Land of Fleurs

Katry Rain

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Prelude He must be dreaming. He’s hovering about two inches above the floor and smells cardamom ambrosia. Huh? He’s embosomed in REM sleep about three feet thick and counting. Did I say he? No, apparently it’s a she and she floats out the door and into the garden and frangipani is in her nostrils now. Frangipani and the slightest hint of cut grass. Cut grass and wet dirt. She opens her eyes. “I must be dreaming,” she says. Open before her at the foot of the garden is a silvery portal, shimmering in the peachbright light of morning. If cherubim existed now, they’d be all over the place, plucking their lyres or whatever they do. But that won’t be necessary, will it, because she hears the music of the spheres wafting in from who knows where—must be the portal. There’s a sign above that parabolic platinum gateway but it’s in Latin and she can’t read half of it. It says, “Suspend all belief, ye who enter here, and behold a greater truth.” A man must summon all his courage before he takes a step in any direction but forward, but a woman knows no such canon. Byways are her calling. So it’s with mighty trepidation and even a little tug on his shirt from a boy from his distant past that the man steps aside and lets her step through the portal.

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Chapter 1

“I say, old man,” says the Brit with a tip of ’is ’at, “bloody nice day for a future.” She nods at him and steps into the light. The sun is warm on her skin. Looking down, she sees that she’s naked. “He thinks I’m bloody Lady Godiva returned,” she muses, “and isn’t he pleased with himself for having recognized me.” “Without yer ’orse,” he calls out to her. “Without my friggin’ horse,” she thinks with a chuckle. “But what is this place and why am I here?” That’s for her to find out, isn’t it. Every step is destiny, saith the Master, and every foot planted another stride toward what we shall become. What will become of us? Look around, those who will, and take your step. Fate may guide you, but you yourself set it in motion. “Though I don’t know how I feel about being naked,” is her next thought. “Who told you that you were naked?” comes a voice, though more like a whisper in her ear, like a sparrow perched on one’s shoulder. Like a lemur smoothing its tail. Looking around, she sees no one. She stops. Have a better look, sweetheart. Take it all in. What do you see? “Either I’m in Oz or someone slipped me a one-way ticket to merrie olde England.” It’s more than that, though, as we’ll soon see. As she’ll quickly discover. First stop, that village ahead. There’s no golden road here, but then that’s for those who lack imagination. She looks back. The Brit’s gone but the portal’s still there. It’s not too late to retrace her steps. She returns her gaze to the village, a thousand yards distant. What’s it to be, cherished one? She sets her eyes on the unknown and takes that momentous step.

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Chapter 2

“Why don’t my feet feel the stones in the road? And where did all these fleurs come from?” It’s FLOWERS, honey. What, she speaks French now? And as far as the stones go, hey, people can walk on hot coals so it’s all a matter of mind. As you think, so you go, isn’t that it? But for sure the road is lined with flowers, blooms of every shape and hue and waving in the breeze as if she were a one-person parade and they the living, adoring crowd. Holy Oberon! They’re beautiful to human eyes! And what a fragrance they dish out! A tossed salad of scents that though a canine nose might smell a hundred times more keenly, she with her smarter brain and florid imagination must be absolutely reeling now. Catnip, girl! Breathe it in! She bends down to caress an elegant stem. In its blossomy recess is a honey bee, no doubt intoxicated as she as it goes about its daily hum with the skill of an engineer and the feeling of a drunken sailor in the arms of his latest port of call. The mastery of the thing, the ecstasy of it! I know what she’s thinking. She envies the bugger. To be born into the warmth of the hive—no cold slap on the bottom—to work all day for the good of your kind, awash with the taste and the smell of nectar, then to die among compatriots, having all the while fulfilled your obligations to your species and at the same time having spread pollen in service to the world! And we, the master race, the INTELLIGENT creatures, selfish little malcontents crying in our cups when we don’t get what we want! Is that what she’s thinking? It gives one pause, doesn’t it—that’s why she lingers here with the living stem in her fingers, isn’t it. She’s asleep but maybe she’s really awake now, no? And possibly she feels somehow small. (Stand up, girl!) Is there some understanding here, in this place, that she might take with her? Glean the unseen, so to speak? Make her feel taller? But before that can happen, she has to face what she is. Get a move on, baby; life’s too short to dawdle. Or so we’re told.

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Chapter 3

The village is a hundred yards and closing. Her wonder must be great but she’s not the sentimental type—scents of flowery bells and trumpets and starbursts may permeate her senses but she’s always been one to keep a clear head—like the bee, drowning in ecstasy but firm of purpose and ever-conscious of the plan. Her plan: to put one foot in front of the other. And in the direction that she’s chosen. To be governed by fate but to choose the direction in which it unfolds. Not to be the boss, but to assist that fickle bozo. Girl Fridays, maybe that’s what human beings are at this stage of the game, right? And yet how cleverly they can run the office! They inhabit it and arrange it completely to their satisfaction. Til the boss steps in! But let’s not get bogged down. Head up, eyes forward, legs taking long strides. Isn’t that how it goes? People are to be admired for their courage! Hear hear! Not to gallop like a horse, bleat like a sheep and consider one’s duty done, but to decide at each moment what to do next. Sure, most let others decide, but the ones who take it upon themselves—what specimens of humanity! Our hats off to you! She nears the village, flowers continuing their breathless wainscoting of her procession but backed by fences of wooden rails now—and beyond: corn, wheat, rye. All standing high and saluting her, though breeze doth make them sway. “Is that a boy?” Yes, it is. A kid, maybe twelve, kneeling down and examining something in the lane. She approaches and stops beside him. Thinking to cover her nakedness, she draws her hands to herself, but looking down she realizes she’s clothed in a garment of some sort, white and soft and almost classical, one might say. He looks up at her. “Hello,” she says. “Hello,” he replies and returns to what he was appraising a moment before. “What is it?” she asks and kneels at his side. “A stone. A handsome stone.”

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He gathers the courage to pick it up and look at it in its entirety, as if the part hidden in the dirt might be unpleasant or even ugly. “It’s lovely,” she says, using that word for the first time. “It’s a lollapalooza!” he says with satisfaction, turning it every which way in the sun to see if there’s any imperfection and looking so flippin’ glad there isn’t. Then, turning to her, he hands it over with a shy smile. “Yes, it’s lovely,” she says, surprising herself again. “You should put it in your pocket and take it home.” “Oh, I couldn’t.” “Why not?” “My father says beauty lives in the heart, not in what we see.” “He said that?” “Yes. He said that way, nothing can be taken from us. Ever.” She hands him the stone and he returns it carefully to its dent in the dirt. “There, maybe someone else can find it too, and carry it in their heart. Beauty spared is beauty shared, we say.” He stands up; she follows. “What’s your name?” he asks. “My name?” “Yes. What do people call you?” She seems to be searching for an answer. A bird wings by—out of nowhere, as the saying goes—and alights in the lane nearby. “Robin. Your name’s Robin,” he says. “Yes. Yes, it is. My name’s Robin.”

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Chapter 4

All the world and all the things in it stop to listen. “Where do you come from, Robin?” Is that a look of puzzlement on her face? Arcanum? Enigmation? “Me?” “You didn’t fly here like our bird,” he says, nodding to the robin who seems to be taking more than a passing interest in their conversation. “In fact, I think I did. Though I don’t know from where.” “Are you lost?” The bee whose flower she’d caressed minutes before buzzes past her head on its way to the hive. It knew where home was. “Yes, I think I’m lost.” Far from caving to regret, he seems to brighten, though already bright. “Let me be your light, then.” “You know this place.” “I’m its denizen.” “Is that your name?” “It could be a name.” “Then I’ll call you Denny.” It made as much sense as anything else. “Know what denizen means?” he asks her. “No, what?” “From within.”

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Chapter 5

A zigzag road broke off to the right and he steers her that way. “We’re not going to the village?” she asks. “My father says crooked roads lead to better places, though most people want to go straight.” She thinks to disagree but has no grounds, so falls into step beside him. She walks along in the silence between knowing and not knowing, caring and not giving a rat’s unceremonious hindquarters. Time passes, though it seems to stand perfectly still. The road is stony but she feels no discomfort. “My feet don’t hurt at all,” she says. “And you’re not wearing shoes.” His feet are bare like hers. He’s dressed in white as well, looking every bit a sandal-less pupil of Aristotle. Les fleurs line their flanks, a skipjack skirting along the lane, while birds flit above them. Love, were it possible in a place like this, might feel right at home. It could stretch out and laze. Robin inhales the crystalline air and feels she might recognize forever here but for the moment declines to look. Her eyes are on the flowers, the wooden fence rails, on the longstanding corn. “You must have a good life here,” she suddenly says. “When I close my eyes, everything’s perfect.” “And when you open them?” “It adds to the imagination.” He stops to admire something along the roadside. “What is it? A stone?” “An anthill.” She leans over to investigate. “What’s so interesting?” she asks, as he seems to be enthralled. “Ants.” “Just ants?” “No, I see beauty.”

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“Beauty?” “Look at how they move! A burst of energy, a sudden stop, a short jolt left, a sweeping circle—multiplied by a thousand! It’s a dance, though we’re unfamiliar with the steps. And sometimes they meet, caress each other with their feelers, go on their way. Such spirit, such verve! You can watch them for hours.” “I don’t think I could last that long.” “Why not?” “It could be boring.” “What’s boring?” “Finding no interest in something.” “Or is it not really seeing something first and then finding no interest in it?” “Where have you learned these things, Denny?” “Every day’s a school, every field a classroom, we say.” She kneels down beside him to get a closer look. “Do you think that if I watched them long enough, maybe I’d start to see the beauty there, too?” “I’m wondering if you didn’t just answer your own question. Or am I dreaming, too?”

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Chapter 6

The day wore on though the newness didn’t wear off as he showed her the fine points of looking at something closely to see what it more nearly was. “Some people don’t,” he said; “they act as if the ant and the bird and the stone are just the backdrop, like the painted scenery in a play. They read their lines like they don’t really know where they are.” “What people?” “People not from here, I should say.” They drift back to the subject of ants. “They’re so industrious,” she says lamely as the two make their way along the crooked road. “Like tireless dancers!” he replies. “But were they really dancing?” “Life is a dance in slow motion, my father likes to say. The ants do theirs in double time.” “Allegro, is that it?” “Allegro con brio.” He opens his hand and shows her his palm. “I don’t see anything,” she says. “It’s from the ants. Look closer.” She stops and takes his hand in hers. It’s an inviting hand, fine and warm and well-formed. “What am I looking for?” “Something small.” She examines his hand carefully. No palm reader, she comes up empty. “All I see is a grain of sand.” “Yes. Carried by an ant to our anthill. This I did take with me and maybe I’ll put it in my pocket to remember the dance of the ants by.” “But if you put it in your pocket, you may never get it out again.” “Exactly.” “So what good is it?”

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“I’ll know it’ll be with me always. How can I forget that? The picture will be forever in my heart.” “I don’t really know what to make of you, Denny.” “And I you.”

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Chapter 7

The road zigged and zagged, the calm puff clouds lagged above the corn, the fields adorned themselves in gold ’n’ green. She floats along, or so it seems, the boy in tow or was it she? The sun still warm, the gracious sun, the eternal sun, god of the Sumerians! Mayan maize beneath its rays, what land is this she entered by silver portal? What creature he? In time corn gives way to oak, the fences run their course and forest lines the road, though flowers yet skirted the zigs, the zags, celebratory bunting for whatever might lie ahead. In the heat of day the shade of trees was welcome, at times a patch of cool, at times an inviting canopy a hundred steps or more, though she couldn’t feel the stepping. “I’d like some water.” “There’s a pool ahead.” A bend or two later and trees to one side thin to a meadow. A path leads to a pond. “Is it safe to drink?” she asks, and he looks at her as if he doesn’t understand the question before bending down to scoop up a drink. “Is your water unsafe?” he asks over his shoulder to her still standing. “We treat our water.” “Why? What does that mean?” “To kill the germs.” He stops momentarily, as if to process this, then resumes drinking. Thirsty and trusting her guide, she stoops to drink as well. “Water is life,” he says, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “That’s what they say.” “What do you say?” “I don’t know.” She slakes her thirst and rises, well satisfied. “It tastes good,” she offers. “Of course. It’s water.”

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She follows him along the brief path back to the lane. Once there, he stops and looks at her earnestly. “Shall we go on, or do you want to go back?” he asks. Now it’s her turn to look with incomprehension. “Go back?”

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Chapter 8

The pace: slow. She surveys the greenwood scene around her. Check out the wonder on her face! “And this,” he says to her, motioning to a lone hyacinth along the road, “is Jason.” “It has a name?” “Is that strange?” “Where I come from, we give names to buildings but never to flowers.” “You give names to BUILDINGS?” He lets this sink in, then turns his attention back to the flower. “Hi, Jason; good to see you again. You’re looking well.” “Does it know you’re here? Does it even know it’s a flower?” He turns to her. “Are you asking if a living creature can be completely unaware of itself? Like a building?” She must be a little ashamed for asking because her cheeks redden the slightest bit. Or is it from the sun? “I guess that’s your answer,” she replies. “All living things know they’re alive. If they didn’t, they’d just be senseless machines. When Jason turns to the sun, do you believe he doesn’t know it’s good for him? That he doesn’t enjoy it?” “It’s just a reflex.” “You’re saying he doesn’t want to do it; it just happens to him?” “How can it want anything? It has no brain, no nervous system.” “A fish has no legs but it can still move from place to place. Not all creatures have to be like us to be what they are.” “You think I’m being narrow-minded.” He doesn’t answer but returns his gaze to Jason. “His time is short and soon he’ll be gone. So the more I see him, the stronger he’ll be in my heart.” “Like the stone.” “Like the stone. And the bird and the lane and the pond. Like you.”

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Chapter 9

The zagwood road narrowed to a path and rose in the hills. Flowers followed like unstrung garlands while hardy oak gave way to pine. “Onward and upward,” she says with a smile, trying to take in every sight, every subtle fragrance. “We say that, too. Everything must go on, lest it wane.” He stops to examine a sapling. “She’s making progress,” he says. “If she’s strong—and lucky—she’ll grow into a strapping pine. She’ll be a wise old tree, and tall, too.” “You’ve seen it before,” she says. “Of course.” “But you’re so far from home.” “I am home.” “Do you know these other trees? The big ones?” “Some of them. The ones who left an impression on me.” “How is that possible? There are so many.” “Don’t you know a lot of people where you come from?” he asks. “Sure, but not personally. Not face to face.” “How do you know them, then?” “I don’t quite remember, but I think from movies and TV. From their pictures in newspapers and magazines. It seems like I know thousands of people.” “By name only.” “Celebrities. Stars.” “What kind of people are they?” “Singers, actors. Politicians. Athletes.” “It must be nice to know so many people.” He turns his attention back to the sapling, the silence punctuated only by the exultant calls of birds. He’s communing with it, she thinks, and ought not to be interrupted. Come on, Robin, feel something meaningful. Call the stupid plant a she and get it over with, honey. When in Rome and all that, right?

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Denny stirs. “Well, Sandy; take care of yourself and grow strong, okay?” A few more seconds of quiet and he’s on his way, Robin fast at his side. “Do you think she heard you?” she asks.“We can never know if the other person hears us. I heard her; that’s the important thing.” And so they went, onward and upward.

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Chapter 10

The path splits, the occasion marked by a delicate stand of lilies of the valley, their bells almost tinkling in the breeze. In the mind’s eye, they can and do. Denny looks each way and chooses the narrow trail that snakes up into a denser wood. “Why this way?” she asks from behind, as the trail isn’t wide enough for two. “It’s a hard climb but I think you’ll find that it’s worth it. If not, we can always go back.” “I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to ever go back.” So you say, Robin Redbreast, but you don’t know of the dangers ahead. Death stalks the unwary, even in the land of flowers and saplings and alluring stones. Your death may lie in wait just around a bend in the trail. Every step is destiny, as they say, and look how you’re stepping to yours.The forest deepens, the trail darkens. Shadows loom in the background, mocking the travelers, or so it seems. Was this a test? Did he choose this dim and lonely corridor to measure her resolve, to see how far she’d go? Any fool can say “Onward!” but how many dare follow through? And those who do—is it courage or mere bravado? If she had such thoughts, surely they must be nipping at her consciousness right now. It’s written on her face. “Stay close to me,” he says over his shoulder. “Why?” she asks, though he doesn’t answer. Nevertheless, she closes the gap and keeps him within arm’s reach. And she suddenly wishes she had a weapon. A simple ___ would do, but she can’t think of the word. Something cold and calculating, something you hold with both hands and spray the enemy with fire til none are left standing. Here, in this tenebrous wood, all but defenseless and guided by a boy—a communicant with hyacinths and pine seedlings—you’d be at the mercy of whatever the trail ahead could conjure. And Denny? Was he as at home here as he was along the wide and sunny path down the hill? He stops.

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“What is it?” she asks. He holds up one hand for silence, his eyes straight ahead. She strains to hear something, but there is only the menacing hiss of wind through the lonely pines. He moves not a twitch, nor she. What’s the matter, dear one? More than you bargained for? Do you regret waltzing into Candyland now? “Bubala,” he whispers. “What?” “It’s Bubala, a hateful old bear. I thought she’d be up in the high country by now. Don’t move; she doesn’t see us.” Robin squints into the dimness of the trail before them. There in the middle of the path not thirty yards ahead is a large, dark shape, and moving—which way, it was hard to tell. Robin leans forward. “What do we do?” she breathes in Denny’s ear, but he only shakes his head, though in the slowest and faintest of motions. Should you be afraid, girl? This is Denny’s turf—surely he’d know what to do. What were the options? Run back down the trail? A bear can rival a horse in a short sprint, so that was out. Bolt left or right through the trees? You couldn’t jack up any speed running through a thicket and besides, you’d be thrashed half to deceasitude if you tried. Scramble up a tree? A bear can climb a tree faster than a kicked cat and once it gets hold of your foot, well, say goodbye to this life of fleeting pleasures. “The wind’s changing,” he says and suddenly the dark form ahead rears up. “She’s picked up our scent!” No sooner had he said it than the shape is on all fours again and growing in size as it charges toward them. Twenty five yards, then twenty, fifteen, ten. “Quick, take my hand,” Denny says. “What are we going to do?” “Close your eyes and calm your mind. We’ll join our thoughts together.” She obeys without another word and prepares to be savaged by the

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monstrous bear—ripped to shreds, torn asunder as it were. Lo and bebold! Say what? “Open your eyes.” “Huh?” “Robin, open your eyes.” She opens them. It takes her a moment to realize her whereabouts. She sees that they’re hovering in the air, the rampant beast bellowing below them on the trail. “I’m flying! How is that possible?” “Well, you can’t feel your legs, so what good are they? We had to find another way.” “How did you know I can’t feel my legs? Did I tell you that?” He doesn’t answer but looks again at the bear below. In a moment a volley of noises bursts out of the thicket, a sound like pealing laughter, of wanton mirth discharged from fifteen different directions. The startled bear drops to four paws and scuttles into the underbrush on the opposite side of the trail. “What was that?” she asks. “The wood nymphs. Lucky they came along or we’d have to wait til ol’ Boob got bored and wandered off. Come on, let’s go down.” They light once more on the trail, to Robin’s surprise and delight. “I can’t believe what just happened.” “Why not?” “Because I can’t fly!” “Are you sure?” “Not anymore, I’m not. Anyway, I’m just glad I wasn’t a bear’s picnic.” “Likewise.” “And the ones who came—you know them?” “The wood nymphs? Of course.” “Could I meet one?” “They’re very shy. About the only way to meet one is to wait and see if she wants to meet you.” “How long did you wait?”

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“Me? About two years, I guess. Maybe a little more.” She shrugs. “Well, what now?” “Onward and upward?” “Lead on, then!”

