Willow's blouse … so white, pure … splattered with red, bright red, so much brighter than her red hair. "Your shirt."
There's an old Twilight Zone episode where death is a small, back-country road, a dirt road only a few feet wide. I found myself on a road just like it. The vegetation off to each side, full of Virginia creeper and umbrella plants, well it was so lush I couldn't see more than ten feet off in any direction except along the path. My bare feet kicked up dust. That didn't seem right somehow. It seemed like I should have had shoes on, but I'd walked those selfsame dusty back roads most of my life and my feet had been bare more often than not.
I'd walked those dusty back roads most of my life … until I'd left for college that is. College. University. Sunnydale. Willow. Blood. Not Willow's blood. Mine.
I slapped my hand against my leg, checking if I was still solid – I was – and as if that slap were a signal a whirlwind swirled up out of the dust. It great and grew, taller and wider and darker, and when it faded away there was a woman standing before me, a mountain woman, not a dried up scrawny stick but a set of luscious curves and overflowing bounty with golden curls cascading down past her waist. "Blessed be."
"B-Blessed be." Hearing myself stutter, I ducked my head down, letting my hair fall into my face.
"No worries," The woman said, and then I wasn't worried. I felt … serene, like a lake extending down, down, down deep into the center of the world.
"I'm here to help you choose," she added.
"Choose?"
"Decide what's next."
With that the path, well, vanished isn't the right word, but the path was gone, replaced by someone's home, replaced by a house that wrapped me in a comforter of warmth and asked me to set up my feet and make myself at home. The fireplace, opening to both the kitchen and the living room, sat nestled in the brick wall separating the two rooms.
Outside of the scent of the fire, I picked up the scent of mulled cider, my grandma's recipe from the smell of it. As the woman carried two mugs out from the kitchen, I recalled the old folktales. Yarns about folks who'd eaten as little as one seed or taken only one tiny sip and had gotten stuck in the underworld. And I recalled the Greek myths, those of the river Lethe. Drink once and lose all memory of your previous life. The woman took a sip as if proving it was safe. "All that's up to you." She wrapped her hands around her mug as if soaking up the warmth. "And you can call me Kat."
"Kat," I replied. "You said it's up to me? What is?" At least I'd lost my stutter. I think it was the comfort of that place. It's hard to feel anxious when you've never felt so at home.
"What's up to you is whether you're safe or not. Eating or drinking, you decide if it's harmful or not." She nodded toward the cider. "I'm not here to trip you up or lead you astray, but if that's what you want."
"You mean my thoughts control what happens here?"
"To an extent, but nothing will harm you unless you want it to."
"Why would I want anything to harm me?"
She shrugged. "Some people do. Some from guilt; others from needing to play the victim."
I'm not a victim. I've fought demons and survived. I took a sip of the cider and grinned in appreciation. It did taste just like granny's. "You said I had to choose?"
"Yep, you've got three choices going out from here. You can go onto whatever's next although you don't get a look before you go, you can be reborn and live again, or you can go back as a witness."
"I want Willow." The way the words spilled out of my mouth, it was as if they were speaking themselves. Kat looked disappointed as if I'd chosen wrong, but I couldn't take those words back. I did want Willow. I'd always want Willow. "I can go back to Willow, right?"
"You can, but that's not an easy road. She won't be able to see you or hear you. She won't know you're there at all."
"But you said I could help."
"You can," Kat said, "but as to how, well, that you have to work out for yourself."
"I don't care. I still want Willow."
