Excerpt from letter dated January 13, 1957:
… I’ve been haunted from the moment I arrived in this place. It’s different here, away from the movement in the city. There’s a quiet that I can’t quite grasp but somehow it has taken hold of my heart. I find that I’m searching for something that is just beyond my reach, a message embodied in everything. In the rocks, the trees, the sharp air. In the dead weight of the snow that covers everything. In your absence…
When I first read those words, I was aware that something extraordinary was unfolding. In what way? How could I possibly have known? Nor could I perceive how it would remain with me all these years later, lasting my entire life, until these final moments. I’m not here to explain or to even say that I somehow understand the occurrences that followed. I simply hope that what I have to share may provide some blessing for those who may read it.
We only have a brief moment in time to share, to hold, to cherish. What we give to this life is all that remains after we’re gone. I have offered so much of myself over the years and, when necessary, taken what I needed but this is something I’ve yet to give. It’s my story, the one that I’ve kept closest to my heart for so long and even though I’ve made a living putting stories down on paper, other people’s stories, I’ve always known that eventually this day would come. I’ve waited, hesitant for what now seems like an eternity, because once a story is told, once it is given to the world, then it no longer belongs to you. It is taken by the forces of nature and cast out until it becomes something else entirely.
I think I’m ready for that now.
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I was barely eighteen the day I received that first letter.
It was only a year earlier, in the spring, that we were married. My husband Donovan was ten years my senior and though that type of relationship may seem improper today, we were very much in love. He grew up down the street from my mother in our hometown of Middleton, Connecticut. He was an only child and our two families were close, with my mother like an older sister, or more like an aunt, to him. It's strange because from the moment I met him, I never thought of them as belonging to the same generation. My mother was very young when I was born and by the time he went off to college, I was already a little girl. When he returned ten years later, having fought his way through the journalistic ranks that culminated in a position at the New York Times, I was unaware of the rushing tide that would sweep me away. I was enchanted and surely made a fool of myself with my eager attention. He was a gentleman, of course, and it soon became apparent that he was enamored as well. It didn’t take long before it was impossible for us to look away. Our courtship was sudden and unexpected, but eventually embraced by all, even my parents. For six months, he traveled back and forth from New York to Connecticut practically every week. Soon it was clear that our hearts were entwined. With a ring on my finger, Donovan took my hand and we made our way to the big city.
He was cavalier and earnest almost to a fault, but I thought it was so attractive. He spoke his mind so freely in an age when most people simply accepted their stolid existence. I felt a strong desire to sing along with that resolute spirit and our relationship grew into an intimate and expressive friendship. I never questioned my decision to become his wife, the difference in our age notwithstanding. Donovan treated me, not only as his physical companion, but as an intellectual equal. He listened to my ideas, rejoicing at my buoyant spirit and earnest desire to set the world anew, but he was also so kind when some of those thoughts needed further clarification. His entire ethos was that the discovery of knowledge was the greatest virtue of human development. The search for truth was the only real purpose of life, regardless of the path. Scientific, spiritual, creative, political, personal, communal; all worthy endeavors that simply required a bit of research and dialogue, along with dedicated minds to focus on the cause. Donovan liked nothing more than a heartfelt conversation and I was more than willing to engage with him.
Growing up during the war, he was too young to enlist and, by the time the fighting was over, he had discovered his calling in life. He regaled me with tales of his youth, where he spent endless nights parked in front of the family radio listening to the exploits of those courageous men. For him, the stories in the paper enhanced every skirmish, every engagement that lay between the words, amidst the avenues of imagination. In his mind, those reporters were out there with the soldiers, in the action, revealing the vivid details to the public. They were vitally important in shaping the perspective of the war at home, which created just as crucial an impact as the bullet being expelled from the gun. Donovan became so obsessed that he began to tell stories of his own and those around the dining room table were his primary audience. By the time I met him, his passion for storytelling was so vibrant and alive, I felt that I had finally discovered a kindred spirit.
In the summer, we moved into a home that we could afford on Staten Island, a small two bedroom with a view of Manhattan out the picture window in our living room. It was idealistic, though there were days when he was at work that the distance felt enormous. I found myself staring out across the water wondering what he was doing. Who was he talking to? Was I ever in his thoughts? At night he would return to assuage my concerns and feed me all the gossip, my open arms eager to pull him back to me, devouring his words, his mind, his spirit. That’s the way it was for us, days spent apart, yet our hearts still mingling, while our nights were held ensconced, every breath focused on each other. I know that I may sound like a hopeless romantic regarding our life back then but that’s exactly how I remember it to this day. Every moment, every thought and memory brings about such bliss, that it's a struggle to hold back the tears.
When he was across the water, he wrote for the paper but when he was at home, in the evenings and during the weekend, he wrote for himself and for me. I read everything that poured from his precious mind; every sentence, every essay, every poem, every burst of emotion. He gave it all to me and I relished every word. He became a loving mentor and provided a valuable education with regards to the rules of writing. Back then, hardly anyone earned a living writing books. Most of those who tried would often struggle through long barren nights, barely surviving the empty dreams that could chase even hope away. Some of those who managed to find success in some fashion either went crazy or ended up in Hollywood. Or both! Donovan’s career at the paper and our nights writing together provided fulfillment and kept us grounded. The time we shared together was full of sweetness in so many ways. We cherished each other, body and mind, and well… I'm sorry, but I’d rather not go into detail about how delightful it could be at times.
That’s not to say that our marriage was perfect. We had our fair share of disquieting moments. Every couple must learn to live with one another and that means navigating some turbulent waters. I am quite aware of who I am, especially my tendency toward stubbornness. Donovan loved to say that I was the most willful person he ever met but that was simply his way of appeasing me. I’m not a fool. I know that I can rub some people the wrong way, but that determination has served me well over the years, let me tell you. It almost saved us, if I had only listened to the voice in my heart from the very beginning.
One of the most difficult facets of our marriage, perhaps the most challenging of all, was when Donovan was sent away on assignment. Usually it was just a day or two, to interview someone crucial for an article or to follow up on some research. It happened once or twice a month and the first time almost destroyed me, though he was only in Pennsylvania overnight. I survived, of course, and each new assignment provided another opportunity to understand our relationship in a new way. I'm sure that it may sound quaint, or maybe even ridiculous now that I'm saying it, but I was still so young at the time. I was still growing, still coming into my own. Donovan was a crucial foundation for me, especially with my ignorance of solitude, that I mistook for loneliness. His presence was a force of protection for me, indeed, and that made what occurred so harrowing.
When he was given the story in New Mexico, we had only been married for eight months. He was to be gone for more than a week, and I became very anxious as the date for his departure grew near. At the time I couldn’t explain the reason for these feelings but despite his assurances, they remained in my heart. I'm even ashamed to admit that when he said that he would give up the article due to my concerns, I immediately wanted to beg him to stay, to keep him close. But how could I ask that of him? This was the real deal, the type of story that every writer yearns for, the kind of story that he loved. It was a tale of the human spirit, where he could really connect with the hearts of the readers. And it would be a front page feature in the Sunday edition! The eyes of the nation would be focused on his words.
In the mountains of northern New Mexico there is a waterfall. It’s not as spectacular as those found in the Yosemite valley or as massive as those in the Pyrenees, but it is grand in its own way. It also carries a different kind of mystique than any other waterfall on the planet. You see, there are some winters when it manages to freeze completely for a couple of months but even though it appears to be solid on the surface, it's a trick, a sleight of hand, for it isn't really holding its form. For some strange reason the ice becomes a tricky substance that shifts and sways as the water trickles through it, as if the heart of the river continues to breathe life into this fantastical entity. Nowhere else in the world has this phenomenon been observed, so as a challenge of human endurance and determination, every time this phenomenon occurs, a few brave souls attempt to climb it.
Some don’t make it to the top.
During those few weeks, the world of mountaineering sets up base camp at the small town of Aurora near the falls. By the time it drew the attention of the New York Times and my husband, there was a legendary quality surrounding the place. The impetus for the narrative was already unfolding, and I could see the magic working within Donovan even before he left. The very idea that these people would risk their lives to chase a ghost, to dance with a mirage on that delicate floe, made it seem like they wished to challenge the devil to a duel. There aren’t many souls who can so brazenly follow through with such a confrontation and expect to survive the ordeal. Perhaps that’s the reason the locals referred to the waterfall as the Devil’s Breath.
It was the perfect setting for Donovan, plus he had a unique twist to unravel. For the first time ever, a woman was going to make an attempt on the falls. Samantha Cross, a Brit and one of the most skilled climbers in the world was heading to New Mexico. It was turning into a buzz-worthy moment in some circles, though in reality most of the planet had little idea that the place and what was occurring there even existed. I had certainly never heard of anything like it before it crossed Donovan's desk, but he was hoping that would all change by the time he completed this new chapter.
