Pop

In the forest, there is an unspoken rule concerning all that happens within the boundaries of the trees, moss, and deadwood.  Unspoken though it is, all life in the forest knows that all problems, all difficulties, and all transpirings have their place in the forest, and nowhere else.  All life knows this, and all life abides by this.  Thus is nature kept in balance.

** ** **

Peter lightly gunned the engine, one last gasp of freedom, before reluctantly shutting the engine off, bring a sudden silence that was deafening and frightening, but relaxing.  He hesitated before opening the door of the jeep, his mind murmuring the last hopeless attempts at an alarm that had been running far too long.  A final blurp, the alarm went dead, and his mind went blank.

Stepping out into the cold October morning, he was surprised by the chill, a stark contrast to the artificial warmth of his car.  He quickly reached back in for his sweater, pulled it on, and shut the door.  His boots crunching on the gravelly dirt, he turned around and took in the surroundings, his home for the next week.  The old but magnificent cabin stood a short distance in front of him, familiar as ever, but still intimidating in its grandeur and mystery.  The same scarred chopping log lay over to the side, with its bark carpet as thick as it always was, and always would be.  An old tin shed no doubt lay behind the cabin, and the chimney would soon be puffing the same smoke, through the same rocks that constructed it.  The light cream trim hadn’t changed, though the glass looked like it had been caulked recently.  The logs were still stout-looking, but handsome and rich in color, and truly made the cabin inviting.

Still, though, just as fifteen years before, the trees stole Peter’s attention.  They loomed all around, cutting a jagged border in the sky that could never be replicated, and indeed would probably never be seen again.  The boughs and branches of the western hemlocks were black with age and diminishing light, the needles indiscernible in the approaching dusk.  Towering over Peter, their terrible power was still apparent, and still beautiful.  With this energy coursing through the trees, though, the solitude and silence they were possessed of was shocking, almost blasphemous.

A spot of cold touched his nose, and he looked up.  The clouds really were closer than he’d though, and seemed bloated with water.  He glanced at the cabin, then turned around and opened his jeep to unload his few possessions, his only connection to life, in a world of past.

** ** **

Holding his suitcase, Peter stood in front of the door.  It had begun to rain, plastering his dark hair to his skull, but still he hesitated.  He’d not set foot within two hundred miles  of this house for fifteen years, and certainly hadn’t expected to be here now, even under his own volition.  And yet he was here, standing in front of a door he hadn’t touched in a decade and a half, but which he knew so intimately that he could tell exactly when it would begin to creak and groan.  He knew exactly how it would smell when he opened the door, which would be unlocked, and where the coat hooks would be; the arrangement of the furniture, and how the lush Persian rug would be placed just so that it looked perfectly centered in the room.  He even knew where he’d be staying, and where his deceptively slightly frame would sleep at night.  But it all lay behind that door, which he now stood in front of, drenched by the rain and chilled by October in Washington.

Peter took a deep breath, reached forward, and turned the knob.

** ** **

An hour later, Peter had showered, dressed, found a carrot in the refrigerator, and was working on a crossword puzzle.  He sat in one of the cabin’s sumptuous chairs, with only one lamp on, and stared at 42 Down.  His brow furrowed and his concentration focused, he almost didn’t hear the front door creak, welcoming the owner of the cabin in.

“Peter?  Peter, are you here?”  The deep clear voice was remarkably unchanged, and the diction was still charmingly perfect.

Peter hesitated, suddenly afraid of committing to being revealed, but quickly regained his wits, and opened his mouth to speak.  “I’m up here, Francis.”  The first words he’d spoken all day, they had a rusty flop as they left his mouth.

Francis showed remarkable self-restraint, and simply walked up the steps, padding lightly and gracefully.  He’d always been the very example of schooled charm, and was seeing no reason to give in to friendly pleasantries, not even to someone he’d barely seen in fifteen years, and especially not here.

Peter sat in the chair, a look of false relaxation resting on his chiseled face.  His eyes followed the footsteps, traced them up, and showed no surprise when the same face that had captured so many women and escaped so many fights unscathed rose steadily above the railing, and flashed a quick but piercing smile.

