Fontainebleau - An Extract from:

Global Dawn

by

Deborah Gelbard

Reuven idled among the towering pines of Fontainebleau, inspired by their awesome grandeur and beauty. Impulsively, he took his shoes and socks off and stretched his toes at the feet of these natural giants. A light haze began to spread across the glade. The occasional squirrel tail swishing among fallen leaves broke the silence of strangely absent birdsong. He leaned back onto a mass of entangled ferns and lay staring into the face of the mist.

A breeze coaxed the treetops into circular motion producing a faint hum. With the strengthening of the wind and the widening circle of the lofty branches, the sound intensified. He cupped his hands against his ears to dull its reverberation. From the thickness of the mist at the far end of the glade emerged the grey silhouette of a roughly clad man. With the index finger of one hand curled towards his chest, he beckoned to Reuven, while raising a finger of his other hand to his lips in tribute to the silence that surrounded them. Reuven tried to follow him, but found himself unable to stand. He had read about the hermit of Fontainebleau. If this was he, he was surely a harmless soul. Nevertheless, his appearance was unnerving.

The humming grew faster and stronger, rising above the glade in shrill crescendo. It forced Reuven's attention dizzily upwards as into the vacant hollow of his gaze reared another shadowy form: This time, the ghostly figure of a horseback rider. Holding tightly onto a rein with its left hand, it leaned outwards from the saddle and beckoned to him with the forefinger of its right before speeding on. Again, the excruciating rushing sound and the mercilessly pounding hum. Reuven held his fists tightly against his temples, and struggled to stand up, only to fall back again, head spinning and flushed.

In the next instant, the mist evaporated and he regained his balance. A couple of mushroom pickers were examining the mossy verge just a few metres away:

"...alors, tu pense que c'était lui?" ("So, you think it was him?")

"...sans doute, Le Grand Veneur, oui..." ("Yes, without a doubt, the Great Hunter...")

They wandered on and, stunned by what he had heard, Reuven grabbed at the nearest tree trunk for support. He had heard tell of the "Wild Hunter of Fontainebleau". Some said he was Death in disguise. He trembled with foreboding.

The humming subsided and the space ahead of him cleared. He lay back against the tree and burrowed his bare toes into the knotted undergrowth. The hermit and the hunter - signs, the meanings of which he must fathom: The beckoning fingers of Death and its messenger had passed him by leaving him unscathed. It was surely a reminder that his work was not yet done. By running to the forest today he had sought to escape like the hermit behind the misty veil of the forest. The vision of the recluse playing on his conscience reminded him his purpose was not to be so lightly revoked.

The sky remained overhung with grey. His eyes were fixed on the spot where the hermit had appeared, now obliterated by the merging forms of trees and foliage. He picked up his shoes and, swinging them by the laces, wandered down a meandering path covered with freshly fallen pine needles.

The grey spectres he had witnessed laid bare a lesion in his subconscious.

“Don’t you recognise those images?” nagged his inner voice.

He shivered as he recalled the ominous black figure of Death riding so close yet failing to claim him.

“You need to get your act together and fast,” said the voice. “You make fancy speeches but where are you when there’s real work to be done? Chickening out and doing nought! Just like a bloody hermit! Don’t you see?”

He kicked at the pine needles underfoot.

“Look, I know I’m a worthless piece of shit. I can change, though. Just need time…”

“You think you can bargain with the Reaper? He’ll come for you soon enough!”

He wandered quite aimlessly now across a thicket of browning ferns. He inhaled the pungent fragrance of the pines as he trod a silent carpet of closely packed needles. Suddenly, he felt the needle bed slipping away beneath him and he clutched the nearest tree trunk in panic. The needles were spiralling downwards into a rapidly widening hole. The power of the swirling mass grew. He felt it pulling at his feet!”

“Get a grip on yourself!” admonished his inner voice. “Is that what you want? For the earth to swallow you up?”

“Why not? I’m a fucking impotent leader!” he shouted, stamping out his rage on what was surprisingly firm ground, after all. Again, his emotional outpouring was readily answered:

“Let go of those demons before it’s too late!”

He watched the falling needles. Each time a few more shook themselves free of the mother twig and joined the accumulated softness of the bed below. He contemplated the natural process of release and enrichment. Letting go. It sounded so simple. Let go of the blackness in his heart. The spectres of Fontainebleau were mirrors of the darkness of his soul. He had to finally let go of his fears and show firm leadership. The clock was ticking; he must sharpen his purpose before it was too late.