Chapter 1

 

     I’ve heard all the stories.

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     Hard to pick a favorite.  Not even sure I have one.  Perhaps, as one legend goes, we were once people and our scarlet shade a solemn reminder that we all share the same blood.  I never thought to ask the elders about it.  Nor my mother, either. 

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     Truthfully, I was never much interested in those sorts of questions.  Let the debates rustle on in the underbrush, among the ferns and pines.  We’re here, and we’ll always be here.  That’s all that matters.

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     And Matriarchs such as myself ensure it will always be so.\

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     To human eyes—and even to my own—the forest seems eternal and unchanging.  Yet, tribes of men have always walked among us.  They scuttle below as they canvas our fallen for their shelter and canoes.  Huddled along the coast and tucked deep in the valleys, they mostly keep to themselves and their gods.

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     But the pulse of the grove is quickening now.

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     This wave is fiercer than any before.  Along the valley floor, the din is rising, escalating into a cacophony impossible to ignore.  The woodland grows nervous, sensing a shift in its fragile equilibrium.  Seeking refuge, the larger creatures retreat deep into the forest, glancing upward at me as they pass.

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     I remind myself my ancestors have endured catastrophes of every kind: shattered earth, rising seas, raging fires, an endless litany of disasters, their details lost to the mists of time.

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     So here I stand again as a new threat crests the horizon.

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     I just need to be strong.

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     And I will be.

 

                                                                               Chapter 2

 

     

     “Well, we’re a long way from Bryn Mawr, aren’t we?”  I muttered, sidestepping mud puddles as we approached the grandstand.

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      Why did I bother troubling myself?  My lace-up Edwardian boots were already caked with coastal silt.  The same boots worn to ruin these past four dreary years.  New ones, you say?  Then prepare for a half-day trek by Model T over a rutted cowpath down to the Woolworths in Eureka.  And don’t worry, I’m sure the clerk will have your size. 

   

       “C’mon, Ruthie, chin up.  Look, it’s stopped raining.”

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     The townspeople tolerated me, but adored my husband.  When “Sunny” Charles Wescott announced his mayoral candidacy last year, his election was as sealed as a letter already sent.  I poo-pooed his “Tomorrow Starts Today” campaign slogan, but his constituents proved me spectacularly wrong.  The loggers and fishermen of this backcountry Northern California town are hardy frontier folk.   They demand optimism, justified or not, from their mayor—a trait that also comes in handy when soothing the grumblings of your displaced Philadelphia wife.

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     “Here we are, right in front.”  

 

     Charles spread a wool blanket across the damp wooden bench.  A sea of parasols and derby hats, the gallery bleachers were nearly full.  The Arcata aristocracy of the new century was present and reporting for duty.  Wives in their finest home-stitched dresses flitted about, trailed by dusty, hungry-looking husbands, a splash of high society in the wilds of Humboldt County.  

 

     In these situations, I usually rely on a stiff gin and tonic to tame my cynical propensities.  But alas, not today.  At previous college graduations I’ve attended, spirits flowed in abundant supply.  But then, this was my first commencement celebrated west of the Continental Divide.

 

     Charles was giving me that look of his: You’re the mayor’s wife!  Go talk to people!  Alright, alright.  Time for an appearance from "sociable" Ruth.

 

     “Good morning Margaret, and congratulations to Rebecca.  She looks radiant today!”  

 

     The perennially buoyant disposition of Margaret Manion, proprietor of Humboldt Bakery, rivaled even that of my husband.  Cringing, I braced for an overenthusiastic response to my insincere flattery.  I was not disappointed.

 

     “Why, thank you so much, Ruth!  It’s always been a dream of hers to teach.  And isn’t this wonderful for our little town?  Having our own teacher’s school here… can you imagine?  And congratulations to your Dorothy as well.  Top of the class, no?  What will she do next?”

 

     “Well, we’ll see.  She’s talked about moving down to San Francisco,” I lied.  My heart skipped at the idea.  Dorothy in an apartment on Market or Van Ness meant her mother would need to visit at least three times per year.  The theater, the shopping…

 

     Margaret interrupted my delicious daydreams.

 

     “That would be exciting, wouldn’t it?  But my goodness, it’s so far!  Rebecca’s teaching at a new school opening in Eureka, and Elizabeth Mead’s heading down to Fortuna.  I can’t believe how much this area has grown since I was a child.  They won’t be able to call us the Lost Coast much longer!”

 

     She laughed at her own joke as I turned away, duty fulfilled.  Keep it together, Ruth.  A couple muddy streets, a scattering of clapboard storefronts, and a four-cabin teachers’ school, and suddenly we were the Upper West Side?  Let’s pave Arcata’s Main Street first before declaring the twentieth century’s arrival in Humboldt County.

