The End of Separation

               

              There was this man called Frank - an everyday worker who managed the database for a pharmaceutical company called Correx. He was fairly affluent, but not to the extent of being considered a millionaire. He earned a large enough salary to own a comfortable home – a three-storied Victorian home atop a hill that looked out into the miles’ stretch of subdivisions that ran on end to the scope of the mountainous New Hampshire landscape. Romance never formed any interest upon Frank DiCantis, as his true passion was money and his dream was to rise above the financial world and, someday, manage a business of his own.

         So, one day, his boss – Mark Hayes – assigned a hunting trip and included Frank amongst four others of his clientele. Frank, who was rather partial toward hunting game, assumed it was a great opportunity for him to participate with the event; seeing it would prove his loyalty toward serving his boss and, from thence, he would have a more definite chance toward gaining a promotion.


                                                      * * *


         And so, when two weeks met mid-October, the trip had been scheduled. They grouped in the heart of the woods forty-miles away from any kind of city life. Within a grove, they prepared their hunting apparatuses.
         
                Frank knew no one very well beside Mr. Hayes, of course. He looked at the other four employees, a staff to whom he had not been introduced. He looked toward a blonde-haired man who had curly hair; his lips were hidden beneath a thick, black moustache. Frank remembered trading a few words with him in the office before, but not enough for him to neither be acquainted with the man, nor even attain his name. And so, the five hiked deeper into the woods where they started their hunt.

                                                          * * *

         A few hours were wasted and no form of game was hunted; not even a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even foul for that matter.

         Agitated, Mr. Hayes grumbled, “Alright men, it looks like these woods are dead for the day. We might as well head back before nightfall arrives. The last thing I’d want is for us to be lost in this neck of the woods.”

         A change of luck instantly manifested when one of his employees said, beneath a breath of air, “Silence.” He pointed into the thick, “Look over there.”

         Curious, Frank peered toward the shrubs and beyond the locust-eaten leaves that sprouted from the branches that bobbed from the cool, ghostly breeze that drifted through the region. Between the gaps, he noticed a flicker of broken light glitter within the darkness of the forests.

         Each of them tiptoed toward the bushes and slowly parted the branches, bringing forth the scene of a brook; its foamy waters rushed over the wet pebbles and stones that divided the boundaries of the wilderness. There, beyond the vapors that hung above the stream, stood a magnificent elk. The deer stood seven-feet in height, had a golden-brown and white-speckled coat, and an array of antlers atop its head that shot up to the heavens. The mythical elk dipped its snout into the frigid water that brushed past its fur as it licked the grainy liquid to replenish its thirst.

         “There’s my trophy, boys!” the boss whispered as greed enflamed within his eyes. “I’ll have that beauty’s head hung above my mantel for all the eyes to see.” He lifted the barrel and pointed the shotgun toward the wildlife. Mr. Hayes squinted his right eye as he tried to center the crosshair at the deer’s neck.

         Feeling guilt overwhelming his soul, Frank swung around and turned his sight away from the deer out of knowing the very picture would have given him many restless nights of countless nightmares.

         The other three remained emotionless as they supported their boss at all costs. Suddenly, a howl ululated throughout the grove as a white wolf leapt through the bushes behind the elk. The vile hound growled, while pushing the deer on its side. The wolf jammed its fangs into the flesh, snapped its jaws shut, and ferociously shook its head while yanking the meat from off the elk’s neck.

         A loud boom thundered throughout the clearing and the white wolf flew eight feet back from off the elk. Frank turned back around and took notice that the creature’s face was blown inward. Mr. Hayes glared at both carcasses as he said, “Two birds with one stone.”

         The other three laughed with Mr. Hayes. Frank, on the other hand, stared at the blood that was splattered across the trunks, the pieces of brains and skull fragments scattered over the scene. He allowed his eyes to absorb the morbidity just enough to make his stomach turn and thereby regurgitated right in front of Mr. Hayes. Eyes widened by utter shock, Frank realized then that he blew every shot of gaining a promotion and may have well instead been given deferral or, even worse, complete termination from Correx.

         “It looks like he can’t stomach the sight of blood.” One remarked and all the other employees, including Mr. Hayes, laughed at Frank’s defeat.

         Mr. Hayes furthermore agreed, “Yeah, just like the time that Brewer character” A godly growl interrupted his comment as Hayes was pushed forward by another wolf. The wolf ripped into his flesh as Hayes called out for help. Frantic, the other three employees tried to load their shotguns and another white wolf jumped onto the blonde-haired man, digging its claws deep into his back.