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Chapter 11

The world is larger than it seems, and more mysterious, maybe? “What’s with the bear?” “Bubala? We had a run-in once. She was eating blueberries with her cubs a few years back and I didn’t think she’d mind if I had a few.” “What’d she do?” He stops and pulls his tunic away from his neck. There on his shoulder are four nicely-scarred claw marks, barely visible in the dim light. “Looks like she minded.” “I ran at first, then dropped down and played dead. She stood over me, sniffing and growling, and then left her calling card before going back to her cubs.” He straightens the tunic and they continue along their way. “We’re almost there,” he says. She looks ahead and sees that the trail is becoming brighter. Soon, rays of sun are streaming through the thinning trees and the air’s growing warmer. Then the trees abruptly stop and the trail, still rising, winds through a meadow of tall brown grass and purple flowers. “I see we’ve been climbing a humongous hill,” she says, discerning its contour for the first time. “Wait til you catch the view,” he replies, running his open hand along the grass on the side of the trail as if he were high-fiving a line of friends. “How far to the top?” “A couple minutes, maybe.” The claustrophobic darkness of the forest and the threat of the bear apparently behind them, she feels elation and maybe even a sense of deliverance. It’s evident in her strides and the girlish way she swings her arms as she goes. “I feel free!” she cries, almost as if it’s a proclamation. “You ARE free. You’re as free as you think.” Soon the tall grass of the hill makes way for short grass, then packed dirt

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wearing a threadbare coat of green leaves sporting tiny white flowers. When the climbers reach the top, Robin sees that it’s loll-flat and about thirty feet across. Looking around below her, she can hardly take it all in—hills, dells, the dark woods, even Denny’s village beyond. Everywhere in the distance are even larger hills, then mountains. “It’s wonderful!” she exclaims. “It’s that and more.” “How many times have you been here?” “Probably more than I can count.” She’s almost breathless. “I’d like to have a house here!” “Why?” “So I could wake up to this view every day.” “Maybe, Robin, you’re trying to put a butterfly in a jar.” “I should put it in my heart, then?” “You tell me.” “I’ve got a lot to learn.” “Everybody does.” She calms her enthusiasm a bit and tries to drink in what she sees. “It’s so vast. Can we maybe sit for a while?” He motions to a bark-stripped log at the edge of the summit and they settle onto it. She’s quiet for a time. Then: “Denny, did we really fly?” “What do you think?” “Well, I did it, but I can’t help thinking it wasn’t real.” “If it happened, it was. That makes sense, doesn’t it?” “Yes, but how?” “One of those mysteries, maybe.” “Living here, you must fly all the time.” “Not really. That was the first time.” “What about the time Bubala was eating blueberries and chased you? Why didn’t you fly then?”

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He looks pensive a moment. “Maybe I don’t mind risking my own safety, but I don’t want to risk anyone else’s. Especially yours.” “I guess that’s reasonable. But why especially me?” “Don’t you know?” “I really don’t.” “It’s because we’re related.” “You and me? How?” “It’ll come to you. Just give it some time.” “Are we cousins or something? Are you my long-lost son? Tell me, Denny.” “Be patient. It’ll come to you.” “But it’s not possible.” “Neither is flying.” “True, but—” They sit awhile. What a place this was. Beauty, imagination, impossible possibilities. “Even wood nymphs,” she blurts. “Oh, the wood nymphs?” “I’d really like to meet one.” “You’re sure about that?” “Yes.” “Well, look behind you, then.”

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Chapter 12

The sun was hot on her forehead but not that hot. “Am I seeing things?” “Robin, this is Evia.” Robin stands and looks down on the perfectly-formed figure of a young woman, not three feet tall. She holds out her hand, which Evia takes. “You’re shaking,” Robin says. “She’s come out of the woods and away from her companions. That’s very brave of you, Evia.” Evia is shy and only manages a brief smile. “She must be doing it for you, Denny,” Robin says. “Evia, you look so precious; can I hold you for a bit? Just a bit?” Evia hesitates a moment, then nods. Robin kneels down, taking her in her arms and giving her a gentle embrace. “So delicate! I can feel all of you, Evia, and so pure! Like a child untouched by the world! My god, I could hold you forever.” She lingers in the embrace, filling her soul it seems with her sweetness. “I’d like to take you home with me, like my own child.” “You can,” Denny says. “I know,” Robin replies with a sigh; “in my heart, right? Oh, Evia, why does holding you fill me with such joy? And if I feel joy, why do I have tears in my eyes?” Evia pulls back gently and looks at her. She speaks for the first time. “You think that I’m part of the dream and you don’t want to let it go. But you don’t have to. Everything that you see and hear and do will be with you forever.” She smoothes Robin’s tears away with her tiny hands. “Even you?” Robin asks. “Even me.” “So I can keep you forever?” “Yes.”

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“What if I forget?” “I’ll come in a dream and remind you.” “Do you promise?” “Yes.” “Can I hold you again?” “Yes.” And once more the perplexed but appreciative stranger from unknown shores takes the slender nymph in her arms, accompanied by a sigh of what sounds very much like rapture. Finally, Robin pulls away. “You’re really shivering.” “She’s out of her element,” Denny says. “She needs to go back to the forest.” “Is it so?” she asks Evia. “Yes, it’s true.” “Thank you for coming here, Evia. You must think a lot of Denny.” “Yes, but I didn’t come here for Denny. I came here for you.” Evia suddenly totters for a moment, seeming unsteady on her feet. Robin takes her hand. “I can carry you back.” “There’s no need for that.” “How can you manage, then?” “Just look away.” “That’s all?” “Yes.” So she and Denny look away, seating themselves on the log again, and when Robin looks back, Evia is gone.

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Chapter 13

Look at those ivory blossoms at your feet, sweetheart—little white cartwheels in islands of green. Surrounded by dirt, they seem all the more sublime, don’t they. It’s all in the contrast, as they say. (Such is her first thought after confabulating with a wood nymph.) “Denny, is it possible that I’m losing my mind?” “Or maybe you’re just now finding it.” “Whatever it is, it’s a powerful feeling!” A bee buzzes by, lazily and with no particular direction in mind though surely ever on the lookout for nectary blossoms. Like Robin he seemed to be searching for that perfect flower, the one from which he could drink and drink and never exhaust it, then return to the hive with the news so that others might also drink. She looks across the immense and varied lands below. It’s like a kingdom, with her as its monarch. In this place, with Denny as her exemplar, could she rule with equanimity, even have dominion over—or set free?—her own emotions? Well, so it might be. Every minute she spends in this land seems to draw her closer to her self—why? Yes, the hazardous world she came from could sometimes be a piece of cake—if met with a weapon in one hand and the other made into a fist—but the self is a door few people open because who knew what one would find behind it? Was this the door Robin was opening here? Was this a likeness of heaven she’d stumbled into? Sure, it’s not unblemished—for one thing, there was an impenitent bear, one with reckless teeth and claws, and maybe other dangers too, but there were also handsome stones and pine smells and a boy-in-waiting and Jason the hyacinth and Evia and a sapling someday to be a three-ton towering sentinel overseeing a kingdom of its own, and there was water to drink and sun to warm, and bees, and birds, and ants galore, all part of some inexplicable plan, and if need be she could fly! If by looking at the parts one could imagine the whole, what a flood of understanding that might give! To put one’s weapon down and say, “I have everything I need to face the world.”

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What a glorious thing that would be. If only it could come to pass! She looks down. She’s holding Denny’s hand. “How long have I been holding your hand?” “You tell me.” “Since Bubala? Or just here on the log? Or has it been from the very beginning?” “I can’t answer that.” “You like being an enigma, don’t you.” “I like being whatever I am. Don’t you?” “If I could be like that,” she says, “I think I could be happy. I could truly be a monarch. The world would be mine to inhabit as I chose, and I would feel as though I belonged there.” They sit without speaking for a time. By and by, the heat of the day causes her brow to become damp. “I’d like a drink.” “There’s a stream,” he replies, standing up, his hand still in hers. She also stands. “This way,” he says, leading her down the other side of the hill along a path just made for two. Soon lavender lines their procession. “Is Evia real, Denny?” He stops and looks at her earnestly. “Is God real? Whatever we believe, Robin, so it is.”

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Chapter 14

The path meanders moon-like down through a grove of quaking aspen, the breeze making their leaves flutter like myriad tiny fans, ten thousand thousand butterfly wings stuttering for words. “The trees are so alive!” says Robin, stopping, heart filled with awe. “Do they know we’re here?” “A million sensitive root endings under our feet—and they can’t feel our footsteps? And when the leaves release their molecules to communicate with other trees—surely you know about that—do you think they can’t pick up our scent?” “O trees, we salute you!” she laughs. “We wave as you wave to us, we applaud you as we believe you are applauding us! Clap your hands, Denny! Three cheers for the trees!” He does so, though she wonders if he may just be humoring her. “I’m being silly, aren’t I?” “I don’t think so. You’re just now making sense.” Warmed by the thought, she continues along the path, Denny half a step behind and catching up with her. “What’s next, my wise guide?” she asks. “The stream, for your drink.” “Will we meet nymphs there? Water sprites? Fairies?” He smiles. “Maybe not. But the stream leads down to a pond and if you’re lucky, you just might see the Muscovy Duck.” “A duck? Why would I want to see a duck?” “This isn’t just any duck.” “Tell me more.” “Let’s get that drink first.” “Is it straight along this path?” “Yes.” “Then follow me and let’s go,” she declares, striding ahead with mighty

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purpose. In good time they come to a little wooden bridge crossing the brook. She stops. “Is there anything to be wary of? Electric eels? Stinging catfish? Cattails? Catalepsy? A troll?” “You’re teasing me now.” “Teasing? How should I know what’s around the corner? I think I’m being très reasonable.” “In that case, no, there’s no danger. Not here, anyway. But there is something special about this stream.” “What is it?” “Let’s drink, and then maybe you can tell me.” “And no chlorine taste, I’ll bet.” “What’s chlorine?” “A ghost from another world.” They edge along the bank to a grassy place where they can kneel and drink. Glistening rocks in the water send it bubbling on its way. In mid-drink she stops, lifting her head. “Do you hear that?” she asks. “What?” “That music. To me it sounds like music.” “You can hear it? That’s the Song of the Rill.” “The Rill?” “The stream. Can you make out the words?” “There are words? Wait, let me listen.” She turns her head toward the water swirling over the rocks. Focusing her attention, fine-tuning her senses, she begins faintly nodding her head in rhythm. “Yes, I think you’re right, though I can hardly hear them.” “What do they say?” She nods as if following a tune. “You…plunk along without a song…and how the heart does yearn… What

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does it mean?” “Do you have a song?” “No.” “That’s what it means.” “Is the river singing to me?” “None other.” “And I suppose you’re going to tell me it knows I’m here.” “Of course.” “Water?” “Water is life, right? Deep, sparkling, turbid, stormy—it changes its mood, it gives life, it takes life, it embraces the earth. Is it so strange that such a being can sense and might have something to express?” “But it has no mind.” “Have you never sailed the ocean?” “I have, yes. At least I think I have.” “Then you must know that of all the things of this world, it may be that water has the vastest mind of all.” “I’ll have to think on that.” “I expect nothing less.” “But first I’d like to do something.” “What?” “I’d like to see that duck.” “The duck.” “Yes, the Muscovy Duck.”

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Chapter 15

So how’s about it, cherished one? Every heart she need a song, or so they say. How you gonna get you one? They don’t pluck from no air, ya see. They well up, tide-like, and carry you with it. Them without a song is doomed to ever numbly trudge along. So saith the Master. The path the two tread leads downstream to a large clearing and small lake where the Muscovy Duck resides. They head that way. “So what’s so special about this duck?” she asks him. “First of all, he’s big. Plump is a good word for him, for sure. His feathers are dark but with shock-white patches on the wings. And he’s got blue eyes!” “What a duck!” “But that’s not all. What actually makes him special is that he can see the future. People go to the pond to make a wish, and if he sees that it’ll come true, he appears. If you don’t see him, that means your wish won’t come true.” “Really? Have you ever made a wish there?” “Sure.” “Did it come true?” “Yes.” “What did you wish for?” “I wished that you and I could meet.” “Honestly?” “Yes.” She stops and looks at him inquiringly, as if to ask how he could know of her even before she came to this place—but as this is a world where all things seem possible, she forgoes her question, instead putting her hand on his shoulder. “You’re a dear.” “Your dear now, if you’ll let me.” She almost purrs—listen to her!—such is her contentment. Then she turns,

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reluctantly maybe, and they resume their journey. They pass a lone hydrangea bush and several untamed green bunches of pampas grass, their plume-like pinkish panicles thrusting briskly upward and shimmering in the sun. “I can see the clearing ahead,” she says, the trees already starting to dwindle and brightly-colored flowers erupting everywhere in the grass. Soon they’re in a meadow and greeted by a conclave of sunflowers. Around a bend and down a short grade, the travelers come to the pond. Proud shoots of reeds and cattails crowd the edges and three snowy swans glide on its surface like wordless porcelain figurines on glass. “It’s so beautiful!” she says with delight. “As it ought to be. I’ll tell you what: you can build a house here—so you can have this view every morning when you wake up.” “Now who’s teasing who?” she replies with a laugh, giving him a playful slap on the arm. “And maybe I’ll put up a hotel too, so I can get rich trading on other people’s dreams.” He shakes his head in mock resignation and leads her to a sandy spot at water’s edge. “My wish—” she begins. “Wait a minute. You have to step into the water.” “Why?” “So the Muscovy Duck can feel your wish.” “Through the water?” “All important things travel through water, don’t you know? The food you eat mixes with it when you chew and again when you swallow. Your grief travels down your face in water. My father says life itself is conceived in water, the seed brought there by water. Why should wishes be any different?” “And the duck is out there somewhere, waiting? At the far side of the pond, or behind those reeds, maybe?” “They say he’s everywhere and nowhere. No one knows til they see him. If they see him.”

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“I’ll try my luck, then.” She wades into the water. “Is this enough?” “That’s plenty. Now close your eyes and make your wish. When you open them, we’ll see if it’ll come true or not.” “I’m nervous.” “Don’t be. Just concentrate on your wish.” “Okay, here goes.” She closes her eyes. “I wish—I wish I could hear a song. One in my heart.” A pause that seems to last for complete everness, at least for her. Then: “Open your eyes, Robin.” “Do I dare?” “You must.” She opens her eyes and beholds the small lake before her. A plump old duck is paddling around in the water, not half a stone’s throw from her. “He’s here! The Muscovy Duck! I can see him!” “Did you have any doubt?” “Of course! I’m not as sure of everything as you are, though I want to be.” “You will be—I can see that already.” She watches the duck, who seems to be watching her with his keen blue eyes full of knowledge. “He’s looking at me.” “Why wouldn’t he? He’s heard your wish and he knows it’s going to come true. You two are connected now. You’re part of him and he’s part of you.” “Thank you, Duck. Mr Muscovy Duck.” Then to Denny: “I don’t even feel silly saying that. I must be changing.” “More than you know, Robin.”

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Chapter 16

The trail wound down toward a broad valley, green and dun in the distance. A long and thoughtful silence is broken by Robin’s sudden question. “Why didn’t you make a wish?” “Me?” “Yes. After all, we were there.” “I think one wish granted in a lifetime is enough, don’t you? My father says desire never stops and we should learn to be satisfied.” “Did he teach you how?” “No, he said everyone had to learn for themselves.” “And have you?” “What, learned for myself?” “Yes.” “Well, maybe. But I found you have to keep teaching yourself. It’s not something you can do once and forget about it.” “How do you do it?” “I don’t know if I can explain it. I guess I saw how much I had—in the world all around me—and it made me think less about what I didn’t have. And the more I looked, the more I saw.” She smiles. “That’s a beautiful thought, Denny.” “It’s only a thought. You actually have to do something about it. And keep doing it.” “I’m sure you’re right. I just never looked at it that way. I find myself wishing for things all the time, never considering how it makes me feel because I don’t have them. The idea that I could look around and be grateful for what I did have just didn’t occur to me.” “Until today?” he asks, permitting himself a grin. “Until today. And I’m going to keep looking from now on. Hey! Over there! It’s a pine cone!”

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“You learn fast! And that’s Jeb, by the way.” She steps off the trail to pick it up. “It has a name?” “He must have blown down the hill during our last storm.” “You have storms here?” “Sure. Big ones.” “And you’ve seen this before?” “Jeb? I first met him last week. He seemed kind of lonely, being away from his brothers and sisters and all.” “Why didn’t you take him back up the hill?” “I just got the feeling that he was here for a reason. Destiny—something like that. Maybe to start a whole new forest, right here. He’d be the father of his country. I didn’t want to take that away from him, just in case.” “Well, Jeb,” she says to the pine cone, “maybe Denny’s right. Maybe you should stay here exactly where fate put you. Who knows what the future holds for you?” She returns Jeb gently to the ground. “Should we dig a hole and plant him?” she asks. “Tamper with destiny, you mean?” “Is that what it is?” “Isn’t it?” “Then you don’t help things along, feed the animals and whatnot?” “We’ve been taught to more or less stay out of it. The only time we usually interfere is to save a life—a frog in the road or a bird with a broken wing, stuff like that. We say the proper role for people is to be a friend, not play God.” She looks down at the pine cone. “Well, Jeb, did you hear that? If you’re to become the builder of a great forest or even just make a little life for yourself here, you’re going to have to do it on your own. That’s Nature’s way, I guess. Good luck.” “Yes, good luck my friend,” Denny adds. So bidding him goodbye, they take to the path again and head toward the

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valley below. “You know, Denny,” she finally says, “if I could make one more wish, I’d wish that Nature wasn’t so cruel.” “My father says that Nature isn’t cruel—it’s just. It’s only when we find ourselves apart from Nature that we think it’s cruel. Outsiders sometime can’t see the inner truth of something.” “Lightning strikes the forest and fire burns the wood nymphs out of a home—that’s just?” “Yes.”

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Chapter 17

Rage against creation, is that it, girl? Thy tremulous heart doth flutter—you want to make the world over in your own image? No more disease, no cunning spiders catching innocent prey, no longer will the weak chick be driven from the nest? Biology will suddenly become kind? You do dream like a god! When Denny said to use your imagination, this is the use you put it to? Skeptical of the world, you think to remake it? How you do presume! And how heady seems your power, just lately beginning to gather unto itself! Now you’re saying life lacks something you feel you might give it? Get this, baby: what life lacks will never be repaired by you or anyone else—as long as it’s life! Accept that. Believe it. Live with it! “I can’t.” “Can’t what?” “Huh? Oh, I was just thinking. Jeb is alive back there, his entire being probably aching to get into the dirt so that he can do what he was meant to do, and we just left him there. Maybe even to die.” “I told you there are dangers here. Not just for us but for all creatures. Even perfect stones can be crushed or buried alive. You have to see the beauty in the dance.” “You call it a dance? When we were watching the ants, I could halfway see them dancing, and yes, maybe there’s a kind of beauty in that. But when the adder strikes the field mouse and it convulses with the poison, how can you call that a dance? How can it be beautiful?” “Living apart from Nature, it’s natural that you’d feel that way.” “So how can I get back? How does one become a part of Nature again?” “One little step at a time.” “That’s your answer? And until then? How can I live? How can I see beauty in more than just a flower?” “If you think that Nature’s unjust, you’ll have to live with your own sense of justice. Be compassionate to all things—cats, trees, rain—and every day,

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look for the beauty you can see. This is what my father taught me, and this is what I believe. This is how I live.” The path widens into a lane but she hardly notices. “So that’s it? Until I return to Nature, I should be compassionate and look for beauty?” “What else can you do?” She stops. “Those are the steps?” “Yes.” “I should love rocks? Ants?” “Pine cones. Sand. Water. And people too, of course.” “That I can do. Well, at least some people.” “My father says try to find something to love in all people.” “That may be even harder than rocks and pine cones!” she laughs. He smiles at her. “Then you’ve got your work cut out for you, don’t you.” They resume walking. “So what’s next, intrepid leader?” she asks. “What wonders lie ahead, what ironies, what bewilderments? What else do you have in your holy bag of tricks?” “I know you carry a heavy load now, Robin. You need to ease your burden a little, and I think I know just the place.” “Lead on, then, brave guide.”

