I’m scared to go out there.
It’s all right, said Carolyn. But still there’s one question we haven’t answered. Lady Madonna, she sang. Children at your breast. Wonder how you manage to feed the rest?
Get it out of your system now. Before you open the door.
Did you think that money was heaven sent?
Stop.
Tuesday night arrives without a suitcase.
Stop.
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me.
Carolyn.
The best things in life are free, but you can save them for the birds and bees.
Ann laughed. Give me mu-uh-uh-uha-ney, sang Carolyn. That’s what I want!
She pulled open the door, climbed on top of the van, and shouted Good morning! to the crowd of pilgrims, shouted it a number of times and waved her arms like a circus barker until some of the pilgrims, like pigeons spotting bread, flocked in her direction. Gather around, gather here! she said, we’re about to set off to the site of the apparitions but before we go, just a few announcements, a few eeny-teeny logistical matters that will help everyone, I’m sure of it, will help us all get along.
She could see the campground moving toward her now and it reminded her of the scene from Macbeth in which Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane, the boughs and limbs of the evergreens and the army of eager pilgrims. The spaces between people were filling up, the empty ground was disappearing, it was beginning to look like one of those spectacles Joseph Goebbels designed for Hitler or maybe Saint Peter’s Square. Hear ye, hear ye, someone called through a battery-operated electric bullhorn which was then handed up to Carolyn after passing through a series of hands, making its way with speed to her as the result of on-the-spot cooperation, and she realized that at her beck and call were no doubt a hundred lackeys if she wanted them, slobbering devotees, fawning acolytes, servile adherents. People immediately around her van were snapping photographs with all the zeal of journalists or documentarians and others ran video cameras. Can you hear me better? asked Carolyn. Thank God for the electric bullhorn!
There was a burst of approval at this proclamation, and no one seemed to grasp its irony. Praise the Lord, someone yelled, for all things in service to his ministry!
All right, said Carolyn, and she held up her left arm flamboyantly like the worst sort of flimflamming roadshow evangelist, beginning now to embrace her role, All right, she said, if I can ask you to listen, my name is Carolyn the visionary’s disciple, I’m here to speak on her behalf, I’m here because she has asked me to speak; she’s very young, a humble girl, a girl who until now has been foraging for mushrooms and living here in the campground by herself, living in that tent over there and cooking in that fire pit, getting by as best she can like all the rest of we mushroom pickers who were dwelling here quietly in this little place and doing our best to put food in our mouths until last Wednesday when lo and behold, our humble labors were brought to a halt because a glorious miracle came to pass, a wonderful and forever life-altering miracle, which nevertheless has had the effect of diverting us from our work.
She paused to let that all sink in but already her inference had been well taken and a five-gallon bucket was going around, a makeshift collection plate. A miracle, said Carolyn. A miracle I have witnessed for myself on each of three successive days unfolding in the woods just east of here at a place we must reach by an unmarked route that should not be a cause for undue duress although I should stress that due to circumstances there is no wheelchair access to date, which is something we’ll have to change. We do have a minor creek crossing to make which involves a moderate amount of balance of the sort any sojourner in good health possesses—you’ll need to walk across a mossy log that presents a minor difficulty—but other than that, this is a walk within the capacity of any normal human being, a walk of I estimate probably two miles, two miles and no more.
Carolyn wondered if her diction was right, if she sounded credible, authentic. Two miles! someone yelled. I’m in Campsite Fifty-one-A if anyone wants to join me in the work of building a better trail!
Glory be! yelled someone else. But let Carolyn speak!
That’s okay, said Carolyn, pretending no interest in the path of the bucket but noting with private giddy enthusiasm the ardor with which it was filled. I see this as a group process. I welcome anyone who wants to join in. Far be it from me to exert leadership. Now regarding the creek crossing I talked about a moment ago it will be important that we cross in single file, the crossing will be a bottleneck and will demand patience from everyone as we wait for the person in front of us however slow or out-of-it, but I must stress that no one should feel pushed or intimidated by the press of the crowd, find your own comfort level in making the crossing and take it at your own speed, I don’t want anyone to land in the creek, we can do without injuries.
I’m called to build a safer bridge! Campsite Thirty-seven-A!
