Come with me and discover up close the wonders that await you in the wild. Look carefully, check under logs, below the ice, at the tops of trees. Can you find one bullfrog? Two turtles? Ten dragonflies? Now press the button on your left and listen. No, you’re not hearing a thumb rubbing against the side of an inflated balloon—that’s the leopard frog croaking, and if you press the next button you’ll hear the northern cricket frog, which sounds quite like two steel marbles clacking together. Scratch the red paper tab and smell primroses. Scratch the purple and smell lavender. Scratch the brown and inhale the sour wetland fragrance of a cypress swamp. Now come this way, I’ll take you through the seasons, and you’ll see for yourself the ingenious plan of a deciduous forest, where the end of every story leads back to a familiar beginning and everyone plays a part. Four habitat groups, four typical scenes of life in motion: autumn, winter, spring, and summer depicted in rich and exact detail, nothing left out in the name of economy, nothing distorted or misplaced. Here is nature in all its infinite and yet predictable variation, with time suspended by the able hand of man.
Begin with autumn: Seventeen thousand wax leaves pressed from seventeen thousand molds and painted with bright colors, the molds made one by one from seventeen thousand fresh leaves. Seventeen thousand leaves scattered across the forest floor, each leaf wrinkled, worm-eaten, and still unique. Now look up—a blue jay perches on a branch, and over there in the corner a striped skunk slinks back to its den, while nearby a marbled salamander basks in the sun. Painted on the rear mural, a peregrine falcon flies off with a rabbit in its talons. At the front of the scene, a buck tucks its head and charges, its immense rack positioned just inches from the glass.
Next, winter: Here you’ll see the hungry crows scavenging an abandoned campsite for food. The slight but ancient yellow birches. The cotton snow imprinted with hoofmarks. And the deer themselves, two females, their white tails raised in alarm, their entire bodies taut, haunches shrunken into hollows, their ears perked forward.
Spring: Green emerges in the background mural, jack-in-the-pulpit blooms in the marshy turf, a young peeper clutches a tree trunk and extends its tongue to catch an inchworm hanging on an invisible thread from a branch, a robin chomps a bloodworm in half, and a doe leads her fawn along a path, stopping to nibble a tender green leaf that glistens from the recent rainfall.
And summer at last. Gentle, abundant summer. Do you see the scarlet tanagers, both male and female? The yellow finches and ruby-throated hummingbird? The blacksnake and the unsuspecting wood rat? The ichneumon fly and orange moth? The mud daubers and cicadas and red ants and centipedes? The beetles, the gnats, the water striders and mosquitoes? Notice how sleek the hides of the deer are at this time of year. How lithe and capable the young bobcat. How happy this summery scene, this paradise on earth. And yet who doesn’t feel a melancholy twinge at the sight of the green leaves edged with brown, the dry, cracked creekbed, the hungry snake poised to strike? Even in this timeless scene, change is visible. And evidence of change reminds us of death, and death, no matter how necessary to the cyclical scheme of life, reminds us that everything we love will be lost.
Had enough? Come with me then, leave nature behind and visit the transplanted tomb of a great Egyptian prince, the stone “house of eternity,” where nothing purports to be real, where everything stands for something else, and the door separating the living from the dead is a false door, as permeable as fog.
Are you willing? Follow me.
* * *
They are ten altogether, living in a big house on a hillside in the fruit belt of western New York, and they love their home in its every aspect. Sylva’s child, due any day now, will make eleven. They drew straws for the bedrooms, all except Ellen, who prefers to remain in her cozy garret. Peg moved down to the grand guest room in the east wing, the room that had belonged to Lilian Stone through most of last winter. Sylva and Peter and their children have adjacent rooms in the west wing, and Lore and Junket share Mrs. Craxton’s first-floor suite. Boggio, lucky at last, drew the long straw for the master bedroom, where his beloved snowy owl stands guard over him while he sleeps on the feather tick, the satin sheet tucked snugly beneath his chin.
No one remembers who first suggested that the Manikin’s bedrooms be assigned by lottery or who decided that the servants should move into the house at all. Nearly two months have passed, and they’ve stopped waiting for Hal Craxton to return and throw them out. Money will be a problem eventually—the adults are using up their small savings to pay for various supplies and materials needed to make general repairs. But thanks to the three dairy cows, they have more than enough milk. And though they’re reluctant to slaughter even a single chicken without the permission of Hal Craxton, they do eat the eggs. Add to that the fish that Lore and Junket catch daily, and the residents of the Manikin are nearly self-sufficient.
The fruit has suffered this season—a month of drought has stunted the peaches, and the apple blossoms dropped early. By the end of June roads are dusty, the ground hard, the lawn already patched with brown. But the flowers are thriving, thanks to Lore’s watchful care—the borders of all three terraces are brilliant with geraniums and daisies, and along the southeastern corner of the house the trumpet vine has reached the eaves. In the lower garden, the air is saturated with the scent of roses, on either end of the arbor moonvine and bittersweet have woven themselves through the trellis, yellow alyssum carpets the slope, and the hydrangea planted at the two corners of the front porch are in full pink bloom.
“Thank the Lord,” Sylva says at every meal’s grace, “for gardens, for orchards, for pure springs, for evergreen hedges and sunsets, for the night breeze that pushes the curtains up against the ceiling, for our food, and for our loved ones.”
