Early Saturday morning I dressed in a hurry and slipped quietly into my chair at the breakfast table. I know my parents thought there was something wrong. Breakfast was unusually quiet. My mother and father stole glances at each other, as I ate in hurried silence. I headed out the laundry door to the back deck, the yard, and the fields beyond, but not before I heard my mother's quiet comment to my father: “poor guy.”
For all the turmoil I was going through, I was still excited about the prospect of a birthday present from Emma. I felt certain that a gift from her would be something magical. Though I had spent many long hours with her since that first day, walking and talking and exploring, the only real marvels I had seen were those at the very beginning: the deer, and the cuts and scratches on my face. Occasionally she would tell me about something she did. Once she found a doe, hung up in a barbed wire fence; it took her quite a while to get the deer untangled.
“And then?” I had asked her.
“Then I just shooed her away,” Emma said.
“But was she hurt?”
“A little. Nothing much to worry her. She was more afraid of the fence, confused by being caught, than hurt.”
“But you healed her?”
“I helped her a bit, yes.”
That was as much as I could get from her that day. I hungered for the kind of wonders I had seen the first afternoon Emma and I met. I wanted my birthday present to be something amazing. It was.
“Where are we going?” I asked, breathless from running most of the way to our meeting place.
“Would you like to see where I live?” she asked in return. “There's someone there I'd like you to meet.”
“Um, sure,” I said, a little hesitantly, thinking, in the back of my mind, that probably my present was back at her cabin. Maybe it was too big to bring. I couldn't imagine what it would be.
It was a long walk to her place. I hadn't realized how far away she lived. She seemed happier than the she had been the day before, and stronger. It was a cold, clear morning; the walking warmed us quickly. I felt happier too, now that we were walking, and less expectant about a possible present, about anything. I had stowed away a few biscuits from breakfast, and Emma and I ate them early on. We fell in side by side, and for a long time neither of us spoke. I was enjoying the silence, and her company.
After a while, though, she began to talk. She seemed to be in a mood to teach again, which was fine with me.
As we walked she taught me more about deer, about their families. She told me how a young, strong buck might have two, three, or even more does as his mates. The deer traveled in small groups of perhaps six, ten, maybe twelve, that were a sort of loose family: the dominant buck, his does, a few young fawns, perhaps a weaker, submissive buck.
She said that the bucks fought for supremacy. They clashed with their heads lowered in charge, the violence of the collision sometimes so great as to snap their antlers. I could picture it; I slammed my hands together. She said that these battles, though, were usually tests of strength and will. The buck who lost was seldom seriously injured; he simply assumed a lower, submissive role in the family, or went to look for mates and supremacy elsewhere. When the deer battled in earnest, she told me, against wild dogs for instance, they lashed out with their front hooves, which are deadly sharp.
Emma said that the young fawns matured in a year or so, and might stay with the family or wander off to join another. Sometimes a young deer would rejoin its family after months, or even years, apart.
She said most bucks only lived to be two or three years old, they were hunted so. Her face tightened only a little as she told me this. She shook her head, seemed to force herself to cheer up.
“Do you know that deer can run as fast as forty miles an hour?” she said, her voice bright again with enthusiasm.
Well, no, I didn't know, but I was learning.
She nodded, emphatic and proud and happy. “They can. Did you know that they can leap between the wires of a barbed wire fence, say a foot apart,” she showed with her hands, “at a full run, and not even brush the wires? I've seen it.”
She spoke quickly and eagerly. I remember she seemed increasingly on edge, her cheerfulness forced, her teaching more mechanical, almost so that it began to seem eerie, unsettling.
We walked on, mile after mile. The cold, crisp air made for good walking weather. I felt happy and strong, but it seemed to me that Emma's moods were shifting quickly—cheerful for a few moments, and then tense, and sometimes just tired.
“I didn't know you had to walk so far to meet me,” I said at one point. Emma's changeable mood was starting to make me edgy.
“These are all my woods, Thomas,” she said. “I walk all through here, every day. It doesn't seem that far.”
She gave me a brief, warm smile. It made me feel that I could ask a question I had been wondering about.
“What did you mean when you said that you couldn't leave here?”
“Hmm?” She seemed distracted.
“You said you were tied to the land, that you couldn't move away.”
She stopped, took a deep breath. We had been walking at a brisk pace.
