Fever

I swore her fair and thought her bright
who was dark as hell, and black as night
—Shakespeare sonnet 147

The last thing I expected to find in the woods of New Hampshire was a beautiful seductress. Jim Haines had persuaded me to go hunting and as a New York City psychiatrist with too many clients and not enough time, it seemed the perfect escape.

It was October and leaves were turning. I had forgotten autumn in New England and was glad I came. Frankly, I had no intention of shooting anything, but was sorely in need of companionship. A weekend filled with nature’s beauty, card playing and male bonding seemed the perfect tonic for what ailed me. I wallowed too long in the ennui of city life.

Jim and his friends left me a compass and GPS tracker and set off over the ridge hunting deer. I wished them luck, all the while crossing my fingers their trek would prove fruitless, and the harmless creatures of the earth be spared.

For my part, I planned on hiking an hour in the opposite direction, then doubling back and putting feet to the fire. The woods were lovely, filled with warm earth scents and ablaze with colours of yellow, orange and red—I felt I was walking the surface of the Sun.

About thirty minutes in, I lost my GPS. I was wearing a heavy wool lumberjack coat and somehow the device slipped out. Damn! I was useless with a compass. I dated a country girl in university who was into orienteering, but managed to get us both lost in a huge Conservation area. Needless to say, it was a last date.

I decided to walk on using the sun as guide and proceeded this way to exert myself for another half hour, till I ended sitting on a rocky outcrop sweating and out of breath. My throat felt parched and I foolishly neglected to bring a water bottle—an absent-minded move on my part. The prospect of walking back semi-dehydrated was not appealing.

Then I noticed an old fence line in the underbrush. Perhaps, I stumbled onto a farmer’s field. Where there was a farmhouse, there would be water. I climbed the fence and headed up a slope to get a better view—at the crest, I surveyed my surroundings and noticed, in the distance, a small cabin.

As I approached, I spotted a nearby well. I was planning to take a close look, when I heard the unmistakable sound of a rifle being loaded.

“Stop right there!”

I raised both hands instinctively and tried not to breathe.

“You’re on private property.” It was a woman’s voice, stern and business-like.

“I was hiking and got lost. I’m parched from thirst—saw your well and figured I could get a drink. I’ll gladly pay for your trouble.”

She uncocked the gun. “No need for that. You can put your hands down now.”

I turned to look at her and my breath caught—she was the most beautiful woman I ever saw.

She was dark…blacker than night and her long hair cascaded like a dark cloud tangled round the Moon. She had a haunting beauty and a wistful smile that drew out my soul. She reminded me of a painting I saw of a mermaid, her face and hair striking as the figurehead of a ship.

She gazed at me, amused.

“Do you have a name?”

“James Richards,” I stammered.

“Lilli Naiades, “ she smiled. “Pleased to meet you.”

She must have thought me mad. I was trying hard not to stare, but each time I looked away I felt a masochistic thrill that compelled me to look back. I wanted to drown in her eyes.

I have sat for hours in my office helping the affairs of ordinary people come to light. I have coaxed up from the depths of their unconscious unsettling images of darkness and disgust. I have even exorcised phantasmagoric nightmares and whitewashed polluted minds, but I have never experienced the sinuosity of sin and its serpentine turnings till I looked into that face. Now I knew why men cheated and threw away their lives. I would gladly do the same.

She spoke and drew me out of my reverie.

“Come and drink,” she said, gesturing to the well.

I reeled up the wooden bucket and drank greedily.

“Be careful,” she said, touching my arm.

“I’m so dry, I can’t seem to quench my thirst.”

“Even lovers drown,” she smiled.

“Who are you, the guardian of the well?”

“In a way, I am,” she said sadly.

I looked at her and felt conflicting emotions. She was enticing as a siren and yet as aloof as the Moon.

“What do you do here?” I asked, “Do you farm?”

“No, I’m a songwriter,” she said.

“Really? Have you recorded any of your music?”

“Oh no,” she laughed, “Nothing like that.”

“Could you play your music for me?”

She squinted at me in the sunlight, tilting her head to the side as if quizzically asking if I were sincere.

“Honestly, I would like to hear you sing.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re beautiful and I’m sure your music would be as well.”

“That’s very kind,” she said and leaned over and hugged me.

As she embraced me I smelt her perfume, soft, powdery and subtle as a fresh flower.

It was disconcerting though, because as she touched me I got an image in my head of Munch’s engraving of a naked young girl embracing a skeleton. I shivered to my soul.

“You’ve to go,” she said.

“But I haven’t heard you sing.”

“I have things to do. You really must go.”

Her eyes pleaded with me and I couldn’t resist.

“Can I come back?”

“If you can find the way,” she laughed.

“I will and next time, I’ll bring water.”

She softly touched her lips to mine. It couldn’t be called a kiss—it was as soft as the brush of a butterfly’s wings, but it produced in me a sensuous release akin to what Jung calls a “petite death.”

“Go now—hurry!” she said, “It’ll be getting dark.”

I had forgotten it was October and darkness fell early. As I left, I turned and looked back at her standing before the cabin. The sky had grown overcast and a billowing white cloud rose like a canopy against the darkening horizon.

I walked for a few minutes and stopped. I heard the sweetest melody borne on the wind. Somewhere a voice was softly singing, calling to me across the divide. I could distinguish no words—just the plaintive call of her heart. I turned to go back, but thunder rumbled ominously above me. Reluctantly, I forced my feet to walk on, but my heart was tied to the spot.

I have journeyed back many times since—sometimes figuratively in my mind, other times searching frantically through denuded trees—all to no avail. She’s gone and I can scarcely believe she even existed.

The mind plays tricks in the wilderness, they say. I’m told there are no farms in the vicinity—it’s all government land.

As I said, I try vainly to go back, to follow markers.

I spend hours trying to conjure up the slightest trace, but no vestige remains. What details do survive are fuzzy and blurred by tears.

Sometimes I imagine I see her in a crowd—her face, a white petal on black foliage.

Sometimes, I hear her voice on the wind.

But always, always, there is this thirst.

I am parched.

I drink to drown her memory and fill the emptiness.

Still, nothing can pry me from her arms.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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