The Truth Circle

by Cameron Ayers

  Despite the dismal state of the campsite, the surrounding wilderness more than made up for it. The surrounding maple and elm trees were nearing peak bloom and had yet to shed most of their leaves. In the distance they heard the chattering of squirrels, busy stocking their larders. Several dozen monarch butterflies swooped overhead as they winged their way south for the season. It was picturesque in a way that only a bright fall morning can seem, radiant and serene as nature revels in its last days before succumbing to winter’s withering bite.

  Coop breathed in the crisp forest air and exhaled contentedly.

  John clapped his hands together to get the group’s attention.

  “Let me give you the five cent tour.”

  He led them to the other end of the campsite, past the central firepit and the three wooden stools surrounding it before stopping at the outhouses. The one on the left with the recent repair work had a sign over the door that read “Squaws.” The one with two visible seams in the front was labeled “Braves.”

  “Mrs. Sutton has already pointed out the facilities,” their guide continued, motioning to a humorless Beverly, “so this seems a good place to start.”

  He opened the door to the “Braves” to reveal a single wooden seat, several rolls of toilet paper on a spindle and a pail on the floor.

  “For those of you who’ve never used an outhouse before,” John said, “there are two rules to remember: first, don’t put anything down the hole that isn’t biodegradable. Second …” He paused to tilt the pail toward the others so they could see its contents: finely grained sawdust. “Make sure you sprinkle a handful of this in the hole when you’re finished,” he continued. “It helps with the smell. Oh, I almost forgot. Ladies, an unruly guest broke the door latch for your facilities on the last trip, and I haven’t had a chance to replace it. Just knock on the door before you enter.”

  Beverly absorbed all the information in wide-eyed horror, as though she’d just received instructions on how to deep-fry newborns.

  “Now, once you’ve done your business, you’ll want to know where the water pump is so you can wash up,” John said, leading them back across the campsite and over to the shower.

  As they walked past the storage shed on their way to the shower, Ken’s roving eye fixed on the steel latch to the shed door. It had been smashed loose, judging from the warped hinges still dangling freely, and replaced with a bungee cord looped through a hole in the door. He paused several moments to consider the implications before rejoining the others.

  The wooden shower stall resembled a cabana, with seven-foot cedar walls on all sides. The hinged door had a gap at the bottom to allow for drainage.

  Behind the stall was an old-fashioned hand pump extending from a concrete block in the ground. It had two lines: one curved downward several inches before ending in a spigot, while the other extended five feet upward before disappearing over the rear wall of the shower. Both lines were coated in rust, as was the pump handle.

  “All you need to do is prime the pump a few times,” John said, grunting with exertion as he demonstrated, raising and lowering the handle several times before turning a knob on the spigot. A thin trickle of water emerged from the nozzle. “And presto! Creek water, without the bother of walking to the creek.”

  “Does this also feed the shower?” Lamar asked, looking at the second line that snaked across the back of the cabana wall.

  John nodded.

  “Naturally, you have to prime it a bit longer for that,” he explained.

  Their guide walked around to the shower door, opening it gingerly and motioning for the others to have a look.

  The group peeked inside and saw that the second line ended in a shower head. A small caddy containing soap and shampoo hung from its neck. John called the others’ attention to a large button on the side of the line.

  “Once you’ve primed the pump, press this button to activate the shower,” he explained. “When you’re done, just press it again.”

  Lamar looked confused.

  “But how do you heat the water?” he asked, trailing off once again.

  “You don’t,” John answered evenly. “It’s not like we have a boiler up here.”

  “There’s no hot water?” Gaby asked, dumbfounded.

  “It’ll be fine,” John replied unhelpfully. “Just think warm thoughts.”

  Beverly opened her mouth to protest when Coop interrupted her.

  “Where does this path lead?” he asked, pointing to a foot trail that exited the campsite about 10 feet from the shower before turning sharply right and following the slope of the ground downward and out of view.

