Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  Unlike this one.

  I unfolded the instructions, which started with a tip: Always practice at home before your first trip. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda,” I grumbled before dumping the tent parts to see what I’d be dealing with: ground cloth; tent; rainfly; stakes; main body pole; vestibule pole; rainfly pole; tent stakes.

  Back to the instructions: Enlist help of at least one other person to assist you to assemble the tent. “Yeah, right.”

  Trial and error got me as far as spreading the ground cloth, stretching the tent over it, staking the tent corners through the stake rings, and snapping together the flexible, collapsible poles. Now for the tricky part. Make an X shape over the top of the tent with the body poles and insert into the pole sleeves. May require some pulling, stretching, and adjusting.

  At this rate, I’d be lucky to get the darn thing up by nightfall.

  “Looks like you could use a little help.”

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  The speaker had the face and figure awarded to people who eat well, take their vitamins, and exercise. Her hair was gray, though she looked no older than forty, and her clear blue eyes sparkled with good humor.

  “You bet I could, if you’re offering.”

  “Happy to help out a fellow camper in need,” she said.

  I would have reached for her outstretched hand if my own hadn’t been balancing the flexible main body pole like a telescopic fishing rod.

  “I’m Anne,” she said, her bracelets jingling.

  I dropped the pole to the ground. “I’m Marjorie. Would you care for a drink?”

  “Water would be lovely,” she said, eyeing my Olympic Dome 4-Person Tent. “That’s a pretty fancy house you’re erecting. Four bedrooms?”

  “I know it’s a bit much,” I said, pulling bottled water out of my ice chest, “but I wanted plenty of space. The ad said it would set up in five minutes.”

  “Ads can be misleading.”

  I handed Anne her water. “Yeah, I figured that out about an hour ago.”

  Anne uncapped the bottle and raised it in a salute before taking a sip. “Seems I came just in time.”

  “I’ll treat you to baked beans and hotdogs after...”

  “Twenty-four grams of protein, twenty-seven grams of fat, fifty-five grams of carbs. Not part of my usual diet, but for today, I’ll make an exception.”

  With Anne’s help, the rest of the tent went up in minutes. She compared erecting a tent to ceremony, the instructions a test. “Sometimes you have to nix the instructions and trust your intuition,” she said. “For instance, I always use more ground stakes than called for, just in case my handiwork isn’t as sturdy as it looks.”

  “Wow,” I said. Clear-view windows; mud mat; front and rear vestibule; rainfly; blue dome; interior pockets for stashing gear. A little over-the-top, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Anne took a step back and inspected my new home. “Eddie Bauer, with all the bells and whistles. Did you bring a groundsheet and mattress?”

  “Yep. And a sleeping bag and pillow.”

  “How about an extra blanket? It gets pretty cold at night when the fog rolls in.”

  The thought of fog creeping in and engulfing the campsite gave me a moment of unease, but I shrugged it off. “In some ways, at least, I came prepared.”

  “Good.” Anne pointed to her right. “The bathrooms and showers are thatta way. Be sure to use them before bedding down, so you won’t be searching for them after dark. Did you bring a gas stove?”

  “Yep. In the back of my Jeep.

