The Wind in the Willows

I can’t help but study the dirt beneath my mother’s fingernails as the blood slowly trickles out of her arm and into the smooth wooden bowl in my hands. I ate dandelion greens out of this bowl only a few hours ago. My knife–our knife–rests on the kitchen table next to her hip, its blade glistening in the full moon’s light.

I realize this probably already sounds like some witchy-tale set in New England in the 1600’s, rather than an event taking place in a time of CT scans, smartphones and fake news. 

That’s because we don’t exist. At least not as far as the census bureau, the utility companies, and all the rest of society knows. We are one hundred percent off the grid, which is funny to say because if you’ve never lived as part of the system there’s really no “grid” to be off of. But I’m aware of the terminology and I offer it to you for context.

My mother and I live off the land in every way you can imagine. I’m sorry but I can’t say where, for reasons that will become clear once I’ve told you the rest of my story which, for now, I’m composing in my head while I work. Later, it will find its way to paper.

The light is dim in our cabin tonight and since my work is only being illuminated by the glow of a handful of candles, I had to be careful to avoid cutting an artery beneath her skin. Even though The Faint had come over Miriam suddenly–while she was cleaning the dinner pots just like she does every evening–her veins were already pale and withdrawn, as if they had been starved of nutrients for many months. Still, I cut quickly, not pausing to check whether or not her eyelids flickered from the pain because it wouldn’t have mattered if they did. Regardless of the discomfort, I know she would’ve held her arm out willingly.

I really have to quit narrating my story to you and focus instead on what needs to be done now that the bowl is half full of this precious liquid. 

I place the bowl carefully on the table next to Miriam’s head and marvel for a moment at her smooth, unlined skin and the way her long, auburn curls spill off over the end of the table-top’s rough-hewn boards. She is still so young, only twenty-eight years and seventeen days. 

It will probably seem odd to you that we keep such a strict record of our days here. But if something happens to us, if the cycle is broken, we must ensure that all the pieces are there to begin again one day. If that’s even possible.  

And it’s hard to know what’s what these days because it seems like The Faint has been coming earlier and earlier for us. I’m lucky to be twenty now–more than old enough to take over after many years of guidance. But my mother Miriam was only eight when she had to navigate this process. Luckily, Miriam’s mom had prepared her well, thank you very much, and in turn she has prepared me.

Many days, when lessons were done, we would sit together under one of the smaller willow trees exploring all the possible scenarios that we might find ourselves in one day–depending on what age she would be when it was her time to go. What age I would be when I would lose her.

The temptation to drift into the slippery embrace of the past or the violent spasm of the future–or some weaving together of both–almost overwhelms me now and I rest my hand on my mother’s forehead. It is cool, but she breathes slowly still. I scoop up the bowl with both hands like it’s a handful of grain to be sprinkled into the soil. Because it is.

I leave my knife where it rests, though I know there will come a day, years from now when she has found the words to capture this moment, when she will let me have it for not cleaning her blood from the blade properly first. 

Smiling, I whisper, “Sorry Mama, you know I never worry about that stuff as much as you do.”

Moving carefully, I step outside the cabin and into the indigo night. Thanks to the golden glow wrapping around the scattering clouds, my eyes adjust to the light quickly and I wonder for a moment if it’s just a coincidence that the moon is full tonight, or if its presence is a crucial component in what is to come. I press my lips together tightly as it occurs to me how little either of us knows about this process, despite the fact that we are both the raw material and the result of it. 

But asking questions of them has never brought a single answer. I guess they are just not a particularly chatty sort.

I move past the goat’s pen, unsurprised that none of them make a peep. They are very sensitive creatures and, honestly, if I were half as attuned to the natural world as them I probably would’ve realized the time was upon us days ago. Then I could’ve begun making the necessary arrangements with more attention to detail. 

I chuckle. I’m sure I’ll hear about that in a few years too.

On the other side of the vegetable garden, I make my way down the gentle hill towards the gathering of willow trees spreading wide near the bank of our stream. The gentle movement of the water across the smooth rocks that pop through its surface reaches my ear at the same moment I feel the damp moss intermingle with the grasses beneath my bare feet. The relationship between them seems more tightly bound now than I’ve ever noticed before, and I wonder if the willow’s roots reach all the way to this same spot too.

Unlike most evenings, tonight I’m not going to the water’s edge. I am here to visit one particular willow in the cluster, and there’s no way to downplay its massive size as I approach it. 

Standing beneath it, my heart pounds and quivers in my chest like it might explode and suddenly it’s all I can hear as the rest of the night falls into deep stillness. Above my head, the broad canopy is totally silent. It’s as if all the other trees and even the wildlife that is usually so expressive have agreed to recede back in deference to a demand my ears have not heard.  

Standing in this particular spot has been off-limits for me until now. I pause for a moment and close my eyes and breathe the musky scent of the trees deeply into my lungs. Flashes and fragments of moments long forgotten tease the edges of my mind. I have only visited this willow once before, on the day of my birth, and I am unprepared for my body’s reaction to this moment. My hands shake as I slowly pour my mother’s blood into the soft earth at the willow tree’s roots. 

Now that I’ve done it, I pause again, waiting for I don’t know what. But finally I head back up the hill to the cabin, an odd sense of loneliness slowing my steps. 

