such joy whenever I was first to find the tree in our neighbourhood
whose leaves had first begun to change.
I don’t remember much about the drive to Feversham, but
somewhere along the Orangeville-Fergus Road, I remembered
my father’s voice and I was happy. Then, too, it was along the
same road that I began to wonder if the “sacred clearing” held
some revelation for me, suffering as I was from the same thing
that had afflicted John Stephens before his vision: grief.
Reverend Crosbie was not as I expected her to be. For one thing,
she looked young, though she couldn’t have been, having been
in Feversham when Mr. Stephens was there with Kit. She was
slim, red-haired with green eyes, and her presence was light, not
at all dark. She was dressed plainly: blue jeans and a white shirt
over a T-shirt with an image of Christ on it. Mr. Stephens, for
whom she clearly had affection, had told her about my wanting
to see the plants he’d described. But this was a more complicated
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matter than it seemed. For one thing, it wasn’t clear to her that
the plants Mr. Stephens had described really existed.
– You should know, Alfred, that pilgrims have different expe-
riences. I’ve lived in Feversham for over thirty years and I’ve
never had a vision or communed with God. I believe others have
because I’ve seen lives changed by what people have gone through.
But …
Most who stood in the clearing came away with nothing: no
visions, no strange plants, no red walls. A small number experi-
enced communion or visions that lasted minutes, hours, or days.
And, of that number, it didn’t seem to matter how long this
communion with God was. All lives were changed, however vivid
or dull the vision, however brief or prolonged the communion.
As to the content of these visions: that varied wildly from person
to person. One man spent days entranced, though all he saw was
a centipede whose body rotted before him. Another walked
through an endless, shallow pond to touch a golden lily. The most
interesting vision, to Reverend Crosbie’s mind, was of a woman
whose menses stained her own legs and feet red before turning
the whole of Feversham white as dandelion fluff. The woman who
had this vision – a wonderful person! – left her children and
family to help the poor and unfortunate in Scotland.
As to the Oniaten grandiflora … very few people had ever seen
it. That in itself was no big deal because so few people notice
plants. John Stephens had seen it, as had a handful of Buddhists,
apparently. But the only other person Reverend Crosbie had
spoken to who’d seen it was an Ojibwe man from Kettle Point
and he hadn’t been delighted by it at all. For him, it was like
seeing what he called the “dry hand,” and he’d turned away from
it in fear.
– So, there you are, said Reverend Crosbie. I don’t want to
discourage you, but you should know what you’re facing.
After having me read an article about Feversham – “Feversham
Syndrome: A Sceptic’s Glance” – the reverend made sure I had a
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white robe that fit over my shirt and pants, and we walked – myself,
Michael, Professor Bruno, and Reverend Crosbie – to the clearing.
I’d naturally formed an idea of what the way to the clearing
might look like. But my imagination did not touch reality. It
looked as if a road – ten feet wide, a quarter mile long – had
been chiselled into the earth, so precise were its borders. On
either side of the road, there were shallow runnels – three inches
deep, rounded gutters as smooth as pearl. The surface of the
road looked to be shards of polished jewellery – thousands and
thousands of shards – carefully placed and wiped, not swept. It
was like a mosaic in five colours: black stones for the first 330
feet, then white shards, then red ones, then green, and then blue
fragments for the last three hundred feet. Where the colours
ended and vegetation took over, the grass was almost as precise
as the road itself. It was all so well-tended, you could immediately
tell where the hours and hours of care had gone.
And then, as Mr. Stephens had said, there was a curtain of
willows.
And then, as luck would have it, the first things I saw – look-
ing exactly as Mr. Stephens had described them – were the
Oniaten grandiflora.
A young woman walking beside me said
– Aren’t they lovely?
To be polite, I agreed with her, but lovely isn’t the word I’d
have chosen. They were remarkable. The plants’ gourds looked
exactly like severed human hands: same bloodless, grey tinge
and bluish veins. The plant had managed to imitate human skin
so well that those lying “palms up” had the kinds of markings
palms generally do. And the Oniaten were so realistic that until I
picked one up I thought they really might be severed hands. They
were plants, though. Their roots held them to the ground and
the places where they looked severed – their wrists, had they
been real hands – were smooth and shiny with a sort of grey
gelatin that wobbled slightly when the hands were moved.
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My fellow pilgrim – dark hair, brown eyes, low voice, the
bottom of her white robe dirty – touched my shoulder and
pointed out just how many Oniaten were on the ground. There
were hundreds.
– Do you think anyone would mind if I took one? I asked.
– I don’t see why, she said.