  “Good, I’m hungry.”

  ~~~

  The tent looked inviting, with the inflated air mattress, sleeping bag, flashlight, blanket, bottled water, and just about everything else I could imagine needing inside, including a catalog for the four-day Esalen Institute workshop Dr. Mendez had signed me up for while I was here. Something about opening up to further growth and eliminating accumulated patterns that numb the perception. “Don’t limit your life experience,” he’d said. “Extend your spiritual family with people who will provide you with new learning experiences.”

  The smell of barbecued beans and hot dogs wafted through the newly operational camp kitchen. “I could get used to this.”

  Anne turned the hot dogs and stirred the beans. “Hate to break this to you, but the reason it’s currently so peaceful is that your neighbors from the Circus Camp next door are out sight-seeing. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”

  “I wondered why there weren’t any vehicles around,” I said. “Looks like they haven’t finished setting up yet.”

  “Notice the air compressor?” At my nod, Anne said. “What do you think they’ll be doing when you’re all hunkered down to go nighty-night in that cozy tent of yours?”

  “Oh no.”

  “And they’ve got three kids.”

  “Kids are cute.”

  Anne’s brows shot up, and she slapped a hand over her chest. “Not these. No one watches them. They’re everywhere, all at once.” She sighed. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  It felt like I’d just been sucker-punched. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pitched the tent.”

  “I was thinking about moving to a quieter site myself, but” —Anne paused, then shook her head— “there probably aren’t any other spaces available. And, to be quite honest, I don’t like the idea of camping too far out on my own.”

  With a brave smile, I assured her, “Well, now you have me. That is, if you don’t mind helping out a greenie camper now and then.”

  Anne reached over and patted my hand. “We’ll help each other.”

  Chapter Three

  IT HAD BEEN A ROUGH NIGHT, just as Anne had predicted. When the Circus Campers returned, which wasn’t until well after dark, they fired up the generator, and while the parents pumped up the air mattresses and incited each other with vulgar profanities, their children ran wild, shouting and squealing, blissfully unaware of the camp’s quiet-time rules. The little rascals even made a couple of tight spins around my tent before their parents herded them into their canvas den. Once the children were bedded down, the parents started in. And they were worse than the kids. I gritted my teeth and stuffed Kleenex into my ears, figuring it had to be alcohol that was making them so jovial—and loud. They caroused until the wee hours of morning, just minutes, it seemed, before I unzipped my sleeping bag to face the day.

  At last, the camp was still. It was also foggy and cold—something brought home to me the minute I stepped out of my tent. Insulated clothing swaddled my body, but all those layers would make using the bathroom a chore. Good thing Anne had urged me to check out the facility before bedding down. I hoped my memory would serve me now, because even my flashlight couldn’t penetrate the thick, wet mist.

  Needless to say, I wasn’t in the best of moods when I got back to camp. If I didn’t fire up the camp stove soon and restore my resolve with some steaming hot coffee and the remnants of yesterday’s Rocky Point breakfast, I’d probably call the whole trip off.

  The rush of the Big Sur River, the descending caw of a crow, and the peacefulness of the redwood grove that surrounded me slowly negated some of the camp’s inconveniences. By the time I’d finished breakfast and stowed my supplies in the cargo space of the Jeep, my mood had lifted. A plan started to form. If I drove slowly and kept my eyes focused on the road, I should be able to locate the Visitor Information Center for maps and brochures offering tips for exploring.

  While driving through the fog at a crawl, I had second thoughts about the sanity of yet another of my hare-brained ideas. I’d heard Big Sur described as “the greatest meeting of land and sea,” but this was more like the meeting of land and sky. I understood Jack Kerouac’s question on visiting here: “What the hell is this?”

  Fortunately, the Visitor Information Center was only a short distance down Highway 1, and, fortunately, I was driving a mere twenty-miles-an-hour, otherwise, I w
ould’ve missed the turn. The sole woman in charge appeared to be having a less than perfect morning. With a polite smile in place of conversation, she handed me a trail map of the Los Padres National Forest, along with a smaller, less intimidating map of the hiking trails for the Pfeiffer State Park. We might as well have been the only two people on earth, considering how a curtain of fog cut us off from the rest of civilization, but that didn’t inspire her to friendliness. It took effort on my part to pry out the information it was her job to share.

  Back at camp, I picked up my daypack and checked its contents: compass, first aid kit, pepper spray, whistle, mouse totem, journal, pen, maps, and water. No better way of shaking off my recurring sour mood than by a vigorous hike.

  My map pointed out a trail that started at the far end of the parking area and headed uphill into the yeasty and fecund redwood forest. The fog had lifted, and as I walked the path, the sounds of light traffic and children frolicking near the Big Sur River faded into silence. I followed Pfeiffer-Redwood Creek until I came across a sign that directed me to the Valley View Trail.

  My vigorous hike soon morphed into a senior-citizen stroll. I meandered through warm pockets of air, where the sun had penetrated the dense redwood groves, and through icy pockets of canopied shade. Wind gushed through breaks in the trees and whistled past my face and ears. A plane droned overhead like a giant bee, and, for a while, the only other sound was the hypnotic thud of my boots on the dirt path. An occasional insect buzzed by, followed by the caw, caw of crows searching for food. Ahead, lay the carcass of a small bird, the feathered skin shriveled and folded in on itself—a leg, a bone, a bit of flesh. The sign of death and decay amid such beauty brought me to a halt, and that’s when I realized I’d left the marked trail.

  The sound of cascading water struck me as odd. My map had specified four wooden footbridges and several creeks that I needed to cross before reaching the waterfall, and I hadn’t crossed even one. Plus, this didn’t sound like a sixty-foot waterfall. Not enough force.

  Just ahead, lay a clearing carpeted with the grays, rusts, and browns of fermenting vegetation, bordered by vines, wood ferns, and maples. And nearly camouflaged by the underbrush was the earthy brown sculpture of a woman.

  The sounds of chirping birds, buzzing insects, and cascading water gave way to the sound of blood pumping in my ears. What tools had the artist used to create such true-to-life features out of what appeared to be plain, unembellished mud? And why here? People didn’t leave works of art out in the middle of nowhere, unprotected and exposed to the elements. I sank to my knees on the forest floor.

  No one will believe me, and I left my camera behind.

  I grappled with the zipper of my backpack for my journal and pen. Maybe I could capture some of the sculpture’s details with words and amateur sketches.

  However, before I could even get started, I heard the dry muffle of weight on dead leaves.

  Goose bumps skittered across my neck and arms. I dug into my backpack for my pepper spray, but instead caught hold of my mouse totem.

  A rustle in the greenery. The snapping of brambles.

  “Hello?” I said.

  The silent presence moved, stopped.

  My guidebook had stressed that there were gray fox and coyotes out here, even bobcats and mountain lions. At any moment, I’d feel the weight of something wild plunging onto my back, its teeth sinking into my neck.

  The mouse totem, symbol of trust and divine focus, pulsed in my hand.

  Forget about trust. Forget about divine focus.

  I stuffed the totem into my backpack, stood, and ran.

