Wildwood

by Elinor Florence

  “Yes, I’m the owner, or soon will be. Mr. Jones hasn’t told me anything about this.”

  I didn’t mention that he would find it pretty difficult to tell me anything.

  “Sorry if there was some kind of miscommunication.” He didn’t look sorry. “We’ve already put in an offer, conditional on the completion of a proper survey. This place probably hasn’t been surveyed in the last hundred years.”

  “What does your company plan to do with the farm? Surely an oil company isn’t interested in agriculture.”

  “No, we won’t be growing anything, except oil. This whole area from where we’re standing, right back to the boundary of the reserve, will be used for natural gas extraction. According to our geologists, there’s a motherlode of natural gas right below us.” While he was talking, I read the black lettering on his red T-shirt: Frackers Do It Deeper.

  “And just how will you extract it?”

  He turned to face me with that condescending expression that men often get when they’re explaining something to women. “Have you ever heard of hydraulic fracturing?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

  He used his hands to demonstrate. “We drill straight down for one or two kilometres, and then the drill bit turns horizontally and punches through the shale until it finds pockets or cracks where the natural gas molecules are hiding. Then water mixed with sand and chemicals is pumped into the empty spaces, forcing the gas to the surface.”

  “What about the crops?”

  “There won’t be any. We’ll bring in the earth-moving equipment and level this flat area across the creek.” He waved one arm expansively toward the canola field, the one that was even now busily producing a bumper crop. “We’ll erect our drills, put up a bunch of construction trailers where the crew will live, and build an access road across the field, so the transport trucks can drive back and forth from the tank farm — that’s what we call the gas storage area.”

  “Are you planning to expand into the reserve, too?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Are you kidding? The Indians won’t let us set foot on their property. They have this notion that their land is sacred, or something. That’s why it’s even more important to acquire this farm right here.”

  He lowered his arm and looked down at the swiftly flowing water. “It’s a good thing it has a creek because fracking uses a lot of water. When we mix it with chemicals, it’s called slickwater.”

  I gazed at the Laughing Brook. The shallow water was crystal clear, and brown-speckled pebbles covered the bottom. A mother duck and three fuzzy ducklings floated on the surface. A cloud of brilliant blue dragonflies hovered overhead.

  The man followed my eyes. “I know it seems a shame to tear up these old farms, but we have to balance that with our energy needs. Hell, our whole economy is built on energy.”

  “Get off my land.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The smile dropped from his face.

  “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I should have said please. Please get off my land. I realize you’re just doing your job, but you’ll have to wait until I’m gone. You can come back in August.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You’re the boss!” He didn’t look too pleased, but he folded up his tripod and waved his arm at the other man, who waved back. Then he turned to me again.

  “Forgive me for asking, but I thought I detected a bit of an American accent there. Just when you said ‘abaout’ instead of about.”

  “Yes, I’m American. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, where do you think all this natural gas is going? America’s our biggest customer.”

  I didn’t want to start that conversation, so I let him have the last word. Besides, when I thought about the huge quantities of fuel burned on Arizona’s highways, the amount of water needed for all those verdant lawns, the electrical power used for air conditioning, I knew better than to argue with him.

  I waited until they carried their equipment to the truck parked at the edge of the field and drove away. The rich scents of ripening grain and wild roses surrounded me in the gathering twilight. The sun had fallen behind the dark forest, and the pointed treetops were sharply silhouetted against the pink sky, creating a scene of almost unbearable beauty.

  In the stillness I heard the mournful call of a loon.

  June 21, 1925

  Summer and winter in this glorious place are as distinct as heaven and hell.

  I am reminded of the Bible verse: “For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap hands.” It is perfectly true. Today the hills are singing and the trees are clapping their leafy hands!

  We must take advantage of the long daylight and work seven days a week, even on the Sabbath. It does not seem as if we are breaking the fourth commandment because we are doing God’s work.

  George is ploughing the land that we cleared last fall. The earth is so thick that the furrows roll out like waves on a black sea, and sometimes the line of heavy sod falls back into the ground before George can stop the horses and put his shoulder to it, forcing it to stand upright.

  I follow behind, picking up the stray stones turned over by the plough. When we get to a big fellow, George must raise it with the crowbar. Together we lift it onto a wooden deck, called a “stone boat,” using two logs underneath as rollers The horses drag the stone boat to one side, where our rock pile grows alarmingly large.

  Once we are away with the sticks and stones, this will make a fine fertile ground for wheat. The first Marquis wheat was grown here in 1912 — red-gold in colour and hard as a bone. George says there is none like it the world over.

  The spring calves are frolicking along the creek. I reluctantly helped with the branding of them. My job was to make the iron good and hot, as George says it doesn’t hurt the calf so much if it is bright red. The calves didn’t seem to mind the iron searing into their hides, and after one squeal went back to happily grazing, with a fine new GL on their backsides. The bush is full of red-and-white pea vines, very nourishing, and so thick that when we turn the animals loose, they disappear up to their shoulders.