But they weren’t easy to pick. They resisted. Their roots ran
deep and I had no knife with which to cut them from the earth.
Then, when I managed to pick one, its fingers curled up as if it
were suddenly arthritic or suddenly holding an invisible golf
ball. I put it (along with two of its leaves) in my pants pocket and
for some time I could feel its fingers moving.
– Is this the first time you’ve seen these? the woman asked.
– Yes, I said. I’ve been looking for them. I hear they have
medicinal qualities.
– I don’t know about that, she said, but they make a good salad.
No sooner said than she had picked a dozen or so leaves –
and a “hand” – and we were at her cottage on the other side of
the clearing, beyond the garden of five fingers. I wasn’t sure
about following her, but looking back at the pilgrims lying in
the field and at the wall of willows beyond them, I didn’t see
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how it could hurt spending a few minutes watching the woman
make a salad and, if it came to that, eating a mouthful to see
how the leaves tasted.
That said, the woman – whose name was Clare – lived in an
eerie place. It was lovely enough from the outside, with its white
stone walls and diamond pane windows and wind-ruffled cover
of ivy. But the inside was dim even when the lights were turned
on. There was little furniture or furnishings: an unsteady table
surrounded by four stools, a darkly cr
imson sofa, a poker and
shovel in front of a fireplace, a spinning wheel in a corner, and
shelves of things above the kitchen sink. But what truly made
the place eerie were the paintings on her walls. There were a
number of them, all with lights beneath them to illuminate the
images, each image depicting a man being torn apart by a wolf.
– I hope you don’t think the paintings are morbid, she said.
It’s really just a coincidence they’re so violent. I love their colours
and their compositions. Don’t you?
I studied them all again, looking for brilliant colours or striking
composition. But they seemed even more ghastly on closer look.
The artists had managed to capture men in various stages of
abject terror, while the wolves’ eyes shone brightly.
– Well, I guess they are interesting, I said.
As I spoke, I felt Clare’s warm breath on the back of my neck.
I jumped. But when I turned around, she was in the kitchen,
some fifteen feet away, smiling.
– Why don’t you sit at the table? she said. The salad’s ready.
The tabletop was rough, unvarnished wood with splits in it,
as if it had been an old barn door sawed in half and nailed to
uneven legs. Clare put out two settings. Between us she set a red
bowl in which the Oniaten’s leaves had been torn to manageable
pieces. On top of the leaves, the Oniaten’s fingers were arranged
around the greyish square that was the “palm.’
– I like my salads plain, she said, but I’ve made a dressing if
you want some.
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She then showed me what looked to be a cup of mayonnaise
over which she’d sprinkled paprika and scattered chives. Though
I was sorry to waste the dressing, I ate the salad as she did: plain.
To my surprise, the leaves were exquisite. They were somewhere
between a mild coriander and the taste of clover. I was not at all
interested in the fingers. I watched her bite one and it cracked
like a chicken bone. But I’d have been ashamed to refuse the
fingers after passing up the dressing. So, I bit into one. It, too,
was delicious. How marvellous, I thought, that the plant had
learned to imitate human anatomy so well that it had grown this
hard, crackling cartilage that tasted like savoury rock candy:
saffron and cinnamon.
Having finished the salad, Clare and I spoke, sitting at the
dinner table. I was happy to talk and to listen, relieved as I was that
five fingers were edible. I don’t know what it was that turned the
conversation to personal matters. But after hours of talking, as I
was about to leave, Clare asked if I’d spend the night with her.
– It’s not what you think, she said. I don’t want to have sex.
It’s just … I see that you’re a good man, Alfred, and so few good
men come here. And you being a good man, if you were to spend
the night in my bed without feeling desire for me, I’d be set free.
I was, of course, surprised. I hadn’t thought about sleeping
with Clare. Not that it was the farthest thing from my mind. She
was certainly attractive. And, having been propositioned, I was
forcefully reminded of my heterosexual feelings.
– I shouldn’t feel desire for you? I asked.
– I’m cursed, she answered. I’m a lycanthrope, but I turn into
a wolf only when men desire me. That’s why I live alone. I’m
afraid of what I might do. But you’ve been so kind, Alfred, I’m
certain you’ve been sent to help me.
– I’m flattered, I said. And I’d like to help, but I can’t always
control my desires. What would happen if I were aroused without
meaning to be?
– Well, that would be unfortunate, she said.
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– You’d attack me?
– If you felt desire for me, yes.
I considered Clare’s proposition because I wanted to help.
But, like most people, I respond to sexual provocation in instinc-
tive ways. I didn’t want to die for it.
