by Sarah Relyea
He tossed the rock in the rhododendron.
“What happened?” she asked.
He made no response. When she looked up, there were damp beads under his mouth and in the lines of his forehead. “He made a threatening move,” he answered, finally. She’d seen nothing—or maybe she’d been unaware of the meaning of things she’d seen. As they passed out of sight of the guardsmen, her father glanced over and then away. “Do you plan to inform your mother that we came by the park?” he demanded. “She’ll be unhappy with us both.”
She was feeling too confused to respond.
“Well, have it your way,” he added.
Interlude
ONCE UPON A time at the edge of the forest there lived a girl. In the household were her father, stepmother, and stepsister. The father was a fur trader, often away from home. The stepmother and stepsister made jewelry of small shells they had found in the garden, selling the jewelry in town; though they were never rough with her, there was a household to run. So they found few moments to spare for the child, who would amuse herself by wandering among the wildflowers beyond the garden. Everyone called her Flower Child.
Flower Child could scarcely remember her own mother, who had passed away before the girl had reached the age of three.
Every Wednesday, the stepmother and stepsister would journey to town to sell the jewelry they had made. Then they would use the money they had earned to buy meat and vegetables. In the yard, Flower Child mended her father’s clothes or gathered twigs for the evening fire. Sometimes, though, she would wander away through the woods. One day, as the stepmother was preparing to leave for town, she commanded, “Never go to the woods, Flower Child. The woods are full of dangerous animals, such as foxes and wolves, that feed on the flowers. Keep to the house and yard. By dark we will return, and then comes your father, too.”
Flower Child pledged to stay by the house. But no sooner had the two gone down the path to town than she opened the back door and wandered down an unruly path into the forest.
Vast groves bordered the path. Tree branches rose densely, obscuring the sun. Under the branches sprouted wildflowers of red, purple, and blue; as she passed them, Flower Child thought sadly how they would soon be devoured by foxes and wolves. But she had never even seen a fox or a wolf, and because the wildflowers she found on the path were far more marvelous than the animals conjured by her imagination, she soon forgot all about foxes and wolves as she gazed on the wonders of the forest plants. A wild rose reached over the path, and she leaned to inhale its musky perfume. From the upper branches of a beech tree came birdsong; she paused to hear the honeyed sounds overhead. “What a lovely song!” thought Flower Child aloud to herself, for there was no one to keep her company. She had begun to feel lonely in the deep forest, and so she sat down beneath the beech tree in the hope of hearing the bird. “The song was for me,” she thought; “I’m the only one here. No one could sing so beautifully for herself alone.”
As soon as she had spoken, there came a rustling by the path, under a lilac bush, and a small, red-furred creature came gliding smoothly forth until he stood before her, sniffing her foot. She withdrew her foot, too startled to speak, for she suddenly knew he was a fox. The red fox crouched low to the ground and turned his eyes toward her.
“And why are you here in the forest today, my daughter?” he asked. “Has your mother not warned you of bears?”
“Oh yes,” she responded, though she was somewhat puzzled to hear a dangerous fox warning her of bears. “I know how the dangerous animals eat the wildflowers, and it makes me sad to see all the lovely wildflowers that will soon be gone, for I’m sure the animals need supper, just as we do.”
“Ah,” sighed the fox, as Flower Child gazed around at the lilacs and roses, “so must it be. The wildflowers will soon be gone, and then where will you be?”
“I? With father and mother, there I will be,” she replied. “We make our home by the forest edge. The afternoon has grown late, and I can no longer tarry under the green beech tree. I do not want to be scolded when I get home.”
When he heard her words, the fox turned with a simper to smell a deep-red velvety rose that lingered by the path.
“Oh no!” moaned the girl, starting to her feet. “Please don’t eat the roses while I’m here—I couldn’t bear to hear them weep.” And she fled down the path the way she had come, only an hour before.
