Our Lady of the Forest

  Even before the overnight pay booth, there were cars parked on the road shoulder, cars, trucks, motor homes, vans, and camping trailers. It was like the approach to a logging show, a county fair, or a circus. Always at the perimeter of those events were throngs of vehicles larger than the events and composing events themselves. A park ranger stopped Tom’s truck at the booth, a girl in uniform. She spoke to him with her hands on her knees, her hair falling into her smooth chubby face, a girl who looked like a backpacker type, big tits grown healthy on granola. We’re full up, she said. There’s nowhere to go. You can use the turnaround.

  What am I supposed to do?

  Park it down the road I guess.

  What the hell is going on?

  We’re swamped today. That’s all I know. Be sure to get yourself well off the road. And be careful walking up.

  He went back and parked. People were driving in too fast and banging through the potholes. He walked on the shoulder and found at the booth that the girl had her hands on her knees again, explaining things to someone else, and now there was a line of cars. Tom followed the parade of campsites with their numbered stanchions and picnic tables and here too the cars were everywhere, eased in between trees, pulled in without a scheme. Some were blocked by other cars, by camping trailers or tents. Motor homes were docked like ships but staggered for access to their doors and here and there in the incidental places were arrangements of aluminum lawn chairs. Damp campfires spit popping sparks and people walked with their toiletry kits toward the campground’s only rest rooms. Tom saw the contractor from town off-loading chemical toilets. At one campsite an awning had been rigged to protect a corral of display tables. A banner read KAY’S RELIGIOUS GIFTS; under it were plastic statues, crucifixes, books, cassettes, and videotapes. Farther along someone else sold rosaries, scapulars, prayer books and medals from a pop-top Volkswagen van.

  Tom spoke to the sales clerk at Kay’s. A chinless woman with a blanket across her legs and the bulbous waxen throat of a bullfrog, she sat on a lawn chair by a kerosene heater, wetting her forefinger occasionally with her tongue to turn the pages of a magazine. What’s this? he asked her.

  It’s an Immaculate Heart of Mary figurine. Those others there on the left are different they’re Sacred Heart figurines.

  Where are you from?

  Near Pocatello.

  That’s probably over five hundred miles.

  It’s seven hundred and fifty miles.

  So when did you leave there?

  Friday night.

  But how did you even know this was happening?

  How did we know specifically? We knew because of a chat room we’re into. More than one chat room we log onto regularly. That’s an Infant of Prague statue please be careful with that.

  Two other women stopped to look. There’s a video I’ve been looking for, said one, called Why Do You Test Me? all about Conyers and I’m also looking for a video I heard about that’s all on Veronica of the Cross.

  I wish I had them, said the chinless woman. I have this other great video on Conyers, that one there called Miracle at Conyers that’s just to your right and down a little, and lots of things on Veronica of the Cross I can order out of catalogs just let me grab you an order form.

  Tom wandered over to the Volkswagen van and examined one of the rosaries for sale while an impassive bald man pointedly didn’t watch him, a man with the superior, fastidious air of certain sales clerks. I just came from Kay’s, Tom told him.

  I’ve known Kay for a long, long time. We don’t view ourselves as competitors in the least. We have different product lines.

  Where are you from?

  From near Salt Lake. Packed away I’ve got a lot more t-shirts. Hundred percent cotton heavyweights that are on sale right now.

  At another campsite sat a food service truck where coffee was sold in Styrofoam cups as well as breakfast rolls and donuts. The boy working there was from Marysville. He normally worked at horse shows, he said, but this seemed like a decent moneymaker. He was gangly, with wispy hair on his chin. I’m wiped out, he told Tom. We didn’t get any sleep last night. We slept on the floor in here.

  Who’s we?

  My brother and me and my girlfriend. They took the car and went into North Fork to get some hot dogs and buns and stuff. We ran out last night seven-thirty. You people eat a lot of hot dogs. More even than horse people.

