I finally caught a glimpse of red.
This evening, again near dusk, I saw a human figure walking through the thin trees about 500 yards upstream on the other side. From that distance, I could just tell that she was wearing denim shorts and a red sweater.
About 150 yards from the cottage, she cut through the young ferns to the stream and crossed on a fallen log – holding her hands out to keep her balance. I noticed then that she was walking barefoot.
As she approached, I saw that she was tall and lithe, moving cat-like and confident, taking less care of her bare feet than I would have thought. She was probably 19 or 20 years old. She had a small beige backpack over one shoulder and a silver caribiner in a belt loop of her shorts.
This, of course, was Camilla.
When you two are the only people within a six mile radius and there is no noise more distracting than the crickets, it is considerably awkward to watch a half-known soon-to-be-guest approaching in this manner. Maintaining eye contact required considerable force of will. But it did give me time, at least, to collect myself:
“The Maiden Warrior, I assume?”
She smiled. “Yes. And you must be the Lord Emrys.”
With a deep bow I made my final acquaintance. “Welcome, Lady, to my valley.”
I showed her the cottage, the garden and the root cellar.
She brought two cigars and a bottle of St. Godric’s ale out of her backpack.
While I declined the cigar, we did share the bottle of ale; and I smoked my pipe while she smoked her cigar. She did not smoke vulgarly, or with an overzealous energy that would have indicated unrest. Nonetheless, she carries something deep and brooding around with her. When, at one point, she looked for a long time at the smoke from her cigar, I could see it in her eyes.
She is not running from anything, but she is still keenly aware of some old wound that has only begun to heal.
Though she is beautiful and in many ways young, we will be friends – at least such friends as two people like us can be.
She is staying for now in a shallow cave about three miles upstream and plans to remain at least through the summer solstice. I have granted her free and open use of the valley for as long as she needs it, as well as access to my stores, such as they are or will be. I also promised to teach her how to fly fish with a spare rod I have and invited her to the poetry workshops.
After a while, Camilla left as she had the other night, quietly and by the light of the stars.
2 comments:
This is a beautiful vale, thriving with floral and faunal life but not so as to choke out the earth and rock and waterflow that add so much to its character. I should like to live here for a time. But some force of modernity keeps me out. There is the invisible fence of mystery about the place that does not admit the cleaving of my scalpel-mind that would like very much to shave away the mystery and lay it out to dry in the open. I fear, I know, that such a deed would display for me a patch of dirt and plants and men who smell less of soap than of loam and who suck relentlessly on little koans about nothing.
But I know none of that is true to the life that is in the valley; I simply lack the metaphysical maturity to embrace freedom for my sake the way that I so desperately wish to. Seekers, live and love for all that you're worth! Remember us outside the valley with compassion.
Resist the scalpel!
You are right, Pidgin, to connect mystery and freedom.
We will remember you.
And you are always welcome, even with a scalpel.
In the end, if mystery is, it can even bear the scalpel.
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