Our Lady of the Forest (33 page)

Pilgrims came forward to the altar of ferns and left more candles, photographs, petitions, crucifixes, rosaries, and flowers. They left money, an umbrella, a sweatshirt, a camera, and a packet of chewing tobacco. A group had hauled in a half-life-size plaster statue of Our Lady of Fátima which was propped against a hemlock tree and garlanded with a crown of moss. A little like Aphrodite there, said Father Butler to Father Collins. These people are closet polytheists.

Well welcome to the real Catholic Church, Father Bill. Which is really composed of real people, isn't it. People with valid spiritual instincts instead of endless liturgy.

This is
not
Catholicism.

I suppose you're still for the Latin mass.

I am, yes. If you want to know.

Well there's no going back to pre–Vatican Two.

I think that's a shame, said Father Butler.

Someone handed him a packet of photographs as large as a deck of playing cards. On top was a Polaroid marked “Door to Heaven,” a large rectangle of blinding sunlight referred to briefly in Revelation,
After this I looked and lo, in heaven an open door!
Very nice, remarked Father Butler, examining it with clearly feigned interest. Very interesting. Exceptional. He handed the photos back, stifling a yawn. The door to heaven up among the clouds. Be sure these get well circulated. There's no need to leave them with me.

There's one charlatan, he said to Father Collins, who claims to have invented what he calls the Photonic Ionic Cloth Radio Amplifier Maser. I'm not pulling your leg, he said. That's what it's called. Acronym
PICRAM
. B-movie science-fiction apparatus. The visionary is supposed to hold it in her hands during the course of an apparition and it produces, I don't know, waves on an oscilloscope. Telltale waves. Our Lady's sine wave. It looks like pre–Buck Rogers technology. Like it's full of radio tubes.

I never said this whole business was otherwise. Father Collins' hip felt sore, inflamed and tight from woodland walking. But I think you should give her a fair chance.

Well just so you know where I stand, no matter what.

Except that it's such a biased posture from which to begin an investigation.

I suppose so, said Father Butler. But I do have a bias against fakery. Against shams perpetuated in the name of our Church. Is there something wrong with that?

Maybe Lourdes looked like this in the beginning.

Maybe it didn't. Or if it did, so what?

So consider both possibilities equally.

That's precisely my job, said Father Butler. My mission and my mandate.

From her place in the vale of concealing sword ferns, squatting on her heels next to Carolyn, listening to the swelling crowd now singing an antiphon called Alma Redemptoris Mater, Ann shut her eyes, made the sign of the cross, and said the Apostles' Creed. She said an Our Father, three Hail Marys, Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. Then she moved out to the fern altar and knelt with her back turned toward the crowd, removed her hood, dropped her head, and silently announced the first Joyful Mystery while all went silent watching her, the Joyful Mystery of the Annunciation, whose fruit, she knew, was humility. She said privately another Our Father and ten Hail Marys, during which she tried to imagine the moment in which Gabriel appeared to Mary exclaiming, The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God. Was there fear then? Did Mary suspect the devil's work, that Lucifer, disguised, might be the supernatural one who intended to plant his seed? Was her fear greater in the dark hours, did she flee from sleep and dreams? Did she consider sticking herself, breaking her water? Was she horrified by this inexplicable pregnancy and did she suspect a monster would split her legs at the moment of birth in Bethlehem? Did she hope for a stillbirth? Did the baby himself disturb her initially? Did she suspect—in retrospect—that the advent of Gabriel was merely a hallucination? Did she blame Joseph for believing she lied, for surely he must have felt cuckolded? How could she be married, a virgin, and pregnant—all three? Did she wonder if Gabriel would appear again and did she yearn for that because after his visit her ordinary life paled by comparison to the experience of an angel saying she was highly favored, blessed among all women? Was that humility? Or was she frightened of his reappearance and wanting nothing other than the peace and suffering of an ordinary peasant existence? And was that arrogance? What was this growing in her belly—trouble, insanity, a miracle, faith, the seed of an angel, the seed of the Lord, the seed of a terrible incubus? She labored and it seemed like nothing in particular, nothing out of line, out of order. Then here came these prostrate worshipers with their gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Did she want that? Would she make something of it? Parlay it into more? Was he a monster? Seraph? Cherub? Demon? Later the boy is lost in Jerusalem and discovered impressing rabbis. Is she proud or afraid of the prophecy now? He turns water into wine—is he the son of Beelzebub, and is she Beelzebub's consort? Scary. Who is that person sleeping over there, the issue of my womb? But then he's crucified. While it might be Our Savior who expired at Calvary it is also her child, dead in her arms, could there be anything more painful? Woman, behold thy son! said Jesus, and those were real thorns, a real stab wound, who could look at real nails, spikes, piercing the hands of a son? The ankles crossed, the head hung. No, no, no, that is just my son, what kind of cosmic misunderstanding has brought him to this tortured death? The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery, Crucifixion, whose fruit was perseverance. Ann said another Glory Be. A decade of Hail Marys, then O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy, and she heard Mary say Behold daughter, it is I again as promised. And fear not for I know your thoughts.

