Read Journey to Ninas Twei, Book One of The Earth Woman Tree Woman Quartet Page 4

  Chapter 3

  Moon When Acorns Fall

  On the first day of school the sun rose bright and warm, and the streets of Arundel sparkled with its dancing light and the boisterous laughs of nervous children. Giselle’s students filed into the room, looking around at the bulletin boards and posters before choosing desks and settling down.

  In the middle of attendance, the door opened tentatively, just wide enough for a small girl to edge her way around it and stand bewildered next to the wall, staring at Giselle. The child’s eyes were an intense, dark blue – the color of the ocean on a clear bright day. Giselle’d known an old man once who’d sometimes look at a child and say, “That child’s a very old soul.” At the time Giselle had been vaguely amused, but this little girl did seem to her to be ‘a very old soul.’ She pointed out an empty desk and the girl slid quietly into the chair.

  “What's your name?” she asked smiling. The child whispered something in such a small voice Giselle couldn't hear it. “I’m sorry, I couldn't hear you." Giselle moved closer to the girl.

  “My name is Enid Amundsen.” She was barely audible. There were smirks and smothered giggles from some of the children. Giselle looked quickly in their direction and they were quiet. She smiled reassuringly and continued with attendance.

  One child was still missing. She was passing out paper, pencils, and crayons when the door was thrown wide and a tall boy with a full head of dark curls pushed his way in, making all of them jump as he let the door slam behind him. She looked over at him and smiled. “You must be Jesús McCrae.”

  He shoved his hands into his back pockets and shrugged, staring past Giselle at the wall behind her. She pointed to the empty seat next to Enid. “We're writing a paragraph and drawing pictures of what we like best about school."

  He gave her a quick, incredulous look, and turned his eyes back to the wall behind her as he pushed his way to his desk. Nothing, she thought. There’s nothing he likes about school.

  While they were writing and drawing she called students up to a corner table to check reading and math skills. Between groups she walked around the classroom. Coming up behind Enid and Jesús she bent over to get a closer look at Jesús' picture. It was the school – not any school, but an accurate picture of Arundel Elementary with a crack down the center exploding with fire. Desks were plunging through the air, and dark smoke mixed with flames reached out long tongues toward a woman flying topsy-turvy through the smoke. The woman had such individuated features – older with short permed hair, a grim look on her face – Giselle felt sure she was a particular person.

  She picked up the drawing and held it up to see it in a better light. “This is quite a drawing, Jesús. Who’s the woman?”

  Jesús stiffened, but didn’t look at her, or answer. She stood there for a moment looking at him. Finally she said, “We’ll talk about this later. Meanwhile, write your paragraph.”

  Before lunch she collected papers from each desk group. Jesús hadn’t written his paragraph, but there were several drawings on his desk. One was a caricature of her and at the top it was titled, “Witch.” Well, I guess he can write one-word descriptions, she thought. The next drawing was of the sea. He had sketched it in pencil, shading it like a charcoal drawing. The water was tossing and angry. “Can I hang this picture on the wall?” she asked him. “You draw very well.” He shrugged. Then she held the “Witch” picture in front of his face. He turned his head away from the picture and Giselle. “But this one's mine,” she continued. “Too bad you labeled it. I’d have hung it, too. It's good.” No response. This time it was Giselle who shrugged. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the disturbing picture of the school.

  The bell rang for the noon recess and the children filed out, their lunch bags or money in their hands. Giselle waited until the room was empty and then looked again at Jesús' drawings. There was a power in his pictures, as if he had somehow caught the edge of something alive and throbbing. She could almost see the waves rolling, could almost hear the drumming of the surf in the picture of the sea. When she looked closer she saw there were faces in the sea – very subtle, but definitely there. How could a child do that? It was hard for her to pull her eyes away from the picture and she was late for her first day in the teacher's lunchroom.

  She felt nervous and awkward as she entered the room, unattached to her brain as if there was cotton in her head. The room was small, just big enough to hold a large table. Around it sat most of the members of the faculty. She had been introduced to them at the short faculty meeting the day before, but none of them had come up to her and introduced themselves as she prepared her classroom – and there was the woman from the picture of the school exploding!

  The conversation stopped. She felt their eyes examining her until she was fully inspected. Ms. Nichols, sitting at the end of the long table, rose to meet her, and drawing her forward, named the other teachers, including Rowena Dickerson, the woman in Jesús’ picture. Giselle slid into an empty chair and promptly forgot most of the rest of their names.

  “Hey, I thought I saw Jesús McCrae come in late and go into your room, Giselle,” said one younger male teacher waving a sandwich in her direction. He turned to Nicki. “Did you put Jesús McCrae in her class?”

  “Yes, Harding,” answered the principal, “that I did.”

  “Do you think that was a very nice thing to do to a new teacher?” Harding persisted.

  “Giselle can handle him,” replied the principal.

  Giselle nodded in agreement. “Jesús and I will do just fine.”

  “Oh, you don't know,” exclaimed Rowena. “I had him last year. He had to be suspended from school four times!”

  “Maybe that's why he misbehaves. So he won't have to come to school,” suggested Giselle with a grin as she pulled the lid off her yogurt. There was a brief silence. Giselle noted a few raised eyebrows. Rowena Dickerson was glaring at her. Oh, oh, she thought, I didn’t quite mean it to come out like that….

  “Oh, he's terrible,” Rowena spit out vehemently. “He ought to be sent to Juvenile Hall, or something. He sits there with his arms crossed and doesn’t answer you.” She shook her head over the neat, half of a chicken sandwich on white bread she held clasped in both hands halfway to her mouth.

  “And his parents aren’t any better. His father’s part of that McCrae clan of dirt-farming trouble makers that goes way back around here. Quit school and joined the army, and when he came back, he’d married a Mexican. Brought her back here – here to Arundel! She’s the only one of her kind here.”

  She looked up at Giselle. “There are plenty of them in Robertsville, but thank God not here.” Giselle eyes got wide for a moment, shocked at the overt bigotry. No wonder Nicki lived in Robertsville.

  Another teacher added, “Billy McCrae’s one of those motorcycle types – has a beard and long hair and everything.”

  Giselle reached in her bag for some crackers. “Well, it's obvious Jesús’ quite a handful, but he’s certainly an incredible artist.”

  “Huh?” Rowena replied.

  “Jesús,” said Giselle. “He does beautiful art work, doesn't he?”

  “I didn't know he did any work,” replied the teacher.

  “He may not do much,” replied Giselle. “He wouldn't write a paragraph for me this morning, but he did several really excellent pictures.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t let him draw when he hadn’t done his school work.” The older teacher folded her sandwich bag carefully, keeping her eyes on her hands and avoided looking at Giselle again.

  Harding grinned at Giselle. “I'll bet he really gave you a rough time this morning.”

  “Oh, nothing I couldn't handle!” laughed Giselle.

  Ms. Nichols grinned. “This isn’t Giselle's first year of teaching. She's been teaching inner city kids.”

  Harding shrugged and concentrated on his sandwich.

  “You should’ve seen my class!” exclaimed another teacher drawing the attention
away, much to Giselle’s relief.

  When Giselle returned to her classroom after lunch she found three boys struggling outside the door. One was Jesús McCrae. Catching Jesús' arm, she said, “Boys, stop this and get in the classroom.” Jesús pulled away from her defiantly.

  “Jesús, go in.” He shrugged his shoulders and went into the room, followed by the other boys and Giselle, who closed the door behind her. “Sit down.”

  The other boys sat, but Jesús stood in the middle of the room, glaring at the wall. Giselle ignored him. “Am I right in guessing it was you two against Jesús?”

  One boy was quick to take the lead saying he’d come to Joey’s rescue because Jesús hit him. Joey blushed and looked at the floor. Jesús stared at the wall. Finally Joey admitted he’d called Jesús a “dirty spic.”

  Giselle took a deep breath. “Do you know what that means?”

  “It's a nasty word for someone who's Mexican.” The boy tucked his chin into his chest staring at the floor.

  She gave them a lecture on ethnic slurs as a form of poison, and sent Joey and his friend out of the room, then turned to Jesús. “It feels really bad when someone calls you a name like that.”

  He turned his head as far away from her as he could.

  She picked up his caricature of her off the desk. “It hurts me when you call me names, too.” Jesús’ eyes flicked wide for a moment before shuttering down again. “But it’s not an excuse for hitting someone. I don’t hit you when you call me names and you may not hit any of the other students, for any reason.”

  She took a deep breath. “I hear last year you were suspended from school four times. What did you do while you were suspended?”

  “Went fishing,” he muttered. He was still staring at the wall, but his lips lifted in a tiny smirk.

  “Did you have fun?” she smiled.

  Jesús gave her a startled glance before turning away again. “I caught a lot of fish.”

  “Well, Jesús, I just want to tell you that I don't care how much trouble you get into, you're not going to get suspended from school this year. You can spend every afternoon in detention if you choose, and that will be less time for fishing. You can save your fishing for after school and weekends.” His eyes met hers for a moment and then looked quickly away.

  The bell rang and the rest of the children came babbling, pushing, and shoving into the classroom. Last was Enid who crept along the wall to her desk. Jesús walked over to his desk and as he passed her he suddenly pounded his fist down on her desk right in front of her face. Enid jumped and looked at him in terror. Her eyes began to fill with tears. “Oh, shit,” he muttered. He glanced up at Giselle and their eyes met for a moment.

  “Detention. Today.”

  He lowered his head and sat down. Oh, shit, indeed, thought Giselle, moving over behind Enid to rest a hand reassuringly on her shoulder.

  The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Jesús accomplished nothing, but he didn't cause any disturbances, seemingly off in a world of his own. He went to detention without a word.

  After school there was a long, tedious faculty meeting and Giselle found herself staring out of the open window at the aspens that rustled gently in the wind, a whispered song. When the meeting ended she was anxious to leave, but she did take time to ask Nicki if she knew anything about Enid Amundsen.

  “Yes, I do.” Nicki propped herself on a table top and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Her mother, Emma, was very young and unmarried when Enid was born. She killed herself when Enid was two. Enid lives with her grandfather, Gunther Amundsen. He's very… difficult. He tried to keep Enid from coming to school, but of course he didn’t get away with that.” She grimaced. “I hear he hardly ever comes into town any more,” she continued, “although he used to be quite friendly. But when his wife died – that was a couple of years before Emma got pregnant with Enid – he withdrew. I understand Enid does all right in her school work as long as her shyness doesn't interfere, but she won’t read out loud in a group or give reports. She reads and writes quite well.”

  Nicki stood, thrusting her hands in the pockets of her gray slacks and giving Giselle a brief smile, then strode off toward the office.

  Giselle walked slowly to the parking lot pushing unlock on the remote as she walked. The car door was burning hot to the touch from the warm late summer sun.

  Later, when Giselle went down to the river at the county park to swim she was alarmed to see a new sign at the entrance:

  Due to budget cuts,

  THIS PARK WILL CLOSE

  November 1

  It went on to list the names of county supervisors to contact to protest the closure.

  “Oh, no, not this park, too,” she whispered. She’d read on One Earth Together about park closures all over the country. Often the land was being sold to private corporations. She took a deep breath and continued down the drive to the river. “I’m not going to think about that right now. I’m not.”

  The river, edged by the tall slender cottonwoods, wound slowly around the nearly empty beach. It was even lower in its banks than the last time she’d come, but still deep enough to swim. She swam laps back and forth in front of the beach with bursts of joy, feeling her energy, dissipated after her first day of class, return as if it were flowing from the river into her muscles. Floating on her back with her hands clasped behind her head, she felt herself a part of the river itself and she dove underneath the water with an inexplicable yearning to stay under forever.

  A willow tree extended from the top of the steep bank on the far side and hung over her, filled with the songs of little birds high in its branches. A scrub jay sat on a limb hanging so low she could almost reach out her hand and slip her fingers down his feathery back. Something blue fluttered above her on the steep bank next to the willow and the jay flew away.

  A man sat cross-legged, leaning against the tree, an open book in his hands. His long black hair was shoved back from his dark eyes. His jeans were patched and faded and his old blue shirt hung open to the breeze, but he didn't have that brittle thin look of the malnourished or drug consumed poor that often made her want to pull them into her arms like a small child. She felt a warmth in her cheeks as she realized she did want to touch the brown hardness of his chest. He looked up from the book and for one short second she thought perhaps he was looking back at her, but then he stood and walked away from the edge of the bank, swinging the book in one hand, and disappeared into the forest, leaving her with a strange empty feeling.

  She swam a couple more laps, glancing every once in a while up at the bank. For a moment or two a huge shaggy gray dog sat where the man had been, but then he, too, slipped off into the underbrush. With a sigh, Giselle swam for the beach and home.

  First Quarter

  After almost a week of school Giselle decided to talk to Enid’s grandfather about her shyness. Since his land was just a little north of her place she thought she would stop by on her way home. She turned off the highway and up the long drive to the small house.

  The place was shabby. Peelings of old white paint crawled down the walls and the windows were so encased by dirt that it was hard to believe that anyone could see in or out of them. Behind the house, and in sharp contrast, was a sturdy, well-kept barn. As she climbed out of the car, a tall, grim man stepped out of the barn and stood staring at her, hands fisted at his waist. A dog ran over to Giselle, wagging its tail, and she petted it as she stepped forward. “Hello, Mr. Amundsen,” she said, extending her hand. “I'm Enid's teacher, Giselle Raphael. I live close by. I thought maybe we could talk.”

  “I'm busy,” he said, ignoring her hand and turning back to the barn.

  Following him and talking at his back, she said, “Perhaps I could return this evening. I just live down the road on the other side of the bridge. It would be no trouble.”

  He turned and faced her, his hands again braced at his waist. “What do you want?”

  “Could we sit down somewhere?” The man just star
ed at her. She began again. “Enid seems to have some problems with shyness. She won't read aloud or participate in most of the class activities. It’s very difficult for her and she's missing a great deal. I thought perhaps we could work together…”

  The man leaned forward. “Listen, teacher. The law says Enid has to go to school, but that’s it. Now leave.”

  “Mr. Amundsen, Enid’s growing up. She'll have to face a world full of real people and be able to survive in it. She hardly survives in a world of children right now.”

  Giselle's eyes met the washed out blue of the man's eyes. He leaned forward and his right hand, rolled into a fist, beat the air in front of her. Giselle stepped back, alarmed. “Enid won't need to go out into any world,” he roared at her. “She won't need to face any people. She's my punishment and she'll stay with me. She's my reminder. She's a child of sin.” He pulled himself up straight mumbling, “I've got work to do,” and turned toward the barn.

  Giselle was so astounded by his outbreak that it took her a moment to recover. Moving quickly, she stepped in front of him and looked straight into his icy eyes. “Enid needs help, and if you think she's a punishment for you…”

  She backed up a step, managing to stop herself before the words “you need help, too” slipped out.

  The man didn’t answer. His muscles tensed and he leaned toward her. Giselle stepped back again. My God! He's going to hit me!

  Suddenly he spun away from her, slamming his fist into the barn door, sending it flying back against the wall. Then he stomped away into the dark recesses of the barn.

  Giselle's stomach gave a lurch and she walked weakly back to her car. When she pulled into her own driveway she felt exhausted. With dragging feet she walked out to the cliff to do some yoga.

  Yameno, watching from his vantage point on the hillside noticed the droop of her shoulders and leaned forward when she finally gave up her exercises and sat down with a plop at the edge of the cliff. She sank her head into her arms folded across her knees, and cried until, tears finally gone, she pulled herself up and walked slowly back to her house. He sat for a while looking out to sea, then lifted his head and howled a small song before turning towards home.

  Giselle heard the song and wondered – was that a dog up on the hillside? It sounded like the howling wolf video she’d seen online, but there wouldn't be any wolves around here. She looked at her own dogs. They seemed interested, but not afraid. She shrugged her shoulders and went into the kitchen to fix some dinner.

  Gunther Amundsen dug the shiny points of the hay hooks into the bale of alfalfa, and bending his knees, heaved the bale into the back of his old green pickup truck. “Interfering teacher,” he muttered, raising his arms on either side and driving the hay hooks into another bale with a thock. “So she’s shy.” Up flew the bale thunking on the floor of the truck. “Good. She’ll stay with me.” Again the thock of the hay hooks in the hay and the thunk of the bale on the truck floor. “Safe from...” Thock. The points slid between the stems of the alfalfa to find purchase. Thunk, and then sudden silence. The man froze in place. She lives down the road, he thought. On the other side of the bridge? Near the forest. Had the dog barked? No. One of them. She’s one of them.

  Giselle found out more about Enid Thursday afternoon when she visited the little library to return some books. As she was about to leave, it occurred to her that an avid reader like Enid might come to the little library. Maybe the cat loving librarian could give her some information.

