Authors: J. Robert Lennon
“What usually bothers you, Eric, when you eat outdoors?”
“Rain?” I offered, and drained the milk glass.
“Perhaps, but what I’m referring to is insects. Have you noticed any here?”
“No, sir,” I admitted, shaking my head.
“What about squirrels?”
“No, sir.”
“Aside from a few birds high overhead, or perched on the rock,” Doctor Stiles said, “there aren’t any. Not that I’ve seen. At first, I thought that the construction of the castle had simply disrupted their environment. But it’s been several months now since it was finished, and the animals have not returned. Do you know what I think, Eric? I think this place is tainted.”
The food was almost gone. I couldn’t remember ever having eaten so much in a single sitting in my entire life.
“I’m sure you wonder what could taint a forest. I’ll tell you my theory. I believe this is where, in the early 1800s, every single member of the Kakeneoke tribe of Indians was massacred by white settlers. I have read about this massacre in a few books of local history, and a number of historical journals. It is also mentioned in the handwritten journal of a retired Revolutionary War soldier named Ezekiel Cordwell, who homesteaded nearby. None of these sources are specific about the time and place of the massacre, and they all have spelled the tribe’s name slightly differently. But I believe they are all referring to the same event, and I believe that this event happened here.” He leaned forward. “Do you wonder, Eric, what evidence I have for this belief?”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll tell you, Eric—I have no evidence. But I can feel it, in my gut. Do you know what I mean by that?”
“No,” I said, and a jolt of fear sent me bolt upright in the chair. I had left off the “sir” and expected the Professor to hit me. But he continued to speak as if he hadn’t noticed.
“I mean that I have taken all available information—the peculiarity of the woods, the stories I have read, the maps I have pored over—and processed it through the unique filter of my particular intelligence, and have come up with a feeling, an almost physical sensation, that I am correct. Sometimes, Eric, it is possible to
know
you are correct. The feeling I get when I am right about something is very powerful, and infallible. The massacre happened here.
“I’ll tell you something else,” he went on, stretching out his legs and gazing at the sky, as though to judge the time of day. “I believe that whatever lingers here from that gruesome event, whatever force or substance or
idea
that has tainted these woods, is what sickened and killed my wife and daughter. Somehow, the essence of the massacre has remained here, in the ground, in the very trees and wind and water, and has retained the power to kill.” He paused, then turned to me, his gaze frightening and direct.
“You and I, Eric, are in no danger. I can promise you that. We have something my family did not—we are strong. We are destined for greatness. Don’t forget that.”
He was through speaking, and he stared at me now for many minutes on end, seemingly without blinking. For my part, I did not entirely understand what he said, though I would remember his words and reflect upon them often in the years to come. I did understand, though, that I had been declared exceptional, and I believed it to be so. I
knew
it to be so.
I don’t accurately recall the journey out of the woods that night, although I do remember that it was nearly dark when we emerged at the house, and that my father was there to collect me, and that he was forced to pull over to the side of the road on the way home, in order to let me vomit. I also remember my mother’s stricken expression when she saw my face and clothes, and the wonderful sensation, once I had bathed and was comfortably tucked into my bed, of succumbing to absolute exhaustion. I don’t think I have slept so deeply in my life, nor do I expect to ever again.
SEVENTEEN
That summer, and the next, were filled with moments of terrible isolation, loneliness and fear, hours in complete darkness, exhaustion and pain. But I also know that I experienced great joy there—with Doctor Stiles’s help, I honed my strength and agility, lifting and building structures, climbing walls, hunting the Doctor and hiding from him in the woods.
It was this latter activity that has provided me with perhaps my most intense memory of those days, an event that occurred in late summer of my second year with Doctor Stiles.
For some time, the Professor had petitioned my parents to allow me to spend the night in the castle with him. This would certainly have been acceptable to my father, and to me as well, but my mother objected, and for whatever reason, her opinion was respected. It was understood that I would be returned at the end of every training day to the house at the top of the hill. Eventually this arrangement became routine, and after a while I no longer even thought about the possibility of its being otherwise.
Each morning, when the Doctor and I embarked upon our journey to the castle, we entered the forest from a different location at the edge of the yard, and struck out through the trees in a different direction; on the way back, we would do the same. Though I sometimes thought I recognized some familiar landmarks—a particular stand of trees, or marsh, or patch of moss—I never felt as though I could find my way to the castle on my own, nor find my way back out to the house or road. Initially, this disorientation caused me some unease, but I had long since grown used to Doctor Stiles’s unorthodox ways, and come to expect these idiosyncratic treks. Indeed, at the time this incident occurred, I had even become rather complacent—though my days in the woods were always a challenge, I was confident that the challenge was always one I could meet.
On the morning in question—a hot, overcast, and muggy one in the
middle of August—the Doctor and I set out as usual, with him nimbly hopping over bramble and deadfall, from one clear patch of ground to the next, and me following carefully about ten steps behind. By now I knew how to dress on these outings—I had acquired a pair of khaki jungle pants with zippered legs that could be removed below the thighs, to protect from abrasions or excessive heat, and wore sturdy, lightweight boots and a wide-brimmed hat. I remember feeling particularly self-assured and comfortable that day—at the age of eleven, I had achieved what I considered to be an unusual level of self-confidence and physical well-being.
