J. Lennon - Castle

It wasn’t an ordinary deer, however. Save for its hooves, nose, and eyes, it was entirely white.

Now, I should add here that such animals are not rare in the greater Milan-Gerrysburg area. Indeed, they are one of our region’s only claims to fame, and a small fame at that. The deer are not albino — their eyes lack the pale pink hue common to such animals, and they are not known to suffer from the health problems associated with albinism. These deer are normal, save for the color of their fur. They are thought to have come into being as a result of a genetic mutation in a herd that once lived within the fence of a large, abandoned military depot. Over time, the white color became dominant, and soon the entire herd, isolated by the fence, was white.

Eventually, in places, the fence collapsed, or was knocked down by vandals, and the herd slowly assimilated back into the greater population. And so, though they were uncommon, these deer were often seen in our township, and were evidently much beloved by local residents.

But it wasn’t merely my sighting of the white doe that accounted for the peculiarity of the moment. It was that, somehow, I recognized this particular deer— the one that was now placidly staring at me through the crowded alley of tree trunks. I couldn’t have said what it was about the animal that was familiar — what set it apart from other, similar animals I had seen in my life — nor could I even have identified what parts of any deer tended to differ from individual to individual. I merely understood, instinctively, that this was my deer, and that the animal wanted me to see it.

I want to make it clear that I am not the kind of person who subscribes to half-baked, magical ideas. I do not believe in portents, or omens, or signs. On the subject of an omniscient deity, I am firmly agnostic, confident only that the existence of such an entity is beyond knowing. So it is with some trepidation that I advance the idea that I had some kind of special connection to this doe. Nevertheless, I have been trained to do what I am told, and to report the facts as I find them, and the fact is that, as I sat on a rotting tree trunk in the middle of my leafless wood, something did indeed pass between me and a solitary white deer, and I felt — I am afraid to say — a profound rightness in the encounter, along the edge of which played a very faint hint of fear.

Soon, I became uncomfortable staring at the white doe, so I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the tree behind me, and waited for it to leave. I turned over the incident in my mind, attempting to make sense of it. After a time, I opened my eyes, and the deer was gone.

It was tempting to consider the possibility that what I had just experienced was some kind of hallucination or dream. Indeed, I was very tired after my journey to the center of the forest, and it is certainly possible that I had, at some point during my respite, actually dozed off. But I did not feel refreshed, and had no sense of time having passed, and thus was able to renew my confidence that what had just happened was real.

This episode in the woods, however, was about to come to an end, on the heels of a second peculiar event, one that, furthermore, made me feel quite foolish. As I gathered my things and stood, I thought I heard a sound, a kind of rushing rumble, and I detected, once again, a bit of motion through the trees, opposite the direction the deer had come from. The motion was up on the ridge to the north, and for a split second I felt a deep terror: the motion was incredibly fast, much faster than any animal, and the noise strange, mechanical, out of place in this eerily calm wood.

But then, suddenly, I understood. It can’t be, I thought — but it had to be. I tramped across the incline, then hiked up the little hill that terminated in the ridge, and when I arrived I saw that I was right. What I had seen and heard through the trees was an eighteen-wheeler. I was standing on the shoulder of a paved road.

I stood for some minutes, trying to puzzle out how this was possible. I had begun at the southwest corner: my house. I had walked northeast, then turned due east, and descended into what I believed to be the belly of the lot. The rock, I was certain, was not far away, and slightly to the southeast. But here I was, standing on a road.

My excellent sense of direction had utterly malfunctioned. I didn’t even know what road it was I stood on, nor had I any idea which direction I should walk to reach my house. I chose left, and soon discovered it to be the correct choice, as a road sign revealed itself only a hundred yards beyond a small rise. I had been on Nemesis Road, and now neared its intersection with Phoebus. The northwest corner of the property. This meant that I had never strayed far from any road, and had walked due north once my house was out of sight.

My walk down Phoebus Road was swift and disheartening. A personal and professional skill that had meant a great deal to me now appeared to be gone. Was it my age? Such things, however, could be fought against, and defeated. I resolved that I would not grow complacent, and sacrifice my talents to the onset of middle age. I would retrain myself in the woods, and regain my former strength. By the time I drew near the intersection with Lyssa Road, some of my enthusiasm and self-respect had returned, and I almost relished the period of hard work and recovery that was to ensue. I had faced greater challenges before, had been forced to fall back, reassess, and redouble my efforts: surely I would succeed here, as well. Despite my exhaustion, my step was a bit lighter, my thoughts less dark. The project of my life was back on track.

Thus engaged in thought, I did not notice the pickup truck in my drive until I had nearly reached my front door. The sight pulled me up short: I didn’t recognize this vehicle. It was nestled up next to my SUV, dwarfed by it, in fact — a small, rusted-out red Nissan with a missing tailgate. I had no idea who would possibly want to pay me a visit, or could even know I was here.

I did not have to wait long to find out. I approached the front stoop still peering over my shoulder at the truck, and so almost tripped over the woman sitting there, lazily arrayed like the tongue of my house’s red maw.

She was gray-haired and thin, in her late forties or early fifties, and gave every impression of a person battered by experience. She wore an old pair of jeans, a dirty tan hunting coat over a gray hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of frayed running sneakers. One leg was stuck out straight, resting on the steps; the other was folded up under it. Her hands lay on her knees, one of them with a lit cigarette poking out between two fingers. The lines in her face were deep, and her expression was partly hidden by her long, thin, dry hair; but her face nevertheless betrayed a familiar combination of emotions: surprise, amusement, judgment, concern. She carried about herself an air of superiority, in spite of her clearly low social station, and I felt myself succumbing, inexplicably, to her implied authority before she even opened her mouth.

It was not until she spoke my name that I understood why. She had changed a great deal in twenty-five years, but that rough, animated voice was the same as I remembered. It belonged to my sister.

“Eric,” she said, with the hint of a smile.

“Jill,” I said simply.

We gazed at one another for several seconds, calculating. There was, I suppose, a moment when, if one of us had moved to embrace the other, this period of suspicion would not have had to occur. But neither of us did, and so we stared, studied, considered. The hint of a smile dwindled to a ghost, and I’m afraid my enervation must have shown. I wanted nothing more than to go inside and lie down. It would be hard to deny that Jill and I were not particularly happy to see each other, and we made no effort to hide the fact. Only after this mild mutual enmity had been established did our bodies and faces relax, and Jill stood up, and I invited her inside.