  Last week we put up our first rail fence to keep the cattle from trampling the area around the house. I stabbed holes in the ground with the crowbar and George hammered in the posts with a maul. The rails, nothing more than simple tree trunks stripped of their branches, are fastened to the fence posts horizontally with twists of heavy wire. I enter my garden through a handsome gate topped by a row of wrought iron maple leaves.

  It is surprising how a simple fence can have so much effect, as if we had drawn a line on the ground and dared the wilderness to put a toe across. Perhaps that is why a fence is every settler’s first priority, no matter how humble his cabin.

  My housework has been sadly neglected as I spend every spare moment in my garden of delight. Each morning I hasten outside before breakfast to see what has happened overnight. The growth is phenomenal. The rain falls, and the plants leap up to meet it with open arms. I flatter myself that I have a green thumb, but I suspect every settler’s garden is growing just as rapidly.

  The seed potatoes that arrived from Ma took to the Canadian soil as if they were native. The root vegetables will keep us alive over the winter, potatoes and turnips —“tatties and neeps,” as granny calls them — and parsnips and carrots and beets. For freshness, I put in lettuce, spinach, radishes, peas, beans, cucumbers, and rhubarb.

  For beauty, I planted sweet williams and columbines, sweet peas, hollyhocks, peonies, hyacinths, pansies, and zinnias. Mr. Albright recommended tulips, and several dozen bulbs have already sprouted. I planted a lovely little honeysuckle tree in the corner. My granny always called this “fairy trumpets.”

  As it says in Genesis: “The Lord God took man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and to keep it.” Surely Eden could not have been more fertile or beautiful.

  I closed the diary, and for th
e first time I allowed myself to feel bitter regret.

  If only we could stay long enough to see the harvest. I wanted to feast on my tiny new heritage potatoes, their roots reaching all the way back to Ireland. I wanted to try making rosehip jelly. I wanted to see the canola being combined. I wanted to have my own wheat ground into flour, and bake my own bread.

  Today Bridget had asked me about the green pumpkins swelling on the vine, when they would be ready to make pumpkin pie. I didn’t have the courage to explain that we would be back in Arizona by then.

  I sighed heavily. It would be very difficult for her to say goodbye to Wynona — truly her best and only friend. I would miss Wynona terribly, too.

  Then there were our family pets. I would have to find good homes for Fizzy and Riley. I hadn’t realized how attached Bridget would become to these gentle creatures, to say nothing of my own bond with them.

  But there was one thing I wouldn’t miss, and that was Colin McKay. It was so hard to stop thinking about him while he was farming my land right across the creek. The sight of him was a permanent, painful reminder of man’s treachery — and my own stupidity.

  It was after nine o’clock and the sunshine was still streaming into the room. The air was warm and scented with lilacs from the open window. I looked at the books, the furnishings, the fieldstone fireplace, and I wondered what would happen to them after we were gone.

  The house would probably be torn down. Nobody would want to spend the money plumbing and wiring it, and certainly nobody in their right mind would choose to live here without modernization. My great-aunt’s possessions would be sold to an antiques dealer or given to the thrift shop in Juniper.

  I resolved to take a couple of small items: the wedding photograph in the hallway, and the hand-tinted photograph of the house itself. And the precious diary, of course. I had searched high and low for another book, without success. Bridget had helped me. “That diary is sure hiding hard, isn’t it?” she asked cheerfully.

  It wouldn’t be long now before I would inherit Wildwood, and then Franklin Jones would sell it for me. We would return to Phoenix and find a nice place to live in a gated community with twenty-four-hour security. One with air conditioning, and a garbage disposal unit, and a natural gas fireplace that didn’t produce ashes.

  The natural gas might even come from my own farm, at least my former farm. The one I was going to own for about a week. I would get the title to the farm in my hands, then turn around and sign it away. The oil company would bulldoze the fields, pump water out of the Laughing Brook, and draw natural gas from deep below the surface.

  I sighed once again. My first task would be to get Bridget back into treatment. The therapist would be surprised at her progress. She really wasn’t the same child at all.

  Yesterday Bridget had shown me a picture of our family. There was a large stick figure and a small stick figure, both with wild black curly hair. Beside us was a dog with a circle for a tail. A large house stood in the background and a cat with whiskers was sitting in the window. But what brought the ready tears to my eyes were the faces on the stick figures, both with wide red curving lines for smiles.

  Days remaining: forty-six.

  25

  July

  “Bridget, you’re eating more than you’re picking!”

  My daughter’s mouth was stained purple with saskatoons. We were standing in a thicket of bushes near the beaver dam, loaded with clusters of ripe berries. I carried a metal pail over one arm, and Bridget had her own small plastic container.

  Spotting an even larger bush, its branches drooping with the weight of the fruit, I crossed a small clearing and started to gather handfuls, dropping them into my pail with a satisfying thunk, thunk, thunk.

  It was your typical long northern evening in July. At seven o’clock the sun was still shedding its radiance over the landscape. A hawk soared over our heads, so close that we heard the swish-swish of his beating wings. A fresh breeze ruffled the surface of the water, and the dark forest behind us swayed like a living thing.

