I sat there in the dim light, sipping instant coffee from a dirty mug and craving a dip. Cool air blew in through the slip of open window. Outside, the rain continued to fall. The fog rolled in and then lifted, then drifted back in again.
I stayed there all morning. Most of my days went like that, actually. There wasn’t much else to do. Occasionally, I tried the battery-operated radio, but the empty static always made me uneasy, so I’d snap it off again. Never had good radio reception back here in the mountains. The weather just made it worse, like in the truck on my ill-fated trip to Renick. The AM station in Roanoke had stayed on the air until about the fourth week. Mark Berlitz, the station’s resident conspiracy theorist and far-right talk radio host, had kept a lone vigil next to his microphone. I’ll admit that I listened in a sort of dreadful fascination as Berlitz’s sanity slowly crumbled from cabin fever. His final broadcast ended with a gunshot in the middle of “Big Balls In Cow-Town,” an old bluegrass song by the Texas Playboys (a shame, as I’d always enjoyed their music). The song ended two minutes later, then there was silence. As far as I knew, I was the only listener to hear the disc jockey’s suicide, except for maybe crazy Earl Harper, who listened to the show on a regular basis and called in to it about every night.
I’d considered suicide as an option myself after that, but soon ruled it out. Not only was it a sin, but I also doubted I’d actually have the courage to go through with it. Certainly, there was no way on earth I could put one of the deer rifles in my mouth and pull the trigger. And I was afraid if I tried to overdose on painkillers, I’d end up paralyzed or something—paralyzed but very much alive. The thought of lying there, unable to move, and just listening to the rain was enough to convince me not to try it. But I thought about it again that morning, before dismissing the idea once more.
The morning went on and the rain continued to fall. I fooled around with one of the crossword puzzle books the kids got me last Christmas. When you get to be my age, your kin are clueless as to what to buy you for Christmas and your birthday. Since I liked crossword puzzles, that’s what they decided on. I was fine with that. It sure beat another sweater or a pair of socks.
I gummed the eraser on my pencil for half an hour, then put my teeth back in and gnawed on it, all the while trying to think of a three-letter word for peccadillo. I knew from four across, that it had an “i” as the middle letter, but I was damned if I could figure out what it was.
The coffee was bitter, and I wished for some green tea instead. Then, I sat up so suddenly that the crossword puzzle book fell to the floor.
Tea. Teaberry leaves! I’d known folks who’d quit dipping by chewing on teaberry leaves instead. It grew all over West Virginia, and I’d often picked the red teaberries growing in the woods behind my home, down in the hollow.
Cursing myself for not thinking about it sooner, I got into my rain gear and stepped out onto the back porch. The kitchen had two doors—one that led outside to the carport, and the other, which went out to the back porch. Since the back porch was closer to the edge of the forest, I went out that way.
Maybe if I had chosen the other door, and seen what was on the carport, things might have turned out differently later. Maybe I wouldn’t be writing this.
But I doubt it. I’d forgotten all about the robin at that point. The only thing my mind was focused on was the thought of finding some teaberry leaves to chew on.
I slopped through the yard. My breath clouded the air in front of me, and within minutes, my fingers and ears were cold. The fog had decided to stick around for a while. It covered everything. I could see for maybe fifteen or twenty feet, but after that, everything was concealed by white mist.
It was slow going, partly because of the weather, mostly because of my age; but I reached the edge of the forest and stepped into the trees. Under the leafy canopy, the vegetation was in better shape; the trees protected it from the constantly battering downpour. The rain beat at the treetops and dripped down on me. Wet leaves and pine needles stuck to my boots, and I went extra slow so I wouldn’t slip. It wouldn’t do to lie out here in the woods with a broken hip.
A few of the trees had been uprooted, but most still stood firm, their roots desperately clinging to the spongy ground. I noticed several of them had a strange white fungus growing on their trunks like the stuff I’d seen growing on the robin earlier. It wasn’t moss, at least not any kind I had ever seen growing on a tree. It looked more like mold, hairy and fuzzy and somehow unhealthy, sinister even.
There was more of it on the forest floor, clinging to rocks, fallen logs, vines, and even the dead leaves and needles covering the ground. I was careful not to step in any of it.
Despite the havoc the weather was playing with the vegetation, I found plenty of teaberry plants growing up through the leaves on the forest floor. I knelt down to pick some, avoiding any that had that same odd fungus growing on them. As I collected the leaves, a twig snapped. City folks would have noticed that right away, but when you’ve spent as much time in the woods as I have, you don’t pay attention to every little sound the forest makes. You’ve heard it all before and know how to separate something odd and out of place from the rest of the forest’s symphony.
It wasn’t until there was a succession of snaps behind me that I turned. And stared.
My breath caught in my throat and the bottom of my stomach fell away.
A deer stood watching me from about twenty feet away; a spike buck, probably two or three years old. Water dripped from his antlers. He showed no fear or hunger, only curiosity. He looked half-starved, and his ribs showed through his wet, slick hide. But that wasn’t why I gawked at him.
The buck’s legs were covered with the same white fuzz that was on the trees. The stuff was spreading in patches along his belly and up onto his chest. It looked like it had fused with the deer’s body, eating through fur and flesh.
Stunned, I rocked slightly backward on the balls of my feet, and like a rifle shot, the deer leaped over a log and sped away, churning up leaves and twigs. As he fled, I noticed that his hind end was covered with the mold as well. Revolted, I hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on the ground. Then I made sure that I didn’t have any of the fungus on my skin or clothes.
I dropped the teaberry leaves back onto the ground. Whatever the fungus was, if it could spread from plant to animal, then I could probably get it from chewing the leaves in place of tobacco. I couldn’t be sure they weren’t already infected, so I scrapped the entire idea and slowly started home.
Behind me, from somewhere inside the fog, I heard another twig break. I paid it no mind, figuring it was just the buck again. But then I heard something else that definitely wasn’t a deer. A hissing noise, like the wind whistling through a partially open car window. I wheeled around and peered into the swirling mist, but there was nothing there.
Then the wind crashed through the underbrush, sounding like a herd of trampling elephants.
After that, I hurried back to the house. At first the noise hurtled after me, but then it failed again. The memory of what happened to the robin dogged my every step. Occasionally, I stopped and listened, trying to determine if whatever was making the noise was following me. It was hard to hear it above the drumming rainfall. Something stirred beyond my line of site, but I never saw what it was—just a brown flash. At one point, I thought I felt the ground move, but I chalked it up to my imagination.
If I only knew then what I know now…
Back inside the house, I took off my wet clothes and collapsed into my easy chair. Just walking down to the woods and back had tired me out. Used to be I walked those valleys and ridges from before dawn until sundown, hunting and fishing andjust enjoying the outdoors. But those days were gone, vanished with the sunlight.
Exhausted and lulled by the soft sound of the rain, I closed my eyes and fell asleep in the chair. I dreamed about Rose’s blueberry pie.
The rain never slowed. While I slept, the wind had increased, and I woke up to the sound of a strong gust battering the side of the house. It was like the raindrops were being shot from the barrel of a machine gun. Reminded me of the war, in a way. It sounded like a hailstorm outside. I got up, looked out the big picture window, and couldn’t see more than a foot away from the house. The rain was coming down so hard now that it was like
