Eden West

by Pete Hautman

  This autumn the Lord has blessed us with weeks of dry weather, and the Mire is relatively dry. I move through a land of twisted cedars and willow, mosses and mushrooms, rotting logs and patches of marsh marigold, chittering squirrels and buzzing insects, always keeping the river in sight to my left, choosing each step with care. Some find the Mire to be a disturbing place, dark and deceitful. I have always enjoyed it. As I make my way across the spongy, treacherous surface, I feel a part of it, as if I am one of its creatures. As I walk, I keep seeing that smug smile on the face of Sister Ruth. It is clear to me that she is pleased with her sudden betrothal. Even more than pleased. How long has she known of Father Grace’s intentions?

  I think too about the storm that rose within me the moment I saw Ruth standing beside Father Grace. It must truly have been the hand of the Beast, as I imagined myself tearing handfuls of beard from Father Grace’s face and pummeling him with my fists. Would I ever do such a thing? I would say I cannot imagine it, but I cannot, for I have done so.

  A shadow passes over me; I look up to see a great gray owl drifting ghostlike through the trees, its broad wings

  slicing silently through the heavy air. The majestic beauty of it swells my throat. The owl alights high in a half-naked cedar a stone’s throw away. I stand still as a statue, watching. I can see the bird’s yellow eyes as it rotates its enormous head, searching for prey. Does it know I am here? Almost certainly it does, for wild creatures have an awareness that is beyond understanding.

  I move toward it along a soft, mossy hump that was once a tree. The owl’s eyes fix upon me. I am within a few steps of its tree when it spreads its wings and, effortlessly, lets the air carry it off to another perch. It is as if the bird wants me to follow.

  Three times, the owl lets me get close before flying off to find a new branch, always within sight. Finally it tires of our game, and with a few powerful, soundless beats of its wings, it sails deep into the misty tangle of trees and is gone.

  I look around and realize that I am not sure where I am. The sun has disappeared behind a haze of cloud, and I do not know in which direction the river lies. It is not big thing, I decide. The Mire is less than a mile on a side; if I walk in a straight line, I will eventually come out of it. I choose the same direction as the owl, and I walk.

  An hour later, wet to my knees from stepping into a sinkhole, I emerge from the Mire. The land rises swiftly, the cedars give way to juniper and pine, and I recognize the rocky wall of the northern escarpment. I pick my way up the steepening slope and am soon standing above the Mire on the southern verge of the High Meadow. A mist is drifting down from the low clouds, blurring the landscape. Far to the north, the shorter grasslands of the Rocking K rise up to meet the low sky. I can see the faint outline of the stone shelter known as Shepherd’s Rock jutting from a knoll half a mile to my right.

  The right and proper thing to do, I know, is to follow the escarpment back to the Pison, and from there walk the edge to the north fence. But I have already lost an hour or more wandering through the Mire, my feet are sodden, I have a fence to repair, and the mist is turning to drizzle. I head for the shelter.

  The High Meadow feeds our sheep and cattle during the late spring and early summer, when the days are long and the sun is high. Late summer and fall, it lies fallow and is used only by mule deer and pronghorn. The grasses have grown tall these past two months; they tug at my thighs as I push through them. By the time I reach the stone shelter, the drizzle has become rain and I am soaked to the skin. I am pleased to see that the shelter has been stocked with dry wood. The steel drum inside contains matches, water, and kindling. I make a fire in the brazier, strip off my wet trousers, tunic, socks, and boots, and hang them near the fire. I drag the wooden bench close to the fire and sit naked and miserable to watch my clothing dry.

  I am thinking about Ruth. I am thinking about my mother and the words she said to me not a week ago, during the corn harvest, when we spoke of Ruth: I pray there are others you look favorably upon as well. Had she known then that Father Grace intended to take Ruth for his own? And who else would she have me “look upon”? Rebecca, with her long nose and crossed eyes? Beryl, who is but fourteen? Louise, who at age eighteen cannot yet bake a decent muffin? My thoughts grow dark with resentment; my anger spills from Father Grace to Ruth herself, for taking such obvious pleasure in her new role. I feel resentment toward my mother as well, even though I know she wants only good things for me. And Tobias . . . wherever he is, I am angry with him as well, as his arrival in Nodd seems to have unleashed this plague of misery.