  In the rest room men were combing their hair even though there wasn’t a mirror and washing their hands and faces with cold water and soap from their toiletry kits. When Tom walked in he heard a man say The sun was spinning, that’s what I saw. I don’t know if spinning’s the word—whirling, I guess, or swirling or something. There were streaks of light the first day, and the next we saw Jesus in the sky, it was one of those shapes in the clouds.

  Glory, said another man. Fabulous.

  We have photographs from California City.

  I’d love to look at your photographs, Ed.

  There’s a very clear one of the golden doorway. There’s another of Gabriel—a cloud shape again. There’s a good one of the angel of death.

  Tom stood by the river, smoking. A drift boat went by with a guide named Buck Hawes and two clients on board. Buck waved, Tom waved back, Buck shook his head, Tom shook his, Buck called out It looks like madness, Tom said It sure does, Buck said Make them keep the lid on, Tom said I’ll give it a try, and then the boat was too far down-current for any further exchange. The river was too high but the clients didn’t know it sitting there bundled in foul-weather gear and they were going to have to pay Buck for his time even though there were no fish to find, transferring money to the local economy sometimes involved deceit. So be it. Hallelujah. Praise the Lord for Seattle fishermen. Tom went back up to the food service truck and bought a cup of instant coffee. There was no place to sit so he leaned against a tree while nearby at a riverfront campsite pilgrims engaged in a prayer service. The people there held hands like hippies and stood in a loose-knit circle. They recited the Hail, Holy Queen and then a man with a faint Irish lilt said Lift up your voices as we recite the prayer to Saint Michael together, and someone else put branches on the fire, green branches that smoked. Tom’s head still hurt and to placate it he shut his eyes and listened without watching. The pilgrims said the prayer to Saint Michael followed by a prayer for the pope’s good health, and when they were done the man spoke again, Mary, Mother of Christ, O Most Blessed Virgin Mother, we believe in the forgiveness of all sin and the everlasting life. We believe that the Holy Mother of God continues in heaven to intercede on behalf of all members in Christ. Plead for us in our hour of need. Be unto us as our mothers have been, our salvation and our protection. Avail us of miracles. Cleanse us of sin and redeem us. Be as a light in this place of dark forest. As I understand it we shall proceed at ten-thirty or whenever Our Lady issues her call; don’t forget a supply of water, some food for the hike, and toilet paper if it comes to that; there are no lavatories in the woods. The pilgrims chuckled at the mention of this and the man said A good practice is to take care of business while facilities are available which is something I learned many years ago, the hard way, when I was a wee little boy. More chuckling. The forecast calls for light rain, said the man, and this glorious day unfolds before us, in the name of Our Lady the Most Holy Virgin, she of the Immaculate Conception and of God’s Birth. In Jesus’ name, amen.

  Question, said someone. How far exactly are we going? Because I have an unfavorable condition in my back that shoots pain down both legs and unfortunately I’m not sure I can make it depending on how far we have to go. I guess I didn’t count on this, I have to admit, having to walk far in.

  You’ll get there, the man said. We’ll make sure of that, my friend. That’s what your brothers in Christ are for, to take you to the Promised Land.

  But where are we going? someone else asked. Does anybody know our destination?

  We don’t know. But we give ourselves to it. We go with God and in God’s name and the
Lord our Shepherd shall lead us.

  Getting lost in the woods is unappealing.

  A thousand people can’t all get lost.

  I’m worried about our impact here. Forests are very sensitive. Even if we all go lightly, a thousand people—which is my estimate too of what we’ve got here—will trample things unmercifully. Maybe we should organize a path and keep people to it.

  Do you mean there isn’t a path already?

  How can there be a path already since no one knows for sure where we’re going?

  Is there anybody in charge of this? Who do we ask about basic things? Like what’s our destination?

  A path isn’t necessarily the answer, though, environmentally speaking. You can make a case for dispersion too. It’s the same issue in the national parks. Do you build paths and give up on certain areas? Or do you try to disperse the crowds?

