Highway not far behind me. Ahead of me, across the stream and across a field, I see a cluster of newly-built luxury houses that abut a golf course. Hangman Creek is maybe fifteen feet wide and eight inches deep. Once it ran strong. No longer.
Iâm thinking about what it would take for the stream to recoverâthe removal of upstream houses, golf courses, and farms would be a good start, as would the removal of downstream dams that impede fish passageâwhen it begins again. It starts with the highway. The sounds fade. At first I think itâs just a lull in traffic, but it goes on long enough that I start to hear : insects, birds, some scurrying in the underbrush. I look up, across the stream, and the houses are gone. Pine trees stand in their place. I close my eyes, and when I open them again the houses are back, the trees gone. Iâm not so scared this time, only confused.
I close my eyes and as I do I hear a thrashing in the water in front of me. I open my eyes and see that the stream is full of water, a couple of feet deep, and the bottom has turned from the light color of cobbles to a dark gray. Fish. The river is filled with fish. If I stepped into the water I would step on a salmon.
I have read about streams full of salmonâwhich included essentially all streams in the region before the arrival of civilization, before the arrival of the wétiko sicknessâbut of course I have never seen this.
I donât make a sound. I canât. I donât move. I canât. I notice my cheeks are wet. I donât know what gift I am being given, and I do not know why.
I look up again to the houses near the golf course, but I see only trees. I look beyond, to a steep slope that rises to suddenly flatten at the top: South Hill. Iâm used to houses lining the edge of the slope, but theyâre no longer there. I see forest. I like what I see. I still donât hear the sounds of the highway. I hear fish, birds, insects. I hear the slight wind in the pine trees. I like what I hear. I am not afraid.
That time ended more suddenly than the first. The fish just disappeared, the houses reappeared, and the sounds of the highway came back. As simple as that, all of this other was gone.
I wasnât quite so tired this time as last, and after a short rest I walked on home.
Nika is dead, stabbed through the heart with a knife. Nika is dead, and she is dreaming of rain. She is dreaming of rain coming down so hard she cannot see the trees outside her windows. She is dreaming of rain coming down to pound on the roof. She is dreaming of falling asleep to these sounds. She is dreaming of dreaming about it raining so hard she cannot see the trees outside her windows. She is dreaming of the rain, and she wants to go home.
A few days later, Allison is hanging out at my momâs, a couple of miles away. Iâm on my computer, editing what I wrote the night before. I hear Allisonâs car pull into the driveway, so I get up, walk outside. She opens her door. I say hello. She ignores me, walks to the barn to check that the dogs have food.
âI already fed them,â I say.
She looks inside, says absently, âHe already fed them.â
âThatâs what I just said.â
She starts toward the house.
I say, âHey, gorgeous. How are you . . .â
She ignores me, walks past, goes inside. Shuts the door behind her.
I wonder what her problem is. I start to follow her, open the door, and hear her say, âHey, lover, thank you for feeding the dogs.â I stand, blink, step inside, and. . . . Well, nothing. I donât see her. I wander room to room, but our place isnât that big, and there arenât many places she could hide, even if she wanted to. I check the closets, under the bed. I go back outside. I see that her car is gone.
I have to admit, Iâm a little concerned, not so much about being existentially stuck in some strange place, but instead that Iâm just
Iâm thinking about what it would take for the stream to recoverâthe removal of upstream houses, golf courses, and farms would be a good start, as would the removal of downstream dams that impede fish passageâwhen it begins again. It starts with the highway. The sounds fade. At first I think itâs just a lull in traffic, but it goes on long enough that I start to hear : insects, birds, some scurrying in the underbrush. I look up, across the stream, and the houses are gone. Pine trees stand in their place. I close my eyes, and when I open them again the houses are back, the trees gone. Iâm not so scared this time, only confused.
I close my eyes and as I do I hear a thrashing in the water in front of me. I open my eyes and see that the stream is full of water, a couple of feet deep, and the bottom has turned from the light color of cobbles to a dark gray. Fish. The river is filled with fish. If I stepped into the water I would step on a salmon.
I have read about streams full of salmonâwhich included essentially all streams in the region before the arrival of civilization, before the arrival of the wétiko sicknessâbut of course I have never seen this.
I donât make a sound. I canât. I donât move. I canât. I notice my cheeks are wet. I donât know what gift I am being given, and I do not know why.
I look up again to the houses near the golf course, but I see only trees. I look beyond, to a steep slope that rises to suddenly flatten at the top: South Hill. Iâm used to houses lining the edge of the slope, but theyâre no longer there. I see forest. I like what I see. I still donât hear the sounds of the highway. I hear fish, birds, insects. I hear the slight wind in the pine trees. I like what I hear. I am not afraid.
That time ended more suddenly than the first. The fish just disappeared, the houses reappeared, and the sounds of the highway came back. As simple as that, all of this other was gone.
I wasnât quite so tired this time as last, and after a short rest I walked on home.
Nika is dead, stabbed through the heart with a knife. Nika is dead, and she is dreaming of rain. She is dreaming of rain coming down so hard she cannot see the trees outside her windows. She is dreaming of rain coming down to pound on the roof. She is dreaming of falling asleep to these sounds. She is dreaming of dreaming about it raining so hard she cannot see the trees outside her windows. She is dreaming of the rain, and she wants to go home.
A few days later, Allison is hanging out at my momâs, a couple of miles away. Iâm on my computer, editing what I wrote the night before. I hear Allisonâs car pull into the driveway, so I get up, walk outside. She opens her door. I say hello. She ignores me, walks to the barn to check that the dogs have food.
âI already fed them,â I say.
She looks inside, says absently, âHe already fed them.â
âThatâs what I just said.â
She starts toward the house.
I say, âHey, gorgeous. How are you . . .â
She ignores me, walks past, goes inside. Shuts the door behind her.
I wonder what her problem is. I start to follow her, open the door, and hear her say, âHey, lover, thank you for feeding the dogs.â I stand, blink, step inside, and. . . . Well, nothing. I donât see her. I wander room to room, but our place isnât that big, and there arenât many places she could hide, even if she wanted to. I check the closets, under the bed. I go back outside. I see that her car is gone.
I have to admit, Iâm a little concerned, not so much about being existentially stuck in some strange place, but instead that Iâm just
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