“Amen,” Peter chimes. And Lore adds, “I never guessed that life could be so good.” They speak softly not just at meals but at all times, as though they were afraid of waking one another from a beautiful dream. The dry summer heat helps to mute the sharper sounds and to slow motion, and though the adults go on weeding the garden, shelling peas, milking the cows, they take their time with the chores. In the evening they wonder idly why they haven’t made more efficient use of the day.
Sylva’s boys and Junket have settled into the job of building a tree fort for themselves and are gone from the house from breakfast to supper. Peg can usually be found on the greensward at the edge of the east terrace reading a book—to herself or to little Gracie, who is old enough now to get in Sylva’s way in the kitchen. And Boggio wanders about with an air of aimless propriety, sampling Sylva’s breads and pies and pronouncing judgment or directing Lore toward a stray locust sapling in the garden or once in a while complimenting Ellen on a gleaming, freshly waxed table. That Boggio has taken it upon himself to fill in for the deposed master bothers no one, not even Lore. Somehow, foolish as he is, Boggio seems the appropriate choice for the role. Master Boggio. He serves as the perfect symbol for the new order, a clown in place of the king, a walking joke, his pretension so incongruous that all he has to do is clear his throat and his audience will burst into laughter.
Which is just what the boys do when they meet Boggio on Paradise Path at the top of the orchards, where the dirt is covered with the brown crackle of old apple blossoms and the air still lightly fragrant. After supper, the boys wandered off from the house without any purpose in mind, and having looked for fun and come up empty, they are glad for the entertainment provided by the Distinguished Person himself. Boggio clears his throat to prepare for his solemn oration, and the boys start giggling, anticipating all sorts of foolishness. But Boggio simply reports, “No need,” and with a little salute disappears up the path, repeating the phrase as he goes—“No need, no need, no need”—as though practicing a birdsong. No need, no need, no need. Manny and Cap look to Junket for an explanation, but all Junket can think to do is shrug, and with that the two younger boys burst out in laughing echo—“No need, no need, no need.”
Down Paradise Path the three boys run, slipping, leaping, skipping to the lower garden, and from there patter-pat-pat in their bare feet up the slate steps to the east terrace, where Peg is reading, catching the last of the day’s sunlight on her open page. Cap snatches the book from her hands, tosses it to Manny, who hands it to Junket, and they run away again, patter-pat-pat down the steps and up the slope, Peg shouting as she slides her feet into her sandals and then on second thought kicks them off again, the boys racing out of sight, chanting, “No need, no need, no need” between fits of laughter, Peg in pursuit now, gaining on them, catching up at the spring and facing off across the black, gurgling pool. When the boys run clockwise, Peg runs after them; when they reverse direction, she veers around. And so the chase continues, back and forth, forth and back until Manny and Cap collide and Peg just misses slamming into them and instead bends to the inside, crosses one foot over the other, and tumbles right into the spring.
But there’s no terror in this dunking—the boys have all had their turn this summer, and when Peg scrambles out of the icy water with a roar, there’s nothing to do but make fun of her and try to snatch a good look as she pulls herself up, her sleeveless summer dress melting against her body, creasing between her breasts and thighs, her nipples poking against the thin membrane of wet cotton. Listen to her shout. She’s mad now, boys, you’d better run before Diana turns the hounds loose, but here she’s caught Cap by a thin wrist and will tear him limb from limb if she can manage to hold this slippery eel, but she can’t, and he’s gone, racing after Manny and Junket, Peg in pursuit again, as good as naked, her wet hair sticking to her neck and chest as she screams threats of murder, the boys heckling her from the distance—“No need, no need, no need”—until Peg collapses in exhaustion. She lies on her back staring up at the dusky expanse of sky, arms folded in a hug, and the boys return and gather silently around her, edging close so they can watch her chest heave but keeping far enough away so she can’t grab one of them by an ankle.
“I’m freezing,” she says at last, startling them out of their reverie. Junket sets down the book he’s been clutching, takes off his shirt, and tosses it to Peg, who catches the wadded cloth on her face. She sits up, and as she slips her arms into the short sleeves mumbles, “Ya little pig shit.”
A pause. A silence, while they all assess the implications. And then through the air that has turned grainy with the descent of darkness comes Manny’s timid reply, “Asslicka.”
“Horsepiss!” Peg retorts.
“Slugbutt!” Junket says without missing a beat.
“Snoteater!”
“Twatface!”
“Cocksucker!”
“Titties!”
“Balls!”
“Bitch!”
“Oh,” moans Peg, clutching her belly and then rolling right over in a somersault, laughing with great sucking gulps. “Oh, no more, please, no more.”
“Goddamn chickenshit slut!” wicked little Manny howls, and they all dissolve into giggles, unable to speak now or even stand up, pressing their heads into the dry grass or into their hands, groaning from the excess of hilarity. And suddenly Machine romps from nowhere into their midst, barking and straddling Junket, licking his face with such urgency that her tongue pokes far up a nostril, and Junket makes a sound so obscene that even Machine seems pleased, and she sits back on her haunches, swishing her tail crazily and curling her lips in an expression that must be a smile.
