Posted on June 1, 2008

The Hole: Part 75

I’m generally not one to put too much stock in this kind of metaphorical reasoning, but a bloody lamb with a halo, especially in such otherwise unusual circumstances, was too specific in nature to ignore. And Bear was clearly terrified. He stopped speaking after this last statement and now stared off at some point behind me, eyes glassy, his empty drink shaking in his hands. I was silent a moment before asking, “What happened then?”

Bear shook his head. “I pulled my leg out and I ran fast as I could away from there. Hid in a little cave I know about and waited for it to get light again. It was a long night, I’ll tell you that.” He went quiet again. When at last he began to speak, his voice was lower, nearly a whisper. “I saw it again that night,” he said. “I tried to sleep but I couldn’t and I kept seeing it, walking through the woods. Once it chased a deer not more than twenty paces from me. The beast was hunting. And even when I couldn’t see it, I could see that light.”

By morning, the creature had gone and when Bear returned to the place he’d seen the mouth, there was only a burned scar. He collected his belongings and decided to end this particular stint away from civilization. He hiked into Manchester and spent the next week drinking away the remainder of his modest savings. It was during those drunken days that he told the story to everyone who would sit long enough to listen, and it was through those who remembered his tale that I’d found him.

That was all Bear could tell me. He never went to that section of the forest again and, beyond that week of intoxication, kept the story to himself. Three years had passed without another incident of that sort, though Bear had encountered several more of the usual occurrences, such as the phantom sounds and mysterious lights. These were common enough to the section of New York, however, to raise not even the smallest concern.

I asked Bear if he could take me to the place where the terrible events had transpired. Initially he refused, saying he’d sworn an oath never to return. The offer of one-hundred dollars—far more than I could afford, but a reasonable sacrifice I convinced myself—changed his mind. “I can take you there,” he said, shaking my hand to seal our agreement, “but I won’t stay the night. That there’s no making me do, no matter how much money you professor folk are willing to hand over.” I told him that would be fine, that all I needed was the location and guidance to it. I’d manage the rest on my own.

We set a date four days from then for our expedition and I paid Bear a handful more to procure me the necessary equipment for what I hoped would be a fruitful conclusion to my search. Here I must mention that, while I hadn’t quite felt it at any conscious level yet, panic had begun to gnaw at me. My grandfathers stories, I was sure, were simple fabrications and my attempt to find the hill Cumorah, the place he had supposedly dug up the golden plates containing the Book of Mormon, was a means of proving that to myself as well as, in some fashion, reconnecting with my heritage. I am, after all, just two generations removed from a man countless hard working, honest, and intelligent Americans believe is a prophet as significant as Jesus or Muhammad. Joseph Smith may actually be little more than a charlatan who convinced himself of the truth of his own lies, but he’s a charlatan with a following greater than any in recent history. And he’s my grandfather. No matter how far I remove myself from his legacy, I am still a part of it.

The idea, then, that there might be some truth to Joseph’s claims—that the woods between Manchester and Palmyra where he writes of his supernatural experiences occurring could, in fact, be filled with mysteries beyond the comprehension of man—shook my foundations as a man of reason. What was out there in that terrible world where Joseph had his visions? I confess I was nervous about finding out.

I met Bear at the prescribed time and, true to his word, he brought with him the implements I’d need to last several days alone in the forest. We packed these into large sacks and lashed them to our backs before beginning the march towards whatever might await us. Bear told me the journey would take us the rest of that day and the better part of the next. He’d likely leave me with only a few hours of daylight left to make camp and prepare. The prospect of the loss of daylight without preparations for the night completed was not encouraging.

We set out and I must admit Bear’s company had a certain rustic joviality, an unlettered coarseness I found immediately appealing. He told me of his time growing up in the near wilderness, of his father, a preacher who’d died young, and his mother, as hard working a wife as one was likely to find. Bear received no schooling to speak of, but his uncle on his father’s side was a seasoned trapper and he’d take his nephew out with him, teaching him the trade. “Good thing, too,” Bear said, as we sat drying in the sun after stumbling through a small stream. “My mother, bless her to the ends of the earth, she decided one day she’d had her fill of the hard life and when another preacher came through, she dropped it all and ran off with him.” He laughed. “Can’t blame her.”

Bear’s story continued through most of our journey in a wonderfully told series of anecdotes and tall tales, until eventually we had to cease our trek for the night. The following morning was much the same, however, and, by the time Bear announced we’d arrived at our destination, I was finding myself anxious for the approaching solitude. Bear offered to stay with me until darkness came, to show me around the area. I declined, telling him I didn’t want to force any particularly terrible memories upon him, not so near to the place his brush with the supernatural had occurred. He nodded, relieved, and took his leave of me. My afternoon was spent walking alone through the immediate area, enjoying the sights and sounds, and occasionally making notes in my journal.

When night came, I made camp, erecting the tent Bear had provided and following his instructions until I had a healthy fire going to ward off the night’s chill. While I was excited at the prospect of witnessing some occurrence similar to the one my grandfather wrote of, a part of me held out hope that my fire pit would be the only I’d see that night.

As luck would have it, that’s exactly what happened. I kept myself awake for as long as I could, walking a small circuit around the crests of the hills my tent rested at the center of, but it quickly became too much for a body used to the finer accommodations and relaxed lifestyle academe affords. I fell asleep. My dreams were troubled with images of faceless people talking and running and fighting while what I can best describe as ghosts floated nearby. None of them saw me, but I remember the feeling of terror at the thought that they would. I awoke just after dawn, still tired, my muscles aching.

I wish now that I’d been better able to sleep, because it would have made the events of that day easier to cope with. I made myself a small breakfast and decided to move my camp to the very spot Bear had seen the mouth. I couldn’t be certain any new display would happen in the same location, but then the only thing lost would be the time and effort involved in packing and unpacking my equipment.

The scar was as Bear had described it. The ground looked long ago burnt, like a huge fire had been build and the ashes partially grown over. I pushed away the vegetation and cleared the area of broken branches and one moss covered log. Then I setup my tent, with the canvas floor resting right across the top of the damaged earth. I knew this might be an imprudent decision, for what if the mouth opened again, directly beneath me as I slept? I cannot tell you why I refused to take the risk seriously, only that I was aware of something I can’t describe telling me it was the right thing to do.

It was. I explored the woods that day, finding nothing except for several strange carvings on perhaps a dozen trees. They appeared to be runes of some sort, in a circle, and ranged from relatively fresh—the exposed wood browned, but still noticeably lighter than the surrounding bark—to ancient. I had no reason to think they were related to the purported experiences of my grandfather, but I made careful drawings of them, nonetheless.