Standing in a wheel of light, an incandescent disk. Her hands before her spread generously. And dressed in white, the beauteous one. Fair, maternal, shimmering shade, her expression beneficent but cryptic too, seeing the world from the right hand of God, from the other side of death.

Hail Mary, full of grace, whispered Ann.

Fear not but call my followers forth. My Son is angry. Call them forth. They shall renew their service to Our Lord through me.

Yes Mother.

And through me they shall spread his message. And I shall stay the hand of my Son, as only a mother might.

Yes Mother.

The greedy shall turn giving, selfless. And there will be an end to poverty, so be it.

Yes Mother full of grace and kindness.

I will return once more, be sure of this, daughter. Daughter, you must build our church. You must enlist the support of your priest.

May I speak, Mother? Just for a moment? Forgive me. I am nothing. Nothing but your willing sheep. But I am asked by many to plead with you—to beg of you—to please intercede, Mother. Sydney Ellen Mullen, who has leukemia. Others too—hundreds of them. To help them in their time of need.

I know your thoughts, daughter. Be not afraid. I am with thee. I am your Mother. Now dig in the earth. As I say. Dig in the holy earth.

Ann did as beckoned. She pulled the stratum of moss aside and clawed into the black humus with its effluvium of death and leaves. Immediately, water welled up in the tiny pool she'd formed, black water that smelled of the grave. More muck than water—mud. When she looked up, the Mother of God was gone. Carolyn knelt beside her now. I should have expected this, said Carolyn. You people always find holy water.

         

The roads had numbers, not names. At one time, not even numbers. But before the Forest Service became bent on digits there was a grassroots system of reference. So for Tom, FS 171 was the South Fork, east at 171D was Ford Creek, southeast at 1711 was Ford Mountain, south at 1711A was the Ford Ridge Units, otherwise known as the Ford Sale. By virtue of so many turnoffs—and so much distance—this area of the forest was little frequented. An unnumbered spur road ran below Ford Ridge into Ford Unit Two for three-quarters of a mile before coming to a lazy Y. One leg was a cat track dead-ending higher up while the main spur ran to a log deck landing where in '86 Tom ran a skyline show—eleven guys, a haulback and carriage, a yarder, and a good-sized loader. A sale in the boonies, on the way to nowhere. Tom had hunted blacktail here. Camped in the landing sometimes alone and sometimes with Greg Kruse, his hunting partner. Kruse was divorced, remarried, divorced again. Two ex-wives, five kids. Decked out in his camo jacket, drinking quart bottles of beer by the fire and talking about important matters like the smell of snatch and big tits. Perched on a log amid the charred remains of Tom's sixty-acre clear-cut. Stumps, stick alder, vine maple, drifts of unburned slash, old cables, beer cans, fireweed, snowbrush, bracken, and the cassette drive in Kruse's truck playing Lynyrd Skynyrd.
Won't you gimme three steps, gimme three steps mister, gimme three steps toward the door?
Saying, She smells… skanky. And Tom going along because it was easier than saying he wasn't interested. Answering, Well that's a good smell, you notice they get older you don't get that smell. Shit sticks to you, Kruse noted, self-absorbed. Can't wash it off—like skunk or something. Why would you want to? Tom asked dutifully. Smell it all day. Lay back and suck it in. Skank, said Kruse. That's a good word. Even if technically it ain't a word. Is skank a word? Who cares? said Tom. Bury your nose in it and be grateful.