  How did we get onto national parks? Is this an environmental forum? We all know the Church believes in the common good, responsibility and participation, but on the other hand God is our highest authority and God has called us here has he not and so while we might want to discuss these matters of path versus non-path and save the trees, when it comes to it I say follow God, after all the forest is resilient and Our Lady would not have called us here just to wreak havoc and cause destruction.

  Forgive me but that makes me very angry, the idea that we don’t have free will enough to exercise a little common sense and take a communal position on things, important things like our environment. I happen to believe that Our Lady expects us to discuss our path to her and find the least destructive way—we’re not lambs after all, are we, who can be led to pasture on the one hand, yes, but also just as easily led to slaughter? We’re not as stupid as that.

  Anyway, said the man with the Irish lilt, we’ll each do our best to walk with consideration, I don’t think there’s any more to it than that; walk with love for the earth, amen, and glory be to God. And as far as logistics I say again we don’t know anything until Our Lady calls which is supposed to be ten-thirty.

  Where did you hear ten-thirty?

  From a woman in the campground named Carolyn Greer who is an assistant to Our Lady’s seer.

  Maybe we can ask her how far it is.

  We can discuss the issue of a path too. An environmentally sensitive path.

  A path, amen, said the man with the Irish lilt. But the path I mean is a figurative one. The path I mean is the path to salvation. You there, he said, yes you, beneath the tree. He was speaking to Tom now but Tom didn’t move, just leaned there affecting a jaunty repose and taking another slow sip of coffee. Why don’t you come down and join us?

  I’m fine here, preacher. But thank you for asking.

  I’m not a preacher. And I’m not a priest. I’m just a soldier in Christ’s good army who can see that indeed you want to be one of us. Come, come join our circle.

  Thank you, soldier. I’ll hold up this tree.

  I don’t think it’ll fall if you join us, friend.

  Thanks but no thanks, answered Tom.

  At eleven the army of Christian soldiers amassed with Ann as Joan of Arc in front and Carolyn as Sancho Panza. Carolyn had decided the previous evening as the campground filled with wide-eyed pilgrims that Ann was in fact a fortuitous tide on which she should simply sail. Not an uninteresting development, she thought. And more fantastically entertaining all the time. Maybe if I play things right, she thought, it’ll stake me to a winter in Cabo.

  Ann had passed the morning in Carolyn’s van, taking refuge, blowing her nose, treating her rosary like worry beads, and fretting in the lotus position while Carolyn stretched her ample legs, ate an orange with devilish nonchalance, and talked Ann out of her misery. This is what you should expect, she explained. You’re their hotline to God, okay? What should they do, stay home?

  Ann peered nervously out the window. All morning she’d told herself that she couldn’t afford to succumb to her illness, which felt now like the flu. Why was she ill at a time like this? Running a fever, chilled, lightheaded? She could see the KAY’S RELIGIOUS GIFTS banner tied at its corners to hemlock branches and nearby a larger makeshift pennant reading WELCOME ORDER OF MARIAN SIGHTINGS ROCKY MOUNTAIN DIVISION. The food service truck had its awning set up, and through an alley between the RVs, legions waited at the rest rooms. At one campsite a dangerous-looking bonfire sent smoke in plumes through the green of trees while around it at least a hundred people sang a muffled hymn. Gargantuan mobile homes impeded Ann’s view, but she did catch a glimpse of the county sheriff whom she recognized beneath his hat because he’d come to the campground before to harass the mushroom pickers. He was strolling past with his thumbs on his belt, haranguing a campground ranger. I pray I’m up to this, she whispered.

  You’re up to it. But you better eat something. And take your Sudafed. A lot of it. And those allergy pills you’ve been scarfing.

  I can’t eat, Carolyn.

  Well what if you faint? You’re no good to anyone unconscious, Ann. On the other hand, how sly of you. You could pull a holy-roller kind of stunt. A slain-in-the-spirit kind of thing.

  I don’t pull stunts.

  Come on. I didn’t mean it.

  Who are all these people anyway?

  True believers. It’s utterly amazing.

  It’s weird, said Ann. Who are they?

