They all looked around in uniform stupidity. There was obviously a collective feeling that the tale of Van’s wild youth would be far more interesting than a bunch of old trees.
“Rebekka, please, tell us,” said Van kindly. The near-blind woman was standing by one of the trees, touching its bark, stroking it.
“The trees are … different. Smooth. Muscular. Obscenely sexy in fact.”
That got a surprised and uncertain laugh from the company.
“They are hornbeams,” said Van. “They don’t grow on iron. Not in my valley at least. Not if they can help it. Around the garden, it’s all common oak, holm oak, hazel, and chestnut.”
He pulled a trowel from a satchel he carried and dug carefully around the roots of a tree, past the darkish topsoil and down. “Look at this, then,” he said. The ground here was yet again different. A fine soil, dull gray. “A fine clay for easy work. Wouldn’t build a wall with it, having the choice, but it makes fine stucco and dries almost white. A very pretty finish for ceilings and window reveals. And floors that don’t get much traffic.”
Armin was impressed. The idea that you could walk around in this bowl of a valley, digging up such different sorts of soil here and there to build a house and paint it and finish it, was so bizarre that the mind boggled. And this was the self-same dirt you could plant vegetables in and live off the land, if you knew how. And it was the same stuff that grew herbs for your medicines, flowers for your honey, trees for your timber, shade, and firewood. In ecological and airy-fairy New Age circles, you heard a lot about how the earth could provide for all of one’s needs, but up until now, it had been only words, with no connection to Armin’s reality. But in Van’s world, these were not just environmental statistics or the raving fancies of some confounded sentimental tree-hugger. They were facts. It was a bone-deep truth that you could see and feel and breathe and eat and drink. It rose up into your whole being through the soles of your feet.
There was something fundamental, essential, in this, something more than the obvious considerations about sustainable living and organic farming and carbon emissions and affordable housing for the poor and all that. It was something deeper and elemental, enough to change a man’s identity and his place in the world.
Or is it? Maybe I just have a serious crush on this guy. Would all this be so compelling if he wasn’t so damn hot?
But it was an academic question at this point. Van was hot, and Armin was hooked.
What a mess, he thought. What a fucking mess.
They walked back home by a different path, not across the horses’ pasture, but down toward the bottom of the valley.
The forest was in deep shade here both from the higher slopes of the hill and the tall trees above and a riot of smaller growing things, many of them dark, shiny evergreens, some of them viciously spiky and studded with red berries, which looked as pretty and as poisonous as Snow White’s apple. The very bottom of the valley was a narrow, steep ravine, overgrown with moss and ferns, spanned here and there by fallen trees. Water trickled and murmured at the bottom. The trees were huge, monstrous oaks and chestnuts. The whole place had a lush and primeval look to it. They skirted the ravine, walking in single file along a narrow path. It was almost cool down here, although the air was also oppressively still and damp.
They walked east for maybe ten minutes, frequently exclaiming at the luxuriant and wild strangeness of the place, which looked completely alien to the sunny garden and pastures farther up the slopes, and then they came to a place where the sides of the ravine opened into a shallow bowl, with a small placid stream at the bottom, just a trickle of water, really. The place was still shaded by huge trees, pines and oaks, and at the center of it all, where the small stream halted onto soft, plashy, level ground and came to an end in a little boggy pond, stood a tree covered in huge, flat, greenish-white flower heads, so heavy that the tips of the branches nodded and bent toward the ground. The outer branches actually leaned on the soil, as if the old tree was on the verge of crawling away on its elbows. Armin had seen enough elder trees in Van’s garden to recognize this as one, but it was the mother and father of all elder trees, a giant of its species. All its branches arched out from the trunk, creating a sort of cavernous hall in the middle, utterly dark.
“Le grand sureau, ladies and gentlemen,” announced Van. “Or le sureau noir. Sambucus nigra, the greater European elder.”
“Wow,” said Edith. “This really is the Marsh King.”
Van smiled and bowed. “A beauty, isn’t it?”
“It really is. Is this your property’s namesake?”