  “By the way,” she said, as she waited for Hazel to process her books. “One of my students loves to read and I was wondering if she ever comes to the library? I can't believe she has enough books at home to keep her occupied.”

  “Who's that?” The woman leaned back in her chair, eyes alert, pushing wisps of curly red hair back into her braid.

  “Her name is Enid Amundsen. A shy little girl...”

  “Enid.” Hazel leaned forward nodding. “Yes. I know Enid very well. She's my grandniece. My sister Mary was her grandmother.” A sad, faraway look came over the older woman's face. “Things have been hard. Life… well… life would have been a lot different for Enid, and Enid's mother, too, if my sister hadn't died.”

  Giselle pulled a chair close to the desk. “Are you willing to talk about it? Enid is such a special child, and she needs help.”

  The librarian looked keenly at Giselle and nodded her head. “Yes, she is indeed a special child.”

  Giselle took a deep breath, “I went out to Enid's house...”

  “Oh, my!” exclaimed the librarian.

  “And managed to talk to her grandfather,” Giselle continued, “but it wasn't very successful.”

  “I can imagine,” Hazel said dryly. She straightened some books on her desk. “Enid comes in here once every couple of weeks. When she first reached school age, he didn't send her to school. I told the authorities and the only reason he sends her to school now is because otherwise they'd take her away from him. There were social workers involved and they insisted she be allowed to see me, but I’m only allowed to see her here at the library.”

  “You’d think they’d want her to spend some time with you, since you're her great-aunt and she has no other female influence in her life.”

  Hazel looked away. “Well, there was some controversy as to whether or not I was a suitable influence.”

  “What? That seems surprising!”

  The librarian stared out the window at the back of the library. “One of the local ministers is somewhat opposed to me.”

  “But you're a librarian!” Giselle sat back in her chair and stared at the woman. “You're an intelligent, educated woman.”

  “Well,” the older woman rolled a pencil back and forth on the desktop. “There were other factors. Not fair ones,” she said looking directly at Giselle, “but nevertheless the minister was able to influence the court.” Giselle waited for Hazel to tell her more about the ‘other factors’, but instead, she smiled at Giselle and asked what happened on her visit to Enid's grandfather.

  Giselle sat forward leaning her elbows on the desk. “He said Enid was his punishment and she'd stay with him forever. Sounds like he plans to lock her up as soon as she's old enough to run away.”

  “His punishment.” Hazel looked away sadly. “Only he has the wrong idea of what he did wrong.” Giselle raised her eyebrows, but the woman only smiled sadly and shook her head.

  “When did your sister die?”

  “My sister died several years before Enid was born. My brother-in-law never really coped with her death.” Hazel sighed. “There were unusual… Enid’s mother, Emma, really needed him during that time and he wasn't capable of giving her the affection she needed. He wouldn't let me near her. He… distrusted me.” She looked down at her desk and straightened some books, remembering. He kept Emma from the forest.

  She turned back to Giselle, “Emma turned to the boys at school for affection and the result was Enid. That, on top of my sister's death, was too much for Gunther, and his fury was more than Emma could bear. She killed herself.” No one knew who Enid's father was, and Jarvis – the Reverend Tarrant – had kept Hazel from getting the child away from Gunther. Nothing had ever been as hard as standing by helpless, watching the children – her niece and now her grandniece – suffer. “You know, Giselle, what people wrapped up in their own emotional needs – and fears – can inflict on others, and on themselves, is a very frightening thing.”

  As she was talking, the door opened. The older black man Giselle sometimes saw gardening came in and the librarian's worried face relaxed as she watched him walk over to the desk. He spoke pleasantly with her and said, “Hello, how are you?” to Giselle as he placed a pile of books in the book return basket.

  “Have you met Dan Burroughs?” Hazel asked.

  “Not really,” Giselle smiled up at him.

  “This is Ms. Raphael,” Hazel added.

  “Giselle – Giselle Raphael,” Giselle said quickly, and they both smiled at h
er.

  “Good to meet you. You're the new school teacher, I believe.”

  “We were discussing Enid,” Hazel explained. “She's in Giselle's class.”

  Dan nodded. “I won't interrupt your conversation then,” he added and walked over to the history section of the library.

  “He's working on ancient Mayan societies right now,” the librarian smiled at Giselle shuffling some papers. “Ms. Raphael – Giselle – I do what I can to let Enid know she has a caring relative when she's in here, but beyond that I can’t go… yet, but the time will soon come when we'll both be able to help her, I hope.” She pushed the pencil around on her desk. “Please keep me informed on everything you can about her. I… I…” She looked up at Giselle. “I've felt quite helpless about her in the past, but now maybe some things will change.”

  Boy, thought Giselle, I hope she's not expecting me to make those changes. I sure didn't make any progress with Mr. Amundsen.The librarian leaned over and patted her arm. “Don't worry, dear. Things are happening.”

  Dan Burroughs looked over at Hazel from the stacks. Their eyes met. Hazel smiled and looked back at Giselle giving her arm another pat.

  Giselle watched them puzzled. They seemed almost conspiratorial, but she liked them. “Well, I'd better get going,” she murmured, and saying some awkward goodbyes, she left the library.

  Hazel watched as Giselle put her books in her car and crossed the street to the little variety store. “She seems caring and concerned, and she seems to trust you,” Dan said, handing her his books so she could process them.

  The librarian nodded. “Yes.”

  Giselle had found the things she needed at the variety store and was standing by the cash register, when she saw Dan Burroughs leave the library and walk slowly down the library steps. The middle-aged woman who ran the store looked disapprovingly across the street and shook her head. “That man spends entirely too much time in that library. Uppity.”

  Giselle looked up at her startled. She'd read books using that word, but she’d never heard someone actually say it!

  “One of these days someone's going to show him his proper place.”

  “Oh,” said Giselle allowing an edge of disapproval to enter her voice, “and where's that?”

  “Not in the library, and that's for sure.”

  “Well,” responded Giselle, “I don't know where else he'd find the books he's so obviously fond of – except the library. Seems like a good place to me.”

  “Oh, yes, books. He's fond of books… and that's not the only thing in the library he's fond of,” the woman nodded her head knowingly.

  Oh, thought Giselle. That’s the reason why the authorities won't let Hazel see Enid except at the library. Racism. She stood for a moment looking at the woman, her mouth a grim line. “Well, it seems to me Mr. Burroughs’ friendships are not my business, or anyone else's.” She picked up her things and left. When she reached home that evening she was still mulling over the incident at the variety store. It left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. She’d been reading about the rise of overt racism on the OET website – politicians making clearly racist statements, Police shooting unarmed black men, but… All the ugliness isn't in the city, she thought, as she reached out to put her key in the front door.

  She jerked her hand back. Something was on the door knob. A painting on a piece of bark hung from the knob on a braided vine. When she took it to the edge of the porch to look at it in better light, she saw it was her oak tree. Very simple, very beautiful, definitely her tree, and not some random other tree. She looked out at the hills and the meadow, but of course, there was no one around.

  When she set the painting down on the old trunk in front of the sofa, the little gray cat jumped up, tipping his head to one side as if evaluating the painting. Giselle laughed and leaned forward almost nose to nose with the cat. “What do you know about this?” The cat just stared unblinking back at her. More than he’s telling, I’ll bet! she thought, grinning and shaking her head.

  That night Luhanada and Tata crouched in the dark around the fire pit at Yameno's den and listened to the owls hooting in the night. They contemplated the trip to the library. “The linking’s begun,” said Luhanada.

  “Yes,” said Tata, “but the boy will be harder.”

  “He comes to the forest,” said Yameno. “We'll find a way.”

  “And how’s the tree coming?”

  “It’s growing.” Yameno gestured to where the driftwood log stood at the edge of the clearing, carved lines beginning to show shape. “Soon.”

  Waxing Gibbous

  Not long past sunrise on Saturday morning Enid slipped out of bed, dressed silently, grabbed an apple and some cheese, and crept out of the house like a little mouse always watching behind her for the cat. In one hand she clutched a book. Stumbling down a path through the forest, she headed for the river. Her nervousness was more a matter of habit than need. She often slipped off into the woods by herself to play, and her grandfather never gave chase – a dichotomy he couldn't explain to himself. He had forbidden Enid’s mother from going into the woods and she died. Emma and Enid were damned if they went into the forest, and because they were Mary's children, damned if they didn't.

  Enid was headed for a favorite spot, a hidden crevice behind a rock next to the river where she could sit comfortably and read her book. She spent the morning cuddled there, intermittently reading and napping, and munching on her apple and cheese. The sun was high in the sky when she heard someone coming toward the river through the brush. Pulling herself closer into her crevice, she peeked around the corner of the rock and saw Jesús McCrae settle himself down with his fishing pole on a rock almost directly in front of her. Awkwardly bent forward and afraid to move, she watched him for several minutes. When her tightened muscles couldn’t hold out any longer she moved one foot just a tiny bit to get into a more comfortable position. The foot touched a small round stone which, like a wheel, pulled her foot and leg further out of its hiding place, and then clattered on down the side of the rock.

  Jesús whirled at the sound and Enid tightened herself against the back of her hiding place. “Shit,” he mumbled. “How long have you been there?” He leaned in toward her, glaring.

  She scrambled to her feet, glaring back.

  He moved back a little. “It’s okay,” he muttered. “What are you reading?”

  She held the book out – the story of a wild cougar. He grinned as he lifted his arms and pawed the air in front of her like a menacing cat. “I'm a wild cougar and I'm going to eat you up. Grrr...”

  She jumped away from the boy, slipping and tripping over branches and stones until she lost balance and started sliding down the bank. He grabbed her arm just before she slipped out of his reach into the cold river and hauled her back up the bank.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt you.” He shook his head, annoyed. “Go ahead and read.”

  Enid kept her eyes on him as he moved toward his fishing pole. She was angry. This was her special place.

  The boy ignored her, leaning back against a rock.

  She kept staring.

  “Stop looking at me,” he spat at her. “Read.”

  She sat down and opened her book. Some minutes passed before the exhaustion of holding her muscles tense became too much and she began to relax, moving ever so slightly into a more comfortable position. It was a lot longer, though, before she really began to read.

  Except for the running of his reel and the plink as the fly hit the water, they were silent. Enid could hear the low burbling of the river, the chirping of the birds, and finally, a low rustling in the bushes behind her. She looked back toward the sound. Two small ground squirrels, particular friends of hers, were rooting round the trunks of the bushes. She kept chicken feed in her pockets and on some quiet afternoons one of the little rodents had even eaten the feed out of her hand. They looked at her expectantly, creeping to the edge of the bushes to peer out at her and then running back to touch noses under the brush
.

  She glanced at Jesús. He was preoccupied with his fishing. Slipping her hand into her pocket, she crawled over to deposit a small heap of feed next to the bushes, sitting back on her heels near the pile to wait for her little friends.

  From the corner of his eye Jesús saw the quiet movement and turned his head to watch. Chirping quietly to each other and their friend, the little squirrels moved to the food and with quick jerky movements began to stuff their cheeks. Jesús watched without moving until the squirrels had gathered the entire pile and moved off with happy little scurries toward their home.

  Enid turned back, her eyes widening when she saw him watching.

  He smiled. “Do you come here a lot? I’ve never been to this place before. Is this your special place?” She looked away from him. “Do you always bring food for them? That’s so cool that they come so close to you. Did you bring me some food, too?” he teased.

  She glared at him.

  “Did you bring yourself some lunch?” Jesús put his fishing pole down on the rock beside him and looked around. There was no evidence of a lunch. “Were you supposed to go home for lunch?”

  She shook her head looking away. “If I went home he might not let me go out again.”

  “Who wouldn't? Your father?”

  “I haven't got a father,” she mumbled.

  Bit by bit Jesús got her story out of her. Yes, she was allowed to sneak out to the woods every Saturday and she had eaten an apple and cheese, but she couldn’t make a lunch. He might wake up and stop her. He wouldn’t hit her, but his eyes got cold and his body rigid when she did something he didn’t like. She always returned in time to help fix dinner – a very silent dinner – and he never said anything. “He knows I come here, but he doesn’t like it.”

  Jesús looked away across the river. His parents never hit him, but he’d heard about kids getting hit. He knew when his parents were disappointed with him, even when they didn’t say anything. He’d feel bad, but he wasn’t afraid of them. They were disappointed at him a lot when it came to school…

  He looked back at her. “Are you hungry now?”

  Enid shrugged her shoulders.

  “I have a sandwich. Want half of my sandwich?” Jesús pulled himself up to a crouching position to reach for his jacket and pulled a sandwich out of the pocket.

  She looked away and shook her head.

  He held a half sandwich out in front of her. “Eat half of the sandwich and I'll eat half.”

  Enid looked longingly at the sandwich, but muttered, “There are other things I can eat.”

  “What other things?”

  “Plants.” She pointed to some scraggly greens growing by the edge of the river a little ways from them. “Over there's some miner's lettuce.”

  Jesús looked doubtfully at the greens. “How do you know they aren't poisonous?”

  Enid picked up a pebble, rolling it with her palms. “I read about them in a book.”

  He leaned forward. “A book about plants you can eat − plants you could find just growing here in the woods? Do you know of any others around here?” He moved around trying to look right into her face. She inched away.

  “There’s manzanita berries up on the hillside over there,” she pointed toward the coast.

  “Manzanita, huh,” Jesús looked thoughtfully up at the hillside. “Could you bring the book here tomorrow?”

  She shook her head. “We pray on Sundays.”

  “All day Sunday?” Jesús couldn't believe it. “We go to church, but then I can do whatever I want.”

  Enid's voice dropped. “He says this forest is evil. We live in an evil forest and we need to pray against the evil.”

  “A lot of people think the forest is evil, but I like it. It doesn't feel evil to me.”

  “Me, either.” She looked down and began rolling the pebble again. “It's hard to pray against the forest. The forest feels like a friend.”

  “Did you know some people want to cut down the forest for logs?”

  Enid’s eyes flew wide. “Cut down the forest?”

  Jesús nodded.

  She looked out at the trees growing down the hillsides toward the river. Her eyes got wet with tears. Jesús looked at her, blinking his own eyes, and then leaned down to pick up a larger rock, tossing it up and catching it. “Do you just pray on Sundays? Don’t you do anything else?”

  “Sometimes we sing hymns, and eat, of course.” Her face brightened. “I like to sing. My grandfather does, too.” She looked across the river. “But he reads the Bible for a long time. Sometimes...” She hesitated looking questioningly at the boy, who smiled encouragingly. “Sometimes, I make up stories in my head.”

  He nodded. “Me, too. In church sometimes, and in school a lot.” He looked at her and grinned, and she smiled shyly back.

  Jesús thought for a moment. “Could you bring that book about the plants here next Saturday? With a book like that we could live out here forever, and you'd never have to go home to your grandfather and I'd never have to go to school.” He tossed the rock higher and higher until, finally, he missed it again and it bounced onto the edge of the bank, and then rolled down into the river. “Well, anyway,” he shrugged his shoulders. “We could have something to eat on Saturdays. You could pick plants for a salad or something, and I could catch some fish and we could cook them.” He began to talk excitedly about what they would do the next Saturday. He shoved the sandwich at Enid. “Eat that half-sandwich. Now,” he said firmly. Enid was happy to follow his orders. Jesús wasn't so hungry he missed it, and didn't seem hungry enough to really want to catch a fish, because it wasn't long before he had put his fishing gear away and suggested they go for a walk.

  Enid shoved her book in the big pocket of her jacket and followed him down the river. He led her through thickets and over rocks pulling her roughly up over the ones too big for her to climb by herself. He pointed out particularly good fishing holes and talked about the fish he’d caught in them. She was very sorry when the sun slipped below the trees and she knew she’d have to go home. The boy let her go with a shrug and pulled her back only to remind her to get the book and meet him at the same spot about ten o’clock the next Saturday morning.

  When Monday came Enid waited for the boy to give some recognition of their Saturday meeting, but he acted as if it had never happened.

  Giselle had had only occasional phone conversations with Monica, since moving up the coast. Now that the first week of school was past, the house in good shape, and her fall garden planted and ready to grow, it was time to soothe the strained relationship. Sunday night she called Monica and Rod and invited them to visit the next weekend.

  It was hard to sleep that night – her mind was obsessed with both planning the visit and worrying about it. When Monday morning came, she was glad to get involved in her school work and push the weekend into the background.

  She set up contracts with each of the children finishing certain sections of the required texts and workbooks (complete with multiple choice tests as practice for the state tests). But Jesús, who would never, she was sure, do any work in any workbook, especially a math workbook, was to design and draw the blueprints for a house and then make a scale model of it. He would have to keep a journal of everything he did and why. She would trick him into becoming interested in math and writing while enjoying himself with his art. She was delighted to see him set to work immediately, reading the children's books on architecture she’d gotten for him from the library. He clearly didn’t have any problem reading the books. “My house is going to be some place in the redwoods,” he told her, “and it's going to be so much like the forest you can't even see it.”

