I suppose several months had passed before I felt any inclination to venture away from my little house in the Oregon wilderness. In truth, I had lost track of the time; it meant nothing to me, anyway.
My mind was somewhat clearer than it had been when I'd first arrived. I could think back on a handful of experiences without feeling extreme distress. But my psyche remained very tender, and I had no wish to seek out society of any sort.
However, a growing sense of ennui was nagging at me. I had read every one of my books a dozen times over. I had forced myself to play my violin but had found no pleasure in the task. I had built a stone fireplace and carved an elaborately detailed mantle to mount above it. My home was immaculate, the grounds surrounding it pristine and manicured, and I had nothing left to do.
I had only explored the area immediately around my property, and only as far as necessary to find game. I fed infrequently, feeling no hunger but remembering Carlisle's words: "You must eat, son, even when there is no thirst. Promise me that you will feed." I could not break that small vow, so sometimes I found a deer and drank apathetically.
On a drizzly morning in late spring, I tucked my favorite volume of Tennyson into my jacket pocket and set out toward the mountains. The towering peaks of the Cascades held some appeal to me, as I had never had the opportunity to scale a high mountain. I could see the summit peeking through the fog and had the fleeting thought that it would be pleasant to emerge from the cloud bank into the sunshine, where I might sit openly in the clean, crisp air and read.
I began to walk at a brisk pace, equivalent to a fast run for a human. I planned my route carefully, using memories of my journey to the homestead weeks ago. Once I had passed Madras, there were only a handful of inhabited properties. Most lay to the south and east, closer to the river. I could only recall one homestead that I might pass, and the dilapidated condition of the house and small barn had indicated that it was deserted. Even so, I planned to swerve north well before I reached it, preferring to err on the side on caution.
I strolled along, unperturbed by the dampness and grey skies. Over the last half dozen years, I had grown accustomed to being outside only during overcast weather, so I thought little of cloudy days. The cool mist did not chill me; temperature was of scant concern to me.
I passed through wooded areas and emerged into a meadow. Droplets of water clung to the petals of the white flowers carpeting the ground. I bent to brush my fingertip over a tiny bloom, thinking that Esme would find this spot lovely. She adored flowers, and her loving care kept a variety of plants thriving in our home and yard.
I remained crouched for some time, frozen as memories of the impeccably decorated house filling my mind. I could see Carlisle and Esme laughing, reading to each other, playing ma jong, and listening to me as I performed my newest violin concerto. I winced as the images shifted. I pressed a hand to my temple when I saw their stricken faces from my huddled, miserable position upon the couch where I had lain during those dark and distressing days.
Forcing myself to my feet, I dashed from the meadow and back into the shelter of the trees. For some time I ran, allowing myself to feel nothing but the wind against my cheeks. Suddenly I stopped, slightly disoriented. I had lost track of the direction and was unsure precisely where I was. I turned around to find the mountain range and realized that I had wandered further south than I intended.
The trees were sparser here, the land more open. As my gaze swept the landscape, I saw a tendril of smoke rising just beyond the nearest grove. Immediately I turned, my senses attuned to any indication of human presence nearby. I could smell the carbon from the fire, and as I listened I caught a whisper of a human voice. Someone was living there.
I crept forward, keeping within the shelter of the grove. Between the low, leafy branches I could see a small house and barn. An untended wheat field lay beyond the house. My first glimpse reminded me of the deserted property I had passed those many weeks ago, but the buildings were in better condition now. Someone had moved in and begun taking care of the house.
I could still see the effects of neglect: a broken window, peeling paint on the barn door and one side of the house, weeds between the home and barn. But the area immediately surrounding the house was clear, and a few small potted flowers sat on the clean porch. Two exterior walls appeared freshly painted in a pale shade of blue, while the front door was a pleasing cornflower hue.
I listened intently now, but I was too far away to hear heartbeats or breathing. However, there was a low snort from inside the barn, and I realized that the new inhabitants had a horse or cow. A gentle murmur immediately followed. It was a feminine voice, light and soft. I took one step back to assure myself that I was fully concealed among the trees, then I froze.
The barn door opened, and a slender, dark-haired woman stepped out. The sight of another human sent my mind into a minor panic. The solitude I had cultivated so carefully seemed tenuous and brittle now, and I was not ready to relinquish it. The mere knowledge that other people were within a few miles of me sent me running back into the woods.
I did not stop moving until I reached my own home. I slipped inside and shut the door before sinking down into one of the chairs. My body felt heavy with emotional exhaustion, and I lowered my head into my waiting hands. My fingers curled, tugging lightly at my hair as I focused on taking slower and steadier breaths to calm myself.
