Nov. 11, 2010
Is there anything more inexplicable than our ability to dream anxious,
compelling narratives from what seem to be other times, other lives?
In a clearing high up, I found the cabin we’d been hiking toward, and we entered. It was a one room log cabin, but one side had been curtained off.
I’m not sure what we were doing there or how long I was to leave the boys in his care, but obviously not long. I was in charge of the boys’ safety; we were fleeing from some terrible danger.
I needed to leave the children for a short time, and I left, hiking downhill, across a meadow. A small plane circled, recognized me with a wing tilt, and landed on a narrow power line maintenance road (although there was no electric power available locally—I knew that—no communications.
I got in the plane for the short ride to a little town in the valley. The pilot started to taxi, and two more people ran out of the woods and got suddenly on board, and we took off irrevocably.
One of the other passengers was my sister Cheryl, and the other an armed man; together, I knew we were all the protection the boys had on the mountain and somehow, through a too-quick and unconsidered decision, we were all on the same plane, flying away at dusk.
We flew down the mountain following the power line, often under it. As it got darker, it got snowier, and we got further and further away. We weren’t going the short hop of my errand; this was a long and mountainous crossing to a distant town with few lights and none of them electric.
We landed on a dark air strip and put up in a small, dark-paneled old hotel room, Cheryl and me together. I was pacing the room, beside myself with anxiety for the safety of the boys. I knew the hermit priest would take basic care of them,