  “That leads to the floodplain and Deer Creek,” John replied. “I also have an archery range set up down there. Well, had,” he quickly corrected himself. “The last group tore up the targets to use as ponchos and raincatches. I don’t know what they did with the bows and arrows, but replacing the targets was a royal pain.”

  “That must have been a wild bunch,” Ken said. “They busted up an outhouse, the archery range, and the lock on that shed, from the looks of things.”

  John brightened and touched his finger to his nose.

  “You have a keen eye,” he replied. “Yes, some visitors can be, shall we say, rambunctious. I guess it’s not all that surprising.”

  He noticed the group’s quizzical stares and elaborated.

  “This is a journey of self-discovery. It’s not always an easy process,” he explained. “And just like any journey, sometimes people can get … lost,” he finished cryptically.

  Coop and Lamar exchanged worried glances.

  “But there’ll be plenty of time to discuss that later,” John said breezily as he motioned toward the wigwam on the north side of the campground. “Right now, I want to show you the main attraction.”

  Everyone started to follow John except for Wade. He had polished off the last of the snacks and was in the mood for a little exploration. Gaby watched as he turned on his heels and started to follow the trail westward into the floodplain.

  “Hey, don’t you want to see?” she asked.

  Wade dropped a Slim Jim wrapper and belched to show the depth of his concern. He followed the trail around a grove of maple trees and quickly disappeared from view.

  “Such a strange fellow,” Beverly observed. “We’re probably better off without him.”

  The pair quickly joined the others, who were already gathering around the wigwam. It stood some 12 feet tall and was nearly triple that in circumference. Nearly every inch of the exterior was covered in stitched-together animal pelts, with only a small gap near the base to accommodate a round wooden door facing the camp center. John opened the door outward, revealing that its interior was reinforced with wooden struts to maintain its shape.

  Their guide stooped low to fit in the narrow entrance before disappearing into its dim recesses. The others exchanged glances, wondering if they should follow. After a moment, an arm emerged from the entrance, motioning for the others to follow.

  Lamar shrugged and went in after him. As he crossed the threshold, Lamar was immediately struck by how little headroom the teepee afforded. Despite standing over 12 feet tall, the teepee’s walls sloped inward dramatically after only six feet, forcing taller visitors to stoop when walking around the perimeter. Even someone comparatively short like Lamar — who barely stood 5 foot 6 — found the lack of headroom stifling.

  As his eyes acclimated to the dim lighting, Lamar noticed that the interior walls were lined with a lattice frame that gave the wigwam its distinctive shape. Overlaid on top of that was some kind of canvas-like material; probably whatever all those animal skins were attached to.

  The sloping overhead ceiling was also made of this material, but in place of the wooden lattice, it rested on a network of evenly spaced aluminum poles, each set at a 50-degree angle. The poles joined in the center, connected to one another by steel springs to form a funnel shape. The canvas stopped at the edge of this ring, leaving a three-foot-w
ide gap in the ceiling that allowed outside light to stream in. Hanging from this elaborate system of poles and springs was a pull chain.

  Looking down, Lamar saw that the hole in the ceiling overhung a large central firepit, ringed by two rows of river stones. The combination of the firepit and its stone girdle took up nearly a quarter of the floor space in the wigwam, with the rest given over to dirt flooring and little else.

  “Hey, Fat Lives Matter, you wanna make way for the rest of us?”

  Lamar looked back and saw Ken waiting impatiently behind him. He quickly stepped aside as the others began funneling in one at a time, all stooping low to fit through the narrow entrance.

  “This is where you’ll be spending most of your time this week,” John said.

  “You mean we’ll be spending,” Beverly corrected as she came in behind Gaby. Ken stood up to make room for them and promptly clipped his noggin on one of the aluminum poles overhead. The last in was Coop, who closed the door behind him, shutting off the only light source apart from the hole in the ceiling. Everyone squinted as they struggled to see in the gloom.

