Eden West

by Pete Hautman

  I take them off and offer Lily half of the apple. Lily takes it from my palm delicately, her bristly lips brushing my palm.

  “Pet her on the neck,” Lynna says. “She likes that.”

  I stroke the horse’s neck, feeling her coarse hair and the powerful muscles beneath it.

  “Just get to know her for a minute while I saddle up Edgar.” Lynna moves down two stalls and starts talking to another horse. I feed Lily the other half of the apple.

  “My name is Jacob,” I tell her in a soft voice. Lily snuffles and shifts her feet. I can feel the heat coming off her. There are horses in the Bible. Joseph had horses, and the Pharaoh’s men, and Zerachiel’s own chariot will be drawn by flying horses of silver and gold. I run my hand along Lily’s shoulder and imagine her sprouting wings. Does she know I am about to climb onto her back?

  Lynna leads Edgar out of his stall, and we walk the horses out of the barn into the sunlight. The fog is gone, and the air is as bright and sharp as crystal. It is warmer, too. I take my hat off and stuff it in my pocket. Lynna shows me how to place my foot in the stirrup. Clumsily I bring my right leg up over the horse’s back and seat myself on the saddle. Lily snorts her displeasure at my awkwardness. I grip the knob on the saddle and sway from side to side as she shifts her feet nervously.

  Lynna swings easily and gracefully onto Edgar. She shows me how to hold the reins.

  “We’ll take the cattle track through the woods. You don’t have to do anything — I’ll go first, and Lily will follow.” She makes a kissing sound and gives the reins a shake. Edgar moves off along the corral fence. Lily falls in behind him. The feeling of riding atop a giant animal both terrifies me and makes me feel powerful, as if the strength of the animal is rising up through my bones. I hold the reins slack. As promised, Lily needs no guidance; she simply follows Edgar.

  The snowy ground looks very far down, but with every step, my fear of being thrown to the earth eases. Soon I am thinking less of the beast beneath me and more of the wonder that surrounds me. Mostly my eyes are fixed upon Lynna, who sits so lightly in her saddle that it seems she will float away.

  We follow the trail along the wooded north face of the valley, through tall, close-growing ponderosas and cedars. There is little snow on the ground here. It is so densely wooded that most of the snow was caught by the trees and is now melted.

  “My dad’s been talking about logging the north slope,” Lynna says over her shoulder. “I told him if he tried it, I’d chain myself to a tree.”

  “Would you really?”

  “Damn right I would.”

  I shudder to hear her speak so, but I say, “We log our forests. It is the only way to get wood.”

  “My dad wants to do it for the money. He worries about money all the time.”

  “My father once worried about money. He was a lawyer, and money weighed heavy on his soul. It was not until he gave it all away and we came here to Nodd that he found peace.”

  “He gave away everything?”

  “Everything save for my mother and me.”

  “Expensive peace,” Lynna says. “But so long as he’s happy, I guess that’s cool.”

  I think of my father’s stern, disapproving features and try to recall the last time I saw him filled with joy.

  The trail enters a small oblong clearing. We are surrounded by trees of extraordinary stature, even taller than the tallest trees of Nodd. It feels like a grand temple, a footprint of the Lord. Above us is an oval of brilliant blue sky. Lynna pulls up, then slaps her thigh and makes a hand gesture. Lily moves forward to stand close on her left side. Our knees brush against each other.

  “I like this place,” Lynna says, her voice almost a whisper.

  It is not necessary for me to reply. We sit in our saddles without speaking, the only sounds the breathing of the horses and the faint hiss of a breeze tickling the tops of the pines.

  “In the summer it’s filled with ferns and flowers,” she says. “I come here to think.”

  “What do you think about?”

  She doesn’t answer for several seconds. I hear a squirrel chatter. Lily paws at the snow and lowers her head to sniff at the disturbed pine duff.

  I feel Lynna brush my sleeve, then grasp my hand in hers, her fine riding glove wrapping my crudely sewn deerskin.

  She says, “I think about nothing.”

  I know what she means. I have spent many hours kneeling before the Tree, thinking of nothing as my mouth speaks the words of the Arbor Prayer. The repetitive movements of my lips free me to have no thoughts, to embrace the peace that comes with that blankness of the mind.

