by T E. D Klein
July Fourth
You'd never have known it was a holiday. The morning hung damp and overcast when Freirs staggered from his bed and began his morning ritual of exercises. He had skipped them yesterday, and somehow they didn't come easy; instead of doing one more pushup than the time before, he could barely do one less.
He spent most of the morning on Melmoth, but by noon he'd had his fill of corpses and his head was spinning from the novel's convoluted plot, stories within stories within stories – perfect for class assignments, he decided, but exhausting en masse. He was glad to put it aside and break for lunch. Deborah was working in the garden, accompanied by several of the younger cats, but she'd left a meal for him; he sat eating egg salad, gingerbread, and a tall glass of milk while leafing through the seed ads in the Home News.
When he left the kitchen, he saw that the sky had cleared and that a strong sun was beating down, drying the morning's dampness. The temperature had climbed. Absently he searched his room for a distraction. The vase of roses caught his eye, the dark red blossoms vivid as a flame against the pale green of his walls.
Blossoms… It seemed as good an idea as any. Putting on his sneakers, he picked up his Field Guide to the Wildflowers and went for a walk.
He decided, as he turned his steps down the slope of the back yard, to follow the little brook and see where it led; he recalled that, after the water wound north through the abandoned field, it seemed to disappear into the woods, making it a good point for exploration. At the water's edge he saw dozens of little silver fish, several dead ones floating upside down or washed up in the mud. As for the frogs he heard each night, he still could not find one. No doubt they slept all day – a habit he hoped he'd never fall into himself.
At the brook's first bend he heard the sound of thrashing. There in the distance stood Poroth, tall against the sun, head thrust forward, jaw set, swinging a scythe as he cleared the field of scrub. He reminded Freirs of some extra from an Eisenstein film. Or maybe the Grim Reaper, Freirs decided.
He looked up as Freirs approached. 'Hello there,' he said. 'And where might you be off to?'
'Just going for a walk.'
Poroth grinned. 'You sure you don't want to try your hand at this?' He held the scythe out in either invitation or challenge.
Freirs sighed. 'Oh, why not?' he said. 'Might as well see what I've been missing.' Making his way through the tall grass, he took the tool from Poroth's hand.
'You hold it like this,' said Poroth, twisting the blade around so that it was poised to cut, 'and you swing it like' – he demonstrated with his hands – 'this.'
Feeling as if he were gripping a bicycle, Freirs aimed for a clump of weeds and swung. The long curved blade, gleaming in the sunlight, swished harmlessly past them and almost caught him in the leg.
'You're trying too hard,' said Poroth, concealing whatever amusement he may have felt. 'Don't twist your body so.'
Freirs tried again; the tool still felt awkward in his grasp, but the blade caught the bottom of the weeds and whipped right through.
'You keep this thing pretty sharp,' said Freirs, staring at the blade with new respect.
Poroth reached into his back pocket and drew forth a thin grey rectangle of stone. 'Sharp as a razor,' he said. 'I whet the edge a dozen times a day. But mind you keep the blade up there, or you're going to strike against a rock, and 'twill be of no blessed use to me then. I've yet to clear this part of the field.'
Freirs brought the blade higher, but it was a more difficult position to maintain, putting more strain upon his shoulders. By the time he took a few more swipes, his shoulders ached.
'God!' he said, his pleasure draining away, 'they ought to make this thing smaller, with a lighter blade. I don't like the way this one's designed. You can't swing it without whirling yourself around.'
Poroth smiled. 'My friend, they've been using that design for a thousand years or more without a change. What you want's a sickle. It's a smaller tool, for a single hand to use. I've got one back at the house.'
'Fine,' said Freirs, rather dubious. 'That can be my next lesson.' He handed the scythe back to Poroth. 'Now I've had enough of playing farmer for the day. I think I'll play explorer.' He waved and began moving off.
Poroth watched him go. 'Mind you watch out for copperheads. They say the woods are thick with 'em this year. Brother Matt says he saw a pair last week, around three miles downstream. Don't go sticking your foot in any holes or clumps of brush, and don't go turning over rocks.'
