I arrived back at my house as the sun was setting. Heph’s van was gone from the lot, and his bill, complete with a self-addressed envelope for payment, was wedged into the crack between the door and its frame. Inside, the house was warm and inviting, and filled with slanting evening light. It was dinnertime, but I had eaten enough to last until dinnertime the next day. I realized suddenly that I did not want to leave—that I was going to sleep here tonight, for the first time. I called my motel and settled over the phone; I had left nothing in my room. When I hit END, I realized that I had made the break. I was living here now, in my house on the hill, and felt, at long last, that I was ready.
I have to admit that I had great difficulty getting to sleep that first night. A mind accustomed to stimulation, and left without, will create its own—and in my empty house, in the moonless, deathly silence of night, mine was madly racing into the early hours. The house creaked in a wind, and the furnace shuddered and clanked as it regulated the temperature. I thought that I smelled flowers, and then gunpowder, and then burning wood. Ghostly flashes burst at the edges of my vision. I believed, several times, that someone was walking stealthily through the rooms, and I crept downstairs, knife in hand, to investigate. But no one was there, and I never discovered the source of the sound, if there had ever really been one.
Worse yet, when at last I did fall into an uneasy, shallow sleep, my dreams were strange. I stood in a desert as a sandstorm swirled around me. I collapsed in exhaustion, cupping my hands around my mouth to keep the sand from my lungs. Then I was digging, digging like a dog with both my hands, and I uncovered a wooden trapdoor, which led to an iron ladder. I climbed deep into the ground, eventually dropping into a tunnel, lit by bare incandescent bulbs and supported by thick wooden beams, like an old mine. The walls slanted, the ceiling sagged, and I walked through the maze of corridors in search of the source of the voices I heard—familiar voices, those of people I knew, though I couldn’t tell who. And then, suddenly, the voices were behind me. I was leading those people somewhere, but I couldn’t turn to see who they were. They chatted and laughed: only I understood the grave danger we were all in, that death lurked around every blind corner, and I tried in vain to quiet them. There was light ahead, and heat, and terrible peril, and the rifle I carried had turned to rubber, and then to something like licorice, because I was eating it, ravenously, as I had eaten my lunch at the Chinese buffet. I woke before dawn with tears in my eyes and my hand in my mouth, having actually drawn blood in a semicircular pattern of marks, like the rough stitching on a rag doll.
But daylight soon began to trickle through the windows, and the dream faded away into abstraction. The terror and madness that made it so real now seemed like ridiculous clichés, the scar on my hand a small embarrassment. I sat on the floor, rested my arms on the sill of the east-facing bedroom window, and watched the sun come up over the trees. The forest was still gray, but green had begun, ever so faintly, to creep across its surface, like a mold. The sight of it filled me with determination and excitement. I rolled up my sleeping bag, put on my clothes, and packed a bag with fruit, trail mix, dried meat, and a bottle of water. It was time to go for a hike.
Considering the amount of time that had passed since the house had last been occupied, the edge of the forest where it met the yard was strangely well defined. The house gave way to hard-packed gravel and dirt, which sloped down into rough, woody weeds and shrubs; then, about forty feet from the northeastern corner of the house, the treeline began, a wall of tightly packed maples, birches, ashes, and pines. The trunks were high and narrow, the light beyond them dim despite the scant foliage. Peering into the forest, I could make out a tangled canopy of thin branches overhead. Heph was right—it was indeed rough. I walked back and forth along the treeline, searching for, if not a path, then perhaps the ghost of a path that must certainly once have existed. The deer, at the very least, had to have a way in and out. But no entry point looked better than any other, and so I took a deep breath, raised a leg high into the air, and stepped in at random.
Almost immediately I became tangled in a thicket. Thorns and burrs caught at my pants, and saplings snapped against my face. I half-closed my eyes and ventured forth, my boots ripping and cracking the tangle below. I gripped the tree trunks and pulled myself along.
After about ten feet, the going became easier. The heavy shadows of the woods discouraged low brush, and I was left with only deadfall to contend with. To be sure, the deadfall was a problem—variegated, chaotic, and covered over by dead leaves and moss, it formed a second ground surface above the real ground, which was visible only in small patches. It would have been impossible to step from one of these areas to the next, as with rocks in a stream; they were too haphazard, and too far apart. Instead, I was forced to make my way by balancing on broken branches and slick patches of slime. The potential to trip, fall, or twist an ankle was very great, and my frustration quickly grew. I was forced to direct 90 percent of my attention toward the problem of staying upright and not hurting myself, when what I really wanted was to get a sense of the geography of my woods. Imagine my surprise and anger when I turned to find that I could still see the house behind me—the treeline was barely thirty feet away!
Still, I persisted. I believe powerfully in succeeding at something the first time, no matter how challenging: the first try sets the tone for all subsequent effort, and a failure now would dampen my future morale. So I forged on. After a time, the ground began to level out, and I had the sensation that I was moving uphill; but a break to get my bearings told me that this was merely an illusion, brought on by the difficulty of the terrain. I opened my water bottle and took a deep sip, disappointed in myself for succumbing so soon to my thirst. With a sigh, I reshouldered my pack and forged on.