“Good evening, Francis.”

“Greetings.  I trust that the door was left open by my caretaker?  I didn’t see any broken windows or crowbar scars on my front door.”

“It was open.  The fridge is stocked, too; I couldn’t find any wine, though.”

Francis chuckled, coming over to sit in the chair next to Peter’s His cream colored clothing was in sharp contrast to the lush green velvet of the furniture.  “Oh, Peter, always the kidder.  You know I don’t drink.”  He fingered the diamond encrusted cross around his neck, the one that had always been his favorite.  “If it weren’t for the good grace of God, I’d be a complete lush.”

There was an awkward silence.  Religion had never sat well with Peter, and the sheer fanaticism that sometimes accompanied Francis was especially distressing.  Trying his best to disregard that, his attention instead focused on the man’s clothes.  The milky sea of perfection, no doubt costing as much as Peter’s car, was so different from Peter’s own outfit—a mix of both old and new casual clothes, all of which had never once been ironed—that it made Peter feel like an alien, a frump awash in a sea of grace and beauty.

“The drive was easy; it’s nice to see that the roads haven’t gone to hell since I’ve been gone.”

“Well, truth be told, I had to have a mile of it reconstructed, from weather damage.  I made sure that it was a seamless transition, with nothing of the original road visible.  The government did try to make it difficult, but I have friends in high places.”

“Oh, it’s not just the one?”  Peter pointed skyward.

The same chuckle.  “You have developed a wit about you.  Tell me.  Is the fishing still good?”

“Our company’s doing all right.  Not spectacular, but well enough to live comfortably.  How about your cloth?”

“Textiles, dear Peter, textiles.  Well, they’re doing quite fine, quite fine; but then, I’ve never had reason to worry.”  He shifted in his seat, smoothing the lone rogue wrinkle, and stared ahead, into the rich velvety darkness of the cabin.

Peter stared, as well.  “Well, once we did.”  His face took on an exasperated look.  “Hey, what kept you, anyway?  You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

“My apologies, Peter; however, I can’t just show up.  I’ve got to make sure your appetite is whetted.  Eh?”

Shaking his head and smiling, Peter said, “I guess I should have expected as much.  Someday, I might even buy that.” A pause. “Did Benjamin say when he was going to get here?”

Francis thought for a moment.  “I believe he should be here by now.  He is the one who lives closest to this place.”

Peter nodded his agreement, opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a hurried, but faint, knock on the door downstairs.  He looked at Francis, who rolled his eyes, grinned, and chuckled.  “Right on time.”  Peter joylessly returned the smile, and the two went down to greet the third piece of the puzzle.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, a blonde man dressed entirely in black was hurriedly putting the contents of his luggage back in that which they burst from, desperately trying to avoid embarrassment.  Though it was cold outside, a slight sheen of sweat was on his forehead, making him appear sickly.  He was very pale, as well, which didn’t help the effect at all.  Maniacally trying to shove his things into the dilapidated suitcase, it took him several minutes to realize that he was being watched, intently and amusedly.  He paused, and then looked up at Peter and Francis with shock and fear momentarily in his eyes.  The resemblance to a rat was remarkable, until he realized who he was looking at and grinned both sheepishly and nervously.

“Oh, hi.  How long have you been here?  ‘Cause I would have been here sooner, but traffic on the highway was horrible, not to mention my girlfriend was being an absolute—“

“Come, Benjamin, Benjamin, no need to explain yourself!  It’s been too long, and we forgive you!  Now, I am correct in believing it’s been some time since you and Peter saw each other?”

“It’s been about five years, I think,” murmured Peter.

“Six and two months.  I remember it like yesterday,” said Benjamin, “and it was as much a surprise then as this is now.”  His petulant and reedy voice was marvelously out of character with both the beautiful living room they were in, and the pseudo-sinister dress code he’d always naturally followed.  “I’m amazed that you’re here, Peter.  Is Francis paying you?”

Peter affected his melancholic smile again.  “No, Benjamin.  You know I wouldn’t take money to do anything.  Not even deny that Justin existed.”