“Come here, Thomas,” she said, and she knelt down.
I stepped over and knelt down too.
“Put your hand on the earth,” she said. She had placed her hand firmly, palm down on the ground, so I did likewise. “What do you feel?”
“It's cold,” I said, without really thinking. I looked into her eyes, a blue so bright it almost hurt. She was looking at me with such intensity that it frightened me.
“No, Thomas, it isn't,” she said at last, with sorrow in her voice, and pitched herself awkwardly to her feet.
I got up and scrambled after her. There was something going on in her mind, and I didn't have a clue what it was.
“Emma,” I said.
“Perhaps you are too young,” she said quietly.
“I can't help how old I am,” I said, rather curtly.
“Oh, Thomas, it's all right,” she said, and she even gave a quick, rough laugh, at her own expense it seemed. “There are so many things I want to tell you about, and have you see, but you can't take everything in all at once and on the first try, now can you?”
“I don't know,” I said.
Still smiling, she said, “Don't pay any attention to me.”
We were nearing a roadway. For a little while I had been able to hear the occasional car go by. I was sulking a little. I didn't know what it was I was supposed to have felt or said back there, with my hand flat on the ground. It had felt cold to me.
All at once we were there. Just by the edge of the road was an old motor court, a winding crescent of small cottages tucked back in the trees. Emma took me firmly by the hand as we crossed the roadway. I remember that because it annoyed me. I was perfectly capable of crossing a road by myself, but I was too interested to see where she lived to be annoyed for long. The place gave the impression of age, but the cabins and grounds seemed well maintained. There was a gravel parking lot on the side of a big cabin that had a small hand-painted sign above the door: “Sleepy Hollow Motor Lodge.” A wide, moss-covered brick pathway led back to a dozen or so small cabins. Emma's was the last cabin on the end.
An old dog limped over to us as we came up to her door.
“Hello, Abigail,” Emma said warmly. “Ready for your treatment?”
Abigail's tail swished back and forth and up and down, the most lively part about her, it seemed. She looked to be terribly old.
“Is this your dog?” I asked.
“No, no. As much time as I spend away, I can't keep a dog,” Emma said. “Abigail lives with the woman who runs this place, a few doors down. But we're old friends.”
“What's her treatment?”
“She has an arthritic hip,” Emma said, rubbing Abigail's side, “don't you, old girl?”
Abigail wagged her tail in agreement.
I frowned. “Well, can't you just, you know, fix it?”
Emma smiled. “Let's go inside,” she said.
We entered her little cabin. There was one large room that served as living room, dining room, and kitchen. A short hallway lead back to a bedroom and bathroom. The main room was not cluttered, but it was not sparse, either. There was a small sofa, an easy chair, a bookcase full of books, a little coffee table with pictures on it. There was nothing especially modern in the room; she didn't have a television or a radio that I could see. The room looked plain, homey. It seemed odd to me, almost, how unremarkable the cabin was. I thought of Emma as being magical. I don't know if I expected a palace or a cave or what. I looked over at her and frowned. She was petting Abigail.
“I mean, can't you just make her hip better?” I said again.
“I can make it better,” Emma said, “but I can't make it well. It's part of life that a body ages and doesn't hold up as well. Abigail's sixteen. She's entitled to a little arthritis.”
“Sixteen is pretty old for dog, isn't it?” I asked.
Emma nodded, but didn't speak. She wasn't so much petting Abigail now, as running her hands slowly, lightly over Abigail's coat.
“Now listen closely, Thomas,” Emma said quietly, and I stepped a bit closer. “Each particular body is different, and so is each part of each body. Are you listening?”
“Yes ma'am,” I said. I called her ma'am sometimes now just to annoy her. A smile passed across her face for the briefest moment.
“It's important for you to understand that Abigail's hip is different from my hip, from yours, from a deer's, from another dog's hip, even one of the same size or breed. Her hip is hers. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Each part of a body, of your body, and mine, and Abigail's, has, oh, a rhythm, or frequency, a pattern ... I don't know how to say it, exactly. It has a right way for it to be, which you can sense, but, Thomas, you have to—Abigail, honey, now—” Abigail had become very still and was leaning, leaning into Emma such that she was about to topple over if Emma didn't hold her up. Emma pushed her upright and gave her a couple of little whacks on the fanny. Abigail's tail started wagging again.