And so the children of the Manikin pass a typical evening, Peg stripped of her latest reading matter and lured from her diffidence into the randy fun that only children can fully enjoy. Whether Junket feels privately burdened by his disappointed love, he can’t say—he lives on the surface these days, as they all do, even the adults, experiencing their freedom like so many discharged Ariels, servants only to the elements.
* * *
On another part of the estate, the elements of love are being tested. In Lore’s formulation, defined over the course of the past few days, the full moon does for the emotions what the sun does for plants, washing the body in transforming light and enabling lovers to reach across the great divide separating individuals. For a man it inspires a momentous courage, as Lore had so delicately phrased it, a quickening of the pulse.…
“That so, Lore?”
“I’ll prove it to you, missy.”
“You will, eh?”
“I will!”
And so here they are, adrift in a birch-bark canoe on Craxton’s Pond, waiting for the fat globe of the moon to rise. Already they can see the crown of light at the top of Firethorn. But the moon needs to be high in the sky to work its magic, according to Lore, who sits in the stern smoking, his tongue working the raw gum where the dentist pulled a molar just last week, the continuous line of his eyebrows pinched into a thoughtful V, suggesting not that he is worried about the truth of his thesis but that he is uncertain of the strategy best suited to the immediate situation. Should he approach his lady with romantic words, or should he simply take her in his arms, without warning? You’d think they’d never kissed before from the way Lore sits there so solemnly, so politely. But for the past two months, ever since Lore neatly replaced Hal Craxton as the object of Ellen’s affection, they’ve been snatching kisses whenever they can—in the pantry, in the garden, in the broom closet or the library—earnestly secretive, though their secret is common knowledge just waiting to be sanctified.
So what are Lore and Ellen waiting for? Ostensibly, Lore waits for the moon to rise, while Ellen waits, with puritanical resolve, for Lore to make the first move. In the distance they hear the tinkling sounds of the children laughing. The breeze hits the water like a dozen skimming stones, glancing off the surface and leaving behind patches of ripples. From time to time the crunch of dry leaves signifies some wild animal’s stealthy journey through the woods, and on the south shore they can see Boggio’s silver hair, so bright over the short mass of his body that it seems to emanate light. After a while he wanders back into the darkness of the forest. Lore tosses his cigarette overboard, then catches water in his hand and splashes his face. The moon is partly visible now, but still Lore makes no motion toward Ellen, and she gives no sign that she is impatient. They drift across the center of the pond with complete acquiescence.
“Did I ever tell you, Ellen?” Lore murmurs at last and then stops, as though he’s forgotten what he meant to say.
“Tell me what, darling?” She’s never called him that before. Darling. The word hangs in the emptiness beside the moon.
“About the white owl. Junket’s owl.”
“The snowy owl?”
“I did tell you, then.”
“Boggio’s owl?”
“Junket’s owl.”
“The owl in Boggio’s room, Lore?”
“What owl?”
And so they work through the confusion, Lore explaining to Ellen that here on the pond, from this very canoe, Junket took aim and put a bullet through the head of the arctic bird. And Ellen explains what Lore never knew—that Junket saved the carcass by passing it on to Boggio, who then gave the stuffed owl to Craxton (to him, Ellen says with emphasis, refusing to utter the name), who mounted the trophy over his bedroom door. Lore’s quiet “That so?” suggests that he doesn’t much care about the fate of the owl anymore—the betrayal that would have infuriated him earlier only bemuses him now. And Lore’s bit of information—that Ellen’s Peg had been with them that night last fall, the night Junket shot the owl—draws from Ellen merely a whispered “Right here?”
“Right here.”
Hands entwined. The moon bright enough to make shadows, the canoe splashing from side to side as Lore moves up to sit beside Ellen. Their lips meet, tentatively at first, bobbing apart, touching, mashing together. He slides one hand around her midriff and with the other unbuttons the collar of her blouse and reaches his fingers in, sliding them under the top rim of her brassiere. He kisses her chin and neck, tugs at her sleeve to expose a shoulder and drags the tip of his tongue across her skin. She lifts his head and kisses the sunburned skin above his beard, kisses his forehead, inhales the smoky scent of his hair. And then, as she tips up her face to catch the full blaze of moonlight, she accidentally shifts her balance, tilting the canoe far enough so that water sloshes over the side.
Ellen braces herself, clutches the bench while Lore clutches her, and the canoe rocks gently back to an even keel. The breeze raises goose-bumps on Ellen’s arms. Water swills around her bare toes. In the heavy silence, a frog chirps and is answered on the opposite shore by the throaty grunt of a bullfrog. Ellen smiles, without thinking leans back her head again and manages to pull Lore off balance—he slips side-ways across her lap and his weight knocks Ellen off the bench. She drops seat first into the bilgewater as her feet kick up, and Lore gropes for the rim, catches the stem of the paddle instead and sends it tumbling into the water while he collapses onto his knees, his face sandwiched between Ellen’s upraised legs.
“Oh, excuse me,” he says, as he would to a stranger he’s just bumped in a crowd.