  ~~~

  On reaching camp, I crept into my tent and gave in to a fit of shaking.

  “Yo? Marjorie.”

  My teeth chattered like a Yakity-Yak wind-up toy. “In here, Anne.”

  She peeked through the tent entrance as though playing hide and seek. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “You’ll never believe it.”

  Vertical lines appeared on her otherwise smooth forehead. “Looks like you could use some coffee.”

  “Anne—”

  “Coffee first. Then we talk.”

  I followed her out of the tent, filled the coffeepot with bottled water, and set it on the camp stove to perk, the simple routine settling my nerves.

  Anne, I decided, had strange taste in clothes. Who, for instance, wore a long skirt while out camping? The skirt showed much use, but its orange, black, and silver pattern of suns, stars, and moons still managed to look bold. A long-sleeved blouse—some kind of netting attached to a tank top—hung over her skirt and was cinched by an elastic belt with a cat-faced buckle. She must’ve been in a hurry getting dressed because the cat’s face was upside down, rhinestone eyes and all.

  Anne glanced up and smiled, as though aware that I’d been watching her. “Got anything yummy to go with the coffee?”

  “You’ll find stroopwafels in the round tin next to the mugs.”

  Her eyebrows lifted.

  “Dutch for ‘syrup waffles,’” I said. “Two thin layers of baked dough with caramel syrup filling. Mom’s parents, my Opa and Oma, were from Holland and introduced me to them when I was a kid. Along with chocolate sprinkles called hagelslag and a spiced cookie called speculaas. Anyway, if you put a stroopwafel over a cup of hot coffee for a few seconds, the filling softens, and it’ll taste and smell like it just came out of the oven.”