  “That's the way houses should be,” agreed Giselle.

  “It’s going to be totally energy efficient. My dad says this earth is going to die if we don’t do something about energy. That’s what I’m going to do when I grow up. I’m going to stop global warming.”

  Giselle smiled at him. That was the most he’d
ever said to her at one time. “But you know, Jesús, you can’t do that without a good education.” He looked away from her and shrugged.

  Knowing Enid would finish her work way ahead of time, Giselle gave her a journal and suggested she write a book on whatever she wanted to write about. Enid ran a finger over the little unicorn on the front of the journal, and looked up at her and smiled. Giselle smiled back. There was something different about Enid this morning – her head a little higher, her back a little straighter – and a smile.

  Full Moon

  Late Friday afternoon, in search of wild flowers to decorate her house for her guests the next day, Giselle ventured into the wilderness behind her home. The sea wind, pushing through the trees, whispered gentle songs to the birds whose quiet twitterings made the silence seem even deeper. Something hidden in the deep crevices at the bottom of her spirit expand like helium in a balloon pushing upward until it gained the upper hand. Oh, joy, she thought. Oh, jubilation.

  Ecstasy and joy, echoed the trees. An ether – a flow of life-joy. Ecstasy!

  Exhilaration, she returned. Oh! Life elation.

  Rejoice! they whispered. Rejoice!

  Come wind, set limbs to dancing,

  Wind song, on our soul harps prancing.

  Come feet, set life a dancing.

  Come voice, let your song go chanting.

  Come earth, set your heart beat thrumming.

  Come sea, set your surf to drumming.

  Oh, sing heart. Sing to earth's warm silence.

  Dance heart, to this sun heat, to this wind dance.

  Oh, earth joy!

  Click here to listen to song

  Dance heart, the trees whispered. Dance heart.

  Giselle ran. Her wild flowers gripped in her hand sent their seeds flying to the wind as she ran down the hillside out into the meadow, out to the edge of the sea.

  Yameno, crouching behind the trees she had just run through, laughed and sang a low note to the wind, and the wind ran caressing fingers through his thick ruff in return.

  Giselle stopped her downward rush for a moment to listen. It was the wind, she thought. Just the wind singing a peculiar note in the redwoods.

  That evening, as she bent low in homage to the sea and sun, she thought of her sister and Rod coming the next day. Would they feel it – this joy?

  Enid hardly slept Friday night thinking about meeting Jesús the next day. At last a faint light began to grow in the east and she quietly pulled on her clothes, tucked the book on edible plants and a reading book in one pocket of her jacket, slipped into the barn to fill the other pocket with chicken feed, and ran off into the woods. It was past sunrise when she reached the little niche in the rocks by the river and settled herself in her cubbyhole. The warmth of the sun and her lack of sleep relaxed her, and she fell asleep.

  When Jesús arrived at the river, his rod thrust over his shoulder and his creel hanging by his side, he looked down at the little girl curled up in a ball, fast asleep. The books were clutched in her arms and wisps of hair slid down her cheek. He stood for a minute and watched her. Part of him wanted to wake her up by frightening her and part wanted to be soft – perhaps let her sleep a while longer or wake her up gently.

  Finally he leaned down close to her, saying in a deep gruff voice, “Gotcha!”

  Enid jumped and flattened herself against the rock in back of her.

  He grinned and shrugged. “Sorry.”

  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and handed him the book on edible plants. He took it, sitting down on a rock to look through it.

  Enid knew where there was some manzanita on the nearby hillside, so they took the carefully washed out juice can Jesús had brought to cook with to hold the berries and headed up the hill.

  They found the patch of manzanita, but it was late in the year and the berries were few and far between. “This is taking too long,” complained Jesús. Enid just kept looking for the little berries and tossing them in the can.

  He handed her the can. “I think I should go back and start fishing. You stay here and when the can's full, bring it back.” He ran in leaps and hops down the hillside.

  Soon the hill was silent except for the shushing of the wind. Enid moved quietly between the bushes. As she moved around one bush she found two quail noisily pecking at the ground. Crouching, she slipped her hand into the pocket where she kept her chicken feed and spread feed like a fan on the ground in front of her. One of the quail clucked and backed away, but the other stood its ground, turning its head to stare at Enid with a little beady eye. It popped one of the little seeds in its mouth. The other watched carefully for a moment and then joined the feast.

  There was a sound in back of Enid so small she felt rather than heard it. She turned her head toward it. Standing behind another bush was a man with long black hair. She jumped up, sending the quail in a half walking, half flying scurry into the bushes.

  “I'm sorry,” said the man. “I didn't mean to frighten you. It's very rare for quail to be so willing to stay close to a human being. They’re timid. You have a special gift, Chachuli.”

  He smiled and moved out from behind the bush. “Why are you picking the manzanita berries?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I've come to pick some, too, but I see there're not too many left. Pretty soon they'll all be gone and we'll have to rely on something else for the winter.” He began to pick berries and drop them into a basket he held on his arm.

  As soon as he turned away from her, Enid grabbed the can and ran down the hillside, her hand covering the top to keep the berries from bouncing out. She arrived at the river out of breath and wild-eyed. Jesús looked at her in astonishment. “What's wrong?”

  She sat down on a rock. “A man is picking berries, too,” she gasped.

  “Did he hurt you?” Jesús stepped toward her.

  “No.” She pushed the hair out of her eyes. “I was feeding some quail and he watched and called me a name – Chachuli, I think. What’s that mean?”

  “I don't know. It sounds weird – Indian or something. Hey! I know who it was!” Jesús exclaimed. “There's an Indian that lives in the hills someplace – alone – and people don't like him. Haven’t you heard about him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, that doesn't mean anything. You're a hermit, too, like him. Why did you run away from him? He lives off the land. He'd know all the plants we've been looking for. He'd know what's good in fall and everything.”

  Enid glared at him.

  “Never mind. We'll probably see him another time when I'm with you and you won't have to be afraid.” He pulled a line from the stream. “See my fish.”

  “Oh, poor thing. Do we have to eat him?”

  “My dad says he'd rather eat a fish that's had a good life living free, than some piece of steak from a cow that lived in a feed lot. Have you ever seen one of those feed lots?” He wrinkled his face in disgust. “Hundreds of cows standing there with their feet in a bunch of mucky mud and cow poop. At least a fish gets to live in a clean stream until we eat it.”

  Enid looked at the fish where Jesús had fastened it so that it hung just barely submerged and still alive in the river. She put her hand down against the fish and it stopped splashing as if calmed.

  Yameno had followed the girl down the hill. He crouched behind a tree and watched the children and nodded. The girl’s shy, but so much like her grandmother, he grinned, carrying chicken feed in her pockets. He slipped away, loping off toward the bridge and his perch above Giselle's house.

  Jesús put his rod down. “Come on. Let's get some wood and build a fire. We can make it in that scooped out place in the rock. It looks like a giant thumb print.”

  Enid crouched over the place where the fish hung in the water, preoccupied, not listening to the boy. “Jesús,” she whispered. “We should... we should thank the fish and the manzanita for providing food for us.”

  He crouched beside her looking at the fish. “Yeah,” he said
slowly. “And the forest.”

  She nodded her head. “We could make it sacred. The fire, the manzanita, and other things too.”

  “And water,” exclaimed Jesús. “The fish came from water. And all these rocks. They feel, you know, holy or something.” They glanced at each other and away again.

  “Well, let's get the stuff.” Jesús got up and began to gather twigs, dried leaves, and dead wood for their fire. Enid ran back up the hillside and broke off a branch of the manzanita bush, its bark still deeply red, with green leaves clustered thickly on it. They laid the manzanita branch along the east side of the fire. Jesús found a flat slab of rock perfect to cook the fish on. He placed it to the north of the fire. Enid took the can with manzanita berries in it and filled it with water, placing it opposite the branch. Taking the fish from the water she placed it on the flat rock. Jesús knelt beside her as she placed her hands on the fish. “Thank you, fish,” she whispered. “Thank you, trees, and plants, and water, and fire, and earth.”

  Jesús lit a match and the fire caught quickly in the dry leaves. He put the tin can half full of berries, and half full of water, in the middle next to the biggest log, with the fire burning all around it and took out his knife, split and cleaned the fish, placing it on the rock in the midst of the fire. Enid placed some of the berries on top of the split fish. It took a long time for the water to boil and the fish to cook on their little fire, and the children had to take turns running back into the woods to find more dead wood. By the time their meal was ready, it was late and getting chilly.

  They crouched around the fire eating their food with their fingers, yelping as the hot fish burned their tongues. The berries proved a fine addition to the fish, giving them flavor like a sweet sauce. Soon the sun was slipping behind the hills and Enid knew she’d have to leave. “Let's put the manzanita branch on the fire,” Jesús suggested.

  “It won't burn,” replied Enid. “That red in the bark is some kind of chemical that protects it from burning. But we should put it in.”

  “Put some more dry leaves in so the fire is burning all around it.”

  They piled dry leaves on the fire until it blazed up and then placed the green and deep red branch in the middle of the flames. The fire singed the edges of the leaves giving off a sweet smoke, like incense, but the branch didn’t burn. “Wow,” they whispered, as they pulled the still red branch from the fire.

  “Let's float it down the river to the ocean,” said Enid, walking over to the stream and holding the branch close to her face so she could inhale the sweet odor from the burned leaves. She broke off two of the leaves, and giving one to Jesús, thrust the other in her jeans pocket. “Thank you,” she whispered, and tossed the branch out into the water. The gentle current caught it and pulled it slowly toward the ocean. They stood in silence long after it had turned the curve in the river and disappeared.

  “Do you ever go down to the beach?” asked Jesús. Enid nodded her head. “I bet there're things down there we could eat for dinner. We could go clamming! Let's meet here and walk to the beach next Saturday, okay? And bring that book.” Enid smiled and ran off through the increasing shadows of the forest toward home.

  Jesús carefully hid the flat rock under some bushes, poured water on the fire with the juice can until he was sure every spark was out, and then packed up his things and strode off through the woods.

  Giselle woke up early that same Saturday morning. She had decided to make bread for Sunday morning breakfast with Monica and Rod, and a picnic Sunday noon. When the dough was ready for kneading, she turned it out onto the floured bin table and began to work it in rhythm with the low rumble of the sea she could hear through the open windows. She pushed into it, and pulled it back toward her, folding the sides into the whole. Like life, she thought, pulls out into individuality and then folds back into the whole, all in rhythm like the rhythm of the sea. Making bread, gardening, even correcting papers, you fall into that rhythm.

  She looked out the window, watching birds, hardly more than dots in the sky, dipping down into the ocean. If Monica was here we'd be talking, she thought. We'd miss the rhythm.

  When the bread had finished baking and she’d put it up on a shelf to cool, she decided to take her book down to the beach. The noontime sun was shining brightly and the white breakers crashing against the rocks at either end of the little beach were subdued. She spread her blanket and stretched out with her book. The warmth of the sun massaged her back, the tension went out of her legs and arms, and the raucous calls of the gulls, the incessant rushing of the waves became a lullaby.

  The Wolfwind, who had been watching from his usual place on the hillside, loped through the meadow to the edge of the cliff. Making a tunnel in the tall grasses, he laid his head on his front paws, his eyes thin slits in the bright sunlight as he peered down at her, his breath whispering out over the beach…

  Sun-warm sand cradles her,

  The sound of the sea rocking her.

  The wind slipping cool caresses across face, body,

  Touch as gentle as silk.

  Her body fluid, flexible, bends so far back her hands hold her feet,

  And they dream-dance in the air.

  She goes rolling on the air currents,

  through the wind, her gentle lover,

  In her and all around her,

  enclosing her,

  holding her.

  The rhythm,

  the drumming of the waves,

  pushing insistently into her,

  filling her with a shattering light

  in the dark cavern of her dream.

  Holding her bound tight, close on a single deep note,

  and then slipping ever so gently, caressingly away,

  leaving her in the warm cradle of the sand.

  Click here to listen to song

  She lay without moving, feeling the warmth of the sun. Sometimes when I lie like this, so still and empty, I could stay forever. It’d be nice to be a rock.

  The dogs, bored with sleeping in the sun, began to play on the beach, kicking up sand. The growling yaps roused Giselle. She lay there protecting her head from the flying sand. It was three o’clock, but she felt so peaceful and relaxed, happy with the sea and the sand, the birds and the dogs... and the gentle wind.

  She didn’t want to return to the house. She wished she had never invited Monica and Rod to visit. Monica was always so full of "shoulds" and "should nots". Sighing, she picked up her blanket and book, and calling to the dogs, climbed the rugged path to the meadow and her home.

  Yameno slipped away, bounding up the hillside under the trees toward his own home. Just as she reached her house, Giselle heard a short exultant howl from the top of the hill. She stopped and scanned the hillside. The dog again, she thought, if it's a dog.

  At four o’clock Monica’s shiny new car pulled into the dirt drive and descended cautiously to the house. Rod and Monica greeted her, commenting about the scenery and the charm of the little house, stepping back awkwardly from the jumping, wiggling dogs. She settled them in folding chairs on the porch to watch the sea and drink cold drinks while she prepared dinner.

  “Giselle, did you ever find out why this house was empty for so long?” asked Monica. “It's a nice enough house and with a great view.”

  “Ghosts,” she laughed. “Not in the house, but in the forest around here. And not really ghosts – just some mysterious feeling. I've meant to ask some other people about it now that school’s started, but I haven't gotten around to it. The real estate agent didn't take it very seriously.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Rod. “But maybe there's something real behind the rumors. Maybe some shenanigans going on people want to keep hidden. When I was working for the D.A. we often heard about pot growers in the mountains keeping people from nosing about on their property by spreading rumors. Have you ever seen anything strange in the forest?”

  “Nothing unpleasant,” answered Giselle. But, she thought, I think I've felt a presence.
You couldn't ask for nicer ghosts.

  Rod’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing unpleasant?” he asked. Giselle averted her eyes and said nothing.

  “Ugh!” Monica shivered. “I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't know how you can live here all alone, Giselle.” Giselle rolled her eyes.

  After dinner they made their way down the winding path to the beach carrying blankets, wine and marshmallows. The sun lit its fire across the sky and the breaking waves were crested with red and orange instead of their usual white. They sat in awe on their blankets, silent and serious long after the sun had gone down, finally rousing themselves to search the beach for driftwood to start a small fire.

  When they were all comfortably settled around the fire with wine in hand, they began to talk about the sunset. “It's funny,” said Monica, “how a sunset can isolate you from everyone else. I'm not sure it's a good thing the way it makes you draw away from other people.”

  “Maybe we're not drawing away, but pulling into something else, a greater whole,” answered Giselle. She drew slow spirals in the sand with her index finger. “Usually at sunset I perform a kind of ritual to the sun. I feel like I'm an extension of the earth instead of just standing on it. It’s a kind of expansion…” She struggled with the words. “A becoming the whole… the whole… well, everything.”

  “A ritual to the sun?” Monica raised her eyebrows.

  “I go up to a flat place at the edge of the meadow and do my Yoga exercises, ending with Surya Namaskara, the salutation to the sun. It gives me a feeling of being a part of the sunset, like I'm giving something back to that beauty.”

  “Oh, the yoga thing, again.” exclaimed Monica. “Exercise is one thing, but this…” She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Yes,” interrupted Rod, nodding his head at Monica, “the thing that bothers me – you moved to this place, and you’re more involved in the sun and these animals of yours than in people. You’re just hiding from people – avoiding people.”

  She shook her head slowly. “No, Rod, I think I'm bringing people back again.”

  She paused, peering out at the dark ocean. “I don't know why I said that. I haven't really thought that before, but it seems to me humans have isolated themselves from the – whatever it is – the life-force? From other living things? It's the separation – the false separation that has caused so much destruction, our inability to see how we’re destroying the earth with our excessive consumption, our greed. Somehow I'm turning back. Something is turning me.”

  “But Giselle,” Rod interrupted. “I understand your concern about the earth, but how can you change humanity way up here?”

  “I don’t know, but I have to do it. When I do the Surya Namaskara, the bow to the sun, it's a kind of worship, or...”

  “Now it's sun worship,” Monica muttered under her breath.

  “Or maybe more of a lovemaking,” Giselle continued in a low voice still staring at the sea. “It's like a love dance – an immersion in the sun and the sea. In fact,” she went on turning to her sister, “my whole life is full of rituals. They give me strength and energy, and joy. Sometimes I'm so full of joy I can't...” She looked at their bewildered faces. “Oh, I don't know.”

  Rod shook his head. “I think this isolation's getting to you. You're beginning to personify everything, that's all.”