  “Do you feel the presence of the Lord?” I ask.

  “I feel the presence of something,” she says. “But I think it’s more like when I’m here, I know that my life is only a small part of something huge. I don’t know if it’s God or what.” She looks at me. “What do you feel?”

  “I feel your hand,” I say, surprising myself.

  She gives my fingers a squeeze, holds my hand for a moment, then lets go. “This is the first time I’ve ever brought anybody here.”

  “You did not come here with Tobias?”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “Tobias was only here for a day. Besides, he isn’t my type.”

  “What type is that?”

  Lynna laughs. “I like those dark, broody cult boys.” She gives her reins a twitch. Edgar continues through the clearing; Lily follows. The trail winds through the tall trees, around a jagged outcropping of shale, then makes a right turn and descends sharply into a draw. Lily, sure-footed and steady, follows Edgar into the draw, where the snow is almost up to her belly, then up the other side onto a ridge. Lynna stops and looks back.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Good,” I say, although I am somewhat sore from the saddle, and from using muscles I have never used before.

  “This ridge leads up to the north pasture. We’ll be back in ten minutes or so. Can you handle it?”

  I nod. I will be glad to get my feet back on the ground.

  We start moving again, but have gone only a short distance when Lily snorts, wheels abruptly, and leaves the trail. I grip the horn of the saddle as her forelegs plunge into the deeper snow. Her hind end comes up. I lose my grip and fall forward onto her neck. I hear Lynna shout as I slide over Lily’s head and tumble through the air. I land on my face and feel something strike my forehead.

  Dazed, I rise to my feet, floundering in hip-deep snow, trying to understand what has happened. Lily has made it back to the trail and is running back the way we came while Lynna is frantically trying to control Edgar, who is jerking at his bridle, looking around wildly. It lasts only a couple of seconds. She gets him back under control, but he is making huffing sounds and his eyes are rolling. Holding the reins tightly with one hand, she strokes his neck and speaks to him in a low, soothing voice. I slog through the snow and climb back onto the trail.

  “Are you okay?” she asks me.

  “I think so.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  I put my hand to my forehead, then look at my glove. It is dark and wet with blood. Lynna swings off her horse, still holding the reins, and walks over to me.

  “Let me have a look.” She examines my forehead with a concerned expression. “It looks like a shallow cut. You must’ve hit something when you fell.” She wipes away the blood with the ball of her thumb. “A branch, or some ice. Here.” She digs in one of her vest pockets and comes out with a tissue. “Hold this against it. Are you dizzy or anything?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “Something spooked Lily. She can be a real scaredy-cat.” She looks into the woods to the left of the trail. “Probably just a squirrel. Stupid horse. I’m really sorry.”

  “It was not just Lily. Your horse is nervous, too.” I cross the trail and wade through the snow into the trees. I have gone only about ten paces when I smell blood.

  I find the deer carcass another ten paces farther in.
Most of the animal has been eaten. The area around it is trampled with bloody, palm-size paw prints. I touch the remains of the deer; it is soft, unfrozen. A recent kill. I look back through the trees at Lynna, who is watching me from her horse.

  “Wolf,” I say.

  We ride back double, my chest and hips pressed against Lynna’s back.

  “What about Lily?” I ask.

  “She’ll find her way home.”

  A gust of wind whips her hair across my face. I catch a strand between my lips, hold it for an instant, then let go. “Unless she runs into the wolf,” I say.

  “I doubt a wolf would go after something as big as a horse. At least, that’s what my dad says. He says they prey on smaller animals, or sick animals that are easy to catch.”

  “I hope he is right.”

  “That’s why we’re worried, come calving season. A wolf would take down a calf easy.”

  “They kill sheep, that’s for sure. Have you ever had wolves here before?”

  “No. There are a couple of big packs in Yellowstone, but that’s more than two hundred miles from here. Cal says this wolf is probably a young male who got driven out of his pack, then wandered up this way. He’s pretty sure there’s just the one.”

  “He must be lonely,” I say.

  Back at the house, Lynna cleans the cut on my forehead, saying, “It’s not deep, but you’re going to have a bruise for a while.” She covers it with a bandage. Her face is only inches from mine. I notice the small furrow between her eyebrows, what I once heard my mother call the crease of caring.