First Aid Committee, Campsite Fourteen-B!
And, said Carolyn, please stay together. I have a feeling that some could get lost. Whole legions of you could angle off, following leaders who themselves are lost, the only people present here with a firm sense of the direction we’re taking are myself and the visionary. I don’t know what system we can use, but with this many people traveling in the woods we will have to make it a point to stay together, I’ll keep on babbling through this contraption to give you a sense of the path we’re taking—and by the way I’m very thankful that someone thought to bring this thing along, it’s incredibly handy and will save my voice I can see that’s the case, praise God!
There was a murmur of vague affirmation. Let’s talk some more about the woods! someone yelled. Let’s talk about not destroying the woods and being eco-friendly!
Oh yeah, said Carolyn. Exactly right. This guy has an excellent point. A thousand people in a great big hurry is probably the worst thing that’s happened to this forest with the exception of when it was logged in the forties so take it easy, watch where you step, don’t litter, leave no trace, remember, only you can prevent forest fires, and follow the Ten Commandments.
The sheriff was coming through the crowd now. He reminded her of a shark’s dorsal fin plowing a firm course through the sea. Here comes the sheriff, said Carolyn. Make way for that man in the wide green hat! Part the waters, so to speak, and let our sheriff through! We mushroom pickers know this man because he visits us regularly to see how we’re doing here, he checks in with us. Yes, it’s the sheriff of this beautiful county, I can’t say I know his name, I can’t give the sheriff the introduction he deserves, but I can see he has a few things to say which no doubt will help advance our cause and suggest how law-enforcement protocols can help us act in an orderly fashion, keep the peace, et cetera, follow the rules and stave off chaos—now here he is, the county sheriff!
The sheriff clambered onto the van’s roof while Carolyn was desperately speechifying and raised his own bullhorn like a herald’s trumpet. From immediately beside him she sensed his gall and grasped that he was astute enough to understand how thoroughly she’d belittled him in her mean-spirited, lighthearted way. He had that beefy masculine smell of testosterone-infused aftershave. His black leather belt made creaking sounds. He was physically strong and appeared to be dangerous. A patina of adolescent acne scarring lent his face an aura of moral turpitude. To Carolyn, he looked like a rapist.
Sheriff Nelson, said the sheriff through his bullhorn. My job is to protect the people of this county, keep the peace and enforce the laws, currently we have upward of fourteen hundred people based on our latest count this morning who have descended on our North Fork Campground which was designed originally and has a legal limit of three hundred and sixty-five people primarily for health and sanitation reasons but also to protect the safety of guests and the investment of our taxpayers in maintaining our campground in good condition.
He paused and scratched the side of his face, dropping his bullhorn to his side. Praise God, cut in Caroly
n. Sheriff Nelson has come to help us this morning with some of our logistical problems!
The sheriff shot her a Be Quiet look and raised his own bullhorn higher. I’m a Christian too, he said sternly. I walk with Jesus and I’ll tell you something: Jesus is my supreme boss, I serve him before any other boss, even the law of the land comes second, that’s the truth of it. But that isn’t going to change the fact that there are too many people right now in this campground and too many cars and other motor vehicles, and campfires outside of designated fire pits and the woods being used like an open sewer and garbage facilities at maximum capacity—over capacity, there’s garbage everywhere—and the black bears out here concern me too because food is not being stored properly or disposed of in an odorless manner and there’s too much firewood foraging going on, there’s insufficient access for emergency vehicles, the septic tanks can’t handle the abuse—in short we have a problem here, we’re way over capacity, people, I’ve posted a twenty-four-hour warning, by this time exactly tomorrow morning, ten fifty-two a.m., the North Fork Campground will—and I stress this—the campground will have one vehicle per campsite and registered campers absolutely and only, others will be cited tomorrow, vehicles will be towed off, I have the names of five local landowners willing to take on campers for a fee, these are folks with fields nearby, my deputies are posting sheets right now with directions to these other places, the sheets are also available at the pay booth at the entrance to this campground. Other than that please respect our county, you’re guests here, temporary guests, treat our county accordingly, we’re a small little backwater place it’s true but we have our own way of doing things and we ask you to respect that fact and not cause trouble or raise a flap, in Jesus’ name I’m not real concerned—you’re all Christians, you’re law-abiding people—and I expect you’ll follow our laws.