“Goodness,” Ellen responds, her lower torso stuck rather absurdly in the narrow prow. But she doesn’t make a move to lift herself to a more civilized position, and neither does Lore. Instead, since it is a night to laugh, what with the awed, bulbous-nosed moon watching their antics, that is what they do. Laughing, Ellen wiggles her bare feet in the air, and Lore wraps his arms around her knees. They laugh with giddy helplessness, with sighs of oh, no, sandwiched in between gasps, oh, because they are well aware that they are being ridiculous, and no, even though they mean the opposite.
At last they feel satiated, even dizzy from the extra oxygen they’ve been taking in with their gasps. Lore reaches with both hands beneath Ellen’s rump, lifting her back onto the bench, and he carefully folds up the hem of her tousled skirt to keep her bony knees bathed in moonlight. Magic light. There can be no doubt about its effect. He glances at her, Ellen smiles again, and he nudges her skirt up and nibbles the wedge of muscle on the inside of her thigh. She gives a little start, then settles into her pleasure and begins running her fingers through his hair, absently unbending the tight curls. The canoe spins in a slow circle, erasing its shadow as it turns, while the forgotten oar drifts out of reach.
* * *
Who’s there? Sparks of fire or drops of light falling from the moon? Nothing to be afraid of. Just a handful of fireflies cast off into the air like dandelion puffs. Boggio would like to catch one. And do what with it? Why, swallow it, of course. Boggio would like to swallow a firefly and light up his dark soul. There is laughter everywhere tonight—in the orchard, by the spring, on the lake. Boggio is alone. But being alone he can do such things as scratch the private place where the sweat tickles him. Being alone he can fart to his heart’s content. If only his mood would rise to the occasion. Here he stands on a clear, balmy summer night, in fair health, give or take occasional incontinence, the palsy in his hands, and a temporary light-headedness, and he can’t make himself feel happy. Proud, yes. He is proud to reign over the Manikin. And content with his accomplishments. A life well spent. No remorse. But he is not happy. Or is he? To be honest, he doesn’t have a clue about what it means to be happy and might well have experienced the feeling without realizing it. “I am happy.” He experiments with the phrase, whispers it, then says it loudly. “I am happy!” But it doesn’t convince him.
He wanders on in the direction of the marsh and his hut. He hasn’t been back there since he found the pair of panties—mostly because he was afraid of stumbling upon the lovers in the midst of the act. The mysterious act. All he knows of it is what he’s gleaned from hearsay and the occasional pornographic pamphlets he has purchased from a little stand set up every year in one corner of the state fairground. He has remained a celibate man not out of conviction but because that is what came naturally to him. He never even felt the urge to be embraced. He is instinctually self-sufficient. Alone with his trophies. They will live on without him, and once in a great while an observant viewer will admire not just the animal itself but the artistry of the object, the way a person might admire the mother of a well-behaved child. The trophies are his children. He is happy when he is working on an animal, isn’t he? But work involves too much disappointed ambition to allow for pure happiness. Which means that Boggio has never felt purely happy.
Who’s there? Just a mosquito, its sting embedded in the soft flesh of his arm above the elbow. The engorged thorax smears beneath his palm. He is on Marsh Path now. The locusts buzz loudly all around him, erupting at once in their metallic chorus and then fading in unison. And the frogs keep chirping behind and in front of Boggio, falling silent only as he walks past. A sudden, violent flapping of wings and tearing of underbrush suggests that a predator, a fox perhaps, has seized a nesting bird. Boggio walks on, the mud squishing water into the hole in his right shoe. He doesn’t need a lantern tonight, not with the moon lighting up the landscape. He slaps another mosquito on the back of his neck. Twenty or so yards ahead stands his old hut, looking forlorn, sagging from neglect.
Poor old hut. Rotting, infested hut. His footsteps across the boards sound intrusive to his own ears, and he almost turns around and leaves. But he is drawn to the window by the sight of another visitor, a red bat hanging in the glassless frame, its delicate fur the color of rust in the moonlight. Boggio reaches out, touches a wing, and the bat drops and flies off swiftly, darts as fast as a swallow toward the nearest line of trees, and suddenly turns and doubles back toward the hut, heading straight for the window again with the speed of a bullet. But the nimble bat bends upward at the last minute, wings outstretched across the span of sky, its verminous squeak so obviously mocking that Boggio is stunned, humiliated.
But a quick jerk of his shoulders, a cough to clear his throat, and he is dignified again, undaunted by man or bat, nobody’s fool, as proud a fellow as you’ll ever find.
Not happy, though. Boggio has no reason to feel happy because he has no need for happiness. So he’s been telling himself. But his self-sufficiency has been shaken by the moon, by the smell of honeysuckle, by the laughter of children. No need, no need, no need. What a strange, bright darkness. The melting blue of twilight has been replaced by a weird fluorescence. Boggio feels as though he is floating on a boat in the middle of a silvery ocean. He sees no sign of his red bat. The sky separates the silent heavens from the noisy, chirping earth as the empty space of the window separates Boggio from the natural world. He has spent his life celebrating nature and helped to make it available to everyone. But nature shows no gratitude. That would make Boggio happy: some recognition of his sacrifice. Nature remains indifferent, even hostile, and will seize any chance to make a fool of old Boggio. King Boggio, puppet monarch of an anarchic kingdom. The thing he loves most cares nothing for him. No need. No need. No need. Down he spins, down the bottomless well of despair—
—when suddenly, plummeting from the center of the moon, comes a miracle to rescue him. His bird. Not just any bird. His owl, alive again. Hannah, he thinks, watching the long, nearly vertical dive of the bird. He never named his trophy, but the name comes to him now, inexplicably. Hannah. He is not imagining her. He couldn’t imagine this—the sudden braking, fingered wings flapping against the shallow pocket of swamp water, then the slow, mothlike rise, some hapless amphibian caught in the talons. Once level, the owl flies off to the north, wings springy on the upstroke and beating heavily down against the pull of gravity. Hannah. Boggio watches the silent flight until she is swallowed by the distance. Then he scans the marsh for some evidence of the visit. Hannah? he whispers. Hannah. A fragment of memory. A woman named Hannah. Who was she? Where did the bird come from? Nature’s gift.
