Gwen, in Green

She thought of the island as it once was, wild, huge trees never touched by saw or ax. The trees would have closed off the floor of the forest from the sun, and there, underneath a shady canopy, would be only a thick mulch of pine straw and leaves, clear, cool. It was a nice thought. She’d never seen a virgin forest, only second-­growth timber with thick underbrush and weedy plants. She imagined the forest of three hundred years past and then, further than that, back through the eons to ages of giant ferns and strange, lumbering animals.

Something crawled on her foot. She kicked and looked down. A pulpy tentacle of the water plant which covered the bottom of the pond had drifted across her instep. She stretched, her heels in the very edge of the water, and yawned. The sun felt so good, the water so cool. An image. She, like a plant, head lifted to the sun, feet, roots, in cool, wet earth. She dug her feet into the wet sand, sighed with the feel of it. What would she be? A rose? A giant sequoia? Or that desert tree which lived thousands, wasn’t it, of years? A rose was glamorous, but there were all sorts of things that ate it. A tree. Sequoia. Hundreds of years old. A line from a song, “and if you could speak, what a fascinating tale you could tell.” She would want some defense, however, so that when the loggers came she could drop a limb on their heads. Well, they’d just build cages to protect them, like the bulldozer operator.

Idle mind, idle thoughts, she told herself, thinking about going inside to have a bite of something or to paint. But she was so lazy.

There is a delicious feeling of contentment when one falls asleep slowly for a practice nap. As she shaded her eyes from the sun with one arm, she thought, If I could be this sleepy when I go to bed I’d never dream. Pure luxury. Letting the eyes close, the lids so heavy, so heavy. And half-­sleep, an awareness of sounds, but as if they came from a distance. Comfort. Lazy comfort. Peace. Around her the living things were known, friendly, and symbiotic. Shared things, the perfume of flowers, the rich fruit given freely, she, herself, knowing the goodness of the rich earth, yet mobile, returning to it for health and sustenance. At the end of the day planting herself, coming back to the rich earth. Feeding. An absence of pain and fear. It was a beautiful dream and it was real and the landscape was eerily familiar, yet strange.

She felt heavy and ripe. It was a good, natural feeling. A bee buzzed on a weed flower near her ear. Birds called, and a mosquito whined near her head but did not bite. She sat up, feeling languidly at peace. Her clothes constrained her. She loosened her blouse and left it open to the waist. The sun felt good on her bare skin. She wore a small, natural-­feel tricot bra. She felt like saying, “Yum,” when she breathed the air, it was so pure, so delicately flavored with the sweet oxygen given off by the growing things around her.

A noise at the far end of the pond caused her to turn her head, not in panic, in interest, slowly. Sam started barking. Two teen-­age boys came out of the brush, did not see her, halted to look at the pond. Ripe, swollen, heavy. Good, natural. She stretched, pushing out her breasts. She raised a hand, waved at them. They saw and waved back hesitantly.

“Come here,” she called, just loudly enough to be heard.

They consulted, moved slowly around the pond. She waited, ripe, mellow, natural.

“No.” She heard it deep inside, a small voice. “No.” That part of her knew, recognized the feeling of ripeness. That part of her screamed, protested. The two boys, tall, lithe, and handsome, moved toward her, walking slowly around the far end of the clear pond.

“I won’t,” she whispered. “I will not.”

She was talking to someone or something. She couldn’t see or hear that someone or that something, but it was there. “I won’t.”

“Yes, yes,” the very air seemed to be saying. “Yes,” inside her. Open yourself here, naturally, on the grass.

They were fifty yards away, nearing her. She shook her head, fighting the conflicting desires, the ripe, natural, sweet want versus the agony of knowledge. If she yielded to her impulses, she could not live with herself.

Sam, barking, escorted them. Her stomach and her scantily covered breasts were exposed. They could see. “No, please,” she begged. “No.”

There was an alternative. It was so frightening that she screamed, the sound shrill, harsh, breaking the silence. The two boys halted. The alternative was presented again, vividly. She screamed anew, and the two boys broke into a run and crashed away into the brush. She stood, breathing hard, tears wetting her face. “No,” she said. “Oh, no.”