A History of Wild Places(27)

“Let us know if we can do anything to help,” my husband replies, but I can hear the strain in his voice—he wants this conversation to end as quickly as I do.

Thankfully Ash nods and they walk toward the circle, finding a place to sit near the back, talking softly between them—of baby names perhaps, of the crib that Ash has been building, or if they’d prefer a boy over a girl.

We just need to get this over with, I think. Avoid eye contact, keep our heads down, and we won’t have to lie to anyone. But from the corner of my vision, I see Birdie edging her way toward me.

She does it slowly—no loud greetings or outstretched arms to draw me to her. Instead it’s a clandestine effort, and when she reaches me, her head is low. “Warm night,” she says, her flat, terse lips drawn down. Birdie and I have an easy, quiet kind of friendship. She’s taught me how to stitch Theo’s old shirts into sacks for storing flour and grain, the best way to layer compost, and how to can wild blueberries in lemon juice so they don’t turn into lumpy syrup. It’s a friendship of little burden or necessity.

But now, something seems off, and Birdie’s eyes skip around the gathering circle to those standing near us, then touches the old scar on her left elbow, like she could worry it away—some years ago, she sliced it on a metal scythe during the wheat harvest and it healed jagged, a serrated uneven line of pink flesh.

“Yes, it is,” I answer, hoping she will wander away to find a seat, and not ask me why Theo seems so stiff beside me. But instead she releases her hand from her elbow and touches my arm. “I need to speak to you.” She looks at me slantwise, her skin like the surface of a walnut, cracked and worn down.

Before I can ask what’s wrong, she tugs me several paces away from Theo, back into the shadow of the elms behind us, where our voices won’t be heard.

“How is your garden?” she asks, her eyes too white at the edges. This question isn’t merely a common inquiry into the health of my summer garden—she needs something.

“It’s fine.”

“Is the yarrow ready to harvest?”

“Almost.” Some in the community hang fresh yarrow—immediately after it’s been plucked from the soil—from the highest point of their ceilings. It’s said to keep away illness, and when drunk in tea, it can cleanse a common winter flu from the body. “It should be ready in a week,” I tell her.

Her right eye twitches, and she starts rubbing the scar again. I wish she’d stop. It’s making me edgy, a nervous ache already twisting at my joints. “Has something happened?” I ask.

Several yards away, Theo turns his head, glancing back into the trees at Birdie and me. He’s pretending not to listen, but I’m sure he’s able to pick up a word or two.

Birdie’s mouth sinks into a frown, and for a moment she looks like she’s going to stride away without saying anything—lost her nerve. But then she clears her throat. “Three days ago, Arwen got too close to the edge.” She looks out into the crowd not yet seated, and her eyes find her son, Arwen, standing beside her husband. Arwen is only ten years old, and has always been a crouched-in-the-corner, rather-be-reading-a-book kind of child. Timid and quiet, thoughtful. “He didn’t mean to, he was hanging laundry on the line when one of my kitchen rags caught in the wind and blew into the trees.” She sucks in a shaky breath. “I yelled to him just as he reached an arm across the boundary. I told him to leave the rag, and he did, but his arm still went past the border trees.”

I reach out and squeeze her hand. “It was only an arm, Birdie, I’m sure he’s fine.”

She nods quickly, manically, and in lieu of jittering her leg, she begins chewing on the side of her cheek. She’s lived here most of her life, came in the early years, then had her son in Pastoral. She knows the risks. She knows what could happen if Arwen brought the sickness back with him. “Our house is so close to the border,” she continues. “I can see it from our bedroom window.” She stops fidgeting and looks me dead in the eyes. “Lately, the trees at the boundary have been splitting open.”

My breathing stalls in my throat. We’ve gone months without seeing the border trees peel open, and at times it feels as if the sickness might have left our woods, and perhaps our forest might be safe. But then, always, the bark begins to crack open again, sap leeching down their trunks, and we know the rot is still there. Always close. I want to turn and look at Theo, to see if he’s listening, if he’s heard, but I keep my gaze on Birdie. “It doesn’t mean Arwen is sick,” I assure her, but a thread of ice runs down to my tailbone. “How has he seemed?” I ask softly, leaning closer to her.

“We haven’t noticed anything yet. No signs of it.”

He shouldn’t be here, I think. Among the others. He should be at home, in his room, kept separate until we know for sure.

But my husband is here, isn’t he? A man who has done far worse—who willingly, defiantly, stepped over the boundary each night, countless times. For a whole year he has lied, but he has also survived. Never showing any hints of illness.

“Have you told Levi?” I ask.

She looks down at her hands. “I told him about the trees breaking open. But not about Arwen.” Her eyes lift. “I don’t want to alarm anyone if it’s nothing.”

I squeeze her hand, understanding all too well why she doesn’t want to say anything to the group. No point causing panic if it’s unnecessary.