Benjamin gaped at him, a fresh batch of sweat breaking out on his forehead, then turned to Francis.  “I—I forget, Francis.  Where am I situated?  I need to move my things there.”  His eyes, black and beady, continually darted back to Peter, who retained his placid expression.

Francis directed Benjamin to the second floor, third room on the left, then turned to Peter, as Benjamin scurried away with his paltry belongings.  “Peter, I’d ask of you to not bring that up this week.  The poor man has been seeing therapists more regularly than the escorts we remember him for.  Please, Peter.  Give the poor man a break.”

Peter looked at him, smiled genuinely, and said, “Why don’t we all get something to eat, and maybe play some poker?”

** ** **

Two hours later, Peter and Benjamin were both wiping tears from their eyes.

“I. . . I can’t. . . believe you, you just said that!”

“By God, you are an awful and despicable man!”

“Don’t tell me you don’t feel sorry!”

“Of course I don’t feel sorry, the blasted woman deserved to have that happen.  She’d taken an hour with my food, and the fact that it ended up sloshed down her blouse is certainly not to be blamed on me!”  Francis picked caraway seeds out of his teeth, scowling at the memory, while Peter and Benjamin were howling with laughter.

Struggling to regain his composure, Peter finally asked, “When did this happen, exactly?  This couldn’t have happened recently at all.”  Benjamin, still unable to talk, squeaked his agreement, and then got up from the kitchen table to get a glass of the spiced cider Francis used in lieu of wine.

“I do believe that it was about 18 years ago.  Yes, that seems right.”  Francis’s voice grew faint, but thoughtful.  “. . . Yes, it must be right.  It was two years before I met Justin, to the day.” 

His eyes were trained on Peter, but were not seeing him.  The laughing and chuckling that had been shared by Peter and Benjamin quickly abated, cut short by Francis’s mutterings.  Peter stared at the Brazilian mahogany of the table through the bottom of his glass, suddenly disinterested in anything and everything else.  Benjamin, however, stared in stark horror at Francis, unable to look in any other direction.  Within seconds, the jocular mood had been replaced with wonder, fear, and passivity.

The silence was unbearable, but not one of the three dared to break its sanctity.  Peter looked out through the window, out into the black night.  It was dark as pitch, but he realized that he could still see the trees, in all their terrible and claustrophobic glory.  It was a very unsettling feeling, through Peter didn’t know how to deal with it.  Resisting the pull of the trees, though he knew that he’d regret it, somehow, he returned to the world of the impossibly posh kitchen, and saw that Francis and Benjamin were looking directly at him, expectantly, though with expressions of discomfiture, and something that seemed to resonate of respect.

Peter looked back at the other parts of the triumvirate, silently.  He pictured their three psyches battling, fighting to see who would be the first to break the maddening silence.  Facial tics, eye blinks, the licking of lips—all highly skillful maneuvers executed by the three.  In the end, though, Peter lost to them, and to his sense of duty.

“It was fifteen years ago, wasn’t it?”  Peter’s voice, slightly gravelly, rang out in the silent kitchen, with a heart-stopping monotone.

“I think that’s a close estimate,” Francis replied.  Benjamin had sat down at the table, desperately concentrating on anything else but this; he suddenly found solace in the few magnets on the stainless steel refrigerator.  Francis continued, “You’ll be happy to know that it was covered up for good when I had that stretch of road rebuilt.  Nothing; no records, no family, nothing.”  His high tone had disappeared, replaced with a carbon copy of Peter’s own.

“That’s good, Francis.  I wasn’t really worried, but it’s good to know.”

“Are you sure?  No one ever found anything?”  Benjamin’s head snapped towards Peter and Francis, switching violently between the two.  “You’re sure no one found something and just didn’t tell you?  You don’t know that, dammit!”  His voice had risen two octaves, more frenetic and reedy than Peter could remember.  “You don’t, god dammit!”

“Benjamin. . . . ”  Francis was placating, cajoling, comforting, all in one word.