About half an hour into our journey, the Doctor stopped suddenly, raised one hand in the air, and cocked his head, as though to better hear some faint noise. Needless to say, I stopped as well, and listened carefully.
We were standing on the sloping bank of a slight depression in the forest floor, with a patch of swampy ground at the bottom, bisected by a moss-covered fallen tree. I could neither see nor hear anything out of the ordinary. Ten feet ahead, Doctor Stiles lowered his hand and used it to reach into his pocket. He pulled out a small mason jar, unscrewed the lid, and removed what appeared to be a white handkerchief. Then he set the open jar down on the ground. As I looked on, he slowly turned and made his way toward me, on his face an expression of slightly amused alertness. I waited for him to address me.
Instead, he reached down and placed his free hand on the back of my head. The gesture was affectionate, even loving, and for a moment I wondered how I was expected to respond. But before I could, the Doctor brought up his other hand and pressed the handkerchief to my face.
His grip was strong, and I was unable to move. The handkerchief reeked of something acrid and antiseptic, and I gasped in spite of myself. My throat and nose burned, and I thought I could feel the burn rocket straight up through my sinuses and into my brain. I crumpled, insensible, to the ground.
When I woke, the day seemed later, the sun higher in the sky, the air more oppressive. My head ached, and sticks gouged my side where I lay. I was incredibly thirsty.
I reached down for my canteen and discovered that I was naked.
The realization motivated me to sit up straight, and I let out a yelp. I looked around me. There was no one and nothing. I had fallen somewhat farther down toward the center of the depression, and one of my heels rested in the pool of water at the bottom. Sunlight filtered through the trees, and my lungs burned as I drew breath after gasping breath.
Slowly I remembered what had happened—Doctor Stiles, I understood, must have knocked me unconscious. I began to lay out, in my mind, the possibilities. This act could indeed have been of sinister intent, but it was much more likely to be some kind of escalation in the Doctor’s testing regimen. The latter explanation gave me some comfort, but I was still a child, accustomed to the supervision of an adult, and still quite modest about my body. It occurred to me that Doctor Stiles must have been the one who undressed me. He had seen me naked! The thought disgusted and excited me—I tried to put out of my mind this strange and entirely unexpected transgression.
I stood up slowly, wary that I might be sick to my stomach. But it seemed that my head had cleared, and though I remained thirsty, I felt otherwise physically sound. I looked around, taking stock of my surroundings, wondering what I was supposed to do now, and where I was supposed to go. I had no compass, no rope or knife, not even any shoes. I was not terribly uncomfortable now, but I knew that, as soon as I began walking, my feet would be cut and scraped, and would likely become infected. The tasks and challenges the Doctor typically assigned to me always seemed to have some purpose—the strengthening of a vital survival skill, or the sharpening of my wits—so I struggled to understand what the point of this one might be. But after long minutes of contemplation, I was forced to admit to myself that I had no idea.
Of course, this might be the point—perhaps Doctor Stiles intended for me to realize that there was no point. Maybe I was supposed to be learning how to act with no goal in mind, and no viable option for proceeding. If so, I was failing, because all I felt was a growing despair and boredom, and a creeping fear. I had never been naked anywhere, let alone the woods; and though Doctor Stiles insisted that there were no wild animals here, the likelihood of attack seemed high. Surely the beasts of the forest could sense the presence of an unprotected human being. Were there bears here, or mountain cats? What about hawks and vultures—did they ever attack human beings? I looked down and found my genitals covered by both my hands, in an involuntary, instinctive, and futile gesture of protection, and I’m afraid I began to cry. Was the Doctor watching? Was he off somewhere in the trees, observing, noting my transgressions against his tutelage? What punishment would be meted out for my weaknesses? I must have stood there, intermittently thinking and blubbering, for at least fifteen minutes. Then, at last, bored and disgusted with myself, I took my first tentative steps out of the depression.
It must have taken me ten minutes to reach the lip and peer around the surrounding woods. Already my feet were tender, and everything looked exactly the same in every direction. I had no compass, of course, and above the forest canopy the clouds now blocked the sun, leaving its position unclear. I tried to remember what side of the trees the moss was supposed to grow on—I thought it might be the north—but when I examined my immediate surroundings, the moss seemed to be growing arbitrarily wherever there was room for it. I had the distinct, if foolish, impression that the landscape stretched identically in all directions, forever. My eyes stung and I choked back a sob.
With nothing else to do, I chose a direction and walked in it. The going was slow and painful. As I had predicted, my feet were poked and scratched, thorny branches kept swinging into my path and scraping my legs, and I was growing thirstier—and now hungrier—with every passing moment. Because I felt compelled to keep my hands over my genitals, my balance was poor, and I nearly fell several times. And though I stumbled through the trees for what seemed like hours, the position of the sun never appeared to change.
