“Meaning guns and drug dogs in a raid at dawn? Jeez, thanks for saving me the embarrassment of being dragged out of bed naked.”
Cringing, he gazes out the window. “Thanks for the visual.”
“You brought that on yourself with your own imagination.”
“I’m just doing my job.” He shifts his attention back to me. “Maybe if you weren’t such a weirdo, people might hold you in better regard.”
“What people think about me is their own damn business, not mine.”
“Suit yourself.” He offers a shrug. “We’re here.”
My truck sits alone in the lot at the trailhead.
“Can’t say it’s been enjoyable, but it’s been memorable.”
He grabs my arm before I hop out of the vehicle. “Hey, don’t hold a grudge. We’re all overlooking your walks with Patsy.”
“Very magnanimous of you. We stay off the official trails the majority of the time, even though there’s nothing specific about pigs in the park. The wild hogs are wreaking more destruction around here than she ever could.”
“Agree. There are also guys out here with their guns, all jacked up on chew and Dew, excited about shooting a boar. They may not verify Patsy’s pedigree before firing.”
His words unsettle me. “Okay, okay. You made your point.”
“Good.” He flashes his classic smug grin.
My own smile is less enthusiastic and less toothy. “Yeah, thanks.”
“Any time. Don’t be a stranger.”
“Right,” I say, distracted.
The phrase reminds me of Gaia’s words the morning of Daphne’s bear incident, the day after she asked me about my backpack.
I have a very good idea who’s likely behind Griffin’s interrogation. Might be time to have a conversation with Ranger Baum and set her straight.
As far as she knows, I run a small farm on some family land where I grow weird vegetables. All of that is true, but it’s not the entire truth.
Does Green Valley need another orange carrot or red radish at the farmers’ market? No. A green bean is a green bean, unless it’s purple when raw and magically switches to verdant green when cooked. Magic. Fucking. Beans.
That’s why I farm as well as forage. Why have a plain radish with a red skin and a white interior when you can have one swirled with both colors throughout? Purple carrots with bright orange middles. Japanese turnips that go from spicy to sweet as the seasons change. Daikon radishes that will make both your mouth and your eyes water. Tiny Thai chilis red as a stop sign and scalding with concentrated heat. Life is too short for boring, uninspired food when nature is more creative than we could ever imagine.
Foraging is more interesting, an adventure.
Back to the land in the most primitive way.
Generations before white settlers claimed land in these mountains, Cherokee lived among the hills and valleys, foraging and hunting, living off the land while respecting Mother Earth. They understood the cycles of life and death, fertile and fallow, when to plant and when to harvest.
There is wisdom in waiting and reward in trusting the timing.
Chapter Eighteen
Daphne
I’m out of sorts, living in a constant state of frustration. Everything makes me bristle.
Could be PMS, but I think it’s deeper than hormones.
At the end of work yesterday, Griffin told me he spoke to Odin and confirmed he wasn’t doing anything illegal. The turkey tail mushrooms in his possession were well under the daily limit.
Why anyone would want an entire backpack full of fungus is beyond me. No less strange than apples.
Nothing about that man makes sense.
He took care of me when I took too many antihistamines and also smelled like a disgruntled skunk.
I’m bothered I was wrong about him being up to no good, and that bothers me.
I need to change the channel in my brain. Some people might meditate or practice yoga or go for a run to work out the bad energy. I am not among those people.
Tired of being in my own head, I set my alarm extra early Friday night so I can have some time before my Saturday shift. After I make tea in my travel mug, I head out on foot from my cabin, following a familiar route into the woods. As the white steeple appears between the trees, I exhale some of the tightness in my chest. Whenever I’m struggling, I return to the chapel to clear my mind.
This time I triple-check that the door is closed behind me before slipping into a pew.
Inside, time pauses as a quiet peace settles over me. I bow my head and breathe.
Unbidden, the words of the Lord’s Prayer flow through my mind. Like a mantra, I repeat the lines from memory. When I get to the part about forgiving others and ourselves for our trespasses, I pause.
Our debts. Our sins. Our mistakes. Our ignorance. I often substitute another word for trespass because I’ve always imagined the most straightforward definition of unlawfully being on private property and felt it didn’t apply to me.
Until today.
“Ha ha. Thanks for being obvious.”
Me sitting in this church, using it as my personal sanctuary isn’t quite the same as breaking the law, but it could be considered against the rules. I’m not doing any harm by sitting here.
Neither are Odin and Patsy, no more so than the donkey, and less than many tourists who clomp along the trails.
Beyond the obvious interpretation, I shouldn’t let some random, unsubstantiated information on the internet change my opinion of Odin. We all have a past and actions we’d prefer to forget.
“Okay, I get it. Message received. Thanks.”
As much as he’s the town weirdo, I doubt Odin thinks he has conversations with the divine in an empty old chapel.
Feeling better, I fold my hands in prayer and say, “Amen.”
This time there’s no echo, no open door when I look up.
I pick up my mug and take a moment to listen to the stillness, confirming to myself that I imagined the second amen last time.
After work on Sunday, I find Odin Hill sitting on my porch steps looking like he could throw thunderbolts with his eyes.
I put the SUV’s engine in park while we lock stares through the windshield. My heart does its trout-out-of-water impression and my pulse kicks into fight-or-flight mode. He looks angry and intense, slightly dangerous, which only makes him sexier.
His messy hair is loose, not contained by a cap or ponytail holder. That combined with his untamed beard, gives him a wild appearance, and I think I’m more nervous about him than I was about the bear.
He doesn’t move to stand. Simply sits there, waiting for me with his broad shoulders hunched and his hands clasped between his knees.
After a few moments of staring at each other, me feeling more and more like I’m trapped in this vehicle, he lifts up a paper bag from beside him. “I brought a peace offering.”
If either of us should be apologizing, it’s probably me. I’m the one who ratted on him to my colleague. I’m the one with the suspicious mind.
“You can’t stay in there forever, Daphne.” He bends his finger toward himself. “Come on out.”
Alarm bells go off in my body as I contemplate fleeing. Instead, I find myself unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the door. Once out the car, I hesitate near the hood. “How are you?”