Signs

by Scott Ortolano

The shadows cast by the tall trees seemed to mock them with the illusion of coolness in the simmering Florida afternoon. A constant drone of singing cicadas, or what his Uncle Rupp called a swamp chorus, was only broken here and there by the rustle of lizards startled into saw palmettos by this pair of mid-afternoon intruders. Nothing else stirred—or would for hours.

As he felt the crunch of dry pine needles beneath the soles of his shoes, Zander wondered how he had been convinced to exchange the coolness of his room for the humidity and sweat of this midsummer day run. Then, his eyes looked forward, and through the wandering path, moved Alyssa’s rippling form, tight blue nylon reverberating with each footfall. Time slowed as it had back when he was in little league, watching the spin of a baseball, stilling the movement in his mind until he could count each individual lace and measure the space between.

He stumbled over the root of an ancient oak, and the pattern resumed its usual course. He had to be careful. This past week, lost in a remarkably similar daydream, he had narrowly missed the coiled form of a water moccasin. It had tightened to strike, and he avoided the awaiting fangs, with their ready venom, only by planting his foot at the last moment and careening helplessly into the thorns of a nearby greenbrier. The scrapes from the thorns raged throughout the night, though as he would later discover, a salve distilled from the same plant could bring relief to even the deepest ache.

Alyssa suddenly turned off the main trial, moving toward their traditional stopping point. On the railroad tracks now, Zander stepped carefully on each wooden plank to avoid the sharp white rocks, which had been piled to make a secure base atop a shifting land that seemed always to hunger for more.

*

He found her sitting off to the side, where the land fell away and the height of the position offered an unrestricted view of the water below. He took his usual position beside her, and they silently gazed out at the lake, split in two by the cut of the main trial and dotted with stands of bald cypress trees. He put his arm on her shoulder, and Alyssa inclined her head on his in silence, tears slowly trickling down her cheeks. Her sister had disappeared again, without a trace, just as soon as the recovery program seemed like it might finally take root. While she was sure to resurface days, or perhaps weeks, hence, the ache of each leaving tore pieces from Alyssa’s soul.

They sat, frozen together, breathing in unison, for a very long time.

*

The tranquility was broken suddenly, maybe hours later, when a blue heron flew overhead, outstretched wings reaching to the heavens, and Alyssa caught her breath as it landed mere feet from where they stood. The bird gazed at them for a moment, their twin shapes reflected in its glassy eyes before it slowly made its way to the water’s edge.

The sun began to set behind the trees, and Zander recalled his mother’s belief that blue herons were always omens of good luck. He took a deep breath and wondered what possible good the world could have in store for them.

*

“They seem like castles, don’t they?” Alyssa said suddenly, a train whistle sounding far off in the distance.

Zander looked. The lake’s matted islands had become doubles of themselves in the water’s mirrored tranquility. He turned to Alyssa, seeing the angelic hue the sunlight created as it caught invisible tendrils of stray hair. She glanced upward, dark eyelashes slightly covering her brown eyes, deep pools, which like the lake spread below them, seemed to shimmer to eternity.

Scott Ortolano is an English Professor at Florida SouthWestern State College. He has previously published critical work in the The Explicator, The F. Scott Fitzgerald Review, Women’s Studies, and The South Atlantic Review and creative work in Across The Margin. You can usually find him reading, running, hiking, or fishing—often with his two children in tow. Website: www.SOrtolano.com / Bluesky: @floridasnow.bsky.social