Freirs stopped and looked suspiciously at the ground. 'What happens if I get bitten?'
Poroth shrugged and brought the scythe back up into position. 'You won't die,' he said. 'But you won't like it.' He began swinging the blade in a determined rhythm.
Freirs headed downstream with considerably less enthusiasm. He was aware that Poroth took pleasure in doomsaying, perhaps even in unnerving a visitor from the city, but the lure of exploration had diminished.
The worst thing, he discovered, was the mosquitoes. They hadn't been so bad up by the house, but down along the brook the air was thick with them, and he found he was continually fanning them away with every step. There were caterpillars, too, fat green ones that burst if you stepped on them, and little yellow ones that hung from every tree on invisible filaments of silk. Several times he found himself forced to take off his glasses when bugs and bits of leaf got caught between the lenses and his eyes.
For a hundred yards or so it was hard to tell where the fields left off and the woods began. He had to stick close to the brook, following an indistinct little trail that ran along beside it, for elsewhere the undergrowth made walking difficult. He was glad, at first, that he'd brought the field guide with him; here and there he stopped to look up various flowers – at least the ones he hadn't already squashed underfoot.
Crouching down, he identified the buds of a swamp rose mallow, which he remembered from Forbidden Games, and something called a great St-John's-wort, which the book rather unnecessarily warned him not to eat. A lot of things, it seemed, were poisonous in these woods. He was careful to memorize the three-leafed shape of poison ivy. At one point, noticing a large, exotic-looking flower, he half wondered if he'd stumbled upon some rare black orchid out of Tim Tyler's Luck, but it turned out to be nothing more than skunk cabbage. Soon afterward he began encountering massive clumps of the stuff; there was a moral here somewhere, he decided.
By this time he had lost interest in looking up any more names. The woods were getting thicker, with tall trees arching overhead, blotting out the sunlight. As he moved still deeper into them, attempting to follow the stream's path through branches that impeded his progress and snapped in his face, he discovered that he'd have to get his feet wet, for the trail had completely disappeared and the underbrush grew right down to the water's edge. Rolling up his pants, he hesitantly dipped one sneakered foot in, then the other. It was like stepping into an underground spring, and made him think of caves of ice deep beneath the earth. He gritted his teeth and walked on. Soon the cold seemed to go away; either he was getting used to it or his feet were numb. Ahead of him, like a bridge across the stream, rose a low archway of decaying boughs and vines. He ducked under it and continued forward, his sneakers sloshing in the water.
On the other side of the arch he saw that, as the stream curved west, it had formed a small circular pool with banks of wet sand surrounded by statuesque oaks, their roots thrust below the surface. Obviously a watering place, he decided; there were animal tracks in the sand – deer, no doubt, and what may have been a fox or perhaps some farmer's dog. He wished he'd brought his tracking manual with him; it was going to be difficult to check such things from memory.
The place, as he moved forward, seemed surprisingly familiar, but he wasn't sure just why. Had he dreamed of it?
He waded toward the center of the pool, the water rising past his ankles. Everything was silent but the birds, and they were few, calling to each other in the trees overhead. The air arou
nd him echoed with the sound.
Somehow he felt soiled here, impure, as if he himself were the impurity, the thing that made the birds cry out. He was suddenly conscious of his body: of the oily juices flowing from his pores, the noisy rush of air in and out of his nostrils, the foulness of the city that clung to his hair, the foulness of his flesh, the foulness deep within him. He had no business being in this place; his mind – a human mind, any mind at all – did not belong here. This pool was not for those who thought; thought defiled it. He felt the alien shoes upon his feet, the canvas, dye, and rubber, the filth of the city that had spawned him. And he looked down at himself, and saw the water lapping round his ankles, and his own reflection…
For an instant the two beings stared at each other, forest man and city man. And during that instant all sound, all movement, ceased. And he laid himself full length in the pool.
