“Danger? Danger?” it said.
“It's me,” Emma said. “You remember. I've brought someone.”
“Danger?” the voice asked, and I realized in a breathless flash that I was hearing the doe.
Or not hearing. It was the strangest thing: another new sense, similar, adjacent to the other I had experienced that day. It was not that I was hearing the doe, but that I knew or felt something from her that came to me as words, thin and high, that flowed from the deer and echoed, clear and simple and strange, somewhere in my chest.
“I wouldn't bring you danger,” Emma said. Her voice was quite ordinary and direct, like she was speaking to a friend who was just a bit hard of hearing.
“You bring strength,” came the reply; and then, “What is it? What is it?”
“A boy, a man-child. He is not danger.”
The doe walked forward in halting, uncertain steps, looking always as if she were just about to flee. With each step she stamped at the ground with her forelegs.
“She's letting the others know that someone's here,” Emma said. “They can hear and feel it when she stamps like that.”
“Wowwww,” was all I could think to say.
The doe's nose twitched nervously as she stood just six feet from us. She turned her head all the way to the left, eyeing me with care, then slowly turned her head all the way to the right, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Food?” she asked.
“Why yes,” Emma said. “I brought some apples.” She opened the sack she had been carrying and showed the food inside to the doe. “I brought them for you, and for the family, and for Reggie.”
She said the name slowly, as if it held some significance, and in a moment the deer had bolted away to the far side of the pasture, and into the trees. Emma relaxed the grip on my neck.
“Ahh,” I said, disappointed, thinking we had lost her. “Who's Reggie?” I asked.
“Her buck,” Emma answered. “He's the king of these woods, in his way. I named him Reggie.”
I drew my breath in sharply. From across the meadow I saw the largest deer I had ever seen. A huge, majestic buck with a vast rack of antlers stepped slowly from the edge of the trees, and seemed to drift, rather than walk, toward us.
“He scarcely needs a fool like me to give him a name,” Emma said quietly.
He seemed the pure embodiment of strength and stately grace. In spite of myself, of Emma, of everything, I thought: “God, what a trophy.” His antlers, I meant: an incredible prize for a hunter. I shook the thought away angrily.
“Emma,” I said urgently, suddenly desperate to confess to her that I was supposed to go hunting in little more than a week.
“Shhh,” she said. “He's coming.”
He progressed firmly but slowly across the pasture. Behind him came six more deer: three does, a little button buck, a small fawn, and a small adult buck. These six wove along through the grass and brush, now stopping, now starting again, raising their noses high, sniffing the wind. Twice the little fawn burst back toward the safety of the trees, only to gallop up again to the rear of the slowly advancing group. Emma repeated her grip on the back of my neck.
“Strength,” said a deep, rumbling voice that filled my body. I knew it must be Reggie.
“Strength,” said Emma, and nodded her head slightly. She let go of my neck a moment and batted me lightly on the back of my head.
“Strength,” I said, uncertainly.
“How is your family?” asked Emma, as she rested her hand on the back of my neck once again.
“One is weak,” said the buck.
“I will see to them all,” said Emma. “I have brought a man-child to meet you.”
Reggie looked me over slowly, the way the first doe had, turning his head slowly first to one side, then to the other.
“Man-child,” he rumbled.
“Sir,” I said, in awe of his size and bearing, of the breadth and development of his antlers, which arched high above his powerful head and neck.
“No danger,” Reggie said.
At that the other deer walked toward me with a little less timidity, their ears high and wide, all sniffing like mad, making these loud snorting sounds. The little fawn hid behind the three does, and would not approach. The button buck took a step forward, a step back, then danced forward and butted me once, quite sharply, in the stomach.
“Hey!” I said, and laughed.
He butted me again, and I rapped him on the top of his head, between the small buds which would one day be antlers. He scampered off, and scampered back, feinting and dodging like a boxer.
“He likes you,” Emma said.
“Sure,” I said, beaming. I reached out and tried to tap his head again; he dodged and butted me a good one on the side of my leg.
“Walk,” Reggie said suddenly, and began to walk away from us, back to the center of the meadow.
“Here,” said Emma, “he means you.” She closed her eyes, touched my neck, and I felt a sudden burst of electricity course through me, from her hand into my neck and down through my toes.
“Oww!” I cried.
“I didn't hurt you,” said Emma a bit tersely, and pushed me toward Reggie. I walked out toward him, confused and more than a little scared.
“Speak simply and honestly,” Emma said. “Above all, honestly. He'll understand you, in his way, if what you say comes from your heart.”
“Man-child,” he said again.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, and turned back toward Emma. I could hear him on my own. She simply waved me away, and turned to begin examining the other deer, laying her hands on their coats, rubbing them gently. I walked toward Reggie, looking back toward Emma.
“She gives strength,” Reggie said. “What do you give?
“I, uh, well, nothing, sir,” I said. “I guess.”
“You are family?”
“No,” I said. “We're friends. She teaches me.”
“You give strength,” he said.
“No,” I said. “No, I . . .”
“You give strength,” he said.