“You have to be very clear, and empty,” she said, looking at me closely to see if I was understanding her.
“Empty,” I repeated, uncertain of what she meant.
“I don't know how to teach you this,” Emma said. “Come here. Put your hand here.”
I placed my hand on Abigail's back, and, with Emma's hand on top of mine, we gently stroked down the length of her coat.
“Each individual's body is unique,” Emma said quietly. “Unique, precious, the only one in the universe. You have to understand that; you have to accept it. Do you understand?”
She looked at me. We were still stroking the dog together.
“Not really,” I said. I had to be honest.
“That's all right, Thomas. Dear Thomas. I'm sorry if I was cross with you earlier.”
“That's okay,” I said. I suddenly became very intent on stroking the dog. Then Emma's free hand rested lightly on the back of my neck. What happened next was so astonishing. It was the most incredible thing that had ever happened to me, short of being born, I guess. I suddenly had, felt, saw—a new sense. It's difficult to describe that moment. It was like being given the gift of sight after having always been blind. How would that be? I don't know. But I think I do know.
I could feel, in my gut, in a confused rush of sense and nonsense, the being of Abigail, her structure, her presence. Words fail. It was like seeing her in my heart. I looked over at Emma, but she had her eyes closed, as if she were concentrating fiercely. Her hand rested on top of mine. My neck felt on fire. I sprang away from them, Emma and Abigail, and rolled backwards and bumped into her coffee table and just crouched there in an odd bundle on her living room floor. After what seemed an eternity she opened her eyes.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Do you want to try that again?” she asked.
Again I nodded, more slowly this time, and crawled back over to them. Abigail was again quite still, almost in a trance it seemed, leaning against Emma's leg. I carefully put my hand upon her back left hip—I knew now that her greatest pain was there—and Emma's hand rested lightly on mine, and then her other hand gently touched my neck.
“It's like there are two images,” Emma whispered. “The one that is there and the one that should be there. But you have to be very careful. The one that should be there belongs to Abigail, exclusively to Abigail, not to you. It's not what you think should be there, but what truly should be there for Abigail. Can you feel it?”
I shook my head. “I don't know,” I said. I thought of getting a television picture to come in correctly, adjusting the tuning knob. I could feel Abigail stiffen under my touch. I felt that the image I wanted was just out of reach, somehow. I pressed, or tried harder; it is so difficult to explain clearly. Suddenly Abigail whimpered, and then shuddered with pain. Her pain rolled through me in waves. I pushed myself away from her.
“You have to be gentle,” Emma whispered sharply, her eyes tightly closed. “You have to be extremely careful. There's so much power in you, Thomas. You have to treat it with a tremendous respect.”
“I don't want to hurt her,” I said.
“I know. Tell her it's okay. You tell her.”
“I'm sorry, Abigail,” I said. I was near to crying. “I'm sorry.”
Abigail pushed herself against me again, but I was reluctant to touch her.
“I don't know if I can do this,” I said.
“Let's rest a minute,” Emma said. She looked suddenly, deeply tired.
I lay back flat on the floor and stared up at the ceiling. That second time, feeling, knowing Abigail's hip, had been much clearer for me. I had hurt her, though. There was pain there to begin with, but I had made it worse. It was unsettling to be confronted with such a new, and frightening, power. It frightened me to feel responsible for Abigail's well being, to know I could help her, but not know how or why I could help. For the briefest moment I had felt that I could have, quite accidentally, crushed her hip, her body, the way one might sneeze or hiccup without meaning to.
“You have to be clear,” Emma said, her quiet voice suddenly filling the room. “I wish I could think of a better way to explain it.”
“Clear,” I said back to her, my voice flat.
“No expectations,” Emma said. “Not even so much as the wish to help her.” She paused, reconsidered. “I mean, of course you want to help her.”
I rolled my head over with what seemed great effort to look at Emma. She was looking at me. Just then Abigail let out a great, big sigh, as if she were somewhat exasperated with us both. Emma chuckled.
“You want to help her but your intention should be, should only be, that she be more properly herself, more perfectly herself. You're not fixing Abigail's hip, but, somehow, giving her hip back to her, the way it should properly be. Do you see that at all?”
“Tell me.”
I frowned. “Well, it's her hip. It's not mine to give.”
“Yes, Thomas. Yes, that's right.”
