The weekly gathering begins at sunset.
Theo and I walk up the path to the center of Pastoral, the sky teeming with evening birds, the air smelling like lilac blossoms, bitter crab apple trees, and cooked corn on the cob from the bonfire near the gathering circle.
There are twenty-two dwellings within the confines of Pastoral: several homes like ours, a community lodge, a dormitory with a dozen smaller bunkrooms, a large kitchen and dining hall, a woodshop, and a birthing hut set back in the trees to the west. Cooper, our founder, purchased the land and all its structures from a bank some fifty years ago. He got it cheap, because no one wanted to buy a remote outpost in the woods that had sat abandoned for seventy years—the structures sinking into the earth, the forest taking back the land. And most people didn’t even know it was here.
Our farmhouse, where Bee and I grew up, sits at the southernmost border of the community, and closest to the guard hut. To the north of Pastoral are the wheat and cornfields, just visible in the waning light. The eastern boundary runs along a shallow ridgeline, where Henry and Lily Mae’s home sits nestled in the dense pines, their goats often foraging along the border trees. And the path that runs along the creek—where Theo and I walked tonight, from the farmhouse to the heart of Pastoral—is the western line.
Pastoral is ninety-some acres: ninety acres that provide us shelter and keep us safe.
Members have already begun to find their seats in the gathering circle—constructed in the open stretch of flat land behind the dining hall, and between the massive gardens—and they’re talking in small groups. This is where we gather each week, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the split-log benches that form a semicircle around a low wood stage, where we discuss harvests and weather and how to keep the community safe. It’s a place where we also celebrate birthdays and weddings and mourn those we’ve lost. Every December, we sing songs the elders remember from the outside, about mistletoe and gifts wrapped in colorful ribbons. We drink muddled apple wine and light candles around the Mabon tree. We have brought customs from the outside into the woods with us, but we have also created some of our own.
But now, Theo and I stand just outside the circle—outside the ring of light from the bonfire—both of us afraid to speak to the others. Fearful that our mouths might betray our minds.
Theo went past the boundary.
Down the road.
And he might have the pox.
Still, when I peer at his skin, the sharpness of his eyes when they glance at me, there are no threads of dark in them.
Night bugs descend down from the trees, and Ava’s three young girls—all tightly wound coils of long black hair and big crescent eyes just like their mother—run figure eights around the adults’ legs, then loop over to the Mabon tree at the center of the circle. In spring, we tie ribbons to the branches of the old oak to celebrate the planting season, and again in the fall to celebrate harvest. And sometimes, the tree is used for other, darker things: to determine if illness resides in a body.
Now, the girls dart around the trunk of the tree, shrieking, “Rot, rot, you’ll soon die of the pox. Rot, rot, they’ll bury you in a coffin box.” Then they sprint out into the rows of corn before anyone can yell after them.
Theo clears his throat, his eyes on the stage, waiting for Levi—he looks as if he’s barely keeping the lie hidden at the base of his throat—and I think of Bee, standing so close to him inside the kitchen, whispering words I couldn’t make out. But when I strode up from the pond and entered the house, Bee was gone, and Theo stood at the sink pretending he had nothing to hide. He thinks I don’t see.
There are trenches in my mind, diverging lines of betrayal and confusion, but mostly fear. I want to trust that he won’t go past the border again. But something in his eyes reveals the curiosity that lives there still.
From our left, Ash and his wife Colette—seven months pregnant—move toward the gathering. For weeks, Ash has been doting on his wife as if she might break, as if the child inside her were a fragile piece of glass. They pause near us, surveying the open benches for a place to sit, and Ash rubs a hand along Colette’s neck. She closes her eyes briefly, tilting her head forward. I can see the weariness in her curved posture—her pregnancy has been difficult, plagued by morning sickness and bouts of dizziness, and she rarely leaves their home at the north side of Pastoral, except for the gatherings.
“Evening,” Ash says softly, giving Theo and me an exhausted look.
“Evening,” Theo responds in kind, nodding. “How are you feeling?” He directs the questions to Colette, keeping up the pretense of normalcy.
Colette turns only slightly, her rounded stomach limiting her movements, eyelids swollen at the edges. She is a slight woman, short in stature and small-boned—even in pregnancy—with glossy brown hair that drapes to her tailbone, and a gentle, uncomplicated way about her. Every movement feels as if she’s gliding through water.
“Well enough,” she replies, circling a hand around the globe of her stomach. “It already feels like I’ve been pregnant a whole year.”
I’ve always liked Colette, and I feel the need to say something comforting, to assure her that it’ll all be worth it once you hold your baby in your arms, or I’m sure most women feel the same as you. But I would also like to avoid any further conversation, any risk that she or Ash might see the secret tucked neatly behind my eyes.
“Let us know if we can do anything to help,” my husband replies, but I can hear the strain in his voice—he wants this conversation to end as quickly as I do.