“Don’t try!  Don’t try to wheedle me into a false calm, because it won’t work!  After all, it was your gun!  I. . . .”  Benjamin died off, as he realized the import of what he’d just said, and gaped rodentially at Francis, imposing and powerful in his own sudden rage.  They all looked at each other, Francis in Rage, Benjamin in terror, and Peter in incredulity at the scene unfolded before him.

“What did you say?”  The monotone remained in Francis’s voice, but was no longer the flat sound of a man resigned to living with his past for a week.  It had taken on the dimension of a man struggling to keep his calm and composure.

“I. . . I said something about a gun, Francis.  I di—”

“I heard what you said!  I’ll tell you right now, the both of you, it’s good that we all got that out of the way.  There will be no mention of that, or this conversation, at all while we are here this week.  If this is supposed to be a vacation and rest for the three of us, then we will enjoy ourselves, without anyone dampening the mood!”  Francis, obviously exhausted by the sudden display of anger and emotion, paused to regain his breath, then added, in a forcibly peaceful tone, “I am tired, and wish to sleep.  I’ll see you two in the morning.  Bright and early, as they say.”  He turned on his heel, and quickly padded out of the room, becoming silent the minute he reached the carpet.  Benjamin also peeped something about going to bed, then scurried out, leaving Peter to himself, the kitchen, night and spiced cider.  Peter realized that he, also, was very tired, and exhausted.

He did not go to bed for a very long time, however.

** ** **

For the next three mornings, the smell of half-burnt eggs and poorly cooked sausage stirred Peter from his nervous slumber among hundreds of blankets and thousands of pillows.  He’d stumble out of bed, across the lush green carpet, into the bathroom, which was one of five in the house, all which had marble floors, gold-plated towel racks, and courtesy baskets.  Emerging fifteen minutes later, with soaking hair and sated expression, he’d dress and go downstairs, into the kitchen, where Francis was waiting with a plate of food that looked as appetizing as the table they ate at.

There was little in the way of conversation, as though all desire for small talk had disappeared with that first night.  Once the three watched as an unsuspecting bird—none of them knew what kind—flew straight into the picture window in the kitchen, and had laughed long and hard, feeding off of each other’s mirth.  Benjamin seemed to laugh the longest of all of them, unable to stop himself.  Eventually, it moved from the realm of humor to that of awkwardness.  This somehow seemed to reach Benjamin more than any harsh look or avoided eye contact would, and he quickly died off, never having said a word.

Out of the three, Benjamin was easily the quietest, and the most fearful.  He hadn’t actually said a word since the first night; he’d made all his communications by pint, whimpering, or looking.  When he grunted, it sounded more like a squeak; he ceased even this when Peter, in an ill-advised attempt to be light-hearted, had poked fun at this.  Now, he was exceptionally withdrawn, and was only seen twice a day, at breakfast and at dinner.  The rest of the day was spent in the forest, among the black trees.  Since he wouldn’t speak, Peter and Francis didn’t know where he was going.  They did, however, have what they felt to be a very accurate and educated guess at the spot.

On the fourth day, Peter sat across the table from Francis, trying to ignore the obscene amount of eggshell that had ended up in his scramble this morning.  Francis was reading the Bible, comparing Corinthians and Revelation, oblivious to his awful mistake he called breakfast.  Benjamin, in accordance with the past three mornings, had left ten minutes earlier, having finished his plate in record time and fashion.  It was early in the morning, but late enough that the sun was shining directly through the picture window, into Peter’s eyes.  This severely irritated him, and after a few excruciating moments, he stood up and moved away from the table, just to get out of the light.  Looking away from the window, he focused on the wall, and then went to the refrigerator to find something to cover up the taste of the eggs.

“We have to find him, Peter.”

Peter, his head buried in the refrigerator, stopped rustling around, but still waited several moments before responding.  “There’s no finding involved, Francis.  We know exactly where he is.  He’s drawn there like a moth to the flame.  It’s kinda creepy, really.”  He chuckled mirthlessly, though he could hear the scowl spreading across the chiseled face behind him.

