It could have been a morning like any other, but she knew it wasn’t, because it was the last one. She was going away. After she left, she would miss only the forest and her dog, Ipar. Her aunt would visit, but it would be a very long time before Amaia came back to her forest. And there was no way to take Ipar with her. Her eyes filled with tears every time she thought of that. She paused and knelt to hug her dog, pressing her snub nose into the thick fur at his neck. And he huddled close and eagerly licked the tears from her cheeks, as if he had a premonition of the coming separation.
Amaia let the other hikers get ahead of them, so the trail would seem hers alone. She ambled forward and noticed a glint of white in the grass. A wild primrose, so pallid it seemed frozen stiff. Maybe it’s the first one of the season, she thought, feeling privileged, as if the forest were presenting her with something unique to mark her departure. Ipar, attracted by her curiosity, came up and cautiously sniffed the flower. That set her giggling until she saw he’d inadvertently broken the stem with his snout.
“You’re such a clumsy thing!” She knelt, pushed Ipar aside, and tried to realign the flower within the lush crown of green leaves. But she couldn’t; the fragile little bud’s stem had broken off. She held it delicately with two fingers and frowned at Ipar, a bit annoyed but loving him just the same.
That’s when she saw the tree. The bark of its trunk gleamed in the morning damp like a silk dress draped about the hips of a great lady.
Amaia checked to see whether the other hikers were still in sight. They were. She stepped off the trail and had to make her way around the branches of a fallen beech tree and across a wall of tall ferns that stood as if on guard to protect their lady tree from the open space of the trail.
The tree was magnificent in its primitive splendor. Amaia looked up, entranced by its towering height and the clear brilliance of the dew coating its jade-green leaves. The trunk shone. She was captivated by the way its branches proffered shade and calm, creating a sheltered environment where the air was sweet with the scent of clay. Its roots erupted from the earth and wound together beneath her feet in an elaborate mandala, a firm, harmonious structure that spread out from the trunk in every direction. Following a sudden impulse, Amaia stooped and deposited the flower in a hollow at its base. She stood there, surrendering herself to the protective authority of the tree, lulled, happy, and dreamless . . .
She never knew how long she’d stood there, entranced by that maternal presence. But she did remember hearing the thunder and thinking it strange. Ipar’s furious growls seemed to come from somewhere far off. Amaia tore her eyes away to break the hypnotic spell of the bewitching tree and looked down. Her head was spinning. She sat, raised her knees, and stared intently at the ground between her heels in an effort to make the world stop tilting.
She raised her head very slowly and saw a hysterical Ipar barking at the thick undergrowth. He bounded forward a few feet and then backed up until he touched her, only to launch himself forward again toward the dense foliage. Amaia moved out from the shelter of the tree and looked up. She and her aunt had a name for what she saw: “whipped fog,” a layer of roiling low clouds that infused the air with moisture and hid the sun. She squinted up and heard more thunder.
Bewildered, she looked around and only then became aware of how far she’d strayed from the trail. She could have sworn she’d gone only ten or twelve yards into the forest, but from where she stood, there was no sign of the trail at all. She called Ipar to her side and tried to retrace her steps, but the trail wasn’t there. She returned to the tree and tried backing away. She retreated farther and farther, nearly losing sight of the tree, but there was no trail. Alarmed, she went back to the tree.
“Where’s the trail, Ipar?”
But the dog’s attention was totally fixed on whatever was out there in the thicket. His eyes darted back and forth as he detected the intruder’s position. He continued bounding, tracing out a semicircle and barking furiously.
Another thunderclap exploded overhead, shaking the ground beneath her feet. Amaia looked up but saw only that layer of fog obscuring the sky.
The members of the hiking club discovered she was missing when they stopped at ten o’clock for an early lunch. Javier Atienza, the leader, took less than ten minutes to question each of the fifty participants to try to figure out what had happened. He ran his dry palm over his weathered face and cursed himself aloud for failing to pay closer attention. He usually kept a close eye on the child, for Amaia was the only girl who wasn’t accompanied. Her aunt, a friend since childhood, had entrusted the girl directly to Atienza because Engrasi’s recent knee pain had made walking difficult. She’d confided to him her disappointment that when she’d expressed her wish that the child get out of the house for some kind of activity, he’d suggested one Engrasi couldn’t participate in. Atienza had reassured her by promising he wouldn’t let the girl out of his sight. He predicted she’d have a good time, she’d discover a world of extraordinary beauty, and she’d make new friends.
Javier felt he’d been correct in two of those predictions. The child was quiet and solitary, but it was obvious she enjoyed the outings. She always carried her camera on a strap around her neck to photograph whatever caught her attention. She clearly liked the activities, but she was very reticent and avoided the company of others.
Amaia preferred to walk a few paces ahead or behind the rest of the group. On the first hikes, some girls her age had approached her and tried unsuccessfully to strike up a conversation. When those kids’ parents invited her to join them for the lunch break, Amaia chose instead to go to a nearby tree, lean back against the trunk, and take out the lunch her aunt had prepared. She stared up at the treetops as she ate by herself.
Javier left her alone. He knew there were many ways to commune with the forest; for some people, silence was the key. There was something holy about it, as if a voice hidden in the dense vegetation was whispering words only they could hear. He was sure that in years to come, Amaia would become a solo excursionist. A solitary relationship with the wilderness provides for those rare individuals a happiness beyond words. When they come home, their faces shine as if they’ve experienced a miracle.
No one remembered seeing the girl after about nine o’clock in the morning. They weren’t quite sure, for Amaia often lagged behind to take a picture of something. Knowing that, Atienza had been in the habit of looking back or slowing their progress until eventually he saw her hurrying after them, clutching her camera to her chest. He was fairly certain he’d seen her rejoin them at least once that morning.
Amaia’s father set out with a search party before noon. They shouted her name, waded through clearings and thick undergrowth, and checked the brooks and waterfalls, grottos and hollow trees, lean-tos and huts, hunter’s cabins, gullies . . . The only answer to their calls was the repeated thunder that boomed from that strangely luminescent white sky.
Night fell. Juan Salazar’s blood boiled in anger when volunteers expressed relief that they could discontinue the search. A girl was a girl, they agreed, but this one was odd. The Salazar girl had no friends and never talked with anyone. Besides, all that thunder from a clear sky was a very bad sign, a clear omen that the Lady of the Storms was returning to Baztán.