He stopped again to scratch his face. Okay, thank you, Carolyn said, moving close beside him. Let’s all pray now for Sheriff Nelson. She held up her left hand, dropped her head, and then without warning put an arm around the sheriff, who stiffened and dragged off his hat. Underneath his hair was thin—each root planted sparsely in his skull—and blackened by grooming gel. Dear Lord, said Carolyn, help Sheriff Nelson in the work that he is doing. Help Sheriff Nelson to find his way. See that Sheriff Nelson is satisfied. Help us to do as Sheriff Nelson asks and let not the sheriff be troubled by us. May he endure and even celebrate our presence and find us a group of obedient souls, inspired by you Lord to follow your rules as well as those prescribed by Sheriff Nelson, and may we find other places to dwell as the sheriff has requested of us by ten fifty-two a.m. tomorrow, in Jesus’ name, amen.
She removed her arm and shook his hand. He gave her again the Be Quiet look, a private look of sinister loathing, and then he clambered down from the van with the cumbersome sloth of an orangutan and, clenching his bullhorn between his knees, fixed the trim of his shirt.
One moment please, Carolyn said dramatically. Bear with me now, my fellow pilgrims. She put down the bullhorn, lay flat on the roof, and pressed her face against the window. Arise, fair sun, she said through it to Ann. Come on, Ann. Get out here.
Carolyn swiveled to the other side of the van and hauled open its sliding door. Then with her face hanging upside down she said I hate to present myself this way. The force of gravity inverted like this only serves to accentuate the horrible degree to which my skin has lost elasticity.
Ann made the sign of the cross in reply. Hey, said Carolyn. Did you see that bucket? We’re rich like the Duke and the Dauphin!
She helped Ann onto the van’s roof. When Ann hid behind her Carolyn said No Way, Shrinking Violet, you’re on top of the Aztec pyramid now and they’re going to cut your heart out. Then she seized Ann’s arm at the wrist and thrust it upward triumphantly as if Ann had just won a prizefight. Here she is! said Carolyn through the bullhorn. Ann Holmes of Oregon!
A refrain of assent was heard from the crowd, and assorted hallelujahs. And the Lord said let there be light, said Carolyn, rejoice O ye sons and daughters of Zion, behold the handmaid of the Lord, blessed is she among all women, and now let us bow our heads and pray. Dear Lord we thank thee for your loving-kindness, all hail Mary of the Immaculate Conception, She of grace and all things good, lover of the meek and our protector, grant us now on this day of your grace the generous charity we shall need. And now Ann will lead us in prayer.
She handed Ann the bullhorn and pulled her forward. Bail me out, she whispered, and winked. I don’t really know any prayers.
Ann looked across the crowd and a sea of people gazed back at her. She could feel the tension of their expectation. This is all a mistake, she thought. I can’t give them what they need. Nevertheless, I’ve seen the Virgin. And she raised the bullhorn to her lips with wet eyes and trembling shoulders. Loving members in Christ, she said, and her body gleaned a first intimation, a first inkling, of sacrifice. She was standing on a kind of altar. A peristaltic convulsion moved through her; the hair at the nape of her neck felt the wind that some describe as the breath of the dead as they stir in their separate purgatories. Stand beside me, Mother, she thought. Was this God’s test or were his eyes just elsewhere? She sensed that her course was cruelly predetermined. God knew the story, including its end. He wasn’t asking any questions. This was how the meek inherited the earth, the beggar, the thief, the whore, the dope addict, the vagabond, the pauper, the crucified.
Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, Ann began, and the crowd joined her in prayer.
