Buxton School - Yearbook (Williamstown, MA)

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everywhere 4 they suddenly stopped. Everything was without noise. There is nothing louder than silence in the woods when even the small cricket ceases its constant whirring. My nose twitched as the acid smell of decaying matter came to me. My heart missed a beat. Feeling something in back of me, I jumped and spun around with all my strength. Yvhat I saw froze my blood. There standing before the tent was my guide. ln his face, in his body, there was a rigidity that was forced. It was as if he were holding himself by sheer willpower alone. Coming toward him were trees. I don't mean that they were actually moving but in a place where there had never been any, a giant one would appear. This same thing would happen over and over again . . . They surrounded him and closed in, crushing together until just one path remained. Then even that was blocked. The last thing I saw was the restrained terror in those eyes. Wlhen they found me I was alone, trying to push through a hopelessly im- possible mass of trees, in a place where no camp could ever be pitched. The canoe was nowhere to be found, the tent was in a tumbled heap. The food and equip- ment were scattered over the ground. The sight of those eyes still remains with me. Those horrible eyes watching me -- that's why l'm here. Nowhere inside these walls are those trees. The only thing I can't do is pass through those gates, for out there the eyes wait for me. - Jamem Read ,I IIULXH RTN lv.'s5'4Q5Q -Q r , 57

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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

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