“Though I understand your need to make light of the situation, I don’t believe this is the right situation.  The man is unstable, Peter, and we owe it to him to find him.”  Peter pulled his head out of the fridge, abandoning his quest for something to drink, and turned around to return the piercing gaze fed him by Francis.  “Though it pains me to say it, we owe it to ourselves, as well.  We need to see the place again.”

At this, Peter bristled.  “What ever do you mean, Francis?  I remember that place quite clearly, and I don’t need to be told what I need to see and visit.  I—”

“He has a gun, again.  His own.”

Peter stared.  “He can’t.  I said that I wouldn’t come unless no one had weapons.  You promised we’d all be clean.”

“Well, he does.”

Peter looked at him at a skewed angle.  “How do you know?”

“When he first arrived, I saw it in the mess of his suitcase, taped to the side.  He hasn’t said anything about it.  Not that you needed to be told that.”

“True.”  Peter didn’t move his eyes, unblinking and unseeing.  Somewhere in the very back of his mind, he could hear that alarm going off, again.  The blurping was faint, but pronounced.

“Let’s go find him.”

** ** **

Peter had not left the cabin since he had first entered, four days before.  He had spent time looking outside, and knew that the weather had turned treacherously cold.  However, the cold still took him by surprise, like it had for all his forty-one years.  As he stepped outside, the biting chill took him back fifteen years, and reminded him of his own humanity.  Peter pushed the thoughts out of his head, and waited for Francis to join him in the cold bright morning.  When Francis emerged, he was dressed in yet another variation of his cream clothes, with their virginal shades wholly out of place with the black hemlocks that towered on all sides, sentinels that both protected the house and swore to avenge all deeds of adversaries.  It did nothing to quiet the alarm in Peter’s head.

He exchanged a look with Francis, and they both began their way into that beautiful and terrible forest.  They picked their steps carefully, choosing the most unobtrusive footing possible.  Moving slowly at first, they soon began to move quickly, in order to keep warm.  Within minutes, the cabin had disappeared from between the trees, leaving nothing but forest, undergrowth, and moss to accompany them.  It was deadly silent, and no animals were visible.  Occasionally, an oddly shaped rock would seem to watch the two pass, Francis following Peter, and would gallantly salute the pair, in its dead and lifeless fashion.

Peter had not lied when he’d said that no finding was necessary.  Even after fifteen years of forced removal from memory, the way to their destination presented itself elegantly and efficiently.  No words were needed, or spoken.  Peter simply walked briskly, and Francis followed.  In some perverse way, Peter realized that this was exactly the way it should be, and didn’t question the matter any further.  An hour passed, then two slipped by.  At what must have been noon, Peter saw the roadside, and knew there was little time left.  He and Francis reached the roadside, and paused.  Looking at each other, they then looked left, looked right, and crossed the road.  Once they were across, they paused again.

“Why did we do that?”

“Justin did that, when we were coming out here last time.  We made fun of him.  He said he saw no reason to ignore checking, even out here.”  Peter adjusted his belt, and scratched his arm.

“Did he say anything else?”

“I think he made a crack about some road kill, the beaver you hit on your way in.”

“That was unusual.”

“That you hit some beaver?  Don’t toy with me.”  Peter stopped talking, listened closely, and then opened his mouth.

It was Francis who spoke, though.  “Do you hear that?”  He listened more closely, his eyes squinting, and answered himself:  “Benjamin is holding a monologue.”

Peter also squinted, listened, and then, without saying a word, moved back into the forest at an even quicker pace, no longer caring about what he stepped on.  The alarm had ceased blurping, and was sounding at a healthy mental scream.  He began to run, ignoring Francis’s pleas to slow.  The reedy tone of Benjamin’s voice could be heard clearly now, though the words still didn’t make any sense.  Cresting a hill, the hemlocks weighing in all around, Peter stopped and looked into a clearing that had haunted his nightmares for a decade and a half, but which still existed, despite his best and most valiant efforts to push it from his mind.