“And it's like you said, she's old, she has an old hip. But she doesn't need to have that much pain.”
I was still looking over at Emma. Her eyes were shining.
“Let me try again,” I said.
“Carefully,” she said.
This time I felt calmer. What I was trying to do, with Emma's help (she never let go of either my hand or my neck), was to lead Abigail this minuscule distance. It was as if her hip was just the slightest bit out of alignment, and I was trying to nudge it back into place, with my heart, through my hands. It's hard to describe it any better than that. It was clear to me at the time. I sensed that there was a place or a state where her hip was supposed to be, and if I could just nudge it a little part of the way it would fall into place of its own accord. And it did.
I blinked, and sat back again. I pushed Abigail away from me. Her tail started wagging again, with enthusiasm. She was glad it was over; she felt better. She nuzzled my hand with her head and I patted her a few times but then I pushed her away again. In a funny way I had suddenly had quite enough of her. My hands felt hot. I realized I was sweating: my forehead and chest were hot and moist.
“Okay,” I said, to Abigail, who was pushing against me again. “Go somewhere.”
I was tired. I was very, very tired. Emma climbed to her feet and more or less dragged Abigail out of the cabin. Then Emma came back and all but collapsed on the sofa. She patted the cushion next to her.
“Come,” she said.
I climbed up from the floor onto the cushion, and leaned heavily against her. I felt like I could sleep for hours.
“Is it always that hard?” I asked.
“You get used to it,” she said weakly, and then chuckled again. This day was the warmest, the kindest she had been with me. I loved seeing her smile, hearing her small, rough laugh. “I never showed anyone before. It's hard work.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Hmm,” was all she said. “There is more for your birthday, but let's rest a while first.”
“More? There can't be more.”
“There's more.”
I wriggled into a more relaxed position. She draped her arm across me, a bit awkwardly at first, but then more tenderly. I never thought to ask if she was comfortable. We sat that way, I don't know how long, not talking, just resting. I felt like I could have stayed there forever, just like that. I closed my eyes.
After a time, she asked: “Are you sleeping?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good,” she answered. “I need to tell you some things. None of this is quite right, but it's the best I can tell you. Now, there's a basic goodness at the heart of things, Thomas. A basic, clear, simple goodness in every stone and tree and animal—in everything. It's not something that you can see or that someone can prove to you. But it's there. And it's not a human goodness, it's not nice, or fair, or comfortable; there are terrible things in the world, more terrible even than you or I can imagine. But through it all, at the deepest core, is this simple, basic goodness. You have to believe that. You have to find it in your heart to believe that. Are you listening to me?”
I was very still, lying against her. I breathed when she breathed.
“No,” I said.
“Good, that's good.” She kissed me lightly on the top of the head. “Here's the tricky part, maybe. Everything has its own simple goodness. It's not just the same, everywhere, one big bland good thing. Each thing, each creature has its own particular good heart, which is unique, different from all the rest. You have to believe and respect and cherish each one. It's hard, sometimes. I mean, sometimes it's basically impossible. But you have to try. Nothing I've taught you means anything if you don't try. And the first heart, the most important heart to cherish, is your own. That's what I meant about being clear. You have to clear everything out until there is just this good, simple Thomas left.”
As she finished talking I found that I had begun to cry. I was thinking of my father, and my birthday, and everything that was supposed to happen on that day. I knew, resting there with Emma, that I could never hunt, could never shoot an animal, but how could I tell my father that? I felt dread, and shame. I felt dishonest for not telling Emma what was going on. I felt anything but clear, anything but simple or good.
For all that I was tired. Abigail had drained me somehow. I felt sad, and very unsure of myself. Emma was there, supporting me, warm. I fell asleep.
I don't know if I slept for five minutes or an hour and half. I woke to the sound of voices, to a quiet but definite argument. I was curled up, alone on the sofa. I didn't move or open my eyes.
“He's too young,” I heard a man's voice say. The voice was old but its timbre was rich and strong.
“He's young,” Emma said.
“Too young.”
“What is too young? How do you know? He's sweet and gentle and he has the quiet. You've seen him in the woods. He's gifted in our way.”
“That's as may be. But he hasn't lived. You can't put this on him so early, before he's had some stretch of life. You and I were well along before we started in earnest. Those years are a great help.”