We walked a while in silence. Reggie walked very slowly, the muscles of his flanks rippling with controlled power. He made me feel frightened and sad at the same time.
“What will you do when the hunters come?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The answer came in words that formed in me, slowly, distinctly.
“What we always do. Hide. Move from the meadows up to the hills. Watch for the men. Stay still and let them pass. Follow, watch, and hide.”
“Follow?”
“Follow,” Reggie said, the voice that formed within me was flat, emotionless. “The men walk and walk and walk. We follow and watch. It is safe.”
“Are you . . . are you afraid?”
“Some will die,” he said. “Always, some will die. I am old, but I am strong. I will survive.”
We walked back to Emma and the other deer.
“When do the men come?” asked Reggie.
“Nine days,” Emma said.
I heard the single word “danger” echo among the different voices.
“Strength will be with us?” Reggie asked.
“I'll be here,” Emma said.
Emma and I walked slowly southward, the sun casting enormous shadows from our right. The meadow where we met Reggie and the other deer was a good two-hour walk from the woods near my home, from the places I was familiar with. It seemed that by unspoken agreement Emma would walk me most of the way home.
We didn't speak for a long time. The air was cool. The terrain rolled and dipped. We would descend into a slight hollow and lose the sun altogether, entering spaces where the air was so cold it seemed no warmth could have reached there since late last fall. Then up into the warmer, brighter air, and we would walk across long stretches of fairly level ground that appeared to surround us for miles on all sides. Then we would find ourselves descending again into another dark, cool swale.
I felt older. I felt that I had age
d years that day, that I had learned and seen and heard more in that day than in the rest of my life put together. I felt like the day had changed me, permanently. But there was still so much that I didn't understand.
I could hear Emma's breathing as she walked along beside me, now slightly ahead, now slightly behind. On rare occasions her age betrayed her; she had had a long day, and her breathing was loud, almost labored.
“I heard you talking in the cabin,” I said, a note of challenge in my voice that I hadn't really intended.
Emma did not respond.
“When I was sleeping, I heard you talking to Mr. Nash,” I said.
“When you were sleeping,” Emma said finally, letting the words hang a moment.
“I heard you talking to Mr. Nash,” I said more forcefully.
Emma shook her head. “I can't tell you everything all at once,” she said. “We've had a big day as it is, don't you think?”
There was no answering that.
We kept walking. I was getting tired, and a feeling of irritation loomed deep in me. Emma was teaching me and showing me so much, and yet she was holding back from me as well. It was like being given short glimpses of a great and wondrous sight. I wanted to see; I wanted to see the whole thing and understand.
“I'm not too young,” I said again, as if picking up a conversation from hours ago.
“Yes you are,” Emma said, and then did something she had not done in all our walks together. She took my hand.
She was slowing me down. We were passing over a bit of low outcropping rock, as appears now and again in these woods, and her hand passed up to my arm, and I realized, with something of a shock, that she was leaning on me. I picked our way along, self-consciously slow, looking for places where we could both walk securely. The area was small, and soon we were back on level ground, walking between the high, silent trees, the sun sinking. Emma's hand dropped into mine, and then let go, and then we were walking along again, side by side, in the evening air that was now decidedly cold.
“Isn't this a beautiful time of day?” Emma said. “Isn't this a rare and beautiful thing?”
“Yes, ma'am,” I said quietly, not meaning to needle her, but feeling strange and blue.
“Thomas,” she said. “I should apologize to you, but I won't. I've been trying to fill your head and your heart with so many new things and you've tried so manfully to absorb it all.”
“I like it when you teach me,” I said.
“I know you do. I like it too. But sometimes I should be quiet more and just let us walk. There is nothing greater than deep and simple gratitude at being in such a beautiful place. There's nothing that I can teach you that is greater than this moment.”
She had stopped walking. I went on ahead a few paces, and turned when I realized she wasn't coming.
“Look,” she said firmly.
We were at the top of a high, wide ridge. Below us was a small ravine that led gradually up into the woods that I knew. We were a mile or so from my home. The trees were thinner here, up top, affording the nearest thing to a panoramic view we could have in such a wooded area. The sun was a squat orange ball, low in a cobalt blue sky. Emma's face was aglow in the light of the setting sun. I don't think I was exactly getting it, that I was understanding what she had said. But perhaps I did, after all. For as long as I could remember I had loved the beauty of the woods, and the quiet.
“These are your woods,” Emma said.
I nodded. We stood a while longer, just a minute or so, when the quiet of the evening was broken by a loud snapping sound. There were deer, four or five of them, walking along the bottom of the ravine. They might have been a hundred yards away—much farther than it seemed from the sound they made. I could just make them out as they moved among the trees.
“Wish them well,” Emma said. “Try to hold them in your heart and wish them strength.”
I looked at her a bit quizzically. I mean, it was not as if I would wish the deer ill. We watched in silence as they passed out of view. I put up a hand, as if to wave goodbye to them, which immediately felt like a foolish thing to do. We stood together, watching the woods where the deer had been. It felt to me that the day was over.
“Thank you for ...” I shrugged. “For showing me stuff today,” I said.
