“Maybe Big Foot is selective in his use of electromagnetic-pulse weapons,” said Duke as Vince turned back around to follow the other two inside the building.
“Yeah, just like nature is selective in selecting who she makes into a moron,” replied Vince. “You being a prime example.”
Nineteen
Psychiatric Evaluation
He’d been driving for three hours straight, and in addition to needing a bit of nature’s relief, Agent Westmore thought a break from the monotony of the road was a good idea. He found a rest area south of Pendleton, Oregon, and after taking care of nature’s business, he grabbed a beer from the small cooler he always brought along on road trips, sat at a picnic table with faded and blistering green paint, and decided to take the opportunity to read a few more of the documents from Matthew Duncan’s case history.
A stiff but warm breeze forced him to keep one arm firmly on top of the documents, pinning them to the picnic table. Though the wind was distracting enough, he was also pestered by an unusually noisy bird singing from a nearby tree. Trying his best to ignore both the wind and the bird, he popped the top on his beer and began to read:
Edgewood Medical Center
Psychiatric Unit
Patient Psychiatric Evaluation
Evaluation given by: Dr. Cedric Moore
Patient: Matthew William Duncan
Summary of Interaction/Evaluation: The patient was transferred to the Psychiatric Unit after being admitted to the emergency room. He had sustained an injury to his head consisting of a moderate laceration to his forehead over his left eye. Patient is a ranger for the U.S. Forest Service, and the injury was sustained after an apparent fall while working at Mount Rainier National Park. This information was supplied by his supervisor who transported him to the emergency room.
The supervisor reported to emergency room personnel that the patient was not speaking, although fully conscious. Dr. Rene Berkheim, the attending emergency room physician, confirmed this. After observation in the emergency room and attending to the patient’s minor wound, Dr. Berkheim began to suspect that the patient may have been “faking” his inability to talk. His supervisor doubted that it would be in the patient’s nature to do so, but Dr. Berkheim remained skeptical. MRI and X-ray scans displayed no apparent abnormalities or injuries to the patient’s skull or brain. On Dr. Berkheim’s recommendation, the patient was transferred to the Psychiatric Unit.
The attending unit night nurse reported that the patient appeared to have slept soundly throughout the night, checking on him at regular 1-hour intervals.
When I first contacted the patient, he was awake, alert, and smiled when I entered his room. He was standing by his window looking out. I asked the patient how he was feeling and he immediately answered, “Very well.” I was of course quite surprised by this, having reviewed the report from the emergency room and personally spoken with Dr. Berkheim about his apparent inability to talk.
After the patient responded to me, I said to him, “Well, it seems you’re able to talk today. That’s wonderful.” He then said to me, “Yesterday was a very confusing day to me, but I think it’s all coming together for me now.” I then said to him, “That must have been quite a fall you took in the park yesterday.” The patient then said, “I don’t remember much about falling,” to which I responded, “That’s understandable.”
I then told the patient that all the tests and charts looked good and asked him if he thought he would be ready to go back to work at the park soon. He then said to me, “I think that part of my life has ended.” I asked him what he meant by that and he said, “I’ve got other work to do.” I asked him what kind of work and he said, “I think it’s already started here, even yesterday, and will continue. You’re here to help me do that.”
I told the patient I was indeed here to help him, but I didn’t understand what he meant by his work at the park having “ended” or that his work had started here. He said he didn’t expect me to understand. I then asked him pointedly, “So you don’t want us to call your supervisor and have him come and pick you up today or tomorrow?” He responded, “That won’t be necessary. I won’t be going back to work there. Please trust me, that work for me has ended.”
I asked the patient where it was he wanted to go, if he wasn’t going back to the park to work. He said he was exactly where he needed to be at the moment, though he would be leaving soon. I then concluded the conversation and left the patient in his room.
Analysis: My initial surprise at the patient’s “sudden” ability to talk, combined with his rather cryptic comments about his work at the park having “ended,” lead me to believe that he is trying to set up some sort of work-related psychiatric disability lawsuit from his employment with the U.S. Forest Service. I firmly believe that there is nothing psychologically or physically wrong with the patient.
As the patient has no home or family in Edgewood and is not interested in being picked up by his supervisor, I am recommending that he be placed on a 24-hour hold in the unit, for continued observation, but that he then be released. I will be making a call to his supervisor with the forest service to give him an update on the patient’s condition and status.
Agent Westmore finished the rest of his beer and put the report on the bottom of the pile. Leaving the stack on the table, he went back to his car, grabbed another can from the cooler, and popped it open. Though the wind had completely stopped, the bird in the nearby tree was still as chatty as ever. He sipped his beer and looked toward the tree to spot the bird but could only see small outlines here and there of what he thought might be the bird in the leafy branches. He returned to the table and noticed a partial piece of dried bread on the ground nearby. He set his beer down, picked up the bread, and broke it into smaller pieces. He walked back toward the tree and cast the bread pieces out toward the noisy bird. It immediately stopped its singing.