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Chapter 18

Valley stretched taut, glen, tree, twitter of bird, sun in lemon rays embracing its kingdom and all upon it—all symphonic! It is the music of the spheres, plain as today! Who turns away from its timeless melody? Okay, we can guess: the jaded ear knows only the desperate thump-thump-thump of modernity’s drumbeat. Was this the tenor of their thoughts as they walked side by side, shoeless and none the worse for it? The lane is wide, the land beside undulating amiably as the travelers make their way soundlessly but always in the rhythm, the calls of elated finches heralding their passing. Once or twice Denny stops to examine something of new or enticing interest along the road or half-hidden in the grass alongside, offering Robin a look and she nodding, possibly even marveling. Every little thing had its secrets, it seemed, and it was up to one to resolutely unlock them or pass by unawares. In due time ever more flowers line their way, and now fences begin on either side, wooden rails as before, holding back corn, barley, oats. Suddenly an emerald cornfield is split by a footpath and Denny motions for Robin to follow him. The corn is taller than her and perhaps as proud. “Where does this lead?” she asks. “To the Well of Sorrows.” No doubt she doesn’t know how such a place would be of any use to her but she trusts her guide and where his foot trod, so trod hers. Soon the field ends and a wood of beech begins, the little trail eeling its way through the trees to a slender clearing. In its midst is a well, looking just like the ones she saw in pictures when she was a child. Or so she believes. “Is this it?” she asks. “This is it.” She walks over and looks in, her hands bracing on the wood and brick enclosure surrounding it. It was deep, though she could see the glint of

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water at the bottom. “So what do I do? I hope you don’t expect me to jump in.” He laughs. “You’re not from around here, are you,” he teases. “If I was, I wouldn’t always be asking stupid questions.” “There’s no such thing—only the answers sometimes. We have a saying about that: quick to ask, slow to answer.” “I’m in luck, then, because I don’t have many answers, though I’m catching on. At least I think I am.” “As you think, so you are, Robin.” “I remember you saying something like that before. Well, now that that’s settled, what do you want me to do?” He looks around and picks up one of the stones that seem to be scattered around the clearing. “Here.” She takes it and holds it in both hands. “What shall I do with it?” “Turn to the well and close your eyes. Think of something that’s bothering you.” “One of my ‘sorrows.’ ” “Yes.” “That won’t be hard—it seems I’ve got a few. Even here.” He gives her a moment. “Do you have one in mind?” he asks. “Yes.” “Okay. Now take that sorrow and imagine putting it into the stone. Think of the stone as a being put here to take your sorrow as his own. He wants to. He’s waiting for you to give your burden to him. Do it.” Seconds pass. “Did you do it?” “Yes.” “Good. Do you believe that sorrow is in the stone?”

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“Yes.” “Okay. Thank the stone and drop him into the well.” “Thank you, Stone.” So saying, she lets the stone fall into the well. It hits the water with an echoic plunk. “Now open your eyes.” She opens them, turns and looks at Denny. “I can’t believe it—it feels like it’s gone! How is that possible?” “As you think, remember?” Take it easy, honey! You look like you’re ready to start jumping up and down. That must have been a heavy burden you were carrying. “Oh, Denny, what a relief!” she says, immediately looking around for another stone. Spying one, she picks it up. “Is it okay to do another one? Or is it like the Muscovy Duck—one wish and you’re done?” “One more won’t hurt. The stones as a race are strong, but we don’t want to overburden them. They help us so that we might see that we own our troubles and can do with them as we see fit.” “One more, then!” She goes to the well, closes her eyes and is silent for a moment. A long moment, as one might suppose she has a variety of troubles to choose from. Then, first saying, “Thank you, Stone,” she tosses the accommodating rock into the abyss. Opening her eyes and turning around, there is a look of absolute wonder splashed across her face. “I wouldn’t have believed it!” she says. “I feel so much lighter!” “Now it’s my turn,” he replies, looking for a suitable stone and picking it up. “You?” she asks incredulously. He takes it to the side of the well, closes his eyes, thanks the stone and throws it in. She goes to his side and puts her hand on his shoulder. “Can I ask what was troubling you?” He turns to her. “I know you’re going back soon, and I didn’t want you to go.”

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“How do you know that? Maybe I’ll just stay here.” “That’s not possible.” “Why not?” “I think you know, or you will know. But would you do something for me? Would you put your arms around me? Would you hold me like you held Evia?” She looks at him with genuine affection. “Only if you don’t mind if it feels like I might never let you go.”

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Chapter 19

They’re in the lane once more, now finding themselves in the valley proper. Coming to a crossroads, Robin sees people for the first time. Men and women on wagons piled high with corn or melons, foot traffic, workers in the fields, some with bandanas tied smartly around their heads. Everyone nods or smiles at the barefoot wayfarers striding into their midst. “There’s a village ahead,” Denny says. “We can eat and take a rest there.” “I’d like that—though I really hadn’t thought about either one.” The road widens and dwellings appear on either side, along with small shops of one sort or another. Denny leads her down a narrow side lane to a whitewashed cottage with a quaint thatched roof. Going up to the open front door, he knocks twice. A plump old wench in a pale blue dress appears in the doorway. “You’re not welcome here,” she says. “Thank you, auntie. I was told you have good sweet cider here.” “There’s none left,” she replies and brings out two cups. “Do you mind if we sit while we drink?” “I’d rather you stand,” she says and goes back inside. Robin looks inquiringly at Denny. “This village,” he explains, “is called Antithesis. Everybody here says exactly the opposite of what they mean.” “Why would they do that?” “Why do the French speak French? It’s their culture.” “Wouldn’t it be easier for them just to say what they meant?” she asks, then reconsiders. “Okay, so where I come from, we don’t do that all the time, either. Come to think of it, sometimes you have to guess what people are getting at.” “It’s much simpler here—just interpret the opposite and you know exactly what they’re getting at.” She holds up her cup.

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“This is the worst cider I ever drank!” “That’s the way.” “But we don’t have to talk like that to them?” “No. They know we’re ‘foreigners’ with our own strange way of talking.” They drink quietly for a while. Ol’ Robin she seem powerful touched by the whole juke—ants, Jason, forest, Bubala, Sandy, Evia, Muscovy Duck, Jeb, Well of Sorrows, Antithians—she don’t idle back, feet up, hair down like Denny; no, her mind be all awhirl with considerin’. “Let’s get something to eat,” Denny finally says, standing up. The woman comes out of the cottage, a smile on her face. “Don’t come back,” she says, taking their cups. “Thank you, auntie,” Robin says. “Do you know where Tom the baker lives?” Denny asks the contrary old gal. “Never heard of him. And if I did, he wouldn’t live in that wooden house down the lane painted red.” “Thanks, auntie.” “You’re not welcome one tiny bit,” she replies, touching his arm affectionately. The two refreshed travelers take their leave, their thirst quenched. As they stroll down the lane, children playing there shout, “Go away!” and “You don’t belong here!”—their eyes sparkling with joy and mirth. Robin smiles at Denny. “I’m glad I understand their culture better or I might feel unwanted.” “It’s good to be wanted, isn’t it; and by children, who probably speak the most truthfully of all.” Soon they come upon the red wooden house of Tom the baker. A table outside is set for two and Tom is placing fresh bread and spreads on it. “I had no idea you were coming,” he says to the approaching pair. “You cause me nothing but trouble.” “Thank you, uncle,” Denny says to him. “Don’t sit down; the food is terrible, and I’d feel bad if you liked it.”

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They sit and enjoy an undisturbed meal. After, when they both had eaten their fill, Denny tells Tom he heard he had an energetic black dog named Bangle. “I have no dog. And he’s white, not black.” “I’ve also heard you let travelers sometimes borrow him to go with them through the land of the Wild Boys.” “You heard wrong. And even if I did, he’s so stupid that he’d never be able to find his way home.” “We’d like to take him, then.” “No way,” the baker says, calling Bangle with a whistle. “Thank you, uncle.” “You’re not welcome, I’m sure.” Bangle, a ready and enthusiastic black dog, bounds out of the shop as if knowing his mission and eager to get started. Robin bends down to tousle him playfully about the ears. “My, aren’t you just the ugliest old dog I’ve ever seen!” Tom the baker beams, either for the compliment or her quick grasp of Antithian culture. “Ugly as sin, people say,” he blurts with pride. “Now let’s go,” she says to Denny, “to your so-called land of the Wild Boys. I suppose I ought to be ready for anything at this point.”

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Chapter 20

They retrace their steps to the crossroads just outside the village. Denny selects the narrowest way and they set out in earnest. A vee of geese honk overhead, pointing in the direction the twosome and their dog are headed. Robin says she hopes they’re wishing the wayfarers good luck but Denny says it sounds more like a warning, though he looks unafraid. Bangle barks at the feathered confreres as if in greeting, then runs ahead in pursuit of some imaginary spook, for the road is in fact deserted. Gone even are the staunch wooden fences holding back bulging fructive fields of barley and corn. In their place untamed meadows peopled here and there with ash, oak and elm. Along the road, though, wildflowers surround the pilgrims as usual, gracing their steps, so to speak. “So who are the Wild Boys?” Robin finally ventures to ask, whether out of apprehension or simple curiosity it’s impossible to tell. Denny stops to admire a fleur of incredible delicacy. “I haven’t seen you before, Little Miss Trumpetface!” he says, bending down to touch her downy cheek with his finger. Bangle, seeing this as an obvious invitation to lick a face, bounds over and slurps him with a wet and excited tongue. Robin kneels down to join the party and the demonstrative canine goes to town on her, too. She pets him fondly, then looks at Denny. “This is a family, isn’t it. You, me, Bangle, and Little Miss Trumpetface.” “And not a better one to be found.” “Too bad it can’t last longer.” “That again? You’ve forgotten what I told you, haven’t you.” “About keeping something in my heart?” “Your heart is bigger than all the families in the world. There’s room in there for this one and plenty more—if you’ll open it.” “I want to, but it’s so hard to forget what I learned before.” “The only thing you can do is try to unlearn it.”

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“How?” “By teaching yourself another way.” “This way?” “Maybe this is part of it.” “Be patient with me.” “Be patient with yourself, Robin.” He turns back to the flower. “We won’t forget you, Trumpetface.” He stands up and, picking up a stick, throws it ahead in the road. Bangle, with seemingly twelve legs moving at once, sprints after it. The travelers walk in silence. For sure Robin realizes Denny hasn’t answered her question about the Wild Boys, but that must be okay because she doesn’t ask again.

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Chapter 21

Meadows fall away as the road rises and narrows, more trees now skirting their way; trees and the occasional resolute wildflower. Suddenly an unruly swatch of vermilion blossoms appear at the side of their path. “Oh look, Denny. A little community of saints.” They stop to admire the sight. “They’re called Indian paintbrushes.” “They look like little paintbrushes, too. I’d love to paint my lips with one of them!” “Why don’t you? Come on, I’ll help.” They kneel down, Bangle scampering over to witness the doings. “Here,” Denny says, “bring your face close.” She does so and he gently grasps a sturdy stem at the neck of the flower and sweeps its feathery bloom back and forth across her lips. “That feels good! How does it look?” “As beautiful as you can imagine,” he replies, though clearly the flower has left no color on her lips. “Like two plush strips of ruby blush, all supple and vibrant. Can you picture it?” “I can! Thank you, Denny. And thank you, Little Paintbrush. I’ll do my best to remember you forever and ever.” “Won’t the others be jealous!” he says with a laugh. “Do you think so? Well, I can fix that.” Having said that, she leans forward again and lightly kisses each of the other flowers in turn, even startling a bee who thought he was going to have a leisurely drink of soft-scented nectar. “Sorry, Bee!” she laughs but he’s gone, thinking only of the next dulcet blossom to light on. And so the time passes, until the sun is low in the sky and shadows lengthen everywhere along the trail. “You have night here, too?” she asks as the day begins to fade and they

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make their way along, ever aware of what’s new and delightful to the eye. “Of course. Around here, night is just about as common as day. My father says they’re like the two sides of the soul: one clear, like spring rain; the other, dark and inexplicable.” “I’d like to meet your father.” “You will. I promise you that.” She looks at the fat carmine sun hanging just above the horizon. “So when it gets dark, do we have a place to sleep?” “Yes. There’s a meadow of tall grass ahead, well-known for its softness. But first we have to pass through the glen where the Wild Boys live.” Denny begins to walk more slowly now. What’s the word? WARILY. Denny’s walking warily now. Robin’s plenty alert herself, taking her cue from him. If there’s danger, it wears a casual coat to cover up its presence—can beauty conceal terrors? The naive think not, maybe, but the prudent aren’t so sure.Denny calls softly to Bangle. “Come here, boy. It’s your job to warn us of danger.” The energetic black dog seems to know his duty and ranges ahead, sniffing for whatever scents, good or evil, might be lurking there.

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Chapter 22

Moments pass. What does it mean, the passage of time? That the universe is expanding? Or that OUR universe is contracting even as the galaxies speed apart—for aren’t our lives growing shorter day by day? Or does it simply mean that we get that much closer to what fate has planned for us? Moments pass. The bleeding sun squats lower and the wayfarers enter a glen of birches, the white-barked trees contrasting eerily with the oblique shadows and reddish rays of Brother Sol. “Shh,” Denny whispers, slowing to a beggar’s crawl and looking around cautiously. “We enter the land of the Wild Boys.” Screeching silence—not even the monochrome cheep of a bird is heard. Wild Boys were said to kill them with slings and roast them on spits over open fires. Robin scans the spaces between the trees for signs of movement. “What I wouldn’t give for a flak jacket and an M16,” she says. Denny looks at her. “What are you talking about?” “I don’t know. It’s just a thought that came to me.” Their brief and quiet conversation comes to a halt when Bangle freezes in his tracks and a low growl treacles from his throat. His body is stiff and marked toward something off the side of the road. “Oh shit,” Denny says grimly, the words sounding discordant and foreboding coming from someone his tender age and demeanor. It shocks Robin and makes the soft hairs on her arms stand on end. She peers intently into the shadows. There, naked save for a loincloth and with skin painted white, is a boy of seventeen or so, his eyes wide and a Mohawk haircut giving him a frightful look. He stands motionless and is hard to discern from the white-clothed trees around him. Discovered, he takes a step forward and raises a lance-like stick, menacing Bangle with it. At the same time, four or five others similarly-clad step forth. The fearless black dog holds his ground

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and starts to bark. “Bangle! Come here, boy! Heel!” Obediently the dog falls back and stands loyally at Denny’s side. “Why don’t we fly?” Robin asks, taking Denny’s hand. “Like we did when Bubala attacked.” “That was physical danger and we had no choice. This is a different kind of danger.” “What kind?” “Moral danger. We stand our ground.” It was a noble sentiment but now they’re surrounded and the sticks are prodding them toward a rustic path leading through the trees. “I think I know what they’re up to,” he says, “and it’ll be up to YOU to save the day.” “Me? How?”

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Chapter 23

Day is becoming night, although not just yet. Twilight, call it. So how about it, Robin? Where do you think you’ll sleep tonight? The two unlikely captives are jostled through the woods to a crude encampment in a clearing. Huts made from animal skins line its edges and a bonfire is burning at its center. Several other Wild Boys are already there, squatting on their haunches grilling meat of some kind over the fire. They nod with satisfaction as the hunting party returns, their chalk-white faces saffron in the firelight. The noise brings someone who must be their leader out of the most imposing hut—though none are much—an Adonis of a buck about eighteen, the most beautiful boy Robin had ever seen. “Her heart skips a beat,” in the parlance of another world. He’s tall and packed with restless sinew and as he approaches her, she sees in his eyes a quick and feral intelligence that must intrigue her because she steps forward to meet him. Even in the growing twilight and the flickering light of the fire, it’s plain by her face that she’s unafraid. Whoa! Down, girl! It’s not fear, so what emotion is driving that palpitating heart of yours? It’s desire, isn’t it! Say it isn’t and call the gods liars! You’ve clearly never seen such a specimen of manhood and it’s tripping all the right switches! Or the wrong ones! Strength and symmetry on two legs stares her in the eye for a long moment, maybe to see what he can fathom there—is this worthy of a conquest, and if so, can she be conquered? So sure of himself, he takes her chin in his hand. “Come with me,” he says, then turns toward his den of skins. “Do I have a choice?” she asks and her answer comes in the form of a stick prod in the back. She follows Adonis into his lair, lit by a simple lamp and lavishly decorated with primitive wall hangings and a profusion of cushions of animal hide. “Sit,” he says, and pours liquid from an ancient-looking amphora into a

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golden cup. “Drink.” He hands her the cup and sits by her on a thick carpet of fur—it looks like winter sable and feels softer than any soft. She looks into his eyes for signs of treachery and, unable to see any there, drinks. Instantaneously she knows it’s a drug because she feels—what?—a rush of power, as if she were the master of eternity, and at the same time a prodigious swell of desire, an acute carnal craving such as she had never before experienced. And there sitting across from her is the wanton and unwelcome means of— “You’ll stay here with me,” he says, taking the cup from her and drinking of it himself. “Why?” “Because I see in your eyes you long to be free. I can give you that. We live life here as it was meant to be lived—every minute intense, wild, like animals. We do what we like. You’re no more alive than when you take what you want at the exact moment you want it. No traditions, no false courtesies, no unpleasant obligations. No one judging. Even my men will do your bidding; you’ll want for nothing. Every whim—satisfied.” “What was in that drink? You paint a picture that’s hard to resist.” “Why try? Why not do what you’ve always wanted to do?” “Denny says I have to go back.” “That kid? He’s lying. You can stay here forever. You’ll never age, and together we’ll luxuriate in constant pleasure. Every thrill will be yours to savor as often as you choose. That I can promise you.” “I feel light-headed.” “As you should. This is the beginning of a freefall into life such as no one can live it but us. Like beasts of the forest! Like the unshackled creatures we are!” “What about my guide? What’ll happen to him?” “If you join us, so will he. I saw by his look that he’ll go where you go.” “I can’t imagine him painted white. And with hair like yours!” “Who needs imagination? I’ll paint him myself, and cut his hair. He’ll be your errand boy and you’ll be HIS guide. You can even introduce him to the

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pleasures of the flesh if you like. He’s yours for the taking.” “Denny? I wouldn’t think of it!” “Wait til he becomes a Wild Boy. You might not be able to resist. And you won’t have to!” He puts his hand to her cheek and the touch causes her to go almost galvanic. “Just say the word,” he whispers, sibilant as a snake. “I feel dizzy.” “It’s overpowering, isn’t it. But you’ll get used to it.” “I don’t really want to go back.” “Of course not.” “I don’t remember much—only a feeling of pain.” “Who’d want to go back to that?” “Here I’m encountering the world as if for the first time.” “Yes.” “I’m seeing so much! Before, I feel I never stopped to look.” “In that world.” “Yes. Here I’m starting to find something wonderful in the smallest of things. And though everything is nonsensical, it all makes perfect sense.” “It’s a world unto itself.” “And the life you’re talking about—I find I’m reeling at the thought of it.” He leans back in satisfaction. He thinks his snare has caught the foot of the rabbit and that he can rest easy. He wants, he gets—isn’t that it? Sitting in this primitive lodge, she’s clearly taken a giant step toward an all-consuming passion where she can lose herself entirely—surely everyone longed for that—but is something holding her back? A distant voice, or a melody perhaps? She tunes into whatever it is for a time, bathes in its message. Then she turns to her alluring Adonis. “I’ll stay!” she cries, slapping him on the bare knee hard enough to nearly startle him. He quickly recovers his composure. “Of course you will.” “There’s no reason to go back. Everything I need is here.”

