Rowan walked slowly in the twilight.
A strangely dry Cuban wind tossed his black hair across his face, as he followed the curve of the lake, carefully picking his way among the fallen trees. The trees had died naturally of a slow starvation when the bank which they had been perched on eroded away beneath them. The lake was at a low point, so Rowan could see the trees on the bank, blooming courageously, as they waited for a wind or a rise in water levels to send them falling to their deaths. These gangly survivors extended their misshapen roots through the air toward their fallen brethren beneath them. The dead trees didn’t respond, but merely lay, husks of what they once were, devoid of any meat or content, unreal.
The Sierra Maestra stood slouchily on the far side of the lake, ancient as the island itself and worn as the U.S.S. Maine on the bottom of the harbor in Habana. Twilight faded into darkness as Rowan sat carefully on a fallen tree. The first winking of the stars was put out by an immense cloud, which quickly filled the sky from horizon to horizon. The soft sound of insects.
Rowan tried to remember the night before. He had walked the same shore but hadn’t
been alone. He recalled what was said and what was done. He remembered how this or
that felt, the textures and appearances or sound, of everything. But the emotions were
gone. He remembered that touch, but how did it feel ? It was as if the events
had been stripped of their reality. The memory was there, solid and tangible, but as dead
and lifeless as the trees which lay around him. Rowan slid off the log and leaned back,
cocking his head toward the sky. A tree darkly shaded his eyes, stretching it’s limbs out
from the bank. A deep sigh slipped from Rowan, surprising him slightly. He leaned
over, laying his arm on the hard packed dirt, and his head on top of it. He yawned softly,
the lake swam in his eyes, and he slipped into sleep. The rain began to fall, lightly at
first, but intensifying rapidly. The lake rose gently. Careful not to wake him, the lake
kissed it’s slumbering brother Rowan, worn as the Sierra Maestra or the U.S.S.
Maine, sleeping softly in the warm Cuban waters.
