Falling in the Garden

Chapter Twelve - Borderland

Chapter Twelve

Borderland

Within five minutes of searching the Internet, I found the homepage for Black Forest Serenade. On the contacts page, I found the employee directory and there she was: Sarah Saint-Miller, M.D., Ph.D. – Director of Affairs. Beside her name was an e-mail address.

I quickly opened a blank e-mail and entered saintmiller@bfs.org. After typing a brief message asking if she was the same Sarah Kasner who had grown up in Monroe, N.Y., I clicked SEND. In theory, she could have received the e-mail that very second. A big part of me knew that this was highly unlikely, but I couldn’t help feeling there was some preternatural undercurrent to the past few hours.

I searched the Black Forest website a second and third time for a phone number, any phone number, but it appeared that all initial correspondence was to be done through mail or e-mail.

It seemed like weeks, not hours, since I last spoke with Ashley. I couldn’t stand having to wait another six or seven hours until dark to go to The Meadow. Packing my supplies, I prepared to spend the entire afternoon walking the trails. At twilight, I would return to Ashley. I left a brief note for my mother explaining that I wouldn’t be back until late, long after dinner. I figured that Ashley and I had a lot to talk about. As an afterthought, I grabbed a paperback from my bookshelf and packed it as well.

Without really thinking about where I would start, I was already at a trail entrance close to Joe’s old house. Map and pen in hand, I stepped into a new area and began charting. Fortunately, the rain and clouds had left the sky for now.

I guess I haven’t mentioned the poems yet. How strange. Well, after Ashley and I realized what was happening, I starting filling the pages of a composition notebook with poetry. A few poems were for Ashley, I’ll admit that, but the most of them were centered on my own personal feelings. And the nature of time. I read everything about time and time travel I could find, fiction and non-fiction. Jack Finney. Richard Matheson. David Deutch. I even formulated my own crazy ideas, anything that might bring a spark of hope to my quest for finally reaching Ashley. Toward the end of that summer, the poetry had descended into pure science fiction. In verse, I constructed exotic machines that would send me back, or pull Ashley forward.

That afternoon, sitting on a high rise of land that looked down on Chester and Sugar Loaf, I wrote a poem that had Sarah Saint-Miller sending me parts of a time machine through the mail one piece at a time. In only seven shipments, I had all the sections to construct an apparatus that allowed Ashley to walk forward in time (and I backward) so that we met at a halfway point during the late spring of 1972. In order for us to remain together, we had to promise never to return to The Meadow, or the government would do everything they could to separate us.

Anyway, I sat on that hill until the sun was lowering toward the distant Sugar Loaf Mountain. Knowing it would take over a half-hour to reach The Meadow, I packed my things and started toward the main trail leading back to familiar territory. Relying on the newly drawn lines, I was careful to follow what I’d written. An awful thought followed me the entire way back: what if I got lost? It had happened before, to be sure, but I had to get to Ashley. If I didn’t show up, she’d think I’d abandoned her and didn’t care anymore. My tired mind, I’m sure, was beginning to overreact.

When I finally arrived at The Meadow, I worried further that I’d taken an incorrect path. This clearing seemed smaller, more closed in. With the sun now gone, the newly risen moon cast a cool, blue glow on the ground and…. I looked up past the trees and realized that there was no moon. No stars. Heavy, interwoven clouds sagged miles above and grew thicker as the night grew older. I looked down at the ground again and saw the blue haze coat moss and grass and stone. I couldn’t, however, discern the glow’s source. This was The Meadow. It looked so strange being lit from within with a low ceiling of clouds. A room with thick walls. I felt like I truly belonged in a padded room.