Valley of the Moon

It was the Miwok and Pomo tribes who came up with the name Sonoma. There was some dispute as to whether it meant “valley of the moon” or “many moons” (some people claimed the moon seemed to rise there several times in one night), but that wasn’t important. What was important was that the Valley of the Moon was supposed to be enchanting: rushing creeks and madrones, old orchards and wildflowers. The perfect place to lose myself. Or find myself. If I was lucky, a little of both.

By the time I’d finished packing, it was just after noon and 428 Elizabeth Street was empty. Rose and Doro were still at the rally, Tommy was working, Rhonda had taken the bus across the bay to visit with her family, and the Patels had gone off for a picnic in the park. I threw my pack in the trunk of my car and hit the road.

An hour and a half later, I pulled into the parking lot of Jack London State Park.

I relied on instinct out in the woods; I depended on my gut. I could have made camp in a few places, but none of them was just right. Finally I found the perfect spot.

The scent of laurel and bay leaves led me to a creek. I trekked up the bank to a small redwood grove. Sweat dripped between my shoulder blades. I was in my element; I could have gone another ten miles if needed. I dropped my pack. Yes, this was it. The air smelled of pine needles and cedar. The clearing felt holy, like a cathedral. I punched my arms in the air and hooted.

I experienced the absence of Benno (not having to hold him as a fact in my mind every minute) as a continual dissonance. I had to remind myself: He’s not here. He’s okay. He’s with Mom. I hoped the shock would lessen as the days went on and that I’d not only acclimate to the solitude, but relish it. Nobody needed me. Nobody was judging me. I could do or act or feel however I wanted.

I peeled off my sweaty tank top. I stood there for a moment, bare-chested. It was warm now, but once it got dark the temperature would drop. I draped the tank top over a bush to dry and put on a clean T-shirt.

I pitched my tent. Beside my sleeping bag went The Hobbit, a pocket-size transistor radio, Doro’s joint, a book of matches, and a flashlight.

For dinner I ate two Slim Jims and some peanut butter. By this time the woods were purpling with dusk. I crawled into my sleeping bag. In the pages of The Hobbit I’d tucked the Polaroid of Benno and me. I kissed my fingers and pressed them on his image. Good night, sweet boy.

I thought about reading. I thought about taking a puff of the joint. I did neither. I put my head down on the folded-up sweater that served as my pillow and instantly fell asleep.

I awoke in the middle of the night. It was freezing; I could see my breath. I slid on my jeans. I had to pee badly.

I unzipped the tent and stepped outside. Fog had enveloped the campsite, a fog so thick I couldn’t see three feet in front of me. I gingerly walked a few yards from the tent, pulled down my jeans, squatted, and peed. The fog cleared for a moment and a glorious full moon bobbed above me in a star-studded sky. Seconds later the fog descended and my stomach clenched. I felt trapped.

I saw a light off in the near distance. It blinked once and disappeared. I stared steadily at it. It blinked again. Somebody must have a cabin out here.

Suddenly I was desperate not to be alone.

It seemed like only minutes, but it must have taken me hours to find that light, because when I broke through the fog, it was day and the sun shone brightly.

I stood at the edge of a meadow. This was no cabin; it was a large, barnlike structure, wood-shingled with red trim. Through the open doors, I could see dozens of people sitting at long tables. Silverware clinked. The smell of bacon wafted through the air.

A pang of loneliness struck me, seeing them all there, dining together. I frequently felt this way when I came upon groups, at the beach, at Seven Hills—the worst was the Christmas Eve service at Grace Cathedral. As if everybody but me had people. I guess I had people: Benno and, sometimes, Rhonda (on the rare nights she was home—she had quite a social life), but what I really wanted was a tribe.

I don’t know how long I stood there, spying on them, wishing somebody would see me and invite me over. Finally I screwed up my courage and began walking across the meadow. I had nothing to lose. They’d either welcome me or send me on my way.

JOSEPH (#ulink_601c53b6-8e27-58c8-8477-a1aa4a27467b)

Valley of the Moon1906 (#ulink_601c53b6-8e27-58c8-8477-a1aa4a27467b)

A young woman stood at the threshold of the dining hall. A stranger. One moment we were eating breakfast, the next moment she was standing there. There was an air of impermanence about her. Was she an apparition?

“Um, hello,” she said, blinking.

“Finally!” cried Fancy, jumping up from the bench. “You’re here! I never doubted you’d come. I never gave up hope!”

Before I could stop my sister, she ran to the woman and embraced her. “Are there others? Is it just you? Why did it take you so long?”

Four months had passed since the fog had encircled us. In public I was always careful to use the word encircled rather than trapped. It left the door cracked open a bit. And through this open door had come—

“I think you’ve mistaken me for somebody else,” the woman said, her cheeks flushed. “I mean, I’d like to be the one you expected. But I don’t think I am.”

No, she was not the one I expected; I never could have dreamed her up. Why was she dressed so strangely? Was she going to some sort of a costume party? Unlike the Greengage women, who wore their hair neatly pinned back, hers was loose, with a fringe so long it nearly covered her eyes. Instead of a skirt, she had on dungarees that clung to her pelvis and thighs. She wore a shirt that said KING’S ALE—SMILE IF YOU HAD IT LAST NIGHT.

“Look, Joseph,” said Fancy, beaming, as if she herself were responsible for the woman’s appearance. “Look!”

I walked over to them, fighting a vertiginous sensation. I felt exactly as I had just after the earthquake, when Martha and I discovered everything and everybody in Greengage was intact. Utter disorientation. As if my cells were being forcibly rearranged.

“I’m Joseph Bell,” I said, introducing myself.

“Lux Lysander,” she said, shaking my hand firmly.

Her eyes darted around the room, taking us all in. She had the same bewildered look on her face that I’m sure I had on mine.

“Are you shooting a film?”

Shooting a film? “How did you find us?” I asked.

“I saw your light through the fog.”

“You came through the fog?”

She rubbed her upper arms and shivered. “It was so thick.”

“So you weren’t looking for us?” asked Fancy. “You just stumbled through the fog? And stumbled upon us here?”

Lux raised her shoulders somewhat apologetically.

“Did the fog make you feel ill?” I asked.

“Ill how?”

“Shortness of breath? Heart palpitations?”

“I felt a little claustrophobic, so my heart was probably racing, but no, I didn’t feel ill.” She looked around the room as 278 pairs of puzzled eyes stared back at her.

“I think I should leave,” she said. “Obviously I’m interrupting something.”

She backed out of the room, turned quickly, and started walking across the meadow.

“No, wait!” I shouted. I caught up with her, grabbed her elbow, and spun her around. “Please indulge me. Allow me to ask you a few more questions about the fog.”

She looked alarmed. “Why? What’s the big deal about the fog?”

“As you said, it’s an unusually thick fog. And it’s been here for a long time.”

A group had gathered around us, desperate for information. I’d hoped to be able to question the stranger privately, but I could see that would not be an option.

“Please. May I ask you a few more questions?”