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“Everything you need and more. And tonight we’ll begin our journey into pleasures you can’t even dream of. I’ll show you the way.” “I’m your willing student,” she says, then suddenly taps the hem of her tunic. “But I have an errand to run first.” “No obligations, remember?” “This is the only one, I promise. I want to return the black dog to its owner in the village. I’ll come back in the morning and we can start the lessons… I think you’ll find me unusually eager,” she adds parenthetically, putting her hand on his leg as if to emphasize her point. “But it’s nearly dark now” he protests, unease creeping into his voice. “That’s all right. Just have some of the others walk us back to the road. With Denny and Bangle and the coming moonlight, we’ll have no trouble reaching the village.” He considers a moment. “Maybe it’s better that way. We’ve had bad experiences with villagers’ dogs, and yours just might end up turning on a spit over a fire. We don’t need trouble with the village. Yes, take it home and come back tomorrow. Pleasure in the morning is as good as at night, and more to see, too!” Standing up, he offers his hand with a threatening look. “You’d better come back.” “I give you my word.” “Good.” He opens the flap to the hut and she goes out into the semi-darkness, he right behind her. “Robin!” Denny exclaims, getting up from a small stump near the fire, Bangle at his side and ready to defend. “We’re staying, Denny,” she says, steeling herself against the disappointment she sees blanching across his face. “It’ll be better than you think, believe me. Let’s take Bangle home and we’ll come back first thing tomorrow.” Her brute Adonis orders some of the Boys to accompany them as far as the road, though they seem reluctant. All along the way they’re walking

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gingerly and staring into the shadows on either side of the little path. Robin can’t help but notice. This confirmed what she suspected before, having seen them move faster and faster as they escorted her and Denny to their encampment, as if they couldn’t wait to get to the light of the fire. They stand impatiently with sticks in hand when the party reaches the lane at the end of the path. A dejected Denny starts walking in the direction of the village when Robin catches his hand and breaks into a run in the opposite direction, to the angry hoots and howls of the Wild Boys. Bangle holds them at bay with bared teeth and barking. “They’ll catch us for sure!” Denny pants. “Don’t worry—they won’t even try.” “How do you know?” “Because they’re afraid of the dark!” The shouts quickly die away and the two intrepid escapees slow to a walk, letting the rising crescent moon create a dim outline along the border of their way. Bangle rejoins them. “You really had me worried, Robin,” he says.”I was sure he had you mesmerized.” “He very nearly did. He drugged me, too, though I feel it wearing off already.” “So how did you manage to keep your head?” “The song! Remember when I wished I could hear it and the Muscovy Duck appeared? Well, it’s starting to come true. I listened so deeply and I could actually hear it. I could hear my own music!” “I thought you would, sooner or later. I’m just sorry you had to tell a lie back there. I know it must have gone against the grain.” “Who lied? I was speaking in a foreign language. Antithian!” He laughs out loud in the dark. “You know, I’m beginning to think you’re amazing.” “Me? If only it were even half true! But at least I feel like I’m on my way. Thanks to you, Denny. Now where did you say that that grassy field was? All the excitement today has tired me out. How about you? Even the bold don’t triumph without sleep!”

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Chapter 24

Deep in the quiescence of night, the thin curve of moon hanging barely above the somber horizon, nothing but the soft breathing of the three creatures sleeping in their meadow nest intrudes on the stillness. The dog in the middle provides heat, though the night is warm. Dew is an hour or more away. Something is disturbing the woman—she inhales sharply and her breathing becomes agitated, uneven. Slight but rueful noises come from her throat. She’s clearly having a dream, and an unpleasant one by the sound of it. Whatsa matter, cherished one? You come to a land you think almost elysian and now you get wrenched back to a lesser plane? The world the rest of us inhabit? What do you see back there? C’mon, toughen up, girl. Nothing could be that bad. “Help!” she cries with a start and sits upright. Bangle stirs but Denny is out like a spent fluorescent light, not even a flicker now. His dreamland must be occupied by more tranquil things. She looks around. Tall grass surrounds them so she can hardly see or be seen. Lie back down, honey, and take another crack at it. Maybe you’ll be luckier this time. She reclines once more and stares up at the stars, a billion piercing diamonds dripping noiselessly from the firmament. Look, there’s Orion, the indomitable hunter with weapon in hand. That’s what a man should be, right? Cool, hard, strong. Heart of a warrior. Indifferent to pain. Self-possessed; i.e., an island. Yet see how the three stars on his belt point toward his gentler counterpart: the Pleiades, those seven delicate sisters, daughters of Atlas, though one has faded or is possibly hiding. How tiny and elegant they look, how exquisitely feminine! If only they could imbibe some of mighty Orion’s power and he their grace, their womanly sensibility—what a creature might ensue! Able to grapple with a brute world yet pause to see

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splendor; adamantine and silken in turn and reveling in both! Close your eyes, Robin. Dawn will break before you know it and no doubt you’ve got challenges ahead. There’s an even chance you could succeed, too, Denny at your side and you now beginning to hear that elusive music—good luck to you, dear lady, because who knows—Denny may again have cause to say that it’s up to you to save the day! Feeling up to it?

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Chapter 25

The dawn sun, clothed in orange-pink and easy on the throttle, arches its way upward at a pace all but undetectable save to the trained eye.Robin’s eyes, however, are closed. She’s at the tail-end of another dream, one where a teary woman stands over her and says, “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry,” to which Robin replies, “There’s nothing to be sorry about; just the opposite: let’s be glad!”—at which time a warm and viscous tongue enthusiastically swabs her cheek, awakening her. No, it’s not Denny; it’s that big black dog. She sits up. Denny is by her side, eating an apple. On the grass in front of him is more fruit: another apple and five fat strawberries. A mourning dove coos plaintively in a nearby tree. “Did you sleep okay?” he asks. “Like a hundred-year-old pine. I did have a weird dream or two, though.” “What about?” “I don’t really remember. Something starting out bad and turning out good—that’s the feeling I have, anyway.” “Better that than the other way around, don’t you think? How about something to eat?” By the time the sun is pure yellow, they’re ready to be on their way again. “What about Bangle?” Robin asks. “Shouldn’t we feed him?” “Don’t worry about him. He’s like a truffle hog—if there’s something to eat, he’ll find it. Anyway, we’ve got to send him back. Ol’ Tom the baker will start to worry if we don’t.” “Can’t we bring him along? I really like him. And maybe we could use the help—just in case.” “He did his part. Now it’s back to us.” “Is there any danger ahead?” “We say even the brightest day has its dangers. You should know that more than anyone.” She lets that comment go by, though it felt somehow correct.

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“And Bangle? Will he be able to find his way back from here?” “Not in a million years!” he jokes in Antithian, to welcome laughter from both of them. She bends down to bid her transient companion farewell, he whimpering and licking her face with boundless affection. “Goodbye, brave one. I’ll miss you. And if we don’t meet again, I promise never to forget you.” Denny bends down to join the tête-à-tête and the three of them share their mutual regard. Then—reluctantly—they part ways, Bangle ambling off the way they came, pausing once to stop and look back, as if to check that he understood properly. Satisfied that he had but looking none too happy about it, he sets out and disappears into the distance. Robin looks at Denny with a trace of sadness in her eyes. “So closes another chapter, I guess.” “That’s the thing about life,” he replies; “one chapter finishes and another begins.”

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Chapter 26

The sun is warm and the flowers in colors aplenty are yearning to reach skyward and be touched. Kiss me, they seemed to be saying, just as Robin had smooched the Indian paintbrushes the day before. There’s a lot of kissing going on (does the dog count?) or the desire for kissing. It could be a sign. The road grows more and more primitive and begins mamboing its rough way upward. “Where does this go?” Robin asks. “To the Palisades, a long wall of sheer cliffs.” “Do we have to climb them?” “No. The road stops at the Wall of Glyphs, and people say if you can read the writing carved there, it’ll tell you which way to go.” “What do you mean, ‘people say’? Don’t you know?” “I’ve never come this far,” he replies. “I always turn back at the land of the Wild Boys.” “So who’s guiding us now?” “You are! From now on, I can only tell you what I’ve heard. But between us we should be okay.” “You don’t sound that confident.” “I think it’s time for you to be confident now.” Carry on, dauntless souls; the wind is at your back, urging you on to what lies ahead. Nothing but the breeze guides you to your fate. The breeze and the direction you allow yourselves to be blown in. That puts you one up on the pine cone, Robin—remember?—who could only lie where he was put. You’re lucky to be human—if only you make the right choices! The road is barely a wagon track now, if that, though few would have reason to bring a wagon up here. Maybe to gather firewood, if one were brave enough to pass both ways through the Wild Boys’ domain to do it. “Is that a peacock up the trail?” “Looks like it,” Denny says.

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“Let’s get a little closer.” They creep ahead like the creeping things of the earth. “See how proudly he struts, yet how innocent he looks!” she exclaims in a whisper. “Innocence is doing what comes naturally.” “He knows what he’s got, though, doesn’t he.” “Sure. Why else would he be showing off?” “Look, there’s another one, off the road.” “A matched pair, I’d say.” “I guess it’s better than being alone, right?” “Maybe not. Remember Jason?” “The hyacinth? He’s a flower.” “So? Pairing’s good if there’s a match, but sometimes there isn’t. Then there are creatures that do all right alone, like Jason, or a leopard, or a bee.” “A bee is alone?” “Ever see a pair of bees?” She laughs, scaring off the peacocks. “Oh, now I’ve done it.” “Don’t worry about it. Animals can sense danger, so for sure they know we mean no harm. Most probably they just don’t want to be bothered.” “I hope you’re right. I’m getting the idea that every creature really does have a mind of its own—and as much right to BE as we do.” He smiles at her with raised eyebrows, as if to say, “You’re just now figuring that out?” The sun rises another notch and the road follows suit, then levels off. As the travelers round a bend, Robin looks ahead—in the distance she can see the Palisades, a massive line of cliffs stretching seemingly for miles in both directions. She taps Denny on the arm and points. “I heard they were huge,” he says, “but I had no idea.” “I don’t know how we’re going to get around them.” “We’ll soon find out.” Well, it wasn’t soon but it wasn’t too long before they arrived at the

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enormous rock wall, the trail running directly into it. And just as Denny had said, there were strange glyphs carved into it just above them. To their right, a narrow, rocky trail ascending upward along a ledge on the rock face; to the left, a sandy path following the Palisades at ground level in the other direction. “This is it, then,” she says. “This is it.” “What kind of writing is that? It looks kind of Egyptian.” “Nobody knows.” “So which way do we go? Right or left?” “Read what’s carved in the rock.” “How?” “I think that’s for you to figure out.” “You’re asking the impossible.” “No, maybe just a question with no answer.” She looks up at the hieroglyphic symbols. They appear to have been carved by a race of giants with sharp and efficient tools—though now appearing ancient, as if weathered over the centuries. “It’s a sentence,” she declares, then examines each sign in its turn. Ten minutes or more pass. “What does it say?” Denny asks her. “I’m not sure yet.” He takes her hand. “Close your eyes.” She has a last look before shutting out the daylight and the world it reflected. Was there another way to “read” the words? Was there a way to “see” them, “feel” them, “know” them? Can she answer a question with no answer? Time passes and she stands there, immobile. Nothing is happening. No, that’s not quite true. Something’s happening but she doesn’t know what it is. She’s like a newborn calf just now on its feet and hungering for milk but not knowing to turn to the udder that’s right next to her face. The music, cherished one. Listen for the music.

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“I can hear it,” she finally says, aloud or not she’s not sure. “The voice that only I can hear.” She listens with every atom of attention she can summon, her heart aquiver, her mind a river whose depths she plumbs for a sign, a token, an omen. There from the abyss she dredges up an image, not so much in words as in sensation. “I see it!” she exclaims, opening her eyes. “What does it say?” “It feels like—no one travels the easy road…with impunity!” “Which way do we go, then?” “The hard road, for sure! To the right!”

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Chapter 27

Two mortals high on a ledge, fearless but wary, pledged to carry on regardless of danger—sudden fleet mountain goats in shoeless feet. Where is God now to protect his flock, where are angels to knock at heaven’s gate if they slip? “Don’t look down,” Denny jokes from behind her, maybe to give her courage. (He’d wanted to lead but Robin had urged him aside with a firm hand and even firmer look.) “I shan’t, I shan’t,” she chirps almost gaily, as if to dispel his apprehension or possibly even her own. And apprehension they might well have, the plucky duo—the drop to the bottom of the cliff is a hundred yards or more. And the ledge: two skinny feet wide and rocky. “Remember Sandy?” he asks. “The little pine sapling?” “Yes. I was thinking; maybe when she’s twenty-five or thirty, she’ll be tall and strong and I can get a good view from the top.” “And when you’re up there, you can tell her—‘O noble Sandy, I remember you when you were just a seedling. I caressed you tenderly and wished you well.’ And she’ll let the wind whisper through her needles, now grown dark and straight and true. That’s how she’ll talk to you. That’ll be quite a day, Denny.” They pick their way along in silence for a while, not knowing exactly where they’re going but trusting in the glyphs and Robin’s reading of them. A diligent sun works its way higher in the sky and the day becomes ever hotter, the rock face radiating the heat and kindling the travelers’ thirst. Already sweat is streaming from their brows. Finally, as if in answer to a voiceless prayer, Robin sees a small waterfall plunging down the cliff ahead. If every rose has its thorn, this one was duly blocking their path. She edges closer to have a look. It’s a curtain of water, swift more than dense, falling from the heights and landing squarely on the ledge before splashing boisterously on its way.

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They approach cautiously. “Here’s a cold drink for us,” she says, “but how will we get by?” “We can always go back,” he replies. “The ledge looks slippery here—the water could knock us off.” She’s already noticed that, by the seriousness of her face. But go back? Any step in that direction would be one step nearer to where she came from and that filled her with a sense of dread, though she didn’t know why. So there was no way to go but forward, yet that seemed impossible now. She’s pondering this when something catches her eye. “Look, Denny! Another glyph!” He looks up at the rock face to see a lone symbol carved there, smaller than the ones before but just as expertly chiseled. “Can you read it?” he asks. “Is Bubala a beast of the forest?” She stares intently at the glyph. It resembles a fish. Fixing the image firmly in her mind, she closes her eyes. A fish. What kind of fish? A fish, a waterfall. What kind of fish? “A salmon!” she exclaims, opening her eyes. “Determination! It means have determination!” “We go ahead, then?” “We go ahead.” Taking a deep breath to steel her nerves, she sidles along the wall with her hands against the rock. Denny follows her lead. “For sure don’t look down,” he jokes again, hoping to break the tension. “No chance of that,” she laughs, though her purpose is dead serious.In a moment her hand is in the water, then her arm, then her shoulder. She stops. “I’ve found something.” “What?” he asks. “I don’t know. Some kind of groove running along the rock. It feels like someone carved it—and I can get my fingers in there. Feel for it when you get here.”

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She starts to move again, slowly, sliding an inch at a time over the slippery rocks. Now her head is under, now her other shoulder, and she pauses to let the cool water wash the heat from her body. And tilting her head back, she drinks. Not wanting to linger too long in the path of danger, she starts to move again and momentarily—though it seems much longer—she’s out of the water and onto the dry beyond. She pushes along a bit to give Denny room to come through. He has to reach higher to hold onto the groove, and maybe it’s this awkward position when he’s under the waterfall entirely that causes him to slip on the sleek wet rocks—and with a fearful cry he is dangling over the edge, holding on by mere fingertips. “Denny!” she shouts over the din of falling water as she sees him twist and flail his legs in an effort to regain his footing. She moves quickly to try to help him but the rocks are wet on either side of the cascade and there’s no groove that far out to hold onto. Still, she leans in and extends her arm, grasping for the shoulder of his drenched tunic—when suddenly he’s back on his feet and edging out of the falling water. “Are you all right?” she asks, helping him along to the dry rocks, her heart still racing. “I’m okay,” he replies, trying to put on a brave face. “And I got a good drink too, without even trying!” “How did you manage? I thought you were—” but she can’t finish her sentence. “I don’t know. I could feel my fingers slipping, then all of a sudden it felt like I was being lifted back onto the ledge.” She shakes her head. “Anything seems possible here!” A voice appears from behind Denny. “Everything is possible.” They turn to look. “Evia!” he exclaims. “Was it you who did that?” Robin asks incredulously but no less thankfully

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over his shoulder. “He’s my favorite,” she says in a bashful voice, lowering her eyes. He bends down on one knee, carefully so he doesn’t risk going over the edge again. “Thank you, Ev. I think you’re even more a part of me now.” “You, too,” she says with an obvious blush. Robin leans over with her hand on Denny’s shoulder. “Look at you,” she interjects; “you’re as wet as we are.” “It’ll keep me cool til I can get home.” “How will you get back?” But she already knows the answer, doesn’t she. “Just look away.” Denny gets up slowly, then reaches down and touches her tiny cheek with his finger. “Goodbye, Evia.” “Goodbye, Denny. Goodbye, Robin.” And when they turn to the rocky trail ahead, the evanescent little wood nymph is nowhere to be seen.

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Chapter 28

The sun rose high and stillness fell deep as two lucky adventurers try to shrug off thoughts of the hazard just passed and look for sweeter things to contemplate. Finally, Robin seems moved to speak. “I’m so glad we saw Evia again,” she offers, the image of that innocent nymph like a resplendent light in the dark corners of her mind. “And just in time, too,” Denny adds. “You know, if you weren’t between us on this ledge, I would’ve held her just like I did before, only tighter!” “You probably would’ve squeezed the life right out of her! They say that’s what we do when we try to hold somebody too close.” “I’m sure you’re right. Still, I can’t seem to get enough of her. Her purity.” “You’ve already taken her into your heart, just like I did. Now you have to let her grow there. Let her purity become yours.” “You said something like that before and I’m trying, but it’s hard.” “It just takes time. My father says that time and intention can make just about anything happen.” “I certainly have intention. More than ever now.” “Then you just need time.” Such words seemed food for her hungry soul and she gnawed on them like a dog a savory bone from the Master’s table. Time flowed right along without missing a beat. The ledge gradually widens as the ground below seems to rise up to meet it—soon they’re at the end of the Palisades and on open land again, though it’s strikingly high and commands a view of the valleys below. Quite abruptly a weedy path veers off toward a wooded hillock nearby with a white stone temple atop it, small but imposing. Two thin white columns support its portico and make it look uncommonly handsome. “What’s that?” Robin asks. “I’m not sure. People say the Sibyl has a temple somewhere near the Palisades. Maybe that’s it.”

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“What’s the Sibyl?” “She’s a seer, a soothsayer.” “She can see the future?” “They say so.” “Can I talk to her?” “You can try.” “Do I dare?” “We have a saying: ‘Who knows the future goes into battle prepared.’ ” “How about this one: ‘Who knows what’s coming sees the pain ahead.’ I just made it up but isn’t it true?” “They’re probably both true. Maybe they go together.” How courage doth flag when choice comes upon us! To be strong in the daily flow of life is no feat, but to be standing at a crossroads is a different matter! The human heart—frail at best, at worst a desperate polecat on the run—must choose a path. Whither goest thou, Robin Redbreast? Point the nose and go. “To the temple!” “You’ll give it a try, then?” “Life’s not just flowers, Denny. I’ve got to see more than that.” “I’ll wait for you—though you might not be exactly the same as when you went.” “You think I should change my mind, then?” “No.” She takes his hand and squeezes it lightly before turning toward the temple and walking with purposeful strides.

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Chapter 29

The distance between a wish and an accomplishment is far and the journey sometimes perilous. What one wants to achieve and is willing to achieve—or what one actually gets—are vastly different animals and the road from one to the others is subject to a flinching reversal of nerve at any moment. Every step is a country mile, as the saying goes. How, then, does Robin stride with such boldness? Is she unaware of the danger? The possible disappointment? She presses ahead. The light climb to the temple is easily done and managed without breaking a sweat. In the yard surrounding the alabaster edifice is an old crone, hair wild, clothes mere rags, sweeping leaves. Robin approaches her. “I’d like to see the Sibyl,” she says. The hag stops sweeping and eyes her curiously. “What makes you think she’s here?” she finally asks. “I’ve heard, that’s all.” “There’s no prophetess here, or anywhere else for that matter. What you need to know, you already know. Now go; I’m busy.” She resumes her work but Robin isn’t to be denied. “If I could have just a moment with her,” she says, looking toward the temple. “It’s important.” The woman pauses again, this time with a sigh. “What’s so important about it?” “It’s about my future.” The unsightly dotard laughs, showing off a mouthful of crooked teeth. “What kind of future could you possibly have?” “That’s what I want to know. They say the Sibyl can see such things.” “And I told you she’s not here.” “I thought you just might be Antithian.” “What’s that?” “I thought maybe you were speaking the Antithian language.”

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“Never heard of it. Is that where you come from?” “No, not at all. I come from—” “Well?” Robin seems at a loss. “That’s a difficult question.” “So what’s your answer?” “I—I don’t know. I don’t know where I come from.” “You’re in a right muddle, aren’t you! And you’ve got to go back there, too!” “That’s just it—I don’t want to go back.” “And that’s what you want to see this Sibyl about? The future? Whether you will or not?” “Not that so much as whether I SHOULD or not.” “You ought to know that already. All those sojourning here return from whence they came. Should you be any different?” “I don’t know. Maybe that’s what I want to ask.” “Well, you’re out of luck. Since there’s no Sibyl here, you’re just going to have to answer it for yourself.” “But how?” “How? How does anybody know anything? You have a song, don’t you?” “Yes, but—” “Then listen to it. Don’t go around bothering other people about it. Look, you’ve already put me behind in my work.” Robin takes a step back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have troubled you.” “No, you shouldn’t have. Don’t you think you should stand on your own?” “Yes. Yes, you’re right.” “Of course I’m right. Now begone; I have much to do.” Having said that, the unpleasant old woman spits noisily and returns to her sweeping. Robin turns and heads back for her rendezvous with Denny, her mind filled with the insensitive hag’s words. Yes, she’d have to rely on herself now. At least that part was true. What use was others’ advice when

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the knowledge of what she must do needed to come from her own heart? Who else but she knew what was best for her? The paces from the temple yard to Denny’s bivouac under a shady tree seemed long and many, and each one convinced her a little more that any answers she sought were to be found in her own song. Finally, and with growing encouragement, she reaches her young companion. He jumps up to hear the news. “What did she say?” “Nothing—she wasn’t there. Just some irritating old witch sweeping up leaves.” “What did she look like?” “Look like? I don’t know. Ratty hair, crooked teeth, decrepit old clothes—” Denny takes her hand. “I hope you listened to her, Robin. That was the Sibyl!”