“I know,” Emma said. She was silent a few moments. “I care for him. I want to give him this.”
“Wait a while. A long while.”
“I don't know how long I've got. I'm not a young woman, you know.” There was a light humor in her voice.
“You have time, I'm sure of it. Lots of time. And so does he. You can't pull a sapling up by the roots to help it grow.”
“I know that,” Emma said, a little sharply. “I know that.”
“Work with him, but patiently. Think years. Let him grow away from you and come back.”
“Oh, Mr. Nash, I don't want him to grow away.”
Mr. Nash. I sat up from the couch, quickly, and my head swam a moment, and there was Emma, alone, staring out the front window of her cabin. She looked down at me.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
“I heard ...” I looked around; there was no one in the cabin but us. “I heard you talking.”
“I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn't mean to wake you.”
I just sat there, my head cloudy, looking at her, and she looked back at me, her face blank, flat, and then she smiled a little sadly. I felt, at that moment, that I had lost something, that she was pulling away from me.
“I'm not too young,” I said.
“Come on,” Emma said, as if I had not spoken. “It's getting late and we have another little walk ahead of us.”
All of the sudden everything was normal between us, or was supposed to be. Emma walked over to the little kitchenette and started putting together sandwiches for us. She poured me a glass of milk and gave me a couple of chocolate chip cookies.
“I guess I should have baked you a cake,” she said.
“Naw,” I said. “Anyway, my birthday's not for a while yet.”
“I know,” she said quietly. She packed a bag with some small apples that looked a little mushy to me. I wasn't so sure I was going to want any of those. But my sandwich was good, and I gobbled down my cookies and drank my milk. I was hungry, sleepy, sad. There were too many things going on for my young head and heart to sort out. Emma was a little distant from me, and I just had to let that be. I didn't have anything like the power or energy to bridge the gap between us.
Outside the cabin, I gave Abigail a farewell pat. It was odd, petting her. I could feel nothing, now. She was just a cheerful old dog. It was hard for me to remember what that feeling, so intense at the time, had been like. I felt like I had lost something, lost it before I had ever really had it.
I was feeling quiet and subdued, then, as we plunged back into the old forest that bordered the highway, I realized, vaguely, that we were headed back toward my home, but not directly. Anyway, we were still miles away.
“Where are we?” I asked Emma.
“Up near Harrow Point. That was Highway 12, you know, where I live. We don't have far to go, just a mile or so.”
We walked on in silence. It felt good to be out in the woods again. This was something I was used to. I started to feel a little more like myself, to feel less the wonder and strangeness of what had happened in Emma's cabin.
“Okay,” she said. “We're almost there. A little more quietly, now.”
We were at the edge of a large natural pasture, ringed with trees, covered with tall grass and low shrubs and bushes. We crept forward. An orange and black monarch butterfly batted along in the bright sunshine.
“Hello-o-o!” Emma called softly.
I could see nothing. We waited. It seemed impossible to me that the air could be so still. Then, from behind a clump of bushes some twenty yards away, walked a large, beautiful, reddish-brown doe, her head held high, sniffing the air. As I smiled with delight, Emma's hand came up and rather snugly squeezed the back of my neck.
“So you can hear,” she whispered.
“What?” I asked, and then I did hear, or felt, or saw, smelt a soft, thick, mumbly voice.
“Danger? Danger?” it said.
“It's me,” Emma said. “You remember. I've brought someone.”
“Danger?” the voice asked, and I realized in a breathless flash that I was hearing the doe.
Or not hearing. It was the strangest thing: another new sense, similar, adjacent to the other I had experienced that day. It was not that I was hearing the doe, but that I knew or felt something from her that came to me as words, thin and high, that flowed from the deer and echoed, clear and simple and strange, somewhere in my chest.
“I wouldn't bring you danger,” Emma said. Her voice was quite ordinary and direct, like she was speaking to a friend who was just a bit hard of hearing.
“You bring strength,” came the reply; and then, “What is it? What is it?”
“A boy, a man-child. He is not danger.”
The doe walked forward in halting, uncertain steps, looking always as if she were just about to flee. With each step she stamped at the ground with her forelegs.
“She's letting the others know that someone's here,” Emma said. “They can hear and feel it when she stamps like that.”
“Wowwww,” was all I could think to say.
