Count on my return, Trevor.

Dear Trevor,

I’m scribbling this note to you and dropping it off at the post office as Carl and I get ready to head back into the woods.

Carl is tagging after me like a faithful mutt, waiting for me to give him a command. It’s strange. Once I gave him one order of leaving with me today, our relationship has changed. He looks to me for direction. I think it feels natural to him, to not have to think for himself. I understand that. This is not a place that encourages thinking, at least not without great effort.

I expect that I will come back, Trevor. I am nearly certain the woods are not for me, but I need to realize what they are for. They must have a purpose. There must be purpose, mustn’t there? I mean, even this purposeless place must play a role in the long stumble of our souls.

I hope we can somehow find Julia again and bring her back, but I only have the littlest bit of faith that will happen. Between you and me, it’s not my main purpose forgoing back in. If you had seen Julia and heard the chords her voice struck, you would understand what I mean. I don’t think there is any coming back for her.

Martin came to see us off, holding his empty pipe in his hand for comfort, tapping the bowl and probably wishing hard for tobacco. “Post tenebras spero lucem,” he said to us. “After darkness, I hope for light.” I hope for light, too. I hope for something. Something other than what I have now.

Count on my return, Trevor.

Dad

I heard Julia crying out from the other side of the chasm.

Dear Trevor,

One of the things most frustrating about dying of cancer was how much of my focus was taken up with my own pain. Pain was always yammering for my attention. So when Steffan or Keith would come home from school and want to talk about a girl or a bad grade, I didn’t have much left to give. I’d say, “Hey kiddo, how was your day?” And when one would ask me how mine was, I’d force a smile and say, “Not bad, not bad.” A son of mine would tell me what happened at school and I’d raise and lower my eyebrows and nod my head at the right places.

But they could tell I wasn’t really listening. It was hard to listen to a whisper about a social studies class when my guts were yelling so loud all the time.

That’s how I feel right now. I don’t want to be phony with you and say, “Mmm, basketball…nice. Good job.” I want to really listen. I may have to go back and reread your letters in a few days. Right now, it’s hard for me to focus on anything other than what happened in the woods. The memories are still shouting at me.

Back in the woods, I was sitting next to the motionless form of Martin. I heard Julia crying out from the other side of the chasm. “Julia!” I yelled.

“I heard a voice!” she yelled.

“It’s Hugh,” I said. “What happened to Martin?”

“Help me!” she cried in return. “I’m all alone.”

I repeated my question, but she only cried for help in return. I turned to the body beside me. Martin was still breathing shallowly, with a faint gurgle. I yelled his name right into his ear, but he didn’t respond. I shook him, pulling the moss from his face and torso. No response.

Martin’s skin was pockmarked where the moss had been. The moss had begun taking root. He was host to its parasite. I slapped him hard, knocking spittle from his open mouth. I screamed his name at him, but I may as well have been screaming at a log. I slapped him again. Nothing. I laid him tenderly back on the ground. He settled back into his body-shaped dent.

I stood up and stumbled through the thick moss toward the edge of the chasm. I nearly tripped, which would have sent me falling plunging into the dark. I stopped and stared down toward the roaring river, but the chasm was so deep that I could not see the bottom.

“I’m here,” I called to Julia.

“Help me,” she called back. “I’m alone.”

“How can I reach you?” I asked.

“I’m alone!” she cried.

“How do I get across?”

“I’m alone!”

Trevor, I couldn’t stand to hear those words anymore—the insane repetition. I hated the reminder of my loneliness. I couldn’t stand to remain by that comatose body in the moss. I fled. I left her there. I turned and ran, following my own footprints in the moss, through the woods, back through the darkness toward town.

Enough for today.

Dad

I will lie down here, I thought, just for a moment.

Dear Trevor,

Believe me when I tell you I care about your life. It’s nearly all I’ve cared about since the first time I received a letter from you up here. I would love to come to your basketball game. If I could find it in myself to shed a tear, I would shed them for the times we did not get to play together at any sport or game—basketball, soccer, a simple game of catch, a pillow fight, a race to the mailbox and back. A spitting contest off the deck.

The woods simply overwhelmed me. I am a little better today, a condition which fills me with its own kind of dread, because I know I must go back into the woods.

Will it help if I continue my story for you? Here goes:

I followed Julia and Martin’s trail deeper into the trees until I began to notice a sound. It started as a distant, muffled buzz, but I recognized it even then. It was a river. It had such a steady, solid noise that I thought it might be a waterfall. The sound was a comfort—like running into an old friend in a strange city. A river meant life. Rivers started somewhere and went somewhere. They proceeded, unlike tides and fog and everything else in this world that simply seemed to come and go.

I was desperate for any kind of company, because the woods were the most alone place I have ever been. No animals. No people. Even the tree branches were out of reach. It was a smothering kind of loneliness. I thought maybe I would never see people again. I longed for humans. I would have kissed Sung-Hee on the lips if I had seen her.

The sound of the river was the closest thing to a friend I had. For the first time since I entered the forest, I quickened my step.

In the silence, the sound must have traveled for many miles, because it seemed I walked for days without reaching it. The saturated moss sucked at my feet. I slipped more and more as I went along, each time covering my clothes in green stains. The stains are still there now—green-streaked souvenirs of a trip I’d rather sever from my memory.