“Yes, it is. It’s the most remarkable tree in the valley. And a favorite species of mine, of course.”
“Because of its shamanic significance?” asked Monica with a barely concealed sneer.
Van shrugged mildly. “Maybe because ancient lore is fascinating, whatever one’s beliefs. Maybe because it’s a tremendously medicinal plant, so effective and so versatile that the Germans used to call it the poor man’s pharmacy. And edible besides, if herbal medicine is not your cup of tea. You can make an excellent cordial from the flowers, or dip them in batter and fry them, or make jam, jellies, or wine from the berries.”
“But only if you promise your body to the earth,” said Sofia.
“Aha, somebody does pay attention,” said Van with a smile. Sofia beamed. “An altogether handsome and useful tree, however you look at it,” he concluded. “And this one is as remarkable a specimen as you will ever see. Quite unique, in fact. Do not fall asleep under it, whatever you do.”
At that moment a faint wind began rustling on the taller treetops far overhead, coming in gusts from the west. None of it reached the ground of this deep secret place, and the great elder stood silent and impassive, lighting the dark with the almost luminous white of its flowers, but Van looked up the sky and gestured that it was time to walk home. “Come,” he said, “your sufferings are almost at an end. That’s our storm coming. I hope it brings some proper rain. We need it. In the worst case, it will just make a good deal of noise, but tomorrow it will be nice and cool. Almost like an air-conditioned room.”
Everybody sighed in relief, and Van shook his head in something very near disgust.
That evening, dinner was a little rushed, because the wind was now coming in harder and harder gusts, scattering leaves and pine needles onto the dishes and threatening napkins and tablecloths. It was obvious that the weather was working itself up into something truly nefarious, and Allie and Van left the table early to go secure things at the building site, while everybody else repaired to their cottages a little earlier than usual. Armin and Monica went to help with putting away tools and weighing down tarps. She might be a bit of a pain, but Monica was certainly never lazy.
“Do you want me to drive you home? Or sleep here?” asked Van to Allie as a particularly brutal gust of wind brought some larger leafy twigs raining down.
“No, no. I’ll be okay!”
“Then go now. Just go,” Van ordered her. “Take Michel and go home. We’ll manage. I don’t want you to be on the road with branches falling all over, or worse.”
It really was an order. Monica arched an eyebrow critically, but Allie gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, fetched Michel from the kitchen, and disappeared up the path.
Van, Armin, and Monica finished securing things for the night, had a last glass of wine with P’tit Paul at the kitchen table, and then parted ways.
“Drive safe,” said Van as Paul went up the path with a pile of empty baskets and boxes in a wheelbarrow. Paul just waved a hand behind his shoulder, laughing.
“Be a good chap, Armin,” said Van. “Help me bring these to the workshop.”
“These” were two heavy boxes of finer tools, and Armin grabbed one and followed Van up the path. He didn’t know where the workshop was. As it turned out, it was a low building not far from the house, almost engulfed by a frothing mass of blooming elder trees and climbing dog roses. Even in the sto
rmy dusk, the whole place was abuzz with frantic bumblebees. They seemed to think that they needed to harvest every last crumb of pollen before the end of the world arrived, which by the look of the sky, might be quite soon.
The workshop was full of woodworking tools on cob shelves. Old tin cans, jars, and boxes served as containers for well-worn chisels, gouges, files, and rasps. Most of the tools Armin had no idea how to name, even, or what they were for. Everything looked old, low tech, well cared for, and regularly used.
“No power tools?” he observed, putting down his box.
“Nope,” said Van simply.
“But you have power. I mean. There’s solar panels and things.”
“Oh yes. I have lights, a stereo, a digital camera, a laptop, a kitchen blender… even a smartphone.” He looked around rather vaguely and waved a hand. “Somewhere. I lost track of it some time ago.”
“You have a laptop?” asked Armin, astonished.
“Yeah, I do. I even use it from time to time.”
“You have a laptop?” repeated Armin, grinning. “Where?”
“Er, what does it matter where I keep my laptop?”
