Ghosts

“I guess we’re finished.” Trish started packing up her books and tools. “You take the grass identification stuff, I’ll take the butterfly stuff. But I’ll keep the field guide out in case we see anything new on the way down the trail.”

It was part of her job to check out the flora and fauna on certain pieces of park land. This park, a meadow and woods covering a low hill, was an old farmstead someone had donated to the Wisconsin State Park system when no one was left to farm it. I was just her high school helper so she got to boss me around, but that was okay. I’d started as her student trainee in my freshman year, and now, in October of my sophomore year, we were more like friends. I was even going to be a bridesmaid at her wedding in December.

I finished cramming my junk into the old army surplus pack. “Got it. Can I lead on the way down, so I can watch all the grasshoppers jump? Every time I take a step about twenty of them fly up.”

“Okay, Tara. Whatever you like.” She hit me with her humongous sunshine smile.

So down we went, laughing and messing around as usual. This is the kind of stuff she pulls:

“Hey, Tara, why so faraway? You’re thinking about boys, aren’t you?”

“Am not.”

“Then what are you thinking about?”

“Only one boy.”

“Ah, I see.” She reached up and grabbed me, pack and all. “Which boy?”

“None of your beeswax. Ow! Nobody you know!” She was twisting my arm. It didn’t really hurt that much, but I pretended it did.

“I know who. You know who I’m talking about.”

“Your uncle!”

“Who?”

“UNCLE!” She let go and we were both just about falling down laughing at that corny old joke.

Trish pointed down a grassy slope, with trees around the edge. “Hey, look, I bet that’s where the farmhouse used to be back around 1900. Know how I know?”

“It says so on the map?” She shook her head. “’Cause it’s grassy instead of wooded?”

“No, not that. Look at the trees.”

“Oh yeah, apple trees. They’d probably have them planted right around the house. I’m going to pick some. Want to come with?”

“Nah. You go though. I’ve got to go down so I can pee and make a few phone calls.”

“Official naturalist business, of course.”

She grinned. “Yeah, right.”

“Hallo hallo, Maxi! Oh Maxi!” I sang out with my fake German accent. Max was her fiance, a grad student from Germany. He was out of town for the weekend competing in a triathlon. “I’ll be back at the car in fifteen-twenty minutes. Don’t get too slobbersome!”

She whipped a couple acorns at me, as she continued down the dirt trail and I veered off on a deer trail through the grass.

The warm sunlight was making everything golden: the grass, the few clouds, the air. Even the trees that were still green were green in a golden way, and of course leaves were going yellow all around. The tall grass at the sides of the deer trail was slicing at my legs, but I didn’t care; it was worth it for the swishy sound it made. Nearer the fruit trees, there was an intoxicating smell of fermenting apples coming up from the warm earth. In some places I could see indentations in the grass where deer had rested. When I got to the nearest tree, I was surprised to see a fawn lying beneath, watching my approach. This seemed strange, since fawns are born in spring and this one still looked quite young. Her spotted back blended in with the dappled shade of the tree.

“Hi, Sweety.” I looked a little to the side of her and spoke softly. Wild animals are sometimes less nervous if you avoid looking at them directly, and they really hate loud words. This one, oddly, shook her head at me. Maybe she doesn’t like being called nicknames, I thought.

She stood up and turned as if to go into the bushes, but looked back over her shoulder at me with a look so piercing and meaningful that I knew this was no ordinary deer. I knew she wanted me to follow her, so I did. The fawn was graceful and swift in the dense underbrush, and it was hard for me to keep up. But it wasn’t long before I saw where she was leading me.

We came to a bigger apple tree, with a clearing underneath, surrounded by more bushes. An adult deer lay in the shade beneath: a regal, cream-colored doe, amber eyes wide and glowing with intelligence. Her erect head looked as if it were carved of ivory. She was like no other deer I’d ever seen, certainly not like anything you’d usually find in Wisconsin. I didn’t even remember seeing any pictures of any deer like this. The fawn went over to lie down beside her.

"You're the guardian of this place, aren't you?” I whispered, at a guess.

