Drawn From Life: Part II

"My dad grew up in the country, and when I was a kid he was always trying to get us out there, on drives, on fishing trips. When a friend of a friend told him that old Mr. Auburn's fields were free for camping by invitation, he had our gear picked out and our cots loaded in his head before he'd even stopped talking." He paused.

     "You know, it's funny, but I've never even seen Mr. Auburn. Neither has dad, and when I asked him to ask his friend about him, he hadn't either. I could probably pass him in the grocery store and not even know it. I wonder if he knows how many people have been on his land. Or if he'll ever guess how much grief his generosity has caused me. Heck, maybe he's not even alive anymore, and the place belongs to somebody else.

     "I was a happy kid, you know? Life was all cartoons and playing and cereal. Sure, there was school, but with a little effort that could be ignored, and there were friends and recess and lunch to get you through. My dad was a hero, my mom a refuge, my little brother and sister my troops. Even church was a sort of solemn fun. Then we went on the camping trip."

     He pointed to the live oak, towering over the grove.

     "We set up under that tree there. Dad had come up a day or two earlier and mowed under it. The whole family arrived at noon, all our gear bundled up in our old tank of a car. We set up our cots and Dad dug a fire pit. Mom put up a card table for us to eat at, and then, in the evening, play cards on. Dad hung a Coleman lamp from one of the big tree limbs to light the whole camp.

     "That first day was great. After we set up, we went to the creek over there -- you can't see it from here, it's down under the bluff, where the land falls away -- and fished and swam until the sun began to set and lightning bugs started flashing. We went back up to camp and roasted weenies and listened to the transistor radio and played games until us kids finally ran down with exhaustion. Mom told us a story and the little kids fell asleep and she went to bed. I pretended to sleep, but was still too happy to settle. I lay still, thinking about the day and the days to come, listening to the sigh of the Coleman lamp as it ran down through the night. It was like company, you know? I think that's the last time I remember being truly happy."

     He stopped. Beth had heard the growing yearning loss in his voice. Now it seemed choked off. She reached into her case, took out a can of paint thinner, and set it with a clank on the easel. She didn't open it, but the action seemed to have distracted the boy from the emotion of his re-lived memories. She switched to another brush.

     "And then?" she asked quietly.

     "I woke up early the next day, earlier than anybody. It was May Day, like it is today, and a Sunday. Mom had wanted to wait until after church to come, but it was my dad's vacation, and he didn't want to waste a day of it. I decided ... I decided to walk over into the trees there, and pick her a bouquet of flowers, to kind of make up for it, and do some exploring. It looked just like it does now, green and quiet and, I don't know, secret, though you can see right through it. It kind of calls to you, doesn't it?" he said bitterly.

     Beth looked at the grove and thought of her own strange attraction that morning. She said nothing, but nodded, and slowly added some golden highlights to the oak in her painting.

     "So I got out of bed real quiet, slipped my tennis shoes on, and walked over through the weeds to the trees. The grass is pretty tall, you can see, but under the trees,  the flowers are even taller. I was nine, and they were over my head, like a wall in front of me. I hesitated for just a minute before I went in, wondering if I should wait for somebody to go with me. Then I thought, what could happen? Camp's right over there, it's a clump of trees, it's an adventure. The wind came and shook the flowers, and I smelled a sweet morning smell that filled the air, and I plunged inside.

     "I say inside, and I mean inside. Once under the eaves of the trees it was like being inside a castle, or a church. The wind seemed to break around it, and under the branches it was still. When I looked out beyond the thicket, it was looking out a window. I began to make my way in, trying to find the center.

     "How far can you go in the woods? Halfway, then you're headed out. It was easy; the land there dips down to the middle. It's all in a dell, though that's not immediately obvious. My steps followed the incline down thoughtlessly, instinctively, drawn along by gravity. I looked at the flowers along the way, thinking about the bouquet for my mother.

     "They all looked fine in a group or from a distance, but when I started to inspect them, they were all blotchy or bug-eaten or wrapped in spiderwebs. I passed up bloom after bloom as I walked along. The one I tried to pick as an experiment was so tough and fibrous in the stalk that all the petals fell off before it would even break, and I left it there.

     "I still don't know what kind of flowers they are. They're blue, and they're bell-shaped, so I just call them bluebells. I never think to ask anyone who might really know. Though I know they're way too tall for what people call bluebells. I always think of that place as the Bluebell Dell."

     "From the way you describe them, they sound like some kind of foxglove," she said. "But go on."

     "I was still looking for flowers when I reached the center. It took me unawares. I came into a little clearing, and in the clearing was a stump, about three feet tall, and on the stump was a black bird. It turned and looked at me, and I stood froze in its beady black eyes.

     "Some people scoff when I tell them I was afraid. Afraid of a bird! But it wasn't afraid at all. And it was huge, with a heavy beak and sharp claws that gripped the stump with strength you could hear tearing at the bark. It roused its wings slowly, and they must have spread at least four feet wide. On its perch, it looked like a black crucifix against the green wood.

     "I tried to edge slowly around the clearing to get to the other side, and it just turned following me. I was feeling spooked. It seemed personal. Then it opened its beak and started making a mad, hoarse rattling hiss in its throat, and bent its head and spread its wings even wider.