Hannah?
From a mile away he hears the low-voiced shriek of her reply.
Come back. He wants to see her again. His Hannah. His angel. He has finally seen an angel. He wishes she would come back and glide close enough to the open window so he could reach out and touch her. Is an angel insubstantial, like fog or smoke, or would her feathers feel like the finest silk? Dear Hannah.
It occurs to him that he’d better sit down or his weak legs will collapse beneath him. With some difficulty he lowers himself to the floor. Demons have sewn stones into his hands, poked pins and needles into his legs, drenched him with a bucketful of fever. He is shivering, his sweating skin ice-cold on the inside, hot on the surface. He recognizes the malady as one of those sudden summer fevers he’s prone to, fevers as short-lived as they are powerful. He needs to rest, that’s all. A midnight snooze. Nothing else to do but stretch out on the floor and pull the blanket of moonlight up to his chin.
* * *
It is a night fit for profound mysteries, and Sylva is stumbling along a woodland path, trying to make sense of the mystery of her pain. Child of light, come out, come out! She is God’s humble servant so why won’t He make it easy for her, why won’t He let the pain wash upon her body not like a cold ocean wave, drowning her, but like the moonlight, soft, warm waves of moonlight, magic in the air, and by tomorrow…? She cannot imagine it, cannot imagine her child outside, her body singular again, can only imagine over the next swell of pain to the other side. Now this I affirm. There will be another side, subsidence, and though the next pain hasn’t even crested, she is already envisioning relief. Moonlight. Molten light radiating heat. This is no lie she’s telling herself. Tonight the moonlight warms the earth. Warms Sylva’s skin. Protects and reassures her. The Lord is her shepherd so she doesn’t need any midwife around to gag her, no, Sylva will manage just fine on her own, and only at the last minute will she go find Ellen and ask her to please catch the baby.
It hasn’t yet occurred to her that she might run into trouble out here in the woods, a laboring woman alone, midnight already behind her. All intention is focused on the next pain, and the next and next. Sylva must ready herself so the pain doesn’t take her body by surprise. The tightening should be willed, not simply reactive, Sylva must concentrate and meet the pain as she imagines she would meet a curling wave, muscles clenched to steady herself against the shock. Yet no matter what she does, the pain destroys resolve. The great squeeze of pain. Insides churning, tightening, forcing a grunt from her throat. And then the subsidence. Blessed peace between spasms. The child may rest. Sylva may rest. Back at the Manikin, her family sleeps and dreams, unaware that Sylva has snuck off like a mama cat to endure her pain in privacy, all because last time round the Millworth doctor, who had no special fondness for Negro folks, sent a young midwife in his place, and the woman treated Sylva roughly. Well, no white woman’s gonna stick a hanky in her mouth ever again, not if Sylva can help it. Could be, though, that she’s making a mistake, trying it alone, feeling it alone. As the next swell crests and her gut tightens, peace turns to panic, she is scared by her body’s ferocious strength, the clenching, “Good Jesus, please see me through,” scared not of what might happen next but of what is happening now. Her body twisting, squeezing. Death would be a relief. Instead there is pain. Pain severe enough now to knock her to her hands and knees. Salt beads stinging her eyes. The heaving and tightening inside. She strains to vomit, retches mucus—Don’t worry, girl, your heart ain’t burst yet, oh dear sweet Jesus, I can’t take it no more, no more, and then, at last, the peace. Makes her want to laugh, this interval between the pains. She wipes her lips with the back of her wrist, chides herself silently for falling to such a state—out here in the dark like an animal all because she doesn’t want some white witch attending to her needs. Now has she ever done anything as foolish as this? Wandered from her bed in the middle of the night, left her doting man behind, nobody within calling distance, no help to be had if she needs it, and she does need it, “Merciful Jesus, please, oh Jesus, oh,” grunting, whining, retching, mucus thick as pine sap dribbling down her chin. And then the peace again. The necessary calm. World as still as the child inside her. Deadly calm. That the child might not survive its birth—the thought that she’s managed to ignore suddenly enters her mind, and her muscles tense against the awful fear. Stillness inside and out. Silence. That the infant might not live through the pain, that it might strangle itself in an effort to be free.