Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  “And who is Christopher?”

  “I am,” the tallest said, his fawn eyes wavering.

  I looked at him in surprise. “You’re in charge?”

  He blushed.

  I eyed the other boy, who still seemed to be searching for an escape route. “Hope you guys are hungry, because I’m starved.”

  All three looked at me as if I’d sprouted wings.

  “You didn’t hurt anything as far as I can see,” I said, then quickly added. “Though that doesn’t make it right.”

  All three nodded in unison.

  “Okay, so your parents aren’t far off, but I still can’t believe they’re leaving you unsupervised. Don’t they read the papers?”

  The trio continued to stare at me, probably wondering what I was about to do next. I backed out of the tent and retrieved my camping stove and food from the cargo hold of my Jeep, relieved that I’d had the foresight to pack everything away. The kids could’ve burned themselves, started a fire. “Do you guys like hot dogs and chips?”

  A slight hesitation, then, “Yeah!”

  The three delinquents were actually kind of cute. Christopher was a dead ringer for Alfalfa of the Little Rascals, lean and gangly with dark hair, light skin, and freckles. His brother, oh dear, his brother. I tried not to laugh. He was more reminiscent of Spanky, short and stocky, with a baseball cap way too big for his head. And the girl, well she looked like a disheveled Shirley Temple.

  Alfalfa seemed to have a sense of shame at least. He blushed when I held up a plate. “The hot dogs will be done in a jiff,” I said. “Go wash your hands so you can put mustard and catsup on your buns and take some chips. I also have water and Diet Coke.”

  Spanky grimaced. “Diet?”

  “I like diet Coke,” the girl said.

  Her brothers groaned and, right on cue, gave her a look that confirmed their disgust.

  What would it have been like to have had brothers and sisters while growing up? I grew up alone, craving a sibling, only to find out six weeks ago that I had an identical twin sister. And that we were as different as night and day.

  The kids filled their plates and attacked their food, barely breathing between bites. “Anyone for seconds?” I asked when they’d finished gobbling down their respective meals. All three nodded. “Jeez, when did you last eat?”

  “Last night,” Christopher managed to say through a mouth full of food.

  Poor kids. “Okay.” I pointed at Alfalfa. “I know your name is Christopher.” I turned to Spanky. “So, what’s your name?”

  “He’s Nathan,” the little girl said.

  “And you are?”

  “Holly.”

  “And how old are you, Holly?”

  “Six.”

  “How about you, Nathan?”

  Holly started to answer, but I held up my hand. “I want to see if Nathan can talk.”

  He snickered behind his hand. “I’m eight.”

  “And you’re nine, right?” I asked Christopher.

  “Ten,” he said, arching his back and thrusting out his chest.

  I raised an eyebrow, implying that a ten-year-old should know better than to invade a stranger’s tent.

  Christopher dropped his gaze and shifted his feet.

  I picked up the plates and started to clean up my makeshift kitchen, figuring that, with their tummies full, the kids would run off. Instead, Nathan asked, “Can I help?”

  “Well...sure,” I said. “You can put the used plates and napkins in the trash bag.”

  Holly squeezed in next to her brother. “I wanna help, too.”

  A sense of warmth wrapped my heart, and, as I gave Holly a chore, it occurred to me that the three children had invaded my camp for a reason. They were here to help me experience an important component of the second path of the Medicine Wheel, that of innocence and trust. My friend, Ben Gentle Bear Mendoza, had referred to the Southern direction of the Medicine Wheel as the “Way of the Child,” and to walk it, he said, “You need to reawaken the child within you and recapture the wonder of being alive.”

  Done with their chores, the threesome looked at me in silence.

  I remembered a game called Snapshot I’d played with my parents when I was their age. “Okay, I need someone to be a camera.”

  All three kids volunteered at once. “Me. Me. Me.”

  “You’ll each get a turn,” I promised. “Let’s start with Nathan.”