  “No,” Giselle leaned forward urgently. “No, it's there. The life is there, and it's alive and pulsating and thinking. I know it's there.” Spirits, she thought. Spirits in everything.

  Monica and Rod exchanged looks and Giselle stared at the sand she was sifting through her hands. “I feel like I've found something and I have to keep contact. I don't know what it is, but I know it's there, and it's important.”

  Monica just rolled her eyes, but Rod looked concerned. “You're so far away from everything, Giselle.”

  “Well,” Giselle spoke quietly. “It all depends on what you consider everything.” She thought about the afternoon on the beach. When you've made love to the wind…

  The chilly air began to creep up their backs and the dying fire refused to fight it. They drowned the fire in sand and sea water, gathered their blankets and wine, and climbed back to the house.

  Sunday morning, Giselle got up early and went for a walk along the cliff before fixing breakfast. Her guests came yawning down the stairs at ten o’clock, exclaiming at the pungent smells of pine and salt air. After breakfast they gathered a picnic lunch, and led by the ecstatic pups, headed south along the cliff to the next little cove. The sun sparkled on sea-washed offshore rocks making them black and shiny as jet. The surf was subdued and the ocean a deep lapis edged with white.

  Giselle took a path down to an enclosed beach curving between two points of rock where they spent a couple of lazy hours running, climbing, and talking about non-threatening subjects while they ate. Monica and Rod had a long drive back to the city ahead of them, so after lunch they gathered up the picnic things and headed back to the house taking the beach route, climbing the protruding rock guardians north of the cove, their sneakers wet with spray and slippery, the dogs hopping sure-footedly back and forth between them. They halted for a moment on the rocky point, looking up and down the empty beaches before and behind them, and then pushed on to the beach that stretched past Giselle's house.

  As they walked along the water's edge, Rod stopped abruptly.

  “Hey, who's that?” he asked, pointing to a slender dark-haired man standing at the top of the cliff where Giselle usually did her Yoga. The man ducked back away from the cliff.

  “Who was that man, Giselle?” Monica asked.

  “I don't know. He looked like someone I saw at the river once.” Her breath caught as she remembered how drawn she was to that man. “But that's a ways from here, over on the other side of the hill. I've never seen anyone around here.” But someone’s leaving gifts on my porch, she thought, uneasily. I'm not telling you about that. “Anyway,” she continued, “I'm sure I’ll see more people around here as time goes on. After all, this is a nice beach and the hills make a great place to climb. I'm not worried about it.”

  She started walking again and the others followed. By the time they’d climbed the winding path the man was nowhere to be seen, although Rod pointed out a big dog sitting up on the hillside. “Maybe that's his dog,” he suggested.

  “That dog looks ferocious,” exclaimed Monica.

  “Looks like a wolf,” added Rod.

  Giselle laughed. “Come on. It's been a long time since there were any wolves around here.”

  “Well, maybe it's a coyote,” he suggested. “I've heard the coyotes are multiplying.”

  “It's too big and too fluffy to be a coyote.” Giselle peered up at the dog. So that's the dog I've heard howling sometimes. It really does look like a wolf. Must be part husky or something.

  “I don't know.” Rod moved the conversation back to the man. “There was something odd about the way he was watching us. Maybe he has something to do with your ghosts.”

  Giselle just smiled. “You'd better get going or you're going to be driving all night,” she urged them. As they gathered their things Rod mumbled about how much better he'd feel leaving her if he knew who that man was, but finally, full of gracious, but distant, “Thank yous,” they climbed into their car and drove away.

  When Giselle returned to the house she made a cup of tea and sat down on the front porch steps. Something was tied on the underside of the railing. Her heart beat fast as she unwound a necklace of seashells and acorns, strung on a braided vine, and wrapped around a rolled piece of paper. Unrolling the paper she found a quote in dark green calligraphy framed in vines with little birds peeking between the leaves:

  As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness.

  Henry David Thoreau, from Walden.

  “Wow!” she exclaimed. “Just what I needed to tell Monica.”

  Who lef
t this? Was it that man she saw at the river? Had he stood on the cliff and watched her on the beach before? She went down the steps, clutching the rolled paper and necklace in one hand, and looked far around her up the hill. Turning she looked north through the fields, and south along the cliff, but there was no sign of anyone. She felt awkward, rubbing her fingers down the outer seams of her jeans sensing every thread and the texture of the weave. She dug her bare toes into the dirt and turned her head this way and that trying to find the hidden eyes. She’d been so glad when Monica and Rod left, but...

  Crouched behind a tree high up on the hill, Yameno watched Giselle’s nervous search. He saw the necklace clutched to her chest in her left hand. When she finally turned and went inside, he loped off through the trees to the cat lady's house. She looked at his exultant face, questioning. “Yes, Wolfwind?”

  He laughed and shook his head, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table.

  “And?” she asked again.

  "She had visitors from the city. They saw me.”

  “If they frighten her we could lose her. What about the tree?”

  “It’s finished and waiting.”

  Luhanada sighed, looking out the window over her sink. “Let’s hope we can go soon." The wait for the Tree Woman had been very long. It was hard to wait any longer – it felt so urgent.

  She turned to the stove and put the kettle on the burner. “Do you want some tea?”

  “Yes, please.” He propped his elbows on the table and leaned his head into his cupped hands. “I've been leaving her gifts. A picture of her tree. A necklace.”

  Luhanada raised her eyebrows. “Well, as long as she accepts them...” she hesitated, twisting her fingers in the curly ends of her braid.

  “And doesn't get frightened,” he added. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but…”

  “You’re falling in love with her.” The cat woman sighed again. It had to work this time. It felt like she’d been waiting all her life. She pulled a chair up to the table to wait for the kettle.

  “And the good news,” Yameno smiled. “The children were in the forest yesterday.”

  “Together?”

  “Yes. Enid reminded me of her grandmother. She carries chicken feed in her pockets and feeds the quail.”

  Luhanada nodded. When they were growing up, Enid's grandmother, Mary, had dozens of strange looking birdhouses all around the yard and at the edge of the woods. Mary’d read carefully to find what to feed each different kind of bird. The birds never came right up to her to eat, but sat on perches close by and sang to her. Luhanada had to keep a good eye on her cats to make them understand they were not to mess with Mary's birds.

  The kettle whistled and she hopped up to get their tea. “The children together! That's a good sign.”

  Giselle went into her house and for the first time locked the door behind her. She tried to think of school, but her mind kept slipping back to the man. How often had he been watching her? Could someone who made such exquisite art work really be dangerous? Someone who wanted to scare her away, like a pot grower, wouldn’t give her a quote from Thoreau. When she’d seen him at the river, she’d wanted to know him. Was it such a bad thing if he felt the same way? But he could be someone with a real emotional problem and still be enamored of Thoreau. She needed to find out who he was.

  She didn’t sleep very well that night. Hot and uncomfortable, jumping at every sound, she twisted and turned, shoving at the dogs lying tight and close on either side of her.

  At midnight she heard the howling again, and it was longer and more beautiful, but still eerie. She shivered and squeezed the little gray cat, but the cat just reached a paw up and patted her reassuringly on the nose. None of the animals are frightened, she noted. Strange the dogs didn't bark and the cat didn't bristle when the big dog howled.

  The next morning she was groggy and foggy headed. As soon as school was out she made a list of things she could buy in the little hardware store with the talkative owner and headed for town. Waiting until the one other customer was gone, she asked the owner to help her find the items on her list. As they walked past the shelves she said, “By the way, someone was out by my beach yesterday – not that I object to people coming on my property – but no one's ever come out there before. I just wondered who he was.”

  “Oh? What’d he look like?” Mr. Coffman stopped, frowning.

  “He was lean, with long dark hair – wore blue jeans and a blue shirt. I couldn't see him very well from that distance.”

  “Must be that darned Indian kid.” Mr. Coffman looked angry. He pulled a box of nails off a shelf. “These twelve penny nails should be the right size.”

  “This guy wasn't a kid. He was a grown man.”

  “That Yameno Wellkeeper’s a grown man. I just still think of him as the kid we did so much for who turned around and threw it all away. Do you want one of these foam paint brushes, or one with bristles?”

  She picked up a thick bristled brush. “This one looks about right.”

  The man glanced at her list. “Wellkeeper lives somewhere up in those hills behind your place, although why anyone'd want to live there, I don't know.” He plunked the nails down on the counter hard and went around it to the cash register, carrying the rest of her items.

  “Why wouldn't someone want to be in those hills?”

  He looked down and fumbled around with the nails. “It's just strange up there, that's all.”

  “Why?” Giselle placed her hands on the counter and leaned forward. “What happens up there?”

  “I don't know. Just things.” He rang up the nails and the brush. “That Wellkeeper probably likes it. He probably makes it worse. Encourages it.”

  “Encourages what?”

  “The things that happen up there. That's what,” he said in an exasperated voice, punching the tax and the total. “Anyway, we've tried and tried to get someone to spook him out of there. He hasn't got any right to live up there like that, not owning the land and not paying any rent. He probably don't even live in a house. If he's living on your land you can get him kicked off. The state troopers would do something about it, if the owner of the property he's living on would complain.”

  “You mean he's living like a hermit up there all by himself?” asked Giselle.

  “Yeah. That's it. He's a hermit, and we should’ve known before we gave a five thousand dollar scholarship to an Indian that he'd waste it.” He grabbed the cloth bag she handed him and stuffed her things in it.

  “Oh, who gave him a scholarship? And where to? College?” asked Giselle.

  Mr. Coffman leaned on the counter. “He grew up here in town. Went to our schools, and the teachers thought he was pretty smart and should go to college, but his family – well, you know these Indians – they didn't have money for college – even a state college. So the townspeople got together and put in five thousand dollars for him to go to college, and I think he worked, too, while he was there.”

  Well, yeah! thought Giselle.

  “He finished college and we all felt pretty darned proud we'd put him through, because he was in some special honor society and got awards and things.” Mr. Coffman glared. “He was going to go on and get more schooling and become a scientist. By the time he got to graduate school they were giving money to Indians to go to school, just because they were Indians, and anyway, he done so well in school lot's of people were offering him money to go. Then in the middle of a school year his great-aunt died and for no darn reason at all, he quit school and picked up his things and walked off into the forest up there, and he hasn't been out since except sometimes he goes over to Robertsville and gets odd jobs and earns a little money, then disappears into the forest again.”

  Mr. Coffman turned back to the cash register and ripped the receipt off. “We paid good money to send him to school and he could’a been a famous scientist.”

  “It was good of you to put him in a position where he had the freedom to choose the way of life that was best for him,” said G
iselle.

  Mr. Coffman looked at her with exasperation. “He's mighty strange. And, young lady, if I didn't know you were a respectable school teacher, I'd think you was mighty strange too, living out there all alone the way you do, and as old as you are and not married.” He stuffed the receipt into her bag. “You better watch out for that Yameno Wellkeeper. You can't tell what a weirdo like that might do to a young woman living out there all alone like you do – and right by those woods, too. Here.” He thrust the bag at her. “I've got work to do, and I don't need to stand around talking all day.”

  Suddenly he turned toward the back of the store. “Tom, you better be working,” he yelled at a dark haired, dark eyed teenaged boy standing just inside the doorway to the storage room.

  The boy was listening, thought Giselle.

  Coffman turned back toward her. “My grandson, Tom,” he muttered. Giselle paid her bill, and he stamped off toward the storage room.

  As Giselle walked to her car she thought, Sometimes I feel like I haven’t just moved two hundred miles from the city, but hundreds of years backwards in time as well. And then this man, Yameno... living in the hills all alone like a hermit. Mr. Coffman didn't indicate anything like drugs and if he could’ve, he would’ve! So much for Rod’s pot farm idea. Now what? She sat in the car for a moment before driving off, thinking about the situation. Should I look for him? For his home? She shivered. Maybe he doesn't want to be found. But, damn it, if he's watching me and leaving little gifts, I have a right to look for him. And I will. Tomorrow right after school!

  Tata found Yameno on the hillside back of Giselle’s house. They moved back into the trees before changing into human form. Tata crouched down and picked up a stick to doodle with in the pine needles. “Luha told me you thought Giselle saw you the other day. She did.” He tossed the stick away and reached for a bigger one. “I was gardening next to the Dickerson's today, and Coffman came to tell him Giselle was in the hardware store asking about a stranger she saw out by her house.”

  Yameno grimaced and crouched down beside him. “Coffman and Dickerson. I'm never really happy when they're reminded I'm up here.”

  “Coffman told her about you and was telling Dickerson maybe they could convince her to file a complaint against you, although he did say she was ‘weird’, so she might have seemed sympathetic to you.”

  Yameno laughed and reached for a stick to do his own doodling. “‘Weird’, huh? I guess we’re all ‘weird’.” He stood up, dropping his stick. “The tree’s finished. If she finds it now, it’ll be all right.” He leaned over and gave Tata a quick embrace. Tata nodded, and changing, flew off toward town.

  Finding Yameno Wellkeeper’s home proved difficult. Giselle and the dogs searched the hill back of her house the next day after school, finding a blackberry thicket, but nothing that could be the man’s home. The dogs had run up the hillside behind the thicket barking and then wagging their tails with happy little yips. She’d frowned, wondering what could be up there they would consider a friend, but they quickly skidded back down, jumping and running around her as she picked some blackberries, popping them into the little bag she’d carried a few crackers in for a snack.

  The second day of searching was just as disappointing until just as the sun was dipping behind the hill, she ran out of water in the bottle she carried for herself and the dogs. “Water,” she exclaimed to the dogs. “He has to have water. He’ll be next to a stream or the river!” She laughed as she ran down to the highway, crossing it to a trail to the river where they hiked downstream and then followed a small branching creek until it disappeared into a marshy nothing.

  Returning to the river, she sank, hot and exhausted, on the bank. The woods were quiet and beginning to darken around her. The water looked cool and tempting. Taking one last look around, she scrambled out of her clothes, and stepped into the cool water. She was surprised when the dogs didn’t join her, instead scrambling up the hillside their tails wagging behind them just as they had the day before at the berry patch, but she was too tired to care.

  The river caressed her as she swam leisurely up and down the shallow pool formed by the curve in the river. When she swam into one of the few spots where the sun still shone on the water, she lingered feeling the fondling currents lap at her breasts and slip their tingling fingers round her waist and down her hips. She did back bends in the clear water dipping under until she felt the sand brush her breasts and then circling back to the surface. As the last of the light slipped away, she dressed and walked wetly back down the river until she reached the highway bridge. Calling the dogs close to her, she went back down the road to her house. She was tired and chilled. Making herself a cup of vegetable bouillon and taking a long hot bath, she fell exhausted into bed.

  Yameno watched her return from his usual spot on the hillside before heading home.

  Wanning Gibbous

  The next day after school Giselle was too tired to hike and settled down under the oak tree with some papers to correct. The blue-gray cat curled up in her lap and batted at her papers while the dogs went on adventures across the meadow and came back to lie panting in the shade of the tree. Birds twittered and insects buzzed, and the sun shone in flickers through the evergreen leaves:

  Energy,

  universal wanderer,

  grabbed,

  wrapped in a ball,

  bound,

  flaming,

  fiery,

  hot, too hot,

  escape!

  Fly,

  Speed,

  faster than earth,

  faster than night,

  run with the speed of light.

  Invade,

  Bombard,

  hit the earth,

  pierce the earth,

  tear through the air,

  embrace,

  with warmth and light.

  Click here to listen to song

  Giselle smiled. Ghosts.

  Lying flat on the ground, her eyes met the bright eye of a tiny yellow wild flower. She reached out and touched the five-petalled blossom, gently turning its head toward her. “Five-petalled,” she whispered. “Pythagoras's pentagram. Can you tell me where I can find the man, Wellkeeper?” The flower dropped a petal onto her finger – a petal the shape of an eye without a pupil, silky, almost metallic in its yellowness, a piece of the sun. The breeze caught it and it fluttered away leaving the flower imperfect:

  I am without words,

  I cry from my beauty,

  a gift from the sun,

  the ocean and earth.

  I cry of my life joy,

  I sing to the butterflies,

  And know of my death

  from the moment of birth.

  Cry I! Cry I!

  I shout with no words

  from the earth and the sky!

  Carry my pledge before I die.

  A pentagram,

  a sign of perfection,

  a sacrifice of one fifth

  is to lose the whole.

  Not a gift, but a message,

  a promise.

  Earth honor the pledge of my soul!

  Cry I! Cry I!

  I shout with no words

  from the earth and the sky!

  Carry my pledge before I die.

  The wandering breeze caught the little flower ripping three more petals from the central hub, but the last remained:

  Seek for the answer

  At the edge of the sea.

  Follow the waters

  and climb to the sky.

  Find there the man,

  the wolf, and the tree.