Except for the occasional passing of vehicles on the highway, Agent Westmore was suddenly surrounded by silence—a silence he found both peaceful and unusual. For a brief moment, as David Westmore stood there bathed in silence, looking at the breadcrumbs he’d scattered on the ground, something almost opened in him—the meanings in the silence almost spoke to him. But just as suddenly, that small opening closed, and he returned to the picnic bench, sat down, and took another sip of beer.
Twenty
A Gift
For Carl Taylor, sitting by the river at McCann Park was always an especially nice place for listening to the world and nature, as it was just far enough from the constant rumble of traffic noise in Cottonwood. It offered him an ideal location to escape the noise and find the world. The town was a place where he could talk and listen to his friends, but the park was a place he could commune with all of nature.
There was a solitary bench resting not far from the banks of the Little Bear River. A bench of some kind had occupied the same location for decades, having been replaced several times, though not recently. The current bench was covered with many coats of paint. Some years the bench was painted white, sometimes brown, and sometimes, as in this year, it was green.
Though Carl enjoyed the stories he heard from friends in town, whenever he sat on the bench near Little Bear River, it was time for him to listen to the stories that nature told. On this particular day, Carl was listening to the river tell a story about summer and the rains that had tumbled to the ground the night before in the nearby mountains. These very same rains were now passing by in the river.
As he’d hoped, there was a slight breeze blowing toward him from across the river. The air caressed his face lightly, and he could smell the fishy and watery life the river nurtured. It reminded him somehow of his youth, of passion and vitality. Carl then heard another familiar sound in the symphony of nature he was enjoying—human footsteps. Someone was approaching him from behind.
These were distantly familiar footsteps—he knew them but hadn’t heard them in a long time. He knew that the person was not a stranger, but
he could not quite match the exact person with the approaching sound. The person was a male; he knew that for certain. He also knew the man was young, though not as young as a teenager. There was also some unique quality to the footsteps—some purpose. There was even another quality to them which Carl had never heard before in any footsteps.
This additional quality he heard in the approaching footsteps was hard for Carl to identify, but if there was a sound that could be made when one puzzle piece fits inside another or one person’s hand is perfectly joined when holding another’s, those would have the same quality. It was the sound of a perfect fit. Carl had never heard that before in anyone’s footsteps, certainly not in the footsteps of people hurrying about on the streets of Cottonwood, and whoever the approaching person was, was precisely where he fit into time and space at that exact moment. As Carl’s heart beat just a little faster, he knew—these were not the footsteps of someone aimlessly strolling by Little Bear River.
The footsteps were now about five feet to Carl’s left and moving toward the front of the bench. Small goose bumps rose on Carl’s arms, and a tingle danced up his spine. This person, he thought, walking with such intent and being exactly where he needed to be, was going to be an interesting person to become reacquainted with.
“Hello, familiar stranger,” Carl said as the footsteps had moved around the bench and stood directly in front of him.
“Hello, Carl.”
“Your voice and footsteps are familiar, though it has been a while, hasn’t it?” asked Carl.
“Yes, many years.”
“More than ten?” asked Old Blind Carl.
“You’re getting warmer. Should I tell you or do you want to keep guessing?”
“You used to live in Cottonwood…but you’ve grown up.”
“Yes, very good, and you were my favorite storyteller. I’d sit with you at your table in front of Masterson’s, and we’d share a chocolate cherry ice cream or sometimes a lemon fizz. You’d tell me stories until after sunset when the streetlights would begin to hum and pop on. Remember those days?”
“Matt? Matt Duncan? Is that you?! Oh my Lord, I always wondered if you’d ever pass this way again. Sit down!” Carl patted the wooden bench next to him. “I heard you were back in town, but I didn’t connect that to your footsteps. I must be slipping. How long has it been?”
“Twelve years and a few months,” said Matthew, accepting the invitation.
“I knew you were not a stranger on your approach, but you’ve put on some weight, and your voice is deeper. You’ve gone and got all grown up on me,” said Carl. “Let me see now….”
Old Blind Carl reached over and touched Matthew’s arm, then up to his shoulder, along the side of his face, up to his hair, and then back down to his nose and lips.
“You’ve grown up into a fine lookin’ man, I see,” said Carl. “You’ve kept yourself in shape, too. Did you continue with all those fancy martial arts Amida and Ichiro were teaching you?”
“Yes, I’ve kept up with them while I was away,” said Matthew, “and I’ve even had the chance to teach them to others during the past few years.”
“Excellent,” said Carl. “I always figured you’d become a teacher someday.”
“But I became a forest ranger, not a teacher.”
“Rebecca told me all about that, working up there in…Washington State, was it?”
“She talked to you about me?”
“Everyone talks about everything to me,” Carl said with a chuckle.
“Of course,” replied Matthew with a chuckle of his own.
There were a few moments of silence before Carl said, “Rebecca told me you were back. I hope you went to see her first thing. You broke her heart, you know—just disappearin’ like that.”
Matthew chuckled. “I seem to have a knack for disappearing. Yes, I have seen her. I’ve come back to marry her and live in Cottonwood.”
Carl paused before replying, then finally said, “And she’s agreed to your plans? She’s gonna’ have you back after your vanishing act?”