  Nathan blinked, as if surprised by the sudden attention. He glanced at his older brother before stepping forward.

  “Christopher, I’ll need you, too.”

  Christopher nodded and waited for instructions.

  Holly shifted from one foot to another. “Whatta bout me?”

  “For now, watch and learn.”

  I motioned to Christopher. “You’ll guide the camera…which will be Nathan…to a spot that interests you. Nathan has to keep his eyes closed until you tell him to open them and take a picture. You’ll snap the picture by tapping Nathan on the shoulder. Got it?”

  Again, Christopher nodded.

  “Okay, Nathan, when Christopher tells you to, open your eyes without moving any part of your body. For five seconds, stare at what’s in front of you. Then Christopher will tap your shoulder and you’ll snap your eyes shut and tell us what you photographed.”

  Nathan demonstrated surprising knowledge of the critters raiding the campground tables during his turn as camera. He photographed a western gray squirrel, a Merriam chipmunk, a crow, and a Steller’s jay.

  Christopher showed more interested in the surrounding vegetation, photographing brambles of poison oak, blackberry, and stinging nettle. “The stuff you need to keep clear of,” he said. “Because you’ll get stung or get a rash that hurts like the dickens, especially if you get it you know where.”

  By the time it was Holly’s turn to be the camera, we were laughing and screeching like kids in a grammar school playground. In fact, we were having so much fun that we didn’t notice the return of their parents.

  “What the hell are you doing to my kids?” yelled an angry female from the direction of the Circus Camp.

  “It’s Mom!” all three kids said at once, their bodies tense. They looked more terrified now than they had when I’d caught them in my tent.

  “I should have you arrested,” the heavyset woman sputtered as she came our way.

  The kids looked at me wide-eyed. What did they think I was going to do, tell on them?

  “Christopher, get your fat ass back to our camp,” the woman screamed with the force of a cyclone. “You, too, Nathan!” She grabbed Holly by the arm and yanked her to her feet. Holly winced and smothered a gasp.

  Next, the blasted woman turned on me. I half expected her to pull out a rolling pin. “Don’t you have anything better to do than mess with other people’s kids?” she screamed as if from a long distance.

  Inside I was fuming, but I didn’t want to make a scene in front of the kids. Their mother was doing a pretty good job of that on her own. But when she called Holly a snot-nosed brat, and looked like she might strike her, I lost it. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to be called names by your mother? Someone you love and adore. Believe me, your daughter will remember it till the day she dies. Is that what you want? For her to remember you with a hole in her heart?”

  Holly pulled free of her mother’s grasp and dashed off toward her tent. But I wasn’t done. “Why are your kids here with me, anyway? A perfect stranger. When they should be with a sitter? Allowing them to run around unsupervised and get into all kinds of trouble may cause you to regret it someday. You’ll wonder why they don’t come to see you, why they don’t bring over the grandkids, why you’re all alone.”

  She stared at me for several seconds before turning and walking away.

  I sank to my knees, shaking. I had just told Holly’s mother some of the things I should’ve told my own.

  Instead, I’d cut
and run.

  Just like Holly.

  Chapter Five

  “IT SLOWS YOU DOWN, my dear,” Anne said when she came by my camp the next morning and caught me straightening up my tent.

  “What does?” I gave my pillow a vigorous shake and plopped it on top of my sleeping bag, deciding this mega tent was one hell of a shelter; the kind of hideout I craved every now and then, where I could feel insulated and in control. No bushwhacking, no carving my own trail, no testing myself or taking a risk. A place where I could stay as I was and where I was, rather than face the struggles that awaited me outside.

  “Your tent,” Anne said. “It’s magnificent, but—”

  “I love this portable cottage.” I patted my pillow for emphasis. “It’s colorful and roomy, and—”

  “Hard to put up and take down,” Anne said with a laugh.

  She had a point there. This weighty monster was a bit glampy, though I wasn’t about to admit it. “It makes me want to stay put,” I said.