 

     Glancing at the program, I found Dorothy’s name, first on the list.   From the bleachers, I scanned the crowd for my daughter.  There she was, clustered with her fellow graduates just off-stage.  My wave went either unnoticed or ignored as they chattered amongst themselves—almost certainly the latter.  It was possible she might still be a teensy bit annoyed after I had poked her (again) at breakfast about her lack of marital prospects.

 

     “But mother, I’m only twenty!”

 

     “Exactly, my dear, exactly!”

 

   With a sigh, I turned back to the stage.  The inaugural graduation of the Humboldt State Teachers College was about to begin.  The more the organizers strained to recreate the College Green at Penn, the more it resembled a county fair picnic.       

 

     Even so, I couldn’t help but admire their industriousness.  Monkeypod chickweed and June-blooming wildflowers ringed the outdoor stage.  Electric lights draped the platform, buzzing faintly above the restless graduates.  Fluffy red, white, and blue bunting cheered the scene.  To top if off, the "Class of 1914" flag I’d stitched together over the past few weeks swathed the speaker's podium.  A nice touch, if I say so myself.

 

     But bunting and blossoms couldn’t compete with the main attraction directly behind the stage.  California’s first teacher’s college north of Petaluma sat tucked within a thick forest of ancient redwoods.  Towering over our gathering, the giants ensured that despite the noonday sun, our ceremonies would unfold in a bone-chilling shade.  When I was a little girl, I had traveled to Switzerland and marveled at the vertigo-inducing ascent of the Alps.  Sheer crags thrust upward like stone skyscrapers from Zurich’s flat valley floor.  Here, it was a colossal fortress of wood, not ice, that sealed Arcata from the outside world.

 

     As the school president approached the podium, I realized my prayers for a brisk ceremony were to go unanswered.  In that practiced way husbands and wives secretly trash others during public events, I whispered conspiratorially into Charles’s ear.

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     “How is it possible there are ten speakers but only fifteen graduates?”

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     Speaker number seven on the docket checked the program and, with mock solemnity, whispered back, “You’re right, the dean must think we’re in Boston or New Haven.  Just sit back and relax.”

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     As the morning dragged on, I shivered as the mountain cold ruthlessly pierced my sable coat.  By the third speech, no amount of feet-stamping or husband-burrowing helped.  I admired Dorothy's composure as she braved the chill from the stage.  Fully exposed to the icy Pacific wind, she sat radiant, smiling as though she were sunning herself in an Adirondack chair on a July afternoon in Cape May.

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     “Be good, do good, and you shall have your reward!”  Polite clapping whisked the dean and his platitudes offstage as he yielded to Charles.  Mr. Mayor bounded up the slick grandstand steps two at a time as I steeled myself for one of his half-hour soliloquies.  After thanking his “eternally patient” wife, Charles launched into one of his stump speeches I’d heard countless times.  Free at last to drift, my mind wandered.

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     Not a good thing.  Not at all.  I was counting on—no, I needed—some engrossing distractions to get me through this.  Ever since we arrived here, I’d sought sanctuary in mental detours.  Head down, stay busy.  Write those letters.  Chair the First Methodist Christmas committee.  And at night, a bracing nip from the brandy closet to slam the door shut.

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     Otherwise, they came.  The real cause of my shivering.  I forced myself to look up, past the stage and classrooms, into the dark, looming forest beyond.

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     Despite four years in Humboldt County, I’d clung stubbornly to town, never once setting foot in the surrounding wilderness.  Over cigars, Charles drew incredulous laughter from his sycophants when he exaggerated that though I was a dues-paying member of the Women’s Federation to Save the Redwoods, I’d never actually touched one.

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     Arcata chatter proposed endless theories for my “eccentricity.”  The leading favorite: Philadelphia Heiress To Delicate for Dirt.  Then there was the medical hypothesis: Socialite Allergic to Fresh Air.  Others preferred darker explanations.  She’s a medium, they whispered.  Sees trolls and goblins in the woods.

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     Trolls and goblins?  A much kinder terror than the one I carried.

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     Yet here I stood in defiance of my own edict, on the town’s precipice, only stepsaway from the thing I dreaded most.  

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     We’re all experts in something.  Maybe you collect stamps or can discern Roman pottery from Phoenician.  My specialty is rather unique.  Full disclosure: I have no credentials, no official certifications, and this accomplishment won’t appear in my obituary.  You’ll have to take me at my word.

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     It’s Fear.  See, I know all about Fear.  True Fear.  Not spider phobias or nightmares of bottomless quarries filled with black, stagnant water (though you should steer clear of quarries).  And certainly not those brushes with the supernatural delivered by charlatan spiritualists who trick the dead into rapping their knuckles under a table.

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     Please.

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     No, I’m self-taught in True Fear.  Perhaps you are too.  Maybe you’ve flirted in its shadows, convinced you’ve seen the worst It has to offer.  God knows, I claim no patents or trademarks in this realm.

