Buxton School - Yearbook (Williamstown, MA)

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The next day, while I was wondering just how long I'd be able to continue, this boy walks into camp saying that he's heard I need a guide and that he'd be willing to show me the way, no matter where I wanted to go, as long as I'd help him get a job when we returned to civilization. He was lean, hard, and would have been exceptionally good-looking had it not been for a scar that began just below his left ear and ran across the side of his face seeming to enter the corner of his mouth: this made him look tough and mean, yet at the same time he was gentle. Well, that night I lay back against the tent pole and dozed on and off, half watching the movements of my guide. He was squatting beside the fire staring into the flames as they leaped in a victory dance. The unscarred side of his face was turned toward me. His profile was silhouetted. He was unmistakably some creature from the deep areas of the wood, clear cut, manly, and beautiful. Through half-closed eyes I watched him, not thinking of anything important. He began to croon in a soft insidious voice. When I say croon I mean just that. He didn't sing any of the songs Pete had. The loud raucous songs that drive loneliness out of a campfire and bring all sorts together. It was more a chant. When I'd been in medical school I'd heard just that sort of noise from a nurse breaking under the pressure of an operation, but then her voice had risen into hysterical weeping. The boy just sat there rocking imperceptibly back and forth moaning softly. The undulating chant rose and fell in the same manner. I was under its spell. I felt any movement to be impossible. My eyes grew heavy and I knew that sleep was coming. When I woke there was no fire and no camp. I seemed to be high in the air. I wasn't floating, walking or moving. I was just there. There was no feeling in my arms or legs. In fact the only part of me that I had any control over was my eyes. Somewhere I saw a tree fall. It too was in the void. There were no other trees around. Yet I saw a tree fall where there could be no tree. There was no place where it could grow or even stand. As the great weight hurtled down, a boy, my new guide, ran under it. A branch caught the side of his face tearing the flesh away, leaving it hanging by a mere fragment. The boy never stopped. Reaching out his hand, he grabbed some cobwebs from nowhere and jammed them into the wound. He drew near me and in his one good eye, I saw a steady, gleaming look of horror. I was appalled by the soul-tearing depths that it seemed to reach. I believe I must have cried out loud. The next minute I was back lying against the tent. Mister, do you want your supper now? was the first thing I registered on. I sat up rubbing my eyes. The tent was still there. The fire burned just as brightly as it had when I last saw it. I looked carefully at the boy's face. It was no different from any other time. The obvious answer was that I'd been dreaming. I still felt queer. Taking my plate I began to eat slowly. Where'd you get the scar? 55

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A tree fell on me a while back. The answer startled me but even more so the way it was delivered. The eyes were the same as those in the dream. The sheer horror couldn't possibly be sur- passed. I didn't say anymore. We finished the meal and washed up. As soon as the camp was cleared and everything was packed for an early start we turned in. I lay awake for a while turning the episode over in my mind. But after the long day, sleep quickly caught me. The following morning my worries seemed to be no more than abad dream. We swung out onto the lake with a steady rhythm that was to take us many miles. We were on the last leg of the journey. By the end of the next day I'd be back in the confines of a town. I'd have to help my friend get a job of some kind. But now there was nothing for me to do but breathe in the sweet morning air and watch the shoulders of my guide rise and fall with the swing of the paddle. The mist was lifting from the lake, and it promised to be a good day. Eating at the end of the third portage, I found that the dry food tasted wonder- ful, especially when washed down with clear lake water. The sun was high. It was hot, we were both tired. It was there that I first smelled it, a strong pungent odor that made the woods reek and the nostrils tighten and expand. It was the smell of decaying matter, as if the trees of the forest had moved in their ancient resting places stirring up all that was foul in the earth. It wasn't good. The boy jumped up and immediately began loading the canoe. I helped him, as far as I was concerned my main objective in life was to get away from that horrible stench. It wasn't until we got onto the lake and away from the presence of the decay- ing smell that either of us looked back. The boy's face was a sickly green with a blotched effect. His scar stood out heavily on his cheek, red and angry. I was startled into asking a question. There was no answer, only a hoarse grunt and a heavy unrhythmical paddling. I shrugged it off as due to a weak stomach. But it bothered me. It was something that I couldn't understand. If there is one thing I hate, it is not being able to come to grips with something. When it came time to camp the boy was all for pushing on. I would have nothing to do with it. My last night was going to be spent in relaxation. The remainder of the trip was easy. Down the Crane River and across the Big Fish Lake. The trip ended there. A friend was to pick me up in a plane, the canoe being carefully stored for the next year. I was to fly home, to settle back into a routine of patients and bridge. I didn't look forward to it, but it was something that had to come. The evening seemed to settle onto us much too fast. The darkness rolled over us like a blanket. Here and there a star twinkled out. The night became a liv- ing and breathing thing. I walked down to the lake shore where I sat smoking, looking out across the path the moon made on the water. At the bottom of the rocky ledge on which I sat, the waves playfully sucked. The night sounds were 56