A History of Wild Places(36)

But she’s not standing at the tree line or at the corner of the kitchen building where I usually see her. She must be somewhere else.

Levi appears from the fence line that borders the crop fields—as if he’s been wandering the rows, thinking—and he climbs the short steps and walks to the center of the stage, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, head bowed slightly, like he’s carefully considering the words he will speak, sensing the restless state of his people.

I do not envy what he must do—decide the fate of Colette’s child.

A hush sinks over the group, faces tilted upward and bodies leaned forward, anxious to hear about the baby—the too-small newborn with a too-small heart. It’s been years since one of our members was this gravely ill, aside from the few elders whose time it was to pass on anyway.

I lean forward, hands in my lap.

“I know everyone has their own opinions about what should be done,” Levi begins, eyes cast down at the stage, a sign of his humility, a show of his reverence for his people. His eyebrows are sloped together, and he has the look of a man burdened with something none of us could imagine. “But we have more than one life to consider here. We have an entire community.” He finally looks up, his soft gaze passing over the crowd, and any lingering side conversations fall quiet. A wind stirs over the group, brushing through our hair, chilling our skin, and I catch Levi’s eyes straying on me, then flicking out beyond the circle—he’s searching for Bee, for the comfort and assurance she provides. He needs her, but she has slipped away somewhere out of sight.

“As most of you know,” he continues, eyes clicking back to the front row of the gathering circle, “our newest arrival was born into Pastoral last night. But she was born early, too early, and she is unwell.”

Someone coughs, shifting in their seat, and the wood bench creaks beneath them.

Someone else, seated near the front, speaks up—her voice like a sharp stab in the air. “We can’t let the child die.” It looks like Birdie, her nest of curly gray hair pinned at the nape of her neck. She asked me for yarrow at the last gathering, her nerves on edge, fearful that her son Arwen might be sick. But she never came to the house for a bit of fresh ginger from the garden. Perhaps she was afraid the others might see her—and they might wonder if something had happened. Or maybe she realized it was a worthless remedy anyway. I only offered it as comfort.

Several heads in the group nod, but others grumble their dissent.

Levi’s posture changes, but it doesn’t stiffen, he seems to relax, settle in. “I know some of you believe we should go into town, get medicine or help. But I assure you that Faye is working tirelessly to save the child.”

The group slips into low conversations, questions that congeal in the air, becoming thick and suffocating. I twirl my wedding band around my finger, a nervousness I can’t shake, then look across the crowd, searching again for my sister, just as Levi did moments ago.

But a voice rises above the group, cutting through the chatter. “The baby needs a doctor.”

I know the voice, could pick it out anywhere: Bee. And when I turn, this time I do find her, leaning against one of the skinny aspen trees just outside the circle. Her arms are crossed and she doesn’t make a move to step closer to the group. Instead, her gray eyes are focused solely on Levi, even if she can’t see him.

Levi raises a hand as if he could calm the nerves rattling up inside everyone’s throats. “We don’t yet know how severe her condition is.”

“I do,” Bee replies, oddly defiant. Lines of confusion tug across Levi’s forehead—Bee doesn’t normally speak to him like this, certainly not in front of the others at the gathering. This birth, this child, has upset Bee more than usual, and I’m not sure why. She uncrosses her arms. “The baby needs medicine, possibly surgery,” she adds. “Or she’ll die.”

“We should take the child into town,” Birdie interjects, swiveling around to face Levi.

More heads nod, severe and quick.

“There is nothing to decide,” a male voice says now. “We will go get help.” A different kind of silence falls over the group. It’s Ash who’s spoken up—Colette’s husband and the baby’s father. He’s been quiet this whole time, listening, but now he stands up from his seat and everyone turns to face him. He is a tall, broad man, but he is also soft-spoken, careful with his words. “No one’s traveled the road in years,” he appeals, his voice sounding like it might break, close to giving out completely. “Maybe someone could pass through safely without getting sick.”

A chatter of yesses and motions of agreement stir like a spring breeze, calm at first, but a storm could easily be brewing deep within.

“We should try,” Roona—the community cook—says.

“Poor Colette,” Olive chimes in—one of the guardians who teaches lessons to the younger children.

The group often makes decisions on matters like this together, through vote or simply by beginning a project in earnest (i.e. the building of a new storage shed, the tearing down of a dying tree). We operate collectively. But we also defer to Levi when a decision cannot be made. His opinions are final, and are not questioned.

A moment passes and Levi holds his palms up to the group, asking them to quiet so he may speak. It’s not a forceful gesture—it’s patient, reverent, and again, I think how difficult this must be for him, to see his people desperate to save a life while also bearing the responsibility of protecting us all. “We should not be foolish in thinking the road is clear or safe. Many of you have seen the trees breaking open along the boundary in recent days, and we cannot risk more lives for the life of one. The safety of our community is most important.”