I have an excellent sense of direction, and had learned in much more perilous situations than this one that it could be counted upon in challenging circumstances. But as I trudged through the forest, I began to get the uncomfortable feeling that I had lost my way. There was no evidence that this was so, although my house was far from view now and the sun invisible behind thick clouds. Nevertheless, the woods had taken on an unrelenting, almost unnatural sameness, the trees evenly distributed, the ground uniformly impassible; and it was with some considerable embarrassment and frustration that I realized I had not brought a compass with me. I am afraid I swore under my breath, there in the silence—and silent it was, for I had seen no living thing, not a single squirrel or chipmunk, since I crossed over the treeline.
I was relieved, then, to discover that the ground had begun to slope downward again. From my house on the southwest corner of the land I had set off to the northeast, and this decline was likely to represent the approach toward the center of my property. That would put the rock somewhat to my right. Satisfied that this was so, I sat down on a fallen log and began to eat my lunch.
I had been seated for about ten minutes, my back resting against a tree trunk, when I had a peculiar experience. I had closed my eyes for a moment, in an effort to gather myself for the next few hours of walking, when I heard a noise—the sound of a branch brushing against something, then snapping back, followed by the crack of a twig. I slowly turned my head, so as not to startle whatever it was that had made the noise, and opened my eyes. About fifteen feet away, blinking in the gray light, stood a doe.
It wasn’t an ordinary deer, however. Save for its hooves, nose, and eyes, it was entirely white.
Now, I should add here that such animals are not rare in the greater Milan-Gerrysburg area. Indeed, they are one of our region’s only claims to fame, and a small fame at that. The deer are not albino—their eyes lack the pale pink hue common to such animals, and they are not known to suffer from the health problems associated with albinism. These deer are normal, save for the color of their fur. They are thought to have come into being as a result of a genetic mutation in a herd that once lived within the fence of a large, abandoned military depot. Over time, the white color
became dominant, and soon the entire herd, isolated by the fence, was white.
Eventually, in places, the fence collapsed, or was knocked down by vandals, and the herd slowly assimilated back into the greater population. And so, though they were uncommon, these deer were often seen in our township, and were evidently much beloved by local residents.
But it wasn’t merely my sighting of the white doe that accounted for the peculiarity of the moment. It was that, somehow, I recognized this particular deer— the one that was now placidly staring at me through the crowded alley of tree trunks. I couldn’t have said what it was about the animal that was familiar—what set it apart from other, similar animals I had seen in my life—nor could I even have identified what parts of any deer tended to differ from individual to individual. I merely understood, instinctively, that this was my deer, and that the animal wanted me to see it.
I want to make it clear that I am not the kind of person who subscribes to half-baked, magical ideas. I do not believe in portents, or omens, or signs. On the subject of an omniscient deity, I am firmly agnostic, confident only that the existence of such an entity is beyond knowing. So it is with some trepidation that I advance the idea that I had some kind of special connection to this doe. Nevertheless, I have been trained to do what I am told, and to report the facts as I find them, and the fact is that, as I sat on a rotting tree trunk in the middle of my leafless wood, something did indeed pass between me and a solitary white deer, and I felt—I am afraid to say—a profound rightness in the encounter, along the edge of which played a very faint hint of fear.
Soon, I became uncomfortable staring at the white doe, so I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the tree behind me, and waited for it to leave. I turned over the incident in my mind, attempting to make sense of it. After a time, I opened my eyes, and the deer was gone.
It was tempting to consider the possibility that what I had just experienced was some kind of hallucination or dream. Indeed, I was very tired after my journey to the center of the forest, and it is certainly possible that I had, at some point during my respite, actually dozed off. But I did not feel refreshed, and had no sense of time having passed, and thus was able to renew my confidence that what had just happened was real.
This episode in the woods, however, was about to come to an end, on the heels of a second peculiar event, one that, furthermore, made me feel quite foolish. As I gathered my things and stood, I thought I heard a sound, a kind of rushing rumble, and I detected, once again, a bit of motion through the trees, opposite the direction the deer had come from. The motion was up on the ridge to the north, and for a split second I felt a deep terror: the motion was incredibly fast, much faster than any animal, and the noise strange, mechanical, out of place in this eerily calm wood.
But then, suddenly, I understood. It can’t be, I thought—but it had to be. I tramped across the incline, then hiked up the little hill that terminated in the ridge, and when I arrived I saw that I was right. What I had seen and heard through the trees was an eighteen-wheeler. I was standing on the shoulder of a paved road.
I stood for some minutes, trying to puzzle out how this was possible. I had begun at the southwest corner: my house. I had walked northeast, then turned due east, and descended into what I believed to be the belly of the lot. The rock, I was certain, was not far away, and slightly to the southeast. But here I was, standing on a road.
