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“My mother is…concerned,” he said. “And her concern is never good.”
“Concerned?”
“It’s a kind of code.”
“What do they know?”
“I don’t know. I never know. That’s the part that’s always kept me awake at night, by design.”
We drove in silence for a while. He pulled off a small turnout, killed the engine, and watched the cars pass for two minutes. Then he pulled back onto the road.
When the bay and the power lines and the strip malls passed us and the fog and the redwoods cocooned us from the world, he relaxed his shoulders. His hand found mine and squeezed.
“I’m worried about my friends,” I said.
He took his eyes off the road to look at me. “Why?”
“I think it’s already working on them. The salt baths and tea aren’t enough.”
His hands shifted on the wheel. Only slightly.
“I know.”
“Damian, this thing we were promised to…I know you said your grandmother would explain it me, but does it at least have a name?”
At first, he didn’t answer. The truck slowed by maybe two miles an hour without him seeming to notice. When he answered, his voice was quieter than before.
“They call him the Bridegroom.”
I looked at him. “The Bridegroom?” I said. The word felt disgusting in my mouth. “What is he? A demon?”
“My grandmother’s been carrying this much longer than I have. She’ll tell you.”
“Was she a victim?”
“No. She has a different story.”
The truck went around a long curve. The road climbed slightly and the redwoods got darker.
“I missed you last night,” he said. “I thought about you all night.”
Damian had a way of rearranging my breathing pattern with a few perfect, vulnerable words. “I missed you, too.”
He turned onto a smaller road that was shrouded in trees, then onto an even smaller one that had no signage. Wind-licked sword ferns danced in fog and the tires carved a trail of dust.
A structure emerged from the trees: a small, wood-shingled cottage, weathered silver from a century of fog. The property was surrounded by rowan trees, some old, some still saplings. Hagstones hung from the windows and the porch awning, softly clinking.
Smoke rose from a small chimney and a vegetable garden sat at the side of the house. Warm light burned inside like little beacons in the darkening forest.
Damian parked under a canopy of trees and opened the door for me. The scent of the forest engulfed me: wet duff, cedar, garden herbs, and smoke from the chimney.
The door, which had a horseshoe nailed to it, opened before we reached the porch. A small woman with a braid of thick silver hair stood in the doorway.
She looked at me for a long moment. “So you’re the one. Come in. Tea is ready.”
I followed her across the threshold, which was marked with salt and nails, just like the fire lookout.
The small interior smelled of berry-sweet herbal tea. A hallway led to a kitchen and living area, lit by a few lamps scattered around end tables and shelves. An old wooden table sat by a crackling wood stove, near two worn armchairs covered with bright crocheted blankets, positioned on a worn rug. The kitchen was cluttered with mismatched mugs hanging on hooks and freshly harvested greens and beets in baskets. Bookshelves covered every wall, and herbs hung in bunches from the rafters. Photographs sat in clusters on each wall, some in color, some in black and white. Above the stove hung a painting of a Celtic fox.
