Who Is Andromeda Green?

'They are out.' The winds whisper.

I have my family circle to protect me.

'They travel far.'

I am harder. Stronger.

'They leave your dying cousin.'

I do not fear them.

'They have lost some.'

Pa will protect me.

' They travel this way.' and the winds chuckle.

Time means, that is meant nothing to me. Nothing until they came. Life was a quiet circle rippling outwards, centred on Pa. A son, third in line, with five sisters, now four. I am that son. Other families surround us, showing the future in their births and deaths.

Strangers pass, some close, others distant, at speed or with causal slowness. None stay. I am unnoticed, untouched, unapproachable.

Babyhood left its marks and elder sadness quieted me: but not for long. Despair I gave them, continuing with my learning from repetitive behaviour, marred by the occasional rap. But the scarring I received from the fatal collision that took my sister left a gap never recovered. The knocks of growing did not compare to the stinging death of a near one. I lost my anger for many years becoming silent, secretive, sensitive to passers-by. I am out of childhood and frown ridges line my face: harden my skin. I am grey and live a grey life, an empty vessel waiting to accept seeds of colour.

I see a twinkle become a dot and turn to listen.

'They come for you.' and the winds chortle.

I have my family to protect me. They can not take me. The dot is larger and I face the future and wait. A shape, sleek and metallic and a murmur flows through me, 'Your cousin lives.' The shape has windows.

I will not yield. I see their eyes calculate the danger and listen to them whisper of death and life.

Before they came, word breezed, 'A distant cousin is dying,' and my youth threw angry spouts at any within reach.

Not for me the tears in sparkling lights of babyhood or the serious groans of aged ones. Only the dancing security of order held me tight, allowing my tantrums their course, and I flung no pleasure to my closest.

I smell their heat, taste their leaving and feel the sorrow in them. But they had neared, noticed and named me. I am Andromeda. Andromeda Grey and I care nought of that.

'Pushed into a numbered slot,' the winds laugh and I listen to life and death say, 'This is you. This is what you are and this is what you will become,' and I rebel. My youth spits fire, freezes water and smoulders inside. Each day is a year to live in moment.

Life reflects Pa's brilliance and I feel his warmth trickle deep, softening my toughness, venting the explosive mixture I hold before it destroys me.

The winds scream, 'They will return. With hurting love to make your tears run.'

I will fight.

Yes. Mine is an angry song, tearing, reaching out for help, but no one hears, or so I think. I am a candle flickering in daylight.

'Your face is hard.' The winds screech against my scars.

I am me.

'Your tears will run in happy tumbling, sometimes with angry lilting.'

I see blobs moving in the distance and feel the burning under all, searching for an outlet, twisting me with its pressure. Now they are individuals and I remember them. They are close. Too close. What are they doing? They have me and I cannot escape. My scream is silent. Anger boils inside, but they do not stop. They plant something on me. I smell it spreading. A web hiding me but I see them leave.

My vision of Pa blurs but I feel his warmth reassuring me and I fight to regain myself, but this thing on me is strong, burrowing its tendrils deep. I writhe, blind with anger inside and a crushing outside.

Fuzzy spots are before me, growing larger and I do not recognise them. Their voices cut. Their touch taints and the smell is loud. I hear them burn on me, digging into me and I am dirtied as they enter unasked. I cannot scream, cannot tell them to stop. I taste them bite. Bite deep inside, sucking the essence of me, twisting me. Pounding my face, destroying me. Where are you Pa? All I feel is soft warmth.

The winds caress me with soothing. 'They will leave soon.' and the blurs disappear to blackness.

I am me and yet not me. The blurs are there. Their touch is sweet. Their voices gentle and they smell green. I taste them cross me and the blurs sharpen.

They talk of death, that of a cousin. My cousin. And they say I am a good replacement, a Guardian as she is.

They talk of others coming. The ones who are to control and I feel my frown ridges fill with softness. My inner boiling relaxes, venting to use. I smell life growing in me and my tears begin.

They approach, my controllers. They are many and their manner is quiet. Their touch gentle.

They are here spreading out round me in rippling circles. They do not hurt. Their smell is life and the Mistress of the controllers stands close but I sense no fierceness.

I feel her toes knead my softness, sending shivers into my depths. I ooze nature; smell earthy and warm. Tears crash down, but I know she does not fear me. I will not hurt my ward. Her silence mirrors mine. She speaks in looks and touches; I speak in scents and sounds. She smells me, sees me, tastes me, listens to my song of no words. I am a sister, close. I am used with loving taken. Nourished to give; her family sees to that and my family encircles them, giving to them without the asking.

'You are theirs,' the winds whisper.

I will fight. I will not yield. 'Yes. You will fight. You are Andromeda Green, Guardian of the controllers'.