  I sit until I can no longer stand to be alone with myself in that fieldstone shack with the tallowy smell of wet wool and wood smoke. I dress myself in my not-quite-dry garments. The rain has stopped, and the eastern sky shows patches of blue. Rather than follow the escarpment back to the Pison, I head directly north, skipping the northwest corner. I have never before skimped on my patrol. No one will ever know. It is a secret between myself and the Lord, which I find oddly satisfying.

  By the time I reach the fence the sun has appeared in all its glory. I take it as a sign. If the Lord objected to my minor shortcut, would he not have responded with thunder and lightning? I know that I am thinking wrongly, but I do not care.

  By noon the sky is nearly cloudless, and I come upon the breach reported by Brother Gregory. A marmot or some other creature has burrowed beneath the chain-link. Other creatures have used the access as well. I see coyote scat and a tuft of fur that may have come from a jackrabbit. I can repair it easily with a few rocks and some packed earth. That Gregory did not do so is testament to his innate laziness.

  I shrug off my pack and go in search of some rocks. A short distance away, I find an outcropping of broken shale and manage to pry off a few chunks of the gray stone. I pick up the largest rock I can lift and am carrying it back toward the fence when I hear the whine of an engine. The sound is coming from the other side. A moment later I see a dark-green ATV bounce up over a low rise, following the cattle-worn trail paralleling the fence. The rider is wearing a flapping white canvas jacket and a bright-green helmet that does not quite contain her long blond hair. She sees me, skids to a stop, takes off her helmet, and shakes out her hair.

  “Cult Boy,” she says with a grin. “It must be Tuesday!”

  “It is fourth Landay,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah — Landay.” Lynna climbs down off the ATV and walks toward me. I step back. She stops two paces from the fence and gives me a puzzled smile. “I don’t bite,” she says.

  “I did not think you were going to bite.”

  She looks at my pack on the ground, and at the shovel, and at the marmot hole beneath the fence.

  “Trying to dig your way out?”

  I shake my head, astonished that she would think I wanted to leave Nodd.

  “Did you get my note?” she asks.

  “Yes. Brother Luke found it and gave it to Brother Enos, who showed it to me. Please do not do that again.”

  “Why not?” She steps up to the fence and puts her fingers through the chain-link. I force myself not to back away. Her fingernails are painted blue, the same color as her eyes.

  I say, “Brother Enos finds such messages disturbing. If he knew I had been talking to you, I would pay a price.”

  “Brother Enos sounds like he’s got a stick up his butt.”

  I almost smile, as it sounds like something my mother might say. I tear my eyes from her face and look past her at the ATV. It looks nothing like Nodd’s ATV. It is painted camouflage colors, and it has bigger tires.

  “Pretty sweet, huh?” Lynna says, following my glance. “It’ll do sixty on the road. You could do your whole edge thing in, like, an hour.”

  I was thinking the same thing. Although such a machine would be unable to negotiate the Mire or the forest above the gorge, it would make the rest of my patrol go quickly.

  “You ever drive one?” she asks.

  I nod. I have driven Nodd’s ATV several t
imes.

  “You want to try it?”

  “I cannot leave Nodd.”

  “Not even for a few minutes?” She is amused, and my face grows warm.

  “You do not understand,” I tell her.

  “You’re like a prisoner. I think they got you brainwashed.”

  “I am not brainwashed.”

  “Prove it.” She crosses her arms.

  Several things are going through my mind. I know she is attempting to manipulate me, to use my pride to make me do something I know I should not do. But I am also thinking about the long walk ahead of me, and about Sister Ruth embracing Father Grace, and about Tobias, and about the sun on Lynna’s hair. In truth, I would like very much to sit upon her machine.