Armin laughed. “I don’t want to steal your laptop. Don’t worry. I have a perfectly good one of my own. I just can’t imagine a laptop in your house, that’s all.”
“Well, if you really want to know, it’s in a drawer of my desk, in the corner of the living room near the bookshelves. Allie had this idea of writing down bits of teaching and stuff for a website, maybe a book... Look, point is, I don’t hate modern technology. I just don’t need it for building houses, is all.”
Armin was becoming used to having this sort of conversation with Van and had ceased to be amazed. He looked around at the array of old tools and bits of woodwork in progress. The floor was thick and fragrant with wood shavings, some old, reduced almost to mulch, and some new, beautiful long yellow curls that begged to be examined one by one, looking for a Fibonacci spiral in their perfect curves.
“What is this?” Armin asked after a minute, while Van arranged some tools and put others in the box, presumably preparing for tomorrow’s work. Armin was looking at a couple of buckets standing in a corner, well away from sawdust and shavings. Van gave a quick look behind his shoulder while he worked.
“It’s clay slip. For clay paint. We won’t be covering that in this workshop. It’s for a different project.”
Armin squatted on the floor and stared in fascination at the contents of the closest bucket. It was three-quarters full of the local bright orange clay they had used for cobbing, but this had been apparently drenched in water until it was liquid mud and then sieved. It was fine and smooth instead of lumpy and gravelly. Over the clay was a layer of the clearest water Armin had ever seen. It was as if the clay falling through it had purified it, leaving a circle of the most perfect crystal or glass floating over an impalpable layer of orange clouds or mist. Armin could not stop staring at this beautiful and bizarre phenomenon, all thoughts of the job at hand forgotten.
“Found anything interesting in that bucket, youngster? Dead frog? A lost fifty euros note? The meaning of life and death?”
Van came and kneeled on the other side of the bucket.
“It’s so … beautiful,” said Armin dreamily, and he saw Van’s reflection on the surface of the water flashing a white smile. Then the pellucid layer broke as Van very, very gently sank a finger into it, through the water and to the impalpably smooth clay under it. A tiny swirl of orange spiraled ’round transparently like smoke when Van pulled out the finger, coated in shining ochre. Armin stared at the glossy wet clay and then gasped in surprise and almost fell on his butt when Van daubed his fingertip quickly on his forehead and the tip of his nose, leaving two cool smears on his skin.
“Hey,” he said indignantly. But then he let out a snort of laughter. He carefully wiped his nose and then studied the fine clay on his fingertip. Then he dipped his finger into the bucket and poked around, delighting like a toddler in the swirls of clay that now clouded the water. Before he knew, his whole hand was sunk into liquid orange mud to the wrist, and he was grinning ear to ear. He retrieved his hand, which appeared to wear a shiny ochre glove, and turned it this way and that. Van was smiling.
He plunged both hands into the clay and then, very slowly, as if silently asking permission, he brought them to Armin’s face.
“May I?” he said, and with the very tip of his fingers, he touched the corners of Armin’s glasses. Armin stared at him, paralyzed with embarrassment. He hated his face. Not a day went by that he didn’t want to tear that pimply skin off his flesh. He hated to be watched this closely, this intimately. And his glasses were very much the only thing that stood between his skin and the world. He could undress a thousand times, and he’d never be as naked as he would be without glasses.
“It’s all right,” said Van, very softly.
And something gave way, and Armin smiled. Van gently removed his glasses and stretched sideways, to lay them on a workbench. Armin closed his eyes.
In a way he was renouncing his flesh. I am not here. This is not me.
But he felt Van’s thumbs daubing clay along his eyebrows, and his four and four fingers on each side, tracing two sets of parallel swirls around his cheekbones and then down to his chin. Each finger left a cool wet trail. And his face took shape under those rippling trails, a new shape, made of cool water and earth in an elemental world absolutely alien to his previous life, as if Van were creating him anew, from nothing, from dirt. Like God had created Adam.
The first man. A new man.