I did, however, have one conviction that kept me from complete despair, and that was the inevitability of my return to the house at sunset. At some point, Doctor Stiles would have to find me, return my clothes to me, and lead me back to the hilltop, where my father would be waiting in his truck. All I had to do was endure the day—and though I was certain that this tactic would not meet with the Doctor’s approval, I was already beyond caring. Whatever punishment he chose to administer, I would accept it. But I would not play his game.
My memory is unclear on the precise manner in which I passed the afternoon. I would imagine that I did a lot of wandering, and perhaps took a few naps. I remember very clearly one particular nap, because it was upon waking from it that I realized the hour had grown late, well past the time when Doctor Stiles and I generally began our trek out of the woods and back to the house. Indeed, judging from the filtered light of the forest, it was possible that my father was already waiting for me there.
I spoke for the first time in hours, breaking the cardinal rule of speaking only when asked to. I called out his name, first quietly, then more loudly, until I was fairly screaming it. I had not realized just how completely a dense wood could swallow up a person’s voice; I had the distinct impression that, even had Doctor Stiles been standing a mere twenty-five feet away, he still might not hear me.
I stood up and began to pace, straining my eyes to look more deeply into the forest, hoping to make out a figure there, or some evidence that I was, in fact, close to the hilltop after all. But the woods appeared just as inscrutable and frightening as ever. I called out until my voice grew hoarse, then called out some more, and as the sunlight leached away, my voice became weaker, and I could no longer deny the obvious fact that night was falling, and I had been abandoned to my fate in the dark woods.
For some minutes, I simply leaned against a tree and sobbed. I felt as though I had no other option, that I would starve or freeze—for the temperature had begun to drop—or be devoured by animals, and could only stand and wait for my fate. My thirst, however, which I had temporarily managed to forget, returned with almost unbearable force, and it motivated me to start moving again.
There must have been a full moon, or close to it, because the darkness never enveloped me completely. In a sense, I could actually see better this way—my field of vision, limited by the dim, was more focused, and I was not
confused by the enormity of the forest. I moved steadily, feeling from tree to tree, careful not to walk in a circle by mistake. I was thinking of the drive here and back with my father—many of the roads we traveled upon ran along creeks or ditches, and there had been rain the day before. If I walked in a straight line for as long as possible, I would eventually come to a road, and beside that road there might be water. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the first real plan I had come up with, and it gave me the impetus to move.
I walked for hours, or what seemed like hours. And eventually, I was rewarded with a sound: the very faint gurgle of water.
I wanted to increase my pace. But the woods here were unusually thick, and I was forced to grope toward the noise. It was real, though, the distinct sound of a creek, straight ahead. It seemed like an hour or more before I reached it, and when I did, I nearly fell in—the trees ran right up to its edge, and the bank dropped off sharply, straight down into the water. The stream was perhaps four feet wide, and flowed quickly, considering it was late summer. Bracing myself against an exposed root, I stepped gingerly into the current.
My relief was profound. So good did the cool water feel on my aching, wounded feet, that I let out a mad-sounding laugh. I bent down and scooped up a double handful of water, intending to examine it in the dim moonlight, to see if it was too silty or muddy to drink. But once I had brought it to my face, I couldn’t resist. I gulped it down, then fell to my knees and thrust my face into the current. I gulped in long, choking draughts until I was sated, then I sat up, grew dizzy, and collapsed on my back into the creekbed. It was only a few inches deep, and I lay there with the water running over and around me, and thanked the God that I don’t think I had ever before believed in. I may even have slept there, with the water lapping against my cheeks, and the forest canopy moving above me, shifting and throbbing, a darker black against the faintly glowing black of the sky.
Indeed, I must have slept, because I remember waking to even deeper night, and cold. I was cold there, in the water, freezing in fact, and I began to shiver, so violently that I thought I might break apart. I sat up and let out a cry, and saw a smear of movement out of the corner of my eye.
It was a ghost.
Or so I thought at first. It stared at me out of round black eyes; its chest was broad, its hair white and strangely peaked above the ears. It stood on a pair of spindly legs and appeared to have no arms at all.
I stared at it, and it stared back, insensible and silent. Then I blinked, and the ghost moved, exposing its flank.
Of course it was a deer, a white deer. I had seen them before, elsewhere in the Town of Henford, while driving with my parents. It was my mother who habitually pointed them out, usually just before sunset, when we were on the way home from one of our infrequent nights out for dinner. But I had never come near one. Indeed, I had never before seen a living thing in this forest.
I stood up slowly from the water, eager not to frighten the animal. My heart thumped. I noticed that my shivering had stopped, and I stepped out of the creek.
The deer bounded off, twenty paces away, and looked at me over its shoulder. Without forethought, and feeling a new warmth race through my body, I took a step, and then another. When I was almost near enough to reach out and touch it, the deer leaped again, this time veering off to the left.
Again I followed, and again it bounded away and looked back. It would have been sensible to think that it was merely trying, though not very skillfully, to evade me—surely, at any moment, it would give up the game and dart away for good, beyond my field of vision. But I had become convinced that the deer wanted me to follow it, that it knew I could see no more than ten yards into the woods, and took care not to move beyond that distance.