When she had come to a bend in the path, she paused, wondering whether she could spy the fox feasting on the red rose. As she turned, he was only smelling the rose; he lay crouched on the ground as though made of stone. But then, with a sudden pounce the fox caught and devoured the rose down to the last trembling red petal; for a moment it shone against the fur like ruby-red blood, before vanishing altogether. Flower Child gasped in horror and hastened down the darkening forest path.
When she had run a long way, she found herself by a riverbank. She had made no river crossing in the forest, she was sure; but there were many paths home and she was resolved to reach the other shore, where she could continue on her way before seeing the red fox again. The river was broad, the current fast; she paused by the bank wondering what to do. When some moments had passed, she became aware of a large animal standing by her on the bank. He was covered with brown fur. “He must be a bear,” she thought. Though larger and far more stout than the fox, he looked on her with welcoming eyes, the huge mouth curling in a smile. For a moment she drew back; but remembering that it was the fox who had warned her of bears, she relented, turning to him as though meeting a new comrade.
“Oh, Bear!” she murmured. “How glad am I to see you!”
The bear never moved, but only looked at her.
Flower Child stammered on. “I know the hour of your supper approaches—if you delay any longer, alas! Fox will eat all the poor flowers of the forest—but before you go I ask your help in a small way, and then you may leave.”
The bear gazed at her over the dark, damp muzzle; she was too unnerved to hear a reply but went on, pouring out her thoughts.
“I ask a very small favor of you,” she continued, “but an important one for me. I must cross the river and find my way through the forest, for my home is on the path through town. Perhaps you have been to town and passed the house. It’s near the old oak tree that burned many years ago, though never dying, for new leaves appear every spring. My father calls it a live oak. If you would carry me to the far shore, I will take the largest blossom from the live oak and send it through the forest to you. Then tomorrow, you will dine much more splendidly than the red fox.”
The bear turned toward the water and spoke at last. “I can carry you across,” he replied. “However, the land you see is not the far shore but only a sandbar. The current is so strong that I must stop there and rest. We will go there; and when I have recovered my strength, we will continue on to the far shore.”
Flower Child was alarmed by the thought of reaching a sandbar in a fast-moving river, at evening, and in the company of a large brown bear. But then she gazed across the darkened water and saw that the sandbar was covered with flowering rhododendrons, though in the dusk they could barely be seen, a vague and purple glow. It is best, she thought to herself. When we reach the island, Bear will leave me in peace and devour the poor rhododendron blossoms, replenishing his strength. Then, as he has promised, he will carry me to the far shore.
“Very well,” she said aloud to the bear. “May we go now? For it is growing late.”
And with that, the bear crouched down in the sand, and Flower Child clambered up the strong, broad back, grasping the coarse fur as she pulled herself up onto the shoulders of the bear. Then he rose on two legs. She had never before clambered on a bear’s shoulders and was fearful of looking down from so high a place.
The bear lumbered down the sand and waded through the fast current to where he could no longer stand. Then he headed upstream, allowing the current to carry him nearer and nearer the sandbar. When he could finally touch th
e muddy shore, he rose up the sand until they had cleared the water. Flower Child dropped from the bear’s shoulders, landing in dune grass that grew everywhere. All around them, rhododendrons reached forth like jungle growth, forming a dense and seemingly impenetrable wall. No harm will come if he devours a few of these flowers, she thought to herself, for there will always be more, and new ones will grow so soon that we will leave no damage.
As she was musing on the fate of the flowers, the bear gave a great yawn, revealing two rows of long sharp teeth. Then, hurtling forward, he crashed through the rhododendron brush and was seen no more. Flower Child paused, gaping at the crushed and tangled bushes, as the sound of snapping branches faded slowly away. She was alone.
Part III
the emperor sleeps
chapter one
Alice
FOLLOWING THE PARK turmoil, the Raysons were enjoying some rare camaraderie—an evening at the Patterson home. Now that Michael would be leaving for the Amazon, the women were growing closer, and the families were coming together in a show of support. The park had given everything an added urgency, even the car ride over—of course walking would be imprudent, Marian argued, with the guardsmen running around.