“Oh, you know as well as I do that the ways of a woman’s heart are as mysterious as the song this river sings…but, yes, I’m confident she’s going to have me back.”
“Confidence…that’s what I heard in your footsteps as you approached me. Confidence and something else…something I now hear in your voice as well.”
Matthew’s voice reminded him of the churning song of the river, or of rain splattering, birds chirping, insects buzzing, or snow falling gently on dry winter leaves. It didn’t sound like these things but was filled with the naturalness and completeness of them. It was the quality of all natural and unforced sounds. It was the quality of the simplicity of being—having no cause to justify or explain itself.
“You’ve done the right thing coming back to Cottonwood,” said Carl, “because Rebecca is the best woman you’ll ever hope to find, and you’ll be damned lucky if she takes you back. But you’ve also changed, haven’t you, Matthew?”
“I will be lucky if Rebecca takes me back, and your hearing is still excellent, Carl,” Matthew replied. “I have changed, and I’m not surprised that you of all people would be able to hear that change.”
“I’m confused by this. What’s happened? How can you be…I don’t understand….”
Matthew put his hand on Carl’s shoulder. “Don’t be concerned about this right now. Let’s just listen for a while, the way we used to.”
The two men sat together in what others might call silence, surrounded by the many voices of nature. They each listened carefully and deeply to the symphony of sounds around them. Everything had a song to sing and flowed together—the bubbling water of the river, the happy sweet song of the birds, the rustling leaves, and their own breathing.
After many minutes of listening, Carl said, “Oh, how I love that music.”
“It is sweet, isn’t it?” said Matthew.
“What’s going on in town, by the way?” asked Carl. “I suppose you know all the traffic has stopped?”
“Yes, and I think it will be for quite some time,” said Matthew.
“Why do you say that?” asked Old Blind Carl.
“It’s just the way of things. You can look upstream of the river here and know that in a few moments from now, that same water will be passing us by. When I look upstream, I see the silence in Cottonwood for a very long time. Wonderful, isn’t it?”
Old Blind Carl did not respond. Something was moving inside of him. It was his own heart and mind moving to find answers to the growing mystery around him—and now right beside him in Matthew’s footsteps, his voice, and now his words.
Finally, Matthew said, “Do you know what my favorite story was that you used to tell me?”
“I didn’t know you had a favorite,” replied Carl. “Which one was it?”
“The story of the Great Banyan Tree,” said Matthew.
“Ah…that’s one of mine, too. I’m so glad you remember it after all these years.”
“Would you tell it to me again?”
“That’s a child’s story! Surely you’d like something a bit more grown up?”
“No, the Great Banyan Tree is plenty grown up for me. Please, I would love to hear you tell it again.”
Old Blind Carl was quiet for a moment and then said, “All right, if you insist. But I haven’t told it in a long time. Forgive me if I forget a few parts. Time has changed me into my grandfather who first told me this story. He, too, was forgetful.”
Carl cleared his throat and began: “Very long ago, when the earth was first new, the Creator had but one seed to bring forth life. Why the Creator should have but one seed is a mystery, but one seed it was. That single seed was lovingly planted, and over time, a very large and Great Banyan Tree grew. Why that seed should grow into a tree and not something else, no one knows—so don’t ask me, but a tree it was. The roots of that tree grew deep into the very center of the earth, and its branches reached high into the sky—to the very s
tars, even.
“The Great Banyan Tree’s branches were naturally very long to be able to reach so high, and they also stretched around the whole of the earth. Though it was quite beautiful and complete unto itself, over the course of time, the Great Banyan Tree became a bit lonely. Yes, it’s true that a tree can get lonely, and this, of course, is why it’s very important to hug trees often, especially ones standing by themselves out in a field or meadow. They can get terribly lonely.
“One day the Great Banyan Tree said to the Creator, ‘I am lonely and would like some company. Earth is far too big a place to live all by myself.’ The Creator agreed with the banyan tree but, unfortunately, had no more seeds, and at that time, the banyan tree was still seedless as well. But the Creator had a plan, as is customary for creators to have. It cast a spell on the banyan tree, causing it to go into a deep sleep. Now, usually banyan trees do not sleep, but on this one occasion, the Great Banyan Tree did. While it was sleeping, the Creator caused a great amount of new seeds to begin growing on the banyan tree. Since the tree was so large, there were millions and millions of seeds.
“The Great Banyan Tree was at last shaken from its sleep by a large earthquake that the Creator had caused to shake the whole earth. The branches of the banyan tree shook violently, causing its seeds to fall in great amounts everywhere. Over time, these seeds grew up not only into other banyan trees, but into other plants and trees as well, and also into all the animals of the land, rivers, sky, and seas. The Great Banyan Tree was pleased with this development and was happy that there were now others to share the world with.
“The Creator came to the banyan tree and said, ‘It is good that you now have companions, but there are some rules for your interaction with them. For half the day they shall hear you, and for half the day they shall not. During the daytime when they are awake, they will not hear you, but it will be only during the night when they are asleep that they may hear you in their dreams. I must warn you though that dreams are a misty time, so be careful what you say to them while they are sleeping.’
Touching Cottonwood Page 13