  Carry my pledge

  as I fly free.

  The last petal was suddenly torn away and carried upward with the breeze. Giselle sat up watching it go, a sadness tightening her chest. She repeated the last words of the song:

  Seek for the answer

  At the edge of the sea.

  Follow the waters

  and climb to the sky.

  Click h
ere to listen to song

  She called the dogs, and they ran south along the ocean cliffs, passing the little beach where she and her friends had eaten their picnic lunch, and continuing down the edge of the cliffs another half mile. Here the meadow widened and the hill retreated. On the other side of the meadow, some low trees and bushes grew in a line down to the coast. The cliff seemed to dip there as if a stream had cut through its rocky shoulders.

  “Follow the waters,” she whispered to herself, and she began to run toward the dip. A stream in a steeply cut ravine flowed almost directly east and west as far as she could see back into the underbrush. She turned east and walked along the edge of the ravine.

  Soon the ravine got shallower and a ledge led down to the stream where it was easier to walk along the drought dry edges of the bed. The plant smell was thick and heady, and the stream flowed in a pleasant bubbly half-roar over the rocks. It was not very deep – perhaps a foot at the deepest points – but in the winter rainy season – if the rains came this year – it would thicken into a rushing mini-river.

  She stopped suddenly as she nearly stepped into a second stream creeping out of the underbrush on the left into the main stream. This stream, though not as wide as the first, was deeper under its covering of brush. The main stream was much smaller beyond this point. Ahead the land lay flat, but to the north were hills. “Climb to the sky,” she whispered, and searched for a way through the thick brambles all around the fork in the two streams. Pulling off her shoes and rolling up her pants, she ducked under the brush where the stream poured through, and waded into the green tunnel.

  The banks of this stream were high, the plants thick and overhanging. She enjoyed the cool wade under the trees as it wound its way around the east side of the hill. When the brush moved back from the bank forming a little clearing, Giselle climbed up and sat on the edge in a shaft of late sunlight. The water glinted with reflected energy, sparking from the ripples where the water bugs wet their toes, flashing the familiar rhythm:

  Sacred waters

  From deep in the earth,

  Flowing with sweetness

  To bring the rebirth.

  Follow the water,

  Climb to the sky

  Carry my pledge before I die.

  Pushed by the insistent song, Giselle continued up the stream. The underbrush still grew thickly on each side as the stream bed slowly climbed, the water rushing at her down small rock faces. She stayed close to the edge, holding onto the bank and the bushes, followed by the sure-footed dogs. Turning a corner, she saw the hills close in above her and become one hill. The stream seemed to disappear.

  Climbing quickly, she found the source of the stream. Tumbling out of a tiny crevice in the rock face of the hillside, it formed a four-foot waterfall pouring into a little round pool, before it flowed down the streambed. She cupped her hands under the waterfall and took a drink. The water was clean and cool. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the sweetness of the air stirring about the little waterfall. Sacred, she thought, and placed her hands together giving a little self-conscious bow.

  A path led around a curve up the hillside to the right of the small cataract. Pulling on her shoes she plunged up the path trying to grab the dogs as they leapt out of the brush-walled path into an elliptical clearing, but it was too late. They ran laughing and yipping around the clearing and then suddenly disappeared into a little dark building that was so much the color of the ground around it Giselle had not seen it.

  His house, she thought. The dogs went into his house! They popped back out, running over to her, their tails wagging wildly. She waited, but the man didn’t appear.

  All sorts of strange painted and carved creatures peered back at her from where they hung from the trees and stood as if planted in the ground. There were pieces of bark stretched between small tree branches, containing paintings in deep browns and purples of wild-eyed creatures – not grotesque, but beautiful and natural in their wildness. From the ground emerged hand carved totems, modern renditions of the traditional echoing the wild beauty of the painted bark. Interspersed between the paintings and the totems were wind chimes, made from smooth small pieces of driftwood and shells, and delicate mobiles hung with acorns and other strange seedpods hung on braided vines, just like her necklace.

  A tall totem grabbed Giselle's attention. She thought it was a tree, but then she saw the wood had been subtly shaped into a woman, her arms and fingers branched and stretched upward, as if pulled by a magnet. The toes of one foot diverged into spidery roots downward into the base. The other reached out, as if about to step down to the ground. “Like my Chinese statue,” she whispered, “but different. Mine steps out of the tree. This one is the tree.” It was carved out of one piece of driftwood, gray with age and worn. The artist had followed the shape of the wood; the skirt and hair were exaggerations of the worn lines already drawn in the wood by time and the action of the sea. The face, somehow familiar, was lined with strength. The arms, thrust at the sky, and the head thrown back, gave the figure a sureness and determination that made Giselle shiver.

  She walked over and touched the wooden folds of the statue, surprised at how warm and smooth they felt…

  Deep in the heart of the wooden woman vibration surged through her fingertips, into her own body. The periphery of her vision closed in, a tunnel, the world around her slowly slipping away. At the edge, soft whisperings and the low whooshing accompaniment of the wind.

  Warm, warm is the earth,

  nurturing life,

  giving its fullness

  to reach for the sun.

  My roots mingling in her

  bring me my life blood

  and when I die

  it’s earth they become.

  But my heart-wood goes sailing

  in wintry seas,

  tossed by the harsh waves

  and rocked by the tides,

  rubbed on the warm sands

  until I am smooth,

  warmed by the sun

  until I am dried.

  Then comes the man

  who takes of my shape,

  carving me gently

  gives me new form.

  Made of his soul-sight,

  the earth, sun, and water,

  the wind is my brother,

  my sister, the dawn.

  Suddenly the song became more insistent:

  I am the fullness, I am the secret.

  You are the answer, the bearer of life.

  I am the singer, I am the weeper.

  You are the leader, the edge of the knife.

  Click here to listen to song

  Giselle jumped back from the totem and shook herself into awareness. “Me?” she whispered. “Is it speaking to me?” She forced her eyes away from the beautiful, frightening woman. Trembling, she turned her back and walked over to the little brown dwelling at the edge of the clearing.

  It looked like a tent built of wood. The peak of the roof was about four feet above the ground extending in a point at each end of the roof. A ditch on either side of the roof carried rainwater away. The west end was open, and steps descended down to a hard packed dirt floor dug out under the roof. She climbed down and stood at the bottom of the steps looking in. The cozy little room was filled with the paraphernalia of living carefully arranged so that everything seemed to have its place. The roof sloped to the ground on either side of its peak about two feet outside the edge of the excavation, creating a shelf of hard packed dirt under the slope of the roof. She noticed some jars of colored powders and some books sandwiched between the clay figures of a quail and a burrowing owl. Other small figures peeked out from between cooking utensils and folded clothes.

  The far end of the room also had a dirt shelf backed by a wide board, painted with wild flowers in faded colors, leaning against the sides of the roof, leaving an open triangular window between it and the peak. A fire pit lined with rocks was in the left hand corner where the smoke could go out the open end of the house. A Navaho r
ug lined the floor, and in one corner there was a stack of old, but clean, quilts. Hanging from the sloping roof was a fishing rod. In the shadows of the roof she could just barely make out dried, smoked fish hanging like laundry from a string stretched the length of the pole.

  She wanted to look at everything, to touch the clay figures, but she climbed out quickly, afraid to be caught inside.

  Across the clearing from the path to the spring another path headed north, and she took it hoping it would lead to a path home. It curved northwest and climbed a small hill above the waterfall where a meadow washed by the late afternoon sun was partially cleared into a small garden full of vegetables and herbs. Some corn stood tall and ripe in one corner, and acorn squash and pumpkins ripened on their sinuous vines inching out into the uncleared grasses.

  The path meandered through the meadow and turned toward the sea, branching. The west path led down to the meadow south of her house; the north headed up the hill behind her house. She took the westerly path and cut across the meadow, arriving home as the sun sank into the sea. Too tired for yoga, she went straight to the kitchen.

  It wasn't until she returned to the porch, plate in hand, to eat sitting on the top step, that she saw another bark painting leaning against the post by the steps. This one was of a blackberry thicket, set on a hillside in a sunset lit forest. Hanging over the top of the painting was a sprig of blackberry cane with two or three blackberries on it. Her hands shook as she gingerly lifted the sprig, watching for thorns, and felt the soft juicy berries in her hand.

  He must have seen her at the blackberry thicket. She remembered the dogs running up the hillside wagging their tails. If it was him, they think of him as a friend.

  “So, do you trust the judgment of the dogs?” she whispered. “Are they really able to tell if someone has evil intentions?” Had he stuck around and watched her from some hiding place while she picked the berries? What about yesterday at the river? Her face grew warm. She looked down at the painting. Cutting across the lower corner, almost invisible under the brambles, was a silvery river, glinting with the sunset colors flickering through the trees.

  The little gray kitty was sitting on the step beside her and his tail flicked ever so slightly, his head turned just a little bit to one side. “You're laughing at me,” she exclaimed, poking a finger at his nose. “You think it's funny.”

  She peered up at the hillside. “I don't know what to think.”

  Finishing her dinner quickly, she grabbed a book and went to bed, forcing herself to keep involved in the plot so her mind wouldn't wander. Soon her exhausted body took over and sent her to sleep.

  Yameno stood on the path next to his garden looking up at the bright stars hanging close above his head and out at the sea glittering in the moonlight beyond Giselle's meadow. He clasped his arms around his shoulders, a little chilled in the cool night. She’d been frightened of the totem, the tree woman. Would she accept it? She created it, he thought. She danced the earth's song and dreamed the oak tree's dream. It seems so right. But she's afraid. Gunther was afraid, and Mary died.

  He shivered, turned, and descended to his home. He built a small fire in the fire pit, and curled up in his quilts, watching until the last piece of wood turned black and flickered out.

  The next morning Giselle awoke with the image of the tree woman in her mind. Seeking an escape among people, she arrived at school early and thrust herself into conversations in the coffee room about which she knew nothing. Finally, feeling hot and silly, she rushed to her room and fussed at papers and bulletin boards until class started.

  After school she wandered through the variety store, but couldn’t bear the suspicion in the eyes of the unfriendly clerk, who, ever since she had defended Dan Burroughs, had followed her up and down the aisles every time she came in. She bought some barrettes she didn’t want for her hair and walked down the street staring in the windows of stores. Turning up a side street, she saw Dan Burroughs in one of the yards raking fall leaves. Walking causally in that direction she called out a “Hello.”

  “Hello,” he replied, turning toward her and leaning on his rake. “How are you today?”

  “Fine, and how are you?” His eyes were so intense.

  “I'm just fine.” He paused and cocked his head a little to one side. “I hear you're living in the Bidewell house? How do you like it up there? Some people say interesting things about those woods up behind that house.” There was just a hint of laughter in his eyes.

  “What do they say? People keep hinting around at things, but I've yet to hear anything definite about the forest.”

  “Oh, they feel strange in the forest.” He smiled. It was a reassuring smile, comfortable and inclusive. “I don't think there's anything definite to say. How about you? Have you felt anything strange?” He looked closely at her.

  “Not anything I don't like,” she replied. Could she ask him about Yameno? Would he know him? That didn’t feel comfortable.

  He smiled at her. “You don't feel anything you don't like, huh? Me, either,” he chuckled. “I fish there all the time. The best fishing in town 'cause no one else goes there much.” He nodded his head thoughtfully, and then turned his piercing eyes back on hers. “Don't let people scare you with their stories of ‘ghosts’ in the woods.”

  He remembered what had been frightening when he’d first come to Arundel many years ago. Mr. Fraya, Hazel’s father and the expert in local mythology he’d written to about a college project, didn’t know he was black. He’d felt compelled to write him for an interview, but he hadn’t understood why, and when he stepped off the bus in Robertsville he’d been terrified Mr. Fraya would tell him to get right back on the bus. He certainly hadn't had any thoughts about ghosts – spirits, really. And once I did understand? It was scary, but the people in town were – are! – a lot scarier.

  He smiled again and turned back to his raking. “Nice talking to you.”

  Giselle nodded as she continued down the street mulling over the conversation. I think he knows something about… well, whatever that is, but how do you ask about something like that? What do you say? ‘Do trees talk to you?’ She was so caught up in her thoughts she didn't see Rowena Dickerson, Jesús' third grade teacher, kneeling in a flower bed in her own yard.

  “Giselle, Giselle,” she called out, standing up and waving her hand.

  Giselle looked up. “Oh, hello, Rowena. How are you this afternoon?” She walked over next to the older woman.

  “Glad to be out of that stuffy classroom and working in the yard. Say, dear,” she looked down at her gloved hands as she smacked them together trying to remove the dirt. “I saw you talking to Dan Burroughs down the street there.”

  “Yes," replied Giselle, warily. “He seems a very interesting man.”

  The woman gave her a strange look. “Well, dear, around here you'd do better if you didn't get too friendly with his kind. It's a mistake around here.” She frowned, nodding her head knowingly.

  Giselle’s eyes narrowed and she frowned back. “I need to get home,” she said coldly, turning her back and walking down the street and around the block to her car.

  Instead of going home, she drove to the little park by the river and spent some time swimming, blushing a little at the memory of her swim a couple of days before. The water refreshed and relaxed her. She stared up at the trees and wondered how much longer she would be able to continue her swimming before it got too cold and dark at the river. Then she remembered. In November they’ll close the park for good. What will become of it then? Will they sell the land?

  As she drove down the long dirt driveway to her house, she saw something on the horizon that hadn’t been there before. Something tall and tree-like was silhouetted black against the sunset, right at the edge of the meadow by the cliff where she did her Yoga exercises. She stopped the car, and hardly acknowledging the dogs and cat dashing out the doggy door to greet her, ran across the meadow.

  The wooden woman she’d seen at Yameno’s clearing
stood planted firmly in the dirt, facing out toward the ocean and the setting sun.

  Giselle's heart pounded against her lungs and she sank to the ground in front of the prepossessing totem. The sea crashed its eternal rhythm and the wind blew strong across the meadow, rattling the dry grass to the beat of the surf. Sea gulls swooped in the wind, calling the sinking sun in a high pitched minor key. She felt fluid...

  Formless, liquid, part of the soil and the air, moving toward the woman, flowing in, taking the form of the woman, her arms stretched and strong to the sky. Filled with joy, strangely alive, trembling. Shadows floating, The spirit of the grass, the lord of the sea, the lithe and dancing wind, singing together in wild and glorious chorus:

  Seas crashing, like thunder rolling,

  like drums beating,

  a call to the brethren, a cry to the wary,

  the time has come!

  The earth woman, tree woman, sea woman,

  stands revealed.

  Wind whipped, proud she faces the sun.

  Wind howling, grass bending, pines whipping

  bringing the night,

  singing the night.

  The tree and the woman are One.

  Click here to listen to song

  Giselle sat there, unmoving, drugged with the wonder of it, until the night fell so deeply she could no longer see more than a dark outline of the woman. Slowly she retreated back to herself and walked back to the house.

  What’s happening to me? Is this something wrong? It feels inevitable, unavoidable… right. She sighed and pulled her arms tight around her chest turning to stare one last time at the Earth Woman. She was beautiful standing there, a dark silhouette against the starry sky.

  As she reached to open the door, she heard the dog howling up on the hillside. It didn't sound lonely or melancholy – more triumphant. The dogs stood looking expectantly toward the hillside wagging their tails. If it had really been a wolf certainly the dogs would be scared – not excited – wouldn't they?

  Yameno slipped off through the woods. Luhanada was sitting in her car at the side of the road. He sat wagging his tail for a moment before he changed and walked over to her, smiling as he leaned in the window. The woman sighed and patted his hand. “Always running through the forest in your gray fur, and everyone just thinks you're a big gray dog.”

  Yameno squeezed her hand. “Your time will come soon, Luha. Giselle has accepted the totem. She became the woman.”

  “I heard the music. And the children?”

  He smiled. “Tomorrow.”

  Last Quarter

  But the children didn't fall into place so easily.

  Saturday was a hot fall day, and the flies and mosquitoes buzzed at Enid as she sat waiting alone at the little place by the river. Noon came and went. She read her book and jumped at every sound. As the sun sank behind the trees, the tears she’d tried so hard to hold back finally came bursting out, and she lay on the ground and sobbed. Jesús wasn’t coming.

  Yameno, who’d hidden in the underbrush watching her earlier in the day, came back to check on her, creeping under the low branches of buckthorn and laying his head on his paws. She was crying so hard she didn't hear his quiet sympathetic whimpers. He wiggled backwards out of his hiding place and bounded quickly toward town.

  Luha was playing with her cats in the wild garden in back of her house. She waved a leaf at a kitten with her right hand, while her left scratched the head of a venerable old fat cat with only one eye, who sat regally on her lap. Suddenly Yameno stood in front of her. She started, but only smiled when she saw the young man.

