slowed my pace so I could catch my breath. “I guess it’s hard for Robyn. When she left, her father was still alive and I was still a frumpy, old housewife, ever willing to do what the family wanted.”
“And what does Robyn find when she comes back?” Madge chuckled. “A powerhouse of a mother who’s making a damned good life for herself.”
“Having a therapist for a mother must be Robyn’s worst nightmare.”
“Remember, she’s the one who left,” Madge reminded me. “Speaking of nightmares, I had a dream about you the other night. You’re the dream lady, want to hear it?”
“I’d love to.”
“I’m not sure I remember it all, but some Indian was packing up your things. As if you were moving away. Weird, eh?”
I nodded and speculated about what the Indian might symbolize. Going back to nature? Being more in touch with instincts? Was some primal part of me going to send me off in some new direction?
“The natives are getting restless,” I heard myself say.
“You’re not thinking about moving, are you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You’re so unsettled lately …“
“I know – I’m putting it down to menopause.”
“As long as you’re not going anywhere.”
“No,” I answered, wishing I could share her relief. I knew that even when people lived right beside each other, emotional changes could create distances as wide as oceans.
“Hey! A craft fair!” Madge jogged across the street. I followed reluctantly. I didn’t like to stop once we’d started moving, but I’d never been able to hold back Madge from a fair.
In the little park a dozen craft tables were set up, displaying hand-painted shirts, pottery, blown glass and other craft items. While Madge went over to look at some basket weaving, I wove my way through the clumps of people.
Feeling someone’s eyes on me, I turned. A man’s face met mine, a full-lipped, dark-skinned face that held itself openly towards me. His eyes pulled away from mine and returned to the drawing he was etching on some leather. He drew freehand, effortlessly, as if the design were already in the leather and all he had to do was trace it out.
Fascinated, I watched the way his hands worked the leather, touching it in a way that made it an intimate act. Sensing my gaze, he glanced up and smiled. His black eyes entered mine. Heat stung my face.
“Breathe!” a voice hissed.
Madge! I half turned, grinned.
“Nice stuff, eh?”
“His work is beautiful.”
“I wasn’t admiring his work,” Madge chortled. “I don’t think you were either.”
I elbowed Madge, but she carried on.
“Look at that hair!”
As Madge spoke, the man turned and I caught a glimpse of the resplendent black rope of it, as thick as a horsetail and just as long. A thong of leather interlaced with some forest green beads and two feathers held it in place.
I imagined loosening the strands, letting them slither over my bare body as he lay on top of me, his smooth skin sliding against mine.
Get a grip, woman. But my imagination was off and running. My body felt like a jungle full of gazelles pressing against the walls of my skin.
“He’s luscious,” Madge continued. “A bit young for you, but lots of women are going with younger men. Sexually, it makes far more sense, don’t you think?”
This time, I dug my elbow home, and hard, too. Madge stopped talking, but the smile remained on her mouth.
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. What was all this about? The fervour of my response to this man was outrageous. Over the last few years, the sexual side of me had sort of slipped into sleep. But this man was shaking me awake. I yanked my eyes away.
“Look,” Madge said. “He’s sketching little trees into the leather.”
Stretching forward, I could see a line of lone pine trees etched into the belt he was working on. I ran my fingers along the length of one of the finished belts and turned it over. There, burned into the leather, was his name: Harley Skinkeeper. The name was familiar and unfamiliar all at the same time. What was going on here? I pulled at Madge.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Without waiting for her, I turned and started into a light jog. Charlie lopped beside me.
“Well, that was interesting” Madge commented when we were back on our way, heading towards the lake.
I wanted to say something, but no words came. I felt too embarrassed to talk. What was the matter with me? Surely at my age I was past such shenanigans. I quickened my pace and was grateful when I could smell the trees. I looked up and saw the park only a few hundred yards ahead. Instinctively, both of us slowed our pace and became quiet. I felt my breath deepen and my body calm as we moved among the tree trunks.
Although there were several hundred trees in the whole park, in the central area, a few dozen had been allowed to grow to their full magnificence. Their massive girths thundered out of the ground and thrust into the air with incredible power.
I looked up. Above me the branches arched towards each other, forming a sanctuary of stillness. Pale, white swords of light pierced through from the sky, illuminating the orange-red pine needles that covered the forest floor. I took a deep breath and the thick, rich smell of tree bark and rotting leaves went streaking into my lungs.
“Its funny how things change,” reflected Madge. “When you first brought me here as a child, this forest scared me. Imagine. It felt so wild.”
Walking beside Madge, I let my hands stroke each passing tree. To me, these woods had only ever been a refuge. They settled me, took me beneath the conflicts of my life to a place of strength and solidity. No, these trees had only ever been my mentors. They were the peace keepers.
“Then you introduced me to all those tree games,” Madge said. “What were we then, seven or eight years-old?”
There had been a hundred games. Games for rainy days, games for sunny days, adventure games, quiet games, as many games as there were hours to play in. All involving trees.
This had been the enchanted forest, where the fairy tale of the trees lived and breathed. The opening ritual had always been the same and early on, I had appointed myself the one to begin it: I led, showing Madge and my sister and brother how to open their palms and stroke each tree trunk in a slow gesture of greeting. This was the magic signal that told the trees that kindred spirits were now amongst them. We called ourselves the “tree people”, and considered ourselves a special species, born to look like ordinary human beings, but inside, sap ran thickly through our veins.
The trees recognized us and once we had each brushed our open palms along their