Benjamin was down there, wearing his customary black, and waving his bare arms about, brandishing the gun that Francis had warned of.  He had apparently taken the most difficult, most self-flagellating route he could think of:  his clothes were torn to shreds, and there were multiple leaves and twigs caught up in his greasy hair.  There were scratches on his pallid skin, and he walked with a minor limp.  Peter and Francis were now close enough to hear that he was not actually speaking, but gesticulating wildly while he declared word after unrelated word.  Peter, loathe to reveal himself, whispered a question to Francis:  “Has he always done this when he comes out here to stay?”

“I have no idea; this is the first time I’ve not had work to do while I was out here.  He always left, but always came back.”  Francis, unable to remove his eyes, delivered his words in a charmlessly dead tone.  He fingered the cross at his neck, but only shortly.

Peter grunted acknowledgement, then called out.  “Benjamin!”  The lack of an echo unnerved Peter, but not enough to deter him.  “Benjamin!” he cried again.  Benjamin stopped, lowered his arms, and looked in Francis’s and Peter’s direction.  Barely seeing them through the trees, he answered.

“What are you doing here?”

“Benjamin, we need to talk,” said Peter, easing down into the clearing.  “Are you feeling okay?”  The instant the words left his mouth, he felt foolish for saying them, but didn’t dare let it show.

Benjamin’s face slowly contorted into a strange mutation of pain and relief.  The semblance of a rodent touched his face again, and his nose twitched.  The cold sweat had broken out again, but had spread over his entire body, making him look as if he’d stepped from a strange and disgusting pool.  He was trembling, and the cold air aggravated it with a severity that he was obviously not dressed or prepared for.  But he remained silent.

“Benjamin?  Are you alright?”

Benjamin looked past Peter, to Francis.  Then, with what appeared to be a look of obeisance, he raised his gun hand, held it still for a moment.  The knots of tension that snapped through his muscles were frightening.  The gun remained suspended in the air, and then was tossed to the side like a piece of trash, a cold and steel piece of trash.  His arm fell limply by his side, and he stood there, no longer the terrible and frightening thing he had seemed, but was, instead, no more than a mouse of men.

“Why are you out here, Benjamin?”

A long and hesitant look.  The hemlocks seemed to lean in, anticipating an answer, craving an answer, almost seeming to growl at the three of them.  Peter could feel the angry power of them, churning in the rich and dark earth.  Francis could sense it too, and was nervously glancing about, no doubt searching for an escape.  But it was Benjamin who finally dared to break the silence.

“They’re expecting more.”  His voice’s plaintive sound lent a curious strength and irony to his words, now, and there was a cold resonance that had never been there before.

“What do you mean more?”

Francis answered.  “There were four, last time.”  He adjusted his shirt and cross, openly uncomfortable with the clearing and the subject.

“Oh.  Of course.  I see, now.”  Walking across the clearing, towards the gun, Peter said, “Benjamin, I really think it’s time you moved on.”  There was a slight quaver in his voice, though he didn’t think that the other two had noticed.  He hoped they hadn’t noticed.

“I’ve tried, Peter!  I’ve tried for fifteen years to get him out, to leave it alone, to move on, but I see him every god damn night!”  Benjamin was screaming, short of breath.  His beady eyes had a black fire in them, as if he’d been enlightened to some dark and horrible knowledge.  “I’m tired of it!  How am I going to end this, Peter!?  How!?  It’s got to stop!”  He started to move towards the gun.  Peter saw this, and began to run, though Francis remained curiously still.  The distance was no more than thirty feet, but it seemed miles to Peter, and the air was a viscous syrup that he desperately fought against.  He suddenly found it very strange that this was happening, and remembered that he’d left his car keys in his suitcase at the cabin, and how was he going to make his getaway if he didn’t have a car directly available?  He made a mental note to begin thinking things through more frequently.

Snapping back into reality, Peter found himself looking at the gun in his hand, with his sight leveled at Benjamin, who was screaming in terror.  Francis was shouting, too, but was just as unintelligible.  Annoyed by the cacophony, Peter grimaced, and waited for it to abate.  After several moments, it had not, driving him to fire a warning shot into the air.