I was tired, but not in the way you might get tired from running lines in your basketball practice—yes, I read that letter. I was short of breath, much like I had become late in my cancer, when the air seemed less worth breathing. The moss sucked at my feet from below. The dark, moist air sucked at my mouth, seeming to pull any usable oxygen out of it.

But I went on, stopping briefly at the bottom of a rise in the land. The sound of the river grew louder here. I began to struggle up the rise and determined that when I reached the top, I would lie down and rest. It seemed as I went up, that gravity increased its pull on me. Each lift of a foot became a struggle of determination. I stopped halfway to the top.

“I will lie down here,” I thought, “just for a moment.” I did so, sprawling on the damp moss. I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath, but the air here was damper than ever. It was like breathing in Jell-o.

Lying there, the side of my head was half sunk into the deep moss. I could hear the squishing, sucking sound through my submerged ear. I could feel a kind of tingly, creeping movement over my wet skin, as if bugs were crawling slowly up from the moss and onto me. I wanted to scream, to jump to my feet, but I was so tired.

I laid there, Trevor, thinking that perhaps I would just breathe in and out one more time and then go to sleep. It had been so long since I’d had a really good sleep. But I dreaded lying their by myself. I wanted to find someone—anyone. I longed to be not alone. I longed even for Martin and Julia’s pathetic company.

It was that longing—or that dread of loneliness—that pushed me to my feet. My face and clothing were wet and green now, like the moss I’d lied in. I struggled mindlessly to the top of the hill and nearly tripped over Martin’s body.

He laid there, his eyes mostly closed, his big chest rising and falling ever so slightly. Moss covered him nearly completely. It grew on his skin, as if he were made of rotting wood. One dripping eye was exposed. His gaping fish mouth sucked the moist air in and out. I screamed.

“Help me!” a voice called in response. It was Julia. I looked around in the dim light. “Help me, please!” she cried again. The sound of rushing water nearly drowned her out. “I heard a voice!” she cried. “Is someone there?”

I could just see her, waving a hand frantically, on the far side of the chasm. I had no idea how I might get to her. I had no desire to stay where I was, next to the moss-choked body beside me.

I need to beg for your patience again, Trevor. I am tired. I need to try to catch my breath again. I’ll write again soon. I’ve told you most of it, anyhow.

Dad

I pushed my way under the big trees.

Dear Trevor,

I still feel like I am catching my breath. Your stack of letters profoundly disturbed me, as I had no idea how long I was gone. Sometimes, in the woods, I thought I had only been there a few hours. Other times, I wondered if I’d ever been anywhere else.

Be patient with me as I explain this to you, Trevor. It’s difficult for me to write. This stubby pencil keeps falling out of my shaking hand. It is strange, communicating with someone who plays basketball, who talks of other humans. It amazes me that there ever were such things. This paper of yours that you send to me. It appears real. I hope it is and I hope you are.

Forgive me, Trevor.

The woods.

The Laughing Gull.

I remember leaving the Laughing Gull a million years ago or five minutes ago to follow Martin and Julia. I had no idea what I hoped to find in the woods, but the knowledge that others were going first eased my anxiety. Just knowing Martin and Julia were in there somewhere made the experience feel less alone.

I found a trail through the brambles and pushed my way under the big trees. Once I got past the brushy edge, the rough trail gave way to mossy ground, which made every step soft and slippery. It was easy to follow Martin’s trail, though. He left size 13 scars on the moss. Next to his marks were the tiny blemishes made by Julia’s shoes.

The woods were dark all the time. Above, the huge trees disappeared up into the fog. I suppose that fog is why the trees are so big. It’s always feeding them. Always growing them to become more and more overwhelming. More imposing.

Growth only happens up above. Down on the ground, the only thing that grows is moss and mildew. The trees are draped in cobwebby moss. Moss on the tree trunks is seaweed-heavy. The ground is soggy with it. Every surface seems covered with some shade of green. It’s a kind of life, I suppose, but a choking kind.

Taken me half a day to write this, it seems.

I walked alone for some time—no idea how long. The air was so heavy in there, it seemed hard to breathe deep enough to reach that satisfying catch in the throat. If I had to do more than follow Julia and Martin’s marks, I would not have managed. Soon, all I could see were trees and moss. The only dim light came from above. The only sound was dripping water and a kind of squishing, wriggling sound that seemed to come from all around. It sounded like a million bug-sized drops of water had come to life. It seemed—

O Lord.

Trevor, I can’t write more today. I feel I’ve told you nothing so far. Tomorrow.

Dad

I’ve seen some horrors, Trevor. And I need to go see them again.

Dear Trevor,

I’m back. I haven’t even ready your letters yet. I just collected them from the post office and thought I had better write you to let you know I’m still alive, or whatever the proper term is. I’m here, at least.

I’ve seen some horrors, Trevor. And I need to go see them again. I’ve seen the fate of my kind. I found Martin. He is there in the deep shade of the woods and he will likely stay there, beneath the moss. I can’t speak of it anymore today.

I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Right now, I need to put my hand on the arm of a chair and feel something solid, or as solid as I can find in this half land.

I need to rest, Trevor, because I need to go back into the woods.

Dad