Pausing at another corner to wipe sweat from my eyes, I could hear dogs baying in the distance. A cramp knifed in my side, but I had no time to rest. The streets were not at right angles. Don’t get lost, I ordered myself, trying to decide which lane would take me up to the woods. Some internal bell rang at the cannery, much nearer at hand than I was used to. In a yard trimmed with yellow and orange flowers, a woman shaking out a rug cautioned me to slow down or I’d get the prickly heat. When the street forked, I followed the lane on the right between two-story houses and hedged gardens. It became a stairway, which I dashed up, taking two steps at a time, afraid that it might dead-end in a walled park or loop back down. But finally, at the cobbled pavement’s end, I could see a meadow, and beyond it, the forest.
I broke from the village into the belt of arbors and orchards. A fat-bellied cargo plane droned across the sky, escorted by three of our country’s fighters—aircraft that looked decrepit and old-fashioned compared to the warplanes of our stronger allies. Far off to my left, two soldiers with dogs also crossed the meadow—so far away they were mere specks in the shimmering green. Whether anyone saw me or not, I had no choice but to keep going.
Before passing into the wood, I tried to gauge the terrain above me. If I misjudged the direction and got lost even for a matter of minutes, I would arrive too late. I leaned against an umbrella pine to catch my breath, then ran on.
The shade brought relief from the sun, washing over me with the aroma of bark and ferns. Birds sang. I looked around, realizing that I didn’t even think about the way any more when I went by our usual path. Here, the moss was undisturbed, crisscrossed by fallen logs. Boulders reared up like grazing creatures whose heads were buried in the brush. Groves of saplings clustered in the shadow of their giant elders. At first, I wondered if the forest would let me in at all. Following the natural courses of ravines and ridges, I labored up the mountain, pausing often, listening for familiar sounds in the village to check my bearings: the bell at the harbor mouth, the huffing machines at the cannery. I wasn’t certain if I actually heard dogs barking behind the wind or if those sounds were phantom echoes in my head.
When I thought I should be getting close to the grove, I found a tall tree on a rise and hoisted myself into it, scrambling up from limb to limb. High enough at last to peer out over the crowns of the other trees, I searched the forest to the northwest. I saw only treetops whispering and rolling, a boundless sea of leaves beneath the sky. My heart sank. Somewhere, the dogs were drawing ever closer to the garden, their noses to the ground, but I had no path to follow, nothing to guide me. I’d been foolish to think I could get there quickly by a way I’d never used before. From this vantage, I realized how hopeless that was.
Here, but for the occasional murmur from the village, it was easy to believe I was alone in the world, the only human being. This was the kingdom of trees, a place of shifting light and rustling music old almost as the mountains themselves. I had the sensation that I’d passed beyond time itself, that I’d been running up the slopes for years upon years, like a character in a fairy tale—a half hour for me, perhaps, but the village I heard behind me was no longer the same village, and everyone I’d known—Grandmother, my parents, my sister, my friends—was long dead.
I took gasping breaths, overwhelmed with frustration. Burrs clung to my pant legs, and my wet shirt made me shiver. My hands smarted from the rough bark. The major’s men would catch R ——. They’d probably shoot Mr. Girandole, with his goatish legs and hoofs; they’d think him a monster or the devil. And what would become of Grandmother? They’d find her things in the leaning house—carpet bag, lantern, medicines, bucket, and pan; the men would force R —— to tell them who’d helped him. And the major knew the carpet bag well; he’d held it in his hands on the ferry.
Feeling worse by the moment, I prayed to God for help.
I’d never before had a prayer instantly answered, but how could I suppose what happened next to be anything but an answer to prayer? Turning to gaze south, wondering if I could make out anything of the village or the sea, I glimpsed—half-hidden by interposing trees—what seemed to be an open hilltop. And on the bare knoll between trunks was a straight, vertical line. I stared at it, wondering what it could be. A phrase of Grandmother’s played in my mind: Nature abhors a straight line.
