I remember all the other times I have walked this route, and the sense of safety and freedom and pride it brought me. I never thought of us as being imprisoned by the fence. It was more like a strip of armor, a strand of chain mail that made us stronger, a shield to protect us.

My fingers trail along the chain-link. The metal is cold and dry and rough on my fingertips. It is sufficient to prevent the cattle, the pronghorn, and the deer from coming and going, but the smaller creatures — coyotes, marmots, gophers, snakes, insects — pass though easily. Birds fly over it. Men can cut their way through it. It will not stop the wind or the rain or the sound of thunder. It is a symbol, I think, and little more.

Is that true, as my father suggested, of the Tree as well?

The sound of thunder is getting louder. I look back. The clouds are higher and darker and closer, and in the lightning flashes beneath them I can see columns of rain falling slantwise upon the western plain. Above me, the sky is still blue. I may soon have to make a dash back to Shepherd’s Rock. A lightning storm is no time to be standing in the open, and certainly nowhere near a steel fence. I set a stern pace and continue along the path. I think I can reach the place where the marmot dug through. The place where Lynna and I had our picnic. That will be enough for today. From there it is but half a mile to the stone shelter, where I can ride out the storm.

I am almost to my goal when the sun falls behind the clouds. The air is eerily clear. Behind and above me is shadow, and before me the greening hills still sparkle with sunlight. I see where Lynna and I piled rocks to fill the hole beneath the fence. They have been disturbed, pushed aside, and there is a pile of earth. The marmot has been busy. As I approach the spot, a cold wind strikes from the west, bowing the grasses and tugging at my clothing. My scalp begins to prickle; I can taste ozone. I look at the back of my hand. All the hairs are standing up. I touch my beard, and it crackles with static electricity. I know I should move away from the fence, but a flash of yellow catches my eye. A square of paper on the fence, fastened to the chain-link with a yellow ribbon. I reach out to touch the paper. When I grasp it, a shock travels up my arm. Startled, I let go. The wind snatches the paper and sends it fluttering off. I back quickly away. My entire body is tingling, and the fence is crackling with energy, sending out blue sparks. The first drops of rain hit. The clouds above are seething. I can see great sheets of rain sweeping down toward me. My hair is standing on end. My skin is buzzing. The grass is hissing.

“I’m sorry,” I hear myself say, and the firmament is torn asunder, and all goes to white, and there is a sound like the end of the world.

I hear ringing. Not the ringing of bells, but a high-pitched sound deep inside my head. I smell ozone and the nose-wrenching reek of hot metal, burned cloth, and wet ash. I open my eyes and see deep-blue sky. I turn my head. I am on my back, about ten cubits from the fence. The last I remember, I was much closer to it, and the fence was whole. Now, for several cubits of its length, it is a twisted molten wreck.

I turn my head the other way. Brown grasses, and a marmot perched on a rock, watching me. I sit up slowly. I can feel every muscle complaining, but I do not seem to be seriously injured. The marmot whistles and scurries off. I am soaking wet. The ground is sodden and steaming in the bright sun.

Carefully I rise to my feet. My legs feel long, loose-jointed, and unfamiliar. My body aches, but my thoughts ring with painful lucidity. As I look around, I am struck by the sharpness and detail of all I see. Each leaf of grass, each droplet of water, each strand of lightning-blasted fencing stands out, blade-crisp and quivering. I look down. My tunic is singed. I am wearing only one boot. My backpack is over by the ruined remains of the fence, split open, blackened, its contents scattered. My food, a few tools, water, nothing of any consequence. I breathe in and feel the air swirling through the passages of my lungs; I feel the slow, steady pulsation of my beating heart and the heat of the sun on my face. I narrow my eyes and look up at the great orb, now halfway to the western horizon. I turn to see the back end of the storm rolling east over the plains.

Thoughts and perceptions clatter through my mind with astonishing rapidity. Was this what it was like for Father Grace, when lightning pierced his eye? But I see no angels, and the only presence I sense is the presence of that which I can see, hear, smell, taste, feel. The storm sent down uncounted lightning bolts. Was the one that struck me down a message from the Lord? If so, and I am uninjured, what can it mean? What does it mean that I have never felt so alive?

It was just a storm, I tell myself. I was foolish to let it catch me so near the metal fence, and I am blessed to have survived.

I lift the remains of my backpack. The charred fabric tears. I walk in widening circles, searching for my missing boot. I find it not far away, and near it a soggy square of paper I tore from the fence. There is writing on the paper, but the rain has rendered it illegible.

I pull on my boot and return to gaze in awe at the fence. What power such a storm must hold, that one single thunderbolt should do such damage. I climb over the tortured metal, over the molten tangle of chain-link and razor wire, and I step out of Nodd. A few cubits away, I notice a small, deliberately arranged pile of flat stones. Resting upon the topmost stone is a glass jar with a yellow ribbon tied around its top. The jar is filled with red jelly. My heart pounds as I bend over and pick it up. I twist off the top and dip a finger into the jelly and touch it to my tongue. It is crabapple tart and sweeter than honey. Using two fingers like a spoon, I scoop out more jelly and spread it across my tongue. The explosion of sweet and sour is almost too much to bear. I close my eyes, draw a shaky breath, and feel a smile spread itself across my face. I screw the lid onto the jar, loosely, and start up the cattle trail toward the Rocking K, licking crabapple jelly from my fingers as I walk, slowly, to make the journey last.