My hand is on the door when I hear it.

A wind that sounds as if it has traveled from deep inside the earth groans through the willow. Delicate bark tears like parchment as the wind moves up the trunk of the giant tree. As the leaves shudder and sigh, I turn back to watch–somehow compelled to look even though I know there will be nothing to see. The wind is moving faster through the trees now and the gooseflesh that springs up along my arms and neck tells me it’s almost time.

My legs begin to tremble. I fall to my knees and press my palms to the earth. Even though the air around me is perfectly still, I feel as though I could be knocked flat at any moment. I am struggling to pull air into my lungs and I start to panic because I know that I need all of my strength right now. I bring my mouth closer to the dirt under my hands and somehow that helps my lungs find what they need. I vaguely wonder if the willow has claimed all but a thin layer of the available air for what it must do next. 

I decide that laying on the earth is a perfectly okay place to wait so I roll onto my back to listen for it. 

I don’t have to wait long.

Even though I have been prepared for this moment, when it comes it is shocking, like a clap of thunder rising out of a clear sky.

Bring Her.

I half expect the wind to stop now, but of course it doesn’t. It won’t for hours.

I crawl into the cabin. Whatever force pressed me into submission outside these walls seems to have been pleased by my showing and I’m able to pull myself to my feet easily now. 

A sled of sorts is standing ready up against the wall in the kitchen and I drag it over next to the table, surprised by how heavy it is even without anything on it. But I have no doubt I will be able to manage; this is what all the hard labor over the years has been for. 

I spread a blanket on top of the sled, followed by another and another. I can’t help but smile a little because after tonight I won’t have to do backbreaking work just to keep my muscles strong anymore. Overnight, my duties will become much different.

I slide my arms underneath my mother’s muscular limbs and attempt to move her onto the sled as gently as possible. I grunt a little, knowing this would be easier if she had succumbed to an illness or become gravely injured. But she is still a strong woman–roughly the same size as me–and it takes all my strength to manage the move kindly. Once she’s settled in place, I cross the blankets over her and then feed the sled’s straps under her arms, knotting them over her chest.

The sled is heavy under Miriam’s weight but it moves along easily once we’re outside, as if we are being helped along by a current. The night air now feels warmer than before. Damp, and absolutely still. The usual buzzing and croaking and scratching of the creatures that surround us here have fallen silent and I wonder, not for the first time, if they too follow a similar ritual in order to live out their days here.

We arrive at the largest willow quickly, and the sound above is deafening as the wind tears through the tree’s canopy with a ferocity I have not seen for twenty years–not since I began my time here. Her limbs roll and shake as if they must warn others to stay away while she conjures up something intense and primal. 

I untie the straps that hold my mother’s body in place and then use the blankets to slide her onto the ground, positioning her so she is curled up against the trunk, nestled between two of the willow’s large, shallow roots. Once I’ve got the blankets wrapped and tucked tightly around her I kiss her on the forehead, wishing her eyes would open for a moment. But they don’t and I’m crying now, though I don’t feel sadness. Not exactly. But I guess the tears know why they are here and that’s enough for me.

I trudge back to the house, suddenly deeply aware of how exhausted I am. The soft, warm air feels like an embrace against my chilled skin now, and I’m grateful that the wind tearing through the willows has contained itself to the thicket and hasn’t followed me home, though I know I will be listening carefully to its concert until the early hours of the morning.

                                           ***

Dawn arrives with a slash of brilliant light, and I startle from a sleep I hadn’t planned on indulging in. My eyelids are heavy, but I force myself to sit up, my ears straining to hear. That’s when I know I’ve missed it. The moment the wind fell silent, its breath falling from a scream to a whisper.

“Goddammit,” I mutter.

And then I hear it. A tiny mewling sound. I jump out of my chair and throw the front door open. I race across the uneven ground quickly, not slowing until I reach the willow. The tree is standing tall and full now, illuminated in the morning light, and looking very proud of herself. And there, nestled against her trunk in a pile of blankets is the infant. She is tiny and pink with a little shock of dark auburn hair on her head that is damp and glistening. I crouch down and wrap the blankets around her more tightly.

“Well, hello there, old girl. Just couldn’t stay away, could you?”  

 I can’t remember a time when Miriam didn’t have a snappy response to everything I said, and I half expect her to answer me now. I chuckle softly, knowing these early months before she can speak are going to be a special kind of torture for her. 

“Don’t worry, Miriam,” I say, gently kissing her forehead, “you’ll get used to it, being the daughter. We always do.”

She blinks at me and her little fists rub her eyes roughly. Then she sighs with a gurgle and stares at me with those gray eyes I know so well. And just like that, I can see that she remembers what’s happened. 

In a couple of years we’ll talk together about it all. But for now I guess I will be doing all the talking.

                                            ***

Now, the reason I’ve set out to share this story with you–despite it being forbidden to do so–is because I’m no longer so certain that this journey is something that is unique to us, or this land, or this grove of willows. And I worry–what if it’s not? What if others just don’t understand, and are missing out on the process? Perhaps it’s not mine to wonder about. But I feel compelled to share our story, even just a small bit of it. So perhaps someone will read this one day, long after we are gone–if that can even happen–and it will help. 

                                     With love-

                                      Lilly