“As long as we’re back by curfew,” Tom objected, “there’s nothing they can do.”
Marian glanced in the foyer mirror and grasped her keys. “Then I can go in the car, and you do as you please,” she responded.
Tom shrugged, and so they drove together, with Curt humming a droning song.
The door was opened by Sabrina’s barefoot daughter, whose assessing gaze roved over the group. She must be Helen, Alice concluded, the one who’d gone along as a baby during a research year—or so she’d heard from her mother. If only the Raysons would go on a research year! Glancing at Curt, Alice could see he was amused by the girl’s freely judgmental manner even if he was feigning the usual boredom, as though he’d rather be playing baseball.
Helen hung wordlessly in the doorway, seemingly wondering where they’d come from, as Sabrina emerged from the hall.
“Why, here they are!” Sabrina made up for her daughter’s meager welcome. “Come, we’re opening champagne.”
There came a pop, and Michael appeared bearing long, thin-stemmed glasses. “To the Amazon!”
As the grown-ups clinked glasses, Helen poured some champagne for herself. “Plantains and caterpillars!” she cheered, gulping it down. The women shared a glance.
“Good chaser for those caterpillars, eh?” Tom deadpanned. Caught off guard, Helen made no response.
Sabrina had made hors d’oeuvres and Tuscan panini, served on heavy ceramic plates, with red wine for the grown-ups and sparkling cider for Curt and the girls. The younger daughter was away in Marin, escaping the guardsmen, so Helen was hanging around the grown-ups. That was just as well, thought Alice: Helen and Curt were already eyeing each other, as though she were a tag-along. The three of them sat on a woven bamboo rug, secluded from the grown-ups’ chairs and couches, though close enough to hear the conversation, if they chose. There would be only one event of real concern: the war over the park. Alice wondered what Sabrina and Michael would have to say. Surely they would know more than her parents; even Helen would know more.
The Raysons sat apart from each other on a couch, Alice’s father coolly sizing up the other couple as her mother murmured admiring words over the Tuscan panini and wine. Helen lay on the floor, her dark hair draping over the bamboo rug as she nodded to a faraway rhythm, seemingly unaware of anyone.
“These are scary days,” Tom announced, in his usual impassive tone. “Be glad you’ll be far away.”
“Oh, there’s real fascism down there,” Michael responded.
“And why are you going?”
“I’m an anthropologist.”
“Have you been to Cuba?” Tom demanded, as though playing a game.
“No. Why?”
“You’re an organizer, aren’t you? For your people in the Amazon?”
“Oh dear me, they’ve never been anyone’s people. That’s the whole point. Anyway, I’m a researcher. They’re among the few remaining hunter-gatherers—” Michael poured some more wine. “Of course,” he went on, “many of the so-called hunter-gatherers have never depended solely on hunting and gathering; they tend gardens, they’re also growers. But our imaginations conjure up bands of savages roaming the earth, feeding off the land, foraging as an occupying army would do. There’s another anthropologist—colleague of mine—who calls them a warmongering people, says it’s programmed in our genetic code.”
As Alice observed Michael’s easy, communicative manner, she wondered about the faraway place where he would soon be going—a place her father had scarcely heard of.
“And you’re half-persuaded,” Sabrina commented.
She wore jeans, and though they seemed less casual on her than on her daughter, she was clearly undergoing a change. Alice had seen Sabrina before and found her elegant—wasn’t her mother always saying she resembled French cinema’s lovely waif, Anna Karina? Alice had never seen Anna Karina and couldn’t say; even so, the jeans and her husband’s flying off seemed to go together.
“I’m a researcher—half-ignorant. They were bypassed by rubber only to be overrun by gold and uranium. Soon they’ll be gone,” Michael concluded mournfully.
Suddenly an angry droning poured from the sky, the sound they’d learned to dread.
“They’re back,” Sabrina announced, glancing toward the window.
The droning loomed closer, as though ready to whirl the house away and fling it askew on a Kansas prairie. The grown-ups glanced around in annoyance and dread, except for Alice’s father, who was chewing colorlessly on a chunk of Tuscan panini.