  Yameno returned her smile as he crouched beside her, rolling the kitten on its back and tickling its tummy. “You're needed, Moonmother. Chachuli is crying. Jesús didn't come today. I searched, but he's not in the forest.”

  The woman stood up. “Where is she?”

  “In the place by the river where they meet. I don't think she'll stay there long. It's getting late.”

  “I'll go right now.”

  When the tears had subsided, Enid went and washed her face in the river. The sun had been down a long time and it was nearly dark. She ran toward home. As she came down the path toward her house she heard a peculiar noise and froze where she stood. A huge cat moved out on the path in front of her, and sat twitching its long tail.

  “A cougar,” whispered Enid. “It's really a cougar.”

  The night wrapped its arms around Enid and the cougar. The cat's eyes glowed in the dusk as she began to purr – a deep rumbling noise, warm and soft, like velvet. She lay down across the path and Enid’s fear slipped away. Slipping down to the ground, she put her arms around the large animal and sobbed. The cougar carefully licked all the tears from her face with a rough tongue and the child stopped crying, lying quietly snuggled against her warm body. The cat gave her one last lick and with a queenly “Merrowl,” stood up and walked off into the woods.

  Linked, thought Luha. We’re linked now. She felt a tremendous surge of love and possessiveness… and fear.

  Enid picked herself up, and slipped as quietly as she could up the path, into the house, and up the stairs to her room, her head held high. Inside she felt warm and strong. She lay awake for a long time, smiling.

  Gunther had been watching for Enid’s return. When the sun had set and the twilight gone from the sky, he checked the house to make sure he hadn’t missed her, and then, suddenly apprehensive, rushed down the path she usually took to the forest. About fifty feet down the path he ducked out of the way of a branch and around a curve, and stopped short. Down the hill and up on the other side, in a place where the faint starlight lit the path, a cougar and the child lay sprawled, darker figures in the dark woods.

  Gunther stiffened and his body trembled. “The she-devil,” he whispered.

  While he watched, the cougar stood and walked away, and the child, too, stood and continued along the path. He turned before Enid could see him and ran awkwardly back across the yard to the barn, bouncing off the open door as he plunged into its dark recesses. He grabbed an old rifle from the tack room and ran back into the woods, the rifle clutched across his chest, the knuckles of his right hand white where he gripped the stock.

  “You killed my Mary,” he sobbed, but it was dark and the cougar was gone. “You think I did it, but it was you. Not me. Not me.”

  He stood frozen, remembering. He’d thought it was a game Mary and Hazel's family played with them as children – a game learned from the Tuwillians. They each had an animal – a character from the Tuwillian stories. Mary was the tree swallow. Hazel was a cougar. They’d told him he was a badger.

  But then before his eyes Mary became the swallow flying up in the air with wings of iridescent blue and black. She was beautiful. I was frightened, he thought. It was wrong. “It was wrong,” he yelled out loud, as the memory flashed before his eyes – his shaking fingers grabbing at the swallow’s wing. The fluttering – the uneven swishing of the one wing fluttering, pulling against him, and then the bird falling, falling, becoming Mary just as she landed, her head striking the rock with a crack that seemed to vibrate on and on. The feathers everywhere.

  The cougar's paw prints had been all around Mary’s body. The townspeople believed the cat had killed her and they’d scoured the woods looking for it. Gunther never said a word about the game which wasn’t a game. The cougar did kill her, he thought. “Not me,” he whispered. “Not me. It was the evil they were doing. It was Hazel.”

  After Mary’s death he’d taken all her bird feeders and burned them, and Emma – his beautiful daughter Emma – had screamed and screamed. Now she was dead, too. But it wasn’t his fault. It was Hazel’s. She was a devil in cougar form. She was coming for Enid and he had to stop her. They’d searched for the cougar before. If they searched again, maybe they’d find it this time.

  Walking as fast as he could in the dark, he headed back to his barn. Sliding his rifle back of the seat of his pickup, he headed for Al's Cafe – Al's and its telepho
ne. He would call the deputy sheriff and the men in the bar would overhear. The word that the cougar was back would spread quickly.

  The sun was low in the sky when Giselle awoke from a long afternoon nap under the oak tree. She had dithered all day about whether or not she should try to find Yameno and ask him about the statue… and maybe the music. She looked up into the leaves of the oak, flashing light and dark in the fading light. “Now or never,” she whispered.

  Grabbing a jacket to guard against the chilly September evening, she called the dogs, and started off across the meadow to Yameno's home.

  She climbed the hill, laughing and playing with the yapping dogs, anxious to give the man plenty of warning she was coming, but like before, his clearing was deserted.

  She checked down by the stream, stopping for a moment to dip her cupped hands under the waterfall and sip some of the sweet, cool water. The splash and gurgle of the water was calming and she felt the tension leave her shoulders and neck, almost as if the very air around the waterfall was massaging her, calming her. She bowed to the god of that place before slipping back up the path to the clearing.

  A life-sized sculpture of a red-tailed hawk riding a cougar sat next to the path. Instinctively she caressed the hawk and the cougar feeling the warmth of the wood beneath her hand. “A hawk,” she murmured. “I knew he was part of this. It’s strange, a hawk riding a cougar.” Walking back to the center of the clearing, she sat down to wait, her back against the tree opposite Yameno’s little house. The dogs rushed off, playing and chasing among the bushes for a while, and then returned panting, to lie by her side in the deepening twilight.

  Giselle looked at the magical mobiles hanging from the trees, the wind chimes clinking musically in her ears. The wind brushed through the trees with a soft whishing. In the distance she could hear an owl. Across from her, hanging beside the little house, was a painting of a wolf, his dark, shaggy fur forming a cloud around his head. A huge wolf pack filled the background, receding infinitely into the distance.

  The painted wolf’s gentle eyes met hers. Deep, deep in the back of her mind she heard the sound of howling, like that of the lone wolf seeking his pack – announcing his presence…

  I am the wild, the guardian, earth traveler,

  My soul singing touches the moon and the sun.

  I am the herald, the seeker, the messenger.

  I bear the song for those seeking the One.

  I am the hunter, the knower, the lover.

  My voice like a spear pierces deep in the night.

  I am the lone, the many, the mirror.

  My call is like lightning, jagged and bright.

  And then the pack answered:

  We are the pack, the tribe, earth travelers,

  touching the moon and the sun.

  We are the commune, the lovers and sharers,

  joining to serve the One.

  I am the wild, the guardian, earth traveler, the lone wolf answered. I bear the song for those seeking the One.

  We are the seekers, they replied:

  Voices like arrows,

  pierce through the night.

  We are the singers, the callers,

  the wild ones,

  Calling the lightning,

  jagged and bright.

  Click here to listen to song

  I am the hunter, the knower, the lover, sang the wolf. My call is the lightning, jagged and bright.

  The howling song stopped, leaving a deep haunting silence. The dogs crept closer and the young one whined. Giselle sat still, wrapped in the night and the song. It was impossible to keep her eyes open. When she awoke a little later, she groped for her dream. Slowly, a picture of running wolves, brown and gray as the earth and the sky, slipped into her mind. She felt herself in the middle of them riding them like the wind to the soul of the earth where something called to her with the voice of the sun.

  She shivered as the night air enfolded her and looked around the clearing, but there was no sign of Yameno. Calling quietly to the dogs, she worked her way down the hillside to her home and endless papers that needed correcting.

  The cougar ran through the forest and out into the moonlight shining on the meadow by Giselle's house. There she bowed regally to the Earth Woman Tree Woman, and then sat on the edge of the cliff, singing a piercing song.

  Giselle sitting alone on her sofa, her feet propped on the old trunk, heard the song. She slipped out into the night to watch silently as the great cat sang to the sea and the skies.

  I am I, I am now,

  I am the protector!

  I am the law!

  Nameless One called for light!

  I am the light of understanding.

  Nameless One called for light!

  I am the light of justice.

  Nameless One called for light!

  I am the light of wisdom.

  I am the light of Love!

  I am I, I am now.

  I am the protector.

  I am the law!

  Click here to listen to song

  Slashing down the skies, the red-tailed hawk dove at the cat, swooping upward at the last moment, just narrowly missing the cougar's head. The cat batted playfully at the bird and he led the cat in a merry teasing dance around the meadow, swinging low over her head and then high, high again out of the reach of her soft paws. Finally the cat lay down next to the Tree Woman and rolled over on her side. The bird landed beside her. They sat very still looking at each other and it seemed to Giselle they were laughing.

  They both turned to look at her as she walked slowly toward them, stopping only a few feet from them. The hawk flew up into the sky, circling higher and higher over the meadow. She watched as he banked his wings and swooped back again for another ride on the wind. He circled, and then circled again, each circle bringing him closer to Giselle. The rush of his wings above her became louder than the roar of the sea, and he descended to perch on the head of the statue. Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, he commanded her attention. Suddenly his scream pierced the night!

  Look at me!

  I am the wild wings of the earth

  and the violent sea.

  High flyer!

  Look at me!

  I am the eyes of the sun, piercing,

  I am the key.

  Wind rider!

  Look at me!

  I am the claws of the skies,

  bearing the welcome!

  Sky diver!

  Look at me!

  I am the voice of life,

  the song of the One.

  High Crier!

  Click here to listen to song

  With a last wordless screech, he launched himself on the rising wind and circled far over the sea. The cougar sprang up, and the hawk dove down from the sky, landing on the big cat's shoulder as she walked off into the night.

  Giselle stayed out in the moonlight until the sound of a siren somewhere north on the road aroused her and she went inside. It was late and she was just pulling her big t-shirt on over pajama bottoms in preparation for bed, when a car pulled into her driveway. She pulled her bathrobe around her and went to the door where the deputy sheriff stood knocking, a rifle hanging loosely in his right hand.

  “Is something wrong, deputy?” she asked.

  “Don't mean to alarm you ma'am, but Mr. Amundsen up the road…” He gestured north with his rifle. “Amundsen saw a cougar near his house tonight and we've been trying to track it down. You wouldn't have seen it by any chance?”

  Boy, did I, thought Giselle, but I don't think I want you and your gun after this cougar.

  She studied the man. He seemed very uneasy tonight. It didn't make sense. Why would a deputy sheriff be chasing a cougar? “Isn’t this cougar territory?”

  He shifted his feet, ignoring her question. “I didn't think you'd have seen it, but I wanted to warn you. Keep your pets in. We'll probably chase this one down in a couple of days. Then you won't have to worry.”

  “I'm not worried.” Giselle leaned
against the door. “I don't understand why you want to chase it down. Has it done any damage?”

  “Not yet.” He scratched behind his neck with his left hand.

  “In Bayomar we have cougars in the hills behind the city and they’re protected,” Giselle pointed out.

  “You haven't been around here long enough to know about... We don't want any cougars here. This place,” he gestured to the hills, “This place is wild enough as it is.”

  Giselle stepped outside, catching hold of one of the porch posts. She looked up at the hills. There was something funny about the way he talked about it – funny and uncomfortable. “But where else should a cougar be other than a wild area? It doesn’t seem right to hunt it in its own habitat. Why this area rather than some other area?”

  The man shuffled his feet impatiently, shaking his head. “Oh, lady, if you see the cougar, or its tracks, just call us, please.” He moved quickly to his car and drove away.

  I don't like it, thought Giselle. There’s nothing evil about that cougar – or the hawk, but there’s something very wrong about that deputy chasing it. And Mr. Amundsen was the one who got him started. She shook her head and went upstairs.

  Giselle spent most of the next day sleeping, first lingering in bed, then shifting her position to her favorite place under the old oak tree, and finally in deep meditation in lotus position facing the sea, her back against the Earth Woman Tree Woman. A small yellow butterfly flitted around her head and landed a long moment on her hand.

  Butterfly winging,

  'lights on my hand as I sit,

  still as a flower.

  Click here to listen to song

  She hardly breathed, seeking the essence of the bright feathery touch on her hand. Then felt something behind her – a hint of movement which disturbed neither the butterfly, or her mind. The butterfly flew gently upward and over her left shoulder. She followed with her eyes until it landed on the hand of the man leaning lightly on the shoulder of the Tree Woman. In his left hand he held a wolf formed of clay. “I am Yameno Wellkeeper, the Wolfwind,” he said, as he handed the wolf down to her. As she reached to hold it, the circle was complete – the man to the tree, the tree to the woman, the woman to the wolf, and the wolf to the man…

  Sinking into the Earth Woman Tree Woman, becoming the woman, becoming alive, herself and the woman, made of the earth and the tree, the sun and the ocean, supple as the willow and strong as the oak. Man and wolf blurred, floating together, one and wild and freeborn.

  Wolfwind reaches, caressing breezes tangling her branches, stroking her body, singing through the leaves of her hair, earth and tree feeding the wolf, bending to the wind. Joining, becoming all things. Wolf and tree, earth and air and water.

  Wolf howls, sings to the sea, and she – woman, earth and tree – leaps to his back, her roots circling his ribs, her branches his ruff, as they run, racing the wind along the cliffs. Within her a wild confusion – herself and another, many and All…

  I am the earth, the growing, the first born,

  anchored no longer.

  I am the highest form, called the lowest,

  synthesizer,

  anchored no longer.

  I trap the sun spirit. I am the transformer,

  I am the earth, source of all life,

  anchored no longer.

  Hair flying, tail flying, they climbed the forested hills and called to the day-moon. They cantered through the high meadows, flying down on the wind to the sea to gallop along the wet beach as the sun sank into the foam, taking the light, leaving the night, the moon shining on wet sand, glinting on the wave swept rocks.

  Cold, white light when the earth becomes still, and slowly a tree is a tree, and a wolf is a wolf, and the circle is broken...

  Click here to listen to song

  He left the clay wolf in her hand, turned and walked back toward the hills. Giselle looked at the moon. She could see the Hare in the Moon, that incarnation of Buddha who had deliberately thrown himself in the fire to keep another from breaking a law she’d read about in a children’s book. The fire burned cold like the moon and did not consume him.

  She moved back into lotus position, her back against the Earth Woman Tree Woman and sat unmoving for a long time, frightened, elated, unable to think and not to think. She caressed the warm clay of the wolf and leaned back into the smooth wood of the Earth Woman. Finally the cold drove her indoors.

  When Jesús arrived in class Monday morning, he refused to look at Enid, who never took her eyes off him. Finally he whispered, “Stop staring at me. What’s your problem?”

  She looked at him with big serious eyes. “Why didn’t you come Saturday?”

  He looked away from her. “It was too hot. I went to Robertsville.”

  She turned her head away and went back to her work. He returned to his plans for the house, fiddling around for a while looking through the architecture magazines Giselle had gotten for him, and then asking to be excused to go to the bathroom. He didn’t come back.

  Giselle was thoroughly annoyed. It was the first time he had ditched school this year. She called Ms. Nichols on the intercom and Nicki went to his home immediately, finding his mother working in the field behind the house. Dorotea McCrae pushed her hat back wiping the sweat from her forehead, before leading Nicki back to the house. He wasn’t there. His fishing pole was gone and the kitchen showed evidence he’d made a sandwich.

  She shook her head. “Mi hijo, he is too much like his father. La escuela… school goes so much better this year. He likes this teacher, but now… We will talk to him,” she assured Nicki.

  Back at school the teacher's lunchroom was full of talk of the cougar. Giselle was disgusted at the amount of hatred and fear she saw aimed at the animal.

  “It was out near your place, wasn't it Giselle?” Nicki asked, as she unwrapped her sandwich.

  “I guess it wasn't too far away. It was Mr. Amundsen, Enid's grandfather, who saw it,” she replied.

  Instantly all the eyes in the room turned toward her. “Mr. Amundsen!” murmured several voices.

  Mr. Harding lifted his eyebrows. “Where do you live?”

  Giselle carefully unwrapped her carrots before she answered. “You know the Bidewell house next to the cliffs south of the Amundsen's, and on the other side of the river?”

  “You live there?” he exclaimed. “Didn't anyone tell you about that place?”

  She dipped her carrot into a little bowl of peanut butter. “Well, no one's been able to tell me anything about that place that makes me not want to live there. I like it.”

  “Well, let me tell you a few things about that place!” He leaned forward, waving his soda in the air, stopping himself as some soda spurted out the top of the can. “Especially the forest behind that house and the next hill south – nobody here will go into that part of the forest except, you know, the strange ones.”

  “Harding, don't be ridiculous,” interrupted Ms. Nichols, halting her sandwich in midair. “Giselle, every small town has its local tales, and that wood happens to be the local scare tale for this area. Nothing’s ever happened there. People have been saying there’s a strange feeling in the woods for so long that anyone who goes in there knows before he goes in he's going to feel a strange feeling, so naturally he does. Just a bunch of nonsense.”

  “I don't think so, Nicki,” countered Harding.