  I raise my hand to her brow and smooth it with my thumb. She is startled, but she does not move.

  “Pressing out my worry line?” she says. That must be another name for it: worry line.

  “Do you worry a lot?” I ask.

  “I worry about you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because you live in Nodd. Because you don’t know anything about the world. Because you fall off of horses.”

  “I fell off one horse. Once.”

  “You’ve only ridden once.” She grins, and happy lines crinkle the corners of her blue eyes. “That means you fall off every time you ride.”

  I kiss her on the lips.

  I kiss her.

  Our lips are one and I am consumed. I fall like Sister Salah dropping from the Knob, but there is no bottom, no river, no rock. I fall and I fall, and I never want it to stop. In the distance I can hear the beating of my heart, and I can smell the smell of her hair, and the soft, silent click of our teeth touching echoes through my bones, and then it is over, and we are looking at each other, breathing each other’s warm breath, and still I am falling.

  “Wow,” she says. “I didn’t think you were gonna do that.” She laughs. “Your beard tickles.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, although I am not sorry at all. I want to do it again, and I do. This time, she kisses me back hard, our lips grinding together, and nothing else is real. There is a sound growing in my head, water tumbling over boulders. I do not know if I am standing, sitting, or still falling. My arms grasp her and pull her against me as if we can become a single entity. My hands run down her back and grasp her hips and pull her hard against me, pressing my swollen phallus against her —

  And suddenly her hands are on my chest, pushing hard, and we are apart, gasping.

  “Whoa,” she says. “Easy!”

  Breathing heavily, my mouth open and wet, I stare back at her dumbly.

  “That was intense,” she says, forcing a little laugh.

  I don’t know what to do.

  “It’s okay,” she says, pushing back a strand of hair and straightening her shirt.

  A prickling in my belly grows and becomes embarrassment as I realize what has happened. The lustful beast inside me has shown itself. My groin has become an inflamed and painful knot; my cheeks are burning with shame and desire. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and look away.

  “Jacob, it’s okay,” she says again. But it is not okay.

  “I should go,” I mumble. My tongue feels different, as if it belongs to someone else. Some animal.

  “Okay, but you have to promise to come back. Okay?”

  I do not trust myself to respond.

  “I’ll drive you up to the fence, okay?”

  The beast within me is thinking of being pressed against her body one more time. Slowly, carefully, I put on my jacket and pick up my pack and my rifle. I feel like a great clumsy animal, as if my every move threatens to destroy all that I touch.

  “I can walk,” I say.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I open the door and step outside. I am surprised to find the sun high in the sky. It feels as if it should be night. Lynna follows me out, her crease of caring deep on her brow.

  “It was really nice seeing you, Jacob.”

  Nice? How can it be nice?

  “I’m sorry,” I say, staring at the ground.

  “You don’t have to be sorry. I liked kissing you. Seriously.”

  How could she have liked it? Is she as base as I?

  “I want to show you something before you go. Over here.”

  I follow her around the side of the house.

  “See?” she says, pointing at a tree growing near a fence.

  I look at the tree, not understanding. It is a small tree, no more than twice my own height, bare of leaves, its many branches dotted with small shriveled fruits. And then I see it. It is a miniature version of the Tree.

  “It’s a crabapple, like the one you showed me, only not so humongous.” She picks a fruit and holds it out in the palm of her hand. “Crabapples. These are what I made the jelly out of.”

  The knuckle-size fruit looks exactly like the fruits of the Tree. I look from the fruit to the small tree, struggling to understand.

  “Our Tree is the Tree,” I hear myself say.

  “Yeah, and it’s huge. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a crab tree that big, ever. You must fertilize the heck out of it.”

  “This is not the Tree,” I say.

  “I know. My dad planted this the day I was born. But I was thinking — you know your tree? I think my grandfather planted it.”

  “What?” I am confused.