  “I don’t have to prove anything,” I say, but I consider the hole beneath the fence and consider its size. Is there enough space for me to wriggle through? I am not certain.

  “Looks kind of tight,” Lynna says, echoing my thoughts.

  “There is room,” I say. I find it strange how I am no longer thinking about the rightness or wrongness of leaving Nodd, but only of how I will do it. I lie down on my back with my head facing the fence and push myself down into the gap. My head and shoulders pass beneath the fence easily, but the pronged bottom of the chain-link catches on my chest. I exhale to flatten my chest, but I remain wedged. I struggle against it for a few seconds, then start to work my way back. Suddenly Lynna is standing above me with one foot on either side of my head. She is wearing cowboy boots. Her feet are so close, I can smell the leather. She grabs the chain-link with her hands and pulls up, giving me a couple of inches of space. I am looking straight up at the crotch of her jeans.

  “Come on!” I can hear the effort in her voice. I push with my legs, and a moment later, I pass through the fence, between her legs, and I am out of Nodd.

  Lynna brushes her hands on her thighs.

  “That wasn’t so hard,” she says.

  I look through the fence, feeling an eerie mix of freedom and fear.

  “Come on,” she says. “Check out my ride.”

  The seat of the ATV is warm and foreign between my legs. Peter’s ATV is like a small Jeep, with a steering wheel and foot pedals. This ATV has handlebars, and instead of a wide seat designed for two people to ride side by side, it has a single long saddle. I grasp the handgrips and listen as Lynna instructs me. She points out a small lever near my right thumb.

  “That’s the accelerator. You’ve got two brakes, here and here. Two forward gears and one reverse. You turn the key to start it, just like a car.” She reaches past me and twists the key. The engine snarls to life. My heart is beating rapidly. Brother Peter’s ATV is quiet and sedate; this machine feels powerful and alive.

  To my surprise, she swings herself onto the seat behind me and shoves her helmet down onto my head. Her thighs are touching me. I am paralyzed with sensation.

  “Squeeze the brake and put it in gear,” she says over my shoulder, her lips inches from my left ear.

  I cannot move. My hands are locked onto the handgrips.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” My voice comes out too high.

  “Squeeze the brake lever with your left hand.”

  I do so.

  “Okay, now pop it in gear.”

  When I do not respond, she reaches past me and pushes the gearshift lever forward. The machine quivers, and the sound of the idling engine becomes deeper.

  “Let go of the brake now. But don’t touch the accelerator yet.”

  I release the pressure on the brake lever; the machine begins to creep forward along the cattle trail, following the fence line.

  “Give it a little gas,” she says.

  I push the accelerator lever with my thumb. The machine jerks forward; my body lurches back against Lynna. My hand clutches the brake lever and the ATV stops abruptly, nearly sending me over the handlebars.

  “I’m sorry!” I say. I try to get off the machine, but Lynna grabs my shoulders and shoves me back down onto the seat.

  She is laughing.

  “It’s okay. Just hang on tight and press the accelerator slowly. There’s no rush.”

  It takes a few more tries for me to get a feel for the machine, then suddenly I have it. The power of the engine flows through my hands and legs. The machine becomes an extension of my body, of my soul.

  “You got it now,” Lynna says.

  I lean forward and accelerate down the cattle trail, the fence a chain-link blur to my right, wind tearing at my face, Lynna’s arms wrapped tight around my chest, her body pressing against my back. I hear her screaming in my ear but my mind is as open and clear as the Montana sky.

  It lasts only seconds, that moment of wind and speed and power, before I am overcome by the immensity of what I am doing. I release the accelerator. We coast to a bumpy stop.

  Lynna loosens her grip around my middle, reaches past me, and puts the gearshift in neutral.

  “You’re kind of wild, you know that?” She sets the brake and hops off the ATV.

  I am shaking. I fear to look at her. I am ashamed. It is true what Father Grace has long told us. Machines can devour us; they are eaters of souls.

  “What’s the matter?” Lynna asks.

