Page 40 of The Forest of Lost Souls

Sensing that the amaranth up lights her face in a way that the candles never could, Vida says, “What myth is that?”

“You’ll know in time. You’ll be a champion of the natural world and all its beauty, the guardian of wild things, for you’ll neither wish to dominate nature nor confuse it with what is truly sacred.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You will. One day. Be brave.”

That word sort of scares Vida. “I’m not brave.”

“You are the essence of bravery, child.”

“Why do I need to be?”

“Because all things will come to you, good and bad. The bad is yours to cure by action, the good to enjoy and share. Remember these words, girl, these words that will be of especially great importance one day—moon, sun, and smoking river.To chase the meaning of those words will put you at intolerable risk. Be patient, and the meaning will eventually come to you when you need it, for that is who you are. All things come to you in their time.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

The seer waves a hand across the three glass cups. The candles are extinguished as one, and the room falls into a darkness thatis little relieved by the wan daylight passing through the mottled window shades.

Vida rises from her chair, turns from the table, and finds herself in warm morning light, on the far side of the county road, walking home on the dirt lane, the long stem of the amaranth tucked behind her right ear.

This time, unlike on the two previous occasions, she realizes more clearly and urgently that she has transitioned here from the kitchen in the ramshackle house as if by magic or in a trance. She halts and starts to turn back—thinks,Don’t!—and then hurries along the colonnades of trees, under the vault of their branches, eager to get home and show her uncle the amaranth.

Climbing the porch steps, she reaches for the flower tucked behind her ear. It is not there.

Frantic to find what she has lost, she retraces her steps across the yard and all the way to the end of the long unpaved driveway, but she is unable to retrieve even one waxy petal. She stops at the county road and stares at the house where the seer waits with fortunes untold and strange truths to impart.

Although, for the time being, young Vida is more mystified than enlightened, she understands that the amaranth was for her and her alone to see, that she should hold the image of it forever in her mind and take courage from what it promises.

35

SUBMISSION

Friday evening, twenty-four hours after Nash Deacon first came to dinner at his own invitation, the kitchen is more welcoming for their second “date.” The table is draped with beige linen trimmed in lace. Vida does not have—or desire—expensive things; however, when her uncle was alive, he gave her items that he thought a girl should have, to add charm to holidays and special occasions, including four place settings of fine china. The white plates have narrow gold rims, as do the saucers and coffee cups. The cut-crystal stemware was also a gift from Uncle Ogden. She has purchased roses for the centerpiece, although they are white rather than red. The napkins match the tablecloth. There are no paper towels or plastic cups.

As instructed by Deacon, Vida is wearing her white dress, though with sneakers rather than the high heels that he specified. Full compliance in every detail would lead him to suspect that her submission is too sudden, too complete—–therefore insincere. The snugness of the silver-mesh choker is a constant reminder of the psychological leash he intends to attach to her, a reminder that encourages her to do what must be done as soon as circumstances allow and without misstep or misgiving.

Remember what he is. He paid a junkie to rape his wife and beat her to death with a hammer. Then he arranged the killer’s death witha doctored overdose. The wife’s murder is in the public records, though not the truth of it.

When she hears the Trans Am approaching through the eastern woods with a growl like a monster in some Scandinavian legend, Vida puts a loaf of home-baked sourdough on a cutting board and sets the board on the table. She pours cabernet, an inch more for her than for him. She places the glasses according to where she and Deacon sat the previous night.

As before, she has left the front door open. As before, he closes it behind him when he comes inside.

Stepping into the kitchen, the sheriff surveys the table. His smile is alike to that of a man who, having whipped a dog yesterday, is pleased to see the creature shrink from him today.

Vida offers no smile of her own and strikes no appealing pose, but faces him with the sullen expression of one who resents that she must put herself on display.

He takes off his hat and fans himself with it. “Young lady, I swear, if this was the dead of winter, you’d have no need of a furnace or a fireplace, what with the heat you put off yourself. That dress becomes you like I knew it would.”

She crosses her arms. “I don’t have to make nice. I don’t have to like this.”

“I understand how this is a moment that sticks in your craw. For sure, darlin’, you don’t have to like it. But later, when that dress isn’t between us anymore, you’ll like it well enough.”

He puts the hat on the chair to the right of the one in which he’ll sit. He’s dressed much as he was the previous evening, but he’s added a lightweight sport coat.

She says, “You wanted to know about Belden Bead. Sit down with your wine, and I’ll tell you what happened to the bastard.”

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