Deep River Burning (12 page)

“I know you don’t see this now, but all things happen for a reason. God’s will doesn’t always correspond with our own.”

“And so what are we supposed to do?”

He stared out to sea and then he knelt down next to Denver and gently placed a handful of sand in a pile in front of him. He picked up a fistful of sand and watched it drain through his fingers.

“Let go.”

The wind picked up as the sun had risen, and a swift breeze from the sea blew the sand around them into the air in a swirl. He stood up and brushed the sand from his clothes. “I must be getting back to the sanctuary now. We are having some guests from the church over for breakfast. Should we expect you?”

“Yes. I will be along in a minute.”

He waved and walked away. The sound of him was lost in the sounds of the sea, and his figure, circled by a small butterfly, was small in the distance. She watched the butterfly. What could be more disparaging than a butterfly, a Monarch maybe, lost at sea, with wings flouncing through the marine air like tissue paper over an infinite stratum, a gray solid plane rippled and deadly. A butterfly swept out to the Atlantic by a violent storm. It would have been on its way to Mexico perhaps from the north, an already courageous undertaking. But butterflies understand miracles, transforming themselves from full-bodied worms into airborne painted flags, waving their stripes between trees and over grass and city streets to travel halfway across a continent. Arctic terns travel ten thousand miles when they migrate north on instinct. That was all Denver knew of God and miracles. If only our direction could be so sure, so clearly mapped, our drive that committed and single-minded, our strength so enduring, our transformation so visible.

She turned the thoughts over in her mind. As powerful as we are with our science and psychology, our arms and machines that build cities and cut diamonds, the force that blows us about, what Father Allen called “Maya,” can turn us into butterflies, floppy and reckless over a cold, vast sea drifting with the impulse to live. But what if this is where the path ends for the Monarch? After it makes its way across the drab expanse of an ocean on wings that seduce like eyelashes, what if it arrives in a country where there is no milkweed?

As Father Allen walked, he watched the sand flutter from the tips of his shoes as his feet gently kicked across the beach. He replayed the conversation with Denver over in his mind. He knew that sometimes he sounded like a priest and other times, he spoke words that would make his friends from the seminary shudder with irritation. But at some point, he had given up the pursuit of pleasing his critics. He believed that doing God’s work meant having the ability to shift with the circumstances, or knowing how to adjust one’s approach to meet the challenge at hand. A long body of sand is always shifting and adjusting, he thought to himself, why must the church be so unmoved?

Chapter 18

Bear Island

Bear Island is a narrow, three and a half mile island south of the Crystal Coast along the Outer Banks of the North Carolina shoreline. It was one of the most unspoiled, unpopulated, sparkling beaches Denver had ever seen. There were large billowy dunes, tall swaying grasses, egrets, sandpipers, osprey, shell-decked beaches, silky sands, and loggerhead sea turtles, although she didn’t see them.

The team of campers heading to Bear Island consisted of herself, Father Allen, Jimmie, and five other close friends from the church and sanctuary. Bear Island is only accessible by boat so they had the choice of either riding a ferry over to the island or taking canoes and riding through the tall grasses of the wetland region and Intracoastal Waterway. They decided to take four canoes and take their time paddling through the smooth marshy waters where snowy egrets can be seen peering over the wetland grasses.

They gently paddled their canoes until they reached the southwest end of the island almost right at the tip where the island ends and Bear Inlet rushes in, calms, and gently ripples against the shore on the west side of the island. At its widest point, the island is only a mile and a half wide, and at the southernmost tip, they planned to watch the sunset in the evening on the west side of the island, and in the morning, walk around to the east side of the island to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic.

Denver dropped her backpack into the sand once they all agreed on a campsite. She unhooked the tent bag from the bottom of the pack and emptied its contents onto the beach. She had borrowed the tent from Jimmie, who called it “a marvel of modern design” because of its light weight and compact size for easy carrying.

“Jimmie, would you mind showing me how to put up this tent?” Denver asked.

Jimmie put down his water bottle and walked over to where Denver was standing. He was in his early thirties and built like an athlete. He loved just about any kind of outdoor sport and seemed to be good at every activity he tried. Although he was quite smart, he rarely missed an opportunity to goof around, and he was often the primary source of humor at the otherwise serious and serene nature sanctuary. “I’ll show you this time,” he said, “and then you’ll be able to set it up on your own if you’re out camping and I’m not around.”

“Okay.”

“The tent has five pieces—the ground tarp, the two poles, the tent itself, and the rain tarp. First, unfold these pole pieces and link them together along the flexy string so that when you are finished, you have this long, yellow, bendy, flexy pole.”

“Bendy, flexy pole,” Denver repeated.

“Then do the same thing to the second set of pole pieces so that you have two long, yellow, bendy, flexy poles.”

“Two long, bendy, flexy poles,” she echoed.