  “Yeah, you guys — I mean, Father Grace — bought your land from my dad. It used to be part of our ranch. Then when my grandfather died, my dad needed money for taxes, so he sold off the south ten sections. You know where your village is now? That’s where my grandparents’ house used to be. It’s gone now of course, but I think that tree is the same one that used to be in their front yard. My grandfather planted it when my dad was born, and that’s how come my dad planted this one when I was . . .” She trails off, seeing something in my face. “Jacob?”

  She is smiling, but the crease between her eyebrows is deep as a cut. I feel I am seeing her clearly for the first time, and I am horrified by how close I have come to the abyss. The heat I feel in my loins is the fire of Hell. I have allowed myself to tempted, to be seduced by this Worldly woman. As Adam allowed Eve to tempt him to betray their Lord, so have I been drawn into lechery, grunting and panting like a ram in heat. Was this what happened to Von? Am I becoming Von?

  “This is a false tree,” I say. My voice sounds like gravel sliding off a shovel. “And you are false as well. I should not have come here. You think me a fool, and you are right.”

  Her face crumples, and I know I have hurt her but I do not care. I turn my back and walk away from her, toward Nodd. As I trudge up the long, sloping cattle trail, my mind stutters and whirls with the shameful things I have done, from my foolish, lustful thoughts of Ruth, to the first time I ventured forth from Nodd to eat Worldly fried chicken, to the hellfire of the quesadilla, to the unspeakable trans gressions of today. What will I have to do to seek forgiveness? I imagine the sweet sting of cedar needles raking my back, and I know it will not be enough. I imagine myself confessing my sins to Brother Enos, and I quiver with fear at what he might do
. Will Brother Samuel make scars beneath my brow and tear away my soul, as he did to Von? Or will I be cast into the Pit to howl and gnash my teeth until the pain of my transgressions becomes too much to bear and I hang myself with strips of cloth from my sullied trousers? Better to throw myself from the Knob, to shatter my skull on the tumbled boulders of the Pison, or lie naked in the forest and let the wolf lap tainted blood from my yawning carcass.

  I hear the sound of the ATV, growing louder. Seconds later, Lynna pulls up alongside me. I keep walking. She pulls ahead and stops, blocking my path.

  “Jacob, I’m sorry,” she says.

  “I do not wish to talk to you,” I say.

  She climbs off the machine. “I’m sorry if I offended you about your tree,” she says. “I’m sorry I made fun of your religion.”

  “I should not have come here.”

  “Why?”

  The plaintive note in her voice weakens my resolve, but I say, “Because you are doomed, and you would doom me as well.”

  She draws back as if I have slapped her. I feel a twinge of regret. I push it away and move to walk around her.

  “Jacob, tell me what I can do to make things right. Please!”

  That stops me.

  “You would have to accept the Lord with all your heart and soul, beg His forgiveness, renounce the ways of the World, and come to Nodd on bended knees and request sanctuary.”

  “And then what?”

  “The Grace offer sanctuary to those who are willing to do these things. You would become one of us, and live a righteous life, and await the coming of Zerachiel.”

  “Are you saying the only way we can be friends is if I join your . . . group?”

  “If you do not, you will be destroyed.”

  Lynna bites her lip and shakes her head slowly. I see tears in her eyes.

  “Oh, Jacob, can you even hear yourself?”

  “Yes,” I say. I walk around her and continue toward Nodd. Behind me, I hear her start the ATV. The whine of its engine is loud at first, then fading, and soon I hear only the crunch of my boots on the packed snow.

  A copse of stunted cedars grows in a shallow draw not far from the Village. I cut several branches and spread them on the snow. I take off my jacket and my two shirts. The skin of my bare torso puckers from the cold. I lay myself upon the prickly boughs and stare up into the deepening blue sky. I imagine Zerachiel descending on his golden chariot, seeing me spread-eagled in my icy bower, passing over me, rejecting my sullied soul. I know that to gain passage on the Ark, I must cleanse myself, make myself clean. I think of Father Grace in the desert, in the hailstorm. I think of his four days and three nights of agony, and how he entered his ordeal as the worst of sinners and emerged as a prophet. I tear the bandage from my forehead and scratch at my wound until I feel warm blood running down my temple. I watch the blue sky darken as my naked breast grows cold and the sharp needles of the cedar boughs work their way into my back and the flow of blood from my brow ceases. For a time my body shivers violently, then that stops as well.