The doe's nose twitched nervously as she stood just six feet from us. She turned her head all the way to the left, eyeing me with care, then slowly turned her head all the way to the right, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Food?” she asked.
“Why yes,” Emma said. “I brought some apples.” She opened the sack she had been carrying and showed the food inside to the doe. “I brought them for you, and for the family, and for Reggie.”
She said the name slowly, as if it held some significance, and in a moment the deer had bolted away to the far side of the pasture, and into the trees. Emma relaxed the grip on my neck.
“Ahh,” I said, disappointed, thinking we had lost her. “Who's Reggie?” I asked.
“Her buck,” Emma answered. “He's the king of these woods, in his way. I named him Reggie.”
I drew my breath in sharply. From across the meadow I saw the largest deer I had ever seen. A huge, majestic buck with a vast rack of antlers stepped slowly from the edge of the trees, and seemed to drift, rather than walk, toward us.
“He scarcely needs a fool like me to give him a name,” Emma said quietly.
He seemed the pure embodiment of strength and stately grace. In spite of myself, of Emma, of everything, I thought: “God, what a trophy.” His antlers, I meant: an incredible prize for a hunter. I shook the thought away angrily.
“Emma,” I said urgently, suddenly desperate to confess to her that I was supposed to go hunting in little more than a week.
“Shhh,” she said. “He's coming.”
He progressed firmly but slowly across the pasture. Behind him came six more deer: three does, a little button buck, a small fawn, and a small adult buck. These six wove along through the grass and brush, now stopping, now starting again, raising their noses high, sniffing the wind. Twice the little fawn burst back toward the safety of the trees, only to gallop up again to the rear of the slowly advancing group. Emma repeated her grip on the back of my neck.
“Strength,” said a deep, rumbling voice that filled my body. I knew it must be Reggie.
“Strength,” said Emma, and nodded her head slightly. She let go of my neck a moment and batted me lightly on the back of my head.
“Strength,” I said, uncertainly.
“How is your family?” asked Emma, as she rested her hand on the back of my neck once again.
“I will see to them all,” said Emma. “I have brought a man-child to meet you.”
Reggie looked me over slowly, the way the first doe had, turning his head slowly first to one side, then to the other.
“Man-child,” he rumbled.
“Sir,” I said, in awe of his size and bearing, of the breadth and development of his antlers, which arched high above his powerful head and neck.
“No danger,” Reggie said.
At that the other deer walked toward me with a little less timidity, their ears high and wide, all sniffing like mad, making these loud snorting sounds. The little fawn hid behind the three does, and would not approach. The button buck took a step forward, a step back, then danced forward and butted me once, quite sharply, in the stomach.
“Hey!” I said, and laughed.
He butted me again, and I rapped him on the top of his head, between the small buds which would one day be antlers. He scampered off, and scampered back, feinting and dodging like a boxer.
“He likes you,” Emma said.
“Sure,” I said, beaming. I reached out and tried to tap his head again; he dodged and butted me a good one on the side of my leg.
“Walk,” Reggie said suddenly, and began to walk away from us, back to the center of the meadow.
“Here,” said Emma, “he means you.” She closed her eyes, touched my neck, and I felt a sudden burst of electricity course through me, from her hand into my neck and down through my toes.
“Oww!” I cried.
“I didn't hurt you,” said Emma a bit tersely, and pushed me toward Reggie. I walked out toward him, confused and more than a little scared.
“Speak simply and honestly,” Emma said. “Above all, honestly. He'll understand you, in his way, if what you say comes from your heart.”
“Man-child,” he said again.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, and turned back toward Emma. I could hear him on my own. She simply waved me away, and turned to begin examining the other deer, laying her hands on their coats, rubbing them gently. I walked toward Reggie, looking back toward Emma.
“She gives strength,” Reggie said. “What do you give?
“I, uh, well, nothing, sir,” I said. “I guess.”
“You are family?”
“No,” I said. “We're friends. She teaches me.”
“You give strength,” he said.
“No,” I said. “No, I . . .”
“You give strength,” he said.
We walked a while in silence. Reggie walked very slowly, the muscles of his flanks rippling with controlled power. He made me feel frightened and sad at the same time.
“What will you do when the hunters come?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The answer came in words that formed in me, slowly, distinctly.
“What we always do. Hide. Move from the meadows up to the hills. Watch for the men. Stay still and let them pass. Follow, watch, and hide.”