She nodded. I was as astonished that I'd known this as I was that she could understand me. It seemed like a good idea to bring her a gift, so I pulled the acorns out of my shorts that I’d picked up to throw at Trish, and put them down in front of her. I was relieved when she nodded again.

I pointed up at the apple tree. “Would you like me to pick you some?” This time she shook her head. She used her nose to push an apple toward me that had been resting near her hoof. I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket, and she nodded again. She pointed with her nose the way I had come, and as if to reinforce the message the little one got up and indicated the way she’d led me before. So I thanked them both, bowed again, and made my way out. I was disappointed that this meeting had been so brief. The way they communicated was so clear that I guess I thought they’d start talking or something. I felt incomplete.

When I came out of the bushes by the first apple tree, I was startled to find someone there. At first I only felt a presence, but realized after a few moments that I was seeing a girl of about eight or nine. She was wearing an old-fashioned frock, brown with little pink flowers. There were burrs in her stockings and her chestnut-brown braids were coming loose. The startled look in her hazel eyes made it seem as if she sensed my presence as well. But after a moment she shook her head, as if shaking off some figment of her imagination, and walked right through me. She was looking around at the apples, but didn’t seem satisfied with them, and she put none of them into the big basket she was carrying.

“Elise! Elise!” A boy’s voice come from up a treetop about a hundred years away. “Bring your basket on over here. There still is a heap of apples in this’n! I will shake and you get them, yes?” I could understand him, but his way of speaking was strange to me, and he had a definite German accent.

“Coming!” With a backward glance in my direction, Elise headed off. While they were collecting the fruit, I stepped out of the shadows to have a look around.

It was autumn here as well, with the same shimmering, unseasonable warmth. The grass and trees were in the same places, but the grass was shorter and there was less brush cluttering the spaces between trees. When I looked up the hill, I saw a large farmhouse near where Trish and I had been walking. It was bright with a fresh coat of whitewash, and flowered curtains caught by the breeze licked in and out of the open windows. A plump, rosy-cheeked woman in long dress and white apron hung some clothes in the yard. I saw two black dogs sleeping in patches of shade, and just caught a tabby cat disappearing under the porch.

The girl had filled her basket, and the boy descended from the tree. I could see he was a few inches shorter than his sister. He was brushing sticks and leaves out of his tow-colored hair; his white shirt and brown pants, held up by suspenders, were too big for him and had been pulled askew by his climb.

“Hendrik! Elise!” Their mother had finished with her laundry and was calling them home. “Zu hause, bitte schon!” She started carrying her empty laundry basket into the house. The two children had been looking for Hendrik’s basket, which he had apparently misplaced. Now they gave that up and started fighting over the best way to carry the full basket home. It ended up with Hendrik grabbing the basket and running up the hill with it, while his sister yelled something after him in exasperated German.

But instead of following him, she came back to where I was standing. She was looking, perplexed, right at me, but also right through me. She cocked her head a little as if she were listening for something. I felt like saying something to her, but what was I supposed to say to the past? She was younger than me, but also older; we were living on the same day, but also at least a hundred years apart. I tried to think of something old to say, so it would make sense to her, and what came into my head was a poem far older than either of us, an ancient invocation:

“You know the place; then come to us, waiting where the grove is pleasantest, by precincts sacred to you.” I recited this in a stream of words without pauses, and could see Elise was listening intently. “Incense smokes on the altar, cold streams murmur through the apple branches, a young rose thicket shades the ground, and quivering leaves pour down deep sleep…” I stopped, unable to remember how the poem went after that. In the pause she blinked, and the spell was broken. She ran to her mother, who had come out of the house looking for her. Both soon went inside.

I slowly walked up the hill the way Elise had gone. When I got to the house, the two dogs lifted their heads and briefly sniffed around. But soon the day’s still laziness caught up with them, and their heads were back on their forepaws. As I made my way past the house, I pulled the deer apple out of my pocket and took a bite. When I looked back the house was gone.


(Note: The poem, by the ancient Greek lyric poet Sappho, is usually known as “The Apple Orchard”. Translation by Mary Barnard.)