I tried to lift the camera, but I dropped it again. And when I reached for it, the hay closed over it, and I had to tug it free. No, I had to rip it free. I was on my knees by then, yanking on the strap with both hands. And a breeze started to blow out of the gap where the eighth stone should have been. It blew the hair off my forehead. It stank. It smelled of carrion. I raised the camera to my face, but at first I could see nothing. I thought, Its blinded the camera, its somehow blinded the camera, and then I remembered it was a digital Nikon, and you have to turn it on. I did thatI heard the beepbut I still could see nothing.
The breeze was a wind by then. It sent the hay rippling down the length of the field in big waves of shadow. The smell was worse. And the day was darkening. There wasnt a cloud in the sky, it was pure blue, but the day was darkening, just the same. As if some great invisible planet was eclipsing the sun.
Something spoke. Not English. Something that sounded like Cthun, cthun, deeyanna, deyanna. But then Christ, then it said my name. It said, Cthun, N., deeyanna, N. I think I screamed, but Im not sure, because by then the wind had become a gale that was roaring in my ears. I should have screamed. I had every right to scream. Because it knew my name! That grotesque, unnamable thing knew my name. And then the camera do you know what I realized?
[I ask him if he left the lens cap on, and he utters a shrill laugh that runs up my nerves and makes me think of rats scampering over broken glass.]
Yes! Right! The lens cap! The fucking lens cap! I tore it off and raised the camera to my eyeits a wonder I didnt drop it again, my hands were shaking so badly, and the hay never would have let it go again, no, never, because the second time it would have been ready. But I didnt drop it, and I could see through the viewfinder, and there were eight stones. Eight. Eight keeps things straight. That darkness was still swirling in the middle, but it was retreating. And the wind blowing around me was diminishing.
I lowered the camera and there were seven. Something was bulging out of the darkness, something I cant describe to you. I can see itI see it in my dreamsbut there are no words for that kind of blasphemy. A pulsing leather helmet, thats as close as I can get. One with yellow goggles on each side. Only the goggles I think they were eyes, and I know they were looking at me.
I raised the camera again, and saw eight stones. I snapped off six or eight shots as if to mark them, to fix them in place forever, but of course that didnt work, I only fried the camera. Lenses can see those stones, DocIm pretty sure a person could see them in a mirror, too, maybe even through a plain pane of glassbut they cant record them. The only thing that can record them, hold them in place, is the human mind, the human memory. And even thats undependable, as Ive found out. Counting, touching, and placing works for awhileits ironic to think that behaviors we consider neurotic are actually holding the world in placebut sooner or later whatever protection they offer decays. And its so much work.
So damn much work.
I wonder if we could be done for today. I know its early, but Im very tired.
[I tell him I will prescribe a sedative, if he wantsmild, but more reliable than Ambien or Lunesta. It will work if he doesnt overdo it. He gives me a grateful smile.]
That would be good, very good. But can I ask you a favor?
[I tell him that of course he can.]
Prescribe either twenty, forty, or sixty. Those are all good numbers.
[Next Session]
[I tell him he looks better, although this is far from true. What he looks like is a man who will be institutionalized soon, if he doesnt find a way to get back to his personal Highway 117. Turn around or back up, it doesnt matter which, but he has to get away from that field. So do I, actually. Ive been dreaming about N.s field, which Im sure I could find if I wanted to. Not that I dothat would be too much like sharing my patients delusionbut Im sure I could find it. One night this weekend (while I was having trouble finding sleep myself), it occurred to me that I must have driven past it, not just once but hundreds of times. Because Ive been over the Bale Road Bridge hundreds of times, and past Serenity Ridge Cemetery thousands of times; that was on the school-bus route to James Lowell Elementary, where Sheila and I went. So sure, I could find it. If I wanted to. If it exists.
[I ask if the prescription helps, if hes been sleeping. The dark circles under his eyes tell me he hasnt been, but Im curious to hear how he responds.]
Much better. Thanks. And the OCDs a little better, too.
[As he says this, his handsmore prone to tell the truthare stealthily placing the vase and the Kleenex box at opposing corners of the table by the couch. Today Sandy has put out roses. He arranges them so they link the box and the vase. I ask him what happened after he went up to to Ackermans Field with the borrowed camera. He shrugs.]
Nothing. Except of course I paid for the photo-shop guys Nikon. Pretty soon it really was hunting season, and those woods get dangerous, even if youre wearing blaze orange from head to toe. Although I somehow doubt if there are many deer in that area; I imagine they steer clear.
The OCD shit smoothed out, and I started sleeping through the night again.
Well some of the nights. There were dreams, of course. In the dreams I was always in that field, trying to pull the camera out of the hay, but the hay wouldnt let go. The blackness spilled out of the circle like oil, and when I looked up I saw the sky had cracked open from east to west and a terrible black light was pouring out light that was alive. And hungry. Thats when Id wake up, drenched with sweat. Sometimes screaming.
Then, in early December, I got a letter at the office. It was marked PERSONAL with a small object inside. I tore it open and what fell out onto my desk was a little key with a tag on it. The tag said A.F. I knew what it was, and what it meant. If thered been a letter, it would have said, I tried to keep you out. Its not my fault, and maybe not yours, but either way this key, and all it opens, is yours now. Take good care of it.
That weekend I drove back out to Motton, but I didnt bother parking in the lot at Serenity Ridge. I didnt need to anymore, you see. The Christmas decorations were up in Portland and the other small towns I passed along the way. It was bitterly cold, but there wasnt any snow yet. You know how its always colder just before the snow comes? Thats how it was that day. But the sky was overcast, and the snow did come, a blizzard that very night. It was a big one. Do you remember?
[I tell him I do. I have reason to remember (although I dont tell him this). Sheila and I were snowed in at the home place, where wed gone to check on some repair work. We got squiffy and danced to old Beatles and Rolling Stones records. It was pleasant.]
The chain was still across the road, but the A.F. key fit the lock. And the downed trees had been hauled to one side. As Id known they would be. It was no good blocking the road anymore, because that field is now my field, those stones are now my stones, and whatever it is theyre keeping in is my responsibility.
[I ask him if he was frightened, sure the answer must be yes. But N. surprises me.]
Not much, no. Because the place was different. I knew it even from the end of the road, where it Ts into 117. I could feel it. And I could hear crows cawing as I opened the lock with my new key. Ordinarily I think thats an ugly sound, but that day it sounded very sweet. At the risk of sounding pretentious, it sounded like redemption.
I knew thered be eight stones in Ackermans Field, and I was right. I knew they wouldnt look so much like a circle, and I was right about that, too; they looked like random outcroppings again, part of the underlying bedrock that had been exposed by a tectonic shift, or a withdrawing glacier eighty thousand years ago, or a flood of more recent vintage.