     "That broke me, and I cringed down in sudden panic. I remember stirring up the grass under me, crackling with old leaves and fallen sticks. That was like a signal, and it swooped down at me.

     "I dropped to the ground, hands over my head, and for a second I saw, like, every detail of the forest floor clear as a bell. It was made of a thousand different bits of pulverized decay: leaves, twigs, snail shells, insect wings, even tiny bones. I saw half of a shattered mouse skull. Then I saw the shadow of black wings over me and the beating of wings was around my ears and I scuttled blindly to my feet and ran out of the woods, arms still trying to protect my defenseless head.

     "I broke out of the other side of the trees -- this side, in fact -- and ran for a few yards before I realized I wasn't being chased. I stopped, out of breath, and turned around, slowly putting my arms down, looking back. The trees seemed as peaceful as they ever had before, if anything duller in the growing light. No murderous black shadow followed me or flitted under the shade. No harsh hunting calls echoed in the morning air. On the other side I could see a flame leap up, where my dad was awake and building the morning fire.

     "I took the long way around back to camp. I certainly didn't want to see that bird again. But I never did, and nobody else did either, though everybody was pointing out every hawk or songbird or buzzard they saw on the trip. I never went through the trees, and somehow nobody else did either. I kept dreading that someone would suggest we go exploring, but there was always something else to do, and I wasn't about to bring it up. We left that year without me ever setting foot in that place again. But the damage was done."

     He rubbed his throat.

     "Say, do you have anything to drink?"

     "Oh, yes!" She set her pallet down, reached into the case, and brought out a can of soda, still a little dewy from the hotel mini fridge. "Hope you don't mind diet," she said, passing it him. He accepted it gratefully, popped the top, and drew down a huge gulp that emptied half the can.

     "Sorry about rambling on," he said. "But I've gone over the details time and time again, with Dr. Chaney and in my own head, trying to understand, to figure what went wrong, what might have triggered something." His eyes looked bruised in the growing light. "He thinks the bird could be a cover memory for something too bad to think about, like maybe I saw a corpse or was assaulted or something. I been hypnotized and regressed a dozen times, and nothing happens; I don't remember anything but the flowers, and the bird, and running through the trees."

     "I see," Beth said. She pulled out another can of soda, crossed her ankles, and lowered herself to the grass, sitting to one side of him. "That does sound like a frightening experience. I know I'd be scared. But you were talking about damage? What had happened to you?"

     He frowned.

     "Nothing physical, really, though I was covered in red bites that Mom said was chiggers from the long grass and running around without a booster spray of Off! in the morning. For a while I just carried on, like a cartoon character running till he realizes he's out of cliff. I was shook, I knew, but I expected I'd get over it, but the feeling never went away.

     "I call it a feeling, but it's more the lack of a feeling. It was like I was walking around with a pane of glass between me and the world, between me and my family. It started that day. I could only taste the burn on each hotdog, just feel the slime of each fish I caught, only worry about the unseen depths when I went swimming. Anything good about all the things I had enjoyed just the day before seemed short-circuited before it could reach me. It's still like that. When my grampa had a stroke, years later, he said the thing that bothered him most was the loss of taste, except for the strongest and foulest things. I knew what he meant. Except it's not simply taste, it's everything.

     "Since that morning -- since those woods -- ," he pointed accusingly with his can, "My dad has looked to me like a rube and a bully, my mother a religious worrywart, my siblings a couple of deadweights. Church was a farce that I stopped attending as soon as I could, school an agony of wasted time that I gladly fled, only to be bored when I got home. I lost what friends I had. When it came time to date, I let myself drift into a few attempts, hoping for some change, but dropped it afterwards as pointless. Expectations pushed me into college, and after a few useless semesters I was pushed out again. I have a dull job that keeps me afloat.

     "The worst part of it is ..." He shifted on his hunkers and faced Beth earnestly. "The worst part of it is, that I remember how it used to be, and I want it back. That's why I was crying, because you reminded me ... the smell of a firework, the color of a paint ... They used to mean something to me, and I want that back."

     "What does your doctor say? Is that why you're here?"

     He laughed mirthlessly.

     "Old Doc Chaney is agin' it. I've come out here by myself more times than I can count, and always on the first of May. He says it's become an unhealthy compulsion. He says it's simply unhappiness with growing up, and I should just accept it and move on. But I don't think I trust his diagnoses anymore. For a while, when it was popular, he was suggesting I was abducted by aliens."

     "Interesting theory." Beth smiled. "But I don't think so."

     "Neither do I." He leaned in and looked serious. "But something strange is going on. I've never seen another black bird again, no matter what season I come. You know, I haven't been able to find the stump, either? Not even a spot where it might have been grubbed up. That's where I was headed, to go search one more time, when I came across you. I wanted to head in, but I didn't want to cross your line of sight."

     "Well, it's not like taking a photo, you know," she reassured him. "I wasn't going to accidentally paint you in."

     The thought made him shrink back. He looked stricken.

     "Maybe you might as well," he said quietly. "In some ways, I don't think I've ever left the woods."

     He finished his soda and got to his feet, brushing his pants off as he stood. Beth set her soda can down in the grass and held out a hand. He took it and pulled her up, her paint-splattered robe flapping with the movement.

     "Well, that's my story," he concluded ruefully. "What have you got to say, with your strange talents and hidden knowledge?"

[End Part II. Part III and conclusion to Follow]