“Then lay the tent on the ground and put the two bendy, flexy poles through the loops at the top of the tent so that the bendy, flexy poles form a big-ass X.”

“A big-ass X,” Denver confirmed.

“Then use these super duper tight-ass clasps on the top of the tent to clasp the poles to the tent.”

“Tight-ass clasps.”

“Now, here’s where things get a little dicey,” Jimmie said. “Stick the four ends of the long, bendy, flexy poles into the metal rings on the four ends of the tent without pinching a finger or getting your eye poked out.”

Denver watched as the poles arced up and pulled the tent into an upright position. Jimmie adjusted the clasps a little and then lifted the tent onto the ground tarp. “Finally,” he said, “you tap these pointy-ass little stakes through these little rings and into the sand so that a hurricane doesn’t blow your cute ass out to sea in the middle of the night. See? Great lookin’ tent, isn’t it?”

“Yes, thanks Jimmie, although I think I’ve lost count of how many asses were involved in that procedure.”

“Only one as far as I can tell!” shouted another camper from the inside of a tent.

Denver crawled into the two-person tent through one of the side doors. She unrolled a thin sleeping bag that filled the length of the tent and then pulled the rest of her belongings inside. She zipped the door shut and listened to the others talk and the wind blow sand against the side of the tent. Just about the time she noticed the blue sky through the window on the top of the tent, Jimmie walked by and said, “Oh, and Denver, this thick-ass rain tarp will keep your cute ass dry if it starts to rain. Just throw it over the top and stake it down.”

“Thanks, Jimmie.” Denver opened her pack and looked at her snacks. She brought walnuts, trail mix, dark chocolate, and instant oatmeal for breakfast. She ate some walnuts and a few squares of chocolate. Camping always reminded her of Josh, even on Bear Island, which was worlds away from Desert Ring Island. Jimmie was a lot like Josh when it came to camping. He packed his backpack meticulously and was never caught without the necessary supplies, or so he said.

Jimmie was in charge for dinner. He wanted to prepare the food for himself, Denver, and Father Allen with what he called his “handy-dandy, super-efficient, white gas-fueled, miraculously compact camping stove.” He said he could prepare a feast as good as anything you could make at home, so Denver was looking forward to watching him do it. In addition to leading tours and workshops at the sanctuary, he also occasionally offered a workshop on wilderness survival. It was nice having someone with those skills along for the trip.

After they set up camp, they walked for a while in a large group around the tip of the island until they broke off into pairs or by themselves. The elements were harsh, but the island was teeming with life. Denver knew she wouldn’t get much sleep that night.

It was 2 am. For a brief moment, her tent was very still in a world where everything moves with the wind, with the moon. She heard a slight tapping on the side of the tent, near the bottom, like fingernails when they lightly tickle the surface of a kitchen table. Jimmie was awake too, or so she thought. She gathered her flashlight, unzipped the tent door, crawled awkwardly out of the tent, and felt the cool sand on her feet. The breeze was strong and damp and the almost full moon continued its endless lovemaking with the tide.

She turned on her flashlight and saw crawling next to her tent a ghost crab. The beach has its foragers who know campers and what they bring with them. It was easy to see why they were called ghost crabs. It wasn’t so much the white that struck Denver, but the eyes, long and sad, blinking into the beam of light. She felt some level of strange sadness looking into the eyes of the crab. It stood still and when she moved her flashlight away from its body, it scurried into the dunes. It would be easy to step on a ghost crab because of how well they blended into the creamy sand. With the flashlight, she could see that there were tracks everywhere. While the others slept, a whole entourage of ghost crabs had come to the tents and walked away. Many of them came right to the tent doors. Perhaps places of entry reveal themselves in a universal language.

Denver went for a walk down the beach. She meandered beyond the salt flat and strolled around to the other side of the island where the sea continues its cycle of ebb and flow. Each wave is different, each falling with a different level of intensity and stretch into the shore. It would be hard to get lost on Bear Island, but it is its own wilderness. She had heard stories of runaway people living on the island who dug holes in the sand by day to escape the sun because there are no trees. There are many shrubs and tall grasses, but no trees. While that seems perfectly reasonable, it doesn’t quite hit you until the sun begins to burn and consume every part of you, and you look around and see that there’s no place to escape.

Other than visitors by boat, there was no civilization on the island. No industry, no docks, no seaside restaurants, no hotels, no public bathrooms, no water pumps, no picnic tables, no sidewalks. She was also keenly aware of the fact that no one could hear her if she screamed. Although the others weren’t a great distance away on the other side of the island, the surf would pick up her voice and carry it out to sea in the wind.