         Paralyzed by horror, Frank could only watch the wolf snap the veins from out his boss’s neck as all his greatest fears flooded his mind. Would he be the next to die? If he would so happen to survive, how would he be able to explain his boss’s death? Will he have the vision imprinted in his memory for him to morbidly reminisce upon and against his own will for all eternity?

         Frank suddenly felt a stiff hand squeeze his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here before it’s too late!” A fellow employee said and pulled him up by the left arm.

         The three survivors desperately raced away from the wolves as they ran up an incline, carpeted by deadened leaves. Trying to spare their own skins, each man kept his sight focused ahead while pushing aside branches that relentlessly tried to obstruct their escape.

         A loud snap cracked as Frank watched the leading worker trip. He ran up to the injured man to find the individual’s leg ensnared by a bear trap. Groaning aloud, the man whimpered, “Go on ahead! Don’t worry about me! I am already done for!”

         Frank tried to help him, but the other coworker pulled him away from the victim and they thereby fled further from the scene. In the distance behind him, Frank heard a fierce growl overpower the wailing of someone being forced to death. Heart racing and lungs burning, Frank watched the narrow trail curve up and around the wall of a mountain. Skimming along the edge of the bend, Frank tripped over a stone and fell off the gradient. As the second white wolf pursued its final prey, Frank rolled down the rocky surface that battered him as he flailed his arms in the attempt of reaching for a twig to grab onto - anything to lessen bodily damage.

         When at the base of the eighty-foot rising, Frank rolled for the very last time and lain cold on the ground. He slowly passed out as everything faded to black.


                                                          * * *


         “Wake up…” the whisper of a woman’s voice beckoned his attention.

         Frank sat up and saw dusk approached from the edge of the orange sky. He knew not what day he was in, nor what month for that matter. It seemed, to him, as if he slept a few seconds short of an eternity.

         Disoriented, he assumed to look for his car and tried to concoct some wild tale that would explain - or at least justify - his boss’s and coworkers’ deaths.

         He picked himself up from off the ground and brushed the dirt off him. Every muscle in his body seemed to be alleviated from the pain and he bared no wounds: it was a miracle he survived.

         As he looked about the surroundings, a sense of familiarity sparked Déjà vu upon his mind. The perplexing comfort of it all made him feel as if he had been there many times before, although he knew he couldn’t have.

         A flashback came to him as he saw himself venturing northwestward from where he stood. The dream brought him at the end of a long trail was a church, surrounded by gardens of oleanders and daisies amidst a desolated village.

         When Frank came to, he spotted the trail of which he envisioned. As much as he didn’t want to follow it, something kept requesting his company.


                                                        * * *


         It was less than a mile down the forested trail when he noticed a decrepit church embodied by mold and weeds that clung upon its brown-stone walls. There were other establishments that surrounded the cathedral, yet they were in worse condition than that of the church – the houses either had their windowpanes bashed in, or were devoid of doors, while others were roofless.

         When at the church, Frank approached the iron fence and wrapped his arms around the cylindrical posts of the four-fought wrought gate. His eyes were mesmerized by the enchanting vision of a woman who sat the edge of the gray steps. Her face was rested into both palms. Her curled, dirty-blonde hair slid through the gaps between her fingers as tears moistened the strands and continued to rolled down her arm. She radiated this haze that encompassed her, making her seem as if she were a lost angel without wings: one that had sadness permeating from within her flesh.

         Not wanting to disrupt her mourning, Frank slowly opened the gate as quietly as he could manage. Yet, the rusted hinges squeaked just enough to interrupt her grievance. She looked up to him and yelled, “What are you doing here, you dastardly mongrel!?”

         He just remained still, while questioning the reason behind her rabid nature. As threatening as she did seem, Frank felt she needed comfort that much more and thereby stepped onto the cobblestone. As she watched him walk past the dead gardens of gnarled stems, she continued, “I don’t want any trouble. Don’t you think I suffered enough!?”

         “What do you mean?” Frank asked, boggled as he looked around the area. “What happened here?”

         “Everything!” she hollered. “It’s all gone! I’ve lost him!”

         “Lost whom?”

         Without saying a word, she stood up and pressed her crumpled dress while treading down the steps. She thereby turned right and Frank sensed he should follow her. They both strolled down a pathway - aligned by statues - leading up to a plaza of benches and gas lanterns. When there, she approached a well that was surrounded by columns, vines spiraled up the shafts.