“You're welcome, dear,” Emma said.
“So, you know,” I began, feeling suddenly nervous, “will I see you after school this week?”
I already knew the answer.
Emma sighed, sounding somewhere between tired and exasperated.
“I have to rest,” she said. “Let's say, the week after.”
I frowned. The week after would be after my birthday. It seemed a long, long time away.
“I've been trying to cram you full of things all day,” she said.
“That's okay,” I interrupted.
“... so let me cram in just a little more. Thomas, what I showed you today, working with Abigail, it's not something you could learn, like learning anything; I don't know, like learning to play the piano. It's not a skill by itself. It's something ...” she stopped, her hand gesturing vaguely. She looked at me, and chuckled.
“I'm not very good at explaining these things,” she said with a wry smile.
“Just tell me,” I said.
“It's part of a life, a way of living and seeing and being that, well, it's different for everyone but it's not that different, really.” She chuckled. “Now that makes sense, doesn't it?”
She was smiling. I shrugged.
She shook her head. “It's about intention,” she said flatly. “You have to live your whole life around this intention to help, an intention to help and to heal. But it has to come from this simple and humble place. That's the difficult part, for me anyway. Everything you do has to help that intention. It can get away from you so easily, all the details and problems and nonsense that comes from being alive. Just this little nuisance of them painting my cabin—it's such a simple thing and such an aggravation. Somehow amid everything, all the distractions, you have to nurture this clear intention to help and gradually, gradually you grow into it. But Thomas, it's so hard to do. Believe me, it's hard, and you never, ever finish. You never quite get it right. But for the love of everything, the sake of everything, you can never stop trying. Every time you feel yourself failing, falling away from where you should be, you have to try to return to that clear, humble space, to live from there. Do you understand at all what I am saying?”
“I don't know,” I said, or almost cried. She was asking too much of me.
Her voice dropped a notch. She stepped closer to me.
“Do one thing for me this week,” she said.
“Okay,” I answered, after she had stared at me hard a moment.
“Before you go to sleep tonight, I want you to imagine a circle around you, wish for a circle around you, and everything in that circle will be safe, and healthy, and strong.”
“A circle,” I repeated.
“It starts in your heart and comes out all around you, out of your fingertips and toes. Just imagine it. Wish that it was so, like make believe. This isn't hard, Thomas.”
I think I was looking away from her.
“I'm listening,” I said.
“Just pretend that within this circle everything is healthy and strong, wish that it would be so. Let the circle be small, just big enough to surround you and anything you might touch, and then, slowly, let the circle grow.”
I was looking at her now.
“Let it become big enough to reach around your house, to hold your father and mother. Let the circle come back to you, and then cast it a little wider, out to the woods where you live, and then back, and cast it a little wider, a little farther each time. And Thomas, do this for me: cast your circle all the way out to me.”
“I will,” I said, but then I hesitated. “It won't—it won't do anything. It won't really help anything.”
“You don't know that,” Emma said firmly, but there was a light
smile in her eyes. “Anyway, it's a wish. And it's good practice. So do it. Tell me you'll do it, each night.”
“I will,” I said again.
“And remember,” she said, and now she was turning, and walking away from me. “Remember, the circle surrounds you, too. Be sure to include yourself, healthy and strong and well. And throw that last circle all the way out to me—don't forget, all the way to me, dear.”
“I will,” I said a final time, to her back, as she began her walk home. I thought I heard her say “That's good,” but I wasn't sure. I wanted to call after her, to call her back, but I didn't. In just a few moments it was hard to see her in the falling dusk, and then she was gone altogether. It was strange, awful; I had the strongest sense that I would not see her again.
I was too old to cry, I thought. I was too old to run home crying. So I walked home, slowly, purposefully, thinking about Abigail, thinking about Emma, and Reggie, and wanting to send out a circle that would encompass them all, without being at all sure what that would mean.
Chapter 5
I tried, that first night, to do as Emma had told me, but almost as soon as I was in my bed I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, with little more than vague thoughts, images in my mind of circles and balls flying and bouncing around my room. My mother practically had to pull me out of bed in the morning. All the events of the day before had left me feeling heavy and stupid. I don't think I was awake in any useful sense until I was at school, sitting at my desk, gradually aware of all the noise and chatter around me.
Hunting season was barely a week away. In such a rural community as ours, the beginning of deer season was a major occasion. It seemed like every boy in school was talking about who was going hunting this year for the first time, who had a gun of his own, and who didn't. I had been withdrawn some what from all this talk. But then, I had always been a fairly quiet person.
Among the boys at school I had a status of sorts, because my father was a policeman: to a bunch of eleven and twelve-year-old boys, being a policeman was about the greatest thing a man could be. If I was quiet, if I kept my thoughts to myself, it wasn't put down to being shy or awkward or overly introspective; in the odd, scarcely explicable world of schoolyard politics, I was Deputy Singer's son, and so I didn't need to be funny, or smart, or tough, or anything else. It was a blessing which, like all blessings I suppose, I could neither earn nor deserve, but had just been handed to me.
The Healer of Harrow Point Page 6
