Seven Swans - 1. Chapter 1

It’s another goddamn beautiful winter day.

I’m sitting at our bench, watching the lake as the minutes go by. The wind is frosty and nature around me is quiet. Sleeping. You would have probably said that there’s a serene kind of beauty to be found in the white stillness of December. The forest around me looks dead, but isn’t. Every single tree devoid of leaves hides deep within itself the promise of life for the future. Their trunks are cold as ice now, hard, yet that in itself is a testament to their inner strength. There are many animals that live in the forest, this far away from civilization. Many of them are huddled in their burrows even now, waiting out the chill, hoping for Spring.

The lake hasn’t frozen over yet, and its dark waters are a beautiful mirror to the cloudless azure sky above my head. I can see all the way to the other shore, and I know that I’m the only man right now who has the privilege of gazing upon such pristine serenity. People in the large cities of the world would pay a lot of money to have what I have right now: a place for myself, out in the wilderness, away from it all.

Alone.

I shift my weight slightly on the hard bench, tucking my hands under my armpits for extra warmth. There’s hot tea and comfortable blankets waiting for me back at the cabin, but I don’t want to go back there yet. Not until I can’t stand the cold anymore.

I watch a couple of wild ducks as they make their way across the lake, trailing faint ripples in their wake. They amaze me, like all water birds. They are creatures who can walk on land, swim through the water, and fly through the air. They are awe inspiring, particularly here, in the deadly calm of Winter.

But ducks are so… pedestrian. The thought comes to my mind, unbidden, with your voice. That’s what you would have said. That’s what you used to say, whenever we had this argument. It was like a wonderful routine between us, a script we knew very well. I much prefer swans. Aren’t they regal? I’d just love to be one. Just without all that ugly duckling angst. And did you know some swans are gay? It’s been documented and everything!

In spite of myself, I crack a tiny grin. There’s an island near the middle of the lake, too small to be of any use to people, but just perfect for the large, snow-white inhabitants that are right now huddled on it, apparently sleeping.

Swans. I look at them, and the next line in our unspoken conversation flows naturally, the way it did when you were still here.

“But I hate swans,” I say under my breath. Low enough that not even the trees can hear me. “They’re so loud. And they’re vicious. I’ve seen them terrorize dogs three times their size. Have you ever heard them hiss? No, thanks.”

Then you would’ve said something about swans being bitchy because they were fabulous, snapped your fingers and made a little twirl, pretending to look away, a swan incarnate.

A painful sob escapes my chest. Damn, it hurts so bad sometimes.

I let the quiet cold fill me, begging for it to make me numb. Minutes pass by, silent, the breath misting in front of my face the only indication that I am alive. I shiver but I don’t care. I want feelings to cease, I want the ache to fade. But Mother Nature cannot protect me from my own thoughts, no matter how hard she tries. Regrets are like daggers being sunk into my flesh by the relentless shadow of my own shape that is my brain. Things left unsaid become repeating echoes of missed opportunities, and happy memories… Those are the worst. By far. I block them out, one and all.

The sun comes up through the trees, shining weakly on the peaceful lake, making its waters sparkle. There’s a faint but unmistakable smell in the air that I will always associate with the winter time, being eight years old and going outside to play with my friends in the snow. It’s the smell of wet wood, wild and crisp, reminding me of riding down slopes on sleds, the squelch of wet mittens after making one too many snowballs, and the cold burn on my cheeks from the pure winter air. Then it would be time to go back home, to the shock of the sudden warmth, the dripping puddles of my boots just inside the kitchen door, and the dash to the living room for a cup of chocolate with melty marshmallows.

How long ago was it? Fifty, sixty years? It comes back to me now with surprising clarity, and I welcome the distraction. Anything is better than remembering the last thirty years with you. Those… I just can’t.

The swans have woken up, it seems, and my eyes follow them as they shake themselves and groom every inch of their white plumage with systematic efficiency. I am mesmerized by the reach of their limber necks, allowing a creature with no hands and no teeth to still reach and preen its entire body. I suppose they are majestic, in a way. And they are the unmistakable lords of this winter lake.

A couple of them wade down into the water together and swim away, their unseen webbed feet propelling them forward with barely a ripple. Two more follow, swimming together too. Then another pair.

I can’t remember if swans mate for life, but that might explain why the last regal bird remains alone on the island, looking around as if waiting for something. I am drawn to it, and see my crushing loneliness mirrored in its isolation. When it finally wades into the water tentatively, I am almost positive it will come to me, swimming as if called by the silent notes of my despair.

