Reflection

This job was only supposed to be temporary, but she had been here three years already. At first she used to go home and spend her evenings painting in her little attic flat, working long into the night, creating wonderful things. But as time passed, one day seemed to blur into the next. She lost the inspiration to paint; the tedium of her day job seemed to suck all the energy from her.

It was tedious work. Any school drop-out could have done it. And it was ultimately pointless. The data entered would serve no greater use to science or culture. It would just tell rich greedy corporations how best to market their next product and make them richer and greedier still.

She had spent years at college, worked hard, got good grades, and for what? This wasn't what she had dreamed of; this wasn't where she was supposed to be. Sam looked across at Riita on the desk opposite. Riita glanced up from her typing and smiled at her. But it was a sad smile, one of sympathy. Riita was in her forties, she had been with the company for over 10 years. 'Were your dreams as wide as mine once?' Sam wondered. Had she started this job to see her through and ended up working here ever since. Sam shook her head. She didn't want that fate to be hers, but what option did she have. Sam sighed deeply.

"Samantha Homity! Stop daydreaming and come here!" Her reverie was rudely interrupted by Mrs Macalister's screeching voice. "How many times do I have to warn you about your daydreaming? We're not paying you to sit around staring into space you know!"

Mrs Macalister was a middle age, rather plump, hunch-backed ogre of a woman. She was also Sam's boss, and Sam hated her with a passion. She often wondered if it really was the job that had sucked her dry of her creative energies, or was it this harpy of a woman who seemed to take joy in crushing the dreams and happiness of everyone she came in contact with. She was a stickler for time-keeping and efficiency, and you couldn't move from your desk without Mrs Macalister's beady eye following your every move. There was no idle chatter in this office, no friendly greetings and exchange of pleasantries as you passed your co-workers desks. Mrs Macalister would have none of it. Sam could easily believe she was some kind of witch who lived off the energy of other people's happiness. It was hardly surprising given the tedium of the surroundings and the work that Sam kept drifting off into day dreams.

"Sorry Mrs Macalister." Sam intoned, she tried to keep her voice civil, but both knew she didn't mean it. It had become her automatic comeback. Mrs Macalister bristled every time and eyed Sam sharply. She knew Sam was a dissident. An anarchist in her otherwise carefully controlled world, and she didn't like that. She made it her mission to pull the girl into line.

"These files all need to be double copied before lunch." Mrs Macalister indicated a huge stack of papers in a box beside her desk. It was a dreary job and she knew Sam hated copying, plus it would mean the girl would have to miss her break if she were to get it finished in time. That would punish her for wasting time daydreaming.

Heaving the heavy box of paper in both hands, Sam irritably used her toe to push open the door to the copy room and found a wildwood.

The copier was still there, and the shelves stacked with paperclips and rubber bands, pencils and staplers and boxes of paper, all oddly juxtaposed among moss covered boulders and gnarled trees. A stream bubbled merrily between the rubbish bin and a whiteboard that had been put there for storage. Oak leaves fell onto the copier lid.

'Great, now I've found Narnia in the copy room, I must be going nuts!' Sam thought, as she blinked in the unexpected sunlight. She looked behind her, back into the hall. People were hurrying about with stacks of paper. Mr Patel and Mr Collins were leaning by the water cooler chatting, typical; the senior partners could get away with slacking off. She could hear the ringing of phones and clatter of typists, everything was normal. But even with her head turned away she was aware of the strange new world now inhabiting the copy room. She heard birdsong, and the rustle of leaves, and even felt the cool breeze on her neck and tugging at her hair. She turned back to the wildwood.

"Well, if I'm going nuts, may as well make the most of it." She said aloud, and stepped through into the room. She dumped the box of copying on the floor and pushed past the whiteboard, jumping the stream and then she was beyond what would have been the back wall of the room, yet this new land continued to stretch away from her. She glanced back, and saw the paraphernalia of the copy room, and the door still behind her.

'Maybe I fell asleep at my desk, and this is all a dream.' She wondered. It felt so nice to be outside in the sun with the beauty of nature all around her. Whether it was a dream, or a psychotic break, she didn't much care; it sure beat doing the copying.
The woods were open and airy and in the distance Sam saw a green rise free of trees with a stone set atop it. She could not tell from this distance if the stone were a natural outcropping of rock, or if it was a monolith, placed there for a purpose. It seemed as good a place to head for as any and she hoped she might get the lay of the land from the rise too.

