Gravity Box and Other Spaces

by Mark Tiedemann

  They drove back in silence. When he turned onto their access road, Peter rolled slowly along, listening to the pop of small stones beneath his tires, a breeze pushing lightly through the open windows.

  He stopped short of their house, just within the cover of the trees. The door to his workshop stood open. Peter cut the engine and took out his nine-millimeter from its pouch on the back of the passenger seat.

  “Elyssa, get behind the wheel,” he said. “That door was closed when we left. Give me a few minutes. If you hear shots, get out of here and get the sheriff.” He chambered a round.

  She seemed about to argue, but then nodded and shifted into the driver’s seat as he slipped out the door.

  Peter entered the tree line and made his way silently to the back of the house. He went to the first window in the rear, which looked into the bedroom. He saw no one within and moved to the next, to the bathroom, and finally the across the yard to the workshop.

  Keeping close to its corrugated wall, he worked toward the front. From the corner he could make out his vehicle, cloaked in the dappling shade from the oak canopy. Peter surveyed the border of forest, searching for any sight of lurkers. He saw only trees.

  Keeping his back to the wall, he counted to ten. In a fluid motion he pivoted into the doorway, gun extended.

  Several naked women were gathered around the statue of Elyssa, as if they were standing at an art show or gallery, completely unselfconscious and at ease. Including the young girl he had rescued, he counted nine of them. They varied in height and proportion, but all of them exhibited an enthralling physical beauty. He felt assaulted by an erotic response, a consuming inevitability of physical reaction. He remembered such intensity from adolescence and from the first months with Elyssa.

  The young girl—his girl—turned then. Her companions turned with her nearly in unison. Their intensity seemed to demand a response from him which he couldn’t quite manage. Instead, he turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. He stood like that, waiting for his emotions to subside. Behind him, he heard voices, muted and quick. Gradually, control returned. He chanced another look.

  The intensity of the first impression was gone. They seemed less striking somehow, less—naked. Breasts, supple torsos, everything was now smoothed and muted beneath a gauzy veil. But they had not put on any clothing. It was as if their skin had reformed, obscuring detail.

  “Who—?”

  He was startled by the sharp metal sound of a shotgun slide behind him. He spun around to find Elyssa just inside the doorway, the weapon leveled at the group of women, a “who the hell are you?” frown on her face.

  The strange women stared at her. A few looked back at her statue. They turned to each other, and Peter heard a sibilant hum, like water over stone and rustling leaves, moiled and indecipherable.

  Elyssa edged close to him. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. That one—” He pointed to the girl from earlier.

  “Yeah, I recognize her. But these others?”

  The tallest of them came forward, stopping a few paces away. Her face bore no wrinkles—no crow’s feet, laugh lines, dimples, or brow furrows—and yet seemed suffused by age. Her eyes were deep brown and the whites were dull, like old ivory. Her skin had a semblance of well-sanded wood. She reached a hand toward Elyssa’s face, paused, then pointed back at the statue.

  “It’s of me,” Elyssa said. “Sure—”

  The woman extended her other hand, palm up, toward Peter. It took a moment for him to understand what she wanted. He raised his right hand, also palm up, and she clasped it. Her skin was very dry, very smooth. Familiar.

  She bent over his hand, tracing his calluses, pressing fingertips into his palm, spreading his fingers and flexing them individually. When she released him and looked up, there was unmistakable respect in her face.

  “Hello?”

  The sound of the new voice seemed to run through the women like an electrical current. In an undulating wave they poured past Peter and Elyssa toward the forest, so swiftly he felt the air drag at their passing. Peter took after them, ignoring Sheriff Edmunds, who stood dumbfounded near the door.

  Entering the forest, Peter glimpsed them, shadows dispersed among the trees, making no sound, as if passing through the foliage and underbrush without touching any of it. They never slowed, never seemed confused or indecisive. After half a mile they charged up an incline and dropped over the crest before Peter reached them. He stopped at the top to lean against a poplar tree to catch his breath.

  All the way down into the valley, nothing moved except by breeze. When a squirrel broke from one tree to another, Peter dropped to a squat making his pistol dig into his back.

  Along the opposite ridge one of them appeared, running. She was visible only a second before she vanished again, but it was enough. Peter ran to the left, around the crest trying to gain sight of her again. At the narrowest separation between one rise and the next, he ran down the slope, following.

  She angled away from him, on a shallower incline and toward a cleft between two hillocks. Shifting his attention constantly between the landscape immediately before him and the girl, he slalomed past trees in as direct a line as possible to the cleft. He saw her bolt through it only seconds before he got there, but she was gone.

  He stopped at the entry and searched for any sign of her passing. He found it—smashed grass, a few broken twigs, a clear impression of a foot. He followed the track, to where it ended at the base of a laurel.

  He studied it. Two patches on the bark, detail confused in the shifting shafts of light falling through the crown above, caught his attention. They were dark brown and glistening. Shadows jumped back and forth until they were simply imperfections in the trunk that vaguely resembled eyes. For just a moment though, they had seen him.

  That’s impossible.

  “Pete!”

  “Mr. Malon!”

