"The patter of feet in the woods," he continued, "that was how it began. At first you think you are totally alone wandering the forest, with only the brownness of the ground beneath you and the blue sky overhead woven with the tendrils of trees. It seems so quiet. At times you can hear the plash of a distant stream, or perhaps only the nearby highway and its cars. Not a part of the woods, you walk with a city tread, making your own noise, clumsy, loud. It makes you think of those legends of natives, who could (it was said) run through the forest without making a sound. Yet, as you tromp, you become conscious of sounds other than your own. Another's steps in the woods, the snap of a branch.
Back then, I had to halt for a second just to be sure. No, nothing I did could be making those sounds. I rather wished at the moment that I was not hearing them. Well, movement was the only solution, getting far enough away from the source of noise. But the forest seemed endless!
Happily, and unusually for me, I knew my way back to the colony. The forest I was trudging through was on the side of a mountain, on the other side of which was that fabled colony, Danffland, where the artist things are.
I picked up my pace, hoping to make it back to the compound before . . . Before what, I had to wonder. Was I frightened of bears, of other tourists? I had to stop for a second and examine my thoughts. All day I had been feeling a certain disquiet, though strong emotions of sorts were not uncommon at the Danff School of Fine arts. Even earlier that day, I had been walking along the Danff river, watching the current grown turbid as it was squeezed among higher and higher rocks. Soon the shore became a canyon, and one had to climb to remain close to the water. I preferred to walk above, where it was green, but below, amidst grey rocks, sat another of my company. One of the composers in Music Theatre, a man from Alberta as myself, whom I was friends with, though he had demurred from working with me on my opera, as most that year had done as well. He sat alone, on a huge boulder overhanging the spray. He looked terribly lonely, dangling his black, older man's cowboy boots in the spume. I went down to see him. This was a bit of a trick, as it involved some mountain-goat-like climbing. Not sure at all whether I could get back, I made a commitment and jumped over a narrow gap, which seemed much wider from the opposite side.
"How are you doing?" I called out, now, as I was next to him, being able to be heard. The sound of the rapids and their echoing off the stone walls made most longer-range chat impossible.
"I'm fine," he replied, still pensive, swinging one foot over that drop. He did not smile, but rather looked wistful. It was a look which frightened me a bit, but I cautioned myself not to worry too much, remembering the overwhelming "help" received when jokingly, I had threatened to jump into this same abyss if I did not find a composer to work with. The talk we had together does not easily some to mind at the moment. It was mostly pleasantries, inquiries about what the other was doing when the "session" ended, conversation made for its own sake. What overlaid it, and what I think was most important, was that sense of ending, of a time coming to a close. Soon the program would be over, and Ken would be returning to his ranch in Central Alberta. Myself, I was staying for another two months. God knows why, but at the time, I thought I was writing stories, since the opera had gone by the way. Unhappy as he was at the moment, I envied Ken his ranch and his family. Still, this Danff situation was one I might never have a chance for again, and I thought I should stick it out. Ken and I said our farewells, for at least until we met again at the centre - in the food bar or at the lounge - and I made my precarious way back to the top, and safety.
Safety, was I sure of that? The canyon and drop were behind me, but was I "out of the woods" yet? It still seemed to trail me, that mysterious sound. I might have been making it myself, so clumsy was I in a sylvan situation. There was nothing to fear. I had come the right way, and presently saw one of the little buildings the colonists in the artist's colony used to do their work. It was a wooden teepee, round, shingled with cedar. The windows were dark, indeed it was dark all around in the forest, but I knew I was close to home. Now the paths were tended, and well marked with red shale which seemed almost black in the fading light. I followed the winding track past other structures: cuboid with large skylight windows, a beached fishing boat incongruous in the woods. Still, however, I could not shed that feeling of being tracked. My very own apprehension followed me like a shade.
Sure of my path now, I increased my pace. The main buildings came into view. They reassured me, yet the mountains remained, and there were woods all around. I could hear the sounds clearly now, a dogged collective tread. I picked up my feet. The doorway could be seen now, indeed the whole massive wall of the side of the building dominated, finally eclipsing even the dark mountains. Surely here I was safe from woodly terrors. Still the sounds behind me. I dared to glance behind, and saw only the brake of the forest, empty, and a garbage dumpster, and then the gravel of a parking lot. That sound shouldn't be there. Could something be moving in the woods? It took a very long time to reach the door, that far away door, a rectangle of safety. I bore down on the clumsy latch. It opened! The mechanism gave way with a hollow clunk and I pushed my way inside. I should have been safe now. I hardly felt that way. Something which I had forgotten, an intense need to urinate, came upon me then. So fierce it was, I could not bother waiting for the elevator to take me to my room, I went to the staff washroom which I knew was in that corridor. Past a laundry hamper full of musty linen, I went through the second door, anxious still. I faced the urinal, unzipped. Though I could hardly hear the sound over my own tinkling, still there was a feeling of something behind me, something I would rather not turn and face at the moment. I could sense movement from the corner of my eye. The door was opening! Obviously someone coming to use the washroom, but I was not sure. Hardly shutting off in time, I darted into one of the stalls. I could hear the sounds again, louder. They were here with me. I wasn't going to escape them, so I decided to master my fear and open the stall door. I pushed it wide.
Into the bare pale-bricked washroom, an incredible assemblage of animals was entering. All of the creatures of the forest; deer, elk, sheep, even bears were coming in. Smaller creatures too, foxes, woodland birds and mice. They made no utterance as animals might, but came with their steady pace. I shrank back. They came closer, mountain goats, sheep with their helmet of horns, all of them were staring at me with brown animal eyes. Unreadable eyes they were really, but so many of them levelled at me. I might have screamed, certainly I was overcome with fright, but there was nothing voluntary I could do. Part way in, the pack of animals stopped. They could have filled the whole washroom, but they stood looking at me, shifting paws and hooves restlessly. Then, with as much calm and order, they turned and began moving out.
I should have felt relieved. The danger was over, but I only felt more fear. I had been given a message. It was obvious. As much as the animals had encroached on my space just then, I had been encroaching on theirs. I had stayed in this place too long. It was time to move along.
All was completely quiet as I left the washroom. Nothing could be seen of the wild creatures' passage, though I didn't doubt that at least as far as I was concerned, they had been there. The message was understood. I walked down the hallway towards the lobby and elevators. Before exiting the hall, I looked back towards where I had been, where the open door lead to the mountains. In the doorway I could see a small wild figure which had remained. It was a single coyote. His mouth, I could tell, was open. It looked like he was laughing.
(c) Jack Ruttan, 1999