  “Me, either,” interjected another teacher. “How about Mr. Amundsen's wife? She died in those woods, and there was a cougar here then, too.”

  “Oh, for heaven's sakes.” Nicki scowled and threw the crust of her sandwich down on her plate.

  “Well,” Mr. Harding added, “I don't think there's anything supernatural going on, but I think the rumor has been fostered for a purpose, and the cougar might be there for a purpose, too. Maybe to scare people off from a pot farm. You know that Indian, Wellkeeper, lives up there somewhere, and I'm sure he's up to no good.”

  “Yameno Wellkeeper!” exclaimed Ms. Nichol
s, glaring at him. “Harding, you're too young to remember Yameno when he was a child going to school here, but I had him in class. I have a great deal of faith in him. Everyone did then, and I still do. I would never, ever suspect him of any kind of wrong doing.”

  “Then what's he doing up there?” argued Harding.

  “I haven't the slightest idea, but he isn't hurting anybody, so I wish people would just leave him alone.” Nicki pushed her chair back and glared at Harding.

  “But someone mentioned the cougar and Mrs. Amundsen's death,” interjected Giselle. “What’s that all about?”

  “Oh, that,” Nicki answered, gathering her lunch leavings into a paper sack. “Mrs. Amundsen apparently fell in the forest. She hit her head. There was a cougar seen wandering in the forest at that time, too, but there was no indication that the cougar had anything to do with her fall.”

  “There were tracks near her body!” Rowena protested.

  “But nothing to indicate that the cougar had anything to do with her death! Maybe she saw the cougar, was surprised, and fell, but she wasn’t attacked by the cougar. There were no marks on her body that would indicate that. You all know that’s true.” Ms. Nichols threw the sack into the garbage with a resounding clunk.

  “But listen, Nicki,” Mr. Harding leaned forward in his chair. “I know they said there were no marks, but how did a cougar ever get in the forest? And now there's another one. I just think something funny's going on.”

  “The population of cougars is growing all over the state,” Nicki responded indignantly. “They were endangered and now they’re not. We should be happy to see them coming back.” She shook her head and stomped out the door, throwing, “I've got to go check the playground,” back over her shoulder.

  “Yeah, right,” muttered Harding. “The weirdos stick together. Believe me, if this job wasn’t so convenient, I wouldn’t stay working here.”

  “Well,” added Rowena, “If they sell the park for logging, like they’re talking about, that would take care of the forest.”

  “Logging!” exclaimed Giselle.

  Rowena just shrugged her shoulders and smiled, and no one else seemed to know anything about it.

  Giselle was glad to get back to class and away from all the crazy talk. The talk of logging really alarmed her.

  Still, she knew the cougar wasn't just an ordinary cougar...

  When Jesús reached his fishing spot, he didn't see Yameno Wellkeeper sitting quietly beside a rock until he’d settled into his fishing. He nearly fell in the river when Yameno spoke to him. “Well, here you are today when you should be in school, and on Saturday, when you should’ve been here, you weren't.”

  When Jesús’ heart stopped racing, he asked, “You’re that Indian, Yameno, aren’t you?” Yameno just nodded. “How did you know I was supposed to be here Saturday?”

  “I saw a little girl crying.”

  Jesús rolled his eyes and turned elaborately back to his fishing. “She would be dumb enough to cry about the whole thing.”

  “Did you think she wouldn't?”

  Jesús shrugged his shoulders and looked away, dragging his fishing line slowly through the water, pretending to be intent on the fish. Finally he turned to Yameno, who sat waiting patiently. “We've been trying to live off the land, like you do.”

  “I know,” Yameno nodded.

  “How do you know? Hey,” the boy looked at him suspiciously. “Have you been watching us, or something?”

  “Or something,” agreed Yameno, but said no more.

  “People in town think you're strange. Maybe they're right.”

  Yameno smiled. “They don't say very nice things about you either. Are they right?”

  Jesús looked at him, as if weighing the statement in his mind, then shrugged.

  Yameno stood up.

  Jesús reeled in his fishing line. “Where are you going?”

  “To my home.”

  “Do you really live in the woods? Can I go with you? Can I see your home?”

  Yameno nodded his head, and turned off up the river toward a place where he could ford it. “Come along.” Jesús rushed to put his fishing gear away, and followed him up the river. When they reached Yameno's clearing, Jesús stood at the edge, awed. As he walked slowly around the clearing, peering at the bark paintings and touching the wood and clay sculptures, he found a carving of a sitting coyote with a small squirrel crouched between his ears. He caressed it. “You sure put strange creatures together. I'd think a coyote'd eat a squirrel.”

  “They’re Kumni and Chachuli,” replied Yameno. “They belong together. Coyote, like humans, is creative and inventive, but if he’s cut off from the voice of the lifeforce, his creativity is destructive. In my nation’s mythology – and also in Norse mythology – the squirrel runs up and down the tree of life carrying messages from the gods to humanity.”

  “Chachuli? Is that the name you called Enid? She said you called her something like that.”

  “Perhaps,” Yameno walked over to the cougar and the hawk. “When you see Enid, tell her about this cougar.”

  “Oh, yeah, she was reading a book about a cougar.” Jesús reached down and caressed the little squirrel. “I've never done any wood carving.”

  Yameno smiled. “I have some small pieces of driftwood. Would you like to learn how to carve them?” Jesús nodded eagerly and they spent the afternoon together each working on a carving.

  As the sun began to reach toward the horizon, Yameno got up. “You should leave now, so you get home before dark. I'll walk with you to the road.”

  “Can I come again tomorrow?” Jesús asked, as he gathered his tools and scraps.

  “Yes.” Yameno nodded his head slowly, “but after school. You have a good teacher. There's no reason to ditch.” He picked up Jesús' carving, stroking it a little before he placed it on a shelf inside his hut.

  “I know.” Jesús followed behind him. “I only did it because Enid looked so... I don't know.” He hung his head.

  “You felt guilty.” He raised his eyebrows. “Right?”

  Not waiting for an answer he turned and started down the path.

  Not long after Yameno had left him at the road, a large red-tailed hawk came swooping past Jesús and landed on a fence post. It sat there a moment, preening its feathers. As Jesús stood on the road, astonished that the big bird should come so close, it fluttered its feathers and turned its unblinking eyes on him. Finally, it shrieked, spreading its huge wings. Lifting into the air with a mighty thrust, it flew in a circle over Jesús' head, then headed out over the ocean to ride the wild air currents. Jesús continued home not knowing what to think of the strange encounter.

  The next day in school, during morning free time, Giselle was startled out of her reveries when she saw Jesús and Enid, heads together, whispering eagerly in the corner where the children hung their coats and kept their belongings. Jesús had just returned from the office where he’d been lectured and given detention for ditching, but Giselle saw no trace of either contrition or anger.

  “And one of the sculptures he’d made was a cougar with a hawk on its back. He told me to tell you about that one,” Jesús told Enid.

  “A cougar? He told you to tell me about a cougar?” exclaimed Enid. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Jesús, on Saturday... Didn't you hear about the cougar?” She dropped her eyes. The experience with the cougar had been so important she wasn't sure she wanted to tell anyone – even Jesús.

  “Yeah, I heard about the cougar. Did you see it? I thought your grandfather saw it.”

  She shrugged and started to walk away. “What?” Jesús grabbed her and turned her toward him. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

  Giselle, seeing the discussion had become physical, was about to interfere when Enid put a hand on top of Jesús' hand where he held her arm and pulled his hand away. Still holding his hand she began to whisper earnestly. “On Saturday when I went home after you didn't come... it was nearly dark, and I was fe
eling very sad...”

  “You were crying. The Indian told me.”

  “Well, I wasn't crying then. I was just going home and there was this large noise, an animal noise, and this huge cat was standing in the path. A cougar!”

  “What did you do?”

  “It started purring and lay down across the path. It was... it was meant for me, and... and...” The rest was so personal, so private, she didn't want to tell.

  Jesús shook her hand. “And what?”

  “I lay down next to it and it... it licked my face.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure it wasn't a big dog?”

  “It was a cougar!” Enid roared her answer, and tears spurted into her eyes. She let go of his hand and turned to stomp away.

  He grabbed her shoulder. “Wait. I'm sorry. I believe you.”

  “I knew I shouldn't tell you. I knew it.” Enid started toward the reading corner, but turned just in time to see a wide eyed Giselle looking at her. She ducked her head, grabbed a book, and scrunched herself way back in the corner where a bunch of pillows lay haphazardly on the small rug.

  Giselle shook her head trying to decide whether to interfere or not. She decided to leave them alone now, but keep an eye on them, hoping some day she had the good fortune to find out what it was all about.

  By the time lunch recess came around, Enid had calmed down and was willing to talk to Jesús again. Slipping away to a hiding place inside a large, brightly painted, concrete pipe at the far end of the yard, they sat facing each other with their feet stretched up the curved walls. “I think Yameno – the Indian – must’ve had something to do with your cougar,” Jesús suggested. “Otherwise, why’d he tell me to tell you about the cougar sculpture?”

  Enid nodded thoughtfully. “I want to go there with you. I want to see that sculpture and talk to that man.”

  Jesús flipped a twig in the air. “You had a chance to talk to him before, but you didn't.”

  “Well, this time I will.” Her head was high and determined, and there was no sign of the timidity he was used to.

  “Boy, you’ve changed!” he exclaimed.

  She looked at him, her face straight and solemn. “It’s the cougar,” she said. “The cougar was for me.” The bell rang and the children walked silently toward the classroom. Without even thinking Jesús held the little girl's hand.

  When they returned to the room, Giselle didn’t notice their newly obvious friendship. She was too distracted with thoughts of the lunchroom conversation. “The Reverend Tarrant’s holding a town meeting tonight on the whole subject,” Rowena Dickerson was saying as Giselle walked into the lunchroom. “He says the cougar is evil. He says we need to kill the cougar.”

  “What a bunch of nonsense!” Nicki shook her head. “He'll get a mob of people up there with guns, and someone’ll get killed.”

  “Well, maybe, Nicki,” intervened Harding, “but on the other hand, it might flush out whatever's going on up there.”

  “With a mob of idiots that think a cougar is a reincarnation of the devil? I doubt it.” She packed up her lunch and left.

  Harding waited until the door was closed and leaned forward conspiratorially, rolling his eyes. “Well, none of us are surprised by her reaction, are we?”

  Giselle sat down and opened her lunch. “Where’s this meeting going to be held?”

  “You should go and find out about it,” Rowena urged. “Your house is right out there near where they saw the cougar.”

  “Well, I might go to the meeting, but...”

  Rowena interrupted Giselle. “I know you don't believe in any of this, but if you went to the meeting and found out about what's gone on before. If you knew about poor Mary Amundsen, you'd think twice about having a house up in those woods.”

  “My house isn't in the woods. It's by the beach.”

  “Well, all the same. It's near the forest. You said you go walking in those woods. And besides, you're kind of different yourself. I saw you talking to Dan Burroughs.” Rowena nodded her head firmly at Giselle.

  “What has Dan Burroughs got to do with this?” Giselle said incredulously.

  “Plenty. He talks to that Hazel Fraya all the time in the library. They're friends,” said Harding.

  “Well, I know she’s Mrs. Amundsen’s sister, but that doesn’t mean she had something to do with the cougar,” exclaimed Giselle. But… she thought. But maybe… maybe Hazel and Dan did have something to do with the weird stuff – the songs, the cougar and the hawk playing together. There was something about the way they acted… But, not something bad. I don’t think it’s bad, and I don’t think she caused her sister’s death!

  “Gunther thought Hazel had something to do with it,” Rowena stated firmly. “And the Reverend Tarrant has always thought she was right in the middle of it – whatever it is – and he grew up with her.”

  Giselle shook her head. “Well, where is this meeting going to be held? I'd better go find out what it’s all about.”

  “At the Church of Those Born Again in Jesus at seven-thirty tonight.”

  Oh, yeah, she thought, I remember that church. ‘Repent and Be Saved.’ “All right, I'll be there.” She ate her lunch in silence, while the conversation milled about her. Nothing more was said about the cougar or the “ghosts”. She thought of Nicki's exasperation. Only she thinks the cougar is just an ordinary cougar.

  Giselle pulled up across the street from the church a little early that evening and watched as people got out of their cars speaking to each other as they headed in the door. Although she recognized some of them, the only person she knew was Mr. Coffman. She'd thought Rowena Dickerson would be here, but it was mostly men. She considered going home, but took a deep breath and walked quietly into the church.

  It was impeccably clean, but except for a few very severe looking banners – “Except ye repent ye all shall perish, Luke 13:3”; “The Penalty of Sin is Eternal Torment” (no Bible reference she noticed); and one that made Giselle shiver: “Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing, Eph.5:24,” – the church seemed bare. The altar, a table with an altar cloth across it and a brass cross in the center, sat at the front of the chancel with a pulpit to the right and a smaller lectionary to the left. A step ran the length of the chancel. On the far right was a small upright piano.

  She hesitated at the back a minute or two before choosing a seat halfway down a row of folding chairs against the side wall. From her seat she could see not just the front of the church, but the audience as well. She noted a young man wearing a Yarmulke and a woman wearing a clerical collar sitting together in the fourth row.

  A middle aged gray haired man, neatly dressed in slacks and a dress shirt, came down the center aisle and stood on the first step of the chancel facing the people. He raised his right hand to get the audience's attention.

  “Folks! Let's settle and get down to business.” He waited a moment smiling nervously with his mouth, but not his eyes, while there was a last minute settling into seats. He leaned forward onto the tips of his toes and back to his heels, before continuing. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Reverend Jarvis Tarrant. We're having this town meeting here tonight to discuss a very serious matter.” He paced along the step toward the right side of the church, away from Giselle, and then quickly turned back to face his audience. “A cougar has been sighted, yes, but not just an ordinary cougar. A manifestation of evil.”

  Stepping forward off the step and up the center aisle, he added, “This is not the first time this cougar has come to Arundel.”

  He looked over his audience, pausing briefly and nodding at the two in the fourth row, pausing again when he saw Giselle – Giselle wondered if it was because he didn't know who she was, or because he did – and then turned back to the front. “This is not the first time it’s come to that place – those woods.” He waved an arm in the direction of the western hills.

  He paused and smiled. “Hopefully som
e day in the future the forest will be logged and the wood put to good use…,” (Giselle shuddered) “but that’s a ways off. We have a problem – a problem that has to be taken care of now, not in the future.”

  He mounted the steps again. Facing his audience, he spit out the words. “The cougar is here again. It’s here and it's time to get rid of it before we have another tragedy like the one that befell Mary Amundsen."

  The lady sitting next to Giselle leaned over to her husband and whispered, “Some tragedy. She brought it on herself, if you ask me, messing around in those woods.”

  “It's time,” continued the preacher, “to organize a posse and kill that cougar.”

  A group of young men in the back cheered.

  In the fourth row, the young man with the yarmulke stood up. He held up his hands for silence. Leaning both hands on the chair in front of him, he said, “Reverend Tarrant, if I may interrupt for a moment.”

  “Certainly, Rabbi Levinson.” Reverend Tarrant stood on the step facing the Rabbi with his hands grasped behind his back.

  “Reverend Yates and I are here from the Robertsville Interfaith Council. Many of us on the council have congregants from Arundel. We’re both fairly new to the area and we don’t know any of the background about this cougar, or why people think it's a manifestation of evil. Could you tell us more about this Mary Amundsen?”

  “Yes,” Reverend Tarrant nodded. “We'll start with Mary Amundsen, and then go back over the other sightings of the cougar.”

  He rocked on his feet for a moment. “Twelve years ago Mary Amundsen was apparently walking out in the woods back of her house – and let me interject here,” he said, looking directly at Rabbi Levinson, “that lots of people have had uncomfortable feelings in that woods.” He continued, “Her husband, Gunther, went out looking for her and found her dead. She'd fallen and hit her head on a rock. A cougar had been seen nearby and the police found cougar paw prints near her body.”

  “But, Reverend Tarrant,” interrupted Reverend Yates, jumping to her feet. “A cougar could have killed her without being a manifestation of evil. Also she could have just seen the cougar, been startled and fallen. Cougars don’t often attack adult human beings.”

  “Well, yes,” responded Reverend Tarrant. “They have attacked humans, but not often. That's true.”

  “And it can’t be the same cougar,” Reverend Yates added. “Cougars don’t live that long.”

  “Ah, yes, but this isn’t a normal cougar. Around here we have a history of unnatural cougar trouble that goes right back to the Indians.” He gestured toward a gray haired lady. “I’ve asked Muriel Chase, Dr. Chase’s wife and our unofficial town historian, to talk to us about that very thing. She's going to give us a run down of all the cougar sightings that’ve been recorded over the years.”