You must remember, it was an oppressive era at the time. The Cold War had consumed the minds of all, and there were many of us out there who earnestly wished to find a way to lessen the bite. It's true that Donovan had grown up worshiping the heroes from the Battle of the Bulge, but the devolution of our military aspirations toward inhumane ideals was hard to stomach. The surge of development toward nuclear weapons cast a massive shadow across our hearts, and the only antidote to that pervasive ill was to denounce them with as much vehemence as we could muster. We spent a cold winter morning or two among crowds gathered outside the United Nations, our voices growing hoarse as fiery chants jumped from our lips. Donovan and I had even worked on a few anonymous tracts pleading to connect with the conscience of humanity, the greatest weapon of all against the atrocities of modern warfare. All of this, unbeknownst to Donovan's employers, of course. Even though the Times was considered a liberal perspective on the news, there were limits, lines that you simply did not cross. It was a divisive and turbulent time back then, the political climate filtering all the way down into the local communities. Neighbors closed their doors on relationships that were supposed to last a lifetime. Families that had always shared everything turned their backs on one another. It was an ugly chapter in our nation's history. Fortunately, Donovan had the ability to straddle both worlds, keeping those that he loved close to heart and those who made him wary at a respectable distance. I often joked that it wouldn't be long before he would go into politics but that sort of teasing always upset him. He was clever and careful, but it was all for the cause of the scoop. The idea of standing before the nation to guide the masses was a noble cause for those who were true servants, but it just wasn't for him. He would never play that game for personal ambition. Donovan always felt that he could do so much more staying above the fray, using the power of words, especially when those sentiments came from the heart.
I had complete faith in him, of course, and never imagined that a situation would arise to cause him to teeter and fall from his life's purpose, which made what occurred in New Mexico all the more disturbing.
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Excerpt from letter dated January 15, 1957:
...Not one climber has attempted the falls since I arrived. One man, an East German of all people, was going to try it a couple of days ago but he backed off once all the media arrived. How an East German mountaineer ended up in New Mexico in this day and age? I couldn't tell you. Everyone is waiting for Samantha to take the plunge now. Oh God, what a horrible cliché! So inappropriate! But you should see this place, Bea. The woman must feel like royalty with all the attention. Although, she hasn't come out of hiding very often. And who could blame her? I'm going to have an exclusive sit down with her this evening, so it looks like someone is doing their job back home. I met her briefly at the informal press conference the day we arrived. Apparently she was on the same plane heading west, since her team came into New York the day before. Did I mention that Samantha is English? I was completely oblivious, of course, even with the bit of research I've done. She's so unassuming, Bea, almost like a librarian. I actually thought that she was someone's assistant when she entered the room. I know, I know, how chauvinistic of me! But it feels like she is the last person on Earth who would seek out the spotlight. She must have a real passion for the mission. I'm looking forward to discovering what truly motivates her. God, listen to me! But, I have to admit that I almost feel like a kid again!
Oh, you don't know how much I wish you were here with me. I miss you dearly! I wish to hear your thoughts and throw some of my ridiculous ideas around, knowing that you would grab them and mold them into something beautiful. But mostly, I wish you could see this strange and mystical place. Also, I can't help but wonder what you would say about Samantha? I must say that when I saw her a couple of days ago, I had this strange feeling that the two of you would become fast friends. But you have a knack for that sort of thing, regardless of the company...
This letter was so much like the Donovan I knew. Where the somber tone of the first letter caused me some concern, the curious and mirthful cadence here revealed his true spirit again. He surely had gotten caught up in the story and the heightened atmosphere that was building all around him as the day of her grueling ordeal drew closer. I could sense the child in him bubbling to the surface. His eagerness for the story and his bright eyes clearly came into my mind as I read the letter. I savored the precious union of the moment.
To say that I wasn't jealous of this woman who had captured my husband's attention would not be honest. The fact that he was already on a first name basis with her was a bit disconcerting, as well, since he usually was so formal in society. I reminded myself that a personal letter home to a fresh-faced wife was far from the typical social situation requiring such civil modicum but once again, something wouldn't allow the nagging disquiet I felt to go away.
I desperately wished to go with him, of course, having never passed beyond the Appalachian mountains before. It was exciting to imagine the incredible vistas of the west, but I was restricted from traveling. You see, only a couple of weeks before Donovan received the assignment in New Mexico, I discovered that I was pregnant. I was about ten weeks along when he left, and my condition was the determining factor that forced me to remain behind. Like I said, there was a different mentality back then, and our doctor was adamant that the first trimester was the most crucial. I was told not to exercise, definitely no stress, and there was no way I would be allowed on a plane. It felt like even the most insignificant incident would trigger a miscarriage. There were days when I could hardly get out of bed from the concern.
Yet, I was completely ecstatic at the idea of starting a family! I had only turned eighteen the month before and it seemed like the perfect age for motherhood. I was very ambitious at the time and all of my dreams felt infinitely possible. Yes, I may have been a bit naïve, but it was like all those girlhood fantasies were coming true. I'd found love, marriage and now children! Little did I know how soon it would all change and in just a few short months I would have no time at all beyond my motherly responsibilities.
The jubilation I felt for the pregnancy counteracted the misery that afflicted me with Donovan's departure. So, I threw myself into preparation. I bought all the books I could find on the subject. I began my plan to convert the study into a nursery. I read up on nutrition for my health, if only to get out of bed in the morning without fear. I even found a group of young mothers in the park near our home who were eager to impart their knowledge upon a young student. Also, I began to write about my experience, musings regarding my journey toward motherhood, along with stories that enticed my imagination. I often stayed up late scattering pages across the kitchen table, filled with all my frivolous thoughts. Donovan's absence in my bed was having a deleterious effect on my sleep, the cold emptiness creeping into my heart. There were many late nights spent huddled under a mountain of covers with only a book in my hand for companionship.
I never imagined that I would ever feel so alone as I did during those ten days without him. This is what I meant when I spoke earlier about not truly understanding the nature of solitude during my youth. Until I came to know him, how could I possibly relate to this heavy feeling of reliance? But when you lose your best friend, even if only for a few days, it feels like you're missing an important part of yourself. I found that I would speak out aloud as I prepared meals, as if he were sitting at the table watching me. When I went for a walk, I would surprise myself as I reached for his hand only to discover the empty space beside me. But it was our quiet evenings together that I missed the most of all. We would talk about any subject as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. We would write together and share our work aloud, because you learn so much about writing when you hear it coming from your own mouth. It was a warm environment we created, critical at times when needed, but also where any experience was valuable, regardless of where you were from or how much of the world you had seen. A great poet has the power to turn a life of squalor into a beautiful dream, as we all know.
Oh, to think how I've kept those nights, these thoughts and sentiments, deep within my heart after all these years! I realize now how it informed so many of my decisions and eventually helped me to discover a life of peace. I find that now, it fills me with appreciation. There's so much joy in discovering such elation in the shared time, in the presence that remains, still. I look back and there’s such comfort in the memories but… yes, I do still miss him so!
Towards the end of those days alone, I began to feel disconnected from everything. It was like I was stuck in a strange waiting space, a purgatory that swept away any sense of order. I began to feel scattered, exhausted. I would jump at the slightest sound. I would drift off into absent reveries and leave the sink running or come back into the kitchen after a time to find the stove-top burner still aflame. I would curl up on the sofa and simply allow the tears to pour out of me. At first, I told myself that I was being ridiculous, acting like a little girl who couldn't handle being alone. I scolded myself and tried to pull my chin up, face the situation with strength. Then it came to me, a crucial message. I understood that what I was feeling went beyond my immediate circumstances, beyond these puerile feelings of the heart. I became acutely aware that the anxiety that was growing around my heart seemed to have another purpose. It began to feel like something preternatural was happening with Donovan, over there. I don't know how to explain it but there was a moment where I knew, as if struck, like lightning straight to my brain! That my husband was in danger!
I simply wish that I had listened. I doubted myself and thus didn't respond immediately. It's one of the greatest mistakes of my life. If I had left then, with that premonition coming on so strong, I may have been able to reach him in time. But, when his next letter arrived, It was already too late.
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Excerpt from letter dated January 18th, 1957:
Devastating News, Bea! I almost don't have the strength to write about it. I know it's hard to imagine that I would ever feel that way but that is how far I've fallen! Yesterday was the day. Samantha made her attempt on the falls and, though it was only a day ago, it feels as if weeks or months or even years have sifted through the cracks. Like water, the flow of time vanishes along the natural veins of our lives until we hardly recognize the days that have gone by.