All at once, I recognized the corner of the many-pillared temple! I was looking at the hill above the garden’s ravine—the structure to which the stairway led, where the inscription proclaimed, I am a gate.
Breathing my incredulous thanks, I fixed the direction in my mind and returned swiftly to the ground, then dashed off at an angle that would have seemed entirely wrong to me. I’d overshot the grove; if I’d gone just another twenty paces before climbing a tree, the glimpse of the temple would have been lost among the foliage.
The last obstacle was a deep crevice in the ground, a crack with rock walls, its bottom a depository of broken stones and dead leaves. This trench lay across my path, too wide to jump over. But not far away, a fallen tree bridged it.
Clambering through thorns and vines, I reached the trunk. It was hardened and bleached, a great bone of the forest. Having tested it for strength, I eased across on hands and knees, gripping the stubs of shattered limbs. Then I was on the far side and running again, downhill and uphill.
I slid from a bank into a glade where the trees and brush thinned . . . and no more than a good stone’s throw to my right was the back of the mermaid. Tears of relief stung my eyes. Blinking them away, I hurried forward, moving quietly, remembering to stay alert for soldiers.
I passed through the archway into the lower garden and moved back westward, toward the stone house. But once again, Mr. Girandole surprised me by springing from behind the pedestal of the missing statue. He seemed to spend most of his time outdoors, where he could listen to the forest and breathe its scents. And I was sure he didn’t fancy sitting beside R —— for hours on end.
Mr. Girandole trotted toward me, his gaze dark with worry.
“They’ve got dogs!” I blurted. “The major’s men are all back with dogs, and they’re headed this way!”
His eyes flashed, and slowly he nodded. “Come on,” he said, motioning me toward the leaning house. “I knew by the wood’s voices that something was afoot.”
“What can we do?” At his heels I pelted up the stairs, my legs rubbery from my long run.
“We have some advantages. One, I expected dogs from the first day.”
So, he knew about dogs and what they could do. His voice echoed around me as I mounted the dangerous steps inside, their jumbled numbers staring me in the face.
“Two, they don’t know what R —— smells like. They’ll have to start at the parachute, and there have been men tramping all over the ground there and here and everywhere else. Soldiers . . . and the three of us.”
“Us—that’s not good, is it?”
“It’s not that bad. You and M —— don’t have to hide the fact that you’ve been in the garden.” He reached the chamber and jumped down into the well, drawing a cry of surprise from R ——. When I got to the edge, I saw Mr. Girandole stepping back and forth over the patient to rummage through the paraphernalia on the floor. He emptied out the carpet bag and tossed it up to me.
“What is happen?” demanded R ——, who looked improved enough to be alarmed.
“And three,” said Mr. Girandole, “I know from bitter experience how dogs react to me. They’ll go mad when they catch a whiff of faun.”
“Dogs?” asked R ——, his eyes widening.
“Yes.” Mr. Girandole held a finger sharply before the pilot’s face. “We’ll shut you in here, and you will be absolutely quiet if you want to live. You’ve got food, clean water, and the pan. The space isn’t airtight. I’ll take the lantern—someone might recognize it. You’ll be in the dark, so take a good look now at where everything is.”
/> R ——’s lips twitched. He asked a question in his own language.
“I don’t know how long,” Mr. Girandole said. “I’ll have to lead the dogs quite a ways, and they probably won’t all follow me—some will come here.”
I touched the compartment’s rim. “They’ll smell him through the floor, won’t they?”
“Yes, they normally would.” Mr. Girandole held up a large yellow gourd on a shoulder strap—a dried gourd shaped like a bottle. “But we have this. Here; don’t drop it—it’s heavy.” He handed the gourd up to me. From the way it sloshed, I realized it was full of liquid. Two wooden stoppers blocked holes near the top.
“What’s in here?” I asked.
“Don’t open it yet.” Mr. Girandole was not above the annoying adult tendency to answer a question with an order, but I didn’t care. He had a plan, and I was relieved. He stuffed the lantern, the medicine bottles, his own cookware, and Grandmother’s stray dishes into a knapsack of his own. Finally, he used the shears to clip a long strip off the edge of the sheet from R ——’s pallet. He looped it through an arm hole of the flak vest and laid the vest across R ——. “Hug this,” Mr. Girandole told him. “Wipe your face on it. Rub it against yourself.”
