A History of Wild Places(37)
I feel in my pocket for the small silver token I found in the garden. I grip the miniature book in my palm, grains of dirt still stuck to the edges. It’s a peculiar object, one I don’t understand, yet I keep it secret in my pocket so Theo won’t see. A thing only meant for me.
My eyes find Henry—seated near the front of the circle, his white-gray hair trimmed closely along the nape of his neck, shoulders bent forward, old bones unable to find a posture that doesn’t hurt on the hard wood benches. Henry is one of the oldest members in Pastoral—he arrived on the yellow school bus with the other founders. He’s seen the hardest winters and known every decision our community has made over the years. He’s also mended and repaired and built many things within the community: dining chairs, windchimes, spoons, garden gates, and doorknobs. Theo even had him craft the wedding band I wear on my ring finger, forged from an old bit of scrap metal. I trust Henry, and I wait for him to speak up, to share some knowledge he’s gathered from all his years inside Pastoral, about what should be done. But instead, he merely tilts his gaze up to the trees, as if he’s recalling something, a time that’s slipped from his grasp.
“We are grateful for this new life Colette has brought into the world,” Levi says now, walking from one side of the stage to the other, keeping our focus on him. “But we should not get carried away with ideas that could endanger our community or our lives. Our solitude is what has allowed us to endure.” All eyes meet with Levi’s. A toddler makes a soft sputtering sound to my right, fussing in his mom’s arms. “We should not make a foolish mistake; we should not risk our safety by venturing down the road. We should not risk more lives.”
A mix of words are passed down the rows. Members deciding for themselves if they agree with Levi’s assessment, or if it’s worth going past the border… and leaving Pastoral.
“We could take one of the cars,” someone suggests softly, meekly. “Maybe one of them still runs.”
The collection of cars sitting abandoned in the dirt lot just south of the community haven’t been started in years. Most have been picked apart, tires taken off, motors repurposed, fuel siphoned. The odds of one of their engines actually turning over seem unlikely.
“Please,” Levi says, shaking his head. “I understand why you all feel so strongly about this. It is a life that we want to protect—a new life—and we value this life more than anything. It is precious and vital to our existence—to our survival. But we have made a decision in living here, separating ourselves from the outside. And we cannot risk the whole of the community for one life.” He walks to the side of the stage, the group following his movements with the turn of their heads. “And yes, perhaps we could provide Colette’s baby with medicines and care inside a hospital, with the help of doctors, but is that what we really want? To sacrifice our way of life, to not let nature decide for us if she should live? Isn’t this what we have dedicated ourselves to: trusting the land to provide for us, to give what it can, and sometimes take away as well.” He breathes and clasps his hands together. He knows the group has fallen still—rapt in their attention, focused solely on him. “Isn’t this the cycle we have agreed upon? We cannot be so selfish to think we can change the course of what is meant to be. This baby was a gift, and not all gifts are meant to be kept.”
A few people fidget in their seats, someone clears their throat just to my right but they do not speak.
Levi lifts his head, looking tired suddenly, as if each word were stripping away a part of him. “Yes, it is a life. But we have lost lives before, dealt with death and grief, even in ones as young as Colette’s baby. This is not a first for us.”
A cool, eerie quiet sinks over the group, as if each of us is recalling some loss: those we have buried in the earth at the edge of the community.
“I know it’s tempting to think perhaps the road is safe after so long, but we have all seen the border trees weeping. The illness still resides in our woods.” He points at the forest to the west, the boundary not far from where we all sit gathered together.
More hush, not even a whisper.
Theo’s back is rigid beside me, hands on his knees, not so much as a flinch while Levi speaks—no recognition that he has done the very thing Levi is imploring us to avoid. And yet, my husband feels warm and alive beside me, not a man with rot inside him.
“Do not judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds that you plant,” Levi continues. He walks to the front of the stage, eyes wide and bright now. I understand why Bee loves him, why she is drawn to him—his words feel like cold spring water on sunburnt skin. A remedy we all need. “Haven’t we planted seeds here, set roots in the ground for a different way of life? Do we want to go backward now? Rip the plants from the soil and destroy what we have cultivated?”
I find myself leaning forward in my chair. Yes, I think. We have built something here. Something beautiful, and we should not give this up. We should not risk more lives just for one.
There is a long, heavy pause, and I can almost hear the brushing of eyelids opening and closing—the breath weighted in our lungs.
“We cannot risk sending anyone through the woods.” His eyes lower, then lift again. “I am your leader, and I am protecting you now by deciding that we shall not take Colette’s baby down the road, through the forest. I am bearing this burden so none of you have to. Her small, precious life is my responsibility. And I choose to protect the group, protect our life here—this is the sacrifice I make for you all, to take her tiny life into my hands.” He breathes deeply again and brings a hand to his heart, eyebrows curved down, a look of sincere sadness in his dark, unflinching gaze. “Tomorrow night, we will burn sage along the boundary and the smoke will push the disease back into the trees. We will be safe. We will endure as we always have. We will survive.”