  “Sounds heavenly.”

  “It is, believe me. The Dutch are experts at satisfying the sweet tooth.”

  While Anne poured the coffee and topped each mug with a stroopwafel, her bracelets jingled like car keys.

  “I never take them off,” she said.

  She’d caught me staring again, though she hadn’t lifted her eyes from her task.

  “Never?”

  “Haven’t for years. You get used to them, honest. They stay clean, too, because they get washed every time I do.”

  “Are they real?”

  “Gold, silver, and bronze. Otherwise they wouldn’t hold up to the abuse.”

  “And all the rings on your fingers?”

  “Garnets, amethysts, agates. Never take them off either.”

  I thought of the stones in my belted pouch, markers for my Medicine Wheel. “You’re probably going to tell me they have healing powers.”

  Anne grinned, and I couldn’t hold back a grin of my own. I liked her.

  “I like you, too,” she said.

  Whoa. Was she reading my mind?

  She glanced at the abandoned Circus Camp next door. “Until now, I’ve made it a point not to get too chummy with the other campers, but for you I’ve made an exception. Hope you plan to stick around for a while. I’d love the company.”

  “Same here,” I said, tempted to give her a hug for showing up when she had. After this morning’s scare, I didn’t have much confidence in my ability to hold out for an extended stay. “And the earrings?” I asked, unable to curb my curiosity about Anne’s colorful, offbeat ways; especially now that I suspected she might have psychic abilities like me. “Do you sleep in them, too?”

  She laughed. “Yep.”

  “Don’t they hurt?”

  She pushed several gray curls behind her ears. They sprang right back. “They tangle in my hair now and then, but usually they’re okay.”

  “Why stars?”

  “You mean instead of diamonds and pearls?”

  I nodded.

  “My jewelry talks to me. It sings. It protests. It giggles.”

  “That could drive one crazy,” I said.

  “Or keep one sane,” she countered.

  Wild card, Ace, Jack, or Seven?

  “Psycho or eccentric?” Anne said as if I’d spoken out loud.

  Something twisted in my chest. Either she was reading my mind or she could mirror my thoughts in an observe-and-guess fashion. Both ideas unsettled me.

  After we had finished the en
tire pot of coffee and nearly all the stroopwafels, Anne said, “Okay, now tell me what you saw.”

  “You’re not going to believe it,” I said.

  Her smile encouraged me to blurt out what I’d seen and how I’d sensed being watched.

  She looked into her coffee mug as if reading tealeaves. “First of all, it’s dangerous leaving the trail.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Never do that again, unless someone’s with you.”

  I had already figured that out for myself, but, darn it, one of the reasons I’d come to Big Sur was to contact my dead mother, and that meant spending time alone. I would have to find a way.

  Anne shook a finger at me. “Oh, quit looking like the world just came to an end. I’ll trail you if it’s privacy you’re after, as long as I’m close enough to hear if you call for help.”

  She’d done it again. Read my mind. “I do need to be alone sometimes,” I said.

  She got to her feet. “Let’s go see that sculpture.”

  “Just a sec.”

  I rushed back to my tent for my camera.

  Chapter Four

  “IT’S GONE!” The weight of disappointment bore down on me as I kicked at the bare spot where the mud sculpture had been. “It was right here.”

  “Are you sure this was the place?” Anne asked.

  The clearing, the dried needles and leaves; the vines; the ferns. “Positive. Look, the ground’s matted where the statue once was. I wish you could’ve seen it, Anne.”

  The clay was still damp as if I had interrupted the artist. Maybe that’s why I had felt as if I weren’t welcome.

  Anne walked in a slow circle, inspecting the area as though it were a crime scene, then bent to pick something off the ground.

  I hurried over, hoping for a clue, any clue, as to where the sculpture had gone.

  She ran her finger over the object’s dull triangular blade. “It’s a potter’s knife for cutting clay. The pointed tip prevents the tool from dragging on the clay’s surface.” Our eyes met. Anne grinned. “And you thought I didn’t believe you.”