It was as if the world ended suddenly, exhaled in grayness, just beyond
the reach of my hand. It made objects remote and unreal and singularly
shining. I looked toward the sycamore, and my heart beat fast for a
moment, for I thought that a pool of fresh blood lay in the grass where
the woman and I had sat the day before. But I looked again and saw
that it was only the bunch of red lilies that she had plucked and worn
and thrown away. I had told her that their red was the color of war,
and she had let them drop to the ground. I went to them and picked
them up, and they left heavy, scarlet stains upon my fingers.
When I went to the canoe I found it still damp, but I uncovered it and
went to work to do what I could with the frayed seams. An unreasoning
haste had possession of me, and I worked fumblingly and badly, like a
man with fear behind him. Yet I was not afraid. I was consumed by the
feeling that I must get back to camp and to the woman without delay.
Kneeling to my work with my back to the forest, strange noises came
behind and begged attention. But I would not look up. I had had
enough of visions and whisperings and a haunted wood. I wanted my
canoe and my paddle and a chance to shoot straight and to get home.
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