home, feeling lighter in bone than we have in so long.

            The adults know. “Life is beginning to fade. Soon, the dying will begin.”

            I am more eager now to go out, to search for the signs of the Fading. Leaves turn brown, branches become brittle, flowers wither. It is beautiful.

            Each day the air is lighter, the sky darker. The white flashes fade. My pain eases. And the noise, the Sound, slowly quiets.

            The cold Summer comes. The beasts retreat. The rivers still. Breath comes easier.

            The Fall is next. All green has gone from the world, replaced with soothing browns and greys. The ground now is a crisp carpet of leaves and sticks and detritus. The pools shrink. My friends and I visit our old haunts, knowing that soon we will play in them as we did before.

*

At last, the world sighs its last breath. Silence falls. The long Winter has returned.

            Spring has left me strong. I am surprised at how much I have grown and strengthened. Things I struggled to do before are easy now; new challenges I wouldn’t have dreamed of present themselves.

            The world is all soft and muted colors, a sight I had longed for and nearly forgotten. Some days I simply sit and weep at its beauty.

            I know that one day all this will vanish again, poisoned by Life. But when that day comes again, I will be stronger to face it. To endure.

            And until then I can laugh with the adults and joke with the elders. There is much to celebrate in the Quiet months; Death, the peace of it, does much to heal the heart after hurt. And the joy of it is so much sweeter after the pain of Life.

            One day, Spring will come again.

            But I will not fear it.