Good lord, listen to how I sound! Such melodrama! If you haven't yet determined by my tone how the climb ended, I'll just say that it was not successful. It was a terrible tragedy! And I watched the whole thing! She was so close, Bea! But then, in an instant, she was gone. I was one of the few who actually saw her fall. She was on the ascent for the better part of four hours before it happened and by then most of the reporters and spectators had taken a break or gone home to start their work. She was on the final third, which is considered the easiest part of the climb this year. It had nearly been an hour since she overcame the most harrowing place on the falls, the one spot that many regarded as the ultimate peril. No one expected her to fall once she survived that! To say that the congregation is shocked by the events that took place here yesterday is putting it rather mildly, indeed.
I couldn't look away for even a moment. I was mesmerized by it all. I must have appeared rather naive to all the old fellows in the crowd but after the exclusive meeting I shared with Samantha two nights ago, I was completely enamored with the story. You know how I am, Bea, and Samantha charmed me to no end with her confidence and determination. I believe I mentioned her humble nature before but that's her public face. Behind closed doors, she's almost as magnetic and personable as you, my love. I was convinced that you and her were long lost sisters from a previous life. But, now that she's passed on to the next life, I don't know what to make of it all. I know that this all must sound rather maudlin of me but I truly felt that this was a story for the ages. I'm completely at a loss with this new outcome.
I hope that I don’t sound demented or am causing you any concern, but I haven't had a moment's rest in the past two days. Everything seems to be unraveling around me. Please, be assured that I'm telling you this because I don't want you to be frightened or give you the wrong impression, I know how it all sounds. I only hope to alleviate any worries you may have. You must understand that the mystery here, the wild tone of despair that seems to shadow every word I put down, has nothing to do with the life we have built together. I have stumbled upon a different world here in the mountains and it's almost as if my soul is splitting in two. I know how strange that sounds but you, of all people, must see that I have to find out where this story goes. I know that it's out there in the cold terrain that has captured my imagination. I must find it, Bea! So I am going to have to stay on a bit longer than I planned...
I was terrified. I was jealous and angry. I wanted to tear the letter up into a million pieces. I wanted to cry out with such anguish that it would somehow destroy this nefarious force that had taken control of my husband.
Despite his best efforts to ease my concern, these are the thoughts that consumed me after reading those words. My mind was all over the place, my thoughts racing. How could I possibly reach him stuck in our drab home in Staten Island? How could I have imagined that these ten days apart would have no effect on us? In an instant the luster was gone. The magical sheen of our partnership suddenly seemed like a hollow grotesque apparition.
What else could I do? The next day I bought the first plane ticket out of New York. I flew out of LaGuardia bound for Albuquerque Municipal. I told no one of my plans and paid for it with the money we were saving for the nursery. Nothing regarding our old life seemed to matter, as my only thought was toward bringing Donovan home. I felt no concern for the baby and the thought that I might harm him by traveling did not affect my decision in the slightest. All he was at that point was a dream anyway, a pleasurable idea about the future. But what kind of future would we have without his father by our side? I was only two months along at the time and felt no different than before. The only true indication for me was a break in my cycle and the promise of a doctor's analysis. I didn't even have morning sickness for goodness sake! Who knew if I was even pregnant at all?
As you can see, trying to rationalize when you’re in the grips of such desperation quickly turns an eye blind. I knew in my heart that I was with child but I also felt that I was a healthy, vibrant young woman. How could I possibly harm the fetus by simply sitting in the seat of a plane for a few hours? Especially considering what I was facing. Now we know that the stress I was dealing with could be far more damaging than boarding an airplane but at the time, I didn't think about it. I followed my intuition and left as quickly as I could.
I arrived in Albuquerque late that afternoon, eager for the next step, but outside the sky was already growing dark, even though the sun was not scheduled to set for a couple more hours. A heavy storm was headed our way and the urgency that I felt expanded into an inexplicable force. I was on edge, to say the least. From Albuquerque it was almost three hours to reach Aurora, the old town at the base of the falls, and I wanted to get there immediately. I hired a driver to take me the rest of the way, but by the time we reached Santa Fe, the storm had descended. All of the roads going into the mountains were closed.
That night was the worst night of my life. It had been four days since he wrote that last letter and I'd had no news of my husband since. God alone knew what had happened to him. As I sat at the window of my hotel room watching the snow swirl through the dark, a sense of foreboding overwhelmed me. The wind and the cold that swarmed in the night was a menace that I had never known. It was clear how deadly the heavens can be and the angels that rode those blustery waves did not carry mercy under their wings.
I couldn't move from my seat. I simply stared out at the darkness and an immense sadness fell over me. I wept until my body was dry and still I watched. It may sound foolish, and I knew in my heart that it was nothing more than wishful thinking, but I was waiting for a sign. Then, I slowly began to realize that something was being conveyed to me. I could perceive it in the way the snow danced, a magical display. What was the message I was supposed to see in that picture frame? Was there some precious language playing out against the black-drop for my benefit alone? Ancient hieroglyphs from the Gods? I couldn't say for sure but I remained in that seat far longer than any sane person ever would. Eventually I lost consciousness to it all, though my eyes never wavered from the movement of the night.
When I woke in the light of dawn, slumped over in my chair and barely able to move from the stiffness, I felt ridiculous. The ominous tone of the night before seemed to have been washed away by the sun. Yet, as I rubbed my eyes and welcomed the crispness of the new day, a reckoning overcame me with intense certainty. Something did come to me in the night, like a dream. It was a presence that communicated with me, an essence that was no longer of this life. Though I can't explain it clearly, I'm sure that it was human, or at least it wanted me to have that feeling and it brought me comfort. Was it Samantha? An unburdened soul that wished to connect with the living again? Could it have been Donovan in some form? Not dead, god forbid! Anything but that! A soul traveler, perhaps, come to set my mind at ease? Was this really a ghost story that I had stumbled upon?
I tried to shake away these thoughts, rubbing at the goosebumps that had settled upon my arms. I needed to prepare, because surely the roads into the mountains would be cleared soon and before long I would be reunited with my love. That’s what I needed to focus on, not some childish fear about supernatural forces communicating in the air and snow. Surely he would be waiting for me up there and all my concerns would dissipate the moment he took me into his arms.
Oh, you don't know how badly I wish those words were true.
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Excerpt from piece found on January 23rd, 1957:
...What is destiny? An Idea? The fulfillment of a dream? Is it a path that is predetermined? Or one that is forged from a desire in our hearts? How can we comprehend the massive forces that guide us along the roads that unravel before us? One simple choice, one slight turn, one false step and the course is altered forever. Could it be that we were meant to turn aside? Were we meant to push through the dark undergrowth where the shadowy path is hardly visible instead of continuing along the broad open highway?
These are the questions that are driving me mad. I know the reasonable, the responsible answer to all of them, of course, but somehow that response has become the most reprehensible, as well. I have fought my entire life to discover the truth. It is the only reason I do what I do. It is the sole purpose of a writer of integrity, the true honor of the fourth estate, after all. I cannot turn my face away from that responsibility. The future of humanity is relying on it. So how can I not take the road less traveled? Isn't it the only path forward for me?
I know how wretched I may seem. I haven't showered in days. Every hour my clothes become more disheveled, more damp and dirty. I can't sleep at night, can't stay awake during the day. I shiver uncontrollably before the hearth and cast off my clothes in the elements. Reality has grown unfocused and I feel that I may be at my wit's end. Yet, it all makes perfect sense somehow.
How do you forget the life you've known in order to follow an apparition? Oh, but I haven't, don't you see? It all leads back to the truth and there's nothing more true than the love in my heart for Beatrice, the hope I feel when I think about the child she carries with her. I could go home tomorrow as easy as the next day. Just two days ago, I stood in line at the airport to return to New York. But how could I go back to her with this distortion in my soul? Oh, how would I ever be able to look her in the eye again, unless I finish this?
There's magic in this place. It's not difficult to see. You don't have to send out a search party to discover it. It's out there, drifting in the dark, just a quick shake and it comes loose. So much comes from my nightly jaunts, my trips above the treeline. How I float above the stars. Have I seen her, felt her presence out there in the night? I don't know for sure but when I wake the next evening, as the sun drops behind the western mountains, I imagine a presence beside me. Only for a moment, then the brief essence is gone.
Do I feel unfaithful? No, and I must avow this point. No, this goes beyond such superficial thoughts. It's simply a different idea, a tone that reaches toward a faith that goes so much deeper than anything bound by this life. I know that if I simply traverse the hint of reason then I will find something truly profound. It has nothing to do with the faith I have toward my wife, my occupation, my purpose. It's unswayed by those ideals. Somehow, it touches nothing but the spirit, the soul, in a way. I haven't quite gotten there yet, or seen or heard or felt what that truly means. Maybe it's not something that is known in such a way. But it's close. Oh, it's so close that I can almost feel it! It's like the caress of a shadow.
Tonight I've been given a sign. All the power has been knocked out by the storm. There's a massive fire in the hearth and I have lit every candle that I can find. The room is dancing with light. An ancient saga shall come for a visit and share its vital message. There is only one way for me to hear it. I must grow unseen. I have to be blind to this world. So the longer I stare into the flame, the more these beautiful beings come out of the woodwork. Come and dance with us, they breathe. They wish to take my hand, to take me out into the night...