She undressed completely and felt the wind sweeping down her body with each article of clothing that fell to the sand. Her hair blew around, brushing her face as she turned in circles to feel the air caressing places that hadn’t been touched by the wind in a long time. She ran to the water and dived in. The salty water and strings of seaweed wrapped around her as she allowed the hands of the surf to set her back ashore, as if being a strong parent moving a child out of the way of danger. She waded in the bubbling surf for a while kneeling down to feel the froth and foam wash over her.

“Denver?” She heard a voice behind her.

“Oh my God!”

“No, not God, just a priest,” the voice said.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Why aren’t you?” he retorted. Denver ran for her shirt and sat on the sand laughing.

“Denver, you could have drowned. The rip tides are very dangerous this end of the island,” he said looking concerned, but also amused. He handed her the rest of her clothing and turned around while she finished dressing.

“I never sleep when I’m camping,” she replied.

“Why is that?”

“I think I’m just afraid I’ll miss something,” she said after thinking about it for a moment. “And what about you?”

“I was sitting near the dune behind us, just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Oh, about the change that is always taking place in our lives.”

“Yes, things have to keep moving, I suppose.”

“Even the shoreline is moving. In some places, it is eroding. In other places, it is building up. And isn’t it true that our lives are that way? We lose a part of ourselves in one place, but gain something new somewhere else. As we age, our bodies weaken, but our wisdom accumulates and sharpens. There is always a trade off. I guess the key is to make sure that you sit where the sand is building.”

“Are you happy, Father?” She asked out of the blue.

He thought for a brief moment and said, “I am. The path that I have chosen for myself is not an easy one, but I know it is the right one. There is great joy in knowing that you are following the path set out for you.”

“So, how do you know when you are on the right path?”

“You have to listen very carefully, and be mindful of the voice inside of you. You have to pay close attention. The answer is there, if you are willing to listen for it. But there are many things that happen that you can’t change, things that you just have to accept. I’m thinking about using the topic of acceptance in my next homily.”

“There are some things you should try to change though, right, the things that can be changed?”

“Oh, yes. Just try to do it for the right reason.” Father Allen paused and looked up at the sky. “I’m not sure if you know this about me, but I’m a bit of a night owl. In the darkness, there is clarity. When the sense of sight is not being stimulated, your other senses become more active, and one of those senses is intuitive. Darkness also gives you the opportunity to practice your faith, that everything is going to be okay, that you can trust in the cycle of things, and you are safe even though you can barely see just a few feet in front of you.”

“It is a dark night,” she observed. “But what I like about the sea or a river at night is that you not only have the light from the moon itself, but you also have the light of the moon that is reflected off the surface of the water. It’s like shining a light in a mirror. I don’t know if it really is more light, but it seems like it.”

“You grew up next to a river. You are a water person, for sure.”

“What does that mean?” She laughed.

“The journey of every river is to flow toward the sea. It is born from its spring, then it travels through the landscape picking up and unloading sediment. It connects with other rivers until it drains into the ocean. It is how we learn that we are all part of the collective. We
are
the collective. So, maybe you are exactly where you need to be.”

“You’re not a priest. You’re a philosopher,” she replied.

Father Allen laughed. “I suppose I’m both.” He paused as if to think about it for a moment. “You seem happy here,” he said finally.

“I am . . . for the first time in a while. I love the birds. And this place. I have found so much here. I think Isabel Beach has saved my life.” She looked at Father Allen who was looking at her curiously.

“Have I ever told you the story of Isabel?” he asked.

“No. I don’t believe you have.”

“Come. Let’s go for a walk.

“The house that is next to the sanctuary was once a large cottage owned by a family who bore the name Berringer,” Father Allen said as he pointed at the house. “A young woman from Spain by the name of Isabel used to live with the family as an attendant to Mrs. Berringer. As the story is told, Isabel was very petite, but a tireless servant girl, who fell deeply in love with the family’s oldest son, Thomas. The father, Mr. Berringer, was a hard man, and he did not approve of the union. It is rumored that Mr. Berringer was secretly in love with Isabel himself, and therefore, thwarted the union out of jealousy. The father was so insistent that the two of them must stay apart that he released Isabel from her duties, leaving her suddenly without a home. No one knew where she had gone, not even Thomas. So, Thomas, enraged by his father’s actions, left America to sail to Spain to follow after Isabel, thinking she had fled back to her native country. Meanwhile, Isabel, distraught at the thought of being away from Thomas, took refuge in a church just a few miles up the beach and came back a few days later to see him. But he had already gone. Another few days passed when news came to the beach that the vessel that carried Thomas had gone down in a storm and that most on board had perished, but some were still alive. When Isabel heard the news, she came every night to these beaches and waved a lantern over the water in hopes that Thomas had survived and would see her light and know where to swim to shore. When many days had passed, far longer than one could survive at sea after a shipwreck, Isabel walked into the waves and was never seen or heard from again. A few days later, her lantern was found here on this beach wrapped in seaweed.”