Willow Wood Road: Lavender and Sage

by Micah Sherwood

  “The old lady heard a commotion coming from the kiva path. Her children with their spouses and all of her grandbabies came walking toward her and bringing maize and squash and meat for her to cook.”

  “She looked at the beautiful faces of the men and women she had raised before reaching over to grab her walking stick. Gazing one last time at her kin, she walked away. She ambled into the Canyonlands with its thickets of chaparral and sagebrush; raising her cane toward Sky-Father and lowering her other hand toward Earth-Mother; she cried, ‘Thank you!’ and paused to look back at her home where sat an ancient and shriveled woman of no consequence: still, cold and quiet. Then the Star-Maiden laughed and sprinted back to her home in True-Life.”

  “Was that something you heard at school or from a book?” Tom often sensed he was the student rather than the teacher. And this story was somehow familiar, perhaps a fantasy he read as a youth.

  “It was a dream, and they are always more real than life. I see the Antelope People a lot; sometimes I’m not even asleep. You know that Cory, Dane and Tandy also dream about the People. It’s something we share, they are part of us. I write them down in a journal, and when I record them, the flow of words surprises me. They don’t seem like my words or thoughts at all. There is an inner self that wants to have expression, and I let him. And what he does and says can be amazing. It’s crazy huh? I think it is, like I’m totally nuts.”

  The old man listened: a little surprised, a little worried, but accepting of what Micah said. It was rare that he ever spoke about personal matters, but tonight he was letting go of things that were hindering his happiness. “Son, I reckon that the world is nuts, and you’re the only one around that is sane. I think you are special and the world you perceive and inhabit is skewed a little differently than the one most of us see. That is a good thing. The great poets and prophets, philosophers and scientists also observe a more curious universe than most people. Celebrate your uniqueness because the mundane does not exist for you.”

  Tom stopped for a moment because he was conflicted on what he was about to say. “But I would be dishonest if I told you there would not be challenges and pain. More often than not people like you are brutalized for the sole reason they are dreamers. But you are lucky because you have people who love you and want to shield you. You also hide your gifts very well. Ninety percent of the time you’re just a ten year old kid playing and living like any other. But when that last 10% comes through, it is like a locomotive without brakes coming down steep grade.”

  “I think you just called me a train wreck,” Micah smiled and the old man grimaced at the boy’s words. “Yeah, I learned a long time ago that I had to hide much of myself to get along. But you know when I do that, a part of me begins to die. I stopped suppressing who I am once I came to Willow Wood. That’s when hell broke out at home. I think that if it wasn’t for you, momma would have killed me before my sickness ever had a chance.”

  “She said she hated me sometimes. I told myself it didn’t matter. But it does matter.”

  Mr. Dorsey did not have to be empathic to feel Micah’s pain.

  “But you know, when I discovered you and Cory, Tandy and Dane, that made it easier for me. You guys don’t judge me.”

  Suddenly Micah became angry. “No one will ever abuse me again; I’ll stomp anyone who threatens me, demolish them completely. No one will hurt me—ever. And I will annihilate them without regret.”

  His tone and rage surprised the old man. He knew that his charge had a dark side, but he had never seen it as clearly as he did now. He changed the subject to get Micah calmed down. “So what other stories do you have in your notebook?”

  Micah immediately replied. “Too many to talk about, and maybe someday I’ll let you read them, but not now.” He knew that he had frightened Mr. Dorsey, something that he never intended. “I’m sorry for scaring you, but what you said about being brutalized suddenly struck me and I reacted to it. Now you’ll think I’m a monster and not just looney.”

  “We all have our buttons, and obviously I found one of yours. Your temper doesn’t surprise me. I’ve seen it many times, but it’s something you need to control.” Tom thought for a second. “You are a gentle boy by nature. God forbid you should ever get riled, and God protect the one who riles you.”

  “I promise not to kill anyone, not tonight anyway,” and Micah grabbed the old man and hugged him.

  “Well son, it’s getting close to my bedtime. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.” There was a pause, and then the old man whispered into the boy’s ear,

  “May the Lord bless you and keep you.

