Strange Seed (22 page)

The first step, Paul knew, was to mentally retrace his route.
 
To be 110 percent sure of it.
 
Hal sure, fairly sure wasn’t good enough.
 
And to be
sure
he was sure.
 
How many, he wondered, have rationalized themselves into oblivion?
 
(And that, the thought—was a good beginning.)

He looked about again, again as if casually, critically.
 
He frowned.
 
Another planet indeed.
 
It was the same planet.
 
It had merely been…rearranged.

This was the woods he’d know, and had walked a thousand times.
 
Of course!
 
His perspective was wrong.
 
Perspective was everything, wasn’t it?

So, the first step was to change his perspective.

He turned, faced the way he’d come, and saw his footprints—moist, dark, exposing the shallow under layers of decayed leaves of leaves and pine needles.
 
He followed the prints with his eyes, up the slight, tree-covered hill.
 
He drew a quick breath, held it.
 
Damn it, goddammit!
 
He would have remembered coming down that hill.
 
He would have remembered!

He tried hard to remember, but he remembered only the other hill, a little steeper than this one; he’d nearly fallen down it, had stopped the fall by grabbing hold of and almost uprooting a very young pine tree, had gotten one of its needles stuck in the fleshy part of his left hand.
 
There was, he noticed for the first time, a dull ache in that hand now.

That near fall was when he had begun to lose himself.
 
To become disoriented.
 
To know it and, at the same time, out of pride. to deny it.

And that denial of his own incompetence (clumsiness, stupidity) had also erased what should have been an easy recollection.

Because he could not remember coming down that hill.

Or going back up it.

And down again.
 
As the other, parallel sets of footprints had told he had done.

And he could not remember what his eyes had shown him at the top of that hill.
 
More of the same, obviously—rolling, tree-studded brown hills, snaking underbrush, all lighted randomly by yellow shafts of morning sunlight.
 
Nothing of importance.
 
No recognizable landmarks.
 
Otherwise he would not have come down again.
 
That was logical enough.

*****

Dear Mom,

It’s been along time, I know.
 
I should have written before this, and I’m sorry.

You will have to down here soon.
 
I think you’d like it.
 
I know I do.
 
It’s not that I’ve learned to like it, or that I’ve forced myself to like it.
 
It’s that it’s grown on me.
 
I’m beginning to feel that this is where I belong—maybe that this is where I’ll stay.
 
Don’t get me wrong.
 
It’s rough, very rough, and I suppose there’s still a good chance we’ll give it up.
 
But we’ll have to wait, won’t we?
 
Wait and see.

Paul sends his love.
 
He’s working very hard getting this place ready for winter.
 
It’s not insulated, of course, and there are no storm windows, etc., but he’s piling firewood up at the back of the house, and putting plastic over the windows and doors, and sealing all those places where the cold air can get in.
 
He complains, of course, but I think he secretly enjoys it.
 
Man against the elements and all that.

We were going to leave a few weeks ago.
 
We did leave, actually.
 
But Paul brought us back.
 
I’m glad he did.
 
It comforts me that he did.

He’s a strong man.
 
He’s a wonderful man, Mother.

And because he belongs here, so do I.

*****

Paul turned again.
 
A quarter turn.
 
From where he now stood, the down slope of the hill continued at a casual angle another fifty feet; it terminated at an all-but-dry stream bed.
 
Just beyond that, a flat half-circular clearing fringed by closely spaced deciduous trees, some, at random, completely bare, but most still hanging on to their full complement of leaves—now, with autumn upon them, bright shades of red and yellow and brown.

Paul grimaced.
 
Perspective, again.
 
He had obviously been facing a slightly different direction before turning to face the hill behind him.
 
Otherwise, he would have seen this clearing.
 
And he was sure he hadn’t.

“For Christ’s sake!” he whispered.
 
He was about to repeat it when something small and slightly off-white glinted dully at him from the clearing.

He moved forward hesitantly, stepped easily across the stream bed and stopped a few yards from the edge of the clearing.
 
His brow creased.
 
“What the…”

The bones were everywhere.
 
Some threw pinpoints of sunlight at him, some were barely visible in the stunted, greenish-yellow grasses.

His head turned slowly as he studied the clearing for a full minute.

Then his muscles relaxes as realization came to him.

It was so obscenely obvious.

This was a feeding ground.
 
A dinner table.
 
Their
dinner table.

His hand began to quiver slightly.

“What in God’s name had brought him here?)

Then he quivered with greater force; it spread to his arms.

(He could almost remember.
 
It was there—the memory—at the edge of his consciousness.)

And his entire body shook, as if it had been caught naked in a fiercely cold wind.

(Talk?
 
Had there been talk?
 
And laughter?
 
Children at play—children amusing themselves?
 
Children being amused?
 
And, yes, he knew at once—there
had
been voice.
 
And laughter.
 
But not the voices of children, nor their laughter.
 
His brain had been trying desperately for something familiar, something sweet and benign.)