  “What is this stuff?” Coop’s thin and reedy voice called out in the dim light.

  The others turned to see him running his finger along the canvas walls of the wigwam.

  “It doesn’t feel like animal skin,” he said.

  “It isn’t,” John replied. “Fire-resistant polyethylene. Sixty dollars a yard on Amazon.”

  “And why is it so dark in here?” Gaby asked, taking baby steps forward to avoid tripping on anything unseen in the shadows.

  “Forget the darkness,” Ken complained as he rubbed his sore pate. “Why is it so cramped?”

  “Your questions have the same answer,” John replied evenly. “It’s a sweat lodge. The more light we let in, the more steam escapes. And since steam rises, we want to keep the ceiling low to get the most out of it.”

  While the others stewed over the accommodations, Lamar fixated on the pull chain dangling from the rafters. He tugged it out of curiosity and watched as the aluminum poles overhead bent downward and inward several inches. This pulled the canvas lining the roof taut, constricting the three-foot diameter gap to less than a foot. An audible click sounded as the springs holding the poles together locked into place.

  “It operates like the flue to a chimney,” John explained, seeing Lamar’s puzzled expression. “For the ceremony, you light a fire and pull it tight so that it traps the heat and steam in.”

  “While still allowing the smoke to escape,” Lamar said, beginning to catch on.

  “Exactly,” John said. “And when the ceremony is over …” He gave the pull chain a firm tug, raising the poles once more and expanding the gap to its original size.

  “That releases all the steam and heat into the sky, making it just another wigwam,” John continued. “After all, no one wants to sleep in a sauna.”

  This jolted the others out of their collective reverie as they watched the two play with the convertible roof.

  “We’re sleeping in here?” Beverly asked, her voice rising an octave in alarm. “All of us together?”

  “Of course,” John Lightfoot said. “Where else would you sleep, outside?”

  “Uhm … ever heard of cabins?” Lamar groused.

  “Yes, and I’ve also heard of four-star hotels, but you won’t find either in a wild area,” John responded, the tiniest hint of aggravation creeping into his voice. “No permanent structures allowed, remember? The only reason you have all these amenities is because they predate the ban. I had to get a special permit just to maintain them.”

  “I don’t care, this is simply unacceptable,” Beverly said with a stamp of her foot.

  “What are you so afraid of?” Ken teased. “Worried that we’ll catch you snoring?”

  “I … I don’t know any of you people!” Beverly spat back. “One of you could be some kind of rapist!”

  “I think I speak for everyone here when I say, ‘No one wants to get in your pants, granny,’” Ken said with a look of revulsion.

  “It’s not just that,” Lamar said, unexpectedly standing up for the older woman. “What if someone kicks in their sleep and their foot is by my head? What if someone rolls into the fire? There’s all sorts of problems with this,” he said, once again trailing off.

  John chuckled.

  “I’ve seen some crazy things in four decades of doing this, and yes, that includes people smacking each other in their sleep. But no one’s ever rolled into the fire.”

  “Be that as it may, the black boy is right,” Beverly said as the others gawked at her casual racism. “This is not what we paid for. You said this was a satisfaction-guaranteed trip. Well, I’m not satisfied.”

  John looked at her impassively.

  “That guarantee stands,” he answered slowly. “But only at the end of the trip, and only for paying customers.”

  Beverly momentarily went wide-eyed before regaining her composure.

  “Just … just what are you implying?”

  John stepped toward Beverly and leaned in uncomfortably close, until his mouth was right by her ear.

  “Don’t make me call the judge.”

  The others strained to hear what he’d whispered, but couldn’t make it out. The older woman’s reaction, however, was impossible to miss.

  “You … you … you,” she stammered with rage as the half-light of the wigwam turned her facial contortions into a truly frightening display.

  John stood there calmly, waiting for her response.