         She placed her hands upon the moist edge as she looked into the well. As Frank approached from behind her, she asked, “Doesn’t the water look ravishing? The way the blue ripples intermix with the purple clips and the reflection of the clouds above that shroud the waters…”

         Frank approached the well, only to see sludge. Thick masses of slime emitted an unbearable odor that nearly made him gag. She smiled from reminiscing, “There were many wishes spent in this well.” Her smile faded as her face wore an expression of melancholy. “Only one wish was granted.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sniffled, “Many have come here. All have failed.”

         “Failed what?” he asked another question of which no response was returned. She dipped the tip of her index finger into the water and twirled the slime around. “May I at least have your name?”

         “Magdalene is what they once called me.” She sighed as she looked down upon the water.

         As Frank stared into the black water, he noticed himself imprinted on its surface. When he came to realize he had not seen Magdalene’s reflection, he turned to her and noticed she wasn’t there. Upon gazing across the plaza, he noticed that she continued on the cobbled path that went northward, and thereby jogged toward her. While ambling, she swayed her arms as her blue eyes looked up to the soft clouds.

         Uneasiness overcame Frank – he was curious as to where she was taking him. As much as he wanted to leave the gardens and forget her, there was something prompting him to advance deeper into the ruins. For some grim reason, he felt home. It may have been ridiculous for any rational mind to perceive, but maybe he found the one who was meant for him. However, it was such an absurd fantasy for even Frank to fathom because he never really believed in the superstitions associated with the essence of love. It was all as much nonsense to him as the beliefs in Bigfoot and ghosts and he refused to allow his cognizance to comply with believing such myths as true love. Yet, there was this unrelenting sense of mystery behind the woman, that of which he felt he had to find the answers.

         The next area - of where she ushered him - struck lucidity upon Frank. For behind the cathedral stood a graveyard that spanned out to the bordering forests. His eyes were daunted to the sight hundreds upon hundreds of tombstones that were plotted on rolling dead hills of gray turf.

         He followed the brick walkway that led to a statue that was in the form of a spearman. The frozen warrior was mounted a stallion; the warrior’s bare chest of muscles signified vigor. After arriving before the statue, Magdalene turned left and followed the path past eighteen graves and it was there where she stood before a tombstone.

         She stared at the weather-beaten marble with burdened eyes as she said, “I’ve never anticipated the imminent downfall that was to arrive upon this place. We lived away from all enemies and remained in hiding with the woods as our protector – our barricade against intruders.”

         “We?” Frank asked.

         “He tried to save me, my god! He desperately tried to free my life from the raid. But, as much as he fought off the army, the more plunderers closed in on us. He hid me in the cellar beneath our home. Inside the darkness, I heard him dying, choking out his last breath while calling out my name above me. With his death, my hope and my heart withered. His sacrifice did nothing to spare me as the pillagers found the cellar and me in it, indefensible. The four of them surrounded me and made me suffer a terrible death with their flaming rods from hell, made me choke by their damnations – their wraths! And, yet, I still thought of my beloved the entire time, all until the last breath I was able to take in. The terminus of my happiness ended in less than a second and had given birth to the dawn of my eternal sorrow.”

         She quivered, “I have been confined in this ghastly prison, in wait for his return. Many men have come over the years. Not one of them was he. I had no choice but to scare the ones who failed before me to their death.” She turned to Frank and asked softly, “Are you he? The man of whom I spent many hours of the night dreaming the possibilities that I hold sacred to my rotten heart? There is only one way in which I can discern if you are truly him.” She looked at the headstone that stood before Frank. “Read the epitaph. Does thy name match?”

         Apprehension rattled Frank’s nerves as he turned and read the name engraved. In that instant, his heart stopped, his eyes grew dilated, and his lungs lost oxygen.



                                              Frank Ducantis

                                        Born: August 9th, 1693

                                      Died: February 14th, 1719


                                    Great mercenary and husband
                                            to Magdalene Smith.


         Not wanting to read the other headstone, he knew he must. His soul felt thin as wisps in the night as he motioned his eyes to the other headstone.


                                            Magdalene Ducantis

                                          Born: June 17th, 1696

                                        Died: February 14th, 1719

                                          Wife to Frank Ducantis
                                        singer of the St. Jude choir.

         
                Just then, he felt a warm sensation flowing through him as a soft palm grasped his right hand. He looked over and saw Magdalene was just as shocked as he by the news. She choked, “I found him. We are freed.” She went to kiss him and, just as their lips met, their souls vanished: liberated from the hell of separation and freed from their damnation. Two souls united - after centuries apart due to reincarnation - to share one love eternal.