And then his body went quiet.
 

(Because it was his own voice, his own laughter, and Rachel’s voice and laughter, that had brought him here.
 
Had led him here. To the feeding ground.
 
The dinner table.)

(And the thing deep inside him—asleep so long—shook itself awake and sought release.
 
It probed about again in his arms, his legs, his belly.
 
It gnawed at his brain and the backs of his eyes.
 
It pushed him—Paul Griffin—to the beginning, the birch.
 
And Paul Griffin fought it, slammed it down, took his place again, briefly, in the present.
 
Then, longer now, it was once again the beginning, then, for an instant, Elizabeth Griffin lay silently before him.
 
And her husband wept.
 
And, again, it was the present.
 
And then the beginning.
 
And, at last the two—the past and the present—coalesced.)

And Paul Griffin turned quietly, sharply, to his left.
 
Thirty minutes later, he was home.

Rachel glanced at the pile of rough cut pine logs and thought,
This won’t do.
 
The pile was too high, too narrow.
 
It wasn’t the way she’d seen wood piled up before.
 
Not in these little lopsided pyramids.
 
It was a waste of space.
 
Why not a straight pile spanning the length of the cellar wall?
 
That was the way it should be done, the way, in fact, Paul had begun it.
 
Until, the day before:

“It seems so….so asymmetrical. Know what I mean.”

“Asymmetrical?” Rachel said.

“I guess I mean it’s…too logical, too rational, too cold.”

“You want it to be arty?”

He smiled, shook his head.
 
“No, just warmer, I guess.
 
I want to be…you know—“

“Inviting?” Rachel said.

“Yes.
 
Inviting!
 
How about…I mean, how about if you stack them up like this.”
 
And he took the next hour, and three tries, to build the first lopsided pyramid.
 
It pleased him.
 
“Like that,” he said.
 
“Just like that.”

“Yes.”
 
She sighed.
 
“I see.”

“Good.
 
Then pile the rest of the wood up the same way, okay?
 
And keep the piles the same distance from one another.
 
It won’t take long, I promise.”

Inviting,
for God’s sake!
 
This—she had built five pyramids; enough wood remained to build two more—was about as inviting as a fortress, or a bee farm (yes, that’s what the pyramids reminded her of—beehives, the kind people built).

*****

Paul worked slowly, methodically, letting the ax do the work.
 
It was the way his father had taught him.
 
“The tree will wait, Paul.”
 
Only an hour of practice had brought it all back.
 
“Slow and easy, son.
 
Slow and easy.”

It was almost like making love, felling a tree.
 
The first bite of the axe was the approach, testing the territory.
 
And the second and third bite—wearing down the victim’s resolve.
 
Then, at the middle—

He let the analogy dissipate.
 
It was distasteful, comparing life and death this way.
 
The only similarity was the reverence with which each had to be approached.
 
And the power of each, and the dependence of one on the other.
 
This tree had to die so he and Rachel could be comfortable (could protect themselves from the murderous winter).

It was a birch, one of dozens in a two-acre grove just north of the forest—off his land, he realized, but it didn’t matter.
 
The grove was very old; within a year, blight or insects would get it.
 
Or weather.
 
Better it was put to good use.
 
Better that it helped to warm him and Rachel.
 

Because that was the only consideration now.
 
Surviving the winter.
 
Keeping the cold air out of the house.
 
And the warm air in.
 
Keeping food in the cupboards and meat in the refrigerator.
 
And keeping love within them and surviving the first storm, which wasn’t far off—it was I the air—and hoping spring would come early, and knowing it wouldn’t, because it never had, not here.

The tree cracked.
 
It was less than half a foot in diameter and Paul had spent only a short while on it.
 
He stepped back, anticipating the angle of its fall.
 
Another crack, louder than the first, more moist.
 
The tree leaned back, almost imperceptibly, then forward and to the left.
 
Then it fell softly, without drama.

Paul set to work cutting it into easily transportable sections.
 
It would be the last for this load.
 
The makeshift carrier he’d fashioned from half-inch plywood and two-by-fours and attached, with a chain, to the back of the tractor, was already straining under the weight of just a half-morning’s work.

(Good work.
 
Nature’s work.)

He’d go home.
 
He’d have some lunch.
 
He’s spend a few minutes with Rachel.
 
Then he’d come back here and work until evening.

*****

It was good, Rachel thought, to feel this way about the house, at last.
 
She had known it was coming.
 
Even when they were leaving.
 
Which had been the reason for her pointed questions:
Why are we leaving, Paul?
 
And,
Why are we staying?

Because the magic was here.
 
Magic.
 
In the old walls, and in the land.
 
And in herself.
 
It had been given to her.

Dear Mother,

I wanted to write this letter particularly

She paused, uncertain how to explain, in words, what had happened to her, the magic.
 
It would be hard to say without sounding fatuous, though no one’s skepticism,
 
not even her mother’s, could matter much now.