It does nothing of the sort. It swims over to some rocks and promptly dives down into the water, coming up every now and then for air, moving its beak nonstop. Maybe it’s looking for food at the bottom. What do swans eat, anyway? Fish? How do they even catch it if they can only dive for a little at a time?

You would’ve known. You loved documentaries.

Eventually, I am forced back inside even though I really don’t want to. The cold isn’t good for me at my age, and I’m getting that weird pain in my arm again. Better go in.

I hate the cabin now. It’s too big for one person. Every item in there is charged with memories, from the drawing bench I carved for you to the painted spice rack you always insisted was chic when in reality it’s just a hideous shade of hot pink. I grit my teeth and make myself some lunch, trying not to think. I make grilled Portobello mushrooms with vegetables sautéed in soy sauce. Salt is supposed to be bad, but whatever. I feel like it, and now there’s nobody around to tell me otherwise.

I put everything away, cleaning thoroughly because I know that if I let just one dirty dish lying around the sink, it will start a chain reaction that will end up with me living under a mound of garbage that I’d be too lazy to clean up. You would be proud of me, actually. The cabin is spotless. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Right?

I go into the living room with its amazing panoramic window looking out into the lake. Your letter is still there on the mantelpiece, undisturbed, unopened. Written across it is a short message in your beautiful flowing handwriting.

You’ll know when to open me.

I glance at it, like I do every day, even walk little closer, but I don’t dare.

Not yet.

I sit down at my desk and turn on the computer instead. I pretend to work for a while. I watch some videos online. I answer a couple of worried Facebook messages from my niece. I try and play one of the hundreds of games in my Steam library I haven’t even installed. Midday gives way to afternoon, and then the quick forest twilight settles over the land.

Your letter is still there, teasing me, taunting me, whispering your name. I try to ignore it, going through the motions of making some dinner, then eating it. Cleaning up after myself. Then I go back into the living room with the vague plan of doing some illustrations, and I see your letter again.

I don’t know when I’m supposed to open it. I don’t know what you meant.

Night brings darkness, even though it’s only 5 PM. I feel myself getting sleepy and decide not to fight it. I have enough trouble falling asleep as it is, usually waking up in the wee hours of the morning, unable to go back to bed. I’d better rest now that I can.

I turn off all the lights and walk to bed, slipping under the covers with practiced ease. The wind outside is picking up, making the branches of the nearby trees rustle faintly. They lull me to sleep.

A nightmare comes, like it does almost every night. This time it’s the one in the hospital, where I’m running down the corridor to your room but I never get there, no matter how fast I go. I wake up tangled in the sheets to the gentle sound of rain pattering against the window. I am instantly alert, and sigh. No more sleep for me tonight.

I stumble out of bed, rubbing my eyes, and glance at the clock on the dresser. It’s 11 PM. Just six hours of rest, then. Not bad. That’s almost a full night.

The tatters of my nightmare cling to the soles of my feet, though, and I can’t shake them off. I go to the bathroom, then take my pills. I’m supposed to have them with food, so I go to the kitchen and randomly take a handful of nuts from a jar. As I chew them, I walk to the living room to close the curtains since I didn’t earlier and I don’t want a horde of moths to get into the house if the wind blows open a window.

I’m reaching for the curtains when I catch a glimpse of myself. There’s a mirror above the mantelpiece, and in it I can see myself. I stop, turning around to look at my reflection fully.

An old man stares back under bushy white eyebrows, wearing wine colored pajamas that hang from his gaunt frame. He is wearing pink slippers with unicorns on them.

Your slippers.

The scream tears its way out of my throat before conscious thought can stop it. There’s a photograph of our wedding on a table nearby and I snatch it viciously, hurling it at the mirror with all my strength. It crashes against it with deafening sound of shattering glass, and the entire mirror is knocked down. It bounces on the mantelpiece and then smashes on the floor, broken beyond repair.

I’m not done. I stomp over to your drawing bench, lift it, and slam it against the nearest wall. I built it well, so it doesn’t break, but that only makes me angrier and I slam it again with a primal scream of rage. This time it breaks, and I let it clatter down in two pieces. I’m seeing red, panting, my eyes darting around for something else to destroy. When I see nothing immediately at hand, I lunge against the wall and punch it.

The pain in my arm wakes up, spikes, but I ignore it, blind in my anger. I punch the wall again and make a hole and get twisted satisfaction from it. I walk back to the middle of the room, kick one of the tables aside, grab my computer and hurl it into the kitchen. It crashes against the stand with all the mugs and it all goes down in a heap, the sharp sound of cracking china like music to my frantic ears.