It wasn't a steep climb, and the woods were filled with delights for the senses. She was glad she had decided to wear sneakers today instead of her smart leather heels which pinched. Although that little act of rebellion had incurred the wrath of Mrs Macalister, who had given her a lecture about the dress code that morning.

It seemed to be early autumn, some of the leaves had fallen already and they shone with rich yellows and browns and gold beneath her feet. The moss between was still vibrant and green, and covered with tiny jewel-like droplets of dew which sparkled in the bright sunlight making the place seem magical. Certainly a fitting atmosphere for a wildwood in a copy room.

Lichens of pale greens and orange grew thickly on every tree, and fungi of red and orange and delicate pinks rose from the rot wood. A rich bouquet of earthy scents filled her nostrils. Insects fluttered all around as she walked. Their tiny wings reflected the yellow autumn light so they seemed like fairies. The stream bubbled merrily beside her and birds flitted through the wood, chirping as they followed her progress.

'Gee next there'll be a talking bunny or a princess like in a Disney movie!' Sam thought, amused as she enjoyed her rich surroundings.

Breathing deeply in the fresh air with her slight exertion, she reached the brow of the hill and leaned against the stone. It was a tall stone, and seemed to be both natural and unnatural. It erupted from the turf along with several other smaller rocks, 'like the Tors on Dartmoor' Sam recalled. Yet upon closer inspection, among the lichens and mosses covering its surface were the traces of weather worn carvings. Endless spirals and swirls, and lines like the ancient Ogham writing of Ireland.

Sam traced the patterns with her fingers, feeling the rough cool rock beneath her fingertips, absorbing every intricacy of the pattern. It was a long honed habit, consuming qualities of colour and pattern, texture and shape, her artists mind already applying the new information to pictures she could paint.

She smiled; it had been a while since she had felt the rush of excitement, the thrill of energy that inspiration brought with it. Maybe when she got home, she would get her paints out again.

She turned her attention to the landscape. Though the rise was only small, it was enough to give a good view over the forest. The colours of autumn painted it in yellow ochres, burnt umbers and alizarin crimsons, to name but a few. Beyond the woods, hills rose, their fading grasses in janues brilliant and pale naples yellow and swathes of dying bracken added strokes of burnt sienna. Still beyond that mountains grew, all shades of grey with distance, and all under a clear cerulean blue sky.
Sam walked slowly around the stone, drinking in the wondrous sights. A lake lay just further on where the forest finally ended. It reflected the sky with perfect clarity, it seemed almost luminous. Sam glanced back in the direction she had come; any sign of the copy room was lost to the forest. 'If it is still there at all,' she thought. She felt no fear about being unable to return however, she was enjoying herself too much. She set off downhill towards the lake.

She was aware of the other creatures in the wood, birds twittering, rabbits, startled, dashing for cover, squirrels, unconcernedly digging through piles of leaves for food. Even a small deer had stood and looked at her, as if it had never seen a human before, before dashing off into the undergrowth. So she noticed at once when the woods suddenly became hushed. She stopped and listened. Not a sound was heard aside from the rustle of the trees in the light breeze, and even that seemed diminished. It was not the silence of fear, of every creature listening for the approach of the predator; it felt more like the reverential quiet you find upon entering a church or place of worship.

It was a movement, not a sound, which broke the stillness. For the creature did not seem to make a sound even as it stepped through the rustling leaf litter or splashed through the shallow stream.

It moved like shadow and sunlight, and Sam found she had to unfocus her mind in order to see it truly. It seemed unaware, or rather, unconcerned of her presence, and she felt no fear of this strange beast.

She followed the creature through the wood, quietly. It walked confidently, its antlered head swaying from side to side, surveying its surroundings. Sunlight falling through the leaves dappled its moss-like green fur. It belonged in this landscape so completely; instinctively she felt that she was watching the spirit of the wildwood.

To the Celts this beast may have been Cernunnos, to the ancient Greeks, he would have been a satyr, to the Romans, a faun and to Shakespeare he would have been Puck. He was all and more of these things. He had the body of a great stag, but the torso of a human in the nature of a centaur. His head was bestial, drawn out and furred. Atop his head mighty antlers grew. His fur was of pale blue green lichens and moss, with tiny saxifrage and little gentian and yellow wood sorrel tangled amongst it. His eyes, when she glimpsed them, held the knowledge of ages in their depths.

He knelt beside the lake. Its surface was smooth, like a window, it reflected the sharp peaks and bowing willow trees above it with perfect clarity.

She expected him to drink, as she watched from the seclusion of the bushes, but he did not.