After a time, the sense of anxiousness began to fade as the rational part of my mind realized that the newly inhabited homestead was at least an hour's walk from my property. My house was hidden by dense trees, and there was little chance that anyone would stumble across it. The only sign that I was here would be smoke rising from the chimney. While I found the fire comforting, I had no need of the heat. I decided immediately that I would forgo any blazes in the future.
I sat motionlessly for a long time, well into the night, trying to keep my thoughts clear. Eventually I reached into my pocket and withdrew the volume of poetry to read until the rosy light of dawn began to fill the room.
I remained inside for another full day, occupying my thoughts with poetry and prose, and as darkness fell I found myself adequately calm and cognizant. Cautiously I began to think back to the previous day. It seemed prudent to determine how many people were living in the pale blue house. I had seen no signs of children—no toys or rope swings in the trees—so I felt that the inhabitants were most likely adults.
Closing my eyes, I visualized the woman I had glimpsed. She seemed relatively young; there was no grey in her hair, and her posture was solid. Indeed, as I recalled the image, a vague sense of familiarity niggled at me. Perhaps she reminded me of Esme with her slender build.
Most likely the new home owners were a young couple hoping to make a life together on their homestead. Their land was decent for farming, with rich soil and adequate supplies of water from the nearby river. But until they had established gardens, fields, and livestock, the man would likely hunt for game. This could pose a problem; there was a possibility that he could come onto my land.
This thought began to gnaw at me, leaving me more and more anxious. I needed to find out more about him and more about his farm. Perhaps there were several animals in the barn and he would not need to venture out hunting. If that were the case, it would certainly put my mind at ease.
Still, I felt some trepidation as I considered leaving the sanctuary of my home to observe my neighbor again. I waited two more days before I ventured out once more. I could have made the trip in less than a quarter of an hour, but I chose to walk instead. It gave me time to center myself, to prepare to see humans again. While I had managed the day-and-a-half train journey and the intrusion of the deliverymen, those experiences had left me shaken and apprehensive. It was only in the last few weeks that I had begun to feel myself again—and my brief brush with humanity three days ago had loosened a few tendrils in my tender mind.
As I neared the homestead, I focused all of my senses intently. I listened for any indicators of life nearby but heard only birds and small mammals. I inhaled deeply, testing the air for scents, yet found no hints of human fragrance. Once inside the copse nearest the property, a new sound tickled my ears. I caught a few faint snatches of humming.
I could discern a human scent now, too, as well as a muskier one. The latter was bovine; there was a cow in the barn. But the former was lighter, with a wisp of floral undertones. I moved my head from side to side, testing the air as thoroughly as I could to determine how many different humans' scents I could identify. I was fairly certain that there was only one.
A few more steps led me to the edge of the trees. Now I could hear the humming more clearly. Was that Brahms? It almost sounded like the Concerto in D Major, one of my favorites. But the notes weren't quite right. The performer appeared slightly tone deaf. Still, I was intrigued. Who in this remote wilderness would hum—let alone know—a piece of classical music?
When I heard a voice clearly, I nearly jumped.
"I'll be back soon, Callie." The woman had spoken; she was inside the barn.
Straining my senses, I tried to determine who else was in there with her. Callie was a woman's name; perhaps there was a child after all, or her mother or sister? Maybe she had hired a girl to help with the work? Or could the moniker be an endearment she used with her husband?
I had little choice but to watch and wait, as I could not hear any heartbeats at this distance. After a few more moments, the woman stepped from the barn with a pail of milk hanging from her hand. It looked heavy in her dainty grasp.
The animal lowed mournfully, and she turned her head back toward the barn. "I know, Callie. You're not very patient for a cow." There was a slight teasing tone to her voice.
There was something familiar about her gentle voice, but I could not place it. I waited, watching as she shut the door then ran a hand over her hair. The long, sable locks were tied at her neck with a sapphire ribbon. She remained in profile for a few moments then turned to look out at the trees.
I stopped breathing. She could not see me, could she? But now I could view her quite clearly. Her fair skin had a light flush of exertion, her cheeks a delicate pink beneath her dark eyes. A breeze rustled the leaves, and she wrapped her free arm around herself.
Her expression was placid, yet there was a tinge of sadness in the set of her mouth. I watched as her lips moved noiselessly. She had whispered something that I could not hear. Yet as I watched her beautiful mouth move, I remembered her: She was the young woman who had stumbled boarding the train.
She turned and began walking back toward the house. I listened carefully as she stepped inside, waiting for her to speak to her husband. But I heard no words, only the broken humming and sounds of liquid sloshing slightly.
I stood among the trees for a long time, but she did not come out of the house again. Finally, as the shadows lengthened, I made my way home.
To be continued...