The pain comes back, though. Sharper. I’m crying now but I refuse to wipe away the tears, to acknowledge that I’m finally breaking down under the grief of my loss. I won’t. The anger is like fire in my veins and I embrace it, rushing to the mantelpiece where your letter still rests.

I snatch it out. I want to tear it to pieces. Maybe then the pain will stop.

But my vision goes black for a moment and I feel dizzy. I try to stabilize by reaching for the wall, miss it, and stumble.

The pain in my arm is sharper now, unmistakable. And in my chest.

I get dizzy again, and I can’t hold onto something in time. I go down, knocking my head against the floor, seeing stars before my eyes for a moment. I know I should get up. Call the nurse, probably.

My eyes flutter shut.

#

When I open them again, it’s morning. It takes me a moment to make sense of my surroundings. Why am I on the floor? Then the events of the night before come crashing back down on me and I remember.

Broken shards of glass and mirror pieces litter the floor around me. Warm morning sunlight streams in from the window, throwing many-colored reflections wherever it shines on a glass fragment. I look at my hand, expecting to see cuts and bruises from my rampage last night, and instead realize I still have your letter clutched between my fingers.

Carefully, I sit back up. I lean against one of the sofas, running my hand through my hair. The house is a mess. But at least I didn’t tear up your letter.

It comes to me with quiet certainty: the time has come to read it. That’s enough waiting around, and enough denial. Enough saving this last message from you. I open the envelope with trembling fingers, careful with the paper inside. As I unfold the letter, a postcard-sized card falls out. I grab it, but I read your message first.

Hey Andy,

I know you promised you wouldn’t be sad, but I also know you’re a depressive drama queen deep underneath your butch façade, so guess what? I’ve prepared a little treasure hunt for you, to help you remember… us. Just one condition, though: no crying is allowed. Okay? Follow the map and the clues. I promise it’s going to be awesome. Unless the nurse messed up my instructions and hid the things in the wrong places. But hey, that’s only going to make it more fun!

I love you, now and always,

Michael.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Reading these lines is like hearing your voice again, and it’s almost too much to handle. I sit for a long time there in the living room, holding your letter, reading it again and again until I have memorized every word. Eventually, my attention drifts over to the little postcard. I realize it’s a map of the cabin and the grounds around it, with three little marks distributed in many places.

A treasure hunt. And you said no crying.

I owe you that much.

Number one in the treasure hunt is in our bedroom, along with a cryptic remark that reads: Underneath. Puzzled, I walk over there. I look under the bed first, finding nothing. Looking at the postcard again, I notice that the mark is actually closer to your nightstand. The one I haven’t touched at all.

I hesitate only slightly. Then I move it out of the way.

There’s a clever little latch right on the floorboards, and after lifting it I find a secret compartment, very narrow, barely big enough to hide a photograph. Which is what I find there.

I take it out and the sob catches in my throat. But I’m not supposed to cry, so I don’t. It’s a picture of two goofy young men, grainy, one of those instant Polaroids that don’t even exist anymore. They’re both holding cotton candy, bright pink. Smiling.

The day we met.

I thought I had lost that photograph. Seeing it now, so suddenly, brings the memory back with shocking clarity. It wasn’t love at first sight or anything. Rather, you happened to be the friend of a friend and we had all gone to Six Flags for… Was it graduation? I’m not sure. But I do remember the way you looked at me, the first time. The way you followed me around, talking nonstop, somehow managing to convince me to go on a roller coaster ride with you. Just the two of us. The wait was insanely long, though, so I ended up being trapped with you for the better part of an hour. Talking. Meeting someone for the very first time was able to make me feel… Something special.

By the time we got down from the roller coaster, I knew that I wanted to get to know you better. And so we ditched our friends and ended up staying the rest of the day together.

I smile, holding the photograph in my hand. It was a wonderful day. Probably the best day of my life.

I look at the postcard with the treasure hunt map and locate the little mark for item number two, with eagerness this time. It points me to the kitchen, to the hot pink spice rack, which is confusing. I walk over there and take it down from the wall, feeling it all over, tapping the wall behind it to see if there’s another secret compartment, but that’s not it. Puzzled, I look at all the spices. I’m an okay cook, but you were the one with the gift for making stuff that tasted good. In fact, there are some mysterious spices I haven’t even touched.

Wait.

I take apart the pepper grinder and feel around with my finger, dipping it into the pepper powder that has collected at the bottom. Nothing. I do the same with the salt and the curry, but there’s only more powder.

I find the thumb drive in the clove grinder, of all things. I’m not even sure how cloves are used for cooking. The drive is small, and I take it over to my bedroom computer. My heart hammers in my chest in anticipation.

