Days by moonlight

by André Alexis

  such joy whenever I was first to find the tree in our neighbourhood

  whose leaves had first begun to change.

  I don’t remember much about the drive to Feversham, but

  somewhere along the Orangeville-Fergus Road, I remembered

  my father’s voice and I was happy. Then, too, it was along the

  same road that I began to wonder if the “sacred clearing” held

  some revelation for me, suffering as I was from the same thing

  that had afflicted John Stephens before his vision: grief.

  Reverend Crosbie was not as I expected her to be. For one thing,

  she looked young, though she couldn’t have been, having been

  in Feversham when Mr. Stephens was there with Kit. She was

  slim, red-haired with green eyes, and her presence was light, not

  at all dark. She was dressed plainly: blue jeans and a white shirt

  over a T-shirt with an image of Christ on it. Mr. Stephens, for

  whom she clearly had affection, had told her about my wanting

  to see the plants he’d described. But this was a more complicated

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  matter than it seemed. For one thing, it wasn’t clear to her that

  the plants Mr. Stephens had described really existed.

  – You should know, Alfred, that pilgrims have different expe-

  riences. I’ve lived in Feversham for over thirty years and I’ve

  never had a vision or communed with God. I believe others have

  because I’ve seen lives changed by what people have gone through.

  But …

  Most who stood in the clearing came away with nothing: no

  visions, no strange plants, no red walls. A small number experi-

  enced communion or visions that lasted minutes, hours, or days.

  And, of that number, it didn’t seem to matter how long this

  communion with God was. All lives were changed, however vivid

  or dull the vision, however brief or prolonged the communion.

  As to the content of these visions: that varied wildly from person

  to person. One man spent days entranced, though all he saw was

  a centipede whose body rotted before him. Another walked

  through an endless, shallow pond to touch a golden lily. The most

  interesting vision, to Reverend Crosbie’s mind, was of a woman

  whose menses stained her own legs and feet red before turning

  the whole of Feversham white as dandelion fluff. The woman who

  had this vision – a wonderful person! – left her children and

  family to help the poor and unfortunate in Scotland.

  As to the Oniaten grandiflora … very few people had ever seen

  it. That in itself was no big deal because so few people notice

  plants. John Stephens had seen it, as had a handful of Buddhists,

  apparently. But the only other person Reverend Crosbie had

  spoken to who’d seen it was an Ojibwe man from Kettle Point

  and he hadn’t been delighted by it at all. For him, it was like

  seeing what he called the “dry hand,” and he’d turned away from

  it in fear.

  – So, there you are, said Reverend Crosbie. I don’t want to

  discourage you, but you should know what you’re facing.

  After having me read an article about Feversham – “Feversham

  Syndrome: A Sceptic’s Glance” – the reverend made sure I had a

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  white robe that fit over my shirt and pants, and we walked – myself,

  Michael, Professor Bruno, and Reverend Crosbie – to the clearing.

  I’d naturally formed an idea of what the way to the clearing

  might look like. But my imagination did not touch reality. It

  looked as if a road – ten feet wide, a quarter mile long – had

  been chiselled into the earth, so precise were its borders. On

  either side of the road, there were shallow runnels – three inches

  deep, rounded gutters as smooth as pearl. The surface of the

  road looked to be shards of polished jewellery – thousands and

  thousands of shards – carefully placed and wiped, not swept. It

  was like a mosaic in five colours: black stones for the first 330

  feet, then white shards, then red ones, then green, and then blue

  fragments for the last three hundred feet. Where the colours

  ended and vegetation took over, the grass was almost as precise

  as the road itself. It was all so well-tended, you could immediately

  tell where the hours and hours of care had gone.

  And then, as Mr. Stephens had said, there was a curtain of

  willows.

  And then, as luck would have it, the first things I saw – look-

  ing exactly as Mr. Stephens had described them – were the

  Oniaten grandiflora.

  A young woman walking beside me said

  – Aren’t they lovely?

  To be polite, I agreed with her, but lovely isn’t the word I’d

  have chosen. They were remarkable. The plants’ gourds looked

  exactly like severed human hands: same bloodless, grey tinge

  and bluish veins. The plant had managed to imitate human skin

  so well that those lying “palms up” had the kinds of markings

  palms generally do. And the Oniaten were so realistic that until I

  picked one up I thought they really might be severed hands. They

  were plants, though. Their roots held them to the ground and

  the places where they looked severed – their wrists, had they

  been real hands – were smooth and shiny with a sort of grey

  gelatin that wobbled slightly when the hands were moved.

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  My fellow pilgrim – dark hair, brown eyes, low voice, the

  bottom of her white robe dirty – touched my shoulder and

  pointed out just how many Oniaten were on the ground. There

  were hundreds.

  – Do you think anyone would mind if I took one? I asked.

  – I don’t see why, she said.