We left for Aurora as soon as the mountain could yield our way forward, with the cool morning light flashing bright above the eastern hills. I had never seen such a glorious morning before and my heart expanded with awareness. By the time we reached our destination, the sun was above the jagged horizon, glistening off the bright snow. As I stepped out of the taxicab, I was blinded by the brilliance of it and, for a moment, I was transported into a fantastical realm where shimmering shapes sparkled all around me while sweetness filled the air. I held up my hand and a precious being fluttered before me, settling upon my finger. It appeared to me as a fairy creature bringing forth a message of joy meant for me alone. I blinked and saw that it was a golden butterfly, perched delicately upon my wedding ring. It flexed its wings and lifted off, drifting up toward the trees that seemed to be everywhere. I felt that I must have imagined it. How could a butterfly live up in this extreme land? But a pleasant contentment washed through me following the incident. I felt like I had finally reached a place without concern.
By the time I discovered Donovan's room, the pleasantness had passed and I knew that I was too late. I was struck with despair the moment I stepped through the doorway. I looked around at the mess. Clothes, paperwork and used food containers were scattered about everywhere without a sense of place. Candles, dozens of them, were burned to the end, stained black in the bottom from the strain of their heavy wick. Old ash floated out of the fireplace, where a thick aroma of neglect filled the stuffy room. I swiped at one of the curling black tails as it swam across my vision and my stomach rolled with a queasy shudder, forcing me to clutch at the desk chair in order to stop the sudden swoon that wanted to take me down. I felt one of his shirts lying across the back of the chair and I pulled it to my face. I was hungry for him and the musty smell that clung to my nostrils was so familiar, yet so strange, as well. Who knew when he had worn it? When had he been here last? Yesterday? The day before? What remained of him in this room was so far from the memory that was still alive within me. I wanted to feel the vibrant, wonderful man that I married but that was not what I had found.
I traced the room slowly, taking in each item with the patient purpose of an investigator and my escorts soon left me alone with the remnants. So many emotions swept through me during that solitary time. Everything I saw or touched brought forth a different memory. His well worn overcoat that went everywhere with him, the softness of use so familiar beneath my fingers. His cigarette case brought a hint of smoke, floating about his head as he contemplated another verse. The ratty edges of his notebooks that caused me to recall how he always clutched at one in his pocket, ready to record any vital discovery that might come about during the everyday fascinations of life. I admit that I was afraid to open one and find what lay between the pages. His undershirts were piled on the floor, which stoked the fire of domestic patterns that once brought me comfort. Instead, I felt the urge to crumple down with them, collapsing into his essence. I was damaged by every little taste that I was given that morning, yet it also reminded me of the life we had built together and that gave me more comfort than I ever could have imagined. All of the concerns and questions regarding the stability of our love that I had felt over the last two days disappeared. I knew that even though he was lost, God only knew where, his heart was still with me.
I went to the typewriter that was firmly planted on the desk. The room may have been chaotic but his desk was as proper as ever. He always kept his workbench clean. I found the last pages that he had been working on and I read them many times. It was then that I knew he was never bound to return, to New York or to me. He had found something more profound than the mundane and it had taken him. He sought it out. Of course he did. No matter where it led, he had to look and even our love, the last belief he held onto, wasn't enough to keep him from it. In the end, he let go of the railing.
I wept. I fell into a heavy sadness that set me down upon the bed. The ruffled sheets brought his aroma to me once again and it overwhelmed my senses. I buried my face in the dark fabric, my tears mingling with his essence and I lost myself in sobbing. My mind went into a shadowy corner to ride out the storm, the thick walls shaking against the strain of emotional thunder.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I recalled was the porter rousing me from the senselessness that had overtaken me. They had retrieved a police constable to hear my tale and set about processing the missing persons report. I must have purged quite a bit because speaking about the ordeal with the officer wasn't as difficult as I thought it was going to be. In fact, it actually felt good to talk to someone else about what I had been dealing with, especially someone who was so willing to help. Things were being set in motion. Action was being taken on my behalf and that alone brought me some relief. I was always a person who needed the machinery to work effectively, to finish what was begun, even if the inevitable outcome appeared to be hopeless.
Fulfilling what he set out to accomplish was one of my husband's most endearing traits, as well. Just listening to him speak of his goals, his ideals, was one of the reasons my heart opened so freely toward him when we first met. It was also the reason the last two weeks were such a nightmare. I didn't recognize the person in the pages of these letters, where scattered words became so easily lost in the wind. It wasn't the Donovan who, the night before he left, touched my belly in order to feel the vibrant life of tomorrow's tale. If I could only go back to that moment, his eyes open and wet with such hope.
This place, this cold and treacherous place had ensnared his heart somehow. I needed to understand what he saw, to feel what he went through, and over the next two days I came precariously close to catching his image in the mirror. What I saw was terrifying, yet full of wonder. If it wasn't for the child in my womb, I may have easily fallen into the abyss along with him. But it felt like I was wearing an amulet that kept the real horror at bay. That and what Donovan left behind for me are the only reason I am still here continuing on with this tale.
The rest of that day was filled with activity, busy work. I must have told my story to ten different people and by the time a search party was organized it was long past noon. In winter the sun sets early when you're in the mountains and it quickly became apparent that nothing was going to be accomplished that day. Yet, as we plodded back to town with snowshoes on our feet and prodding stakes in our hands, a strange luminescence came out of the canopy of the forest and settled all around me.
I stopped for a moment, out of breath from the exertion. My guide, a young deputy my own age named Brian, continued on unaware. The sun was at the horizon and a mystical golden light was cast across the valley. I was leaning on my stake, for a faintness had come over me, causing dark swirls to dance before my eyes. I thought that I might pass out but that's when the music came. It was a faint melody, barely audible, but so much more beautiful than anything that ever graced my ears before. At first I thought that it was coming from the town, which I could glimpse through the trees but then I was aware that it was coming from something else. It was of the earth. It was the sky. The clouds. Beyond. It drew from everything all around. The rocks, the snow, the wind. It was the very heart of my surroundings and it vibrated with a symphonic pulse. It was the orchestra of existence.
I've come to know that there is an essence in all things, an attractive force that is constantly communicating, a universal connection to all manifestation. When I was lost in that moment, among the trees and thin air, feeling the burst of expression from every leaf, seeing the crystallization in every drop of water, I became intimately connected to the source of it all. It was transcendent, a state of being that lay far beyond the terrestrial domain of our consuming thoughts. Voices rose through the music and they felt familiar, almost as if I were embracing the universe with the long tendrils of my heart. I have never felt more loved in all my life. More so than when my mother held me deep in my arms during a feverish child illness. More so than the ecstatic moments when Donovan and I were as close as any human can ever be. More so than those moments when knowledge settles inside like a blessing. More so than becoming intimately aware of the delicate way that the world works. It was more than any human awareness could possibly convey, and I'm ashamed to try now. It was inexplicable.
The essence of the song that drifted all around me became so clear that I could see every face of every story ever told. In it all, I perceived my Donovan. Here, he was lost but not gone. Here, he no longer lived, but was also not dead. Here, his spirit was more alive than I had ever known during our short time together. Yet, none of what I felt about him in that moment diminished what I already knew. He was everything I ever dreamed of, from the moment I first looked into his eyes to the ache in the letters that brought me to this miraculous place. I don't know exactly how I was able to see or communicate with him in such a way, but I can say that it was more enticing than ever. A desire rose within me that was excruciating, and so terrifying. I shuddered and collapsed into the snow.
Brian revived me. I was in his arms and he spoke with a softness that brought me out of my feverish haze. I didn't know why he was so scared, but I could see it clearly on his face. Perhaps the tears in my eyes amplified what I was experiencing, but he seemed to be using all of his power to bring me back from the edge. For a long time I hated his face. I felt like he'd stolen something valuable from me but later, when my son was born especially, I was more grateful than ever that he was there for me that day.
When Brian finally got me back to my room, a gentle feeling came over me. I sat quietly by the window and watched night descend on the town. I felt no urge to eat or sleep as all ordinary human necessities no longer were important to me. I simply hoped to catch a glimpse of what I had experienced out in the wilderness. The constable came to fill me in on the details of the search for my husband but I already knew what he was going to tell me. Nothing. And he clearly became concerned about my inattentive state, even pointing out to me that I had yet to remove my muddy shoes. I was keenly aware of everything he said and noticed the disarray throughout the room, but it was like I was perceiving it through the eyes of someone who was sleepwalking.
