“We didn’t want to wake you,” said Lexi with a sweet smile.
“We must apologize for last night. We have dogs we keep on the far side of campus, and unfortunately one got loose.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I heard about the dog. Must have beensomedog.”
“Dogs are responsible for more human fatalities per year than almost any other animal,” Lexi said like a child proudly reciting facts. “They have the capacity to be incredibly dangerous creatures.”
“That’s true,” said Dorian, nodding serenely. “Second only to snakes. And mosquitoes of course, if you factor in malaria.”
“I always try to factor in malaria. But let me just get this straight. Is there some kind of danger I should know about? That siren made it sound like we were going to get hit by a tsunami or like there was some kind of breach in a power plant. A toxic chemical leak or something.”
They looked at me blankly, and then Dorian shook his head. “You have nothing to worry about,” he said. “There was a problem, but the problem was solved.”
“Right. So I can just wander the grounds and that’s fine?” I said almost by way of a dare, but as soon as I said it, I began to consider that the possibility of a day spent walking in the woods might be rather pleasant. I could use the opportunity to clear my head. Plus, it couldn’t hurt to have more of a look around.
“Of course,” said Dorian, but Aspen was quick to jump in.
“Just make sure to stay on the trails,” she said. “Don’t go deep into the woods.”
“Why? What’s deep in the woods?”
“It’s an environmental thing,” said Dorian. “The ecosystem is fragile.”
“I’ll be sure to stay on the forest path. And if I see a witch’scottage or a big bad wolf, I’ll go in the opposite direction.” I took a croissant from a basket and left.
After stopping by my cabana to pull on some sturdy boots, I set out. I did exactly as I was told not to do: Pretty much as soon as I was in the woods, I went off the path. After trudging through some underbrush, I found a game trail that led me down a ravine and into a hollow, at the center of which rested an expansive, old-growth yew. The sight of it stopped me in my tracks.
With roots creeping like a massive tentacled beast, the ancient tree took up a large portion of the hollow. Around its base a thick, etheric fog had settled. The hollow felt enchanted down there, hidden from the world, with the scent of pine needles slipping past on the morning breeze, but there was also something vaguely unsettling about the area.Unquietis the word that came to mind. The idea that the earth was somehow disturbed in certain places was by no means a new concept. It came up repeatedly in folklore the world over. I’d read many an account of villagers convinced that a certain part of the woods was haunted, infused with an otherworldly evil presence, but I’d never actually understood what that might feel like until now. Was it really possible for land to somehow be malevolent, even deranged?
Carefully I walked toward the ancient tree, but as I came near it, I noticed a chain-link fence stretching up on the other side of it. When I walked over and peered through one of the gaps, I was struck by the uncanny image of a large red X painted on the trunk of an alder tree. I knew that sometimes the Forest Service painted symbols on trees for their removal, but something in my bones told me that this X had a different meaning. Taking a step back, I peered up at the fence, which was extremely tall and had barbed wire around the top.
Nervous, not wanting to linger, I turned back and started up the side of the ravine until I hit a proper trail, and then followed it along a ridge before dipping down and across a shady land bridge flanked by two quaking aspens. I stopped there to admire them. A twig cracked and I startled. Catching my breath, I stared into the dense thicket. Was there someone—or something—there? That creature at the foot of my bed had been a hallucination left over from sleep. It had to have been. And yet in that moment, standing there alone in the middle of the forest, it felt like almost anything could be real.
“Hello?” I called, but was met with silence.
Picking up the pace, I started up a steep slope that led to a ridge. Once I was out of the thickest part of the woods, I felt decidedly more myself again—less affected by the sublime paranoia that only nature can evoke.
After I hooked up with the main path to campus, I crested a hill and came upon a curious sight. Fields of switch grass, horseweed, and silver grass were growing shoulder height, sprinkled with lovely blue flowers I couldn’t identify. Curving paths cut through this sun-drenched field full of insect life, each one lined with paper lanterns. It was an extraordinary sight that made me feel immediately that I’d been transported to somewhere distant and fictional—a fairy tale of sorts. I set off along one of the paths. It led me down and around a small hill and then up along a slope that led to something in the distance I couldn’t quite make sense of. A jagged oak loomed against the backdrop of the woods, and around it stood what looked like colorful little houses. I’d never seen anything quite like it and hadn’t the slightest idea what to make of it.
I headed toward it, and as I approached, I saw that indeedthe tableau was composed of twelve brightly colored miniature houses. Lifted off the ground a few inches, they resembled elevated beach cottages. Each intricately carved house had a slanted roof and was painted a different brilliant color. A figure was moving among them wearing what appeared to be some kind of veil. As I neared, I began to understand. The figure was Finn, and the veil was protective headgear. I’d wandered out to what must be the apiary.
My curiosity satisfied, I decided to head back, but Finn had already spotted me and was waving me over. He met me just outside the marked-off area.
“We meet again,” I said.
“Are you stalking me?” he asked with a cocky laugh.
“Nice bees,” I said because I lacked the requisite nomenclature to compliment an apiary.
“You can come have a look, if you want.” He pointed to a small shed. “We can suit you up.”
“I’m allergic.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Really? Then maybe you should think twice before barging into an apiary.”
“I’m not barging.”
“Sorry. Force of habit. Isabelle used to steal my honey,” he said almost wistfully.