  As she stood he pointed to the right. “Bring your notes up to the lectionary, Mrs. Chase.”

  Muriel Chase, a slight, twinkly little woman with long gray hair twisted haphazardly on top of her head and a sweet smile, moved up to the podium. “Let's see,” she said, adjusting her glasses on her nose. “We'll begin with the local Native Uhseans, the Tuwillian people. The information comes from a fascinating book about their mythology, written by a woman who actually spent time a hundred years ago interviewing and talking with a lot of natives who lived right here.”

  “Mrs. Chase,” the Reverend interrupted. “I'd like to add here…” He hesitated. “We have to be careful when reading material about the Indians. Some people seem to idolize them, but they were heathens – godless. We need to read between the lines.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Chase’s eyes opened wide at Tarrant. She cleared her throat and opened her notebook, licking her forefinger as she peered down through her glasses and turned the pages. Finally she found the correct page and smiled at the audience again. “Here it is: 'The cougar was seen as a vastly important part of the local pantheon.'”

  The Reverend moved up the step and touched Mrs. Chase's elbow. “May I interrupt again, Mrs. Chase?”

  “Yes… yes, sure…” She blinked her eyes and backed away.

  The Reverend turned and frowned at the audience. “A pantheon is a group of gods believed in by heathens – false gods, of course.” He turned back to the little woman. “Please go on.”

  Giselle noticed Mrs. Chase’s eyes narrowing as she looked at Reverend Tarrant. “Thank you.” She nodded her head several times and returned to her reading. “‘Luhanada was considered to be the judge and the lawgiver.’ The cougar, that is. Luhanada is the Tuwillian name for cougar.”

  Again the Reverend interrupted, holding up a hand in the traditional stop position and shaking his head apologetically. “I must add there is, of course, only one law giver and judge, and He certainly is not a cougar.”

  She frowned at him, then shrugged her shoulders. “This is mythology, Reverend.”

  Giselle almost laughed. This woman probably was not one of his parishioners.

  “Ah,” he interjected with a raised finger and a smile on his shaking head, “but the Indians believed it to be true. It was a false god.”

  Mrs. Chase stood looking at him blinking her eyes for a moment. “Or a metaphor.” She looked back at her notes. “But, here comes the part of local significance.” She turned back to the audience and smiled sweetly again, lifting the book:

  To the Indians of the Tuwillia River there was an even greater importance, since a cougar had frequently been sighted by the young men and women of the village when they made their dreamfast at the age of fifteen. This cougar had seemed to them to be almost human. In fact, it is clear that the ceremonies of the secret society of the village almost certainly involved this cougar in some way. But when I questioned Chief Yanada about this, who, as I have already said, was a very important member of the secret society, he would only smile in that charming way of his...’”

  “You can see as well as I can,” Reverand Tarrant interrupted, “the author of this book – a woman,” he smiled, and shook his head knowingly, “was being, as she put it herself, 'charmed' by this heathen.”

  Mrs. Chase raised her eyebrows and looked at the Reverend. She carefully closed her book. “So,” she turned toward her audience, “A cougar has been sighted several times under strange circumstances, way back before the Europeans came to this community.”

  “And of course,” added the Reverend, “I think all of you know where the Indians lived. They lived right next to the river where it backs up on the forest, the very part of the forest we're talking about!”

  Rabbi Levinson stood up. “Mrs. Chase, this is very interesting. Thank you for sharing this information, but can you tell me – at that time weren't cougars a natural part of the environment around here? They were part of the original habitat, were they not?”

  “Oh,” she responded, “I suppose they were, but you understand, this cougar was supposed to act differently – human.”

  “Yes, I understand that,” he said, as he sat down.

  “Now,” Mrs. Chase smiled, and then looked hesitantly at Reverend Tarrant in case he wished to interrupt again, “that takes care of the earliest written records about cougars in our area. Let's see,” she peered through the bottom halves of her bifocals at the notebook as she flipped through the pages, again pausing every so often to lick her index finger. “Here it is. Let's see. About forty years ago... Let's see, yes. Well, actually thirty-nine years ago there was a cougar sighting by one Albert Swenson. He was out hunting in the forest and this is what he told the newspaper reporter.”

  Mrs. Chase's voice changed as she read the article and Giselle smiled at how well the little woman was able to assume the character of the hunter:

  I saw this big red-tail hawk sitting up on the limb of a tree, and I was going to take a shot at it, and I had my gun up and was just about to pull the trigger when this huge cat comes leaping out at me and knocks the gun out of my hand, and then turns around and knocks me right over. The hawk flew up in the air, then came over
our heads and flew off back of me, and the cougar took off in the same direction. Well, I thought I'd bag me a cougar, and I grabbed my gun and ran after it, but instead of the cougar, the next thing I saw was Hazel Fraya sitting on a log. And you know what she said? She said she never saw the cougar.

  “Yes! Yes!” The Reverend banged his fist down on the podium for emphasis, startling poor Mrs. Chase. “She said she never saw the cougar, but of course, none of us believe that. Nobody did then either, because I remember the incident.” His eyes almost flamed! “We were both in high school at the time, and that Dan Burroughs had just come to town and was working with her father, and Hazel was spending a lot of time sitting out on the steps talking to him.” He cast his eyes from one end of the audience to the other. “And you know what else? Her parents didn't say one word to her. They didn't seem to think there was anything wrong with her being so friendly with him. I believe they not only did not disapprove of her friendship with Dan Burroughs, but were a part of this whole thing. Way back then,” he thumped his fist again. “I think that whole family was involved in this.”

  There was an angry murmur of sound in the audience. Giselle noted the reactions of Mrs. Chase, who was looking at the Reverend with a bewildered expression, and the rabbi and minister from Robertsville, who were frowning. Mrs. Chase doesn't quite buy this stuff, thought Giselle. And oh, thought Giselle, the minister who kept Enid from visiting Hazel! I'll bet this Tarrant's the one. He has some kind of serious problem with Hazel. Is it about racism? Does racism really explain all of this?

  “No,” continued the Reverend, “we certainly didn't believe her, but we didn't realize then just exactly what was involved. We just thought she was in the forest up to no good with that Dan Burroughs.” He shook his right index finger wildly. “As far as the cougar was concerned, everyone thought it was just a dangerous animal that needed to be eliminated. The men all went hunting it, but they couldn't find it.”

  He began to pace back and forth on the step. “It wasn't until later that we began to really understand what was going on here. That was when Mary Amundsen was killed.”

  He turned to where the rabbi and minister sat in the audience, “Yes, Rabbi Levinson and…” he hesitated, his voice almost a sneer, “Reverend Yates, this you will find very interesting. Please, Mrs. Chase, tell us what Gunther Amundsen said to the police officer when he reported his wife's death.”

  “All right.” She turned toward the rabbi and minister. “Gunther was apparently quite excited and frightened when he talked to the police officers about his wife's death. He kept repeating – and I quote from the officers' written report – ‘I thought it was evil, but they were all involved in it.' But when the police asked him later, he wouldn't talk about it.”

  “And that,” added the Reverend, “is when he withdrew – stopped going to church, stopped talking to anyone. He knows something, but he’s too afraid to talk.” He looked directly at Reverend Yates. “I think they were involved in devil worship.”

  Reverend Yates who’d looked questioning, if not skeptical, before this, was now slowly nodding her head. “I see you nodding your head,” said Reverend Tarrant. “Now you’re beginning to believe.”

  “Well,” replied Reverend Yates, sitting forward in her seat. “I would want to look farther into the matter, but, yes, I do begin to be more suspicious when someone mentions more than one person involved, and being afraid. But not of a cougar. I don’t believe a cougar…”

  Rabbi Levinson stood up. “Yes, not a cougar. Reverend Tarrant, before you go off cougar hunting, I really think it would be a good idea to call in some experts. In our Robertsville Interfaith Council we actually have a Catholic priest, Father Keegan Gilchrist, who has done some studies on Satanism and similar cults. He wanted to come to this meeting, but had to go out of town.”

  “No,” yelled someone in the back. “Let’s kill the damn thing. We don't need no help from no Catholics.”

  “Or Jews either,” yelled someone else. “Yeah, yeah,” echoed a lot of voices.

  Reverend Tarrant smiled uncomfortably. “Ah, Rabbi Levinson, suppose you go ahead and contact your expert. We'll go ahead and kill that cougar, if we can, but those woods will still be evil. And when your expert gets here, why, he can exorcise the woods. How's that?”

  “Not okay, really,” responded the rabbi, sitting back down and crossing his arms. “Taking a mob of people out into the forest armed with rifles is asking for trouble. People will be killing each other instead of the cougar.”

  “Yes,” agreed Reverend Yates, “And if it is a manifestation of evil, you won't be able to kill it with a rifle.”

  “Oh, well, neither of you have been around here very long,” Reverend Tarrant responded in a voice that began to sound impatient. “We're perfectly capable of handling a hunt safely.”

  “Yeah,” roared the young men at the back of the room.

  Reverend Tarrant smiled again. “You just call your exorcist or whatever he is out here. I think that would be just fine, and he can exorcise Hazel Fraya, and that Dan Burroughs and the like, but we'll take care of the cougar.”

  The two religious leaders shook their heads. “We’re not talking about exorcism – he’s not an exorcist. He studies Satanists and other cults. But I will call, Keegan… Father Gilchrist,” Rabbi Levinson added.

  Suddenly, Mr. Coffman from the hardware store stood up. “I vote we get planning this hunt. We should do it Saturday.” He turned around in a circle looking at all the members of the audience. “Are we all agreed, men?” There was a cacophony of foot stamping and applause. Giselle noticed the startled look on Mrs. Chase’ face.

  “Then Saturday it is,” Tarrant shouted out over the din. “Coffman, why don’t you organize the details? Where to meet and so forth.”

  Coffman nodded his head in agreement and walked to the front of the church.

  This is crazy, thought Giselle. I can't stand listening to this anymore. Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, she stood up and made her way quietly toward the door. She noticed the two religious leaders from Robertsville and Mrs. Chase doing the same. One group of people turned their heads toward her as she passed. A middle-aged man leaned over to another man sitting in front of him and she heard him whisper, “Look, there's that teacher who bought that old Bidewell house out there by the beach in front of the forest. I wonder why she's leaving now. You'd think she'd want to stay and find out what's going on.” She grimaced and rushed out the door.

  Outside Mrs. Chase, the rabbi, and the minister were talking. “I’m glad you told us about this meeting, Muriel,” Reverend Yates was saying. “This is alarming.”

  The rabbi turned to the minister, “But surely you don’t believe there are Satanists involved in this, Clare?”

  The minister shrugged. “I don’t know, Micah. A few years back there were rumors of horrible things happening. Not here, but…”

  Mrs. Chase reached out to Giselle. “I think you’re the new teacher. I’m Muriel Chase, and this is Reverend Clare Yates.” She gestured toward the woman and then the man, “and Rabbi Micah Levinson. I attend Clare’s church, Robertsville Methodist.”

  Micah Levinson smiled at her. “What do you think of all this?”

  Giselle shook her head. “I don’t think it has anything to do with evil.” She turned to look at Clare. “Or Satanists either. Have you ever met Hazel Fraya and Dan Burroughs?”

  Muriel nodded and smiled. “Yes, they’re very nice people. I don’t for one minute think they’re Satanists.”

  “Well, probably not,” Clare conceded. “I just think Father Gilchrist should check it all out. That’s all.”

  Giselle excused herself and headed for her car.

  Waning Crescent

  The next day at lunch the room was a-buzz with discussion of the meeting. Rowena Dickerson's husband had gone and was excitedly making plans to join the hunt on Saturday. Giselle couldn't stand it and left.

  On the way to the office to check her box for mess
ages, she ran into Ms. Nichols. “Nicki,” she asked. “I wanted to ask you – well, I guess I'm concerned. I went to that meeting last night about the cougar, and the Reverend Tarrant...”

  “Oh, that Jarvis Tarrant.” Nicki shook her head in disgust. “The thing that's so maddening about him is he should be an intelligent man! You know, Giselle, I don't think he's all bad. He and I are about the same age. I grew up in Robertsville, so I didn’t know him as a child, but when I first started teaching here I was only about twenty-two years old. He had just gotten back from some Bible college in the east and was ready to start this little church he runs. He was an idealist of sorts, really. At least, he was enthusiastic about his church.”

  “When did he change?”

  “Well, twelve or thirteen years ago, when Mary Amundsen died, he got real excited and was talking about the devil. Actually, though, he's always been a little crazy where Hazel Fraya is concerned.”

  “And she's so nice,” exclaimed Giselle. “She's been so helpful to me in the library. She seems like an intelligent and genuinely good person.”

  “To me, too,” Nicki nodded her head. “But Jarvis has always been upset about her and especially about her friendship with Dan Burroughs. And…” Nicki lifted her index finger and shook it significantly, “Jarvis has never gotten married. I kind of think he had a thing for her once, and Dan Burroughs came along..."

  “But she never married Dan?” Giselle interrupted.

  “No, I've never understood that – or maybe I do. They'd have to leave and go to a city or something if they got married, because people here would make life intolerable for them. Well, they do anyway. But why haven't they left? Why does Dan Burroughs stick around a place where people are so crude and nasty to him? He's an intelligent, educated man. Why is he working in Arundel as a gardener, when he could be working in a city some place at almost any job he chose?” Nicki shrugged her shoulders.

  “Tarrant said he came here to work for Hazel’s father.”

  “That’s right. He came here when he was about twenty for his summer vacations. He was going to college down in Greenville. Hazel was just finishing high school. He came and worked with Hazel's father, who had a small farm. Jarvis said he didn't think her dad really needed help. It seems to me I remember something about doing research, too.”

  “Well, maybe her dad was just helping Dan out.”

  “Maybe, I don't know.” Nicki shoved one hand in the pocket of her gray slacks, and ran the fingers of her other hand through her hair.

  “You know, Giselle, the only thing I do really know about this whole thing, is that if they felt they could organize a hunt for Hazel and Dan, they would. They're afraid of this cougar, but they're really afraid of Hazel and Dan… and Yameno Wellkeeper, too.”

  “They're different. People are afraid of people who are different.”

  “That's right.”

  “Scary.”

  “Yes,” Nicki nodded. “Yes. Very scary.” She looked out the window.

  Scary for her, too, if she’s lesbian, thought Giselle.

  She felt agitated and upset all afternoon. What can I do? Maybe go to the library and talk to Hazel Fraya – warn her about the hunt, if she doesn’t already know. She looked out over the heads of her students who were deep in silent reading. Maybe the librarian would tell her what it was all about. Maybe. But why would the woman trust her?

  When she walked into the library that afternoon, she found Dan Burroughs there sitting in a chair beside Hazel's desk. Both looked up at her warily as she came in the door, and Dan stood. “Hi,” said Giselle awkwardly.

  “Can I help you, dear,” said the librarian.

  “No, I mean... Well, I just came here because...” She pushed her hair away from her face and walked over to the desk. “This is probably none of my business,” she started again, “but people are worked up about a cougar and – this sounds so strange…”

  Hazel interrupted. “It is strange. We understand.”

  “I just wanted to warn you.”

  “To warn us?”

  “Yes, they – they're going to hunt for the cougar on Saturday.”

  Hazel and Dan shot an alarmed look at each other.

  “You didn't know?” continued Giselle. “They're forming a posse to hunt for this poor cougar, and somehow they connect it with you.”

  Dan sank back in the chair. “We knew Amundsen saw the cougar, but we didn't know about the hunt.”

  Hazel gestured at the other chair for Giselle. “Tell us, dear.”

  Giselle told them everything and they listened intently. She paused after telling them the stories of the newspaper clipping and of Mary Amundsen's death, but they didn't comment. After she finished, Hazel leaned over and put her hand on Giselle's arm. “Thank you, Giselle. Thank you.”

  Giselle waited a moment. She wanted to talk about the cougar and the hawk, about her experiences with the Earth Woman Tree Woman, but Hazel and Dan didn’t say anything, and she didn’t either. Instead she went home and sat for a long time leaning against the wooden woman.

  That night Luha and Tata, climbed the path to Yameno's.

  Holding hands and leaning into each other, they sat quietly next to the little waterfall while Yameno sang:

  Water of life,

  Purify me.

  Water of the soul of earth,

  wash me in your love.

  Click here to listen to song

  Dipping their hands into the pool they drank of the sacred waters feeling the spirit of the earth pour over them, the silence of the night thrumming like a drumbeat, a heartbeat.

  Come, come, whispered the night.

  Hammer your feet

  to the beat of the drum.

  “Did you hear?” whispered the cat woman.

  Come, come, answer the call

  of the earth and the sun.

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  “Ninas Twei is calling us,” Yameno added.

  Tata nodded. “Hunt or no hunt, we have to go as soon as we can all gather”

  “Saturday,” added Luha.