He soon left, as I sat on the bed to remove my shoes, letting me know that we would speak in the morning since it appeared that I was tired from the long day. I stared at him, uncomprehending. I wasn't tired. I simply needed to see. Something useful needed to be done, and the only way I was going to find out what that meant was to prepare myself, to watch and wait. There would be a signal. I was never more sure of anything in my life. Donovan would come and we would be together again. But in the end, the man was right. I must have been exhausted because the next thing I knew, it was morning and I was lying on the bed still wearing one of those shoes.
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Excerpt from piece found on January 24th, 1957:
...We travel across the planet to discover the harshest of environments, to scale beyond any imaginable plateau. The ingenuity of human endeavor is a dynamic accomplishment. But what does it mean when we climb into bed at night to dream? There is something more awesome than any height we can climb, any depth we can descend, any limit we can control. It's not something that exists out beyond the clouds. It's not shimmering within the light of the moon. It's not hidden in the shadow of the sun. It is infinite, a tiny speck of life that can be found if you search deep enough, climb down within the essence of all matter. It is the heart of every cell that makes up all that is known. It is the ultimate frontier and we carry it with us every moment of every day...
I sat at the window all the next day as the search continued. Others must have been informed of my collapse the day before, because I was strongly encouraged to remain behind, to rest, of course. I was assured that they would keep me informed of all the proceedings and, for the most part, they kept their word. I could sense the lack of hope that lay hidden behind each report but it didn't upset me. I was resigned to wait until they deemed it safe enough to remove the guard outside my door. I had a plan and I was looking for an opportunity to enact it. I sat at the window, hoping for another clue out there among the trees and shadows that might set me upon the proper path. In my heart, I thought that I knew where it led. I'd caught a glimpse of it, some mystical trail in the fading light of the day before, and the thought of what lay waiting out beyond the shine filled me with a strange euphoria.
Eventually, though, I became aware of life's demands, noticing how hungry I was, having not eaten for almost two days. No matter how badly I may have wished to give up all earthly desires, the physical needs of my body had something else to say about it, especially with a child developing inside. As I ate, my focus turned inward and I sensed the conflicting emotions of motherhood bursting through my resolve. Another future became clear to me as I placed my hands upon my belly. A new light opened up inside me and when I looked up, the room appeared different to me. Donovan was present. I was surrounded by all of his things and they spoke to me with his voice.
The rest of the day I went through everything. I folded his clothes. I organized his belongings, taking the time to appreciate all of it. Many of the items brought a surprising delight, some a new bout of sadness. Yet, the despair I had felt the day before seemed to have vanished. My spirit was elevated, somehow. Eventually, I was at his desk, the last deluge. I discovered his notes for the story and read them. Slowly at first, taking in every aspect of the tale. Then I began to devour it. I was ravenous. I learned every detail, every angle that he examined and digested it all. I studied until the day waned and I had to turn on the desk lamp. By then I knew what I had to do. I couldn't leave my husband's name in tatters, swirling in the icy gusts. I had to save him.
I wrote deep into the night. I added to his musings, completed his false starts and fleshed out the scars of emotion that he had dumped out on the page. I carried the man I knew, hoisted him upon my shoulders so that his voice could reach across the mountaintops. I made notes of my own, using all that he taught me, along with my intuition, and the more that I wrote, the more confident I became. Even though it was his story that I was telling, I could feel a new beginning spreading out so effortlessly from my flowing hand. It was like a sprout rising up out of the earth. By the time I paused, the pile of papers at the desk had doubled in size, Donovan and me, held side by side. We were together again, mingling among the words.
It was about three in the morning when I went to the window to get some fresh air. The night was cold and still, even without the wind, a quick chill washed over me. Only twenty hours before I had made plans to open that window for a different purpose. So much had changed since then and the reach I felt from the darkness beyond did not beckon me now. Instead, it was grateful, thankful for my efforts. I stood and listened to the quiet. It was completely absorbing. There is nothing as silent as the wilderness in slumber. I felt a calm that I had never known and a kind of hypnosis overtook me. In this altered state I came to understand that there are two sides to every story. The fork in the road either leads to despair, horror, hopelessness or it moves toward growth, beauty and appreciation. When I finally closed the window, there was a glimmer of enchantment that flowed through me. Something in the night approved of my decision, a chorus of delight that gently laid me down to sleep.
In my dream, Donovan came to my bed and climbed beneath the covers to snuggle beside me. He held me with warm arms and when the morning came, we woke together and left that remote town. He held my hand as our son was born, joy framing his face. We were side by side as we watched him grow, sharing the parental responsibilities, so thrilled with each step of our child's development. Before I knew it, wrinkles began to dominate our features and no matter how turbulent the times, Donovan and I were always together. Our son left home to discover his own path and came back a proud man, bearing the gift of grandchildren and our hearts opened again. It was all a blessing, these visions and as I sat by the fire in our old den, my delicate bones tired with age, I noticed Donovan standing in the doorway with a book in his hand. The look on his face was one of admiration. It was a life that I so longed to have, full of happiness, but the smile on my face in that final moment came not from all the hopeful yearnings conceived throughout this ethereal tale. It came instead, as I looked at the book Donovan held in his hand and realized that the name on the cover was my own.
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Excerpt from piece discovered found on January 24th, 1957:
...I am so lost that I don't even know which direction I am facing...
I slept until noon the next day and those who were in charge of my case were so concerned about my behavior that they wished for me to leave. I agreed with them. Once I awoke, I knew that I needed to get home. My path was decided the day before and I had work to do. I gathered all of our things, most importantly Donovan's papers along with what I also had put together, and departed while the sun was still high in the sky.
Brian offered to drive me down the mountain and even though we hardly spoke during that long trip, I felt a kinship developing with the man. When we parted I perceived a deep kindness in his eyes, then something more. As our eyes met, I sensed that he knew more than he was willing to share. One thing seemed certain about his gaze, he was searching for some assurance that I was going to be okay. I don't know what I conveyed to him that day, whether he was comforted after we departed, but we each held on to our secrets. At the time, it was enough for us to simply allow the shadows to remain hidden underneath.
I went back to Staten Island and I wrote the feature for the New York Times. It was the last article under Donovan's byline and it came to great acclaim, a tragedy of the modern age, in more ways than one. I never told anyone about my role in the story and no one bothered to question the yarn that I had spun. I was simply a supporting character in the larger drama that had unfolded, the long suffering witness who managed all the pain.
Donovan's body wasn't discovered until the beginning of May. It was a bitter winter that year and a few more storms buried him beneath a mountain of snow. My first reaction to the news was avoidance. I didn't want to see him, the image that came into my mind was enough to cause a wave of depression to overwhelm me, ensconcing me under a mountain of blankets for days. God knows what would have happened if I had witnessed his final turgid state. So, when his body was shipped to me, after being identified through dental records, I knew exactly what I should do. I put the crate back on the train and took him home to his family in Connecticut. It was a somber affair even though most everyone was already well aware of the outcome. I was clearly showing by then and the idea of Donovan living again through an heir lightened the mood somewhat. I didn't realize how much I had missed my childhood home until my mother held me in her arms. It was numbing to think that I was still a teenager after everything that had happened.
My parents convinced me to move back in with them and returning to their care was one of the best decisions of my life. It was an Eden of comfort where I was allowed time for my nurturing body to develop. Then, when my son Donald was born three months later, my life changed overnight. I can't even fathom how it would have been if I had tried to raise him on my own during those first few years. My life was full of fortune but there were also times when my heart wandered into the abyss. To yearn for love when it is gone forever is debilitating, but also miraculous somehow. I would go from wishing the sun would vanish from the sky to being filled with an effervescent energy that encouraged me forward, urged me to blaze a path of my own. Often, this feeling would come when I would look into our child's eyes. Donovan continued to bless me, his presence remaining in my heart seeking growth, knowledge and betterment. I signed up for journalism courses at the local college, and my time was spent between books and diapers, nothing else mattered. Before I could appreciate it, years had vanished and the events that occurred in New Mexico seemed like a fading mirage.
I knew that I would eventually return to the Big Apple. For me, New York will always be home. In a way, your life becomes woven within its intricate design. I made my way back to the house I shared with Donovan in Staten Island. I had rented it out to a newlywed couple when I left, and the small amount of income it provided helped to pay for my studies back in Connecticut. Tom and Angie were the perfect tenants and had just given birth to a child of their own when I returned. We decided to live together, so Donald had the chance to be an older brother for a while. It worked out well and we all became good friends. It even felt like a family somewhat. But I never pictured myself as the spinster aunt, awash in the memories of a life that could have been.
I had maintained contact with some of our literary friends and I immediately caught up with them. I needed work and was hoping that these connections, along with a fresh journalism degree would open a door for me. One of those doors turned out to be Cecille Lyon, the wife of the editor of the New Yorker. She took a quick liking for me, eventually becoming a true mentor and good friend. When a spot became available at the magazine, she made sure that I was hired on, and my dreams of becoming a professional writer were fulfilled! It was amazing, hardly a day going by without running into great intellectuals of the time. The city was so magnetic, pulling dynamic figures from all over the world to its core and there I was, thrust into the middle of it all, barely in my twenties.