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Chapter 30

They sit in pensive quietude in the shade of the tree, eating fruit and a handful of nuts Denny had gathered. No doubt he’s curious about what the Sibyl said, but Robin’s stillness leads him to believe it best to let her think it over first. What were words anyway? Aberrant sounds wafting on the breeze, void of sure meaning. And what was sure meaning? Knowledge and feeling put into action, of course. Everyone knew that. Still, words sometimes gave the troubled heart, the lonely one, comfort. They were half-steps to meaning when actions might seem too strong or out of place. “You’re charming” might take the place of an embrace, for instance, and there were other examples of greater potency, though Denny might be too young to know or even imagine them. “You seem brave to me,” he finally says, a long time having passed, their fruit finished, the only sound the flutter of wind in the tree above them. “Do I? I don’t feel that way sometimes.” “Anyone who asks to see their own future, not knowing if it’s good or bad, must be.” “I don’t know. I think to be brave is to face the one thing you must do but can’t. I don’t seem to be able to.”“What must you do?” “I think you know. Why do I dread it so much?” It’s quiet again, save for the call of a blackbird somewhere. If the situation is unresolved, Denny no doubt thinks talk won’t solve it and decides to let it go. Robin is preoccupied anyway—then suddenly she seems suffused with determination. She stands abruptly. “Come on!” she exclaims. “Where to?” “To whatever the future holds!” He stands. “You are brave.” “Or foolish. We’ll soon find out which.”

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“I don’t know what’ll be ahead, remember. I’ve only heard stories.” “That’ll do. Let’s go!” And so they go, along the barely-worn trail through the high country, the broad valleys and woodlands below them always in their sight. Not a minute passes before she stops to pick up a stone. Cupping it tightly in both hands and closing her eyes, she concentrates intently. Then she says, “Thank you, Stone” and tosses it down the gradual slope and it finally rolls out of sight. “You’re learning,” Denny comments approvingly. “Look at my teacher,” she replies, opening her eyes, then takes his hand and leads onward.

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Chapter 31

Diverse trails branch off from their path, barely visible tracks of matted scrub grass leading seemingly nowhere. How about it, honey? Still confident? What now—peel off on one of them or march ahead? Oh, this’ll be good, for sure. A little game of trail roulette. Or do you actually know something? Were you serious about hearing your music? Very few do, you know. The spirited itinerants pursue the forward line, advancing on the unseen, maybe even the frightful. Robin takes a deep breath, though hopefully Denny doesn’t notice. Even the “brave” can have moments of disquiet. The steady hum of their onward progress is interrupted when the path drops downward into a basin thick with tall grass, though it doesn’t slice through it but runs jauntily alongside. Robin marvels at the waves of undulating green. “It’s like walking beside the ocean,” she says; “our little ocean.” “And we don’t need a boat to enjoy it,” Denny replies with a laugh. As they walk along that tall sea, both of them caress the soft grass with open palms as they go. “Denny, look. That man over there.” Not twenty yards from them, a man in overalls and a neat straw hat is cutting grass by hand. He seems oblivious to anything but his work. “I think that’s the Scythe Man. I’ve heard about him but wasn’t sure he really existed. Look, whatever he cuts comes right back up again.” “Why?” “They say he was a village-dweller who never finished anything. He always went from one thing to the next without completing the last. In hopes of teaching him some responsibility, the villagers put him in charge of damming a nearby stream so the water could be used in case of fire.” “What happened?” “The village burned down. The story is that after that he was condemned to toil all day and never see his work finished. But I thought it was just a

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legend.” They watch him a moment and sure enough, every time he cut a clean swath in the grass, it returned as if the scythe had no blade at all. “So he really exists, then,” she says, surmising that there might be a lesson in it for her—that maybe this incidental meeting was the reason she had stuck to this path and disregarded the others. Can one “know” one has made the correct choice and that somehow there was “intelligence” in it? And could there be something to be learned from a “chance” occurrence like this? “Yes,” Denny says. “You know what I’m thinking?” she asks with surprise. “I know what’s written on your face.” “Am I that easy?” “To me you are. Finally.”

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Chapter 32

The fleurs. Regardez the fleurs! As the two venturesome comrades descend steadily toward the lowlands below, every brother and distant cousin of humble Jason spears upward from the fertile ground like midsummer fireworks—every one a beacon of lucent color and yet a symphony of perfect stillness. It was a vast cacophony no one heard and eyes appreciated all the more. And noses too, one shouldn’t forget. Robin resisted the urge to pick some of them to carry along with her but that didn’t stop her from talking to them when the spirit moved her. She even stopped to confabulate at length with a gaggle of tulips, to Denny’s sincere appreciation. The path dropped sharply down and they have to avail themselves of some ancient tree roots acting as steps. At the bottom Robin turns to salute and says, “Thank you, Tree.” The trail rambles level for a ways and they come to a rivulet. “How about some water?” Robin says. “Yes, how about it,” he quips with a smile and a wiping of sweat, and as a startled frog looks up, two Titans stoop to drink. As they kneel on the bank, one can almost imagine ecclesiastics in prayer. How the world looks different to the affirming eye! And how tragic the non-believers! A way of seeing is a way of not seeing, as the saying goes—yet who weeps for those who don’t see? Resuming their promenade, the wayfarers descend into a broad valley and the path widens into a lane, bordered by purple-haired thistles. Fences and hedgerows begin and corn appears again; corn and tawny wheat. “We must be coming to another village,” Robin says, “but I don’t see any people.” Odd though it seems, there are vacant wagons and apparently abandoned tools alongside the fields, but not a soul to be seen. Ahead are houses and cottages and soon the pair enter the village proper. Its byways are empty.

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“Where is everyone?” Robin asks. “I’ve heard of this place,” Denny replies. “They call it the Sleeping Village.” “Why is that? Why have a village without people?” “Oh, there are people here. Lots of them. They’re just sleeping.” “Now?” “Everyone here sleeps in the daytime and does their work at night.” “So they’re all asleep?” “Yes, and dreaming.” “What do you think they’re dreaming about?” “The daytime. The strangeness of the village in the daytime.” “You’re joking.” “I’m not. My father says that everything that happens in the village is part of their dream. An impetuous wind banging the shutters, distant traders passing, a sudden rainstorm, a roebuck wandering through…” “Does that mean we’re part of the dream, too?” “I guess so. They’re probably dreaming about us right now.” Robin gets a mischievous look on her face. “Then let’s give them a dream to remember!” she exclaims and begins to prance about. “Come on, Denny, take my hand!” He hesitates a moment, as if lately unused to the idea of play, but before long her coaxing pulls him into the frolic and soon the pair are whirling and dancing and singing in the street. “Long live the villagers!” she calls out, loud enough to shake them up for sure but not enough to wake them. “May they prosper, and their children, too!” “And their children’s children!” Denny adds, looking thrilled to find such enjoyment in this whimsy. “And remember the names of Robin and Denny, apparitions of the daylight who mean no trouble but only to bring joy! O happy valley! O my Eden!” Soon they’re at the far edge of the village, and a moment after that, beyond it.

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“That was fun,” Denny says, possibly even surprising himself as they collect themselves as best they can and continue on their way. “And won’t they have something to talk about when they wake up!” she adds. Yes, the fun is over, or is it just beginning? Or is danger around the next turn in the road?

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Chapter 33

Barely over her merriment, Robin is wondering which way to go—the lane, a mere sandy path now, splits into two. Because they look equally difficult, she can’t use the advice carved in the Wall of Glyphs. So how to decide? Should she toss a stick like the Chinese? After all, fate always chose what was in store for one anyway. But Robin apparently wants a hand in that fate and purposely chooses one path over the other, not by guess but by feel. (She’s learning how to do that now—that she had to wait some time to arrive at that feel notwithstanding.) “You picked a good one,” Denny says contentedly as they resume their march. “A guide does that, you know,” she replies with a smile—it’s kind of a jest, isn’t it, Robin. One might suppose you’re trying it on for size. “I think I’m in good hands,” he says. “I hope you’re right.” “I am.” And hopefully truth proceedeth from the mouth of the guileless Denny, eh Robin? Would that all truths be true and there be those who see them, know them. For though this may be the Land of Goshen once foretold, that craggy volume also unveiled the serpent. Is your chosen way ahead safe or will a viper arise from the milk and honey? Time will tell. Time and decision. Not long after, Robin is surprised to see two people approaching from the other direction. “Denny, somebody’s coming.” “You didn’t expect that?” “Hardly. Why haven’t we run into more people along the way?” “Probably because of the paths we’ve chosen!” “That makes sense. But I wonder why other people would come this way at all?”

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“Why don’t you ask them?” “I intend to.” Soon the walkers are upon them, a man and a woman, both ruddy-faced and cheery. “Hello, fellow peregrinators,” Robin says. “And to you,” the man replies with a warm smile. “We haven’t seen many people along our way so I’m a little curious. Can I ask where you’re going?” “We’re on our way home. We’re from a village at the far end of the valley.” “What brought you this way?” “The Field of Crystals.” “That’s along this path?” Denny asks. “About half a mile, as the bee flies.” The woman pipes in. “My husband had—well, some unexpected trouble so I wanted to take him there, hoping to encourage him. As it turns out, he’s a strong man and he ended up encouraging me.” The man laughs. “Nothing like trouble to get one to see the important things in life—and be thankful for them.” “See how easy he takes it?” she laughs. “Now he’s teaching me!” “In any case,” he says, “we’d better move along. We’ve got whiles to go before we sleep.” They resume their journey. “And promises to keep,” the woman says over her shoulder. Robin and Denny return to their own journey. Apparently Robin’s curiosity is still stirred because she turns to Denny eagerly. “So what’s the Field of Crystals?” “According to the stories, it’s a celebrated meadow where you can find the most amazing stones—amethysts, tiger’s-eyes, sapphires—all over the place!” “Can we stop there?”

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“Sure. I’ve been wanting to go there for a long time. Now it’s come to me!” They continue on their way, and almost sooner than you can say “mythic aleatory crystal axiology,” they arrive at their destination. “All of a sudden there it is,” as the outlanders say, though in their own language of course. “Look!” There spread out before them was a spacious sloping field of ground-hugging flowers and sandy dirt, pockmarked with holes large and small. Next to those holes were diggers, on their knees and using their bare hands. “Look at the people, Denny! There must be a dozen of them!” “This is a special place. It’s known for being a kind of health spa for the spirit.” “What do you mean?” “Just watch for a while and tell me what you see.” She follows his suggestion and stares out across the field for some minutes. Finally she sees what she’s supposed to, or thinks she does. “They don’t have satchels to put their gems in!” she exclaims. “When they dig one up, they hold it up and admire it for a while, then bury it and dig for another!” “Why do you think they do that?” “I have no—wait, yes I do. Just like that first stone you showed me, the one you found in the road. You took its beauty into your heart and then left it so someone else could find it.” “Si, señoritaaa!” “But you said these are semiprecious stones. Someone would have to be crazy to put them back.” He looks at her, mock-askance. “Correction: these are PRECIOUS stones—as precious as the one in the road. And should we be greedy and keep such precious things for ourselves so that nobody else can enjoy them—until everything in the world is owned by someone and there’s no beauty left? Is that what you’re saying?” “My guide returns! I knew you were in there somewhere! And no, I don’t believe that; not anymore. We ought to teach children in kindergarten: “You

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shouldn’t hog beauty!” It should be the Eleventh Commandment. It’s only that with such valuable stones like these—even sapphires, you said!—it’s just an extra step for me to take. But don’t worry. With my instruction yesterday and your frown just now—and don’t forget my song—I think I’ve taken it.” “Good. Now let’s go dig!”

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Chapter 34

On the road again, as the ancients warned and the moderns sing, the faithful travelers make their way, sun embronzed and not in the least world-weary. “Your legs aren’t tired from all this walking?” Denny asks. “Not in the least.” The path reaches what appears to be the end of the valley and splits, one way running eastward along the valley’s perimeter and the other ascending steeply into dark woods heavily forested with oak. Robin stops to make her choice. She knows instinctively which way to go now but won’t allow herself to act so quickly—surely she should attend carefully to a certain tune now playing. Besides, she doesn’t want to look like she’s showing off in front of Denny—the student becomes the teacher is not something that happens in so short a time, and to act like it does is unseemly. If these are her thoughts, she doesn’t let on. When she’s certain of her choice, she turns to the woods and begins to ascend, Denny by her side. “You’ve been very quiet,” he finally says to her. “My heart is so full of gems, I hardly know what to say.” “Hallelujah is a good word.” “Hallelujah!” she exclaims, tears suddenly streaming from her eyes. “What is it?” he asks. “I’m just touched, that’s all. Why did I have to wait so long to feel like this? This time with you—all we’ve seen and done—it seems I’ve waited all my life for it. It fills me with joy and yet it breaks my heart. All those wasted years!” He takes her hand. “Don’t look at that. Look at tomorrow.” “Tomorrow! What if I wake up and I don’t remember?” “You’ll remember. I promise you.” “How can you?” “I can, believe me. You won’t forget a thing.”

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She wipes her tears on the backs of her hands. “I hope you’re right. But I should know by now that you are. Come on, let’s go. God, I haven’t cried since—I don’t even remember.” They press on and the forest envelops them. “Thank you, Denny. For being with me; for abiding me.” “I should be thanking you. You’re like the fulfillment of my destiny.” She must know that’s quite a remark and no doubt feels it deeply, though she doesn’t reply. It looks like she has to hold back more tears too, the recent flow still close to the surface. The trail narrows as it climbs up the hill, Robin taking the lead. She looks back and sees that Denny has stopped and is staring at something in the short-tufted yellow grass between the trees. “What is it?” she asks, stopping. “Death.” “Death? I feel as though I’ve seen enough of that in my life. Too much.” “And how did it seem to you?” “I can’t really remember. All I know is that it’s hideous. Hideous and cruel.” “Come here, then, if you want to see beauty.” “No, thank you.” “You won’t come, then?” “I told you—I’ve seen too much.” He walks up the trail to her and takes her hand. “Have courage, Robin. Please.” His eyes are like a doe’s, innocent and imploring. “How can I say no to you? Don’t ever let me.” She follows him back down the trail to where he stood before. There in the yellow grass, not three or four yards from them, is a wild boar lying on its side, a shaft of sunlight through the trees giving its short black fur a glossy sheen. “Are you sure it’s dead?” she asks. “They don’t sleep in the daytime, and never in the open.” “I suppose you want me to see it up close.”

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He doesn’t answer but his face does so she steps slowly forward and finally stands above it. It’s about the size of a large dog, though fatter and with stubby legs, legs which are stiff and splayed, as if in an excited trot frozen in time. Denny comes over and stands by her side. “He’s run his last mile,” she says. “It’s tragic.” “Is it? We say there are many kinds of death, Robin. Unintentional, longed-for, natural, fated, exacted…not all of them are tragic. What’s tragic is not knowing there can be beauty in death.” She crouches down to get a closer look. Certainly the sun glistening on the bristly fur could be considered beautiful. The sight, maybe, but how about the touch? Waving a few flies away, she places her palm on the boar’s porcine flank and slowly strokes it. It’s warm from the sun and almost makes him feel alive. Denny kneels down beside her. “He’s a plump one,” he says. “Yes, he is,” she replies, continuing to stroke the rough bristles. “What do you feel?” “I don’t know. I’ve never been this close to one before but I see that he’s a wondrous beast. I can feel his muscles—the ones he used to gallop through the forest. And look at his tusks, so fearful, so dangerous, yet quiet now, like pieces in a museum. I’d like to touch one.” “Why don’t you?” She reaches over and allows her fingertips to come to rest on a gracefully curving tooth. “So smooth. Feel it, Denny.” “I’m feeling it through you.” She rubs it gently. “What artist could sculpt something like this? But look at that ugly snout.” “Is it really so ugly?” “ ‘So ugly it’s cute’ are the only words that come to mind. But it’s a face that’s unique in all the world, isn’t it. Not even a farmyard pig can match it, though they’re probably cousins.” She hesitantly pets the snout a moment, a fly landing on the back of her

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hand. “He’s beloved by flies, I can say that much,” she says with a little laugh, perhaps surprised or even shocked by what she’s doing. “And look at his ears, Denny. Stiff as a terrier’s, and bristly, too. Who knows what strange and dark sounds he’s heard in the forest night?” “And the birds by day, and the yawning of the morning flowers.” “And if we hear the electric buzz of the bumblebee so plainly, imagine the sound to his excitable ears!” “I have no doubt he could hear the moon rise.” “If only we could return life to him, so he could hear it again!” “He’s heard it all, felt it all, Robin. It’s only people who sometimes forget to look and listen.” “I pity them—the ones who haven’t learned to feel again.” As if to elaborate her point, she puts both her hands on the once-proud boar’s side and smoothes them along the rough bristles. And as a final act of realization, maybe, or even acceptance, she leans over and rests her head on its flank, her cheek perforce feeling the full sensation of the rough fur. What, tears again, Robin? Sadness and joy hand in hand, is that it? And who are these tears for—him or for you? And now Denny puts his hand on your back, that tender gesture really opening the floodgates, allowing all of the pain and all of the joy you ever thought possible to pour forth and you sit up and embrace him with love and understanding and gratitude and affection and he seems ready to cry, too. What a pair you are! Yet someone somewhere must approve. After all, you exist—you live and breathe! You didn’t die in a ditch like those other bastards.

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Chapter 35

Having bathed in a stream—back to back—the dauntless pair resume their trek upward, oaks exchanging pleasantries with pines now, the occasional cone dropping near the trail. “They want us to know they’re here,” Denny grins, maybe to show her he's recovered from his unexpected bout of emotion. “As if we’d miss them. Any relation to that other pine cone we saw?” “Jeb?” “That’s the one.” “Who knows? They say if you go back enough generations, everything’s related.” “Wouldn’t that be something!” “What would?” “That everything was related.” “You don’t see it?” “Not really. Some things, maybe, but everything?” “Do me a favor, then.” “What’s that?” “From now on, when you’re talking about such things, I want you to add one more word to your sentence.” “What word?” “Yet.” “As in?” “As in, ‘I just don’t see it. Yet.’ ” “Okay, I just don’t see it YET.” “My father says if we could add that one word to our sentences, we would soon see the world change before our eyes.”

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Chapter 36

The track continues its climb up the now-steep hillside, the hot pine oil smell of the woods heavy and intoxicating. The two explorers sit on a fallen tree trunk trailside for a rest. “I’m feeling a little giddy,” Robin says. “Maybe I’m getting high on pine essence.” “It’s been known to happen. There’s a village in the far south surrounded by myrrh trees and the villagers extract the resin. People say they’re always drunk as fiddlers.” “The nose is a sensitive thing.” “Imagine a dog, then!” “Imagine Bangle!” They sit in silence for a while. Minutes pass like marching feet in a parade. One two three four, that’s enough or hang some more?—something like that. “I’m ready,” Denny says. “Me, too. Wait a minute—do you hear that?” He stands and tilts an ear. “It’s a woodcutter.” “A woodcutter?” she asks, getting up with surprise. “Yes. Where do you think wood comes from?” She looks at him incredulously. “But not that long ago you were sharing your thoughts with a flower. A pine cone.” “Jason and Jeb, yes.” “So how can you countenance chopping down a tree? It doesn’t make sense.” “Maybe it’s clearer if you understand that everything’s sacred. We all depend on one another—we give and take and try to create a balance. Water is sacred but I drink it, for example. But I don’t waste it—I don’t dirty it.” “Water’s one thing, but a tree is a living thing.”