He reached in with his hand and the lakes surface seemed to freeze in an instant, spreading out from where his hand touched it. Then he broke away a piece of the lake, a shard of the surface ice, and held it up before him. She could see, even from this distance that the shard was a perfect mirror. Not frosted like true ice, but smooth and clear like the lake surface had been only moments before.

Then she realised, he was looking at her in the mirrors reflection. She froze as if that hand of ice had touched her.

Frozen not by fear, but by enchantment, his eyes locked to hers, those eyes that were so wise and knowing. She felt herself get up and move out of the bushes. He stood and turned to her, holding out the lake mirror. She took it from him; it felt like ice but did not melt in her hands. She could not tear her eyes away from him, this spirit king, for long moments. She saw his narrow bestial face give what could only be a reassuring smile, and felt his hand touching her hand as the mirror was held between them.

She glanced down at the mirror.

When she looked up he was gone and she was alone by the lake.

Sound had returned to the world. The sun had moved round in its unending procession, time had advanced hours in just moments and it was chill in the cwm of the lake.

Sam climbed back to the stone before looking at the mirror again. She settled herself on the sunward side, her back against the warm stone, and once again looked into the mirror the spirit king had given her.

The surface rippled like water yet it felt solid in her grip. She saw her own face, her cheeks flushed from the climb, her eyes wide with awe, her hair in disarray, staring back at her. She found she could not look away from the mirror.

The familiar brown eyes, her eyes, began to change as she looked. The light from them vanished, and with it she knew so had the dreams of the girl in the mirror. But she was already changing again. No longer a girl, wrinkles formed, skin sagged, the hair became streaked with grey, the posture slipped and hunched and suddenly she was looking at a woman who could have been Mrs Macalister, except she knew it to be herself.

The mirror rippled again and cleared and Sam was once again looking at her own youthful reflection. But she saw her eyes were red and tears streaked her cheeks. She cried, not only in the reflection.

Was this why she hated Mrs Macalister so much, she wondered. Because in her, she saw her own destiny? Surely such a hateful person could not have once been full of dreams and happiness as she was?

"But it doesn't have to be this way." Sam told herself aloud. She wiped her face on her sleeve and felt something deep inside herself stirring. Some caged beast that had been pushed down inside for the last 3 years, beginning to assert itself.

"Mrs Macalister may have been like me once, but she let herself become who she is today!" Sam said to the reflection in the mirror, "We all have choices in life, and I don't know where it might lead, but I choose not to take the path that she took. I choose to change my destiny!"

She was standing now, shouting out over the tree tops with all her will and determination, declaring to the world.

As she did so, the lake mirror became liquid and slid through her fingers, the pool of water quickly draining away into the earth.

Sam took a great breath of air and expelled it in a huge sigh. She felt relieved of all her cares. This unresolved decision had been hanging over her for years without her even knowing it, and at last she had made her choice. It didn't matter what happened now, she was on a new path, she would forge her own way from here. She sat down again to watch the sun setting behind the hills.

The light was low but bright when she started suddenly awake. She had not been aware of falling asleep. She looked up startled to see a rather ugly, but undersized troll marching towards her. It was totally out of place in this tranquil world. It looked very angry; it was snarling and spitting foul words at her. No, wait, it wasn't a troll, it was Mrs Macalister.

'What's she doing here?' Sam thought, still sluggish with sleep. But as she became more aware, Sam found she was no longer sitting at the base of the stone on the hill in the wildwood, but against a stack of paper boxes. The sunlight had become the artificial glare of the fluorescent strip lights of the copy room and the wildwood was gone.

"Miss Homity, what do you think you're doing? I've been waiting for those copies for almost an hour!" Mrs Macalister raged.

Sam felt dazed, but content, like after waking from a pleasant dream. Even Mrs Macalister's angry tirade couldn't faze her. She found herself peering at the woman, trying to see if any remnant of the hopeful young girl remained, but she saw now that it had long ago been supressed and erased. She felt no pity, Mrs Macalister had had her chance, this is what she had chosen to become.

"If I find you daydreaming one more time I'll…"

"I quit." Sam said before she could finish. Mrs Macalister froze. It was like she'd been turned to stone. No one had ever quit, she always fired them first. With those two words, Sam had broken Mrs Macalister's hold over her, broken free of the drudgery, of the need to conform in society.

She felt so weightless and free; she jumped nimbly to her feet and stepped past the still uncomprehending Mrs Macalister.

"But, you can't just quit!" Mrs Macalister said turning furiously, but it was too late, Sam had already left.

Only a crisp golden oak leaf skittered along the empty hall.