An Excursion

He stood under the roof, his face and torso covered by strands of clothing, and waited. Michael's eyes were stone-like. He marveled at the tears in his underweight clothing. The night wandering in the forest, hidden by darkness, had left him lacerated.

"Yes...my dear fellow," a man said.

Michael stared into the illuminated doorway and replied: I've lost my job in Gravenhurst. I've been roaming around looking for work and a place to live. I hope to go back to my home," he continued, "but we've been evicted."

His host opened the door further to reassure the traveler that he extended his hospitality. His body was long and relaxed like the soft curl of locks framing his large face. As they entered the low-ceilinged cellar through a large oak door, he said quietly: "There is such loss if people aren't thought of first."

The darkened room held little of comfort for the thrifty dwellers. The furniture's serrated surfaces and uneven corners were evidence of local hand-made purchases; the hard knotty wood, the country that hosted such people. The walls and ceiling had the same undisciplined look contrasting with the seamless drywall in common usage. The raw edges of oil paintings seemed to almost emerge from the hewed-wood walls. This
isolated community had given life to its own style away from the smothering conventions of a metropolis.

The stranger could follow the sprightly calligraphy under a homemade plaster cast of
two sleeping children:

A memory sustain us through Time's baying,
Our coat of arms fallen
life by life away
till naked men stand
when women and youth have run
from nature and art.

Michael heard his host say: "I'm David Maclean." Motioning behind him, he added:
"This is my wife, Sheila Lockyer. We've been living in this village and commuting for
many years. It's our way of life, I guess."

Sheila was very ample of heart and flesh. We might suppose her smooth, round body to be a heirloom.

"My name is Michael Webster. I'm from Gravenhurst, but I've never been in this
particular area before. I'm quite lost."

"Perhaps we might get you a clean shirt," Sheila interjected and excused herself.

"I'm sorry to trouble you. I couldn't get over losing our place for that much money.
The demands that tax your ability to get by."

"Listen, Michael, can you lose your pride by missing some deadline?"

"I have my pride like anybody."

"Believe me, if you have hope you can build again," David said.

"Things are never the same," Michael said.

"Yes, but a home can be rebuilt," David replied.

Michael seemed distracted. "I'm curious about what you do to live like this?" he
asked.

"We're both part of a bureaucracy so we live as far from it as possible to keep our sanity."

Sheila went to Michael with a patterned blue shirt that David had worn in his youth, but now rarely chose to wear.

"This may be slightly small and bright, but it's good material to have lasted all these
years."

Michael spread the shirt across his back and slipped his arms through the short wide sleeves before sitting down with his hosts.

"I'm a technician, Michael, and Sheila manages a catering service." David paused.
"Michael, I'm wondering why you didn't stay with friends and share the problem?"

Michael's voice slipped a little lower: "It's hard just to talk when you haven't any grounds to act on."

The heavy branches that scaled the house ran metallic shivers up and down the eaves-trough. They could be considered nature's hands battering the obstructions of their flailing spirits. Autumn had moved across a land resigned to a yearly death. An earthy place, clean and spacious, it was a country that had never been able to come into its own.

"Would you like something a little stronger than water, Michael?" Sheila asked.

"For me, a bourbon on the rocks, thank-you."

The couple excused themselves to the kitchen. Secluded, Michael began to recall the
many times he had gone into his little temple to speak with his heart and settle his thoughts. To move from his daily chores to a life imbued with the rightness and consequence of acts. The deliberate signs that intimated he was part of a larger work. The way that the mind will understand in moments without desire. He met himself in odd
reflections, in uncomfortable digressions from the circumstances of his life. What can happen at once: eating and speculation, washing and meditation, walking and forgetfulness, pleasure and pain? He wanted to hold his passion always, to know the flowering of perception in the tug and pressure of comparisons: in the stillness of the
winter, the sunlight in trees, or the levity before an altar. Without seeing a completed work, he was never sure what structure to execute, or how his plans would turn out in practice. It had taken so long to import the woods. He had never found his favourite designs united in one place, though he had seen good arrangements in other churches. He was confident that his contributions might recover a little of what had fallen between generations. He had only to recall the presence within a fine church to delight at man's potential intimacy with the Creation in his daily work.

Sheila and David returned with drinks after a lengthy period of silence. The two had
discussed their compelling visitor. Sheila smiled and asked: "What do you do in that town, Mr. Webster?"

"Please, Michael. After all, we are children of the Age of Aquarius."

"Yes, Michael. I'd almost forgotten."

"Well, I haven't had work of late. I'm planning to build a church if we get a blueprint
approved."

"You're a carpenter then?"

"Yes, until recently, I was. My work is well-known locally."

David began: "As far as getting financial advice, there's a town called Huntsville about
four miles north of here."

"Right, I get nails and joists there occasionally. I didn't realize it was in this area."

As he leaned forward, David's eyes brightened. "I was helped by a firm there that
knew how to come back on some bastard who had ignored several bylaws and because of his business interests supposed the town officials would look the other way."