  “May His lovingkindness shine upon you,

  “And may He give you peace.[3]”

  Then it was Tom’s turn to embrace the child. For a man who did not believe in God, it was a heartfelt blessing. Then he returned to the house. Micah continued sitting on the hard concrete after the old man left. He saw the coyotes in the distance, their eyes screaming, “Come and play.”

  He tossed his jacket to the ground and took off running. The coyotes were aligned equidistance apart along the path next to the creek. As Micah passed, each coyote would join in the procession akin to some weird and choreographed dance. They never overtook him but stayed inline as they crossed the quiet and dark terrain. Micah flew along the trail, jumping over bushes and ducking under mesquite branches—released from his melancholy. If someone asked him when he was the happiest, this would be the time, when he lived completely unencumbered, attachment free. He depended on no one, and no one depended upon him. He had no fear; he was in love with everything; hate was something unknown.

  He ran with eyes closed, his inner sight guided him; but of this he was unaware. He smelled the wildness of the coyotes, the tangy fragrance of the sage, and the bouquet of his dust enshrouded world. Then he sensed the Mother; the Lady; the Visitor in the hospital. Her jasmine and rose perfume consumed all other aromas. And he stopped and stood quietly, reverently, obediently. He folded his arms, placing his hands beneath them, his head gazing skyward.

  “Thank you!” He uttered the words with as much compassion as he could muster, and then he fell to the ground unconscious. The coyotes circled and guarded him.

  Micah stood on the old dirt road facing Grandma Sherwood’s little white house. A coop was in the back, its door open, and big red chickens roamed around the lawn, some resting next to and a few on top of the old coonhound. Pansies and petunias dotted the front yard. A swing hung from a tree in the center of the grass, and it swayed back and forth, but there was no wind, and no one to push it, yet it swung with vigor.

  Across the rolling meadow a mile away, Uncle Vernon’s big red farmhouse sat quietly. His Poppi was birthed in that house. Giant barns were nestled adjacent to the old farmstead: one was for the hogs and the other for the horses. This was the original homestead; part of that rambling house was built in the 1840’s, and some of the sweetest summer nights Micah had ever spent was on its upper floor with his cousins telling tales then sneaking out, climbing down a trellis and roaming the forests and fields.

  He turned and across the street from grandma’s place, Uncle Ralph’s cabin was nestled between a stand of bois d'arc trees and a small hay barn. Reddish-brown Herefords roamed the field just beyond the byre; they were his uncle’s pride.

  “Where are all of the cousins?” Micah wondered as he walked down the road and into the Ozark woods. A mile down from grandmother’s home, at the bottom of a great hill, a spring bubbled up; its water was crystalline. A sheer limestone cliff jutted skyward behind the waterhole, the rock layers were colored a mixture of oranges and whites, reds and browns. Large leafy trees surrounded it, and the spring was always in dimness. Grandma’s old tin cup rested on a flat stone to the side of the clear pool. A water-spider strode across its surface. Maudie, that’s what her friends called her, would take walks, and she would rest at this spring and use the cup to drink the cold liquid. She made herself go out and wander the countryside. Her pain so
metimes was intense; she was born with a stiff leg, and without exercise, she would become a cripple; that was her fear, so she walked. But she was not here, only Micah, and he was both a character and an observer in the dream; that is what he assumed as he watched himself act out his assigned part, laughing at the paradox.

  The trees were full of leaves, and the pinkish flowers of the redbud were in full display along the old dirt road. So it was springtime; that seemed right. He continued rambling down the path to a bridge that spanned Buffalo Creek. He looked down into the water, which was a good 10’ deep. Micah could see the rocky bottom with a half dozen trout swimming through the slow moving stream. He had spent many afternoons at this bridge, playing in the water with his Missouri kin. But no cousins were here to play with today.