Don't get me wrong. It was difficult, but working hard was never a problem for me, which served me quite well in my new environment. There is no greater headache for an editor than worrying about whether or not a writer will meet the deadline. I soon became a favorite at the magazine and before long I was writing more than I ever could have imagined. Reviews, interviews, gossip about town, even a feature article at times, my words spread across the pages almost every week. It was a tireless and wonderful time in my life that shaped the person I would become.
In the midst of it all, I came to meet my second husband. Harry was a lawyer who worked for the firm that represented the New Yorker and in 1962 the magazine was in dire need of their services. The scandal surrounding Hannah Arendt and her article on the Eichmann trial caused quite a stir. Yet, it was truly empowering for me to watch a great philosopher defend herself against the wolves that came out of the dark. She faced some of the harshest criticism from some of her oldest friends, yet she stood forth with such conviction against the storm. I remembered Donovan talking about how the act of exposing the truth can bring out the most vicious attacks. I saw that first hand with Hannah’s experience.
Harry came around the office almost every day during that time. I began to notice that he was stopping by my desk more and more, and before long, he was taking me out to dinner or drinks or dancing, whatever my wish. It was fun and I adored the attention. I hadn't thought about another person in that way since Donovan and it all happened in a natural way this time, almost frivolous in a sense. I barely thought about what I was doing, a little jaunt of distraction, a pleasant desire in the touch of another. It was unexpected but needed, as I came to realize that I'd forgotten to embrace the joyous and pleasurable aspects of life. I had been working so hard for years, as a mother and then, a writer. Harry was a pleasant change from all that and it wasn't long before I was shocked to discover that I was pregnant. Well, not that shocked, obviously, and I was far from disappointed by the development, though it brought hushed whispers from behind cupped hands. I liked Harry and enjoyed his company, but being pregnant again? My heart expanded with such delight! The endorphins ran through me with enthusiasm and I couldn't wait to become a nurturing parent again. I hardly thought about what was going to happen with this development, though Harry insisted that we get married. I had no interest in fighting with him, so before I knew it, everything was unfolding and I became a wife preparing to give birth. Contemplating my new role, I simply decided to embrace it. It wasn't until much later that I realized how unnecessary all of it was, that I could be in complete control of my life with or without a man by my side. That may sound abruptly dismissive, I know, but at the time I was genuinely excited. I was twenty-three and my life felt more full than I ever imagined, especially after all that had occurred just a few years before. Little Donnie was six years old and Harry seemed to embrace him like he was a child of his own. I sold the house in Staten Island to Tom and Angie, who were sad to see us leave, but we moved in with Harry to begin our new life together.
Sadly, it wasn't meant to be. After Bethany was born, the euphoria wore off and it wasn't long before our idyllic existence began to deteriorate. I struggled to manage my time with Harry at the office, my days focused on the two children. I barely found time to write, often working into the night, which kept Harry and me apart more often than not. I must say that what I missed most those evenings was having a person to discuss ideas with, passing the cue back and forth, noodling each detail until they were soft at the edge. Donovan's absence began to seep into my life again and I'm sure that there were days where I could care less whether Harry knew it or not. But it wasn't all terrible and for a few years I could see that Harry really did try to make an effort to work on our family at times. Unfortunately, he began to focus only on what his version of family was supposed to be. He'd received a promotion at work and that seemed to allow the domineering side of him to come out, which caused him to become more insistent on what he wanted from us. Well, mostly what he wanted from me. As I've said before, I'm quite capable of handling myself and, for a while, I succeeded in balancing many plates in the air. But I wasn't about to have someone tell me what I could do with my own time.
It all came out in rather dramatic fashion when Bethany finally went off to school. There were times, before this, that I tried to discuss my plans with Harry about returning to the magazine full time, but I never managed to bring it up properly. Perhaps I knew in my heart what would become of such a discussion. I continued to write for The New Yorker without actually going into the office everyday. They respected that I was busy with the children and newlywed life, but I was itching to expand the sound of my typewriter. I spoke with William Shawn, lead editor at the time, and they were eager for my return. I could tell that Harry was not pleased by this turn of events, but what could he say. I was always there for him, the dutiful wife, doing the best I could to provide what he may need from me. We rarely fought and though he hinted, he'd never truly attempted to put his proverbial foot down. It was only when I broached the subject of steady work again that he expressed how he really felt. I was furious, of course, and would never accept such behavior from him. From anyone, for that matter. And we had a row or two about it, believe me. As I've mentioned, my stubborn nature is not for the weak of heart, and he soon realized that my will could not be turned. Don't get me wrong, I'm a reasonable person when it comes to most things, but regarding my children and my writing, nothing can make me sway from the true path.
It should have ended then but for a couple months we tried to pretend that nothing had changed. Then, we connected again following the holiday party at the magazine. We both had a bit to drink and I was feeling so comfortable after spending a pleasant evening with my colleagues. Harry was such a doll that evening, attending to my every need. I did love him, after all, so we embraced again once we returned home that evening. It felt like years since we had touched each other in such a way but the next morning, as I lay in bed staring at him, I knew that it wouldn't last. I enjoyed the peaceful moment but my heart was already lost. A deep sadness lurched through me, touching something that I hadn't felt in many years.
The children and I left that day and now it was Harry’s turn to not put up a fight. Once we were settled, it was like a veil was lifted. The constricted feeling in my chest that had been coiled there for the past couple of years eased suddenly and, though I was very successful in life to that point, I soon realized that I had not been true to myself. When I wrote the article under Donovan's name, I recalled a reverent sensation that overcame me, filling me with the knowledge that no matter what I may face, there is a place I can find within myself that allows peace to flow through my heart. When we moved into our new apartment, I began to feel that way again. I went through my days as if I were soaring and nothing could harm my place in the world. It was a true blessing that came out of a difficult time.
With a sense of contentment guiding me, the next few years passed like a summer wind and before I knew it, Donald was going off to college. He was accepted to UCLA with a full scholarship to study mathematics. I know that may sound ridiculous, the furthest thing possible from his heritage, but each of us have our own path, after all. Bethany and I drove him out to the west coast in August of 1975 shortly after his eighteenth birthday. It truly felt like a page was turning in my life. He was as old as I was when our story had begun and I was stunned by the thought of it. As I stood by his side looking up into his bright face, I was surprised to feel an old flame springing back to life. Here was the image of the man I fell in love with so long ago, but now it was shining forth from the eyes of my child. For a moment, it hardly felt as if two decades had passed and a nebulous melody weaved through my soul causing tears to spring forth in my eyes. Donovan had remained by my side all these years in the most wonderful way imaginable.
It hurt to embrace my boy that day, to turn away and look upon another empty page. This time it felt so different, so beyond anything I had yet to imagine. It wasn't until Bethany and I were on the road back east that I realized how I was going to fill that blank page.
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Excerpt from the novel “The Melody” by Beatrice Reilley, published in 1980:
...When she returned to that place from her youth, a blessing came to her, a distant memory welling up from within, a melody of repose. Into her mind she fled, a walk down a dusty path holding hands with a boy her own age, neither one of them old enough to understand the foundation that was being placed beneath their feet. He was precious, she recalled, even at nine years old. He was a blue star in the sky, a light that filled her heart and his voice came like a song...
Before I knew what was happening to me, we were driving through New Mexico. I still don't know if it was a conscious choice on my part or if some other force was guiding me, but I soon became acutely aware of the proximity of our journey. I could no longer keep it in my heart, so I began to tell Bethany everything about what occurred in the mountains that loomed outside our windshield. She was fascinated. She was discovering an entirely different person from the one who had always been there by her side and encouraged me to turn aside on the detour that I needed to take.
I must admit that part of me was terrified by what I might find after all the years, but the beauty of our summer surroundings were so welcoming that all of the apprehension soon left me. We climbed the steep grade through the trees and as the air grew thinner, our hearts were lifted.
The town of Aurora had not changed much from when I'd been there years before, but it had a completely different hue in the summer. Where the snow brought a heavy damp atmosphere during the winter, an uplifting display of radiance spread across the valley during the summer. The natural beauty resonated so profoundly that I found it hard to look away. I knew that places like this existed around the planet but to immerse yourself within the glory is an entirely different affair. I remember going to Southford Falls when I was a child, thinking it was the most majestic display in the world. Then, when I traveled to New York with Donovan on my arm and walked among the buildings! You can't help but stop until the shock subsides, until your heart and breath return to you. Or you leisurely waltz through Central Park without ever coming close to knowing the map of the place and new avenues form in your mind. That's what happened when Bethany and I spent that afternoon exploring this tragic spot that echoed with pain, the years vanishing with every glance, every beat of my heart.