  He looked back and saw Elyssa and Sheriff Edmunds.

  “They’re here,” Peter said. “They ran in here. I don’t know how, but—”

  Pressure built around his skull. He had not experienced this sensation since coming home, and it was as unwelcome as it was familiar. He was being watched—not by Elyssa or Sheriff Edmunds—by unseen eyes hidden in the trees beneath and between shadows and light.

  Heartwood and bark.

  This was a warning, like all those times in Iraq.

  The woods were so dense, so encompassing.

  “Peter—?”

  “We should leave, Peter,” Sheriff Edmunds said. “We’re intruding.”

  “You think they did what?” Peter fidgeted at Elyssa’s tone of voice. Her brow creased and a vein throbbed along her temple. She continued, “Come on! So they were faster than you. You lost them. You can’t seriously suggest they turned into trees.”

  “I can’t think of any other explanation.” Peter shook his head. Edmunds stood by the kitchen door, arms folded, watching them.

  “I’m very good at tracking things,” Peter said. “It’s what I did.”

  “That was desert,” Elyssa said. “These are woods.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m telling you, I didn’t lose them. They—” Peter bit back. It was ridiculous. People did not transform into trees. It was impossible. But the track ended every time at the base of a laurel. He looked over at Edmunds. “You haven’t said much, Sheriff.”

  Edmunds shifted, cleared his throat. “I come down here to talk to you. Craig and Danny came into my office. I had a talk with them, but I think you should know they’re not letting this drop.” He jerked his head in the direction of the studio. “They were all gathered around that statue of your wife?”

  “Yes—”

  “Old Man Higgins, did he leave you anything, some papers or a notebook, when he sold you the place?”

  “No. Not that I’m aware of anyway. You know what they are, don’t you?”

  Edmunds looked uneasy. “Saletcroix is kind of special. You might not think so at first g
lance, but there’s things here that don’t exist anywhere else. People like Mr. Higgins, some of them been here all their lives, and you might wonder why.”

  “Jesus,” Elyssa said, “you think they turned into trees, too.”

  “This property here,” Edmunds continued, “has been a refuge for them. Might be the last place on Earth where they live. Higgins was the caretaker for—hell, all his life. His father, grandfather, on back. I’d have to look it up to see who owned it before them.”

  “Dryads,” Peter said, amazed at his own recognition.

  “What?” Edmunds said.

  “Ancient Greece,” Peter said. “Mythology. Dryads. Tree nymphs. I—” He glanced at Elyssa. “When I studied art, back before I left school, we did a semester on Hellenic forms. Lot of philosophical stuff, but it all related to ideals and a little math and a lot of mythology. Spirits associated with places or things.”

  “Sounds right,” Edmunds said. “We’ve got other names for them, but it’s the same idea.”

  “This is crazy,” Elyssa said.

  “Anywhere else,” Edmunds said, “it would be. But as I said, Saletcroix is—unique. This has been a sanctuary for them for a long time.”

  “How long?” Peter asked.

  Edmunds shrugged.

  “So what do they have to do with Craig and Danny?” Elyssa said.

  “Craig Newhouse comes across like a bored asshole who thinks it’s fun to hunt,” Edmunds said. “But he’s a collector, and he’s pretty good at it. Sometimes he goes away for a few weeks, a month. I don’t know what he’s doing then, but when he’s here, he preys on what’s local. He has buyers for what he collects. He’s not stupid, not by a long-shot, but he plays the part.”

  “That sounds like it should be illegal,” Elyssa said.

  “By what statute? Endangered species act? You have to register the species. Besides, part of the trouble with policing a place like Saletcroix, you don’t really know what all’s here. Hard to say something’s missing when it spends all its life hiding. Believe me, if I could catch him at it—”

  “You can’t honestly expect us to believe—” Elyssa began.

  “No, ma’am,” Edmunds said, “I don’t expect you to believe anything. I don’t often believe myself, but I still have to deal with what’s in front of me.” He looked at Peter. “Old Man Higgins sold you this place: He must’ve seen something in you that made him trust you. He’s old. Maybe he’s just tired, and maybe he’s just giving up. Nobody else around here even was offered a chance to buy. Might be no one else knows what’s living here except Craig Newhouse. This is worth some money to him; he’s not gonna quit. So you have a choice to make. If you decide to stay, you might have more responsibility than you bargained for. I sure wouldn’t blame you for packing up and going back where you came from.”

  “So you just came to tell me about Craig and Danny?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry for disturbing your, uh, gathering.”

  “How much help can I depend on you for?”

  “As much as I can reasonably give. I’d be glad to lock Craig up on some charges that would stick. He raped and beat his girlfriend about three years ago, but she wouldn’t press charges, and I couldn’t hold him. She moved out of the valley. So until I can arrest him for something serious enough to put him away for a while, all I can do is be ready in case. I don’t have enough people to cover everything all the time.”

  “I see. Thank you, Sheriff.”

  Edmunds went to the door. “By the way, your work?”

  “Yes?”

  “Really fine, Mr. Malon. Really very fine.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, call if you need me.”

  Edmunds stepped out. A minute or so later they heard a car start and roll away.