  Anne frowned as if I’d given the wrong answer to an important question. “It limits you.”

  “So, what do you suggest?” I wasn’t exactly thrilled with her choice of morning topic. Sure, I was here to connect with nature, but there were limits to how close I wanted to get.

  Anne backed away from the tent and beckoned me to follow. “Why not stretch your boundaries a bit and sleep under the stars?”

  I bit my tongue to keep from admitting that the thought of sleeping without a roof over my head gave me the willies, but apparently, Anne already knew me too well.

  “Does the thought scare you?” she asked.

  “I’d feel so unprotected,” I said.

  “What kind of protection is that portable shelter of poles and polyester?” Anne asked, jabbing her finger at my fortress.

  I knew she was teasing, considering she must occupy a tent as well, but I couldn’t keep still. “It protects me from bugs and snakes.”

  “They can still get in.”

  “Bears.”

  “Ditto,” she said. “And don’t say it protects you from people, because just yesterday, I heard the shouting of an irate woman coming from the direction of your camp.”

  The memory made me smile. Telling off Ms. Circus Camper had felt good. In fact, it released emotions that had been simmering below the surface for too long. Come to think of it, the Circus Camp had been noticeably quiet since then. “Okay. The tent makes me feel more secure, like I’m in a cozy little cocoon.”

  “All in your head, my dear.”

  I scanned our surroundings, taking in the lingering fog, the moisture dripping from the trees onto the spongy earth below, and the nearly imperceptible breeze, then eyed my tent with its apartment-size rooms, windows, and vestibule. “Sorry, Anne, but for now, it offers my only security.”

  She shrugged. “I have a surprise for you.”

  “I like surprises, I think.”