  I climb off the machine and begin walking back up the trail. Seconds later I hear the growl of the machine but I do not look back. The sound grows louder and she is on my right, pacing me.

  “Jacob? Are you okay?”

  “I must not do this thing,” I say.

  “What thing?”

  I do not answer.

  “Just stop for a second,” she says.

  I stop.

  “If you’re leaving, you could at least give me back my helmet,” she says.

  I didn’t realize I was still wearing it. I remove the helmet and hold it out to her, looking at the ground. She takes the helmet. I walk quickly to the hole beneath the fence and wriggle beneath it. The bottom of the chain-link catches on my front; I force myself through, tearing my garment.

  Lynna is watching me.

  “You’re kind of weird.” she says.

  “I have work to do. Thank you for letting me drive your machine.” I turn my back and wait for her to leave so that I can repair the gap beneath the fence in peace.

  “Jacob . . .” she says. Her voice creeps over my shoulder and hangs there.

  I don’t say anything. I sense that she is not going to leave. I turn to her, intending to say something that will drive her away. The expression on her face stops me. She looks sad and hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She nods carefully, then ventures a smile. “Are you hungry?”

  I think of the food in my backpack. I have not eaten since leaving Menshome.

  “I have food,” I say.

  “Me too. Hang on a sec.” She runs to the ATV, opens a compartment behind the seat, and unstraps a small pack from the back. “Catch!” The pack comes sailing over the fence. I catch it. Lynna smiles and claps her hands. “Touchdown!”

  I set the pack on the ground. I don’t know what a “touchdown” is.

  “Why did you do that?” I ask.

  In answer, she walks over to the breach and starts to wriggle beneath the fence. The bottom of the chain-link catches on her jacket.

  “A little help here?” she says.

  “You’re not supposed to come in here,” I say, but even as I am speaking, I grab the chain-link and pull up, freeing her. A moment later, she is standing beside me.

  She looks around and says, “Wow, the grass really is greener on the other side.”

  “That is because we do not crowd our land with cattle.”

  She unzips the pack, pulls out a checkered cloth, and spreads it on the grass.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making a picnic.”

  I watch dumbly as she lays out a meal: several plastic tubs containing unfamiliar foods, a bright-red-and-blue bag of potato chips, and an assortment of
candies with wrappers in a rainbow of colors.

  “I wasn’t sure what you like,” she said. “Or even if you’d be here. So I just threw in a bunch of different stuff.”

  I realize then that she has planned this, and a shiver of fear runs up my body. Is this all a part of some Worldly plot? At the same time, I am flattered and excited.

  “What is that?” I ask, pointing at two bottles of orange liquid.

  “Pop,” she says. “It was the only kind we had.”

  “Pop . . .” I remember soda pop from when I was little, the tickle and fizz of it going down my throat. Suddenly I am desirous of it, and my decision is made. I think of the food in my pack: soda bread, hard cheese, a seedcake, and a bottle of water. My drab offerings would be an insult to this colorful feast.

  I sit down on one end of the checkered cloth as she kneels and opens one of the plastic tubs. It is filled with golden, irregular lumps.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  She smiles. “Fried chicken. Do you like chicken?”

  I nod. Chicken is a familiar food, but I have never had it so prepared. She puts pieces on two paper plates and opens another tub.

  “Beans,” I say. They are dark brown, swimming in

  sauce.

  She loads the plates with beans, pouring them directly from the tub. I feel as if I am in a dream. She tears open a bag of potato chips and adds the thin crisps to our plates. I remember potato chips. My mouth is watering. She hands me a plate. I place it on the cloth before me, uncertain how to proceed. She hands me a fork and one of the orange sodas. The bottle is icy cold in my hand. She twists the cap off the other soda; I do the same with mine.

  We drink. The soda is excruciatingly sweet. Occasion ally, as a special treat, the Archcherubim return from their travels with crates of oranges or other exotic fruits. This soda does not taste much like an orange, but it is very good. I gulp greedily, emptying half the bottle.