… It would be her fault. Murderous dignity. No help within calling distance, thanks to Sylva. No sound. Fool woman, she’d spend the rest of her days gagged and bound if it meant saving her baby. But the good Lord will save the child—her baby will be born and live and go to school and grow old. Beyond this temporary labor, a lifetime. And then Sylva is back in the midst of her pain, back arching, eyelids squeezed closed, her body retching again, grunting, spilling clots of blood and water and mucus and shit. In the midst of the pain she is compelled to look at the sky, sees the blaze of light in her mind first, blinks, then sees the star crossing the sky. A falling star—proof that she will see this ordeal through. Ah, she didn’t mean to get this far along all by herself. Where is she? Somewhere on a forest path. She should go back. Or ahead. The closest refuge. “Ellen, where are you?” Anyone will do, man or woman, white or black. All Sylva needs is a soft hand tracing the outline of her spine, stroking her, caressing her through the pain. Stupid girl. She’s so ashamed she won’t permit herself to call for help. Instead she’s determined to make her way back to the Manikin, ever so quietly lie down beside Peter, and wake him gently. It’s time. Isn’t that what she’s supposed to say? It’s time, meek but still poised. Fearless. All that’s expected of a woman. And once Sylva is settled in her bed and Ellen is in attendance, she’ll thrash and scream to her heart’s content. Until then, “Oh God,” the long spiral of pain, and so soon after the last. She drops to her hands and knees again, arches into the pain, gropes inside herself for some relief, and without thinking finds the muscle in her belly to push against the pain. Immense and irresistible pain. Not yet! She’s not ready to push, she’s not home, she’s not lying in her own bed, her Peter fidgeting, hopping from one foot to the other, Ellen there to boil the water and snip the cord and put the baby on Sylva’s breast. Magnificent push. She’s not ready. She’s not—and now the peace again, but not for long. Taking her by surprise, force of birth, can’t fight it, can’t endure it, can’t even run home. It’s time, dear Lord in heaven, someone help me, oh Jesus! Soft summer moonlight. Last year’s leaves now dusty mulch. She’s not ready! Water and blood dampen the dry earth, dust to mud, mud to life. Push! But the effort of expulsion fills her body with a different kind of pain. Pain not shocking like cold water, more like a blast of heat. Fire, its center somewhere between her hips, and now the slide toward relief is followed without pause by another explosion of pain. Here’s the urge to push again, a mistake but she can’t help it, can’t help herself, can’t help her baby. Her body isn’t ready but the urge to push and expel the pain is irresistible. Pushing her baby into the fire … what is she doing? She needs help but can’t stay on her feet long enough to get anywhere. Never occurred to her that she wouldn’t be able to walk. Can hardly breathe with this fire in her middle. The child will pay for its mama’s pride. No midwife’s gag across her mouth, sure enough, but neither does she have the guidance that every woman needs to see her through. Another pair of eyes when hers are squeezed shut against the pain. Another woman. Confidence of reason. The agony is almost constant now, the intervals of rest only seconds long, and Sylva is still alone, can’t get home, can’t find the way out of the woods, so she might as well stop looking forward to relief, yes, better to shrink within the crush of pain and let the animal sounds escape. Pleas to heaven lost in deep, ugly groans, her voice unfamiliar to her own ears, the sound so distant and strange that she mistakes it for the sound of rescue. Jesus has sent help—“Over here, I’m over here!”—but no one comes, no Samaritan lifts her upon his back and carries her home to the comfort of her fancy, borrowed bedroom. Sylva remains hidden in the woods, invisible, her groans so bestial that no one would recognize a woman’s distress in the sound, but still she pushes up and out with all her might to make the sound as loud as possible, foghorn groan for the whole world to hear until the sound turns to retching, her body divided, half the muscles pushing up toward her mouth, the other half pushing her insides out through the birth canal, tearing her heart from its place, forcing it downward. She’ll die if help doesn’t get here soon, but still she feels grateful that Peter can’t see her now because he’d die just from watching her suffer, these throes too much to witness, better off alone, sure, better off alone—this is her last thought before her mind devotes itself entirely to the pain, the physical struggle so consuming that if someone held a mirror before Sylva and persuaded her to open her eyes, she wouldn’t recognize herself, wouldn’t know her face, not because of the contortions but because her personality has disappeared. She is all body, all pain, endless pain, gravity working within to force out the separate self, crushing, consuming—and then, a strange, popping sensation deep inside her. She finds some relief by shifting to a squatting position, balancing herself with her hands. Now she can push not against the pain but in tandem with it, the effort sensible again. She understands what is happening and why. Her baby. She is pushing her baby into the world. As she should. As God wills. His righteousness. Labor is not in vain, labor is never in vain. Nor life. Heaven at the end. A long, splendid respite. So the child will be born in the wild, delivered by the hand of God. She feels her body gathering, gathering, preparing for another immense push, and exclamations of “Oh, oh, oh” escape in puffs from her lips. The wind pants through the leaves in rhythm, the trees point their gnarled fingers, and the moon stares with the slack-jawed patience of an expert fisherman.
* * *
Remember me. Now the moon is sinking from the sky, and Boggio lies in darkness in his hut. Never mind. The fever warms him, burns away the chill. He shivers in the heat. Such a night, a night to dream away illness. Sweat puddles in the pouches beneath his eyes, and the boards feel cold against his skin. He remembers everything that has ever happened to him, one experience connected to and reviving all the others. Nothing separate, nothing irrelevant. A meaningful life.