There’s just one file in the drive, a movie. I double-click the icon and wait for a few seconds. The window opens, and the annoying Mac beach ball spins. Then it begins.

It’s a video of our trip to Madagascar nearly 25 years ago. I recognize it instantly from the way the shot opens on a sunlit, peaceful beach with a view to a breathtakingly beautiful ocean. A couple of seconds later, the camera pans to the left and I see you relaxing in a wide chair under a palm tree. You’re wearing a tank top and shorts, the carefully sculpted muscles in your arms standing out against your bronzed skin and day-old stubble shadowing your cheeks. My heart does a little double flip in my chest as I realize that I got to share my entire life with such a beautiful man. Damn, you look hot. Always did, right up to the end. Not even chemo could keep you away from the gym, pumping iron. It was your other great love besides me.

“Are you filming?” you ask, and the sound of your voice makes the breath catch in my throat. The other me, in the video holding the camera, laughs.

“Come on, Michael. You promised, and it’s time.”

“Uh… I think I hurt my knee the other day. Ouch, yeah, definitely. Can’t go, sorry.”

“You’re gonna make me carry you, huh?” I walk closer and yank your foot.

“Hey, let go!”

Another hard yank makes you fall on the sand. “Come on, Mikey.”

“You know I hate it when you call me – fine, fine! Geez. But if I drown, it’s going to be your fault.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever drowned from a little jet skiing,” I say.

“You don’t know that. And what if we crash?”

“That’s why we have a guide, remember?”

You stand up and do a little pout. “Extreme sports are not my idea of vacations. All I want to do is sit back, read books, and drink cocktails. But no, we had to travel halfway around the world to risk our lives on a jet ski.”

“Hey.”

“What?”

“You look really cute when you argue.”

You open your mouth as if to say something, but then you smile instead.

“And I love you,” I continue, getting closer. The camera catches the sunlight in your eyes, making them glitter like emeralds. Your smile widens, and you pull me towards you. We kiss, and then you step back.

“No fair,” you say. “You can’t always win with the love card.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Crap. You’re right. Okay, let’s go jet ski. But if we crash, have a horrible accident, and I’m paralyzed afterwards, you’re going to have to change my bedpan.”

“Sure thing. Pinky promise.”

You shove me away, shaking your head while laughing. “This better be good!”

And it is. The image is surprisingly steady, and I remember suddenly that I used I a GoPro for that trip. It was strapped to my forehead with a goofy-looking band which I grew to hate, but the video I took is amazing. It’s almost like being there. I see us approaching the beach, getting on the jet ski, first with the guide who shows us how to drive around, and then together, on our own. I’m driving, and the view is amazing as we surf on the waves, the fastest thing around. I can still remember the smell of the ocean, the sharp sting of the water on my face, and your arms tight around me, holding on for dear life.

When we finally return to shore, you look a little green.

“It was cool, wasn’t it?” I ask, my voice betraying my adrenaline high.

You give me a thumbs up. “It was awesome! Now excuse me while I barf.”

The image ends suddenly. On the black screen, words appear.

Living with you was one great, magical, wonderful adventure, Andy. With you, I got to jet ski through life. Thank you.

Then the video ends.

It’s a slight jolt to find myself sitting in our bedroom, in front of the computer. I realize that while I watched it I felt better, the ache in my heart replaced by something else. A faint smile lingers on my lips, but it fades away as the reality of loss settles on my shoulders again, heavy and unrelenting. To distract myself from it, I look at the map of the treasure hunt. There’s one more mark I haven’t checked, but it’s outside the house.

Next to the lake.

I make my way over there, stepping out of the cabin into the cold shock of the forest morning. I should probably put on a jacket, but I’m curious. My pink unicorn slippers crunch of the thin layer of new fallen snow as I make my way to the lake. Once I get there, I look more closely at the map. The mark you made appears to be right on top of our bench. Weird. I was just sitting there yesterday and I didn’t notice anything odd.

I walk to the bench anyway and look around. It doesn’t take me long to realize that there’s a spot under the bench with a large boulder which definitely looks like it doesn’t belong there. I crouch down, kneeling on the snow, not even caring that I’m getting my pajamas wet. I reach for the boulder and push it off with a bit of effort, making it roll down the gentle slope to the lake. A swan honks loudly, apparently startled by the rock, but I pay it no mind. Instead I take out the slender metal box that was hidden underneath the rock.

This is it. The last message from you. I cradle it in my hands as I sit on the bench, and take a long time in opening it. The sun dips behind the tree tops, and long shadows reach out tentatively towards me before I finally undo the latch that keeps the box closed. Strange. I don’t even feel cold anymore.