– I’m very sorry, I said. I should really be going now. Maybe
I can help you some other time.
If Clare was disappointed, she didn’t show it. She took my
hand and smiled.
– I understand, she said. I wish it could be different.
I was so relieved to be leaving, I almost thought to stay.
Outside it was darker than I have ever known night to be.
The moon – high, full, and pale – seemed to cast no light. I
couldn’t see my hand in front of me, even when I put it up to my
face. Darkness like that is frightening on its own. But what terri-
fied me was the presence of beings around me. I wasn’t alone. I
knew it. And the first growls I heard were hard proof of the
danger. Luckily, I’d kept my hand on the door to Clare’s cottage.
I’m not sure I’d have found it in time, otherwise. I went back
inside and closed the door so quickly I heard a strangled growl
and the thump of a creature’s body on the door.
As if I hadn’t left at all, Clare said
– I’m going to bed now. If you’re staying, you’ll have to stay
in the bedroom. I leave my front door open at night.
I protested. I mentioned that there were fierce creatures
outside. But I was deluded about her kindness. She opened the
front door as if she hadn’t heard me. Not wishing to face whatever
it was I’d just escaped, I went straight to the bedroom.
In contrast to the rest of the cottage, Clare’s bedroom was
red tulle draping, its two mattresses making it uncomfortably high.
The floor was pinewood with scratches – like dry rivulets – every-
where. What I thought were two windows looked onto the full,
sky-poised moon. These turned out to be paintings of windows.
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I got under the covers fully clothed, keeping my shoes on in
case I had to run from the cottage and letting my feet hang over
the edge of the bed so my shoes wouldn’t get tangled in the
bedclothes. I was uncomfortable, but my discomfort, I think,
distracted me from Clare’s entrance. Which was good because
Clare had undressed and was – for one attracted to women, their
bodies, their smells – desirable. I looked away at once and closed
my eyes as she climbed onto her side of the bed.
– I’m sorry, she said. I have to sleep like this. If I turn into a
wolf, I’ll ruin my nightclothes.
How to describe my desire? It was like rain over the lake on a
summer day – the rain cloud in the distance, dimpling the face
of the lake, moving toward land, changing the way the world
smells, the way the air feels, the coming rain like a remembered
taste, like a word on the tip of your tongue, but the rain will
come and you want it to, feeling it before it makes landfall.
In the darkness, I could hear Clare’s breathing turn to growls.
The inevitable happened. I was aroused by all my efforts to
think of things that would not lead to arousal. The moment I was
fully erect was the moment I felt Clare transform, the weight on
the
bed beside me now suddenly that of something with four
legs – unmistakable, as when a dog jumps up on your bed and
walks over to smell your breath.
The strange part of all this – apart from a woman turning
into a wolf – is that I’m a sensitive man and I often lose my erec-
tion when I’m distracted. This has sometimes been a cause of
shame. Once, for instance, I was making love to Anne when a
car horn sounded so loudly the car seemed to be outside Anne’s
bedroom window. It startled me and I couldn’t stop wondering
who was in the car and I lost my erection entirely. You would
think, then, that the presence of a growling wolf would stifle
desire. But my arousal persisted, despite the smell of the wolf’s
breath, despite its angry snarls, despite the weight of it – its
front legs – on my chest. Desire persisted because, having been
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reminded of Anne, I felt the kind of longing that pervades body,
mind, and spirit.
The wolf stood on my chest for a while but then it jumped
down from the bed and prowled the bedroom, back and forth,
howling as if it had lost its mate. Sometime later it seemed to me
that there were other wolves. I could feel their several selves
pacing. But none of them attacked me. I assume this is because
my longing had nothing to do with Clare. All my desire was for
Anne. In my imagination I was with her and happy to face death
in her arms.
But these are only assumptions. I’m not sure why I was spared.
After what felt like days of night, I heard the morning
– Cheep!
of a bird, like a call to something, and I woke in the clearing in
front of the field of Oniaten or, more accurately, in front of the
place where there’d been countless Oniaten grandiflora but where,
now, there was only grass, the Oniaten shrouded by mist or,
maybe, eaten by wild animals.
I felt overwhelming gratitude. I’d been given another chance.
I was alive – still alive, despite the wolves – and this feeling, this
gratitude, was the first of my exhilarations.
Before me, there was the row of willows I’d passed on the way
in, green branches unmoving. There were no pilgrims around.
The clearing seemed to have been abandoned. The place was
misty and so quiet that it felt wrong to move about. When I
looked up, the sky was pale, as if clouds had wiped much of the