Gwen, in Green

She awoke with the clammy stench of nightmare on her body, cold sweat, a deep, gnawing dread in her. The dream had been vague but powerful. Terrible pain. Legs being severed, cold metal biting in. Eyes wide, she tried to dispel the feeling. Around her, the house seemed to be alive. Still settling, expanding and contracting with the heat of the spring sun followed by a cool night, it cracked and groaned. The wind had come up during the night. The day had been unusually calm for March. Now there was a rush­ing hiss of gusts and an occasional clatter of screens as the gusts pounded the house. She remembered the fire. They’d left it smouldering. She got up, the cool of the night drying the perspiration from her limbs. In a pajama top, the only night garment which met with George’s approval, she walked out of the bedroom into the hall. Something cracked in front of her and her heart leaped. But it was her house, her friendly house. She pushed on, guiding herself in total darkness to the living room, and felt her way across. The outside was black, for the moon was covered by clouds. She stood in front of the glass doors and peered into the darkness. There was a glow of red at the edge of the clearing where they’d built the fire. As she watched, wind whipped sparks away. A flaming picture hit her, a visual image of the woods burning, great sheets of red leaping up and leaves steaming, cracking with the heat, and burning with sizzling bursts of fire. The vision seemed to hurt, sending sheets of pain through her.

Behind her there was a sound. She whirled and tried to see into the darkness of the living room. There was only shadow and deeper shadow, and she felt the old, familiar near-­panic of night fear.

“This is my house,” she told herself. She walked care­fully, her eyes wide, head not turning but her eyes flicking from side to side. In the darkness, her eyes played tricks, picking up motion at the far edge of her peripheral vision. Her hand was shaking and the cold sweat of fear was back as she stabbed once, twice, three times before find­ing the light switch and flooding the room with blessed light.

George was hard to arouse. When he could understand, she told him the wind was blowing and the fire was in danger of spreading. He rose, groaning, went with her to the living room, turned out the light so that he could see outside, watched the glow of embers in the wind and shrugged. “It’ll be all right,” he said.

“Shouldn’t we go out and put it out or cover it with dirt or something?”

He groaned, stretching already stiff muscles. “You go if you’re so worried.”

He left her, stumbling back to fall into the bed. She almost ran out of the room, fighting the need to look behind her, although her reason told her that the shadows were nothing more than her familiar furniture. She had difficulty getting back to sleep. She did not dream again, but there was pain in her legs when she awoke, the achy pain of sore muscles. That and nothing more.

George, too, was stiff. He made a great show of it and demanded tender treatment, which he received, with a special breakfast and a rub-­down afterwards. Then, in spite of his new blisters on his hands, he was determined to get back to his pioneering operation. “Work the stiffness out,” he said.

It was another lovely day. They began work just before noon that Sunday. They cut and hacked and mowed and sawed and chopped their way into the tangled growth, piling brush high, burning it. It was rewarding work be­cause their progress was so visible. The area in front of the house began to take on a parklike look. They left the larger trees, which were thickly spaced, selected patterns to be left in the smaller growth, left all pines to help form a carpet of mulch with fallen pine needles, and they trimmed holly and yaupon so that they would grow more shapely. The lawnmower mulched leaves and twigs, leav­ing a carpet of brown behind them.

They had sandwiches on the deck overlooking the clear pond, followed them with cold beer, went back at it and hacked away a swatch of underbrush, which was burned in early evening darkness.

Gwen slept fitfully, with vague dreams. On Monday morning she was sore in every muscle.

Birds and squirrels loved the newly cleared area, scratching and digging happily. The squirrels drove the two outside dogs almost into hysterics. They were brazen little animals, coming to within a few feet of a sleeping dog, chattering, and then beating a hasty retreat when the dog aroused himself and gave chase.

By Wednesday, when George took a half-­day off, Gwen was moving with more ease. George was fascinated with the clearing operation. They spent the afternoon cutting and burning, and the view was opening up. George talked about clearing all around the clear pond and then cutting bridle paths through the woods. Gwen said he certainly was ambitious. He said he’d already lost two pounds.