  There was some movement in the undergrowth, and a small black pup jumped onto the dirt trail and ran toward him. She was a chubby wiener dog with a bulldog snout who yapped and yapped at the boy as she ran toward him. “Baby,” Micah yelled as he fell to his knees catching the mutt as she jumped into his arms dancing and wiggling and licking his face. “I missed you so much Baby,” and the boy wept out of happiness. “I worried about you.” And he thought back to when he buried the young dog under the poplar tree in his backyard on Evergreen. The dog hopped out of Micah’s lap and stood staring then lunged at the boy for a final hug and then ran back into the woods. “Come back Baby,” Micah hollered, but he knew that his little friend had returned home.

  Micah continued to walk down the old dirt pathway. He knew eventually it would take him to Aunt Dory’s farm. It was hard to get lost in southwest Missouri; everybody was some degree of kinfolk. As he hiked, the hills got taller and the sky disappeared under the canopy of trees, throwing the path into gloom. The colors bled into shades of gray and blue, and the countryside no longer looked like the Ozark Mountains but something artificial and threatening. Just as the pigment evaporated from the forest, the fragrance of the woods also faded away, and this was frightening and macabre.

  Micah ran.

  The atmosphere grew ominous as he sprinted down the dirt road, but finally he was at the front door of his aunt’s house banging to get in. Then he started kicking, but there was no response. He ran to the back and the entrance was boarded-up. The farmhouse became shrouded in deep darkness. Lightening without thunder crisscrossed the sky. Micah looked around. The windows were broken out; the cellar door was torn off its frame. The house was abandoned. He sprinted across the yard and into the barn. Something was after him, but its face was hidden. He locked the stable door and took off toward the horse stalls. The barn was overflowing with moving shadows. A sweet smelling aftershave wafted through the air and Micah stopped.

  “What’s your name, buddy?” A familiar voice whispered into his ear as his shirt was grabbed from behind. The brutish hand twisted the cloth tighter and tighter; Micah struggled. “I asked what your name was, buddy?” The voice was full of hate, malignant, foul. “What’s your name?” And the man released him only to grip the boy’s neck with both hands, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. The voices of the Shadow Choir drifted into the blackness as the boy’s body went limp.

  Micah jumped awake in the darkness screaming. He was in his bed fully clothed, wet from perspiration. The door facing the creek was open and the coyote family stood at attention near the steps watching and guarding their human pup. Micah wanted to yell again, but he stopped himself. He needed Cory. “Help me Cory,” he yelled silently. And deep within his mind, he heard his friend’s voice telling him that it would be okay.

  It took a while for him to calm down, but calm down he did. He lighted the whole barn, and then commenced his chores, but first releasing Raggéd who followed him about like a little brother. He was finished by breakfast time, and as he was about to head to the house, Cory showed up.

  “Hey Buck,” Cory greeted his friend. “I dreamt about you last night, you were running in the dark and someone was chasing you. He got you, and then I woke up.” His face was full of unease.

  Micah’s face drained of color. He told Cory about his run, about his dream and how he woke up in his bed not knowing how he got there. “I’m feeling bad. “I need to sleep.” And he went back to bed and covered up. Cory stayed with him for a while, and then disappeared.

  When he awoke, Tom was sitting next to him, and Cory stood near the open door. The sun was up, and a cold breeze swept through the room and into the barn. Raggéd was nestled at the foot of his bed.

  Mr. Dorsey looked around the bedroom, very much a boy’s room. It was full of model cars and arrowheads. A pair of boxing gloves hung on the wall by the closet, and on his desk was a baseball signed by Norm Siebern of the Kansas City Athletics. The registration for Styx was mounted above his bed next to a picture of Nellie. And all over the room were small pieces of paper with Latin words scribbled on them to help the boy learn his vocabulary. The room screamed that this was Micah’s world.

  “Let me take your temperature,” Mr. Dorsey looked concerned, and Micah did not talk, which made the old man even more anxious because the boy always had something to say. “It’s normal. What seems to be the problem?”

  “I got up early to do my chores, and I guess I needed more sleep. I’m fine. I’m hungry.” Micah got out of bed.

  “Anything else?” Tom looked knowingly at the boy.

  Then Micah knew that Cory had told him about the dreams. “Big mouth,” he blurted as he looked at his friend. “Everyone has nightmares.”

