To read Part One, please click here.
The weight of the stone in her lap held the suspense of the moment, until the girl sighed and looked around. Her fathers were fast asleep in their cots, and her Dad’s abandoned harmonica lay tilted on the log, gathering dew in the cool dusk air. The candles had long since burned out, but the Shabbat fire was still smoldering away, radiating its warmth in every direction.
The girl glanced back down at the stone. It was covered in a thick, gray-green moss. The tips of the fronds were just beginning to turn an ashy gray, and they swayed in the breeze with stone-still patience, like water babbling across a stream. Tracing her stubby finger in circles through the moss, it began to change color at her touch, turning from green to gray, and back to green when her fingers moved away.
The little girl silently exited her cot and shook dew from her fingers, leaving her red boots hanging on her cot post. The girl squinted through the darkness beyond the fire’s light, and could make out the faintest wisp of golden smoke. The longer she looked, the brighter it grew, until it stretched and wound its way into the blackened forest.
The girl let out a surprised breath as she felt the ground beneath her tremble. Black pebbles rattled as two small mounds uplifted themselves behind her feet. They gently prodded her forward, and the girl set off, a curious smile on her face.
The mist led her to an unimpressive fallen tree. At the base, where the roots had become unearthed, was a tunnel. The girl tiptoed into the passage, feeling the ground beneath her change from earth to slick moss. After a couple steps, she stumbled, sliding down into the dark.
It spat her out of a small hill and into a clearing. The moon was just beginning to rise. It was full, and shone with silver beams through the evergreens, casting dappled light into the clearing. Huge stones covered the span of the clearing, with room enough to walk between. These stones were old and cracked, and each and every one of them was covered thick in the same moss, a layer of green snow blanketing the whole garden.
The girl lowered herself onto her knees, and placed her grimy hand on the ground, feeling the curled fronds tickle her palms. Long, winding tendrils started to curl their way up the girl’s wrist, like the hands of hungry children reaching out for a bowl of soup. They made their way up to the girl’s elbow, and began to attach themselves to her arm.
Long, deep, pulses of ash coloration ebbed from the girl’s elbow, and rippled down her arm and out into the garden of stones. At first, the ripples of pale gray were only simple circles, but before long, large sections broke off into shapes. The shapes arranged themselves into images. There was a rough outline of a boat, a cluster of candlesticks, and what looked to be a box of instruments.
The girl, still pulling against the grip of the moss, didn’t notice the shapes and images covering every rock in the garden. At last, the ground relinquished its grip, and the girl’s arm was freed. Frustrated, and a little distraught, the girl blew a raspberry at the ground and kicked at it until she saw the new speckles of gray. Looking around, the little girl saw aspects from her life floating through the green moss all around her.
She wandered through the garden confused and lost, reliving various moments she had kept inside her mind. She watched as a shape in her image took its first steps onto a vast frozen lake. Images of her fathers appeared and knelt down to hold her hand. Together they skated around and around the garden, flowing from stone to stone.
The girl relaxed. A gray blur caught her eye, and the memory of the first time she had fished with her Papa floated into view. The fish transformed into a small wooden flute, one of the first instruments the girl had ever been taught how to play. Then a pony, loaves of challah, giant redwood trees, a homemade mezuzah, and finally, their old green sailboat. The girl sat down in the center with eyes full of wonder, watching the shadows of her family go about their daily lives.
She wasn’t aware of the swastikas, pogroms, and Nazi demonstrations circling the outskirts of the garden, for they were out of her sight. The island had been waiting for this for a long time, and took in the full scale of this little girl’s history.
When the girl finally reached an image of a small wooden harp, she reached out to it, but felt only moss in her hands. Frustrated, she began to pull. She pulled and pulled until she ripped off an entire chunk of moss the size of her body.
The harp appeared, as real as wood, on the ground before her. The island screamed. Then, long lightning-shaped cracks spiked out from the patch of vacant rock, fracturing hundreds of images and scenes. Everything stopped.
The girl cried. The island cried.
The girl glanced back down at the stone. It was covered in a thick, gray-green moss. The tips of the fronds were just beginning to turn an ashy gray, and they swayed in the breeze with stone-still patience, like water babbling across a stream. Tracing her stubby finger in circles through the moss, it began to change color at her touch, turning from green to gray, and back to green when her fingers moved away.
The little girl silently exited her cot and shook dew from her fingers, leaving her red boots hanging on her cot post. The girl squinted through the darkness beyond the fire’s light, and could make out the faintest wisp of golden smoke. The longer she looked, the brighter it grew, until it stretched and wound its way into the blackened forest.
The girl let out a surprised breath as she felt the ground beneath her tremble. Black pebbles rattled as two small mounds uplifted themselves behind her feet. They gently prodded her forward, and the girl set off, a curious smile on her face.
The mist led her to an unimpressive fallen tree. At the base, where the roots had become unearthed, was a tunnel. The girl tiptoed into the passage, feeling the ground beneath her change from earth to slick moss. After a couple steps, she stumbled, sliding down into the dark.
It spat her out of a small hill and into a clearing. The moon was just beginning to rise. It was full, and shone with silver beams through the evergreens, casting dappled light into the clearing. Huge stones covered the span of the clearing, with room enough to walk between. These stones were old and cracked, and each and every one of them was covered thick in the same moss, a layer of green snow blanketing the whole garden.
The girl lowered herself onto her knees, and placed her grimy hand on the ground, feeling the curled fronds tickle her palms. Long, winding tendrils started to curl their way up the girl’s wrist, like the hands of hungry children reaching out for a bowl of soup. They made their way up to the girl’s elbow, and began to attach themselves to her arm.
Long, deep, pulses of ash coloration ebbed from the girl’s elbow, and rippled down her arm and out into the garden of stones. At first, the ripples of pale gray were only simple circles, but before long, large sections broke off into shapes. The shapes arranged themselves into images. There was a rough outline of a boat, a cluster of candlesticks, and what looked to be a box of instruments.
The girl, still pulling against the grip of the moss, didn’t notice the shapes and images covering every rock in the garden. At last, the ground relinquished its grip, and the girl’s arm was freed. Frustrated, and a little distraught, the girl blew a raspberry at the ground and kicked at it until she saw the new speckles of gray. Looking around, the little girl saw aspects from her life floating through the green moss all around her.
She wandered through the garden confused and lost, reliving various moments she had kept inside her mind. She watched as a shape in her image took its first steps onto a vast frozen lake. Images of her fathers appeared and knelt down to hold her hand. Together they skated around and around the garden, flowing from stone to stone.
The girl relaxed. A gray blur caught her eye, and the memory of the first time she had fished with her Papa floated into view. The fish transformed into a small wooden flute, one of the first instruments the girl had ever been taught how to play. Then a pony, loaves of challah, giant redwood trees, a homemade mezuzah, and finally, their old green sailboat. The girl sat down in the center with eyes full of wonder, watching the shadows of her family go about their daily lives.
She wasn’t aware of the swastikas, pogroms, and Nazi demonstrations circling the outskirts of the garden, for they were out of her sight. The island had been waiting for this for a long time, and took in the full scale of this little girl’s history.
When the girl finally reached an image of a small wooden harp, she reached out to it, but felt only moss in her hands. Frustrated, she began to pull. She pulled and pulled until she ripped off an entire chunk of moss the size of her body.
The harp appeared, as real as wood, on the ground before her. The island screamed. Then, long lightning-shaped cracks spiked out from the patch of vacant rock, fracturing hundreds of images and scenes. Everything stopped.
The girl cried. The island cried.