R —— did his best.
“Good,” said Mr. Girandole. He dropped his own shoes into his pack and hung it on his shoulder. “We’ll do all we can to keep them from finding you, R ——. But if they do, you’ll say no word about the kind woman or her grandson. I am the only one who helped you.”
R —— nodded. “Thank you,” he said.
Hesitantly, Mr. Girandole offered his hand, and the pilot shook it.
Having floundered up out of the compartment beneath his load, Mr. Girandole slid the stone lid closed. R —— watched bleakly as the slab crossed between us and him and locked shut with a boom.
Mr. Girandole hurried to the window, where he stuck his head out. Then he pulled a stopper from the gourd he’d given me. I gasped and covered my nose and mouth. My eyes watered.
“Mixed it up myself,” Mr. Girandole said. “I was beginning to think we wouldn’t need it. None of the ingredients individually is as bad as you imagine. But put them together and let them ferment. . . .” He clapped my shoulder. “It smells twenty times worse to a dog.” He turned to the stairway. “A little goes a long way. Sprinkle it around this room and on the stairs as you come down. And all across the terrace, and the ground nearby. Then do the whole garden until you run out—here and there, you know, spread it out. The dogs will tie their leashes in knots and hang the major’s men from trees before they’ll come near this place.”
I nodded. “But won’t it be too obvious? An awful smell in the one place we don’t want them to look?”
Mr. Girandole narrowed his eyes. “They’ll know something happened. They’ll look around here again, but I’m hoping they won’t suppose there’s anywhere to hide. If I can give them an interesting scent to follow in another direction . . .”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll make a sweep to the south, crossing their paths before they get to the parachute, and I’ll lead them to it. My own scent and R ——’s. Then I’ll head away over the mountain. The soldiers have no reason to suspect R —— isn’t alone.”
It made good sense to me.
“I have to go,” he said. “I can hear them. You should circle back the way you came—”
“Don’t worry about me. Just be careful yourself.” I started sprinkling the vile substance, holding my breath. It looked yellowish in the air but left only wet patches on the stone. I felt sorry for R ——, under the floor. Surely, the odor would reach him there, and he had no hope of fresh air.
Mr. Girandole lingered at the top of the stairs. “You and M —— will have questions to answer. Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine. She’s having lunch with the major.”
Mr. Girandole gave me such a look that I would have laughed under different circumstances.
“She didn’t want to,” I added quickly. “She had to go along with him so I could get away.”
He nodded uneasily and was gone.
I finished the room, taking care not to get any of the terrible stuff on me, then worked my way down the stairs. It was hard going, moving backward and with only one hand to grip the steps. I’d already discovered the liquid came out more freely with the second stopper removed; both hung on strings from the gourd’s neck, so I didn’t have to put them into my pocket.
I dosed the stairway, jumping down the last stretch to escape rivulets of the potion. Then I sprinkled the terrace, being sure to hit the benches we’d used. I splashed both stairways leading up to it, backtracking so as not to walk through the stench I’d laid down.
By the gourd’s heft, I figured just over half the contents remained. Far off behind the whispers of leaves, I thought I could hear the dogs, a chorus of barking on many pitches. I worked through the garden in a clockwise circle, apologizing to each statue as I contaminated its base and the earth before it. I fanned a liberal dose at the grove’s entrance nearest the parachute. By the time I got to the mermaid, the gourd was mostly empty. I poured the last few drops onto her inscribed slab.
Then I looked at the empty gourd, thinking hard. It wouldn’t do to take it with me. I didn’t want any dogs later to have the same reaction to me or to Grandmother’s cottage that they had to the garden. The only place this container might be overlooked was here, in the grove that reeked the same way.
Looking around, I decided on the thicket south of the mermaid, behind the tortoise, a tangle of vines and thorny bushes so dense that I doubted even a rabbit could pass through it. The bushes stretched all the way to where Heracles towered above them, the creepers clinging to his waist.
