Our Lady of the Forest (17 page)

You'll get there, the man said. We'll make sure of that, my friend. That's what your brothers in Christ are for, to take you to the Promised Land.

But where are we going? someone else asked. Does anybody know our destination?

We don't know. But we give ourselves to it. We go with God and in God's name and the Lord our Shepherd shall lead us.

Getting lost in the woods is unappealing.

A thousand people can't all get lost.

I'm worried about our impact here. Forests are very sensitive. Even if we all go lightly, a thousand people—which is my estimate too of what we've got here—will trample things unmercifully. Maybe we should organize a path and keep people to it.

Do you mean there isn't a path already?

How can there be a path already since no one knows for sure where we're going?

Is there anybody in charge of this? Who do we ask about basic things? Like what's our destination?

A path isn't necessarily the answer, though, environmentally speaking. You can make a case for dispersion too. It's the same issue in the national parks. Do you build paths and give up on certain areas? Or do you try to disperse the crowds?

How did we get onto national parks? Is this an environmental forum? We all know the Church believes in the common good, responsibility and participation, but on the other hand God is our highest authority and God has called us here has he not and so while we might want to discuss these matters of path versus non-path and save the trees, when it comes to it I say follow God, after all the forest is resilient and Our Lady would not have called us here just to wreak havoc and cause destruction.

Forgive me but that makes me very angry, the idea that we don't have free will enough to exercise a little common sense and take a communal position on things, important things like our environment. I happen to believe that Our Lady expects us to discuss our path to her and find the least destructive way—we're not lambs after all, are we, who can be led to pasture on the one hand, yes, but also just as easily led to slaughter? We're not as stupid as that.

Anyway, said the man with the Irish lilt, we'll each do our best to walk with consideration, I don't think there's any more to it than that; walk with love for the earth, amen, and glory be to God. And as far as logistics I say again we don't know anything until Our Lady calls which is supposed to be ten-thirty.

Where did you hear ten-thirty?

From a woman in the campground named Carolyn Greer who is an assistant to Our Lady's seer.

Maybe we can ask her how far it is.

We can discuss the issue of a path too. An environmentally sensitive path.

A path, amen, said the man with the Irish lilt. But the path I mean is a figurative one. The path I mean is the path to salvation. You there, he said, yes you, beneath the tree. He was speaking to Tom now but Tom didn't move, just leaned there affecting a jaunty repose and taking another slow sip of coffee. Why don't you come down and join us?

I'm fine here, preacher. But thank you for asking.

I'm not a preacher. And I'm not a priest. I'm just a soldier in Christ's good army who can see that indeed you want to be one of us. Come, come join our circle.

Thank you, soldier. I'll hold up this tree.

I don't think it'll fall if you join us, friend.

Thanks but no thanks, answered Tom.

         

At eleven the army of Christian soldiers amassed with Ann as Joan of Arc in front and Carolyn as Sancho Panza. Carolyn had decided the previous evening as the campground filled with wide-eyed pilgrims that Ann was in fact a fortuitous tide on which she should simply sail. Not an uninteresting development, she thought. And more fantastically entertaining all the time. Maybe if I play things right, she thought, it'll stake me to a winter in Cabo.

Ann had passed the morning in Carolyn's van, taking refuge, blowing her nose, treating her rosary like worry beads, and fretting in the lotus position while Carolyn stretched her ample legs, ate an orange with devilish nonchalance, and talked Ann out of her misery. This is what you should expect, she explained. You're their hotline to God, okay? What should they do, stay home?

Ann peered nervously out the window. All morning she'd told herself that she couldn't afford to succumb to her illness, which felt now like the flu. Why was she ill at a time like this? Running a fever, chilled, lightheaded? She could see the
KAY
'
S RELIGIOUS GIFTS
banner tied at its corners to hemlock branches and nearby a larger makeshift pennant reading
WELCOME ORDER OF MARIAN SIGHTINGS ROCKY MOUNTAIN DIVISION
. The food service truck had its awning set up, and through an alley between the RVs, legions waited at the rest rooms. At one campsite a dangerous-looking bonfire sent smoke in plumes through the green of trees while around it at least a hundred people sang a muffled hymn. Gargantuan mobile homes impeded Ann's view, but she did catch a glimpse of the county sheriff whom she recognized beneath his hat because he'd come to the campground before to harass the mushroom pickers. He was strolling past with his thumbs on his belt, haranguing a campground ranger. I pray I'm up to this, she whispered.