“Shut up, will you!?  No one’s going to kill anyone, alright!?”  The silence was immediate and beautiful, though Peter knew that if anyone  else was nearby, they’d surely be here within minutes, bringing the world rushing into this private hell that had erupted.  “Now what the hell is going on, Benjamin?  And you too, Francis, I haven’t spoken to Benjamin for five years, and could use a little extra input.”  He noticed that the blurping in his head had disappeared.

“I told you Peter, he’s in my dreams all the time.  I see him everywhere I go.”  Benjamin looked very thin and tired as he said this, and his voice reflected his appearance.  “Fifteen years of therapy couldn’t get it out of my head, five years straight of whoring couldn’t, but this could have done it, dammit, I could have been finished with it all!”  He glared at Peter with hatred and angry passion in his eyes.

Peter stood agog, never having foreseen this.  “Good God, Benjamin, you can’t just do that!  It was hard for all of us, but we all felt the pain.  You shouldn’t feel you have to die to put an end to this—”

“Die?  For the love of Christ, Peter, I was going to kill you.”

“. . . What?”

The look of contempt on Benjamin’s face was matched by the amusement on Francis’s.  “You didn’t actually think this was a pleasure trip, did you?  My word, Peter, none of this would have ever happened, if you hadn’t pulled that trigger.  How low, Peter!  How absolutely low and selfish!”  Francis paused to pull at his collar.  “Do you even remember why you pulled that trigger?”

Peter saw what could only be Justin’s face screaming at him, raging at him, giving him the finger.  He saw another gun in his hand, the one he’d wrested from Benjamin’s grasp, leveled at the bridge of Justin’s perfect nose, and Benjamin and Francis holding his arms, the struggling between the three as Justin fought to get free.  He saw the terror in Justin’s eyes, and the urging in Francis’s and Benjamin’s.

But Peter could not remember why they’d ended up here fifteen years ago.

“No, no I don’t.”  For an instant, Francis actually looked surprised and disoriented, faltering in his charm-schooled smoothness.  He quickly regained his step, though, and went on.

“Well, frankly, it seems to be a moot point now, doesn’t it?  You’ve scared the living daylights out of Benjamin, soiled my house with your presence once again, and brought us all back to the place that lurks in our pasts, and cost me several million dollars to avoid the discovery of us all.”  He stopped, looking pensive.  Looking to Benjamin, he said, “Now that I think about it, Peter, I don’t think you ever should have come out here.  Ever.  Don’t you agree?”

Warily, Peter asked, “What are you getting at?  What do you want?”

Oh, I’m just supposing that you give us the gun, and we two walk back, without you.  You can hitchhike back to town, and we’ll never see each other again.  Fair?”  Francis gestured around at the trees and moss, black and green, with a grand air about him.  “This has to end, Peter, and it’s best that what happens in the forest stays in the forest.”  He was several strides from Peter, as was Benjamin.

He stretched his hand out.  “Here, Peter.  Give it to me.”

** ** **

The jeep’s engine roared to life, and Peter checked one more time, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.  He had always had a notorious tendency to forget even the most important things, but had never managed to fix the problem.  In all reality, though, he’d always managed to get things done, so it had never posed a problem, in his opinion.  Nonetheless, he decided to step outside, drink in the lush and woody air, and take one last look, to commit it to memory.

This late in the month of October, it was hard to imagine such a clear day, but the weather defied all conventions of logic and human notions of time.  The sun was still out, though it was approaching dusk, and the sky was a stark blue, with a pink undertone at the edges.  The cabin relished in this light, looking more resplendent than any sky scraper, or, for that matter, any city could ever look.  It was a touching and gorgeous sight, and strongly contrasted by the trees, which rose black and imposing on all sides.  They no longer seemed to invite, now.  They only stood guard, silently and readily.  Peter knew he’d never forget this, though he’d lose track of thousands of phone numbers, hundreds of addresses, and dozens of people.

He fingered the passport and plane ticket in his coat pocket, and climbed back into the car.  As he drove down the highway, he thought of the billions of dollars that were put into the reconstruction of roads, and of the many charities that tried so hard to rebuild the forests unsuccessfully.

The End