Remember me. The command just beyond the reach of thought. Echo of a voice—whose voice? Hannah’s. A woman named Hannah once told him to remember her. Boggio senses that he is indebted to her, though he doesn’t know why and doesn’t much care. And yet he cares enough to keep pondering the mystery. Such is the attitude induced by fever. A Cheshire-cat sort of attitude. This way or that. You’ll go somewhere, as long as you keep walking. So Boggio wanders in his mind in the direction of the voice. Fearless. He doesn’t care what he finds. It’s a way to pass the time, after all. Going from here to somewhere else. Boundaries made permeable by the fever and the summer night. He moves easily to the other side of consciousness, into darkness, takes another step forward, and suddenly he remembers what he has never remembered before: sliding, sliding, sliding headfirst down the fun-house chute straight into a carnival. Or else he is dreaming the memory, yes, this must be a dream: the carnival, the noise, the lights, and the grinning clown who greeted him, the face speckled with the dark craters of his pores, the clown’s teeth soot-colored, his breath so foul that Boggio had to turn his head—and found himself staring at the blank white apron of a nurse. She reached for him, but he managed to squirm from her embrace, fell to the ground, and dashed off. He remembers running this way and that—in his panic he almost tumbled straight into a lion’s gaping mouth but managed to backpedal, bumped against the clown, careened past him and slipped through the crowd, shouting for his mama, oh how he wanted his mama, he never wanted anything as much as he wanted his beloved mama right then. He couldn’t bear not having her, and in the middle of the crowd he collapsed, folded his knees up, tucked in his head, and cried.
A tiny, sobbing child. Someone handed him a damp washcloth and he sucked on the corner. Otherwise he was ignored. Hours passed. Days. He cried himself to sleep. When he woke he was in his mama’s arms, his soft bottom resting in the crook of her elbow, his hands clenched into puffy, dimpled fists. The tip of her nose was cold against his neck. But such bliss couldn’t last—sure enough, the nurse returned, her fingernails scratching his skin as she reached for him. Not yet, Boggio pleaded. Wait, his mama said, and she held Boggio’s face close to hers, whispered, My name is Hannah. Remember me, without tenderness, more like a military commander giving directions to a spy. Memory as espionage. The assignment: to keep alive the memory of his mother, merely another careless young woman loved and abandoned. But just as she would always hate the man who used her, Boggio would hate her for giving him away, vowed to spend his life proving that he didn’t need her. Didn’t need anyone, thank you, though before he could stop her the nurse lifted him up and lumbered off into the crowd.
He passes in an instant through the many years of his life and returns to the floor of his hut at the edge of Craxton’s marsh. Passes beyond the peak of the fever, as well. Now he remembers only vaguely, fondly, his mother’s face—not beautiful by the usual standards, though exquisite to Boggio. They share the same bent nose and tufted eyebrows. He is sorry for his years of resentment. He’ll make it up to her, he tells himself. A new beginning at the age of sixty-seven. Mad old Boggio, stretched out on a pinewood floor. In his present mood, he blames no one, not himself, not his mother, and not even the cad who took advantage of her.
It must be close to morning, judging from the rising volume of the birds. Boggio still feels too weak to move. The fever has settled in his bones, melting the marrow, but his head is clear again, and after a few solid hours of sleep he’ll be able to walk back to the Manikin. He concentrates his mind’s eye on Hannah’s face so he will dream of her again. Silly old Boggio. All his life he’s been pretending that he’s not a sentimental fool, and the only person he’s succeeded in deceiving is himself. Now it’s time to stop pretending. He’s a child at heart, everyone knows the truth, and he might as well indulge his childish whims, such as: imagining that his mother is nuzzling him with the cold tip of her nose. Hannah. Are you there? Hannah. And something else … a last sound floats down to him like a single feather. A familiar name. Craxton. What does the name of Craxton have to do with Boggio? He isn’t supposed to understand—he knows this much, at least. His mother chose to keep it from him: the meaning of a name.
For the first time in years, Boggio begins to cry. It is a pleasant sort of sadness, rich with meaning. He turns on his side, as indifferent to the discomfort of the pinewood floor as a man in love.
* * *
Ellen thought she knew about love. The responsibilities. She has always been a responsible woman. Even her short-lived engagement to Hal Craxton was the consequence of a highly attuned sense of responsibility—she’d wanted to become mistress of the Manikin for her daughter’s sake. That she allowed herself to feel thrilled by the improbability of it all seems irresponsible to her, in hindsight. But this, this! She hardly recalls how they managed to reach the shore, paddling with their hands, so overcome with hilarity they nearly capsized a dozen times. And here they are, Ellen lying naked beneath Lore on the mossy, sloping bank, Lore’s shirt beneath Ellen to protect her from the damp ground, Lore’s lips on Ellen’s breast, her knees raised, the soles of her feet sliding along the backs of his calves as he eases into her.