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“There’s a difference?” “You said yourself that trees are aware of us. That means they have some kind of feeling. They’re alive, just like we are. And you sanction cutting them down? Killing them?” By the look on her face, she’s plenty confused. “We kill every day. It’s part of the plan.” “Even you, Denny?” “You sound as if you don’t know we do it all the time. And yet we must’ve killed countless creatures just by walking these paths and stepping on them. Even beautiful dancing ants!” “But that’s unintentional.” “What’s the difference? And yes, we do it intentionally, too. We have to eat.” “Maybe I should give up meat, then. People do, you know.” He sighs. “Oh, Robin, have you never eaten a tomato?” “But a tomato’s not alive.” “Of course it is! Its life is in the seeds. Do you pick the seeds out of a tomato before you eat it?” “No.” “And if you did, and planted those seeds, new tomatoes would grow. But you don’t, do you. You eat them. Don’t you see? We’re all killers in God’s plan. Water, plants, stones, animals—all capable of killing each other, and doing so every day! Life is give and take, Robin. People have been killed by trees, just like these!” He motions to the forest around them as if to drive home his point. She’s quiet for a moment, maybe trying to make some sense of it. “How do you balance it, then? You said we need to create a balance.” “My father says to give as much as possible and take as little as you can.” “But I don’t want to kill. Not anymore, Denny.” “Have you never swatted a mosquito, taken medicine when you were sick, stepped on a cockroach? They say even our blood has tiny cells that kill

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mischievous little life forms that enter our bodies!” Her face turns pale. “We’re destined to kill, then? Isn’t that murder?” “We say murder isn’t about killing or not, but a question of degree. Those who upset the balance maybe deserve to be called murderers. Those who take little and keep the balance are holy creatures. Or as holy as one can be in this world.” “Are you a holy creature, Denny?” “I try to be. It’s not something you just are—to me it’s like something you have to strive for every day.” “And what about me? I fear I’ve killed far too much. I’ve taken more than I’ve given. Am I a murderer?” “Not today you’re not. Not yesterday.” “But can I keep it up? Will I even want to?” “That’s up to you, isn’t it? You make decisions every day. You look at life—people, trees, ants, stones, pine cones, water, flowers—and you make decisions.” “But other people—” “Don’t worry about them! Just know what’s in your own heart.” “I’m just now finding what’s in my heart,” she says; “since I’ve come here.” “We can’t think ill of others, then. But you don’t have to follow if they’ve gone astray. Maybe you can even teach them.” “Teach them? How?” “The only way possible—by example.” She shakes her head. “You’re a tough taskmaster, Denny.” He smiles. “Not me, Robin. Life. At least the way I learned it.” She looks at him fondly. “Your father must have taught you a lot.” “I suppose he taught me just about everything I know.”

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But it’s time to go now, isn’t it. There’s a trail ahead, and a ticking clock. Dutifully, she turns to the future, hers and his, and resumes the journey, Denny at her side. As they go, the sound of the woodcutter grows louder, and soon they can see him through the trees, a young black man working his ax at the base of a tree. He’s bare-chested and sweaty, and pauses a moment to wipe his face and neck with a handkerchief. Robin stops to gaze at him, then raises her hand in a wave. He waves back and returns to his work. The pair continue on their way. “Can I ask you something, Denny? Do you think he loves those trees?” “I know he does. All our people do.”

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Chapter 37

The knowledge of good and evil has two forms: knowing evil and not knowing it. The goal of knowing evil is doing good. Thus saith the Master. Robin stops and takes Denny’s arm. “Does evil exist here, Denny?” “That’s a tough question. You could say that the woodcutter chopping down a tree dances in the domain of evil, but no more so than the storm that drowns a sailor at sea or the fox strangling a hare with its jaws in order to feed its young.” “It seems to be all around, then.” “Yes.” “So how does one lessen the evil?” “We can only lessen our own. Take out of need, never out of greed—that’s our maxim,” he says, and so sure was he when he said it that she knew it must be true. “But the beauty you’ve shown me—the sanctity,” she says. “How can we keep it in sight without being overcome by the evil?” “The only thing we can do is reduce the pain WE cause and try as hard as we can to see beauty. And maybe even help others see it. This is all we can do, Robin. Taking too much—accumulating things—which is greed, which leads to evil, is the bane of life.” She leans down to cup a lone flower in her hand, as if escorting it to a dance. “I think it’s good for me to hear this,” she says over her shoulder, “even though it troubles me. Just as I’m glad we ran into the woodcutter.” Maybe she’s also glad to know that Denny doesn’t live in a fanciful world of his own making, all dreamy notions and sweet sensations because the real world is too harsh. Still it was hard to take because she, Robin, had spent a lifetime killing and taking, intentionally or not, and he was saying that such a thing existed everywhere—even here—and couldn’t be avoided. There

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was no salvation, no escape from the inexorable reality of it. There was only mitigation, at best, accomplished by realizing the part one plays and tempering it as much as one is able. No, maybe one step beyond what one is able, so that the standard is set ever higher. “Striving”—wasn’t that how Denny put it? She touches a bit of pollen from the flower to her cheek and begins to walk again. “I wonder. How does one go on living in the world without going mad?” It’s a question one might think he’s not able to answer but the venturesome kid gives it a try. “Maybe a person has to start by not by denying the evil that’s in the world and his role in it. I think many people try to deny it.” “How?” “I don’t know; doing well-intentioned things so they can disavow their connection to evil. It moves them to say, ‘I’m basically a good person’—this becomes their comforting mantra. My father says the strong accept the terrors of the world and their hand in them. What we have to do, then, is try to moderate it, and survive in the only way possible—by communing with beauty.” Robin is horrified and consoled at the same time. Horrified by the brutality and yet relieved to know that there was a way to get along—and even be happy. Denny seemed happy. That was the proof. After they finish this conversation, crossing high meadows now and fording the occasional melodic brook, she passes the next hour in wordless thought.And as usual, everywhere les fleurs.

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Chapter 38

“I want to climb a tree!” Robin exclaims, seemingly out of nowhere, though we know better. “Doesn’t everybody?” She asks him if she needs a reason and he replies that wanting to is reason enough. “I used to climb trees,” she adds, “Or at least I think I did. Do you know what I liked about it? No matter what was on your mind—even trouble—you had to put it aside and focus all your attention on the tree. Your life depended on it! And when you got to the top, your mind was free. And the view! That’s a kind of beauty, isn’t it?” “We say beauty quenches a thirst, and I guess there are many ways to drink.” “I’ll bet you do it every day.” He looks at her earnestly. “How else can we get by?” “I just hope it’s not too late for me.” They continue walking, their eyes peeled for a suitable tree. “How about that one?” he says, pointing. “Not tall enough.” “Wow, you’re inspired, aren’t you!” “I know what I need right now, that’s all.” They cross a clover-carpeted meadow and see a sparse stand of pines at its far edge. “There’s our tree,” she says. “That big one in the middle.” “It looks like a good one.” Upon closer inspection, it does prove to be a good one. It’s a tempting tree, a talismanic one, all heft and brawn and well-spaced branches—and a tapered little tip that seemed to be pining to sway in the wind, though now there was

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none. “Shall I go first?” Denny asks. “Age before beauty; isn’t that the custom?” she says with a laugh. Reaching up to the first branch, she makes a wish and effortlessly pulls herself up. “I see skill in action,” he says. “It seems like I’ve had practice, though I can’t say when. I just know that I know what I’m doing. Anyway, from here on in it’s just like climbing a ladder.” “I hope he’s not ticklish,” Denny jokes, scurrying up behind her like a spider monkey going home. “Are you with me?” she asks, looking down at him. “With you? I AM you.” Maybe that doesn’t seem so strange to her anymore. “Good. Let’s make our journey to heaven, then.” Whoa, Robin—slow down, girl! You’re not ready for heaven just yet. There’s the small matter of a “life” to be negotiated first, n’est-ce pas? Unless you have aspirations for creating a little heaven on earth—some people do, you know. Purists, dreamers and such. And yet who knows—maybe that’s where the greater glory lies. Not standing in line endlessly yearning for a world to come but creating a taste of it right here. “How’s it going up there?” Denny asks. “Happy?” “Like a goat in ryegrass. You?” “An otter in an oysterbed.” Branch by branch they wend their way upward, the scent of warm pine resin all the more inebriating for its nearness. Soon they’re halfway up, then three-quarters. She’s climbing like a banshee now. “Don’t go too high,” he cautions. “That’s like telling a butterfly to stop drinking nectar. But don’t worry, I’ll be careful.” The sturdy trunk has narrowed considerably and is now a spire no broader than Robin’s forearm. Already it’s leaning with her weight.

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“This’ll do,” she finally says with conviction and stops. “I can see over the other trees now. How’s your view?” “I can see to the far corners of the world.” And a sight it is, the green meadow below festooned in white and pink, the pine forest aromatic back down the trail, the mighty vistas of distant mountains and broad valleys, lakes and streams. “It were powerful breathtaking,” one might even say. “Hold on, Denny; I’m going to swing a little.” “Roger that, Captain.” She leans back, holding the slender trunk with outstretched arms. Immediately it arches that way like a sunflower toward its namesake and she pulls it close again, its flex propelling it back the other way. She works her body like a pendulum and the pliant spire is swaying freely in either direction. “God, this is good!” “Good! This is God!” She keeps it up til she hears the warning sound of the woody sinews being stretched to the limit. “I think that’s enough for now,” she says, looking down and giving Denny a half-fearful grin. “See, he’s protecting us. Who says trees can’t talk!” “Point well taken.” At length the accommodating conifer ceases its waving dance and serenity returns to the upper boughs. “Denny, I can see the Palisades from here. Have we come that far?” “That far and farther. Up to the tree and then up the tree.” “Do you like it up here?” “I think I told you. It’s God.” “It is, isn’t it. I think maybe people are looking for God in all the wrong places. Books, for example. Or buildings. Can you believe it?” “They’ll probably never find him in places like that. Just his footprints, maybe.”

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She warms to the subject. “Yes, they’d be saying, ‘Oh look, God was here,’ instead of, ‘God is here. This is God.’ ” “That’s what I said.” “I know. And I heard you better than you might realize. The puzzle is becoming so much clearer lately. Things almost make sense.” “When they do, you’ll be ready.” “Ready for what?” “Only you know the answer to that.” “Here we go again! But I DON'T know the answer.” “That’s because you’re not ready yet!” A breeze picks up and the pine begins its own little dance, though a subdued one. Robin seems engrossed in thought and Denny no less so. There’s no temple like a tree, no hideaway so secure yet so liberating as a treetop perch. Or so it must seem to our penitents, one a devotee, one a pilgrim from a faraway land. Lucky souls, they might just have a home wherever they go. But let’s not romanticize—yes, they may have stumbled onto something rare, but true knowledge of life has its origins in tribulation. No art is born without pain, right? Such is the world we inherit, and such is the world we pass to our children. And yet one could say—how sweet the fruits of heartache if we but knew how to hammer it into a tool for living! “Denny, what would happen if I jumped from here?” “Don’t you know? You’d fall to your death.” “Would that be so bad?” “Isn’t there something you have to do first?” “You think I have something to do.” “My father says that before anyone dies, they have to ask themselves if there’s not some unfinished business they need to attend to.” “But what if they’re not sure what it is?” “We say everything comes to those who listen.” She reflects on this awhile, not unaware of the tree’s easy lilt and comforted by it.

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“Sometimes I think the world is too much for us,” she says finally. “And yet, at the same time it seems not enough. Why?” “Paradox.” “That’s a difficult concept, Denny. Where’d you learn it?” “From you.”

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Chapter 39

Hill met dale, then hill again, our fast friends strangely energized, as if the ground were something to be glided over rather than traversed step by step. Climbing a tree’ll do that to you sometimes—or so one hears. Yet the entrancement of pine musk behind them now, they press on thoughtfully toward what must lie beyond the next bend in their path. “No Wild Boys up this way?” Robin asks, maybe hoping for a challenge worthy of her growing sense of strength. “Not that I know of.” “Did I tell you what that guy said to me in his hut?” “No, what?” “That I could have every desire satisfied—without any customs or obligations to hold me back. I could just take what I wanted. No one would judge me.” “Did that appeal to you?” “Are you kidding? Sometimes I think that’s everyone’s dream.” “What, to live selfishly?” “Is that what it is?” “Isn’t it?” “But think of it, Denny—every whim fulfilled.” “And yet you didn’t stay.” “I couldn’t.” “Why?”“I’m not sure. I think it’s what you said—I’ve got something to do. I’ve been feeling it myself. And that idea seems to be getting stronger.” They walk on without speaking for a while. Finally, Denny turns to her. “Hungry?” “I hadn’t thought about it, but yes, I think I am.” “I’ve heard there’s a man who wanders the hills up here in the high country,

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and that he’s always happy to honor strangers with a meal. The Lost Shepherd, they call him.” “That’s an odd name. Do you think we’ll run into him?” “I’m not sure. Let’s keep on the lookout.” That they do. And as fortuitously as moonrise follows sunset, there on a hillside two twists in the trail later tarries a grizzled old man, leaning on a shepherd’s staff. “Is that him?” Robin asks. “If it’s not, my name’s not Denizen and you’re not dubbed a bird.” “I think that means yes. Let’s go talk to him.” They approach with free and easy faces. “Hello, strangers,” the man says through graying beard, looking for all the world like he could use the company. “Hi, I’m Robin, and this is my guide and companion in adventure, Denny. And you?” “I? Well, that’s a question, isn’t it. You see, I’ve been up in these hills for so long without human companionship that I don’t rightly know what I’m called—seeing as there’s no one to do the calling. Oh, the hills and the rocks have a name for me, I’m sure, but since they don’t have tongues to do their talking, I can’t very well tell it to you. What brings you up this way?” “She’s on a quest,” Denny explains. “A quest for beauty, you might say,” Robin adds. “Well now, seems like you’ve met a kindred spirit,” the Shepherd says. “She’s my mistress, too. But shall we have a bite to eat? You must be hungry.” They follow him to a makeshift camp, a pot of something or other suspended over glowing embers. Robin looks around. There are no sheep—only bunches of bluebells, maybe a hundred of them, attended by butterflies and bees hard at work. “Where’s your flock?” she asks, unable to keep a lid on her curiosity. “Why, all around us,” he informs her, referring to the alluring blue flowers with a demonstrative sweep of his hand.

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“What, no sheep?” she’s about to blurt, but a look from Denny causes her to refrain. Apparently the guy’s sensitive and she should resign herself to hearing the story in good time—if at all—something she might find difficult, by the look of her. They sit on three large rocks that look like they’ve been rolled into position for just such special occasions. The Shepherd puts down his staff, stirs the pot with a ladle and scoops out a thick vegetable soup into wooden bowls. Then, reaching into a canvas bag, he pulls out bread rolls and passes them around. “I baked ’em this morning in a crevice in that boulder up there,” he says with pride. “Dig in.” They chow down with gusto. Mucho gusto. And it’s delicious! Of course it ought to be if one has nothing to do all day but cook and shepherd bluebells. Or so one might think. “Do you get many visitors?” she asks. “Once in an indigo moon. There’s no villages ahead the way you’re going. The only thing I can think of is the Cave of Adullam.” “That’s where we’re going,” Denny says. “We are?” Robin asks, surprised. “Yes.” “Since when?” “Since the very beginning, probably. I got us going, then you stepped in when you started to hear your song.” “That’s news to me.” “I thought you might know.” “Not a clue.” The old man’s head tilts back and forth between his guests like a wind-slapped weathercock—it looks like he’s glad to hear conversation of any sort. “Well,” Denny says to her, “I’ve been following you since the land of the Wild Boys. You must sense where we’re going because this good man says the Cave of Adullam is ahead.”

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“So what is this cave?” “It’s hard to explain. I’ll tell you along the way.” Robin is looking at Denny with something bordering—what?—perplexity? Come on, Redbreast! The unexpected is still shocking to you? Let’s get with the program, eh? Sturdy up! Who’s the leader here? They continue eating quietly. Finally, the Shepherd speaks. “You know, I came up here as a boy. My father was a shepherd, and every summer we’d bring the sheep to the high country when the grass was rich and green. I grew up wanting to follow the same path.” Here he stops and sops a bit of bread in his soup. Eating it, he licks the juice from his fingers as delicately as one might do in a rough wilderness like this, then continues. “I took over when my father was too old to climb the hills. I was content for a while, but I kept looking at those bluebells. After the third or fourth year, darned if they didn’t start talking to me. They’ve got little mouths, you know, their cupped blossoms quivering in the breeze and forming words…” “What did they say?” Robin asks after a sufficiently polite silence. “What?” the man asks, as if awakened from a daydream. “The bluebells. What did they say?” “They told me—and this is just the drift of it now—to think about what the wolf did to that sheep the week before; the snarls, the pathetic bleats, the gurgle of blood in the throat, the red-stained grass. They went on about how ghastly it all was, and how the wolf would be back, probably with his brethren, now that they knew where we were and all. ‘Do you want ugliness in your life or do you want beauty?’ they asked me. ‘Beauty, of course,’ I replied. Everybody wants beauty, right? So they said I could rid myself of the ugliness by not tending sheep anymore but bluebells instead—every hill around here has ’em—and I’d have nothing but beauty. Do you hear what I’m saying? And if the wolves came back, it would be easy to drive ’em off because they had no interest in bluebells. Don’t you see what a perfect solution that was?” “And in winter?”

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“I go down in the valleys and watch over the perennials.” “Seems like a snug little life,” Denny comments noncommittally, though his irony doesn’t escape Robin. They finish their soup and the guests stand up to take their leave. “We thank you for your hospitality,” Robin says, holding out her hand for a friendly shake. “I always enjoy the company,” he replies. “Won’t you look for me again when you pass by on your way back?” “We won’t—” Denny begins but is unintentionally cut off by an enthusiastic Robin. “We will if we can, for sure,” she says, unaware of Denny’s gist. They bid their final goodbyes and the twosome are off once again. “There’s something sad about that man,” Robin muses as they make their way along the path afresh. Denny ponders a moment before speaking. “I don’t think a life of ‘pure beauty’ is a very good remedy for what ails us at all. It seems like he’s denied the other half of life. Where’s the balance?” “He’s retreated into beauty, hasn’t he.” “Yes. When he should be engaged with life.” “Maybe that’s why he wanders these hills all alone,” she sighs. “No wonder they call him the Lost Shepherd!”

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Chapter 40

The path eases down into a dell, cutting through a seemingly endless grove of aspen all aflutter. “I’ve never seen a gathering of such excited trees,” Robin comments. “Well, not since yesterday, anyway. Do you think it’s because they’re glad to see us?” “I wouldn’t be surprised. My father says everybody’s happy to see a friend.” “Hello, my friends!” she calls out. “Look, Denny; they’re all waving.” “Then you’re a friend for sure.” The sun is no longer overhead but well on its lazy way downward, casting oblique rays through the trees. “It’s lovely, isn’t it,” she says, then suddenly her demeanor sobers, perhaps because the shadows hint at impending nightfall. “Do you really think there are wolves around here?” “Of course. There are wolves everywhere, even where we think there aren’t. But don’t worry; I think we’re a little too big for them.” “I’m not worried. But it looks like we don’t have all that much daylight left. I wouldn’t want them trying to bother us while we’re sleeping.” “I’m hoping we’ll get to the cave before dark.” “Good. And about that cave—” She looks at him questioningly but with the slightest twinkle in her eye, as if to say, “All right, don’t you think it’s about time you let me in on your little secret?” “The cave? Well, I can say it’s famous in history as a refuge. You’ve never heard about it?” “No.” “It was used as a resting place for people denied their rightful position in society—something like that. They could gather their strength, marshal their courage for their triumphant return to reclaim their birthright.”

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She’s clearly puzzled. “You make it sound like a starting point for some kind of restoration of power. A rebirth.” “From what I’ve heard, that’s exactly what it is.” “And I take it this place figures in my destiny? Seeing as you’ve been leading us there all along. Or I have.” “As far as making choices helps to guide destiny, yes, I guess so.” “Then let’s press on, young sir. I feel strong, I feel courageous, and I’m ready for triumph! Maybe for the first time!”

