Roy murmurs and stirs. The long leg stretches, flexes, pulls Nathan closer. The one sleeping bag in which they have wrapped themselves falls away. Nathan admires the detail of the boy that he can now see, the fine, dark hair along the legs, the line of arms and shoulders. For a moment another image intrudes into his peace, a memory of older, whiter, fallen flesh, of grizzled hair and oily skin, of a sour smell and the feeling of suffocation. But the edge of memory comes without panic this time, and Nathan, as he has learned to do, focuses on the next breath, the cool of the morning in which his heart is currently beating. The memory dissolves. He closes the door and locks it. Nothing more will escape.
Outside, Randy sings a country music love song while banging the frying pan on a rock.
After a few moments, Roy groans and stretches. He kisses Nathan sweetly, murmurs a good morning. Randy's song continues, and Roy sings with him, in a clear voice, lighter than Nathan would have expected.
Again from outside comes Burke's booming baritone calling all lazy good-for-nothings to climb out of their sleeping bags.
Dressing is a clumsy process in the tent, but Nathan is too shy to carry his clothes outdoors as Roy does. Nathan buttons his shirt, zips his pants. Outside the woodland shimmers with clear light and shaggy, vaulted green, branches hung with jagged banners of sweet autumn clematis. The air smells of bee balm, vaguely like mint and medicine, and carries the freshness of the morning after a storm. Even the creek now moves less brackishly and some daylight penetrates a lining of moss and mud. Nathan walks along the creek bank, kneels and touches the chilly water.
Burke and Randy have made breakfast already, the bacon less burned than for supper. Roy has brought instant coffee, and Nathan drinks it from Roy's tin cup, which becomes almost too hot to touch. The closeness in which they have rested through the night continues to surround them during the breakfast, a peace that fills the space between them, almost visible. There is a softness in Roy's eyes when he watches Nathan, and for Nathan the feeling is perfected in some way; Roy anchors him in the present, strips away shadows of the past Like breathing, in and out. Nathan basks in the beating of his own heart, in the descending calls of birds, in the fresh shadows of leaves on the backs of his hands. Life becomes a cool gentleness, a process of listening, a caressing presence. In the world that exists only through Roy.
Maybe the feeling is so palpable that even Randy and Burke are aware of it. Especially Burke. He sits across from Nathan at the campfire and watches with lowered eyes.
They strike camp quickly. Roy dismantles and packs the tent, and the memories of the night before are stowed away as quickly. Nathan helps Randy with the cooking equipment while Burke splashes water on the fire and buries the ashes.
Roy stands with his pack set over his shoulders, waiting.
Breezes lift the lower branches in the glade, stir the yellowing fronds of ferns, the wisteria, the blue hearts, moss, and tangles of honeysuckle, and sun strikes everything, and scents rise like waves of heat.
Without a word, Roy ascertains that all is ready and sets out walking. Taking a deep breath, Nathan follows.
Their path follows the creek through several turns to a place where a long, narrow island almost bisects it. Stones form a natural ford to the island. Roy warns Nathan to be careful on the slick backs; he himself steps nimbly to the mossy shore and picks a path to the other side. He moves with certainty, as if the landmarks here are well known to him. Nathan admires his graceful lancing through the underbrush. Nathan pauses in a stand of tall green ferns. Roy has already crossed to the opposite shore and waits in the grass beyond. "You can jump," Roy calls, "it's pretty narrow"
Nathan takes a running start at a slant and flies over the dark water. Roy catches him by the elbow. There is intimacy in the moment, in the way Roy touches Nathan. "Now we go this way, Roy says, and when Nathan turns, there is Burke, watching.
They leave the course of the creek, and tall pines open the roof of the forest to light and sky. Walking becomes easy, one has only to be mindful of cones and dry branches. The cool morning lends quickness to their steps. In the airy vaults Randy sings again, a hymn from the Broadman Hymnal, Up from the grave he arose, with a mighty triumph o'er his foes, and there is something clear in his voice, not echoing but rather expanding and dissolving into the trees. Roy, ahead, moves without weight. Burke, sometimes behind Nathan and sometimes beside him, scowls at the earth, tramping on pine cones and fallen leaves.