You're up to it. But you better eat something. And take your Sudafed. A lot of it. And those allergy pills you've been scarfing.

I can't eat, Carolyn.

Well what if you faint? You're no good to anyone unconscious, Ann. On the other hand, how sly of you. You could pull a holy-roller kind of stunt. A slain-in-the-spirit kind of thing.

I don't pull stunts.

Come on. I didn't mean it.

Who are all these people anyway?

True believers. It's utterly amazing.

It's weird, said Ann. Who are they?

Carolyn slid on sunglasses and crossed her ankles. They're camp followers and disciples, she said. Groupies, fanatics, monomaniacs. Suddenly you're the rage, Ann. You're Madonna or somebody, bigger than Madonna because she can't sing whereas you, you're a diva in your Mother Mary way, not just more cheap porno dance moves and deceiving camera angles. You're an all-American cult leader, a channeler like what's-her-name who speaks for dead Egyptians, or like that guy who waited for Hale-Bopp, the mass suicide eunuch. And of course this is happening in the American West. Where else but the West Coast for this insane behavior? I gotta say I love what's going on here. It's a completely Dada spectacle. It's Hieronymus Bosch on Budweiser.

The Catholic Church is not a cult.

Okay, the Church is not a cult. From now on I agree with you. Carolyn clasped her hands like a supplicant. We won't, she said, go into argument mode. You've got other things on your mind now, Ann. So take a deep breath and exhale, release. Feel your pelvic floor loosen. Pranic breathing. Vipassana. Just get yourself calmed down.

I haven't picked a mushroom for four straight days.

Me neither. But I remain unflappable. Let the winds blow all around me, the greater the frenzy the greater my repose. My nervous system reacts with disdain.

I'm out of funds. Flat broke right now.

Well so am I. It costs money—right?—getting visits from the Virgin. Carolyn pulled her orange apart. Why don't you eat half? she said.

Ann waved it off, looked again at the pilgrims awaiting her appearance, and said Where did they come from anyway? How did they get here just like that? It's like someone snapped their fingers or something. Ann snapped hers and held her face in her hands like the distorted figure in
The Scream.
All these people. Out of nowhere.

They're not out of nowhere. They're a horde of charismatic Catholics with walkie-talkies and a phone tree.

But how did they hear? Stop joking around.

That I don't know. What's life without humor? They're here, that we can count on.

It's just more proof.

Proof of what?

That all of this is real.

Carolyn began to lace up her boots. Real, she said, and rolled her eyes. What proof do you need that this is real? You're the one seeing the Virgin.

I don't need proof. But you do still. You don't believe this is happening.

Whatever, said Carolyn. But pull yourself together. Pull that hood up or whatever you do. And maybe since you're so unfocused, maybe I should do the talking.

I agree I can't talk.

And why is that exactly?

I don't know. I just never could.

Too much feminine submissiveness training. Too much Mary Mother of God. Too much humble virgin pie. Okay, so she's the mother of God, she gets to tell God to pick up His underwear, but still, she's the one doing His laundry and cleaning up His toilet bowl while He gets all the glory.

I wasn't raised a Catholic, though.

Saying that's just more fodder for my fire. You don't even get what's happened to you. You're the perfect victim of masculine authority because you're blind to how it works.

I don't think you should be saying things about me when you don't even know me, Carolyn.

Carolyn knew this was true in theory. She didn't know very much about Ann, and she'd been cavalier in her criticisms. Calm down, she said. I'm OK, you're OK. Just tell me all about yourself. I'm a licensed Life Issues Counselor with a degree from the Institute for Life Issues Studies. Buy my videotape.