Mr. Girandole hadn’t said what he wanted done with the gourd, but I couldn’t believe it would ever be usable again. I dashed around the stone wall to the tortoise, pulled back my arm, and threw the gourd deep into the morass, aiming for Heracles. It fell far short of him but plummeted through the leaves into wiry depths from which there could be no returning.
Leaving the grove by the mermaid’s clearing, I descended the slopes rapidly, stopping often to listen. I was sure I could hear dogs on both sides of me now, though both groups seemed to be higher up. I prayed Godspeed for Mr. Girandole. I’d arrived at the grove not a moment too soon.
I met no one. When I came to the meadow above the village, I guessed it could be no later than two o’clock. For the benefit of anyone who might be watching, I did my best to cross the ground aimlessly, as if enjoying the summer day: I went out of my way to follow a trickling stream in a marshy place, then stopped to lie down in the grass and study the clouds.
The exhaustion of my morning’s efforts caught up with me. Among the fragrant stems, with grasshoppers using me as a step-stone, I could have fallen asleep with no trouble, but the breeze had picked up, and a mist veiled the sun. I remembered the talk of the morning, how everyone had been predicting rain.
Rain. What would that do, I wondered, to the trails of scent? I doubted anything short of a flood would wash away the stench from the monsters’ grove.
* * * *
I returned to find Grandmother entertaining two ladies in the back garden. Before I stepped into sight, I heard them plying Grandmother with questions about Major P ——. “Was that all he said?” one of them asked. “And how were his table manners?”
“It’s unnatural,” said the other, “for a man of his age and position to be unmarried.”
“He was married, wasn’t he?” asked Grandmother. “I believe his wife died about four years ago.”
“Then all the more reason for you to steer well away from him, M ——,” said the first woman, who I now saw through a gap in the hedge was Mrs. C ——. “Why, if he had propositioned me in front of the police office—”
“He didn’t proposition me, E ——,” said Grandmother patiently. “Unless you read a great deal more than I do into the hotel’s mackerel.”
I rustled the grass with my feet and rounded the hedge.
“Why, there he is now!” cried the other, Mrs. D ——. “And just look at the little vagabond! Burrs from head to toe!” But she grinned at me, bunching her plump cheeks, and beckoned me toward the table, pointing at the tray of fresh cookies and crackers spread with liver-paste.
The ladies must have been desperate to hear about the major; the hour or so after lunch was usually nap time if we were home and Grandmother wasn’t otherwise busy—it was much too early for tea.
“I don’t for the life of me know why you let him roam like that,” said Mrs. C ——, shaking her head.
“Boys will be boys,” said Grandmother, studying me carefully, her gaze taking in the carpet bag. “That’s one thing that doesn’t change with the generations.”
I gave her a smile which communicated, I hoped, that things for the moment were going as well as they might be. At the sight of the crackers, I noticed how hungry I was.
“Go and wash your hands and face, and comb those seeds out of your hair,” Grandmother said. “Then in the kitchen, you’ll find a sandwich waiting for you, from the hotel.”
“Courtesy of the Army!” said Mrs. D —— with a theatrical sweep of her arms.
Mrs. C —— humphed in disgust.
Excusing myself, I obeyed the orders to wash and decided the burrs on my trousers could wait until after I’d eaten. I sat at the kitchen table, and while I was thinking of it, I took from my pocket the money Grandmother had given me earlier and left it on the tabletop. The sandwich lay wrapped in white paper stained with oil.
I said a quick but heartfelt grace and devoured it, finding delight in the crunchy roll, the meats and cheeses, the crisp lettuce and cucumbers, and the spicy green mustard. The overcast sun through the garden’s leaves filled the kitchen with a greenish murk, and I could feel the rain coming. Talk drifted in at the open window—talk of Major P —— and what he might be playing at; then Mrs. D —— and Mrs. C —— discussed news from the war front. Some reports said we were gaining ground, and some said we were losing it.
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