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Chapter 41

The riotous waving of the trees’ excited leaves is sustained for the longest time and then subsides as quickly as it began as the rough track emerges from the grove and climbs ever higher into the backcountry. Hardy wildflowers and an occasional mountain laurel populate the rocky ground and the odd boulder looms up out of nowhere and is just as swiftly passed.Robin seems lost in thought, and soon it’s clear what’s on her mind. “You never talk about yourself, Denny.” “Maybe not in words. Besides, you know me already.” “You say that, but do I?” “It just hasn’t come to you yet.” “Tell me something to help me along.” He’s pensive a few moments as he stops and bends down to look at a great clan of anthills at the side of the trail. “Dance of the ants?” she asks. “Ballet mécanique.” They both crouch and watch for a time. “If they look up, they’ll think they’re in the Land of the Giants,” she says. “Or Land of the Gods.” “Are we gods, Denny? I wonder.” “When we dream, we are. Or spirits.” “Are spirits real?” “Until they wake up.” “What happens then?” “We say they become part of the dreamer.” She shakes her head. “I have no interest in being a god. Even to the ants.” He laughs. “Then we’d better move on, before a cult forms. We’d be obliged to perform

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miracles for them; then when we disappear they’ll wait an eternity for our return.” “I’m with you. Let’s go.” Duty-bound, they walk on. She needn’t worry that he’s avoiding her earlier inquiry because soon he turns to her with a heartfelt look. “I feel like we grew up together, you and me,” he says, “though we’ve really never been introduced.” She’s obviously surprised, but says nothing. “But,” he continues, “I’ve always known you were around. I could feel you. And I’m pretty sure you could feel me, though you probably don’t remember.” They come upon a boulder squatting heavily by the path and both of them in unison run their fingertips along it as they pass, looking for signs. She smiles at him. “We do seem a lot alike, don’t we. Especially now that I’m feeling who I am a lot more. But you said that before, remember? Not long after we met. You said that we’re related.” “Yes.” “I asked you how and you said it would come to me. It hasn’t.” He nudges her playfully. “I see you’ve forgotten what I told you today.” “About what?” “About negative sentences.” A light turns on. “Oh, I remember. Always put the word ‘yet’ at the end of the sentence.” “Right.” “Okay. So it hasn’t come to me yet.” “That’s better.” “It’s going to?” “Of course. If you will it.” “It’s up to me, then?” “Only you. I can just stand on the sidelines and urge you on.”

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“You’re such a puzzle, Denny.” “That’s because you don’t understand me. Yet.” They both laugh. “Okay, tell me something else.” “You want more?” “More and more, but only if you want to tell me.” “It’ll only mean something if you figure it out yourself. But I will tell you one thing.” “Do.” “I’m a lot older than I look.” “I thought so. You don’t talk like someone your age.” “I’m twelve. But I’ve been twelve for a long time.” “Why? How?” “I just stopped growing and my father took over. I’ve lived through him for years now.” “What do you mean?” He doesn’t speak for a time, and by his manner, either he doesn’t want to talk about it or he’s having trouble thinking of how to explain it. She doesn’t press him but rather tries to be patient, though her curiosity is a veritable tomcat squirming in a wet hemp sack. Just look at her! Finally, he clears his throat. “Something happened.” “What?” “I don’t like to remember it. Just something; that’s all I’ll say. And from that moment, I think I stopped being a kid and my father took over. I was a grown-up when I hadn’t even finished being a boy yet.” “So what happened then?” “He disowned me. He’s refused to see me ever since.” “Oh, Denny. How did you survive?” “With beauty!” he blurts. “I learned to see beauty! What do you think I’ve been talking about all this time?” He’s clearly upset and she stops to put her arms around him, comfort him.

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She feels him tremble. “You’re really not a grown-up; you’re still a boy.” “I know! So what am I supposed to do?” “You let me worry about that. I’ll take care of it.” “How?” “How? I’ve got a song, remember? When the time comes, I’ll know what to do.”

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Chapter 42

The trail widens onto a flat, Robin’s teeming thoughts wider still. Hey girl, you said you didn’t want to be a god—the words came from your own lips. And yet here you sojourn in this mystical land—flying, talking to flowers, embracing fairies, and now you’re figuring how to save the soul of a boy. What next? Command the waters to be stilled? Bring the mountain to you? No, better that you come back to earth; go to the mountain yourself. Or do you long to fly again? Converse with angels? What strange creatures these. Paradox, truly thy name is humanity. And who more human than you? Now appears a boulder field—igneous orbs large and small, far and wide. A volcanic plateau? Overhead a goshawk glides, fatherless and free. An hour of daylight remains; maybe two. Then twilight, then the murk of night. Denny stops to admire some many-hued lichens on a rock. “What shapes the saints emblazon!” he says. “Starbursts stopped in mid-burst. And the colors!” “Do you have a pocket this big? Let’s take the rock with us.” She laughs. “I see you’ve bounced back.” “Elasticity is the expedient of life, we say. Anyway, the past can’t be changed. Only the future.” “That’s so true, Denny.” “I’m only repeating what I hear and hope that it’s true.” “Just the same, you’ve taken it into your heart; that’s what counts. It’s your truth now.” He looks at her fondly. “I’m glad you came here, Robin.” “I’m just sorry I didn’t come sooner. I can’t tell you how sorry.” “Everything in its time. Isn’t that how it goes?” “That’s how life seems. Nothing happens before it’s supposed to.” “And now is the time.” She dishevels his hair playfully but not without emotion. “Now is the time, for sure, Denny. I can feel it.

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To the right of them now a plain, the edge of which drops precipitously a thousand feet or more to valleys and glades below. To the left, mountains. The trail veers toward the steeps. “I didn’t know there was so much to see,” Robin says. “And the eyes such crude tools to take it all in. Maybe that’s why we have imagination. To magnify it.” “Or create what we can’t see.” Their path meets a rocky escarpment and begins to run alongside. “Look,” she says. “The veins in the rock. I wonder if it’s gold.” “Or fools’ gold, though it doesn’t matter. All gold is golden to the eye. Especially the hungry one.” “Just look how it sparkles.” “Like you.” “Like you, too, Denny. No one sparkles like you do.” Okay, okay, enough of the marmalade—the clock is ticking. When it strikes, you don’t want to be hanging around a rock all goo-goo-eyed over sparkles, metallic or otherwise. Look at the pair of you, carrying on like a couple of moondogs on parade. “Well,” Denny says, “we’d better keep moving.” She gives him a knowing look, though not without a twinkle. “Yes. We’ve got an appointment, remember?” And so they go, though still casting keen eyes along the rock for other traces of sacred handiwork. Of which there are many, apparently, as evidenced by their constant gawking. “We’re incorrigible, Denny.” “Long live the believers!” “Then you agree with me.” “For sure. As long as we keep one eye on our duty—lest we cast our lot with the Lost Shepherd. He didn’t know when to stop looking and move along.”

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“But we do. So let’s go.” And so they went.

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Hey, look at this. Someone has carved crude steps into the rock wall, leading up to what looks like a natural alcove maybe twenty feet above. Inviting music drifts down, the notes descending on the travelers’ ears like a rain of sweet candy drops. “Do you hear that, Denny? It sounds like a harp coming from up there.” He listens. “If it is, it must be the Harpfrau. I’ve heard people talk about her.” “What’s she doing way up here?” “Nobody knows. Some people say she’s a spirit and doesn’t need earthly companionship.” Robin’s curiosity is obviously aroused. “Can we go up and see her?” “I think we should. They say her music is magical.” “What do you mean?” “Well, supposedly she has the ability to hear someone’s song and play it—so they themselves can hear it better.” “That sounds impossible.” “You don’t believe it?” “It’s just that everyone’s song seems so personal—and sometimes so quiet that even they can’t hear it. I’m living proof of that! So how can she hear it?” “Hence the term magical,” he says with feigned sarcasm. She hits him on the arm for his teasing. “Okay, then. Shall we go up and see this lady, this spirit, this magic mirror of the soul?” “You’re just now deciding?” he laughs. “In my mind I’m halfway up the steps.” He’s quick to make good on that, too, already ascending the rough-hewn stairs like an excited bighorn to a fresh spray of clover. “It’s a little steep,” he says over his shoulder. “Use your hands.”

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And so the ingenuous seekers climb the stairway to magic, not knowing what it would be like or even if it’d be there at all. Both would keep their minds open, no doubt, and for sure there would be ample imagination.Denny reaches the top first and sees a spacious natural amphitheater. In the back a thin waterfall plashes down from above, collecting in a small pool at its base. The sound of the water is not so much a rush as a fizzy tinkle. Next to the pool is the presumed Harpfrau, seated on a broad rock and caressing her instrument with a pluck and a strum. The next moment Robin is there too, standing next to Denny. The Harpfrau glances over, stops her playing and motions for them to sit. They look around and, not seeing any seats, plop cross-legged on the ground. She has a rather strange appearance, this Harpfrau. She looks about eighty—frightfully white shock of hair, weathered skin and claw hands—and yet her eyes are luminous and she radiates a youthful beauty, as if she could be old and young at the same time. She wears an ochre robe with scintillant silver threading and is an altogether enchanting sight. As the two patrons sit, Robin whispers to Denny, “You don’t think she’ll put a spell on us, do you?” “Spells only come to those who let them.” The Harpfrau turns back to her harp and a dreamy look has come over her face. She closes her eyes. “I think she’s feeling for your song,” Denny whispers. “What about yours?” “I’m sure she can sense mine’s already strong. I believe it’s you she wants to help.” A minute goes by and there’s no sound but the dulcet tinkling of the water. Then suddenly, the Frau’s eyes still closed, she begins to play. Robin, too, closes her eyes as the notes begin to dance over her, a melody so pure and yet so familiar that she has to suppress a giggle of surprise. What do you hear, precious one? A cadence close to the heart? Why do you smile so, even as a tear or two escapes your closed lids? What a song it must be, now that you hear it even more clearly!

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All too soon, the music stops. Robin opens her eyes. “That’s it?” Denny lightly slaps her arm. “Don’t be greedy. Did you hear what you needed to hear?” “Yes.” “Then leave it at that. The rest is up to you.” The Harpfrau’s eyes are open now too, and she looks at them with boundless love, though saying not a word. They stand, reverently it seems. Robin puts her hands together as if in prayer and bows to the youthful old woman. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you so much.” Denny nods in thanks too, and they turn and walk toward the steps. “She’s amazing, Denny. Why isn’t there a line of people all the way down to the valley waiting to see her?” He smiles. “Don’t you know? Most people here already know their song. It’s only those who don’t who need the help of the Harpfrau.” They work their way carefully down the steps and before long they’re back on the trail and their journey again.

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Chapter 45

Just as surely as one step follows another, so the track along the rough rock escarpment extended itself foot by foot, yard by yard, though in some places it was hardly discernible for lack of passage. “I wonder who the last person along here was,” Denny muses. “I wonder why,” she adds. “Now I know the meaning of the expression, ‘the ends of the earth.’ ” “And we’re not even there yet.” “Thanks for saying yet,” he chuckles. “Don’t mention it.” Following the rocky wall now as much as the path, they come upon a modest congregation of small mauve-blue flowers. “Look, hyssop,” Denny says. She stops and bends down to investigate. “So delicate. And the smell of paradise, too.” “They’re really an herb—some people make a tea out of the leaves. They say it’s stimulating.” “You’ve never tried it?” “I get enough stimulation as it is,” he laughs. “Let me just breathe it in. That’s all the pick-me-up I need.” “In that case, I’ll join you.” They hunker down for a sniff like coon dogs catching a scent. “Elysian,” she sighs, looking at him with a giddy smile. “Now come on, let’s make tracks.” Their devotional concluded, they rise and continue their stride. This far their peregrination has taken them, and farther yet surely awaits them. But something’s amiss in this goodly ad hoc scenario of progress—before long they come to a chasm maybe three yards across and plenty deep, no primordial riverbed at the bottom but sheer rock, as if an earthquake had caused the mountain to yawn and remain in that fixed state forever. The disheartened travelers stop to ponder their course.

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“Look at this,” Robin says, discovering some wood fragments at their feet. Denny bends down to examine them. “There was a bridge here,” he says. “See, more pieces on the other side.” “It looks ancient—what’s left of it. I don’t suppose we could jump across.” He considers for a moment. “I think I’d put it this way—if it’s ten feet, a jump of nine would soon become a hundred. If you know what I mean.” “Too well, I’m sure. I wonder why someone strung a rope across over there?” Not far from where they stand, a thick jute cable stretches across the chasm. It, too, is old, or seems to be. “Maybe there aren’t enough people passing by here nowadays to rebuild the bridge,” he says, “and somebody thought a rope would suffice.” Robin walks over, stoops at the edge of the abyss and runs her finger along the aged cord. “Do you think people actually cross on this?” “Only determined people!” “That’s us for sure, but I don’t think my arms are strong enough to monkey my way across—I’d have to walk on it.” “Me, too.” “Do you have any experience balancing on wires, Denny?” He shakes his head. “None.” “Me, either. At least not that I can remember.” “Do you want to turn around, then?” “You should know better than that!” she exclaims, standing again. “We’re going to get where we’re going, one way or another.” She looks down into the chasm’s gaping maw, then turns to Denny and peers into his eyes for what she might find there. “You’re afraid. Maybe I am too, Denny. Let’s sit down a moment before we decide. I know your song is strong, and mine’s getting stronger every minute. Let’s both listen now, to see what each one says. If they’re in

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unison, we’ll cross. If there’s one dissenting vote, we’ll find another route.” “There’s no better way to decide.” They sit and face each other, closing their eyes—two humble druids in meditation. What images will they evoke, what messages? How much time passes, it’s hard to say—in reflection, time stands still, as the saying goes. In good time, or due time, or even marked time, Denny opens his eyes to see Robin looking at him with fierce resolve. “Me, too!” he exclaims, reading her expression precisely. “Let’s go, then, and not a backward glance.” Thus the two spirited innocents rise to the occasion and face the cord across the chasm. “I’ll go first,” she says. “Have any words of wisdom?” “My father says when the mind is weak, the heart can still be strong. Don’t cross with your mind, then, but with your heart.” “There’s truth in that and I believe it.” She begins her ordeal with a last embrace of her companion, should it come to that, and turns toward the weathered rope and her unknown fate. “They say the first step is the hardest,” she says and alights on the cord with caution. It doesn’t snap and plummet to the bottom—that’s a good sign. She tries to put her full weight on it, her eyes straight ahead, her arms extended like a hawk about to land. That much negotiated with success, she meticulously swings her back foot forward to take the lead, or so it seems. “I need a rhythm,” she’s probably thinking, “but in slow motion.” The aging fiber cries out, just as the pine spire did when it was sorely stretched by Robin’s swing. She stops to ease the strain and collect her courage. She’s frozen in time, a bird in space, a wingless creature hovering a hundred feet above her death. Why don’t you jump, girl? That’s the thought that crossed your mind in the treetop, isn’t it? Didn’t you ask Denny what would happen if you did? And do you remember his answer? He said it would be your death. Is there to be a fulfillment of that now? A maudlin retreat from your quest because the odds seem too high? Or because you

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don’t want to go back from where you came but must? One little leap and all your troubles are over! But you’re not going to jump, are you. Of course not. Not now. Not when you’re so close and the music is so strong. And don’t forget your promise to Denny to help him with his own unaccountable challenge. Let’s face it, Redbreast, your work’s clearly not finished yet. Don’t lay down your arms til the battle’s been won. In short: get thee moving! “All right!” she shouts, not knowing where her sudden boost comes from but grateful for it nonetheless. As Denny looks on with anxious expectation, maybe even dread, she makes a determined though studiously slow movement, then another, then another, the shabby twine creaking with displeasure. She’s halfway now. Every increment forward is another inch toward destiny, she surely chasing hers and not to be deterred. There IS a rhythm now, imperceptible to anyone but her, and she glides with acrobatic confidence to the far edge. One last stretch and she’s on solid rock. “I did it!” she exclaims, only now feeling the sweat on her face and wiping it with her forearm. And just as suddenly the elation drains from her as she winces in realization that it’s Denny’s turn now. “Any words of wisdom for me?” he tries to say airily, but the tension in his voice is unmistakable. “One foot in front of the other and don’t let a single thought get in the way.” “Here’s to thoughtlessness, then.” Without further hesitation, he steps onto the withered braid and marches in slow time to the music only he can hear. If Robin’s heart isn’t in her throat now, she’s a cold, cold bitch. Three steps out he wobbles—and all the world stops to catch its breath— but with grim concentration he regains his balance and moves on. His eyes stare blankly and not at Robin waiting on the other side. He sees nothing at all—his mind is focused entirely on her words: one foot in front of the other. He does so faithfully; left, then right, then left again in painful and protracted succession and finally he’s there and she takes hold of his hand. At last!

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Now her elation returns because she’s mewling and nuzzling him like a mother cat her long-lost kitten. “Oh my god,” she says, “I didn’t know what I had to lose til I saw you on that wire.” Finally, she pulls back and looks at him. “Denny, is it okay to love you?” He clearly doesn’t know what to say. At last, he manages the semblance of an answer. “That’s something nobody’s ever asked me.” “Can I ask you, then?” His eyes become teary and he looks embarrassed about it. “You must think I’m a big baby.” “No. I think you’re a boy who just needs to be a boy. And the one I see now—right here—how can I not love him?” He’s obviously touched because he plunges back into the embrace and lets the tears flow unchecked. And it’s only when an errant cloud decides to cover up the nearly-setting sun and a cool breeze picks up that they realize that time is growing short and they’ve got to get this curious two-person marching band marching again.

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Chapter 46

Beyond the chasm the rock wall is no more and the wayfarers find themselves on a stony tableland, uplands and mountains still close on their left and the precipice to the lush valleys below two hundred or more yards on their right. The trail fades in and out—a few stones pressed into the ground here, a timeless rock worn smooth there. “I think we’re going by inspiration now,” Denny comments. “And we’re going. That’s the important thing.” “Onward, right?” “Maybe that’s the call of life, Denny—the motto of biology, so to speak. Forever onward.” They round a large granite outcropping and Robin stops to sniff the air. “Smell that?” “Sulfur. There must be a fumarole around here. Look up there—steam.” She looks up into the rocks and sees four or five vapor columns feathering skyward. “Do you think there are any lava pits we need to worry about?” “I’m not sure. There was supposedly a big eruption a long time ago—centuries—but nothing like that now. We might see the Mud Pots, though.” “What are they?” “They say there’s a field where pools of mud boil right out of the ground. There’s even a legend that they speak to travelers passing by, but I don’t know if that’s true or even if they’re around here.” “I suppose we’ll know soon enough.” That said, they press ahead as the scarlet sun lowers itself voluptuously in the sky and caresses the waiting horizon. Traversing a passage between two basaltic monoliths, no doubt the lingering relics of the bygone eruption, they come upon a muggy tract of rising steam columns. “Smell the brimstone!” Denny says. “I wonder if those are the fabled Mud Pots!” Robin looks to see half a dozen or more small depressions in the ground,

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each bubbling lazily with mud. The trail appears to pass near them. “I guess we’ll find out if they can talk. All I hear now is the drivel of bubbling mud.” “Maybe it’s like a person’s song,” he replies; “you have to be still and listen carefully to hear it.” While Denny waits, she edges close to the pots, leaning over slightly and concentrating. “Come on, little pots. Speak to me.” “Blub blub blub.” “You’ll have to do better than that.” “Bub bub,” another one adds. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” she replies whimsically. “Bub bub bob Robin. Bub bub come closer.” She’s clearly taken aback but not one to be rendered speechless. “Are you really talking? What do you want to say?” Carefully, she leans closer yet. “Bub blip. Lip. Bubbly lips.” “Yes?” “Bub closer.” She obeys in spite of herself. “Speak to me.” “Blub bleer hear it now.” “I’m waiting! I can’t believe I’m talking to a friggin’ puddle of mud.” “Bub bub battle.” “Battle? What battle?” “Bub bub battle,” another one says. “When? What kind of battle?” “Bub blub be. Be, Robin. Be ready.” “How? Tell me how!” “Bub bub bub. Bub.” “How should I prepare?” “Bub bub. Blub.”

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“Is that all?” “Bub bub. Bub. Blub.” Apparently the conversation is over—if one dare call it that. She turns and walks back to where Denny is waiting. “Did they speak?” he asks. “Kind of.” “What did they say?” She takes his hand solemnly. “I think we’ve got to be ready, Denny.” “Ready for what?” “There’s a battle coming.” “Is it true?” “My voice tells me it is.” He returns her serious look. “Then we’ll be ready.” And they strike out again, ever forward, these two, into the lawless unknown.