“Follow?”
“Follow,” Reggie said, the voice that formed within me was flat, emotionless. “The men walk and walk and walk. We follow and watch. It is safe.”
“Are you . . . are you afraid?”
“Some will die,” he said. “Always, some will die. I am old, but I am strong. I will survive.”
We walked back to Emma and the other deer.
“When do the men come?” asked Reggie.
“Nine days,” Emma said.
I heard the single word “danger” echo among the different voices.
“Strength will be with us?” Reggie asked.
“I'll be here,” Emma said.
Emma and I walked slowly southward, the sun casting enormous shadows from our right. The meadow where we met Reggie and the other deer was a good two-hour walk from the woods near my home, from the places I was familiar with. It seemed that by unspoken agreement Emma would walk me most of the way home.
We didn't speak for a long time. The air was cool. The terrain rolled and dipped. We would descend into a slight hollow and lose the sun altogether, entering spaces where the air was so cold it seemed no warmth could have reached there since late last fall. Then up into the warmer, brighter air, and we would walk across long stretches of fairly level ground that appeared to surround us for miles on all sides. Then we would find ourselves descending again into another dark, cool swale.
I felt older. I felt that I had aged years that day, that I had learned and seen and heard more in that day than in the rest of my life put together. I felt like the day had changed me, permanently. But there was still so much that I didn't understand.
I could hear Emma's breathing as she walked along beside me, now slightly ahead, now slightly behind. On rare occasions her age betrayed her; she had had a long day, and her breathing was loud, almost labored.
“I heard you talking in the cabin,” I said, a note of challenge in my voice that I hadn't really intended.
Emma did not respond.
“When I was sleeping, I heard you talking to Mr. Nash,” I said.
“When you were sleeping,” Emma said finally, letting the words hang a moment.
“I heard you talking to Mr. Nash,” I said more forcefully.
Emma shook her head. “I can't tell you everything all at once,” she said. “We've had a big day as it is, don't you think?”
There was no answering that.
We kept walking. I was getting tired, and a feeling of irritation loomed deep in me. Emma was teaching me and showing me so much, and yet she was holding back from me as well. It was like being given short glimpses of a great and wondrous sight. I wanted to see; I wanted to see the whole thing and understand.
“I'm not too young,” I said again, as if picking up a conversation from hours ago.
“Yes you are,” Emma said, and then did something she had not done in all our walks together. She took my hand.
She was slowing me down. We were passing over a bit of low outcropping rock, as appears now and again in these woods, and her hand passed up to my arm, and I realized, with something of a shock, that she was leaning on me. I picked our way along, self-consciously slow, looking for places where we could both walk securely. The area was small, and soon we were back on level ground, walking between the high, silent trees, the sun sinking. Emma's hand dropped into mine, and then let go, and then we were walking along again, side by side, in the evening air that was now decidedly cold.
“Isn't this a beautiful time of day?” Emma said. “Isn't this a rare and beautiful thing?”
“Yes, ma'am,” I said quietly, not meaning to needle her, but feeling strange and blue.
“Thomas,” she said. “I should apologize to you, but I won't. I've been trying to fill your head and your heart with so many new things and you've tried so manfully to absorb it all.”
“I like it when you teach me,” I said.
“I know you do. I like it too. But sometimes I should be quiet more and just let us walk. There is nothing greater than deep and simple gratitude at being in such a beautiful place. There's nothing that I can teach you that is greater than this moment.”
She had stopped walking. I went on ahead a few paces, and turned when I realized she wasn't coming.
“Look,” she said firmly.
We were at the top of a high, wide ridge. Below us was a small ravine that led gradually up into the woods that I knew. We were a mile or so from my home. The trees were thinner here, up top, affording the nearest thing to a panoramic view we could have in such a wooded area. The sun was a squat orange ball, low in a cobalt blue sky. Emma's face was aglow in the light of the setting sun. I don't think I was exactly getting it, that I was understanding what she had said. But perhaps I did, after all. For as long as I could remember I had loved the beauty of the woods, and the quiet.
“These are your woods,” Emma said.
I nodded. We stood a while longer, just a minute or so, when the quiet of the evening was broken by a loud snapping sound. There were deer, four or five of them, walking along the bottom of the ravine. They might have been a hundred yards away—much farther than it seemed from the sound they made. I could just make them out as they moved among the trees.