Afterward he stood, freezing water dripping from his shoulders and his hair. He heard the birds once more, singing with fury or joy, he couldn't tell which, and he saw the sunlight lancing down between the leaves in shimmering gold bars. A longing gripped him: he felt a strange pull to the west. And when, like the needle of a compass, he turned in that direction, looking westward from his fixed point in the center of the circle, it was as if the trees had opened. He could see the brook stretch endlessly ahead, shining into the heart of the forest like a thin silver line, pointing toward places only the birds and the animals knew. When he saw this he yearned to go farther, and dreaded to go farther, and was suddenly so tired that he turned and went running up out of the pool and lay exhausted in the sand.
As the afternoon drew on, the sky became overcast again. Rain hung like a promise in the air. He breathed deeply, found his feet, and took the homeward path, realizing, as he left it, where he'd seen the place before. It was in the Dynnod, on the card marked The Pool. The resemblance was uncanny.
The sky remained overcast all day, but the rain did not come. At night the sky was cloudy, and all the stars were hidden.
At dinner I was famished, thanks to the day's exertions, amp; found myself agreeing to a second helping of pie. So much for willpower! Wouldn't be surprised if I put on a few extra pounds before the summer's over.
Sarr and Deborah seemed a bit jumpy; I think we all felt Carol's absence. Or maybe it was the weather, that feeling of tension you get before a rain, a sense of something holding back. I certainly never saw them lose their temper at a cat before, as Deborah did tonight. For the past week she's been trying to convince Sarr to put bells around the cats' necks – she feels sorry for the mice and birds they kill – amp; so tonight, when Toby showed up at the door with feathers sticking out of his mouth amp; a tiny yellow leg among them, she almost had a fit; she snatched up the bread knife amp; chased him down the steps and halfway to the vegetable garden before she turned around and came back, looking very ashamed of herself. I thought for a second she would really run him through.
'Happy Fourth of July,' I said, but that didn't go over well. They regard the day as primarily a war holiday, a celebration of the military amp; an excuse for people to avoid work. You certainly get no feeling of the holiday out here; nothing to distinguish it from any other day, except for the saying Sarr quoted glumly, 'Fourth of July, corn knee-high.' Alas, since he planted so late the corn isn't even up to my ankle! No wonder he was in such a sour mood.
Managed to brighten things up a bit, I think, by telling them of my 'day's adventures,' i.e., my little outing. In fact, they seemed eager to hear all about it, like parents asking what I did in school. I'm sure they've both been down that exact same path dozens of times, since it cuts right through their property; but then, I always get a kick out of hearing visitors describe their first day in New York, amp; I suppose it was the same pleasure for them: familiar surroundings seen through unfamiliar eyes. So I tried my damnedest not to disappoint them: played up my hatred of the bugs, nervousness at being alone in the wilderness with snakes amp; wolves amp; quicksand pits, etc. May have overdone it a bit, but I think they were amused.
Or at least Deborah was. She told me that next time I go for a walk I should carry a sprig of pennyroyal behind my ear, as somehow this prevents the female mosquitoes from knowing I'm around. (The females are the ones that bite.) She said she'd clip me some; she grows it in her garden.
As for Sarr, I'm not so sure he realized when I was kidding about my day's exploits, amp; for all I know he may have felt secretly contemptuous – though I suspect his main feeling was one of concern. He told me, with great seriousness, that it's just as well I stopped where I did today, at the bend in the stream, since if I'd followed it a couple of miles deeper into the woods I'd have ended up where the stream empties into a marshy backwater amp; it's easy to get lost. Just beyond the marsh, he said, is a place where on certain nights you can actually see clouds of steam amp; swamp gas rising from the ground, amp; will-o'-the-wisps, and trees that, in these parts, you don't expect to find. It's the place the men were talking about in the store yesterday, where those two girls were killed – the place they call McKinney's Neck.
When I think about it now, the whole afternoon seems almost as unreal as a dream. Glad I'm back inside again, four walls keeping out the night, with bed amp; books amp; lamplight here beside me. At times like this the farm seems like a precious little island, amp; no one but a fool would venture out into the darkness where they don't belong.