My excellent sense of direction had utterly malfunctioned. I didn’t even know what road it was I stood on, nor had I any idea which direction I should walk to reach my house. I chose left, and soon discovered it to be the correct choice, as a road sign revealed itself only a hundred yards beyond a small rise. I had been on Nemesis Road, and now neared its intersection with Phoebus. The northwest corner of the property. This meant that I had never strayed far from any road, and had walked due north once my house was out of sight.
My walk down Phoebus Road was swift and disheartening. A personal and professional skill that had meant a great deal to me now appeared to be gone. Was it my age? Such things, however, could be fought against, and defeated. I resolved that I would not grow complacent, and sacrifice my talents to the onset of middle age. I would retrain myself in the woods, and regain my former strength. By the time I drew near the intersection with Lyssa Road, some of my enthusiasm and self-respect had returned, and I almost relished the period of hard work and recovery that was to ensue. I had faced greater challenges before, had been forced to fall back, reassess, and redouble my efforts: surely I would succeed here, as well. Despite my exhaustion, my step was a bit lighter, my thoughts less dark. The project of my life was back on track.
Thus engaged in thought, I did not notice the pickup truck in my drive until I had nearly reached my front door. The sight pulled me up short: I didn’t recognize this vehicle. It was nestled up next to my SUV, dwarfed by it, in fact—a small, rusted-out red Nissan with a missing tailgate. I had no idea who would possibly want to pay me a visit, or could even know I was here.
I did not have to wait long to find out. I approached the front stoop still peering over my shoulder at the truck, and so almost tripped over the woman sitting there, lazily arrayed like the tongue of my house’s red maw.
She was gray-haired and thin, in her late forties or early fifties, and gave every impression of a person battered by experience. She wore an old pair of jeans, a dirty tan hunting coat over a gray hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of frayed running sneakers. One leg was stuck out straight, resting on the steps; the other was folded up under it. Her hands lay on her knees, one of them with a lit cigarette poking out between two fingers. The lines in her face were deep, and her expression was partly hidden by her long, thin, dry hair; but her face nevertheless betrayed a familiar combination of emotions: surprise, amusement, judgment, concern. She carried about herself an air of superiority, in spite of her clearly low social station, and I felt myself succumbing, inexplicably, to her implied authority before she even opened her mouth.
It was not until she spoke my name that I understood why. She had changed a great deal in twenty-five years, but that rough, animated voice was the same as I remembered. It belonged to my sister.
FOUR
“Eric,” she said, with the hint of a smile.
“Jill,” I said simply.
We gazed at one another for several seconds, calculating. There was, I suppose, a moment when, if one of us had moved to embrace the other, this period of suspicion would not have had to occur. But neither of us did, and so we stared, studied, considered. The hint of a smile dwindled to a ghost, and I’m afraid my enervation must have shown. I wanted nothing more than to go inside and lie down. It would be hard to deny that Jill and I were not particularly happy to see each other, and we made no effort to hide the fact. Only after this mild mutual enmity had been established did our bodies and faces relax, and Jill stood up, and I invited her inside.
“The door was unlocked,” I said, as she passed over the threshold and into the living room, still empty of furniture.
“You might have taken me for a thief,” she said. “Figured you might shoot me or something.”
She inhaled deeply from her cigarette and blew smoke up toward the ceiling.
I unshouldered my pack and let it fall to the floor. “I’d appreciate it,” I said, “if you would not smoke inside the house.”
This elicited a smile. “That’s my little brother,” she said. “I guess you don’t have an ashtray. Maybe you could find me a plate.”
I went to the kitchen and beckoned for her to follow. She took a seat at the little round wooden table I had bought, and I found an old china plate in the cupboard, one that had been here when the house was abandoned. I considered sitting down with her, but something kept me standing. I leaned against the stove and crossed my arms over my chest.
“Two chairs,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Expecting somebody?”
“The table came with two chairs.”
“Right.”
We stared at one another for several minutes more. Of course I recognized my sister now: the thick, high, arched eyebrows; the long chin; the narrow shoulders and nervous blinking. But it was clear why she had failed to register at first. Living had changed her. She was older than I, but that did not account for the difference. Whereas I had staved off the worst effects of aging with exercise, self-discipline, and healthy eating, Jill had indulged herself from an early age, abusing her body, sleeping irregularly, and running with a dissolute, irresponsible crowd. It was obvious, to look at my sister now, that she had continued with her unsavory ways, and had suffered for it. To be perfectly honest, I pitied her.
As for the many years we had remained out of touch, it is impossible to lay blame at her feet or mine. But she had not, to the best of my recollection, given me any reason to desire her continued love and friendship. She appeared only briefly at our parents’ funeral, and if I remembered correctly, she was under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Even then, at twenty-four, she had already begun to age beyond her years, her face wan, her hair lank, and her eyes heavy and underslung with blue. What I saw now, in my kitchen, only confirmed what I might have imagined, had I ever had the desire to imagine it. Hers was clearly a wasted life—for my sister was not an unintelligent woman, nor had she always been cruel or apathetic. In fact, I harbored memories of her comfort, her companionship, when we were small children. I remembered the way she would hold me in her arms when I cried out of misery or fear, the way she stroked my hair and told me everything would be all right.
Castle: A Novel Page 5
