In this scene, Scout, newly returned to Oberon, has taken a short-cut home...
By the time Scout was halfway home, she felt almost human again. Her head still ached and her ankle throbbed, but all in all, she just might live. She’d picked up some supplies in town – more coffee, a couple of frozen dinners, some canned soup, and a box of doughnuts – so she was all set for food, for a good long while.
She’d splurged on a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of blackberry wine, as well. Although she refused to think too much about the impulse that had led to her doing so. There was nothing to think about anyway. It meant nothing. She was not getting too caught up in old memories. It was just the mood she was in.
The dog trotted along at her side, stopping occasionally to sniff around the base of a tree, or under a bush. They’d left Main Street a block past the shopping district to hike through the greenbelt. Besides offering extremely pretty scenery, Scout was sure that the detour would cut the distance she had to walk by half.
Part wilderness, part footpath, part labyrinth, the greenbelt was often described as Oberon’s answer to urban sprawl. Which Scout found pretty damn ironic, considering that Oberon could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered an urban area.
Had any of the people who made those inane remarks ever actually been to a city?
The belt intersected most of the town’s main roads as well as three of the creeks that made up part of the local watershed. It had always been something of a nightmare for local law enforcement. Scout remembered hearing stories of suspects eluding the police within the twisting maze of pathways. And other tales of high-speed pursuit by motorcycle cops which, while usually successful, had still earned them the wrath of the City Council.
As a teenager, she and Lisa had been forbidden to step foot within its shadowed boundaries after nightfall, or at any time of day at all if they were by themselves. Prohibitions they’d routinely ignored.
Sunlight slipped through the thin branches above her head as she limped along, stopping occasionally to shift the bags she was carrying. The sun-baked ground beneath her feet was hard, rocky and dry. As she remembered well, from countless school field trips here, the greenbelt had been landscaped using native, drought resistant plants whenever possible.
She even remembered some of the plants she saw now, like Toyon, whose red, holly-like berries had given Hollywood its name. And Mountain Lilac, whose fragrant blue flowers the Native Californians had made into a type of shampoo. Or the Arroyo Willows--their bark was used either as a cure for headaches or in basket making, she wasn’t sure which.
And those tall trees that lined the path just here were white alders. Scout couldn’t remember if they served any useful purpose, although she did vaguely recall being told to look for them if she was ever lost in the woods and needed to find water.
The eyes of the forest.
That was what the early settlers had called them, or so she’d been taught. They had a habit of dropping their lower branches as they grew, and the resultant scars were supposed to resemble eyes. As creepy an idea as any she had ever heard of, it reminded her of the dream she’d had the other night. Something dark and dangerous lurked in the depths of the woods. Watching and waiting. There’d been danger, terror and the relentless rushing sound of running water.
She came out of her reverie with a start. She did hear water running. Looking around her, she found that the path she’d been following had taken her to the foot of a small stone bridge spanning one of the creeks.
She stopped by the bridge and put down her bags. Her ankle was really sore now and there was a choppiness to her breathing that she didn’t think was a result of exertion. Damn, but there really was an uncanny sensation of watchfulness here in the shadows cast by the tall trees.
Scout searched the bags for the cigarettes, tore open the new carton, and then one of the packs inside it. She must be more serious about this smoking thing then she’d originally thought. She was now working two packs of cigarettes at once.
Marlboros, too. Nothing fancy or flavored or, God forbid, extra light. What would be the point of that? And not the brand she’d been in the habit of smoking as a teenager, either – Virginia Slims, usually, which Lisa copped from her mom.
No, this was heavy duty, hard-core, mainline smoking. And she had no idea why she was doing it. Except that, somehow, it kept the sense of impending doom at bay. And that was all good.
The dog climbed down the narrow banks of the creek to drink from the water trickling between the rocks. Scout thought briefly about climbing down there herself and soaking her ankle in the cold water, but the idea didn’t really appeal to her.
She recognized this place, now. This particular path would lead past the crumbling ruins of an old stone cottage whose real history she had never known, but which had, over the years, inspired several generations of ghost stories. From there it would skirt the grounds of her old high school, and curve around a small, isolated, forest pond.
She could leave the path at that point and, assuming she could find a way to cut across several yards of brush, reach the back of her property.
Piece of cake. Sheesh. Some great detour this was.
She paused to reconsider her earlier conviction that this route constituted a shortcut. But if anything other than an excess of optimism had inspired her decision, she didn’t want to know about it. Her mental health depended on going with Marsha’s take on the subject. There was nothing strange going on. She wasn’t losing her mind. There would be no more voices, no signs, and definitely no ghosts.
There would be no mysteries. No miracles. No inexplicable events. And maybe, if she were very lucky, she could even avoid any of the really creepy coincidences that seemed to be a daily occurrence in Oberon.