The place was haunted by this tiresome business. By two lengths of rebar in the fire pit. Tom recognized his own crimped beer cans still there among the damp gray ashes, Budweiser washed out by the elements. Greg Kruse. Where was Greg Kruse? He hadn't seen Kruse in a year at least. Tom bolted down his truck canopy, squared away his gear, rolled his sleeping bag out across the mattress, and lay down listening to the rain rattle the fiberglass shell above his head. At least, he thought, I have a job.

Though maybe not. Did the world want a prison guard who carried with him assorted misdemeanors and medium-weight legal baggage? He didn't know. Maybe it didn't. Anyway, he'd find out when he found out. Tonight, he knew, was a possibility, they could fire him when he showed up for his shift, though he doubted Nelson had the time or inclination to clue them in just now. Not with North Fork seized by strangers, the whole county inundated. So there was a plus to these new circumstances: Nelson was so frazzled and distracted it freed Tom up for petty crime. Minor infractions Nelson couldn't be bothered with, what he had to deal with was crowd control. Tom shifted in his sleeping bag and turned onto his side. Pin had probably called Nelson about the mattress around the same time Eleanor called about the canopy. What did that mean? What could it mean? For one it meant Pin couldn't rent the cabin until he got a new mattress delivered. Tom hadn't thought of that. An added expense, lost revenue. But probably those Hindus looked at it such: This is the price we had to pay to get rid of that horrible maintenance man, you have to take the good with the bad, at least he's hightailed it out of here, we're clear of all his dangers. Okay, they were right. Tom knew he had gone off, been pissed and irrational, but at least he could breathe now. Nobody would hassle him way out here. This felt good. This was better. He climbed out, unlocked the cab, and retrieved his .44 and a 12-gauge shotgun. He placed them in easy reach of his right hand and tried to fall asleep.

He'd done this long ago with Junior—slept in the pick-up with firearms ready. They'd gone to a rodeo in eastern Montana just for the hell of it together. And because Tom wanted Junior to go. Thinking maybe a change of scene would kick-start him, the dust and the broncs with their nuts cinched up, the gimpy rednecked riders. But Junior hadn't much cared for rodeo and got bored during the calf-roping event so they went for chili dogs and jo-jos. They rode the Ferris wheel which Junior seemed to dreamily enjoy, commenting on the generous view of grasslands underneath the widespread stars, and then Junior sat through three bumper-car sessions getting bashed around continuously but never figuring out how to bash people himself even though Tom yelled instructions. There were a lot of drunks around. There was an Indian encampment with dancers in headdress and stick games played by leathery old people and it was this Junior seemed most fascinated by, he'd wanted to hang around the Indians, he'd wanted to watch the dancers gyrate and the old people move their sticks in the dust, he'd wanted to listen to the Indian singers and the beating of the Indian drums. So be it. That was fine. They stayed until Junior got tired, drowsy. He was eleven years old and had cotton candy stuck to the corners of his mouth and a sunburned forehead. They'd walked back through a boisterous night crowd to the pick-up. The parking lot was full of campers and horse trailers and people sitting out on lawn chairs drinking and listening to loud music and watching, in the distance, the bungee jumpers lit by a spotlight, and there were dogs milling about. They'd left their own dog, a mutt named Jack, tied off to the rear bumper with a bowl of water and when they came back at 2 a.m. Tom fed him kibble with leftover jo-jos and then he and Junior got in the pick-up bed and lay there with the rear canopy window open because it was a tepid summer night.

There'd been boozers and lowlifes everywhere though, shouting, carrying on, and carousing, and the drums and singing from the Indian camp, and Tom heard someone taunting his dog, he'd listened more closely and discerned it was two Indians, you could tell by their clipped, closed manner of speech, the way they buried their words in their chins, they were taunting Jack and he knew right away he wasn't putting up with that, fuck these god damn motherfucking horse people, I'm a god damn motherfucking shit-kicking logger, and he'd nudged Junior awake and whispered Watch this, then thumbed two shells into his shotgun's magazine, one for each of the assholes outside, and kicked the tailgate open hard with the Indians shocked by the drama of that into a freighted silence. And in that interim Tom chambered a shell with forceful, meaningful emphasis and said, Get away from the dog.