  Carolyn slid on sunglasses and crossed her ankles. They’re camp followers and disciples, she said. Groupies, fanatics, monomaniacs. Suddenly you’re the rage, Ann. You’re Madonna or somebody, bigger than Madonna because she can’t sing whereas you, you’re a diva in your Mother Mary way, not just more cheap porno dance moves and deceiving camera angles. You’re an all-American cult leader, a channeler like what’s-her-name who speaks for dead Egyptians, or like that guy who waited for Hale-Bopp, the mass suicide eunuch. And of course this is happening in the American West. Where else but the West Coast for this insane behavior? I gotta say I love what’s going on here. It’s a completely Dada spectacle. It’s Hieronymus Bosch on Budweiser.

  The Catholic Church is not a cult.

  Okay, the Church is not a cult. From now on I agree with you. Carolyn clasped her hands like a supplicant. We won’t, she said, go into argument mode. You’ve got other things on your mind now, Ann. So take a deep breath and exhale, release. Feel your pelvic floor loosen. Pranic breathing. Vipassana. Just get yourself calmed down.

  I haven’t picked a mushroom for four straight days.

  Me neither. But I remain unflappable. Let the winds blow all around me, the greater the frenzy the greater my repose. My nervous system reacts with disdain.

  I’m out of funds. Flat broke right now.

  Well so am I. It costs money—right?—getting visits from the Virgin. Carolyn pulled her orange apart. Why don’t you eat half? she said.

  Ann waved it off, looked again at the pilgrims awaiting her appearance, and said Where did they come from anyway? How did they get here just like that? It’s like someone snapped their fingers or something. Ann snapped hers and held her face in her hands like the distorted figure in The Scream. All these people. Out of nowhere.

  They’re not out of nowhere. They’re a horde of charismatic Catholics with walkie-talkies and a phone tree.

  But how did they hear? Stop joking around.

  That I don’t know. What’s life without humor? They’re here, that we can count on.

  It’s just more proof.

  Proof of what?

  That all of this is real.

  Carolyn began to lace up her boots. Real, she said, and rolled her eyes. What proof do you need that this is real? You’re the one seeing the Virgin.

  I don’t need proof. But you do still. You don’t believe this is happening.

  Whatever, said Carolyn. But pull yourself together. Pull that hood up or whatever you do. And maybe since you’re so unfocused, maybe I should do the talking.

  I agree I can’t talk.

  And why is that exactly?

&
nbsp; I don’t know. I just never could.

  Too much feminine submissiveness training. Too much Mary Mother of God. Too much humble virgin pie. Okay, so she’s the mother of God, she gets to tell God to pick up His underwear, but still, she’s the one doing His laundry and cleaning up His toilet bowl while He gets all the glory.

  I wasn’t raised a Catholic, though.

  Saying that’s just more fodder for my fire. You don’t even get what’s happened to you. You’re the perfect victim of masculine authority because you’re blind to how it works.

  I don’t think you should be saying things about me when you don’t even know me, Carolyn.

  Carolyn knew this was true in theory. She didn’t know very much about Ann, and she’d been cavalier in her criticisms. Calm down, she said. I’m OK, you’re OK. Just tell me all about yourself. I’m a licensed Life Issues Counselor with a degree from the Institute for Life Issues Studies. Buy my videotape.

  Jesus save me, Ann said.

  Anyway, answered Carolyn, maybe I should handle the talking.

  Let’s pray before we go out there.

  You pray. I’ll smoke dope.

  Carolyn.

  We’ll smoke dope together.

  No we won’t.

  I’m toying with you.

  Mother Mary come to my aid. Be with me in my hour of need. Guide me on this path, Mother. Tell me what to say, what to do.

  Carolyn nodded and touched Ann’s head as though anointing her. I wake up, she sang, to the sound of music, and her voice was unexpectedly beautiful, a tremulous and operatic soprano that prompted Ann to shut her eyes. Mother Mary comes to me. Speaking words of wisdom, let it be, let it be.

  Carolyn hugged Ann maternally and pulled her hood around her face. You look so good bundled up that way. Like Little Red Riding Hood.