THE PIASA

Taking another drag from his cigarette, Mark leaned back on the bus stop bench in front of the convenience store where Miners Park used to be, watching the grey smoke wind its way upward through the orange and gold of the falling leaves. He sat unmoving for a moment, as the red in the sky slowly retreated west, giving way to the deep blue of evening, before he picked up the handful of papers he'd printed out before he left home. He hadn't had a chance to read the few snippets of information he'd found on a couple of Illinois historical websites before rushing out the door on Friday, but now, as the sun sank lower towards the rooftops along Glen Carbon Road, he found some time to just sit and read about the legend of the Piasa Bird.
As he and Emily drove through Alton earlier today on their way to Edwardsville, he'd made sure that they'd come through town along the river, so that he could see the Piasa Bird painting along his way. When he was a kid, on his family's annual summer trips to Meramec Caverns, Mark had always been fascinated by the huge painting on the bluffs high above the Mississippi.
In fourth grade, he'd actually learned a bit of the mythology behind the painting. The Piasa had a taste for human flesh, and had repeatedly preyed upon members of the Illini Indian tribe. Chief Ouatoga, after fasting for a month in solitude and praying to the Great Spirit, was instructed of how to finally kill the beast. He offered himself as bait to the monster, and as it swooped down from the bluffs onto him, 20 of Ouatoga's braves sprung from hiding and let loose their arrows. After the Piasa Bird was killed, the Illini painted its likeness on the cliff face below its den to commemorate the bravery of their chief. But as Mark read one of the articles he'd found online, he felt the childlike magic surrounding the painting begin to slip away. The painting, apparently, was an artist's approximation of an original Illini work which had been destroyed when the cliff face was quarried, and the legend of Ouatoga and the Piasa had been a complete fabrication by John Russell, a white 19th Century fiction author.
Mark leaned back and gazed up to the darkening sky again, letting out a deep sigh and massaging the back of his neck. A huge part of his childhood had just been proven to be a lie, but at this point, it was par for the course. He and Emily were en route to St. Louis for a conference on Monday, but for the weekend preceding it they'd decided to spend a few days in Edwardsville. Mark had lived here until he was ten, and was looking forward to seeing how much the town had changed in 18 years. What he hadn't expected, however, was just how much the changes would affect him. He hadn't expected the loss he had felt to see that Cottonwood Mall had been bulldozed to make way for a Wal-Mart. He wasn't prepared for the emptiness at seeing the subdivision which had taken the place of the cornfields he had played in as a kid. And he was in no way ready for how tiny and distant his memories seemed when he saw how narrow the streets of his old neighborhood were.
Mark took one last puff from his cigarette before stamping it out, standing up, and watching the sun slowly approach the rooftops. He wondered what it would have been like to have stayed here and watch the town change gradually over time, rather than leaving it behind. He wondered how his life would have been different if his dad hadn't been transferred to Madison 18 years ago. He wondered if he would have attended SIU instead of the University of Wisconsin. He wondered who he would have fallen in love with if he had never met Emily.
Mark looked back as Emily emerged from the convenience store, holding two sodas and approaching the bus stop bench. Mark had tried to explain the way he had been feeling about this visit, but it just seemed like he couldn't quite verbalize the sense that a part of him was gone. The town seemed almost like a strange mutation of what it once was, being so close to how he remembered it while at the same time completely alien. It felt like the sight of it now was robbing him of the memories he thought he'd carry forever, erasing his youth completely, and leaving him only with the present.
"Ready to go?" she asked gently as she handed him his soda.
Mark looked back at the convenience store where Miners Park used to be, thinking about one of the best sledding hills in the world, which had been leveled to make way for a block of stores. Mark nodded. "Sure. I just want to make one more pass through, and then we'll head to St. Louis."
They got into Emily's car and drove north along Troy Road, heading back towards town. As they turned onto Vandalia, making their way back to Highway 55, Mark glanced out the window at the public library, half hidden in the fading light and behind a blanket of falling leaves. In the time he had been gone, he had completely forgotten about the annual Halloween readings he'd attended on the lawn in front of the building every October in elementary school. For the first time since he'd left 18 years ago, Mark remembered drinking warm apple cider while listening to a dramatic retelling of "The Monkey's Paw" on a chilly autumn evening beneath the orange and golden trees. Slowly, a lasting smile found its way onto his face, the first since they had arrived, and stayed long after Edwardsville had vanished behind a rise in the road.