  “You’ll love this one. Although, fair warning, you may be a bit shocked.”

  ~~~

  Anne led me to a pool of water surrounded by a lush accumulation of ferns, sorrel moss, lichen, and majestic redwoods. Sheets of sunlight streamed through the flat needles of the trees and dappled the greenery below, while water spilled from a mossy, rock ledge protruding from the midst of brambles and vines.

  As we stepped onto the springy floor of the cathedral-like grove, something previously hidden from view caught my eye. Mud sculptures. Twenty or more. All of the same woman and child. I dropped to my knees, trying, but failing, to absorb what my mind refused to accept as real. Like the sophisticated sand art creations in beach competitions, the details on these sculptures—from the fine strands of the figures’ hair to the smooth texture of their clothing and skin—appeared to have been carved by a master. Water gushed into water, birds cawed, and sunrays pierced my skin, all adding to the magical quality of the scene. I tore my gaze away from the artwork in front of me and directed it at Anne. “How? I mean—”

  “Pull yourself together, hon, and I’ll explain.”

  “How could you keep this from me? I thought we were—” I was about to say friends, but really. I had just met this woman. What did she owe me, besides nothing?

  “The artist’s name is Adam,” Anne said, “and I had to get his permission before sharing his secret with you.”

  “Is he some kind of recluse?”

  “He’s staying here until—”

  A rush of heat spread over my face. “Is he a criminal?”

  “No.”

  I blew out the breath I’d been holding while waiting for her answer. “So, what’s the problem?”

  “He has Alzheimer’s, Marjorie, and his doctors believe he belongs in a medical facility. However, he’d rather die than be stuck in some hospital bed, surrounded by other confined and dying people.”

  Even without knowing the man or his circumstances, I blurted, “But what if he gets lost or hurts himself?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “You?”

  “I’m his care manager.”

  I took in the pond and the wet, slippery rocks surrounding it. “What if he slips and falls? It could happen in a split second, when you’re not around.”

  “It’s an experiment of sorts,” Anne said, apparently not swayed by my dire predictions. “We hope to prove that access to nature is far better medicine for people with Alzheimer’s than confinement. Plus, since contracting the disease, Adam has formed a dislike of water. It’s nearly invisible to him and therefore disconcerts him. He doesn’t like to drink it and prefers not to shower or bathe in it either.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “With Brock, his personal care aide, who’s probably having a heck of a time getting him squeaky clean.”

  The whimsical expressions on the sculptures’ faces and the fluid positions of their bodies brought a lump to my throat. “They appear so happy, as if they’re playing. May I take a closer look?”

  “Sure, but be careful. The sculptures are made of mud dried in the sun instead of reinforced and kiln-baked clay, so they’re fragile.”

  I walked the springy carpet of needles surrounding the artwork and marveled anew at Adam’s talent.

  Anne ran a light finger over a sculpture of the child. “I provided him with the tools, taught him a few basics, and he took it from there.”

  “You taught him well,” I said.

  She waved away my complement. “No one can teach what he’s able to do.”

  “You sculpt, too?”

  “I have a studio in Monterey, part of the tour I have planned for you. That is, if you’d like to see it.”

  “Are you kidding? You bet I would.”

  “Tomorrow, I’m picking up groceries for Adam. Part of another experiment, to make sure he gets plenty of fruits, veggies, vitamins, and herbs.”

  Only part of my attention remained focused on Anne. The other part was trying to decide which sculpture touched me more, the one of the woman watching her son at play, or the one of the child trying to catch a butterfly.

  “So, how about Wednesday?” Anne asked.

  I started to nod, but hesitated at the sound of rustling branches and leaves. An old man stepped from the bushes into the clearing. His long, wispy beard lifted in the breeze, reminding me of the angel hair we used to spread over our Christmas tree when I was a child. “Is that Adam? He looks like a...a...”

  “Classy tramp,” Anne said.

  Disheveled, yes. Classy, no. Then again, first impressions are often deceiving.

  Another rustle and out of the underbrush darted what looked like a dog, slender, thick-furred, with a long, pointed snout. The creature didn’t wag its tail in greeting, but held it out, horizontal and stiff. I re-experienced the pounding heart and urge to run I’d experienced the day before. Actually, it wasn’t a dog, but a—

  “Coyote,” Anne said.

  I remembered how the coyotes
had howled and yapped at night during my stay in Carmel Valley. “Since when do coyotes approach humans? And what if it has rabies?”

  “There’s nothing normal about this situation,” Anne said. “But don’t worry. Buster won’t hurt you.”

  The coyote’s yellow gaze met mine, and the half grin on his face gave the impression that he was amused, if not downright laughing at me. I glanced at Adam. He was staring at something hidden in shadow. I followed his gaze, but saw nothing.

  A breeze kicked in, causing the towering redwoods to shift and sway. Shafts of sunlight broke through needles and branches and revealed what had caught his attention.

  A sculpture.

  “Sunwalker,” I heard Adam say just before my world went black.

  ~~~

  Something cool pressed against my forehead, and I opened my eyes. Anne hovered over me, her usually sunny face set in a frown. She dabbed at my face with a wet cloth, her bracelets jingling with a high clear pitch. “What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”

  I attempted to sit up. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

  She pressed me back down. “Easy does it.”

  “The sculpture,” I said. “Anne, there’s one of me.”

  “Try to sit up now. That a girl.”

  I searched for the old man, but he was nowhere in sight. “Where’d Adam go?”

  Anne patted my head and smoothed my hair. “You scared the bejesus out of him, passing out like you did. Maybe bringing you here wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Did you see it? There’s a sculpture of me.” I twisted around, afraid it would be gone, but there it was, just as I remembered.

  “Odd that it has no eyes.” Anne said.

  It did look kind of spooky with those hollows where the eyes should’ve been. Otherwise, it looked just like me. “How’d he do it? I mean, how’d he know? He never saw me until yesterday.” Another glance at the sculpture and there stood Adam again, appearing a bit curious, maybe, but not upset.

  “Can you sit up?” Anne asked. At my nod, she supported my back as I rose.

  I stared at Adam. He shook his head as if to clear it.