"We go there for a good time on the weekends," said Sheila cooling David's furor with
her eyes.

David thought of her body and that of several of the travelling strippers, he had seen lately, rolled to his advantage.

"Cowgirls on stage or a merchant's drunk and brawl," quipped David.

Sheila quickly added: "Mostly we just stay here and listen to music or see friends."

"So, anyway Michael, let me tell you how to get there before dusk," David said.

Just beyond the clearing by the house, Michael heard dull thudding strikes. He could
make out a man raising a tool repeatedly. As he stepped closer, it was evident from the unusual angles the instrument was raised the man had little experience in country living.

"Good day, friend," the man said.

"Hello, I guess you're doing some building back here?" said Michael.

"No, it's firewood for a buyer in Toronto." he said.

"I prefer to discover uses for wood rather than destroy it," Michael retorted under his
breath.

Detecting disapproval, the man replied: "Well, a fire is something everyone can
enjoy."

"What about a church?" Michael asked in a wavering voice.

"They're kind of standard from my experience."

"What everyone can enjoy is standard and best."

"Well friend, I sometimes wonder what attracts people in this life."

Michael looked into the forest. After a moment, he said: "I know every man needs a
base he can fashion and understand."

"Yes, I love familiarity more than anything friend.”

Michael and the stranger laughed uneasily.

"Well I wish I knew what is meant to be foreign," Michael said.

"Speaking of which," the stranger queried, "are you from here?"

"No, Gravenhurst."

"Ah, just visiting," he said.

"Yes. Enjoy your work, I must be going into town."

"Right, bye for now."

As Michael walked, a light rain began to fall. From an overgrown clearing, a rabbit
tumbled out as if drawn to him or perhaps just out of panic. An inner alarm sounded as Michael said to himself: 'Perhaps something more malevolent was following the rabbit--a lynx or another kind of predator.' He was given to worry but it was nothing more than a rabbit he had seen. 'They are fast animals,' he considered.

In the distance, Michael saw three women working atop a hill. The wind pressed the
sky against the land and the stalks of their bones. They did not divert their eyes except
when resting. The countryside around them relaxed with the familiarity of a mother. He wondered why so much work is done; the fertility of the soil giving or keeping its life.

The hills were bone-dry during the soft, hazy summer. Animals agitated the clear outlines, moving in lines along the aged instrument. Michael stepped through the grass, rinsed with wind; the women rustled slightly in the rippling gale. Toward the crest of the hill, apart from the group, the lithe body of a graceful girl repeated the stooping act of the others with a certain ease. He took each breath voluntarily, glad to remind himself that he lived and so did she--oh she, she, she. In her shadow, a young woman's quick reflexes anticipated happiness, the brunt of change a joy for her always. The third woman, Michael mused, was a mother many times over. Her lagging arms and hands gave an
animal impression to her demeanor. She concentrated on what little there was to
concentrate and laboured on. Michael marveled at the pride, the dignity these human figures evoked against the hills and setting sun: 'What fire burns in the ebony lines of night?' he wondered.

He thought of his sisters and mother but that long nourished love only dampened the vital feeling in this arbitrary, delightful encounter. The winds never elapsed, pushing back his eyelids, thinning his chest and arms, till he was a bereft, happy boy of nature. The higher he climbed, the more familiar the women became. He paused, fearing he might be seen or worse recognized as a nuisance who would prevent them from finishing their work.

"Well, laddy you can make that hill quick," chortled the older woman.

"Many more furrows in this plot, Mase?"

"Just don't think on it and you'll finish faster, Louise."

"Who needs to go home," came a voice down the wind, "I could live in this air always."

"And never be bedded by a man or a fool," old Mase slipped in.

Michael glanced at one then another of his discoveries and was smitten. 'Who are these creatures that worked together without concord for a moment?' He felt assured by the determination of their acts and the zest of their appeal. He bent into the wind that was stronger than ever at the crest of the hill.

Out of the corner of Michael's eye, the cloud-filled sky turned to a darker shade till he had some trouble adjusting to the light.

"It's a storm coming; let's finish if we can," the women seemed to say in chorus.

The younger, Louise, hoed every other furrow of earth, to finish and be running down the hillside to her bath and cosmetic, to study her health wrung from the land and captured in the mirror by the tub. Mase, to rest and be rested, she fixes her mind on the baked items in heaven. The third woman, whose name Michael had not heard,
concentrated on working. She had the character of the encounter--a lucky chance of nature. She demanded a harmony to answer her beauty in some awkward whistle on chapped lips. Michael looked away, shy in the presence of his desire, his
largest psychic inhabitant. How could he know her? He dwelt with the bounty of the senses: the barrage of scents, sights, and sounds.

"What is it that I know, that I accept as my own? To accept," he said, "accept."

Michael's head jerked up as if gulls had lifted into flight in front of him. The three
women drove their heels into the ground contrasting their departure with the drudgery
of their labour.