  “Yes they do but not about dying.” Mr. Dorsey looked into the boy’s eyes hoping to get a sense of his emotional state. “What you saw yesterday affected you more than you think. It would be good for you to talk to the psychologist to help get it out of your system. Your sickness and yesterday’s tragedy is ripping you up inside and you need help to release your fears. I want you to talk with Mr. Rathbone. I think Dane should speak with him too. I’ll call Mr. Petit about it. You’ll do this for me?” Mr. Dorsey’s voice was pleading.

  The old man was wrong, but Tom was fearful. And that increased Micah’s dread. “Sure, but will you do something for me?”

  “Of course, what?”

  “Check on your old foreman, Harry. Make sure he is still in jail. I don’t like him, don’t trust him.” Micah was again feeling poorly. He wanted to sleep.

  “I don’t need to. He showed up Friday looking to get his job back. But Henry showed him the door and told him to stay away. He was not a happy man. They released him from jail. I suppose the district attorney had insufficient evidence to hold him. I’m not sure what the charges were. I might be able to find out, though. But why do you need to know?”

  Micah looked at Tom debating what he was about to say. “Something is wrong with him. I think he’s a danger to you and Henry, maybe to me and Cory too.”

  “I trust your senses. I’ll talk to my contacts at the District Attorney’s office on Monday. But you shouldn’t worry. Let’s go get some breakfast,” and the three went into the house.

  After a hefty meal, Micah tossed his saddlebags on Styx and then mounted the black horse, pulling Cory up behind him. They headed over to his friend’s to pick up Drack, and then they would head out for a day of racing. As they approached Cory’s big old Victorian house, Haze ran from the barn and greeted them. Haze did not act like a wild-born coyote. He seemed fully domesticated, but the vet warned Cory that he was still a wild animal, and he should “never fully trust him.” Cory ignored him.

  The two boys went into the house, and Cory’s parents greeted them. They immediately took a seat in the living room. This was expected, a few minutes of talking. The Krigsmans were odd like that.

  “Well Micah, how has your weekend been so far?” Francis Krigsman asked.

  Cory got excited all of a sudden, “Micah saw a murder and suicide yesterday. Ain’t that neat?”

  “Herregud,” Mrs. Krigsman exclaimed as she looked at the boy. “Oh God, no it’s not ‘neat.’ Are you okay Micah? Was that th
e incident on the television last night?”

  “I guess,” Micah responded. “I didn’t watch the news.” Then he had to explain all that happened the previous day. “Mr. Dorsey said that Dane and I need to see the school psychologist.”

  “I would imagine so, that would be very traumatic for a little boy.”

  Micah looked at the lady. He liked her, but she was way too talky. “I’m not a little boy! I will be 11 years old next month.”

  “Of course, I apologize young man. Is that better?”

  Micah smiled at her then looked at Cory, “Are we going riding or just talk all day?”

  “Go,” Mr. Krigsman smiled as he got up and walked with the boys to the barn. “I have never seen two closer friends. This is a blessing you know,” he spoke privately to Cory as he saddled Drack.

  “Sure! Jeg elsker deg pappa.[4]” Cory looked over at Micah, “Beat you to the lakebed,” and off they sped into the prairie.

  They rode fast, racing through the brush under the bright April sun. The temperature was approaching 80° and life was good. They bypassed the playa and kept going until they crossed under Highway 287 where they stopped to rest the horses. They did not follow the creek, yet here they intersected it. In the distance, on the west side of the highway, there was some train tracks and a trestle crossing. They tied the horses near the overpass; Micah and Cory hiked over to the trestle.

  The creek was full of water, and there was an old campsite near the tracks. Micah envisioned a bunch of hobos sleeping and waiting for a train, but that seemed unlikely this far from town, and there would be no reason for a train to stop or even slowdown in the middle of the prairie. They continued to walk past the railroad tracks to a bend in the creek and stopped. The west side of the highway was much more rugged, and the creek had a wild meander.

  They retrieved the horses and then continued to follow the creek northward. The boys stopped above a gulch where the creek flowed at least 20’ below them. The arroyo almost encircled a good size low-lying field. There were a bunch of cottonwoods and willow trees shading the area.