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They say holding hands isn’t just a custom of happy-go-lucky natives in palmy climes or an affectation of celebrities play-acting for the world—nor is it the exclusive domain of moonstruck inamorati all incandescent and ready to romp. When times demand, friends who love each other might also be found hand-holding—yes, confirmation of their bond, yea, bulwark against danger. Are Robin and Denny holding hands? Is the pine cone a masterwork of Nature? Does the dew consort with dawn? The trail drops down into a vale of scrubby trees and fumbling underbrush. The sun is gone now, twilight on the verge of descending. The lumbering trees seem almost menacing—shadowy scrags devious in their crooked shapes and prurient reachings. If fear has a name, its name is darkness—but it’s not quite dark yet so what rough beast wanders these woods with like manners? And if fear is absent, then how does one describe the feeling? If trepidation is relegated to the hindmost, what creature then leads the way? Robin moves ahead with purpose and caution both. Denny has no trouble keeping up with her because it’s not pace that distinguishes her movement but intent. And how else is intent measured but in forward momentum? Thus she carries him along though he moves of his own power. Even so, she’s not beyond misgivings. “This place is creepy.” “That’s for sure.” “No one’s got stories about these woods?” “Nope.” “Good. That means it’s not famous for being haunted, or inhabited by cannibals, stuff like that.” “I hope you’re right.” “So do I.” Suddenly a squad of startled quail bursts out of the underbrush with a rush of feathers, in turn startling half the daylights out of the two companions.

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Robin recovers and lets out a nervous laugh. “I wasn’t expecting that!” “Me, either. And usually I’d be glad to see them.” “Under other circumstances.” “Right.” “Normal ones.” “Exactly.” Do they trudge now or step with confidence? Whatever their gait, their fate is truly sealed. The date’s been set and what remains but for time to wind down to it? Destiny is nothing other than clockwork, after all, and events arrive irresistibly at the appointed hour. “It’s starting to get dark, Denny.” “I know.” No stopping for a caress of blossom now—though fleurs follow them in wistful anticipation—the adventurers sweep ahead, vigilant and resolute. Once-blue sky has turned stone-gray and the path winds through ever more entangled undergrowth, exaggerating the shadows on either side. Numerous bends conceal unknown but conceivable phantasms, none the less real for their pall. “It’s really creepy now,” she says, tested but hopefully as yet undaunted. “Truly.” Unfortunately there’s worse to come for the wayfarers because there are movements in the bushes all around. If it was but wind and shadow there’d be no cause for alarm, but shadows that move promiscuously and rustle the tangled foliage may pose a threat no specter can. “I think we have visitors,” Robin says with a steely edge to her voice. “Keep moving.” “Roger that.” The best laid plans and all that, because at that moment there’s a violent unmasking as a throng of howling Wild Boys leap into the open, sticks raised and eyes blazing. If that weren’t enough of an unwanted welcome, mingled with them is a swarm of short armless creatures with gaping

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mouths, shrieking in a hellish chorus—music of the damned if there ever was any. Robin grabs Denny’s arm and pulls him close. “They’ve come after us! And what are those foul things with them?” “I think they’re Screamers. I’ve heard about them but I didn’t believe they were real.” “Are they dangerous?” “They say if you get bit, you end up changing into one.” “Let’s not antagonize them, then, and try to figure a way out of this.” She needn’t bother, for there was no way out. They were surrounded by the baying hounds, as it were, foxes outfoxed and cornered. And who now should strut out of the shadows but the once-duped leader of the Wild Boys, the striking Adonis seeming even more stony-eyed and malevolent than before. “Well, look who we’ve found,” he sneers with obvious satisfaction, waving his hand to hold back and quiet the Screamers, who apparently are under his sway. “So you followed us,” Robin replies, attracted and repelled at the same time as she steps forward to face him in the dim light. “No, I followed you. Did you think I wouldn’t?” “I think you don’t stop til you get what you want.” “I’m beginning to think that’s something we share.” She clearly doesn’t agree—or does she?—but what’s the point in arguing? “So what do you intend to do now?” she asks. “That’s not really the question. I’d say it’s more like what do you intend to do now?” “What are my choices?” “You’ve got two. You can come back with me and we can share every pleasure two people can ever desire.” He looks deep into her eyes like a snake mesmerizing its prey. She grasps Denny’s arm ever tighter—he’s still at her side—as if to draw strength and not be overpowered by the enchantment of Adonis’ viperous gaze.

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“What’s the second choice?” “We can beat you to death with our sticks and laugh at every blow. That would be fun. Or better yet, turn the Screamers on you, sit back and watch the show.” “You’re disgusting,” she declares. “Everybody’s disgusting, in their own way. I’m one of the lucky ones who can enjoy it.” Denny jumps in. “Your end’ll come soon enough,” he says. “Not soon enough to save YOU. If you’re even worth saving.” Then to Robin: “Some ‘guide’ you’ve got here! Lets you fall right into our hands.” “Is that where you think we are? In your hands?” He steps so close to her now that she can smell his clove-spiced breath and her heart begins to pound. “Aren’t you?” he says with fearful confidence. “And that’s where you’ll stay. Don’t deny that you want to—I can feel your heat, I can smell your yearning. Look, you’re quivering!” “I’m not!” He touches her cheek, like a lover might, or a slavemaster. “You want me and everything I can give you. And I want you. Like you said, I don’t stop til I get what I want—so it’s useless to fight. Come back with me and your senses will be stirred beyond anything you could ever dream of. Ecstasy is before you with open arms. Embrace it.” What will you do, cherished one? Do you really have a choice? Has it come to this, that your journey is destined to end in the land of the Wild Boys, a prisoner there, but a prisoner no less to endless gratification—it perhaps the more imperious jailer? And yet what an alluring future! Never to have to think, to wonder, to agonize over how to live. For what better way is there than to satisfy one’s desires—forever tossing sweet morsels into their hungry little mouths, tiny tastes of heaven that might make one forget the pain of life and those terrible longings for comfort, for dignity, for peace! Wouldn’t one find more facile meaning in whims, where no understanding

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is required but only a concurring spirit and accommodating flesh? The flesh would be the easiest of all to satisfy, being as it is hardly more than a fragile instrument of pain and pleasure. Why not give it pleasure? Is there any doubt in your mind that you want to? Do you deny there’s already a growing tickle right now? So what’s it to be, thou morning star, fleur of light, thou Seventh Sister—will you remain the lost sister forever? In this game of life, which card will you play now? Can you trump this dark dealer’s hand, or will you limp willingly (and even gladly!) to his lair and become mistress to his unknown enchantments? What? You hear a tune?—a haunting arpeggio maybe, some rhythmic counterpoint? Irksome woman, what took you so long?! And what words float along with that starry melody? What wisdom—if any!—drifts from its growing cadence? Is there a cipher there, a hidden proverb worthy of your ear? Have you an ear still to listen? “Let me have a word with my guide.” “Just be quick,” he says, already looking nervous at the waning light of day. She steps back from the shady-dealer, taking Denny aside and whispering in his ear. “On my signal.” “On your signal, what?” “You’ll know.” “I’ve got no appetite for getting beaten to death, Robin. Or worse.” “Then you’ll have to trust me.” “Do you?” “Yes.” She pulls back purposefully and he looks at her with assent, though without another word. “All right,” she says to the impatient Adonis, “I’ll give you my answer.” Before he can reply, she swings her arm with unexpected speed and slaps him violently across the face. Immediately the other Wild Boys raise their sticks with a shout and the Screamers cut loose with frenzied shrieks and

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begin to advance, licking their fiendish lips. Robin turns toward the path ahead, extends her arms forward, palms touching, closes her eyes, and slowly spreads her arms—whatever can happen here? Nothing really, or so one thinks. But something is happening: the antagonists blocking the path are mysteriously parted, as if unseen and irresistible energy from her hands is doing the parting—a miracle of her own making?—and the trail is momentarily clear. “Now, Denny!” she shouts as she opens her eyes, and she and her erstwhile guide burst through the breech and rip along the path, their enraged antagonists in raucous pursuit. “How did you do that?” Denny shouts to her in full sprint. “Imagination, remember? You taught me that!” To the left and to the right the trail zags, finally disappearing almost entirely as it exits the woods and pours itself vaguely into the dim twilight. The pursuers are hot behind their prey; hot and damned furious. Yet as fortune would have it they don’t gain ground as fast as expected—because of the Screamers’ stunted legs?—or could it be some unforeseen fatigue from the Wild Boys’ effort to overtake the two (or their mischief-making along the way)? In any case it’s almost an even race and the outcome impossible to predict. One thing is certain, though. Capture meant death, or possibly servitude among these brutish adolescents if their leader was bent on eternally venting his passion on Robin. One kills a suckling pig to partake of its flesh but one need not kill a woman to sample the pleasures of her flesh. Denny, of course, was expendable. So for Robin, then, maybe death was the better fate. And as fate would have it, the woman and the boy begin to tire while their hardier pursuers only grow hungrier. The gap begins to narrow—and the pursued come more and more within reach. Like a python squeezing its prey, every second brings the fugitives closer to their unwilling deaths. In less than a minute the game might be up but from a shout from Denny, sounding like his lungs are about to burst. “Look!”

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“What is it?” “The Cave of Adullam!” If only it were so! But the mind under pressure plays tricks and might this be just another one? Robin squints and tries to make out the dark shape imposed on the rock face ahead and after a few more breathless strides she’s able to proclaim: “You’re right! Hurry, we can make it!” “They’ll follow us in!” “They’re afraid of the dark, remember? They’ll go back to the woods and build a fire.” He tries to draw strength from her words but he’s clearly flagging. She takes his hand. “Believe, Denny! We can make it!” Something in her words, or maybe her touch, penetrates his being and he seems to find renewed energy because he sprints forward, pulling her along, she struggling now to keep up. The cave is just ahead. Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty. Don’t fall now, either one of you, or all is lost! The world—your world—will end and an unholy hell will surely prevail. Hell on earth—the worst kind! Ten more yards! They arrive at full gallop and plunge headlong into the darkness, too excited and too exhausted to worry about what they might find there—monsters, demons, things with teeth? Just outside, screams and shouts and the futile beating of sticks against the rock face. Yet how quickly the noises lose intensity as darkness spreads its somber blanket! “They’ll go soon,” Robin says, panting like a spaniel. “What about the Screamers?” asks Denny, gasping to get the words out as he falls to the ground. “My guess is the Wild Boys will take them back to the forest for protection. They’re only brave in the daylight!” “And tomorrow? What happens then?” “Tomorrow—that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

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Black is a color of both beauty and terror. Which will they choose? There’s warmth and comfort in darkness. Maybe even peace. Yet some see ghosts or crawly things. “Are you scared, Denny?” The words echo slightly as they sit side by side in the cavernous darkness. “No. Your hand feels warm. And strong.” “I’ve become very strong. Stronger than I could have believed.” “I feel it.” “And it’s thanks to you, my guide.” “You’re my guide now, Robin. You have been all along, though I think I only realized it today. Maybe I just helped bring it out.” She squeezes his hand. “And you succeeded. But sit here a moment, Denny. I want to explore this cave a little.” She leaves him and feels her way around in the blackness. “It seems to be a chamber of some sort. There are carpets and—what’s this? It feels like a bed of straw.” “A bed would be nice.” “I wonder if there’s a light, then. Wait, here’s—” A fumbling and a turn of a filigreed key and the cave is dimly bathed in yellowish light. Denny looks over to see Robin at an ancient lantern hanging from the wall. “Abracadabra,” she says with a restrained smile. They look around them. It’s a vaulted room about thirty feet across, the ceiling five or six feet higher than the passageway through which they entered. There are faded rugs and a crude bed and nothing more except for the figures of a rune carved into the rock wall. Denny stands up. “Can you read that?” he asks. She approaches and looks at it thoughtfully.

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“This is different from the glyphs we saw at the Palisades. It seems to be in another language—see, the shapes are completely different.” She stares at it, alternately closing her eyes as if seeing something in her mind and then opening them. “The future, it says. No, part of the future—wait. Your part of the future…is in your hands.” She smiles. “We already know that, don’t we.” “Sometimes people forget.” “Or remember but don’t quite believe it. How about you, Denny? Do you believe it?” “Totally. You?” “Totally. I can say that now. I know it and believe it.” She turns her head abruptly, as if distracted by something. “What is it?” he asks. “Can you hear it? It sounds like running water.” He strains to listen. “Yes. I hear it.” They go toward the sound to investigate and find a small natural basin nearly hidden behind a low rock ledge—fed by a rivulet emerging from a fissure in the rock. “Call it the luck of the gods—we have water!” she exclaims. She dips her hand in the modest pool and scoops out a drink. “It’s sweet!” He drinks. “It is!” he says. They both drink their fill and seem satisfied. She walks over to a threadbare red carpet and sits. He joins her. She regards him affectionately in the citrine lamplight. “We’ve come far, Denny.” “It’s been really good, hasn’t it.” “It’s been more than good.” “I’ve loved every minute of it. Even the bad parts.” “Me, too!”

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She puts her hand on his arm. “But we have to think about tomorrow.” “I know. I’ve been thinking about it already. I’ve been trying to figure out how to get past them. Maybe we could get up early and sneak past while they’re still sleeping. Or maybe come up with some kind of trick.” She sighs. “That’s not going to be possible.” “Why not?” “Maybe you think we’ve just come through the battle the Mud Pots warned about, or that it’s coming soon. But I realized that isn’t it at all. The battle was in my own heart, Denny. I came so close to going with that dark Adonis today, and I had to fight with all my strength to hear the voice that would tell me what to do. That was the battle they were talking about. And more than that, I realize that I can’t stay here because I need to go back to where I came from—first thing in the morning.” He looks crestfallen. “I know you have to, but why now? You haven’t even been here that long.” “I know. But a lot can happen in a short time. A lot has happened.” “Yes, but—” He seems to be struggling to hold back tears. She, too, seems suffused with emotion, maybe deeper feelings than he can guess. She brushes his hair away from his forehead, as if she can think of nothing else to do. “It’s been on my mind ever since I came here,” she explains. “I knew I was here for a reason; I just didn’t know what it was. But I thought that when I found out, I’d be ready to go back. I didn’t really want to—at first, remember? But when I started to listen to the music inside me, it gradually became clear to me. I confess, everything about this land of fleurs—and you—is so endearing that I was tempted to stay, even before that bully first made his shameless offer. And tonight, a second chance at so-called bliss made me dig deeper than I’ve ever gone before and that’s how I got through it. Victory, snatched from defeat! And the knowledge of what to do came out of me. I believe in myself now, Denny. So when I say I have to go back—

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even though I don’t know what I’ll find there—it’s not just capriciousness but a feeling at the very core of me. Can you understand that?” One tear after another runs down his cheeks. “I’m trying to. But I don’t want you to let you go. You’re part of me!” “And you’re part of me. You were right about that all along.” “So what’ll become of me? Without you?” If her heart were never broken by words, it is now. “Oh, Denny—you have no idea how I’ve thought about that. At first I wanted to take you with me, but when I faced the fact that I don’t know what troubles—or dangers—await me, I realized it would be unfair to take you there—” “I don’t care about that!” he blurts. “Let me finish, won’t you?” she says, pressing her finger to his lips. “I didn’t know what dangers lie ahead, but the more I saw us working together, giving one another courage, hope, even love—I knew that no matter what that future might hold, we could face it together, you and me. So let me ask you—and please think again about it before you answer—are you really willing to leave this miraculous land and go back with me?” He hesitates not a moment but throws himself into her arms. “Yes! Oh, yes! I do want to go back with you. And I’ll never leave you, Robin, if you’ll have me. Never!” She embraces him as if in a true wedlock of souls. “And I’ll never leave you, Denny. Not til all things pass away and we with them.” They remain in each other’s arms. The creamy yellow light from the lantern gives them a golden halo and who knows—maybe they feel sanctified. The moment does seem holy, in its way. In time, Robin pulls back slightly. “You won’t change your mind?” “Try to make me change it!” he laughs, to her relief. “But how? How do we go back?” “Imagination, Denny, remember? The both of us. Come, let’s lie down beside one another and have our minds and hearts make come true what we will them to. And when we wake up in the morning—we’ll be there.”

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Chapter 49

Everything we need to know, we already know. So saith the Master. Even the raggedy Sibyl concurred, wily old hag sweeping the temple yard. And how does one come to know what one already knows? The song! Knowledge of all things of the soul is hidden in the ethereal music only one can hear—the listener! And yet how many songs go unheard? How many stones does one pass along the path unnoticed? How many pleasures does one take before realizing that meaning in life—elusive bird!—is not to be found there? But these are just babblings, the noises of children, the bubbling of mud pots in the hinterlands. Why should we heed a sibyl who says, “There’s no prophetess here, or anywhere else for that matter”? Ah, sleep. Now there’s a place for things of the heart! When the curtains of the eyes are closed, what strange and wondrous proceedings might transpire in that inner room? Dreams, one says? Dreams perhaps, but with what secret meanings? What lessons for the living? But dreams, whether by night or by day, are just so many maundering images, like the senseless purling of restless water over rocks. Or so the people say. Look at the fleurs, cry the swooning sensitives. How laughable! How empty, how vain! Inspiration should be gathered from more potent stuff. But potency, to be judged at all, is best measured by this: I am it, it is me, and we are the same; and in that exhilaration a dawn breaks—I’m lucky! I’m alive! I’m a human being, yes, for what that’s worth, but at least I can seek this. A fleur! My kingdom, my heart, my soul, for a fleur!!!

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Chapter 50

“Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?” He can hear but his eyes are still closed. He doesn’t remember yet that he's in a hospital bed. The chart at its foot reads, “Capt. Robin Denny, U.S. Army.” His legs are gone. He was in a Humvee on a desolate road outside Baghdad when the IED blew everything to hell. He’s in the recovery room now, the surgery to remove the remaining flesh apparently a success. The anesthesia is just wearing off. A woman—his wife?—stands just over the doctor’s shoulder. “Captain Denny? Can you open your eyes?” First there’s a fluttering, then a blink or two, then a slow realization. “Captain Denny? Do you know where you are?” The soldier struggles to clear his mind. “I’m in the Army hospital in Wiesbaden.” “That’s right. It was touch and go there for a while in the operating room—we weren’t sure we could get you back. But you’ll be happy to know that you’re all right.” Unaware of the irony of his words—though the captain perceives nothing ironic—the doctor takes a last look at the monitors. “Can I talk to him now?” the woman asks. “Certainly. The nurse will be in soon and I’ll check back later.” He exits with a professional smile and she moves to the side of the bed. “You came,” he says. “Yes, my flight got in about two hours ago. I’m so, so sorry.” “My legs?” “I don’t know what to say. The military was your life. And you, such a proud man!” He looks at her as if she’s not in on the momentous secret. “Why are you crying?” he asks. “I’m—I’m so sad for you.” He takes her hand with all the strength he’s able to summon, which isn’t

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much now but has to be enough for the both of them for the time being. “Don’t be sad. Be glad for me! For us!” “How can you say that?” “Because I know something now that I didn’t know before. For the first time in my life, I believe I understand what beauty is!” “But your legs—” “My legs! I’ve been to a place where I didn’t need legs! Life is so much bigger than I thought. So much deeper and sweeter!” “What are you talking about? The anesthetic. It’s—” “Listen to me, darling. I took a journey, and I found a side of me I’d always been denying. And a part of me I’d left behind a long time ago. But now that I’ve found them, I’m not going to let them go! I’m complete now! For the first time, by god, I’m complete!” Yes, the tears flow on both sides now and the woman, confused maybe but loyal and forever hopeful, bends down to embrace him. “Is it true?” she asks. “Is it really true?” “It’s true and it’s real and it’ll never leave me, I promise! This isn’t the end of life, don’t you see? My life is just beginning! Our life!”

Such things happen, or are said to happen, in hospital rooms sometimes—though one suspects all too rarely. Is it that people don’t listen when a tune is playing that could change everything? Is the world too loud for a quiet voice to be a guide? One can only wonder. But this is certain, though some would deny it: life is a battle to the death for one and all but beauty can get us through it. But who has time, or intent, they say, to see? Poor sad dogs! Passing by a stone in the road and not picking it up to see it flash in the sunlight. Imagine that! And so the story ends, as all such tales must, with a sigh. Everything we need to know is but a murmur within, but who listens? That’s what brings the sigh. What is a man? What is a woman? There may be no answer, today or ever, but would that they be whole! Hear my prayer, who can hear! © Contact: katryrain@gmail.com