“Um, Troy?” says Fran. “What is this?”
Troy doesn’t look at Fran. But when he speaks again, his voice is louder.
“Shenandoah River,” he continues.
You look around, but everyone else is staring down at the body. Troy’s poem sounds incredibly familiar, but you’re still not sure what he’s reciting. It’s possible others catch on sooner, but your confusion doesn’t fade until Troy speaks the chorus.
“Country roads, take me home…”
No one joins him, so his voice is all alone. Unsupported in the woods. But still he goes on, just saying the words.
“Take me home, country roads.”
When he’s done with the last phrase, his voice tapers off and leaves only the sound of the lake water lapping on all sides of the island. And you’re pretty sure this is it for his speech, so a couple of you start to turn away. But then Troy looks at all of you, his smudged glasses gleaming in the firelight.
“Guys,” he says. “Do you remember how embarrassed you were when he first sang that on the bus?”
He gives you a moment to call it back: the song blaring through the bus’s bad speakers, Silas marching down the aisle making unnecessary eye contact.
“I wanted to die,” says Diana.
“Me too,” says Troy. “And I still don’t know why he pickedthat song. Was he from West Virginia? Was it just the most embarrassing thing he could think of? Is it because we’re in the country? I’ve got no idea.”
He looks down at Silas.
“I didn’t know him well enough to be sure if we should celebrate him right now. But he told us we had to give up our embarrassment and be vulnerable if we wanted to make any progress, remember? And that part at least seems true. Doing that with you guys is the only thing that’s made me feel better.”
“So what are you saying?” asks Will.
“I think you know what I’m saying,” he says.
A cool breeze blows and the torch sheds a few sparks.
“I don’t get it,” says Fran. “Somebody tell me what’s going on.”
You look over at her. She’s back in her hoodie, huddled inside.
“You don’t have to sing it,” says Troy.
Diana scoffs, but Troy is already beginning to speak the words of the chorus again.
“No,” says Fran. “No way. I refuse.”
Then another voice joins in the recitation, and you’re surprised to see that it’s Will. He’s not much louder than a whisper, but he’s speaking.
“Will!” yells Diana. “How dare you!”
But it’s too late now. This is quickly becoming a true chorus, and you’re next. And you don’t just speak; you start to sing the chorus, atonally. And the lyrics, which you’ve always found pretty cheesy, suddenly have some inexplicable new power over you. In fact, in this moment, they kind of make you want to cry. It’s just those three words, you think:
Take me home.
In this small forest, on an island in a lake you may never return from, it sounds like a prayer, one everybody can identify with. If you could make it work like a spell, you would.Take me home. Take me home. Take me home.And then you’re gone, back to a hard life that suddenly doesn’t seem quite as hard.
Fran is the next to break. She pulls her hood down over her eyes and starts to sing too, just a few decibels over a whisper.
Then, it seems, Diana has no choice. She’s the last to join, but join she does. Nobody knows the rest of the verses—not even Troy—so you just sing the chorus over and over again. You try to make it as loud as it was your first day on the bus. You’re not sure how long it should go on. Maybe all night. Maybe you’ll never stop singing. But then, after ten or so choruses, you all seem to understand intuitively that you don’t have any more in you. So you belt it out, hitting that last “take me home” with raspy throats.
When you’re done, you all take one final look at the body beneath you. In spite of everything, it still seems sad to leave him like this with no burial, no shroud, no Viking funeral. Just your off-key voices. But if you want to keep from ending up like him, you know you need to move forward toward your only chance at survival. Will waves the torch above his head and starts walking. You all follow him back to the campsite, which now consists of three tents instead of two. At least he gifted you another shelter and boat before he died.