Helen plugged her ears. “Flying fucking pigs,” she muttered through the roar.
As the thing swooped by, seemingly grazing the roof, the sound pounded a rhythm, gathering them in its ugly and deafening embrace. And then as abruptly as it had come, the jack-hammering moved off, leaving a vacuum.
Michael wagged his head, smiling ruefully. “They’re calling it a ‘people’s war,’” he remarked.
“Who?” Sabrina demanded.
“The people at the Barb.”
“Yeah,” added Helen. “Hey, everyone, welcome to Hanoi.” She lay on the bamboo rug, her bare feet in need of washing, the soles leathery. Alice, who’d never seen anything so wild and free, eyed them, impressed.
“Oh my, Hanoi.” Alice’s mother smoothed her blouse, her eyebrows rounded in doubting indulgence. Compared with Sabrina, she seemed formal and humorless. Curt made a scoffing face, as though passing judgment on her, or maybe conspiring with Helen. Alice glanced at her mother, feeling vaguely condemned by the condescending tone she’d begun to assume when referring to those people—park supporters, Peace and Freedom members, Barb journalists. They’d suddenly become “the Peace and Freedom kids,” a gang of naughty—and dangerously foolish—schoolboys and schoolgirls. Just as Helen was sounding off freely, Alice found herself cringing.
“Everyone knows the cops have guns,” her mother was saying. “If you push hard enough on men with guns, eventually they shoot. It’s awful, but what was everyone thinking—that the University would just hand over its land? Soon parks would be springing up everywhere—”
“Far fucking out,” murmured Helen.
“And why not?” Sabrina said, with an indulgent smile. Alice wondered if her mother would argue with Sabrina, but she paused, as though uneasy. Sabrina pressed on. “Why not have urban farms, if people are willing to work the land? Just look at Frank Madigan, of the Alameda County sheriffs—”
“Mad Dog Madigan, you mean,” interjected Helen.
Curt guffawed. “Sure is some mad dog.”
“Madigan is from one of those farms in Napa,” Sabrina resumed, “where people bought up cheap land—poor people who’d come West, working for others and then one day buying land for a farm. Now he’s a good ol’ boy, defending home turf
.”
“Yes,” Michael nodded, “and now we have people crowding in here, when there’s no more land to be parceled out. Even so, they keep coming, like the ’49ers. Where are they going to go?”
“That’s easy,” Helen laughed. “Every muddy lot in America’s gonna have a People’s Park.”
Michael wagged a finger in refusal. “Governor Reagan and the Chancellor would never suffer a hobo jungle in People’s Park. And why should they?” He paused as though wary of her mood, then plunged on, annoyed. “Some of those people are choosing to be poor. There’s nothing wrong with that; but groups that follow vows of poverty usually have leaders, rules, discipline. Here we have a mob on psychedelic drugs. And you say give them free land? Any cop who went near the place would be in danger. Imagine a squad car pulling up—in a moment, they’re surrounded by hundreds of angry people. No, we’d have a modern-day Sherwood Forest, with the neighborhood kids playing among the bummers and pig roasts.”
“Wow,” Helen grumbled, “you sound worse than Ronald Ray-gun.”
Alice giggled. Helen’s father was lively, she thought, examining the man’s dark mane and red beard, the safari pants and African tunic, as he pondered the park aloud. Her father, by contrast, was a strategist, a cipher.
Michael shrugged. “Of course we, the university community, made the problem. We pushed people from their homes—including some of our own students—and bulldozed the land, promising public improvements. Then we became careless, as lords of the manor do. For months the land lay muddy and unused, an eyesore. Then came the park—and the improvements we’d never bothered to make. In the arrogance of power, we assumed the rabble could do us no harm; and so, magnanimously, we allowed them to run free. There was alarm, but no one would play the heavy with the people from Telegraph Avenue. Now we’ve finally been overrun by a higher power: Governor Ray-gun and Mad Dog Madigan. And we professors are appalled by the result.”