Feel too stiff now, amp; a hell of a lot too sleepy, to sit up writing anymore. Time to put away this journal amp; turn in. Carol's probably going to bed now too, never knowing how lucky she is to be surrounded by all that concrete amp; brick, those noisy, well-lit streets
… Manhattan may be just another island, but it's nothing like this place. Ten to one I dream of it again tonight – so arrogant, so massive, amp; so safe.
Fourth of July
Dear Jeremy,
Well, it looks like you're not the only one who'll be spending the summer in isolation. When I got back here last night I found my roommate gone, along with most of her clothes. She'd typed me a note saying she was going off on a trip with one of her boyfriends (I've never been able to keep track of them), and that I should hold her mail and water her plants while she's gone. She didn't even say where she was going. I can't understand it, for her to just pack up and leave like that without giving me any kind of warning – it seems so inconsiderate. But I guess it's the sort of thing I should have expected from her. She's always been extremely irresponsible. She did leave me her share of the rent, though, thank heaven, enough for the entire summer, right down to the last penny, in two neat little piles of cash labeled 'July' and 'August'.
Incidentally, in case it wasn't obvious to you, I had a wonderful time this weekend. I really did, you know, it was just what I needed. I'm going to write the Poroths a little bread-and-butter note as soon as I finish this. They were both extremely nice to me, in every way possible, and I do hope I'll get a chance to see them again before too long. They're so different from some of the people you meet in this city, you just can't imagine.
Believe it or not, the ride back to New York took only an hour and a half, and I had no trouble at all in that parking lot uptown. I guess it was because of the holiday weekend; the whole city seems deserted. It was depressing to come back, that's for sure, but I kept thinking about the Poroths, and the countryside, and you and all those cats.
Rosie came down here tonight and insisted on taking me out to dinner. He pointed out how I really ought to be happy for the extra room I'll have now, and for the peace and quiet, not having Rochelle's awful friends running around all the time. I know he's right, and in a way I suppose I am just as happy she's gone, but I still can't help feeling a little bit abandoned. I miss her. Who knows, I may even miss you…
July Sixth
Had she meant the letter as bait? In retrospect Carol was forced to admit that perhaps there had been something slightly calculating about it. But then, she'd merely hoped to be invited bac
k to the farm before the end of summer. Never for a moment had she expected that Freirs himself might show up in the city – and only two days later.
'I thought I'd go by that restaurant again,' he began, telephoning her at work, 'just in case that goddamned book bag turned up.' And then, as if it were an afterthought: 'Anyway, you sounded like you might be in the mood for a little company. So here I am.'
He was calling from the Port Authority bus terminal; it was nearly four o'clock on a hot and muggy Wednesday afternoon. He had gotten a ride to Flemington that morning, shortly after reading Carol's note, and had taken the early bus out. Though he'd be stopping down on Bank Street first, to search his apartment and talk with the new tenants, this evening he expected to be free. Would she care to meet for dinner? He would pick her up at seven thirty.
Two hours still remained before she could leave work, and Carol spent them thinking of what lay ahead. Freirs hadn't said anything about where he planned to stay that night. No doubt he planned to stay with her, in her bed. The thought was a disturbing one, yet undeniably attractive; she turned it over and over in her mind.
What struck her first was his presumption. Did he actually believe that, having put him off once – or twice, if you counted their first date – she now owed him this night? Yes, quite likely he did; for, considering how methodical he could be, how stiff-necked and precise, it wouldn't have surprised her if he were one of those conscientious souls who proceeded according to schedule: first date a kiss, second something stronger, third a night in bed.
But wait, maybe even here she was being old-fashioned. Maybe she was living in the past. After all, Jeremy had been married once, and perhaps for him the usual three days' expectations had long since been compressed into a single busy evening. In which case, Carol realized, she was already in his debt twice over – though it scarcely made the prospect more inviting; she'd be damned if she was going to give herself to him simply out of social obligation. When she took a lover it would have to be someone special, not just an impatient man exacting his due.