The box opens with a faint creak of its frozen hinge and reveals a small laminated card resting on the inside. I reach out for it slowly, take it, and set the box aside. I close my eyes moment before looking at the words. Then I read them.

Andy, this isn’t goodbye. Have faith. I will always be waiting for you.

I know I promised you not to cry, but hot tears roll down my cheeks as I remember your funeral just a week ago, everyone so sad, hugging me, patting my shoulder and saying words of encouragement. They rang hollow then and they do now. How can they understand that half of me, of my life, is gone without you in it? How can they know what it’s like to miss the person you love most in the world and to know that you won’t see them ever again? Our house is too big without you - the world is too big without you. This loneliness is crushing me and the pain in my heart this awful, unbearable. I don’t know what to do, Michael.

“I’m lost without you,” I sob, leaning forward to bury my face in my hands. Tears trickle between my fingers, dripping onto the snow.

A loud honk startles me badly and I jerk upright, looking around in alarm.

There’s a swan standing at the edge of the lake, very close to where I’m sitting. As I watch, it honks again, fluffs its wings, and takes a step closer.

“Stupid bird,” I mutter. “Leave me alone.”

But the sound of my voice only appears to make the swan more aggressive, since it begins walking towards me, wings spread at its sides, managing to look menacing.

“Go away!” I shout, crying still, and gesture with my arms trying to shoo it away. The swan honks, tucks its neck in, and then hisses at me. It walks closer, trying to intimidate me, until he’s practically within arm’s reach.

“Just… Leave me alone,” I say, and my voice cracks on the last word. The fight leaves me, and my shoulders slump. I look down at the dirty snow between my feet. “Or do whatever. Come on, peck me to death. I don’t care anymore.”

“See? You are a depressive drama queen.”

My head snaps up in shock. “Michael?”

The swan honks. I don’t see anyone, but I definitely heard your voice. Where…?

“Over here,” you say, and the swan rears up… and changes… Into you.

I’m speechless, looking up at you, not as you were in the end, but as you were when I first met you. Your face is young, unlined, smiling. Your eyes are full of compassion. “Hey, handsome.”

I want to reply, but I’m speechless. Hesitant, I stand up to look at you fully. It’s a little shock to see that you’re taller than me again. The way it was before the wheelchair.

“Michael? How…?” I reach out, and my hand trembles. I fear not being able to touch you, but my fingers rest on your shoulder and it feels real. Warm, solid, alive.

“I told you I’d be waiting,” you tell me. You lean in for a quick kiss and it’s just like I remember. Then you embrace me, your arms tightening around me in a bear hug, and I return it with all the strength of my overjoyed surprise. I don’t want it to end, ever. You’re here, with me.

Eventually, you draw away gently. I look into your eyes. “I… I don’t understand,” I stammer.

You take my hand. “It’s time to go, Andy.”

“Go? Go where?”

“Go… on.”

“But I – am I…?”

You nod, and gesture in the direction of the cabin. “You can go look, if you want.”

I follow your lead, as if dazed, until we’re standing outside the living room window.

I see myself lying there, surrounded by bits and pieces of broken glass.

“You needed some time to remember, so I waited until you had read my letter,” you tell me.

I remember the sharp pain in my arm from the day before. The way I collapsed in the living room, only to wake up today. The way I’m not cold anymore, even though I should be. You gesture with your head, back towards the lake, and I realize that I can only see one set of footprints in the snow, shallow and flat, as if left by a large bird.

I should be scared. But when I look at your smile, all I feel is peace.

“You chose a swan?” I ask you.

“Yeah. That way I got to hang out with six of my other buddies and watch you from the island over there. Besides, what can I say? They’re regal birds. So majestic.”

“Also loud. And aggressive.”

“See? You’ll fit right in.”

“Do I have a choice?”

You nod solemnly. “There’s always a choice.”

“Then I choose… to be with you. As a loud, honking bird.”

“You’re gonna love it. Flying is awesome.”

#

As the sun sets over the peaceful, quiet lake, six swans gather on a small island in the middle, tuck their feet underneath their snow-white plumage, and settle down for the night. The last pair of them remains in the water, though, swimming close together. They entwine their necks around one another often, appearing content to remain behind, with attention only for each other. But as the last golden rays of the sun caress the frozen treetops, they suddenly open their wings and begin flapping energetically, their webbed feet grazing the surface of the water as they run, spraying sparkling droplets until they take off into the air. Their powerful wings bear them aloft as they circle once around the lake, lingering above a snow-covered log cabin, and then fly away into the starry winter twilight.