                                                                         

     Here’s a litmus test to know when True Fear has found you.  Drumroll… What is True Fear?  The absence of Hope.  It arrives when you know what will happen next and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.  Your fate is sealed.  No bargaining, no clever barrister to wriggle you out on a technicality.  You signed the contract.  Your soul belongs to Him.

 

     Everyday bouts of Fear fall short of this bar.  The ending isn’t forsworn.  The tarantula startles you… but might not bite. The water is cold… but you know how to swim.  Despite the peril, in these cases a flicker of faith endures.  I can fix this. Just give me a minute to think.  There's always a way.

 

     But not always.  With monstrous forests like the one engulfing me now, there’s no solution.  There’s no bartering.  I don’t merely suppose their power; I know their essence.  Nature doesn’t take sides, they say.  She’s indifferent, they claim.  Yeah, right.  

 

     This wilderness and I understand each other.  For you, the forest may be many things: a playground, a postcard.  For me, it’s a murderous No Man’s Land, minus the barbed wire.  To leave the safety of the trenches and enter its territory invites annihilation.

 

     Why do I know this?  Ask Her, not me.  For reasons of Her own, the entity chose to reveal herself  long ago.  My whole life, I’ve wrestled with the aftermath of our decades-old encounter.  Naturally, along the way I’ve had my midnight moments of doubt.  Fueled by Tanqueray, I’ve faced an unpleasant truth:  history is full of crackpots magically privy to whisperings from God or the Devil that only they alone could hear.  How narcissistic, how stupid, for me to believe I’m somehow special.  That I’m the Chosen One.  I talk myself off the ledge, for a while.  But my rationalization attempts always fade with the sunrise.  

 

     Call me crazy.  What happened, happened.

 

     What’s the proverbial silver lining you ask?  Well, I did come up with one.  Yes, it’s a stretch.  Ready?  Here it is (deep breath).

 

     At least I know.

 

     And I guess that’s something.  Clarity.  Lucidity.  While the rest of the world frolics in its bubble, obsessed with baseball games and stock tickers, I was granted an unwanted glimpse over the horizon.  A modern-day Elijah.  An unwilling recipient of an unreturnable gift.

 

     “Here we go.”  I welcomed Charles’s interruption.  His elbow nudged my silver chatelaine purse as he motioned toward the stage.  I hadn’t even realized he was back.  With the speaker’s exhortations finally over (and quickly forgotten), the soon-to-be teachers expectantly lined up for their degrees.

 

     Swaying, I tightly clutched his arm.  “Dear, what’s the trouble?” he inquired.  “Do we need to leave?”

 

     Breathe, just breathe.  Reflexively, I called upon the techniques I’d used since childhood to suppress the panic.  First, orient yourself.  You’re here, at Dorothy’s graduation.  Next, tighten your stomach against the oncoming waves of nausea.  Here it comes… keep it down!  Ignore that gagging sensation in your throat.  Finally, lie to yourself that everything is fine.  Just fine.

 

     Familiar with my wifely hysterics and fragile constitution, Charles began to escort me from the stands, but I demurred. "No, no, I’m staying.  I’ll be fine."

 

     Heads turned, but a reassuring nod from Charles returned everyone's attention to the stage.  A box of scrolls appeared at the podium, and the Dean finally reached the part of the program we’d all been waiting for.

 

      “Dorothy Wescott!” the master of ceremonies bellowed.  I thought I’d be more emotional, but my reservoir was bone-dry.  “Congratulations Ms. Wescott.”

 

     Dorothy accepted her diploma, curtsied briefly, and took the lectern for her valedictorian remarks.  Happily distracted once again, I squelched my irritation at her hat choice.  A straw boater for this occasion?   Far too masculine.  And to not even include a goose feather?  But, as you might guess, my unsolicited opinion over buttered toast this morning only guaranteed the straw boater victory.

 

    Her voice, young and clear, cut through the air and commanded our attention. 

 

      “Our pursuits of gold and status are not just materialistic trappings.  They’re actual traps.  They keep us small.  And so, we must all choose: a fearful life, focused on what we might lose. Or the courage to break free from our self-imposed chains in pursuit of a cause greater than ourselves.”

 

      My goodness.  Apparently the Socialist party has been busy on campus.

 

     Her closing line drew the most enthusiastic applause. 

 

     “Everyone inside for refreshments.” 

 

    In unison, the grandstand crowd rose to its feet, a stampede of skirts and parasols  beelining for the sponge cakes and pastry tarts.  Had none of them eaten breakfast? 

    

     Head down, I made my own escape as well.  But not in search of buttery croissants or hot coffee.  No, my goal was shelter.  Get inside, indoors, beyond the reach of the leviathans' shadows.

 

    I can’t outrun an inescapable past.  Neither can you.  But if I ever get the chance to put even a scrap of ground between me and this cursed wilderness, for the love of Jesus, don’t stand in my way.

   

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