  “Dryads?” Elyssa said. “This is a joke, right?”

  Peter looked at her but said nothing.

  “What about this Craig Newhouse?”

  “What about him?” Peter said.

  “Forewarned and all that.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe we just had a serious discussion about—dryads! Do you know how crazy that sounds?” She made a cutting gesture with her hands. “You’re coming back to Chicago.”

  “What?”

  “No more arguments! I won’t see you caught up in some back-country feud! And over what? Imaginary tree people?”

  “So what’s your theory?”

  “I don’t have one! Maybe it’s some kind of backwoods mating ritual! It doesn’t matter because I’m not risking everything on—on—”

  “On what?”

  Her eyes brimmed with angry tears. “On wondering when you’re going to come back to me.”

  “I’m right here.”

  “Yeah, but exactly where is right here? I waited for you to come back, and when you stepped off that plane in one piece I felt so lucky. But you didn’t come back. Not all of you. Bits and pieces. It’s like parts of you were trailing behind all the way to Iraq, drifting back on breezes, one at a time, but not everything. It’s been two years since you left Iraq, and I still don’t have you back. Now this, whatever the hell it is. I want you home.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what? Whatever it is locked up inside your head, I’m tired of waiting.”

  Peter’s insides seemed to liquefy and then turn solid around a new shape. “So?”

  “Come home to me. Or call it quits.”

  “Is that’s what you want?”

  “No! It’s never been what I want! I want you to trust me. I want you to talk to me. I want you to share—”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  “No, we haven’t. You’ve been over this, in your own head. I never get more than a bullshit ‘You wouldn’t understand’ non-answer.”

  “I never said that!”

  “You never had to. But it’s been there every time. You give me that pained look and that coddling sympathy, like you’re being noble and sacrificial and taking care of me. You act like I’m the one who needs help. Well, stop it. Stop being a man for five minutes and let me help you for a change.”

  “There are people here who need help.”

  “There are always people who need help. There’s an endless supply. You can’t help them all.”

  Conflicting impulses chased about his head, fragments of answers, partial reactions to her words, all infused with anguish at the thought she would divorce him and never see him again. He hated being inarticulate, so he tended to speak little, and he knew he often left too much unsaid. He hated explaining himself, but that was different. There was simply so much he did not understand and every time he was forced to explain himself it felt like he was making it up on the spot.

  Elyssa sighed deeply, a sound filled with exasperation he knew was his fault. She walked toward the door to the hallway.

  “It’s not—” he began.

  She stopped. “Not what?”

  “I’m not shutting you out.” He waited for her to say something. When she remained silent, waiting, he said, “I don’t know how. You want me to share. But I don’t know how.”

  “Before Fallujah you did.”

  “Yeah, well. That cut something out, and it hasn’t grown back yet.”

  She moved around behind him and crossed her arms over his chest, head against his back. He started to take her hands away, but caught himself. Too often he had pushed her away, he knew, and in spite of the distance he had been putting between them, he wanted her close. He made himself relax.

  “Just tell me,” she said.

  “I wish I could.”

  “Can you give me one good reason why you can’t?”

  He closed his eyes. “It’s—I don’t want to remember it. I don’t want to go through it again. I don’t want anyone else to have to go through it. I want to forget. I can’t do that if I talk about it.”

  “You can’t if you don’t.”

  “That’s just it. It’s become so much a part of me that if I give it
to you I don’t know if there will be anything left of me.”

  She squeezed and kissed his neck, then came around in front of him. Her eyes glistened.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “That’s more than you’ve given me since you came home.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  She stroked his face. “No. But for now it’ll do. It’s something.”

  He took her hand and kissed the palm. She snagged the collar of his shirt and tugged.

  “Come on,” she said, drawing him out of the kitchen, down the hall, to the bedroom.

  It was the first time they had made love here. It felt like coming home.

  Early morning light drifted through the bedroom window suffusing the room with comforting warmth. Peter stretched, contented with the physical memories of the night before. It had been a long time. In fact, after the first frantic month after his discharge, when it seemed they could not get enough of each other, sex became more and more infrequent. Once he came down here and began working, it had ended completely, until yesterday.

  He reached for Elyssa. He found nothing but rumpled sheets. Peter sat up and surveyed the room. Clothes were scattered on the floor. With a lingering regret, he rolled out of bed, grabbed his jeans, and followed the smell of fresh coffee to the kitchen. He poured a cup, then wandered through the house looking for her. Failing to find her, he went outside and to his studio.

  He found her there, with three of the dryads.

  Peter caught his breath, becoming very still, melting into the edges of the door. All of them were naked. The dryads moved in a slow circle around Elyssa, who, for her part, looked both amused and apprehensive, trying to stand still for their inspection and unable to stop shifting from one foot to the other, twisting her head back and forth to try to see them all. She saw him as she turned and waved.

  The dryads stopped and focused their attention entirely on him. When they did not flee, he stepped forward.

  Nearer, he saw the anxiety in Elyssa’s eyes and how relieved she was to see him.

  One of his shirts lay on the floor, cast aside.

  “I was getting ready to make breakfast,” Elyssa said, “and I thought I heard something. Outside. So—”