Until she saw the Virgin Mary, Ann had few words for what she knew and sparse means to explain herself. Her mother had called her Dimple as a child, also Button and Mouse. Her father was a rolling stone, said her mother, by way of an explanation. Met at an eight-dollar concert in Salem, five local bands over nine hours. He was twenty and wore a leather coat but no shirt. His angular chest flamed an angry red. His hair was seized into a thick ponytail. He lived in Eugene, didn’t work, and took a lot of acid. He believed, mildly, in eco-terrorism without engaging in it. A constellation of light freckles on his face and his fiery abstract disdain for capitalism endeared him to her initially. Ann’s mother ran away at fourteen, hitchhiked north to Eugene in the rain, and lived with her winsome rebel for two months before he booted her out. Literally. He planted a boot in the small of her back to assist her passage through the door. It emerged in her period of pleading afterward that he had no soul to speak of. He could cause pain without remorse. He looked good, but that was all. Ann’s mother was not prepared for his arctic male distance. Her entire being felt the shock of his cruelty, but after a month he didn’t matter and that came as a surprise to her, how quickly she went cold about him even when she found she was pregnant. He was easy to forget, she said. There wasn’t much to remember. His name was Scott and the last she heard he’d joined a band of anarchists in Arizona. She hadn’t heard anything since, nor cared to. Even her reservoir of bad feeling dried up; it was as if he’d never existed.
When anyone inquired Ann’s mother said that the girl was being homeschooled. She was badly asthmatic, very small, and suffered from chronic allergies to dust mites, spring pollens, mold, and mildew. She carried in her pocket an asthmatic’s inhaler, which she sipped from surreptitiously when she felt she was strangling. Her allergies were sometimes entirely debilitating and forced her to stay in bed for long hours with a sheet pulled over her face. Hay fever ravaged her mucous membranes. Often her eyes were swollen and red, her nose ran and itched, she sneezed, wheezed, coughed, sighed, and tried unsuccessfully to expectorate. Ann felt inexplicably tormented by the invisible contents of the world. When her respiratory afflictions left her listless she intimated how it felt to die; her tired lungs sent death’s message. The body’s surrender and defeat made sense. She felt the meaning of submission inwardly. Capitulation, the cessation of breath, and the panic of bronchial constriction seized her. In this she was like the consumptive children found in nineteenth-century melodramas. Illness formed
her sensibilities. Antihistamines offered a modicum of relief to which Ann became so thoroughly addicted that she began to engage in drugstore shoplifting—Dristan, Sudafed, Chlor-Trimeton—before she was twelve years old.
With her mother she picked ornamental brush for florists, gathered mushrooms and seed cones, and peeled yew and cascara bark. Another woman went with them often who was known as Sleepy Jane. Sleepy Jane was tall and big-boned and wore her long hair straight down her back, a threadbare fringe of split ends. They would be picking ornamental huckleberry and Sleepy Jane would suddenly decide to sit cross-legged on the forest floor and smoke the roaches of marijuana cigarettes she kept in an Altoids tin. Or they would be peeling cascara bark and Sleepy Jane would decide it was too hot, peel off her shirt, and take a nap. A fly would land on her sunburned breasts which were long and lopsided, uneven in heft, but Sleepy Jane paid flies no mind and absently fingered her rough nipples. She believed that yews held the souls of dead women who had not been able to leave the earth and she could name churchyards in England and Wales where yews shaded the tombstones. She had a book called The Sacred Mushroom Seeker, another called Soma: The Divine Mushroom of Immortality, and she read not only Ann’s palm but her skull and feet as well. Dimple, she said on each occasion, it doesn’t look very good for you. It looks pretty bad, actually. What can I say? If I were you I’d probably decide not to believe in readings.
I don’t, said Ann. So it doesn’t matter.
Once Ann rode with her grandfather in his tractor-trailer to the Florida panhandle where he dropped a container of plastic bubble wrap. In South Carolina they picked up another load and took it to Louisiana. She lived on secondhand cigarette smoke and breakfasts fried in lard. Her grandfather wore a kidney belt and a beard that made him look like one of the Allman Brothers or the guys in ZZ Top. He was fat in the belly with spindly legs, dark glasses, and suspenders. He liked bands named after states, Alabama and Kansas. He also liked biscuits and gravy, Bugler tobacco, and motorcycle magazines featuring silicon-implanted bikini models. At a truck stop in Oklahoma he gave Ann a dollar—he’d never given her a dime before—and told her to go into the convenience store, look at magazines, and watch the clock. It’s seven, he said. You stay there until eight. Don’t come out until eight o’clock. What for? she asked. Just do it, he said. There’s something I gotta take care of.