  But they weren’t easy to pick. They resisted. Their roots ran

  deep and I had no knife with which to cut them from the earth.

  Then, when I managed to pick one, its fingers curled up as if it

  were suddenly arthritic or suddenly holding an invisible golf

  ball. I put it (along with two of its leaves) in my pants pocket and

  for some time I could feel its fingers moving.

  – Is this the first time you’ve seen these? the woman asked.

  – Yes, I said. I’ve been looking for them. I hear they have

  medicinal qualities.

  – I don’t know about that, she said, but they make a good salad.

  No sooner said than she had picked a dozen or so leaves –

  and a “hand” – and we were at her cottage on the other side of

  the clearing, beyond the garden of five fingers. I wasn’t sure

  about following her, but looking back at the pilgrims lying in

  the field and at the wall of willows beyond them, I didn’t see

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  how it could hurt spending a few minutes watching the woman

  make a salad and, if it came to that, eating a mouthful to see

  how the leaves tasted.

  That said, the woman – whose name was Clare – lived in an

  eerie place. It was lovely enough from the outside, with its white

  stone walls and diamond pane windows and wind-ruffled cover

  of ivy. But the inside was dim even when the lights were turned

  on. There was little furniture or furnishings: an unsteady table

  surrounded by four stools, a darkly cr
imson sofa, a poker and

  shovel in front of a fireplace, a spinning wheel in a corner, and

  shelves of things above the kitchen sink. But what truly made

  the place eerie were the paintings on her walls. There were a

  number of them, all with lights beneath them to illuminate the

  images, each image depicting a man being torn apart by a wolf.

  – I hope you don’t think the paintings are morbid, she said.

  It’s really just a coincidence they’re so violent. I love their colours

  and their compositions. Don’t you?

  I studied them all again, looking for brilliant colours or striking

  composition. But they seemed even more ghastly on closer look.

  The artists had managed to capture men in various stages of

  abject terror, while the wolves’ eyes shone brightly.

  – Well, I guess they are interesting, I said.

  As I spoke, I felt Clare’s warm breath on the back of my neck.

  I jumped. But when I turned around, she was in the kitchen,

  some fifteen feet away, smiling.

  – Why don’t you sit at the table? she said. The salad’s ready.

  The tabletop was rough, unvarnished wood with splits in it,

  as if it had been an old barn door sawed in half and nailed to

  uneven legs. Clare put out two settings. Between us she set a red

  bowl in which the Oniaten’s leaves had been torn to manageable

  pieces. On top of the leaves, the Oniaten’s fingers were arranged

  around the greyish square that was the “palm.’

  – I like my salads plain, she said, but I’ve made a dressing if

  you want some.

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  She then showed me what looked to be a cup of mayonnaise

  over which she’d sprinkled paprika and scattered chives. Though

  I was sorry to waste the dressing, I ate the salad as she did: plain.

  To my surprise, the leaves were exquisite. They were somewhere

  between a mild coriander and the taste of clover. I was not at all

  interested in the fingers. I watched her bite one and it cracked

  like a chicken bone. But I’d have been ashamed to refuse the

  fingers after passing up the dressing. So, I bit into one. It, too,

  was delicious. How marvellous, I thought, that the plant had

  learned to imitate human anatomy so well that it had grown this

  hard, crackling cartilage that tasted like savoury rock candy:

  saffron and cinnamon.

  Having finished the salad, Clare and I spoke, sitting at the

  dinner table. I was happy to talk and to listen, relieved as I was that

  five fingers were edible. I don’t know what it was that turned the

  conversation to personal matters. But after hours of talking, as I

  was about to leave, Clare asked if I’d spend the night with her.

  – It’s not what you think, she said. I don’t want to have sex.

  It’s just … I see that you’re a good man, Alfred, and so few good

  men come here. And you being a good man, if you were to spend

  the night in my bed without feeling desire for me, I’d be set free.

  I was, of course, surprised. I hadn’t thought about sleeping

  with Clare. Not that it was the farthest thing from my mind. She

  was certainly attractive. And, having been propositioned, I was

  forcefully reminded of my heterosexual feelings.

  – I shouldn’t feel desire for you? I asked.

  – I’m cursed, she answered. I’m a lycanthrope, but I turn into

  a wolf only when men desire me. That’s why I live alone. I’m

  afraid of what I might do. But you’ve been so kind, Alfred, I’m

  certain you’ve been sent to help me.

  – I’m flattered, I said. And I’d like to help, but I can’t always

  control my desires. What would happen if I were aroused without

  meaning to be?

  – Well, that would be unfortunate, she said.

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  – You’d attack me?

  – If you felt desire for me, yes.

  I considered Clare’s proposition because I wanted to help.

  But, like most people, I respond to sexual provocation in instinc-

  tive ways. I didn’t want to die for it.