“Wish them well,” Emma said. “Try to hold them in your heart and wish them strength.”
I looked at her a bit quizzically. I mean, it was not as if I would wish the deer ill. We watched in silence as they passed out of view. I put up a hand, as if to wave goodbye to them, which immediately felt like a foolish thing to do. We stood together, watching the woods where the deer had been. It felt to me that the day was over.
“Thank you for ...” I shrugged. “For showing me stuff today,” I said.
“You're welcome, dear,” Emma said.
“So, you know,” I began, feeling suddenly nervous, “will I see you after school this week?”
I already knew the answer.
Emma sighed, sounding somewhere between tired and exasperated.
“I have to rest,” she said. “Let's say, the week after.”
I frowned. The week after would be after my birthday. It seemed a long, long time away.
“I've been trying to cram you full of things all day,” she said.
“That's okay,” I interrupted.
“... so let me cram in just a little more. Thomas, what I showed you today, working with Abigail, it's not something you could learn, like learning anything; I don't know, like learning to play the piano. It's not a skill by itself. It's something ...” she stopped, her hand gesturing vaguely. She looked at me, and chuckled.
“I'm not very good at explaining these things,” she said with a wry smile.
“Just tell me,” I said.
“It's part of a life, a way of living and seeing and being that, well, it's different for everyone but it's not that different, really.” She chuckled. “Now that makes sense, doesn't it?”
She was smiling. I shrugged.
She shook her head. “It's about intention,” she said flatly. “You have to live your whole life around this intention to help, an intention to help and to heal. But it has to come from this simple and humble place. That's the difficult part, for me anyway. Everything you do has to help that intention. It can get away from you so easily, all the details and problems and nonsense that comes from being alive. Just this little nuisance of them painting my cabin—it's such a simple thing and such an aggravation. Somehow amid everything, all the distractions, you have to nurture this clear intention to help and gradually, gradually you grow into it. But Thomas, it's so hard to do. Believe me, it's hard, and you never, ever finish. You never quite get it right. But for the love of everything, the sake of everything, you can never stop trying. Every time you feel yourself failing, falling away from where you should be, you have to try to return to that clear, humble space, to live from there. Do you understand at all what I am saying?”
“I don't know,” I said, or almost cried. She was asking too much of me.
Her voice dropped a notch. She stepped closer to me.
“Do one thing for me this week,” she said.
“Okay,” I answered, after she had stared at me hard a moment.
“Before you go to sleep tonight, I want you to imagine a circle around you, wish for a circle around you, and everything in that circle will be safe, and healthy, and strong.”
“A circle,” I repeated.
“It starts in your heart and comes out all around you, out of your fingertips and toes. Just imagine it. Wish that it was so, like make believe. This isn't hard, Thomas.”
I think I was looking away from her.
“I'm listening,” I said.
“Just pretend that within this circle everything is healthy and strong, wish that it would be so. Let the circle be small, just big enough to surround you and anything you might touch, and then, slowly, let the circle grow.”
I was looking at her now.
“Let it become big enough to reach around your house, to hold your father and mother. Let the circle come back to you, and then cast it a little wider, out to the woods where you live, and then back, and cast it a little wider, a little farther each time. And Thomas, do this for me: cast your circle all the way out to me.”
“I will,” I said, but then I hesitated. “It won't—it won't do anything. It won't really help anything.”
“You don't know that,” Emma said firmly, but there was a light smile in her eyes. “Anyway, it's a wish. And it's good practice. So do it. Tell me you'll do it, each night.”
“I will,” I said again.
“And remember,” she said, and now she was turning, and walking away from me. “Remember, the circle surrounds you, too. Be sure to include yourself, healthy and strong and well. And throw that last circle all the way out to me—don't forget, all the way to me, dear.”
“I will,” I said a final time, to her back, as she began her walk home. I thought I heard her say “That's good,” but I wasn't sure. I wanted to call after her, to call her back, but I didn't. In just a few moments it was hard to see her in the falling dusk, and then she was gone altogether. It was strange, awful; I had the strongest sense that I would not see her again.
I was too old to cry, I thought. I was too old to run home crying. So I walked home, slowly, purposefully, thinking about Abigail, thinking about Emma, and Reggie, and wanting to send out a circle that would encompass them all, without being at all sure what that would mean.