They made three paths into space for Michael.

"Enjoy the rocks, son," Mase's remark drifted on the wind.

The receding women turned the grasses below to a decorated dwelling of nature, bending the earth to observe and meet their steps. The lower grounds took on the appeal the hilltop held moments ago as if an intense light shifted across the land with them. Michael felt the vacant gaze of sky and wind; the lurking bereaved madman who entranced him daily. He wept for this man so often that he thought of him as an intimate friend. He said to himself: 'What is the remedy for not belonging? When one cannot recognize friendship. The streets and hopeless meetings where there is no relief. Each member welcomed by the sanctities of civilization, living out the doldrums of accumulated mistakes.'

He had forgotten his search for the town. The day was now losing a battle against the
columns of nights.

He turned his body down the chilled side of the hill and ran, his legs turning faster than
he intended till he fell forward. He thought of trying to find the address; with all the homes nearby, the town must have been close. However the darkness made him anxious to turn back before he was lost. He caught his breath and raced back from where he had come. A four directional signpost, popular in the country where every hamlet mattered, just served to confuse him. He could make out Gravenhurst at the white height of the post in the dusk. For a moment, the townspeople and his family smiled as he pounded the last nails into a great edifice. Michael released his breath and launched himself down the
roadway by which he had come.

Eventually he reached the house of his friendly benefactors. He felt compensated by his fine clothes and the friendship that awaited his return. He felt welcomed by the rough-hewed blackness of the door suggesting the occupant's interest in nature. The ridges of the wood divided the skin on his knuckles. His knock resounded inside. The door suddenly gave way like a chestnut in an open fire. David's face slipped into view.

"Oh Webster, did you get any news on your appeal?" he asked.

They went through the narrow entrance to the rugged warmth of the living room.

"I couldn't find any town of the size you mentioned, just hill after hill littered with
farms. I don't think I have the means to rid myself of that loan," Michael said resignedly.

"Maybe you should consider what this means to you. Why are you alone responsible for this property?" David asked.

Michael's face darkened as he replied: "I have to take on what I believe to be necessary." He remained standing, infuriated such doubts of his intentions were surfacing after such a day. Sheila brought him a hot cider that she said was freshly squeezed from their ripe fallen apples. He was reassured by the warmth of the liquid and drank it straight down.

"I'll get you another," Sheila suggested and went to refill the drink.

"I've invested all my time in getting free of debts, working and cajoling, donating and
officiating endless projects to stay solvent."

"Life rushes on Michael, whether you can keep up with it or not."

"I don't feel I have lost altogether. People aren't kind but is that what we're after, kindness…a fibreless mixing. I never understood the need for it myself."

"You think there's no understanding or concern beneath our interests?"

A loud pounding drew the men's attention, as if on cue, from their discussion.

"David," Sheila stammered as she entered the room, "why have you invited someone without telling me?"

As he moved forward from his companions, David said: "I felt it was worthwhile, on
short notice, to have these fellows by while they're in the area." David answered the door,
and three smart looking men narrowed the passageway in their overcoats.

"I suppose it's gotten chilly gentlemen. Let me take you coats."

Ignoring David's offer, the three hastened in behind Michael's host and stood before the party.

"We understand that you're having trouble with an investment, Mr. Webster, is it?"

Michael shifted next to David. "Who are these men, David?" he whispered.

"They're from a neighbouring place of business. Perhaps, they can assist you."

"I've never seen any of these men before."

"You may not have. They spend most of their time indoors."

David initiated the introductions: "Michael, this is Michael Hastings and two associates."

Hastings took this to be his cue: "Michael, your wife tells us you haven't called home for several days. She..."

"How do you know my wife? I have no wife."

"You're not facing up to your family."

"I don't think so. I have souls to save."

"Come now, you have no other home. You must consider their concern and ours for your problems."

Many hours later in the stillness of the bedroom, David addressed his wife: "Apparently, he went off the deep end after a night of lovemaking. Just couldn't seem to cope."

Laughter filled the cozy room and glistened the young couple's faces as the panes of glass that sparkled in the bright night air. "Under different circumstances, he might have been a master craftsman. How lucky we are Sheila to know each other."

At the time when the world spills toward the day, I wondered coolly on how I was to start a new life. I opened the curtains to a leafy candelabra of light. Every desperation carries a hope that life will dispel leaving the charged arena of the senses. He dragged himself into his kitchen and lit a fire in the gas burner. The clear light of morning bothered his eyes. He looked toward the wall at an old pin-up calendar that disguised
sensuality with nostalgia. He placed a bag of tea in the dented kettle as he slipped on his shoes to enter the less than immaculate toilet.

Seated, he paused. He dexterously stunned a fly with his open palm. An older Irish gentleman walked up and offered him a letter as he shifted his hands to cover his written words from spilling into sight: yes, the six minutes, the forest, and the world. He set to work, with his colleagues to assist and overlook his duties, proudly recalling the lunch date with his young bride.