DECRESCENDO

Quiet. Not a whisper of breath, no. Nothing.

The boy had been coming here for as long as he could remember, and yet not a thing had changed. At times he found it bit strange, the way that the number of rocks alongside the banks of the silent pond never seemed to dwindle: regardless of the long, contented hours he spent with the other kids skipping stones across the surface of the blue-green portal to Poseidon, the rocks always seemed to refill themselves, as though replaced by smirking nymphs.

He spent his days quietly walking around the forest in which the camp was found, wandering from tree to lurching tree, feeling in his ears and feet the way the leaves and twigs would crunch underneath his weight. Above him the sunlight wafted through the shattered, shifting openings in between branches, throwing shafts of broken light upon the roughshod path over which he walked. He found a flowing peace within these moments, which was broken only by physical memory of recent bruises. Whenever his injuries pained him he shuddered, not from the pain, but from the memories of broken whiskey bottles and his sisters' wide, terrified eyes. His visited them once in a while, but they didn't seem to want him around. It would have been fine if they simply hadn't wanted to talk; he would have been more than content to sit by them and simply watch the sun rise and fall. But whenever he visited them they just screamed.  "He's here! He's here! Get him away!"they would screech, the same terrified look in their eyes. Usually the the old man in white coat would kindly ask him to leave at that point, and usually he would go. Once, he tried to force his sisters to recognize him, and when he got too close one of them threw a glass of water at him. It shattered across his cheek, and as the old man in the white coat dragged him out of the room, he heard them scream "You'll never hurt us again!"with an air of triumphant pride. As a pretty nurse stitched his cheek back together the boy stared, frozen with terror, at the mirror across the room; his father glared from out of the mirror with an expression of dark anger. The pretty nurse smiled at him.
"Why, aren't you just the bravest thing! Not a tear out of you!"
He trembled.

At night the older kids would huddle the younger ones around the campfire and tell stories. He found most of them dull, but the one older girl always kept him spellbound. She would sit, legs crossed, and take a deep breath. Her lips opened and closed, and he saw the old stories, streaking through his mind like Olympic runners. As she spoke, her eyes, sparking and blazing, reflected the light of the fire before her .Entire worlds faded, until there was nothing left for the boy words and the mist that seemed, cloaked the girl's figure. He returned to his cabin each night, filled with wonder and awe, to replay the tales. He put himself in the sandals of the great heroes, as theirs were always the most interesting. Their humble beginnings, the ways they rose to strength, and their inevitable failures, they were his. And in his fevered imaginings he changed the courses of rivers as beautiful goddesses beset him, instructing him to find winged sandals and mirrored shields in the crooks of ancient olive trees. Imaginings turned into dreams, and his dreams faded into his vision. On lonely nights he entered the space between wakefulness and sleep, and there bright figures wielding spears and thunderbolts would laugh, drinking from goblets that smelled of spring and rebirth. These half-dreams never stayed with him, and the only evidence he ever had of their existence was a nostalgic pang. Then he would sigh, and walk out into the forest.

The days and nights began to merge into seamless continuation. The boy slept less, preferring instead to spend his nights on the lookout for passing nymphs and dryads. Though he would have gladly spent his nights outside, searching, a counselor caught him out at midnight and ordered him back into his cabin. He did it again and an older camper was put into his cabin to keep him inside. When the boy asked him what his name was he had shyly responded with "Kevin". The boy didn't mind Kevin too much; Kevin never bothered him, and after a few mornings where Kevin had woken up and found the boy missing, the two came to a sort of understanding: the boy would be free to leave as long as he left a note and the sun had risen. The boy and Kevin talked once in a while, though Kevin always seemed a bit afraid to speak to him.

The boy slept only when he felt as though his heart would stop. When he did allow himself to close his eyes in rest he always did so outside, by the base of some tree, as far away from the campgrounds as he could walk before collapsing. After waking up he would walk back to the camp, listen to the girl with the sparking eyes, and return to his cabin, where he would spend the night within himself.

One day he saw them. This time he was sure it was no trick of the imagination; he had just woken from a deep sleep. He was by his favorite tree, far away from camp. It was dark; the sun had long since gone down. Before him stood a smiling woman. She was beyond beautiful, but unearthly. Her skin was a pale, pale green: the color of leaves reborn in the spring. Her eyes, like wine grapes, was a deep purple. Her hair, brown and yellow, was threaded with slender vines and pale, pink flowers. She was naked. She smiled at him, and disappeared into the foliage. Stunned, the boy sat by the tree by which he had fallen asleep, completely silent. Then with a rush of energy he sprinted into the woods.

He ran for hours. Every once in a while the figure would appear in the corner of his eye, smiling and coy, and the boy would renew his vigor. Each time she appeared, he came closer and closer to her. Eventually, she came so close that the boy jumped, in the manner of a football tackle, towards the figure. If his brain had had the time to react, it might have had time to create despair as the dryad disappeared. The boy fell.

They found him there, hours later, eye and brain pierced by a particularly large branch. His blood was barely visible beneath the autumn leaves that buried him.

It is quiet. Not a whisper.