It began so well, just as it had for as long as I could remember. Heavy winter and spring rains had refreshed the hillsides, which now sported lush green cloaks of meadow grass, and the oaks and firs were looking exceptionally fit. Practically every wrinkle in the earth’s surface was now bubbling with clear rivulets of water that would eventually fill the streams and rivers all the way down to the sea. Even this early in spring, emerging wildflowers had to stand tall in order to peek out from the thick grasses, and everywhere the bees were busy. I had every reason at the mature age of twelve to believe that this would go on forever.
The Reynolds family lived on a crumbly shale bluff above Mill Creek, where they had been since 1849. That was about the time that the local Pomo tribe learned firsthand what measles, chickenpox, and the common cold could do to those without a European immune system. Back then, about six hundred ancient ones, as Miss Ernestine still referred to them, lived in the valley, but now their numbers were declining rapidly. Some intermarried with the remaining Mexicans, some died, and the rest quietly receded to I don’t know where. All I knew was that they were disappearing. When I was a kid, I used to see some of the boys and young men of the tribe taking fish out of the deep pool below the lower falls. The big steelhead would begin moving upstream to spawn around March, after the increased flow in the river told them it was safe to leave the deeper water and begin their climb up the creek. They were so thick in the shallows that they were easy targets for spears, pitchforks, or even bare hands. Sacksful of the sparkling, silver-sided fish were carried down the hill to be smoked, and still more seemed to take their places. But now, all that was changing.
Now, Ernestine Reynolds was a queer sort of person. She claimed to see things that you or I couldn’t, or maybe we just weren’t willing to admit. I used to come across the creek from our farm on a big downed redwood to play with her grandson, Ben. He was a year older than me, but the things he had learned in that extra year of life made me appreciate the wisdom of my elders. He knew how to make corn silk cigarettes, drink a little sherry borrowed from his grandmother, and he understood everything about sex. He described all the girl parts in delicious, and for a boy in early puberty, exciting detail, but he was a little vague on what us boys were to do with them once we were permitted free access by a member of the other gender. This remained a mystery to me for some years hence.
When I was alone with Miss Ernestine I was always a little edgy. She would tell me stories; the sorts of stories that would cause waves of goose bumps to pop up on my arms and the back of my neck, and make me shiver for no reason. I remember one day in particular, because Ben had gone into town with his father looking for work, and it was just me and the old lady. To say that she was old was probably paying her a compliment. She was prehistoric. She made my own grandmother look like a school girl. The skin of her face was weathered to the point that it had become nearly invisible, blue veins so close to the surface that I could almost see the exhausted corpuscles returning to the lungs for a gulp of fresh air. But her eyes, those mysterious eyes, are what held my attention most of the time. They were almost magical. They were misty gray, like the low fog that crept up the valley most mornings in summer. I really couldn’t tell if she could still see, but when they were locked on me I believed that she was looking right into my soul.
“You know, young man,” she began with a shaky, raspy voice. By now I was beginning to get the creeps, but I could not force myself to look away from those questioning eyes. “The ancient ones are not really gone. They just found a way to adapt. You see this, don’t you?” I nodded my head in agreement, but I had no idea what the heck she was talking about. To me she was just a crazy old lady, except for one thing she said. “We only see what we expect to be there,” she said. “This causes us to miss what is plainly in front of our noses. Tell me truthfully, have you ever felt like someone was watching you when you’re down by the creek? You know… the little flickers of something in your side-vision, the ones that disappear when you turn to look, or that little shiver that comes out of nowhere.”
I swallowed hard when she said this, for I knew exactly what she was describing. It didn’t happen all the time, but when it did, every part of me that was capable of absorbing sensory input, did just that. It felt like another world, one just as real as mine, was a short reach away. I would endure the growing sense that I was about to be pulled away somewhere else for as long as I could. Then I would sprint out of the dense, cool air and back into the sunshine in the small meadow above the creek. I would stand there panting, both from the exertion and also from the excitement of having escaped once again. Escaped from what, I can’t really say, not even today, but I knew each time that I would return and do it all over again.
She was still speaking when I returned to the present. “When I was a young girl, about ten years old, they would let me visit with them. If I sat very quietly on that big log you use as a bridge, one or two of the younger ones would come out of hiding. They were curious, just like I was.” Now, how she knew how I got from here to there I never was able to discern, but she knew it just the same. “I do not understand how they managed it,” she continued, now with more intensity, inching forward in her rocker. “One minute there was just tall grass and river mint; next thing I knew, one would be standing off to one side. I was especially fond of a girl named Rosa. It was a Mexican name, but she was mostly Pomo. By that time, there had already been a lot of mixed marriages.” Now, I was beginning to understand most of what she was saying, but not quite ready to accept it at face value. I believed that something living, though perhaps not breathing, existed under the dense redwood canopy that extended the length of the creek, but I wasn’t quite ready to give it a name. Until now, I had thought that it was my own personal secret. It now appeared that this woman, eighty years my senior, had been there first.
I did not see Miss Ernestine again for some time. I hadn’t played with Ben for more than a week, and there was a rumor floating around the valley that he had been forced to take a job in town to help support the family. As I made my way down the hill to the creek, I was more alert than ever for the little unexplained movements that the old woman had mentioned on my last visit. I sat down on the big redwood log and wished with all my power for one of the Pomos to come out of hiding. Nothing. Not even the usual flicker, no goose bumps, I was alone. The entire creek bottom seemed dead, except for the bubbling water where schools of young steelhead were vying for position to snatch the next insect floating downstream. After a long wait, I pulled myself up to my feet, brushed off the hairy russet bark, and continued walking toward the Reynolds homestead.
When I arrived, Miss Ernestine called to me just before I knocked on the rough door of the cabin. Either she had supernatural powers, or the birds had told her I was coming. On this day, she was propped up in bed looking a bit worse for wear. Her features seemed more pronounced than normal, like something had grabbed her by the back of the head and pulled her slack skin taut. Her breathing was more labored than usual and I could barely understand what she was trying to say. I leaned in more closely, her slightly sweet breath now pulsing gently against my skin. I could tell that she had something important to share. “Don’t…,” she gasped. Then something most unexpected happened. Her face began to glow faintly, starting near the base of her throat and moving slowing across her entire head. It was as though someone was slowly passing a small, weak flashlight across her face. Suddenly, all the color drained from her skin and she relaxed into a faint smile. Behind me I heard a rustle of stiff fabric and a voice, equally as soft and shaky as Miss Ernestine’s had been. “I didn’t do that, just so you know.” I was almost unwilling to turn around and see who was there, but my curiosity got the better of me. I swiveled my head as far as it would go. An old woman was seated in the rocking chair, in the shadows. I scooted my chair in the same direction and now sat facing her.
My first sound resembled a girl speaking, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Didn’t do what?” I said. “That glow. I didn’t cause that. That was all between her and God. I just came to see her off. My name is Rosa. We have been friends for a long time.” Then she stopped speaking and faded away from view. I sat there for a full minute before I dared to breathe or otherwise move. I obviously hadn’t seen what I just thought I’d witnessed. I turned back toward Miss Ernestine. She was still dead. Her mouth hung slightly open, revealing a previously hidden weak chin. I was thankful that her eyes were closed. I am not sure what I would have done if those lifeless eyes had still been looking into my soul.