As we walked, I kept catching a glimpse of movement behind the trees but when I turned to look, there were only empty shadows shifting in the dappled light. We came to the waterfall and I was taken aback. What a glorious sight and the heavy wind from the crush of water on the rocks drove right through me, hurting my bones. There was a feral presence within the churning noise but I never felt threatened. It was simply a place where you could go to lose your mind, to give in to the cacophony that surrounds us all. When we finally retreated from that conflicted zone, my head was so full of sound. Every time I closed my eyes, I could differentiate something within the midst of it, a faint whisper of haunting music that twisted around inside me, curling up like an old tree root clutching at the veins in a pile of rocks.
By the time we returned to our car, night was beginning to descend. We were both exhausted physically and emotionally, and I didn't realize that I had been crying until I felt the tears cooling on my cheeks. Bethany never said a word, allowing me to cherish the time with my memories, simply aware that a subtle caress upon my shoulder, or a gentle hug, her head leaning against mine, was what I needed the most.
There was no possibility of driving down the mountain after that, and we were famished. We found a pleasant place to eat and to my surprise, a familiar face approached our table shortly after we sat down. It was Brian, the deputy who escorted me out of town when I was eighteen. I recognized him immediately and I can't tell you how happy I was to see him again. He invited us over to share the table with Mary, his wife of sixteen years and their two daughters, Amanda and Grace, the oldest almost the exact same age as Bethany.
For the rest of the evening we visited together as if we were old companions. Brian was the Sheriff now and they invited us to stay over in their guest room. Bethany was so happy, for Amanda had already become a fast friend. I was pleased, as well. It would be good to spend the night inside the warmth of a friend's home, and that's what Brian and Mary became, true friends. He had always been concerned for me, all those years ago, as well as the years since. I saw it in his eyes, just like the day we parted at the airport, a protective force looking out for my well being.
I learned so much more later that night when I had trouble sleeping and went to the kitchen for a glass of water, only to discover a restless Brian sitting at the table. He told me that he had just awoken from a nightmare about that first night when he stood guard over my room so long ago. I didn't know until that moment that he had been the one outside my door, waiting and listening to every furtive movement inside. He had been terrified of what I might do then, though we all know now how it turned out. But in his dream, all his fears came to life. He saw me climb out the window and disappear into the cold snowy blackness never to be seen again. He grew frantic with search, despair quickly rising in his heart. He woke suddenly with the strange idea that it had all been true and that our visit that night was the real dream. He was only reassured when he peeked into his daughter's room to see Bethany curled up against Amanda in a sweet embrace.
I confided in him about how close I came to following through with everything that happened in his dream. Then I told him the entire story of my life with Donovan, up until the morning that Brian drove me down the mountain. I didn't realize how long I spoke until the cold light of the dawn began to creep into the room. Again, my eyes were swollen from tears, but I felt a gentle sigh escaping from within me. I needed someone like Brian, a witness who truly understood what it all meant.
Then he spoke, told me about the magic of this part of the world and every word resonated with me. People come here and can never leave. They fall in love with this place. His grandparents were like that, building a home here after his grandfather passed through scouting for the railroad. Brian also stayed, fulfilling a need after staying for the summer following his high school graduation. Mary, too, before she was his wife. Her family vacationed nearby one summer and when they came to see the waterfall, she instantly knew that she belonged here. It was a common story with many of the residents. There came a moment of wonder that changed their lives forever. But there were other tales, different reasons for people coming to this place and never escaping. This was the story that I knew so well, Donovan's story. There’s an esurient nature deep within the heart of the mountain and it yearns to consume. A person lost in a sudden blizzard, swallowed by an avalanche, stumbling over a ledge, slipping into the rapids, or attacked by an animal in the wild. A volatile wilderness sits alongside all of the peaceful beauty that is found here.
By the time Brian and I finished commiserating, Mary had come down to start the coffee. Her presence pulled us back and the world had somehow changed for me. I shed the years like a thick skin and could perceive life through a fresh filter. I was in a delicate state, though, and Mary paid special care to me that day. There was no resentment in her for the past I shared with her husband and what that had drawn from us the night before. She was keenly aware of where she lived, loving and fearing the place in a healthy manner. We had come a long way to get to this point. We shared it together, and now there were others that we had to look after, to nurture and protect.
The children soon came down for breakfast and they, too, could feel that something had changed. Bethany noticed that I needed some comfort because she immediately hugged me and stayed by my side longer than I would have expected. Grace, their youngest, jumped in her Dad's lap. We were truly blessed to have such beautiful creatures to come alive every morning and remind us of who we had become. Otherwise we might find ourselves drifting effortlessly into a dream from which it would be difficult to awake.
When she finally left to go off with Amanda, my daughter's eyes found mine with an imploring concern. What's going on, she seemed to be asking. When I told her about her brother's father the day before, I tried to avoid most of the terror that I felt the last time I visited Aurora. The starkness of how it affected me must have been splashed across my face that morning. I was exhausted but I let her know that I was going to be okay, so that she could spend time with her new friend. Despite the trauma, I was tranquil, comforted by the resolve of compassion that flowed from my daughter's heart. I had never enjoyed all the years of motherhood more so than in that moment. I also felt blessed by the presence of a new companion, for I realized that Brian was bound to me in a profound way. Our paths had converged, and I now had a confidante with whom to share all the wonder and apprehension about this place.
Something had awoken in me that night, a resilient determination to understand what these mountains meant to me. I sensed that my life belonged here, which, to my surprise, was completely exhilarating.
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The snow continues to fall outside my window as I write. It hasn't stopped for days and the weather reports have grown more inconclusive with each new dawn. Whispers have started to be heard throughout the town. Strange tidings seem to have befallen us, almost as if a powerful spirit has spread its wings over the mountain. What does it want? Who does it seek?
Once I felt the barometer drop, It didn't take me long to come to my own conclusion. I had much work to do. So I've spent every moment in front of this computer. If I was a younger woman, I may have already finished my story and spared the other residents some of this wrath. But I'm seventy-nine now. I have grandchildren that have grown to have children of their own. Only a few weeks ago, I held a baby boy, who my granddaughter Janeen named Donovan, after a man she's only heard about in stories, only seen in grainy photos. When I looked into that tiny face, I could feel how alive his great-grandfather was, after all these years, his spirit touching my heart in a grave new way.
Now I'm here in Aurora, contemplating the next phase of my evolution. I've lived here for the past three decades. After both of my children left home, life suddenly became less complex for me. I was still working at the New Yorker but I had been tinkering with the idea for a novel, so I decided to take some time off to make the attempt. It turned out that I had a voracious appetite for the format and I finished that first book very quickly. The novel was only a moderate success, but I had discovered my new voice. Over the next few years I completed at least one novel every winter with each new offering bringing more people into the stores. Before I knew it, I was on the bestseller list, and my life was forever changed. I officially left the magazine, though I was rarely seen inside those halls by then anyway, and I traveled the world promoting my books. It was a whirlwind of excitement, every day engaging, but after a few years, that locomotive lost steam. I needed a break, to find a place where I could slow down and get some rest. I was exhausted from all the activity, and the first place I thought of was the mountains of New Mexico.
At first, it was simply going to be a long vacation, but I soon found that I felt very comfortable, as it was a natural place for me to write. With the wealth I had been afforded due to the success of my novels, I bought a home in the town and settled into a satisfying existence. I always thought that I would return again one day, but I never imagined that it would be with such a sense of serenity. All of the fears that lingered in my heart washed away when I took a walk a couple of days after I bought the house. Though I was alone, I felt someone take my hand, but instead of becoming startled by the abrupt sensation, my heart flooded with such a warmth that it was almost as if I had never known happiness before. I felt like I could walk forever through the day and never look back. Yet, before I became lost to such fancies, the impression vanished and I returned to the world around me. There was still so much time to share and give.
This type of occurrence began to happen on a regular basis as I settled into my new home. A mysterious touch from nature would come to me as I walked the hillsides and valleys. A caress across my cheek, a lightness upon my shoulder, even a sigh next to my ear was a signal that I was no longer alone. There was no consistency to the interactions or some greater purpose to them that I can attest. It was simply a feeling that overwhelmed all others, and I knew that it carried a profound truth.
Believe me, I'm quite aware of how this all must sound. How fantastical or ridiculous some of you may think I was behaving. I'm not trying to convince anyone of some supernatural order or spectral beings that may live and walk among us. I never actually saw anything that would suggest something of that nature. All I can say is that there was some type of essence that came to me during those moments. Whether that was from something or someone that was truly there or whether it was from some new emotion that sprang out of my heart, no one will ever know.
