Free Eden West by Pete Hautman Page B

the bank of the river disappears completely, and one must pick one’s way through the tangled morass, leaping from mossy rock to mossy tussock, walking along the trunks of fallen trees, finding shallow ridges of firmer ground, and occasionally sinking a foot deep into the bog. I have on more than one occasion found myself wet to the hip, struggling to free myself from the sucking peat.
    This autumn the Lord has blessed us with weeks of dry weather, and the Mire is relatively dry. I move through a land of twisted cedars and willow, mosses and mushrooms, rotting logs and patches of marsh marigold, chittering squirrels and buzzing insects, always keeping the river in sight to my left, choosing each step with care. Some find the Mire to be a disturbing place, dark and deceitful. I have always enjoyed it. As I make my way across the spongy, treacherous surface, I feel a part of it, as if I am one of its creatures. As I walk, I keep seeing that smug smile on the face of Sister Ruth. It is clear to me that she is pleased with her sudden betrothal. Even more than pleased. How long has she known of Father Grace’s intentions?
    I think too about the storm that rose within me the moment I saw Ruth standing beside Father Grace. It must truly have been the hand of the Beast, as I imagined myself tearing handfuls of beard from Father Grace’s face and pummeling him with my fists. Would I ever do such a thing? I would say I cannot imagine it, but I cannot, for I have done so.
    A shadow passes over me; I look up to see a great gray owl drifting ghostlike through the trees, its broad wings
slicing silently through the heavy air. The majestic beauty of it swells my throat. The owl alights high in a half-naked cedar a stone’s throw away. I stand still as a statue, watching. I can see the bird’s yellow eyes as it rotates its enormous head, searching for prey. Does it know I am here? Almost certainly it does, for wild creatures have an awareness that is beyond understanding.
    I move toward it along a soft, mossy hump that was once a tree. The owl’s eyes fix upon me. I am within a few steps of its tree when it spreads its wings and, effortlessly, lets the air carry it off to another perch. It is as if the bird wants me to follow.
    Three times, the owl lets me get close before flying off to find a new branch, always within sight. Finally it tires of our game, and with a few powerful, soundless beats of its wings, it sails deep into the misty tangle of trees and is gone.
    I look around and realize that I am not sure where I am. The sun has disappeared behind a haze of cloud, and I do not know in which direction the river lies. It is not big thing, I decide. The Mire is less than a mile on a side; if I walk in a straight line, I will eventually come out of it. I choose the same direction as the owl, and I walk.
    An hour later, wet to my knees from stepping into a sinkhole, I emerge from the Mire. The land rises swiftly, the cedars give way to juniper and pine, and I recognize the rocky wall of the northern escarpment. I pick my way up the steepening slope and am soon standing above the Mire on the southern verge of the High Meadow. A mist is drifting down from the low clouds, blurring the landscape. Far to the north, the shorter grasslands of the Rocking K rise up to meet the low sky. I can see the faint outline of the stone shelter known as Shepherd’s Rock jutting from a knoll half a mile to my right.
    The right and proper thing to do, I know, is to follow the escarpment back to the Pison, and from there walk the edge to the north fence. But I have already lost an hour or more wandering through the Mire, my feet are sodden, I have a fence to repair, and the mist is turning to drizzle. I head for the shelter.
    The High Meadow feeds our sheep and cattle during the late spring and early summer, when the days are long and the sun is high. Late summer and fall, it lies fallow and is used only by mule deer and pronghorn. The grasses have grown