Twins

pt.2: continuation...

Twins

A great deal of time was spent discussing who the original was. We checked for markings,inspecting the plains of each other’s back, beneath the shoulder blades for a sign.

On each shoulder blade, we both bore half a freckle, which aligned when we stood back-to-back. We concluded that we were both half old and half new. A true split, fragmentation without replication. Spring water bubbled up in the spot where we were born.

The valley town did little to welcome us, their suspicion evident in heavy brows, trailing around their ankles like low-hanging smoke. A pear costs a coin. For us, it cost two, then four, then six. Perhaps the issue was names- there hadn’t been time to find any coming back down the mountain. We found a book in the little house that had once belonged to our BodySource, slipped it open, and pointed blindly, claiming the little word beneath the finger.

I became “apple”.

And she became “Francis “.

Together we were “appleFrancis” or just “Us.”

It was the naming of each other that cut us apart. We had no need for names previously. There was the wind, the turning of seasons, the rush of wide steps flying down the sides of granite; there was the juice dripping down her chin, my feet sore and worn as we went to sleep, candlelight glowing warmth around the edges of our shut eyes.

Mornings, floorboards creaked while I heated water, she measured oats into two bowls—hot water, cream, honey. Her reflection pooled in my spoon, mine in hers.

Afternoons were spent between odd jobs and wandering the hillsides, foraging for mushrooms, nuts, and wild berries. We picked our fingers in search of sweetness, drank from each other’s sweat. A unified front, we were tender, calloused from the labor, selling what we refrained from eating. The early world felt like an endless game.

Evenings, we’d sleep either entirely full or completely empty, dreaming of lamb, something spiced and hearty that would stick to the bones. Our dreams are a shared projection arriving at the back of our eyes. Dawn would flood the room, and we’d awaken on the same breath. But now our dreams are on either side of the hill, one staring down towards the rivers, the other up to the clouds.

Three mornings after we named ourselves, Francis got up early. She left me alone with the songbirds, filling the air with their back-and-forth calling. I made the hot water, measured out the oats into two bowls, and poured cream and honey over both. And sat, watching the steam rise in two spiraling pillars, never touching. When it was clear to me that she wouldn’t be returning, at least not soon, I ate, staring at the bottom of the bowl.

Francis returned that evening, red-faced, covered in lacy scratches, hands filled with heaven-bruised blue berries, her chest rising and falling out of line with my own, two separate seas.

“Look at what I’ve done!” Her joy eclipsed my fear. “Try one! I found them up on the ridge.”

She placed a single berry in my hand, and I popped it into my mouth. Sweet, with acrid seeds- like burnt licorice. I spat the seeds out in my palm. “Good! A bit bitter.”

“Oh, I like that about them. A bit of a surprise beneath it.”

I could not understand her pleasure. I went about my own, “Well, it’s my turn now.”

“But it’s late!” she protested.

“Well, I think it’s only fair. You went out, now I get a turn.” I said, searching for an oil lamp in the large wooden cabinet. “Your oatmeal is cold, by the way. “

She pouted, topped cold mush with blue jewels. “See you later?”

“I’ll be back by morning.”

The night opened its arms around me, pulling me forward, the lamplight illuminating just enough to see where I was placing my feet. One after the other, listening to the sounds of muffled laughter from the village’s only tavern. How she would have loved to see what they were laughing about and join in. I turned my head away.

The night was filled with unfamiliar sounds, owls, the scream of a distant vixen, and the creaking of ancient trees against one another. Sound carried further, unimpeded by the sun’s rays. I listened for the River.

Through the pines and smoke, I followed the river’s song to its swelling banks. I rested on a boulder, tracing its rough surface.

The moon shone proudly above, a bowl of milk stuck in the dark heavens, illuminating the riverside in pale blues. I set down the oil lamp atop the boulder and made my way to the water’s edge, cold lapping up at my ankles.

Beneath the water, dark shapes swam, muscled and sleek, freckled fins fighting the currents towards unseen pools. My hands itched—impatient, hungry.

A splash! Arms shattering the water, fingers clenched around shimmering scales. I plunge my face, open-mouthed, driving my teeth into its armor, breaking its weight through the surface. Metal filling my mouth. Startled by my own success, I scream, drop the fish, and shoot my hands down again before its broken body drifts downstream.

I waded back to the river’s edge, laughing at my shining prize. Its scales gleaming in the moonlight, water dripping off in tiny jewels.

I returned, wild—scales between my teeth, lamp light forgotten, night wind carrying me home.

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pt.1-pt2. of……