  Unable to come up with a truly cutting remark, Beverly abruptly turned on her heels and stormed out of the wigwam.

  “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” she said icily as pushed open the door and rushed outside.

  The others watched in confusion.

  “What was all that about?” Coop asked, reseating his glasses.

  John shook his head slowly in disappointment.

  “I don’t think anyone’s stood up to her in a long, long time,” he said.

  * * * * * *

  “Beverly? I know you can hear me. Just talk to me. We can work this out.”

  Gaby stood by the Chevy’s passenger door, trying to coax the older woman out. After her confrontation with John, Beverly had locked the van from the inside and become completely unresponsive. She simply sulked in the passenger’s seat with her arms crossed and a scowl affixed to her face.

  While Gaby tried to reason with Beverly, the others were busy cleaning up her mess. Beverly’s last act before shutting herself off from the world had been to dump all the luggage and supplies out the back of the van. Now the men sifted through the untidy heap, trying to salvage what they could and determine what belonged to whom.

  Most of the food had escaped unharmed. Two coolers loaded with fresh meats and veggies had survived the fall, as had most of the canned products, although a couple of containers of beef stew were badly dented. A bag of potato chips had torn open and was a total write-off, but the other packaged foods —dried apricots and trail mix — were undamaged. Nearly all of the drinks were a loss, however. Only two water bottles had come through intact, while the ground greedily lapped up the shattered remnants of the rest, forming a small mudpile beneath all the suitcases. A two-liter of Coke shared a similar fate, punctured by the corner of Ken’s metal suitcase.

  “Maybe we should go back into town for supplies,” Lamar mused, trailing off as he picked up shards of broken plastic.

  “There’s a pump 20 feet away,” Ken reminded him. “Drinking H2O for a week won’t kill you.”

  “But that’s creek water,” Coop protested. “We can’t drink that stuff.”

  “Grow a backbone, already,” Ken sneered as he set the undamaged canned goods on a hanging rack at the back of the storage shed.

  “Animals defecate in creeks,” Coop explained, his already high voice reaching falsetto tones as his exasperation grew. “A guy on my last Shinto harai got a mouthful of river water and spent the nex
t month in the hospital.”

  “Hey, if you’d rather drink your own piss,” Ken said dismissively.

  “Gentlemen, I think it’s a little early to resort to urine drinking,” John said drolly as he sorted through the luggage. “And there’ll be no going back. The water pump has all the water you could ever want.”

  “Told you!” Ken gloated.

  “After we boil it, of course,” John finished with a sly smile.

  Gaby poked her head around the side of the van.

  “Guys, she’s not coming out.”

  “Let her be,” John advised. “She’ll come out when she gets hungry.”

  That answer clearly didn’t satisfy Gaby. She trotted over to John and crouched in front of him.

  “What did you say to her?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper. “I mean, she’s acting like a teenager.”

  “She’s acting like what she is: pampered and spoiled,” Lamar said with uncharacteristic conviction. “You see it in a lot of old-money types. They think they’re uhm … superior because people like us kiss their ass all day long. When one of us stands up to them, like John did, they don’t know how to react.”

  The others all stared wide-eyed at Lamar.

  “What?” he asked self-consciously.

  “Listen to Malcolm Manifesto over here,” Ken said in a tone that was almost complimentary.

  “That’s the most you’ve said all day,” Coop agreed.

  “People like that just burn me up, is all,” Lamar said, retreating once again into his embarrassed mumble.

  “Can we get back on track here?” Gaby asked as the others switched from cleaning up to rummaging through the coolers. “What do we do about Beverly? Suppose she tries to take the van?”

  John, who was busy laying out seven fish fillets to thaw in the sun, looked up from his work.

  “She won’t get very far without these,” he replied, pulling the keys from his pocket and jingling them for effect. “Now, let’s get the rest of the perishables down to the creek before they spoil.”