by Al Onia                          

I adjusted my stride to match the child’s short, uncertain steps. Above me, the toddler followed an erratic but determined path, stopped, and returned. Adult feet stood sentinel while the young one giggled, grass caressing its bare toes.

“Come to papa, Mary,” the female parent called.

Mary repeated her journey again and again across the lawn.

I laughed too, as much as I could. I found charm in the Mary’s awkwardness on her inverted plane. My underworld is reverse to the humans on the surface, if they had the imagination to consider my existence. I concentrated to land my toes precisely to press the turf against the weight of the tiny feet over me.

I wasn’t always a mirror essence, navigating the curvature of the earth’s surface from the inside. My race once trod the surface, gravity pulling our feet, the sun warming our souls.

Thousands of human generations ago, we shared the forests and the plains with them. My kind always looked down to the ground. The humans looked at far horizons and upwards until they no longer recognized us. We became one with the earth and in time could no longer escape it.

I missed the exterior world though with each passing decade, my memories dimmed. Mirror contact with a human brought small bits back to me. Children were the best, especially on unpaved ground. I liked this fledgling and this place. Adults marching along sidewalks are unconscious of the action. Walking as a means, not an experience in itself.

Mary was the most refreshing I’d encountered in a long time. Was my mirror guidance helping her to participate in the joining with the earth under her feet?

Mary and I danced back and forth between the unknowing parents until Mary collapsed in a fit of giggles and exhaustion. She was lifted away. I tried mirroring the steps of the one carrying Mary but they soon echoed on concrete and moved inside the dwelling. No matter, this was a moment I would treasure. If she came tomorrow, I would be waiting.

***

The next day rain pounded the grass. No Mary. No mirror dance.

The day after the sun returned and at mid-day, so did Mary. We repeated our looking-glass waltz. Her steps already were more confident. Children learned rapidly.

Would Mary follow the pattern of the others in my experience? Children grow. Their steps broaden, firm with purpose. Until they are lost to me. Mary was unique, a throwback. She had the connection, not just with me, but with the earth. In particular, this garden.

***

She grew and in time I had a voice to match with the steps. The voice deepened over the years. The stride lengthened but her feet were bare most times when she stepped across the lawn. Mary did not lose the bond. She recognized the special place this had become. Was it just the place or did she feel my presence?

***

Mary left for many human years. I passed the time searching for another relic of the era our two races co-habited the ‘over’ but I never connected. I repaired roots, joined in the fungal songs but always returned to our garden. Each time, alone, I relived Mary’s touch from those beginning steps to a woman’s.

Then, during one visit, while I moved alone, tickling the roots of the weeds which had replaced the once lush grass, she returned.

I knew it was Mary, even through her shoes. She stood on one leg, then a bare foot caressed the overgrown, neglected garden. She wriggled five toes and then the other five joined in.

Mary began to move. A dance step. I struggled to maintain contact as she spun in circles. Another pair of feet joined us. Heavy, constricted, uncoordinated. A man’s clumsy intrusion into our garden.

I ignored him and concentrated on Mary. Touching toes in a marvellous pas de deux. The laugh above me was mature but it contained the same pure delight expressed by the child many years before.

***

“My parents’ house was right here.” Mary walked along the crumbling footings. “This was our garden. Give me a shoulder, Richard.”

She leaned on him, crossed a leg to tug off one shoe, then the other.

“Watch out for broken glass and nails,” he said.

“It’ll be fine, a few weeds can’t mask the softness of the earth.” She spun away from him and criss-crossed the ground with a rhythmic step.

“This is crabgrass now but my feet remember. My toes tingle with each step.” She grabbed Richard’s arms and pulled him along with her.

“This is my special place,” she said. “Can you feel the magic?”

Richard stumbled to match her steps. “No. Sorry, Mary. I don’t feel anything special.”

She laughed. “Then the magic belongs to me alone.”

***

No. Never alone. It’s my magic too.

The end