One evening in the middle of July, I returned to the tent grubby and exhausted. Erik was still slaving at his hops, using the last of the daylight, planning to sleep at the bunkhouse.
Since the day Earnest fell, I had been increasingly conscious of his mood. He seemed remote, didn’t talk or laugh as much. If he smiled at all, it was with a rueful tilt. He became opaque, and I began to feel less at ease around him. And in my solitary times, mostly when I was alone on my hill, I began to experience my own unease, a muddled amalgam of tension and something like dismay.
But this had been a good day, and that disquiet had subsided as I walked up the hill and into the forest’s calming embrace. The calves were healthy; we’d introduced the new cows into the rest of the herd with no problems. No equipment had broken; Brassard seemed good. I had snagged Earnest when he got home, and made him visit me in the milking parlor as Robin and I worked. He seemed more relaxed than he had in some weeks as he told us about his day. He stayed only a few minutes before going off to work on his mysterious mechanical project, but this momentary return to our regular sync eased me and contributed to the calm of the evening.
As the sun went down, the forest cool slowly reasserted itself, pleasant on my skin. I made a crude shish kebab of vegetables and sausage slices speared on a stick, basted with an improvised marinade of Perry and James’ maple syrup, soy sauce, and mustard, and seared over a hot fire. I ate it with satisfaction, and the world felt in harmony: tired muscles, good day’s work done, full belly, dinner music of the veery and wood thrush singing as they headed for their nests. Blackflies gone to wherever they go, and only a few unmotivated mosquitoes.
For once, when the fire burned down to embers and the last sunlight was almost gone, I didn’t go into the tent. Just sat on my log, lazy, pleased with life, too tired for the necessary rituals of battening everything down and lighting the candle lanterns. Night came out of the leaves, blue-black spreading into the air, and for some reason it seemed particularly full of expectancy. I didn’t exactly like that feeling, but it intrigued me and I didn’t retreat from it. In another little while, the trees hid in full dark, no moon yet, no clouds to bounce down the last high rays of the sun. The woods grew quiet. The stealthy noises began.
By now Erik had no doubt called it quits and was probably in his room, showering or eating soup, unheated, right out of the can.
Finally, reluctantly, I made sure all food was put away and the fire safely doused. I thought to read for a bit, but when I put on my pajamas and slid into my sleeping bag, I went out like a snuffed candle.
I awoke to find the tent wall glowing, a palomino mottle of light and shadow. Through the screen I saw the moon rising, just a middling young crescent but enough to send pearly shafts through the trees. I got out of my bed and unzipped the door and went out to look at it. It seemed not an astronomical thing but one closer to the ground, the blade of a slow-moving sickle, slicing harmlessly through the highest branches. I smiled up at it and then, without a thought in my head, I moved toward the darkness uphill. I slipped into it. That sense of imminence had burgeoned. The night was waiting. My mind was utterly devoid of thought or intent.
July 14
I don’t understand anything about this, but I’m overwhelmed by gratitude for it. I have just been in proximity to a great mystery, on the dizzy verge of the unknowable. I’m trying to write by moonlight and it’s probably three a.m. and my fingers are clumsy as they try to scribble human words. As if I’ve come back from another shape. What just happened? What did I do? What part of me knew, what was I calling, what was calling me? I’ll never be able to tell anyone, because it is too incredible, people will think I was on drugs or dreaming or am lying.
I woke up from a sound sleep and went out into the darkness. In my pajamas and socks! The moon gave enough light to see my near surroundings. I was drawn to go into the woods, into new parts, into the deepest. With just socks on, my feet could feel each twig and shift to avoid snapping it, I didn’t step but rolled my feet over the dead leaves, making only the softest wrinkling noise.
I had no destination in mind, but I never hesitated or had to decide which way to go; there was only mindless certainty. I felt an inexplicable sense of high anticipation. It is like fear in that it comes on us in unknown places and makes us hyperalert and we don’t know why it’s there or what it means. We know it’s risky, but it IS NOT fear. It’s the call of mystery. That’s the only name I can think of for it. The call of transformation.
I walked toward nowhere and—this is the hardest to figure out—for no reason I began making a noise. With my lips pursed as if to kiss, I said, “shhhhhhh,” a shushing noise but long, falling from higher to lower and modulated at the end by tightening my lips, more like “shhhhhhhhew.” It was a long exhalation and very quiet. I made it at regular intervals, not with every breath but maybe five times a minute. It was purely irrational. I had no reason for doing it. Why would anyone do it? I was just doing it. I was supposed to. I drew in deep breaths and blew out
