Oberon Fisher

Oberon is in poor shape where we find him; my god does the ground writhe around under him on this walk. The raising of each foot is a perilous bet against the mud as it surges up or sinks away from him. The grass pulsates in time with the pressure at his temples, and the rolling hills turn his stomach. The thought of swearing off alcohol mingles with hundreds of other racing thoughts- he’s certainly swearing, much to Isaac’s delight and the entertainment of other travellers- might as well throw more vows into the mix.

Little Avoning shrinks behind him, smothering the grave of Orsino and drowning a small voice inside of Oberon- a weak voice, always ignored and pushed down; a cruel voice of never enough. Here on the moors a gash in the belly of the heavens has poured a cleansing ocean over the landscape; in the last week water has shaved topsoil off every surface, rolled echoes along in its current, and now we must imagine it brushes aside the compact dirt of the graveyard to lift Orsino into a watery embrace somewhere he can no longer be felt. The water also tumbles over in the caves of Oberon, dislodging the self-criticism from a truth long obscured.

It’s not enough.

And the path divides- straight ahead is Leeds, and Marybelle, money changing hands, financial support for his siblings and parents, simple; signatures, paperwork, acquaintances and favours, letters more frequently, perhaps, guard up, friends close and enemies closer. It’s revenge and reciting Shakespeare. It’s not enough. Not just a feeling of inadequacy, Oberon realises as he looks forward, but not enough for him. Going back to things as they were… well, not exactly the same, of course (he smiles in the direction of Marybelle, whom all the stars shine on)- why did he flirt with the town for so long with letters of success? It would have been much easier to make a clean break, but this homecoming had always been inevitable; it’s hard not to feel like the town invited him back to witness its destruction.

The other path is treacherous. It asks Oberon questions he does not know how to answer, and is littered with toll bridges that take payment in flesh. This path is loud and there is nowhere to hide. It demands vulnerability and intimacy and trust that the Fisher siblings are too afraid to lay down. It’s the path Orsino would have taken; it’s reaching your hand out to your sisters even though the result may be grasping a burning poker. It’s the path Oberon meant to take when he arrived at Little Avoning, before there was danger and not enough time to endure the pain of being honest.

But walking with Marybelle by his side makes all walking easier.