Penumbra — A Tale of Two Shadows

What do you do when a second shadow shows up?

“The Penumbra is the lighter region found at the perimeter (edges) of a shadow.”

It’s a cool, golden spring day.

I’m strolling down a lane shaded by jacaranda trees in purple bloom. Bungalows border either side of the lane — their gardens bursting with bougainvillea, marigolds, and snowy, fat-budded jasmine.

It’s mid-morning. My shadow slants in front of me, to my right.

Suddenly, a second shadow appears, ranging quite close alongside mine.

My own shadow is sharp and well-defined. Its innermost part — the umbra — is dark brown. At its narrow edges — the penumbra — my shadow is blurry, the color is a couple of shades lighter.

But this new, second shadow has little solidity or color. It is all blur. All penumbra.

It looks vaguely human, but I am unable to discern either head or limbs.

I’m piqued. I want to get a look at the thing that is casting the shadow. It’s getting closer. It must be about a foot behind me over my right shoulder.

I turn my head, but my mind raps out a sharp “No!” It tells me I cannot waste time looking back. I have to get away — and fast.

I dig in my heels. I am enjoying the sun, the jasmine notes, the crunch of gravel underfoot. I refuse to be rushed — or scared off by a random shadow.

But my mind will not take no for an answer. It warns that if I allow this second shadow to merge with mine, then I will lose my bodily substance. My own shadow will then become all penumbra.

“Ridiculous!” I think. But I walk faster so my mind will stop nagging.

The blurry shadow follows.

Suddenly, tall, blackish-green hedges rise up on either side of the lane. I don’t know where they came from. But they obscure my view of the pretty bungalows and the bougainvillea. They deaden the breeze.

Unease twists in my gut.

“Run! Run! Run!” my mind screams.

I begin to run. The shadow keeps pace.

I trip and fall.

The shadow waits, motionless.

There is a dimming of light in the lane now. A creeping menace. A miasmic enjoyment emanating from the thing that waits.

I scramble to my feet. Break into a run.

The cat-and-mouse game resumes.

I run faster than I have ever run before. But I can’t keep it up for long. My chest aches; my breath comes in sobs. I’m slowing down.

The shadow is closing in.

I need to focus my energies. I tear my eyes from the shadow and look straight ahead —

Barely ten feet away, a tall boxwood hedge looms. It spans the lane from end to end, cutting off escape.

But when did the lane close upon itself and turn into a blind alley? Last I checked, it had gone on straight as an arrow until it was out of sight.

And once I reach the hedge, there is no escape.

Now I know why the shadow gloats. Why it is content to wait.

I’m an arm’s length from the hedge. The shadow is a whisper from blending into mine. I throw myself onto the boxwood. I grasp its solidity and green livingness with both hands.

There is a sudden rush of air and light. Two hidden paths open, forking off to the left and right of the lane. I dart onto the left path.

Now, I stop running.

I draw a sweet, full breath. The fear and panic slough off. I’m safe.

The shadow can’t follow me onto this new path.

I peer into the lane. The shadow has disappeared.

I wake up disoriented. The dream seemed so real.

I have to remind myself — Bungalows and jacaranda trees belong in Pune, India, where you grew up. You live in Houston now.

When I’m brushing my teeth, I think — Where did that dream come from?

“Umbra” and “penumbra?” Seriously? I haven’t thought of those since I studied physics in school. Okay… since the last solar eclipse.

I enter the kitchen and brew myself a cuppa. I sip my tea, read, and munch on a ginger snap. Then I fill the bird feeders with sunflower seeds and step out onto the patio.

It’s 10 a.m. on a Texas spring day. My shadow falls crisp and dark on the patio tiles.

And then suddenly, ranging almost alongside mine — a second shadow appears.

Thank you Denise Larkin for publishing my story.

To my Readers — Thank you!

If you liked this story, you might enjoy a couple of my other pieces.