Free The Naked Gardener by L B Gschwandtner

Petru took my hand. He kissed my fingertips. I began to melt all over and then a voice called out a kind of song and one by one the actors came onstage. Naked. Every one of them. Just like they had been the other day in the garden. I even recognized a few of them.
    There wasn’t much dialogue. There was a lot of – how shall I put it – behavior modeling? I suddenly understood quite a lot of what I had experienced over the past few weeks. No, it was not necessary for this performance to be in English or any other language. And Petru? Well now I understood how he knew so much about so many things. When it was over, and I personally considered that a blessing, and he told me he now had enough money to take me to Corsica on the expensive ferry, I told him I had to work and that I did very much miss my music man back home.

CHAPTER FIVE
    THE WOMEN
    A river is a living thing. It has character, moods, a personality. Under average conditions the Trout River is rather lazy, like a hunting dog asleep under a tree. Its curves and pools have a gentle rhythm. Its flat water moves a canoe along at a slow, steady pace; its quick water is easily navigated. It is friendly, even tempered, altogether hospitable. Sometimes, especially during the spring thaw, it becomes quirky and spirited, burbling and jumping over rocks and fallen tree limbs, rushing toward the falls like a galloping herd.
    The Trout curves around, at times deep with clear pools, at times wide with pebbled banks, at times running over boulders and between ledges. When it runs over rocks large enough to disturb the water, it forms rapids. Its gentle rippling turns into a rush; it shouts, sings, warbles, burbles, at times flattens out to no more than a rumbly current until it finally reaches Trout River Falls.
    It is also remote. Only two bridges cross the Trout River; the Water Street Bridge at Trout River Falls some 250 miles from the Trout’s headwaters and an old wood and steel railroad trestle far to the north of town, an area so remote no one but the train engineers ever see it. Passenger trains used to cross with a clacking sound that echoed through the forest for miles, but train travel fell out of favor and now the north south line is used most frequently by freight trains. Above this trestle and between it and the falls, a canoe can travel the Trout undisturbed by man, machine, or cell towers. No roads run alongside the river; no towns are situated near it; only a few farms border marshes and springs near its northernmost run. Along most stretches of the Trout River, forests stretch for miles on both sides.
    Maze and I arrived at the put in first. Located at a break in the forest it ran along a pebbled stretch of beach that made a perfect place for vehicles to park and unload passengers and gear. Pale orange, buff and brown stones like speckled granite sparkled in the river bed beneath the clear meandering water.
    We had paddled the Trout below the falls where the banks widen and the water runs deep and smooth, but had never started this far north in the narrow, shallow part. He dragged the canoe off the car rack. Together we carried it to the edge of the water. I had packed two changes of underwear, some personal toiletries, a sweatshirt, sleeping bag, small tent, cooking gear, six camping mess kits, one for each woman. I brought food – cereals, noodles, freeze dried vegetables, dried fruits, nuts, granola bars, transferred them all from their packaging to zip lock bags and packed them into a duffel. Erica and I had agreed on a long list divided among the women. Others were to bring the rest of the packaged food, gallons of drinking water, two more small tents, the other two canoes and paddles, and the rest of the gear we would need for three days alone on the river and two nights of camping. All together, it came to eight or nine meals, a couple of changes of clothes, cooking and eating utensils, washing supplies, lighters and fire accelerant in case it was