So this is love. Wherever they are touching Ellen feels the warmth from his body spreading out across the surface of her own skin. But the sensation inside her is something else. Lore pushing into her, lifting, gently pulsing. The feeling has no center, instead travels through her in twisting, spiraling currents. She raises her hips to draw him deeper and watches the compression of love on his face, his mouth silently shaping a single word. “Ellen,” he is saying. “Ellen, Ellen.” Even her own husband hadn’t loved her enough to love her plain, familiar name as Lore does. Astonishing devotion. He is everywhere inside her. Pleasure without consequence. This is love for its own sake, no responsibilities, love as natural as breathing. Swirling, careening love. She feels her muscles gathering, tightening into a tight knot of pleasure, and she closes her eyes to sink into the feeling, grinds against Lore until the pleasure bursts and fills her completely. Ellen loses herself in this happy mood, for a moment feels Lore’s body from a distance as he loves her more fiercely, then floats back to him and shares the ecstasy of his release.
Shared warmth. Separate bodies sharing heat. The warm pad of his belly pressing against hers. The outline of his ribs. His heart beating next to her ear. They lie together without speaking, drowsy and content. Maybe they even sleep for a short while—Ellen can’t tell whether she rises from the depths of bliss or sleep. But gradually she becomes more aware of the world—the bristly sphagnum moss beneath her legs, the morning star glimmering through the web of birch and poplars. And in the distance, the roar of a ferocious beast, some carnivore stalking the woods, a bear or cougar or some other sharp-fanged, hungry man-eater. The animal will catch the scent of their lovemaking on the breeze—perhaps it has already done so and is racing toward them, greedy for its pound of flesh.
“Lore! Lore, listen!”
“What?”
“Listen to that!”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Listen!”
The beast roars again, the sound closer than before, and Lore jerks upright, tugs at the shirt still partly beneath Ellen, and hastily plunges his arms into the sleeves and his legs into his trousers.
“Come on, Ellen.”
He holds the neck of her dress wide so she can fit her head through. As soon as she is clothed again he grabs her hand, pulling her straight toward the source of the roar, straight toward danger.
“Lore, what are you doing?”
Another roar, and Lore tugs at Ellen as though she were a kite that hasn’t yet caught the upsurge of wind. She has to concentrate on the ground now, for they’ve left the mossy bank behind and are running up the path, over sharp-edged rocks and pine cones and sticks.
When she hears the next roar Ellen recognizes the sound, at least detects the human cadence of the voice and concludes amid the confusion that some poacher has caught his ankle in his own steel-jaw trap. Later, Lore will tell her that this was exactly his thought, and when they break onto the wider path and the next moment stumble upon Sylva, who half squats, leaning forward over her hands, both Lore and Ellen stop in midstride, frozen by surprise. Sylva is naked now, her nightgown cast aside a few minutes earlier, and she looks up at them with a sheepish smile, reminding Ellen of a woman caught on the toilet.
The realization that they are about to witness the birth of Sylva’s child is clouded by the mystery of the location, the why of it all. But the why will have to wait because the baby, apparently, won’t wait much longer. As though she’s just been slapped, Sylva’s grin twists with pain and she begins to scream.
“Not here, Sylva,” Ellen pleads, but Sylva shouts, “It’s coming, it’s coming,” and rocks back on her haunches, her heavy breasts flattening against her chest. Lore catches her just in time, supporting her beneath her shoulders while Ellen, by force of necessity, moves to the position between Sylva’s knees.
“Merciful God,” Sylva moans, her body limp from exhaustion, though before Ellen can think of any comforting words Sylva has squeezed her eyes shut again and emits a sound unbearable in its implication. Her bulging labia open around the bloody crown of the child, and as she gives a huge push the head pops out and hangs there like a bubble, its eyes squeezed shut, its tiny lips pursed in a pout of such amusing indignation that Ellen breaks into a shaky laugh as she supports the infant’s head in her palms.
“Look, Sylva, look what you have!”
“Oh Jesus, thank you, thank you.”
And then Sylva tenses for one final push. Ellen helps to free the infant’s shoulders and feels the weight of the small body fill her hands. Without quite knowing her own intentions, she spreads her skirt into a hammock, and lowers the slippery, squirming, outraged little girl into her lap.
“You’ve got a little girl, Sylva.”
“A girl,” Lore practically sings from behind Sylva.
“A little girl,” Sylva cries, or laughs, Ellen can’t tell which but hears herself echoing Sylva with small, shuddering gulps of relief. She doesn’t notice that the sky has brightened slightly, but later, when she recalls the birth, she’ll remember the scene being lit by a strange, electric sort of light. And she’ll remember feeling slightly puzzled by the situation, uncertain of what to do next, how to separate the child from the umbilical cord, what to use as a wrap. She’ll remember how time seemed to flow around her while she floated in a halcyon place between the present and the future, until Sylva brought her back with another cry. At first Ellen thought the placenta was a second child, a monster twin, but when the raw, blue-veined tissue dropped to the ground, Ellen understood what it was and identified it for Lore, who, she noticed, stared over Sylva’s shoulder with more than a little fear.
She won’t remember how Lore’s jackknife came to be in her hand, but she will recall vividly sawing through the cord while the furious creature in her lap screamed, its tiny mouth open in a perfect oval, so Ellen could see its pink tongue flattened beneath the surge of its wail. And for the rest of her life, whenever her hand happens to brush against fine silk or vellum, she’ll recall, abruptly and completely, the newborn child’s soft, soft skin.