Jesus save me, Ann said.

Anyway, answered Carolyn, maybe I should handle the talking.

Let's pray before we go out there.

You pray. I'll smoke dope.

Carolyn.

We'll smoke dope together.

No we won't.

I'm toying with you.

Mother Mary come to my aid. Be with me in my hour of need. Guide me on this path, Mother. Tell me what to say, what to do.

Carolyn nodded and touched Ann's head as though anointing her. I wake up, she sang, to the sound of music, and her voice was unexpectedly beautiful, a tremulous and operatic soprano that prompted Ann to shut her eyes. Mother Mary comes to me. Speaking words of wisdom, let it be, let it be.

Carolyn hugged Ann maternally and pulled her hood around her face. You look so good bundled up that way. Like Little Red Riding Hood.

I'm scared to go out there.

It's all right, said Carolyn. But still there's one question we haven't answered. Lady Madonna, she sang. Children at your breast. Wonder how you manage to feed the rest?

Get it out of your system now. Before you open the door.

Did you think that money was heaven sent?

Stop.

Tuesday night arrives without a suitcase.

Stop.

And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me.

Carolyn.

The best things in life are free, but you can save them for the birds and bees.

Ann laughed. Give me mu-uh-uh-uha-ney, sang Carolyn. That's what I want!

She pulled open the door, climbed on top of the van, and shouted Good morning! to the crowd of pilgrims, shouted it a number of times and waved her arms like a circus barker until some of the pilgrims, like pigeons spotting bread, flocked in her direction. Gather around, gather here! she said, we're about to set off to the site of the apparitions but before we go, just a few announcements, a few eeny-teeny logistical matters that will help everyone, I'm sure of it, will help us all get along.

She could see the campground moving toward her now and it reminded her of the scene from
Macbeth
in which Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane, the boughs and limbs of the evergreens and the army of eager pilgrims. The spaces between people were filling up, the empty ground was disappearing, it was beginning to look like one of those spectacles Joseph Goebbels designed for Hitler or maybe Saint Peter's Square. Hear ye, hear ye, someone called through a battery-operated electric bullhorn which was then handed up to Carolyn after passing through a series of hands, making its way with speed to her as the result of on-the-spot cooperation, and she realized that at her beck and call were no doubt a hundred lackeys if she wanted them, slobbering devotees, fawning acolytes, servile adherents. People immediately around her van were snapping photographs with all the zeal of journalists or documentarians and others ran video cameras. Can you hear me better? asked Carolyn. Thank God for the electric bullhorn!

There was a burst of approval at this proclamation, and no one seemed to grasp its irony. Praise the Lord, someone yelled, for all things in service to his ministry!

All right, said Carolyn, and she held up her left arm flamboyantly like the worst sort of flimflamming roadshow evangelist, beginning now to embrace her role, All right, she said, if I can ask you to listen, my name is Carolyn the visionary's disciple, I'm here to speak on her behalf, I'm here because she has asked me to speak; she's very young, a humble girl, a girl who until now has been foraging for mushrooms and living here in the campground by herself, living in that tent over there and cooking in that fire pit, getting by as best she can like all the rest of we mushroom pickers who were dwelling here quietly in this little place and doing our best to put food in our mouths until last Wednesday when lo and behold, our humble labors were brought to a halt because a glorious miracle came to pass, a wonderful and forever life-altering miracle, which nevertheless has had the effect of diverting us from our work.

She paused to let that all sink in but already her inference had been well taken and a five-gallon bucket was going around, a makeshift collection plate. A miracle, said Carolyn. A miracle I have witnessed for myself on each of three successive days unfolding in the woods just east of here at a place we must reach by an unmarked route that should not be a cause for undue duress although I should stress that due to circumstances there is no wheelchair access to date, which is something we'll have to change. We do have a minor creek crossing to make which involves a moderate amount of balance of the sort any sojourner in good health possesses—you'll need to walk across a mossy log that presents a minor difficulty—but other than that, this is a walk within the capacity of any normal human being, a walk of I estimate probably two miles, two miles and no more.