The bus was a relief. The terminal reeked. Cigarettes and sweat. Men grown weary of life, who chose to bathe in eternal fluorescence. We departed. The city unraveled into pastoral stretches. Patchwork of gold and emerald. The denim sky, buttoned by the sun. Occasionally, small villages. Flat, squatting homes huddled together. Schoolchildren in bright jerseys under trees. Soccer goalposts with missing nets. Fathers in their best suits riding bicycles.
The next seat was empty. Sitting across, a couple. They cheerfully opened. They had flown from Morocco. The wife teased that Antarctica was next. The husband had just sold a company. We discussed San Francisco, where I’d grown up. I soon returned to the window, replacing my headphones. Giant monoliths now peeped over the horizon. The grass retreated into the earth. The road too, rocking the bus. We climbed until white faces engulfed the sky. We halted. The sky was gray. The cold wind heralded a storm.
The woods beckoned. We had split. Some slowed, others forked, and I was alone. Thunder. The sky wept charcoal. The trees lost shadows. I came to a lake. Nearby, a cabin with amber lights. More thunder. Steady, quick rain. The door opened, spilling light like honey. The man had an oak face, eyes of sap.
“Come inside! You’ll get soaked”. I stepped in. Books lined the cabin. The only window, also covered. He set a bowl down, clearing away pages. A brochure. Rocky mountain impaled with a glass elevator. On top, a glass temple. He noticed my gaze. “It draws wealthy enlightenment-seekers. People who have abandoned their worlds in search of paradise, their duties, their families.” He spoke like an axed tree. But he cut himself. The soup will get cold.
We dined quietly. I asked about his writing. His eyes ambered. His world had geometric language; time worked differently, yet coherently; thoughts bent physics. Out of drawers, he summoned maps and equations. Once a researcher. “Writing uses all of me in a way math couldn’t.” Fresh sunlight spilled in. The storm had passed. He hugged me goodbye, in his eyes a wince.
The sunset stole the shadows. I hiked quickly. The trees now sparse. The wind unrestrained. I thought about the cabin man, someone who lived in his own constructions. He seemed content. Behind me, footsteps. Someone coming from another trail. It was a girl. Olive face, her hair a night ocean. We walked closely. When unable to find a word, she turned to Spanish. She lived not far. On her neck, she wore a beautiful crescent. She made it. She wanted to go to university one day.
The night shattered. Motors challenged the crickets. Lights competed with the stars. Fans rustled the leaves. The woods awakened. She was still. “The helicopters are headed to a temple.” We continued walking. The rocks silvered with moonlight. The stream carried starlight. Above was the Milky Way. I had never seen it. Her family sat outside every night to stargaze. Neighbors would bring guitars, playing until stars became dust. In Spanish, it was the madrugada, the jeweled quiet of early dawn. There wasn’t a word for it in English.
We reached the top. Tents already set-up. Our mountain stood in an army of white. Distant quilts of cornfields. The sky had unbuttoned, revealing a canopy of stars. On a far peak, a rainbow spilled out of a glass wall. Next to it, helicopters and men in suits. Laughter and clinking of wine glasses. The girl, not noticing, took my hand, walking to a quiet place where we could see the full moon.