  – I’m very sorry, I said. I should really be going now. Maybe

  I can help you some other time.

  If Clare was disappointed, she didn’t show it. She took my

  hand and smiled.

  – I understand, she said. I wish it could be different.

  I was so relieved to be leaving, I almost thought to stay.

  Outside it was darker than I have ever known night to be.

  The moon – high, full, and pale – seemed to cast no light. I

  couldn’t see my hand in front of me, even when I put it up to my

  face. Darkness like that is frightening on its own. But what terri-

  fied me was the presence of beings around me. I wasn’t alone. I

  knew it. And the first growls I heard were hard proof of the

  danger. Luckily, I’d kept my hand on the door to Clare’s cottage.

  I’m not sure I’d have found it in time, otherwise. I went back

  inside and closed the door so quickly I heard a strangled growl

  and the thump of a creature’s body on the door.

  As if I hadn’t left at all, Clare said

  – I’m going to bed now. If you’re staying, you’ll have to stay

  in the bedroom. I leave my front door open at night.

  I protested. I mentioned that there were fierce creatures

  outside. But I was deluded about her kindness. She opened the

  front door as if she hadn’t heard me. Not wishing to face whatever

  it was I’d just escaped, I went straight to the bedroom.

  In contrast to the rest of the cottage, Clare’s bedroom was

  large, neat, and frilly. The bed was a dark wood four-poster with

  red tulle draping, its two mattresses making it uncomfortably high.

  The floor was pinewood with scratches – like dry rivulets – every-

  where. What I thought were two windows looked onto the full,

  sky-poised moon. These turned out to be paintings of windows.

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  I got under the covers fully clothed, keeping my shoes on in

  case I had to run from the cottage and letting my feet hang over

  the edge of the bed so my shoes wouldn’t get tangled in the

  bedclothes. I was uncomfortable, but my discomfort, I think,

  distracted me from Clare’s entrance. Which was good because

  Clare had undressed and was – for one attracted to women, their

  bodies, their smells – desirable. I looked away at once and closed

  my eyes as she climbed onto her side of the bed.

  – I’m sorry, she said. I have to sleep like this. If I turn into a

  wolf, I’ll ruin my nightclothes.

  How to describe my desire? It was like rain over the lake on a

  summer day – the rain cloud in the distance, dimpling the face

  of the lake, moving toward land, changing the way the world

  smells, the way the air feels, the coming rain like a remembered

  taste, like a word on the tip of your tongue, but the rain will

  come and you want it to, feeling it before it makes landfall.

  In the darkness, I could hear Clare’s breathing turn to growls.

  The inevitable happened. I was aroused by all my efforts to

  think of things that would not lead to arousal. The moment I was

  fully erect was the moment I felt Clare transform, the weight on

  the
bed beside me now suddenly that of something with four

  legs – unmistakable, as when a dog jumps up on your bed and

  walks over to smell your breath.

  The strange part of all this – apart from a woman turning

  into a wolf – is that I’m a sensitive man and I often lose my erec-

  tion when I’m distracted. This has sometimes been a cause of

  shame. Once, for instance, I was making love to Anne when a

  car horn sounded so loudly the car seemed to be outside Anne’s

  bedroom window. It startled me and I couldn’t stop wondering

  who was in the car and I lost my erection entirely. You would

  think, then, that the presence of a growling wolf would stifle

  desire. But my arousal persisted, despite the smell of the wolf’s

  breath, despite its angry snarls, despite the weight of it – its

  front legs – on my chest. Desire persisted because, having been

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  reminded of Anne, I felt the kind of longing that pervades body,

  mind, and spirit.

  The wolf stood on my chest for a while but then it jumped

  down from the bed and prowled the bedroom, back and forth,

  howling as if it had lost its mate. Sometime later it seemed to me

  that there were other wolves. I could feel their several selves

  pacing. But none of them attacked me. I assume this is because

  my longing had nothing to do with Clare. All my desire was for

  Anne. In my imagination I was with her and happy to face death

  in her arms.

  But these are only assumptions. I’m not sure why I was spared.

  After what felt like days of night, I heard the morning

  – Cheep!

  of a bird, like a call to something, and I woke in the clearing in

  front of the field of Oniaten or, more accurately, in front of the

  place where there’d been countless Oniaten grandiflora but where,

  now, there was only grass, the Oniaten shrouded by mist or,

  maybe, eaten by wild animals.

  I felt overwhelming gratitude. I’d been given another chance.

  I was alive – still alive, despite the wolves – and this feeling, this

  gratitude, was the first of my exhilarations.

  Before me, there was the row of willows I’d passed on the way

  in, green branches unmoving. There were no pilgrims around.

  The clearing seemed to have been abandoned. The place was

  misty and so quiet that it felt wrong to move about. When I

  looked up, the sky was pale, as if clouds had wiped much of the