What I do know is that I came to expect these connections whenever I went out on my isolated excursions. I traveled all over the county by foot and these little detours became a blessed respite from my writing. Otherwise, I did little else during those years. I would dine with Brian and Mary on occasion, which would inevitably lead to long conversations with him at the kitchen table after his family would retire for the evening. Like the night he heard my confession, Brian became a good listener. We developed a heart to heart connection, a symbiosis focused on the joy of dialogue between two friends. It was as simple as that, nothing more. The door to the sensual side of my heart had been closed decades ago and though I could feel a small light squeezing through the crack everyday, with each walk, I knew that there was no one in this life who would ever open it again.
I went down the mountain a few times a year to visit with Donald, Bethany and their respective families as they developed over the years. They would also come up the mountain now and then to disrupt the monotony, usually during the summer when they could stay for weeks at a time. The winter visits to frolic in the snow were much shorter, only a couple of days long. It was a fierce season up in our small community, especially hard on outsiders, the weather abrasive and overbearing. Yes, the misty mornings and crispness in the air could be refreshing but there were times when a heavy canopy spread wide across Aurora, from peak to peak shrouding our valley in darkness. This oppressive force seemed to rise up from the earth and, at times, could not be explained by natural atmospheric conditions. It was as if the sky and the earth went to war and everyone was stuck in the midst of the battlefield. Many people fled the area like refugees.
My first winter in that town was just as torturous. All the pent up anguish rose from my heart with a vengeance. I felt guilty about turning my back on my husband, taking his notes and going down the mountain. I felt deep sadness for my loss and a chasm broke open within me so wide that the voice of reason disappeared like a whimper in the bitter wind. I felt shame at giving up on such true love, then having the audacity to believe that it could be replaced by another. I felt a despair that had been decades in making. It clouded all hope for the future, for the next day, the next minute. It was so overwhelming that I began to struggle with the lower realms of my soul. It was a terrible conflict, one that was forever simmering beneath the surface, yet which I had never acknowledged before, in any real sense. I didn't know the name of true cowardice before that winter and once I was buried in the weight of it in this mountain terrain, I could do nothing else but face it. Nature is so polarizing. Summer turns to Winter, then before all is settled, it grows so dark again. Then, there’s the tiniest hint of a blossom that will soon warm your heart like nothing ever could. Day follows the lull of night and then, after a long day filled with activity, we descend into slumber. These are such simple examples of that fundamental balance, ones that we all know, but if we go deeper, we can perceive this equilibrium in all things. For every smile there is a frown. For every moment of heartache there is a love that is so profound the universe vibrates with it. This duality plays out in all of our lives in unique ways responding to who we are and where we are, with all that we bring to the equation. For every incident there will be those who come out stronger and there will be those who may be destroyed by it.
That first winter on the mountain almost destroyed me. There were many nights I found myself staring at the bleak world swirling outside my door, tears streaming down my face. I even begged for Donovan to come and take me, to comfort me, but I never felt his presence. Instead I was visited by nightmares and icy compositions that left me shivering even as I lay huddled before the fire beneath a mound of blankets. It wasn't until we had a break in the weather that I finally managed to settle down. By then I was coming apart at the seams and may have abandoned all hope if it wasn't for her.
I was contemplating how to escape, or maybe how to simply disappear, if I must be honest. Then, she came to me. The clouds allowed a bit of room for the sun and it seemed like a miraculous event, for it had been weeks since we had seen the blessed brilliant light. I went outside to see if it was even possible to leave this place once and for all, and that's when the beauty of the world caught my eye. It was like crisp white linen. You know the feeling. The anticipation of laying down in that blessed freshness. I paused to allow the warmth from above to kiss my cheeks. I listened to the sigh of the snow beneath my feet and little bubbles began to burst in my heart.
At first I could make no sense of the euphoria that overcame me, then I looked through the light. A presence was all around me, a soft sheen I could perceive when I no longer observed. Then, it came to me, a dawning that I knew this from somewhere, recognized it, had experienced it before. I recognized the signature, like deja-vu, this was a spiritual connection that was all too familiar. My heart and mind went back to that dreadful night many years before when, in Santa Fe, I sat before the hotel window all night calling in desperation for my love to return. As we know, my prayers were never answered, but something did come to me out of the night to communicate with my soul. It was very clear to me now that it was Samantha Cross, or some essence associated with her, that had visited me then. And again, like that night long ago, she began to comfort me. I heard thoughts so distinctly that it felt like they were coming from another place in my mind, a room that I had never accessed. Images appeared to me in a fluid way that could never happen with a camera or film projector but they gave me a beautiful new awareness of life. There is nothing so amazing as the terrestrial workings of the world. Just look within the blossom of a flower or through the act of the bumblebee that harvests its pollen. Beauty is conveyed within the intricate connection of one life transferring through another. That day, I was able to perceive this profound energetic experience through the filter provided by Samantha's gift to me.
I know what you may be thinking. Why can't she just call them ghosts?
It simply didn't feel like that for me. Ghosts were always something that connoted fear, a story told to scare little children, but that wasn't what happened. Everything I felt that morning was the opposite of fear. It was comforting and elevated me above any of those base feelings. That was the moment that everything about this story truly changed. All of the terrible aspects wrapped up in this place that I'd harbored deep in the tendrils of my heart left without a trace.
That morning I followed the echo of her voice as it brought new meaning to my life. I saw the landscape all around me, almost as if I had never really perceived it before, even though I had walked among it for months. Eventually, I came to the base of the falls again and stood in awe of the frozen monolith. I couldn't look away and recalled Donovan's letter describing the moment Samantha made her attempt. I listened close, half expecting to hear her scream as she fell, but only the voice of the natural world filled my ears. Then, like a distant dream, a soft reverberation began to come to me, like jewels dangling in the trees, touching each other when they swayed and between the chimes, a creaking groan of struggle. My life transformed, moving into an intimate connection with this strange song. And I could see it. How the waterfall was alive, even though it appeared frozen. It forever moved, shifting, creaking, just as Donovan had explained, and it communed with the forces all around, only allowing an unseen footing for the favored. Then, for a brief moment, there at the top, I could see a figure moving in a slow delicate dance with the music that flowed out from beneath the surface. The person was climbing the last precious feet to the summit, then with the gentle gust of the breeze, she was gone.
I was so grateful that I was allowed to see such a blessing and from that day forward, I embraced this place. All of my interactions with the environment, spiritual and natural, became loving and honest. To truly connect with an aspect of yourself that allows meaning to all phenomena is one of the great human mysteries, and here I was doing that every day! A tree had the power to provide a gift, a soft whisper of its leaves falling into my ears. The wind could lift me up beyond the reach of despair until I was truly flying above the clouds. Standing at the foot of the falls, exposed to the explosion of water, I could feel the devil's breath cut though my body and fill me with its creative force. Then, I would sit for hours at my keyboard, writing until dawn.
And to hear the birds in the morning greeting the new light.
There is beauty all around us, within every aspect of life and appreciation is the seed. The sprouts that give form to everything we see and touch, all that we know and believe, comes from that benevolence. No matter where I look, I can perceive it, like an embrace that stays with you long after you have disengaged. There is a residue within the yearning desire to survive, a miraculous voice spread wide across the universe. It's even in the howl of the wind that I can hear outside my window. The most powerful storm gives as much as it takes away.
I must admit that I find it hard to end this tale. My heart is light and free, but my mind still clings to this world. Every story must end and I know that mine has finally reached that moment. It's okay. I've left nothing behind, taken care of those I've loved. They'll remember me in their own ways. I have this page, this word and my only hope is that it has provided some meaning.
After all the years, I still long for the piece of myself that disappeared the day Donovan went away. I suppose that I shall reacquaint myself somehow. In the end, Brian's dream shall come true, after all.
I will turn out the light, open the window and fall in love all over again.
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Excerpt from article in the New York Times, Sunday edition, dated January 27th, 1957:
Into The Wilderness
By Donovan Reilley
“...and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.” -- Robert Frost
Famous words that have inspired a nation, given voice to a generation. Also a profound truth that lives within the heart of each person, for we cannot live a meaningful life unless we find our own path.
There are moments in a person's life when the attraction is too powerful to look away. An opening in the world that wasn't there before but now calls out to us. It could be a word, the play of language that somehow communicates meaning in a forest of confusing symbols. It might come in a song, the way fingers grasp the melody upon the strings, or in the urge of a voice as it sprouts wings. It may be found in the struggle of battle, a protective force springing forth to save a comrade in arms. It could be in the truth of a sermon, a powerful light that reaches out with a guiding hand to bring peace to the soul of humanity. It may also come in the reflection of another, two people locking eyes, their hearts ablaze with connection.
It can also be found in a place, a holy ground or sacred monument, architecture built from the hands of the earth. For Samantha Cross, that place was this small town in the wilderness called Aurora and the need to climb the ice falls they call “The Devil's Breath”.
It brought me here, as well, and I know not whether it was a demon or a saint that caused the key in my heart to turn, but I shall be forever changed by this haunting landscape…
THE END