  I didn’t pay any attention when a rustle sounded at the edge of the clearing, and the tops of the bushes swayed, figuring Riley must have come looking for us. I glanced over at Bridget, who was happily stuffing her face, and stripped another branch of its lusciousness.

  The bushes parted, and an animal appeared. It wasn’t Riley. It was a bear cub, looking remarkably like the illustrations of Buster Bear from the Thornton Burgess books, minus the overalls.

  My immediate reaction was “how adorable.” That was followed two seconds later by a surge of primal fear. I stopped breathing, and my hand gripped the branch so hard that berry juice spurted out between my fingers.

  A bear cub meant only one thing. A mother bear.

  The cub tumbled across the grass. Bridget looked up and pointed. “Mama, it’s a real live teddy bear!”

  Before she finished speaking, we heard the crash of breaking branches. Something heavy was moving through the trees. A full-grown bear lumbered out of the forest and stopped in the centre of the clearing, halfway between Bridget and me.

  It was a grizzly.

  I didn’t know much about bears, but I knew she was a grizzly because of the hump on her back, the size of a grand piano. She was covered with shaggy, cinnamon-coloured fur.

  The nature videos I had seen of bears playfully frolicking together didn’t show the relative size of a full-sized grizzly compared to a human being. Especially next to a child like Bridget. My little girl looked tiny compared to this gigantic beast.

  The bear hadn’t seen me. The breeze was blowing away from the creek, away from Bridget and toward the bear. She raised her nose and sniffed the air, then turned her head to find the source of the scent and looked straight at my child.

  To her credit, Bridget instinctively froze. Her blue eyes looked toward me, beseechingly. I didn’t dare move, but I pursed my lips into a shushing gesture. My heart was beating so hard I thought the bear must hear it.

  I prayed that the grizzly would see this tiny creature was no threat and simply move away. But instead, she began to shuffle her feet back and forth as if doing a slow dance. At the same time she swung her huge head from one side to the other and began to make huffing sounds, as if she had something stuck in her throat. She opened and closed her mouth, and I could hear her teeth clashing together.

  Both Bridget and I remained perfectly still.

  The swaying became more pronounced. The bear’s back end seemed to move separately from her shoulders and front legs, as if there were two animals inside her immense body, like two people inside a fake bear suit.

  The huffing, hacking sound in her throat got louder. I had no idea what those ghastly sounds meant, but I was certain that it couldn’t be good. I felt the panic rising in my chest. The noise changed to a horrible moaning and then deepened to a groaning. Dread seeped into the marrow of my bones like the wind chill on a freezing night.

  The bear’s ears were tiny, like toy ears stuck on a head the size of a boulder. Now they disappeared altogether as they flattened backward into her skull. The bear’s monstrous body grew even bigger as the thick hair along her neck and her hump bristled and stood on end, the way Fizzy’s fur did when he was frightened.

  Suddenly she rose up on her hind legs. It was like watching a truck stand up on its rear tires. The bear tripled in size, towering over the surrounding shrubs and even the poplars. Seen from below, her body was massive. She held her front legs at chest level, paws dangling loosely, as if displaying her curved claws to an audience. I had seen one of these claws in Wynona’s medicine pouch. They didn’t look like animal claws so much as skeletal fingers made of bone, five on each paw, twice as long as my own fingers, each ending in a needle-sharp point.

  The breeze was still blowing toward me and now I caught a whiff of the bear. It was foul, like nothing I had ever smelled before — the rank odour of skunk mixed with musk and rotting garbage. I almost gagged.

  Raising her snout i
nto the air, the grizzly sniffed with dripping red nostrils. She swung her head violently from side to side, as if she were trying to shake water out of her ears.

  Then she opened her mouth and growled. Her jaws opened so wide it looked as if they were on hinges. The inside of her mouth was dark purple. Two long, yellow fangs descended from the upper jaw, and another two rose from the lower jaw like miniature elephant tusks. Several broken teeth ended in jagged yellow stumps.

  She growled again, but this time it was more a bellow than a growl, a high-pitched yowling sound that rent the evening stillness. This was a prehistoric monster, and my fear was as primeval as that of the cave dwellers who first encountered this mortal enemy.

  I looked at Bridget again, moving my eyeballs without moving my head. She was standing stock still, but I could see her little purple-stained chin quivering as if she were about to burst into tears. I fixed my eyes on her, willing her to remain quiet.

  The bear hovered in the air for a few seconds, then fell heavily to all four feet again, looked toward Bridget, cocked her tiny ears forward, and took one lumbering stride toward her.

  “No!” I screamed a scream of pure terror.

  The bear whirled — it was inconceivable that something the size of a Volkswagen Beetle could rotate on those giant feet with the agility of a ballerina — and caught sight of me. She rose to her hind legs and bellowed again. This time she stretched her head forward from her colossal shoulders as if to see me better, and our eyes locked.

  Her tiny eyes were set close together, buried in a thicket of fur. They had a flat, dead expression, like black stones. We stared each other down, two mothers, each determined to protect her cub.

  With a heightened perception borne of my own terror, I could feel the bear thinking with her primitive brain, trying to decide whether I was a threat, whether she should take the trouble to kill and dismember me.