Then Van’s fingertips came to touch his forehead, leaving dots and lines of clay in a regular pattern from the center to his temples. Armin realized he was holding his breath very tight, and he made himself exhale. And as he did so, he felt something relax inside him, utterly relax, and his next breath went in and out of him smoothly, cleanly. He had never been so aware that air, pure, cool air, was moving in and out of him, from his lungs into the world outside and from his lungs to Van’s, who kneeled just in front of him. He breathed deeper, sharing the air and the space with the other man, feeling the space as something living, part of a world of ever-moving, ever-changing light and energy.
When Van’s hands moved down his neck, tracing parallel wet lines on each side of his Adam’s apple, he smiled broadly and opened his eyes.
Van was looking at him, densely focused and piercingly intense. The tips of both his index fingers descended to meet in the hollow of Armin’s throat and paused there. There was a question mark in that pause, and Armin, who five minutes earlier would have found the notion perfectly ludicrous, absurd, and preposterous, actually started to unbutton his dirty, mud-smeared shirt. Van dipped his fingers in the clay slip once more, and when Armin shed his shirt, he began to trace the shape of his collarbones in orange lines of clay and then spread out and around in frond-like curls and spirals, interspersed with dots and commas, and two circles ’round Armin’s nipples. Armin shuddered all over as the cool wet fingers barely grazed the very outside of his areolas, and his nipples stiffened.
To his acute confusion, they were not the only things stiffening, and since Van’s fingers had reached the lower regions of his ribcage, Armin rose to his knees, to slacken the middle seam of his jeans before it emasculated him. He ahem-ed shyly when Van traced a fan of concentric curves fringed with swirls around his navel and across his belly, and Van looked up, grinning.
“Horrified?” he asked softly.
“What? No. No… Heck, there’s women in town who’d pay money for fancy skin care like this. And some guys too,” he added as an objective afterthought.
Van laughed and dipped his fingers again and again, and Armin spread his arms out to have his sides painted and then turned, and Van’s fingers swirled, swooped, and dotted all over his back. Armin wondered what it all looked like.
“Is this some crazy shamanic initiation?” he asked, half serious, half in jest.
“Who knows?
Are you having supernatural visions yet?”
Yeah, I am having visions of pulling the clothes off you, Armin thought, but he bit his lower lip and kept mum.
When he turned again to face Van, the clay on his face and neck was beginning to dry so that his skin felt weirdly tight, both encrusted and strangely over-sensitive, self-aware. But it was not the usual painful self-consciousness. It was something so different that he felt transformed into a different element, a different person. His own clay gloves were also beginning to dry at the edges, around his wrists, and he dipped his hands into the bucket again and held them up to Van’s face.
“Can I?” he whispered. Van didn’t bother to answer. He just pulled his t-shirt over his head, tossed it away, and closed his eyes.
Armin paused briefly to look at him, and his first thought was, He’d be comfortable to snuggle up with. He really was strong, no doubt about it, but without hard poking corners of bone and muscle. He was the sort of man who was both solid to hug and soft to nuzzle and caress.
For all his bristly beard, he was not hairy. Just a mere spray of chest fuzz over his breast bone, and a little more down the middle of his belly.
What the fuck am I doing? thought Armin as he tentatively touched his fingertips to Van’s dark eyebrows, trying to remember the patterns Van had traced upon his face. What the fucking fuck am I doing, trading muddy body paint with a crazy tree-hugging dude I hardly know?
This is madness.
Oh, yes. What if I stopped this madness and just fucked him?
The temptation was almost irresistible.
Yeah, and what if he’s straight? Gosh, look around, Armin. This dude is as straight as they come. Oh yeah? Then why is he standing here, half-naked, painting mud on your skin?
Shut up, said Armin to his inconveniently inquisitive brain. We’ll just have to wing it.
He had no idea what possessed him, but there was something both weirdly soothing and thrilling in this utterly absurd muddy interlude. It was so far outside any experience he had ever had that there was no point at all comparing it to anything that had made sense to him before.
The Elder Man Page 11
