A Requiem Path

short story by Thomas Sheridan

“a star appeared in the daytime, and Augustus persuaded people to believe it was Caesar”.

The Aeneid - Publius Vergilius Maro

Within Mission Control, the conversations soon drifted to personal memories and experiences, which were casually discussed among the team members. The historical technical aspects had ended, and the memoires—along with their liberally applied recollections of the actual events which took place during the mission’s history—had begun. They shared their tales using measured reflection surrounding the impact that Pioneer 11’s journey had on space exploration as a whole. A machine that many of them had seen firsthand and was now making its way through the vast, frigid realms of outer space among the planets and stars, which our ancient ancestors once considered to be representations of gods and mythological beings. With the decreasing light of the Sun now barely able to reflect upon its metallic surface, soon even Pioneer 11 would be absorbed by the incomprehensible abyss of interstellar space.

Having been launched on April 5, 1973, to uncover the mysteries of Jupiter, Saturn, and eventually the Asteroid Belt, Pioneer 11 had now joined that elusive class of man-made objects to escape our solar system. It was November 24, 1995, and amid the atmosphere inside Mission Control, as the last transmission was received from Pioneer 11, sensations simmered within a psychic cauldron of nostalgia, pride, and even a touch of melancholy took hold. Several of the team members had been involved with the mission from the start. It felt like they were burying someone they had known all their lives.

Engineers and scientists still closely monitored their screens, waiting for any last bits of data to be received. However, the data never came, and Pioneer 11 was officially on its way to interstellar immortality. NASA announced that. "After nearly 22 years of exploration out to the farthest reaches of the solar system, one of the most durable and productive space missions in history will come to a close." The engineering telemetry had been intermittently received in recent weeks until finally, it wasn’t. Pioneer 11—four billion miles from Earth, went silent. The spacecraft was now mute and had left Pluto far behind as it moved further into the cold, brutal darkness of deep space.

The following day, the passenger side of the Chevy Cavalier almost clipped the sturdy creosote-saturated fence that ran along the dirt road leading to the small parking lot within the woodland park, in a location over thirteen hundred miles to the north of Mission Control. The clearance on either side of the car was so tight that it was almost as if both the driver and the vehicle were being corralled into a pen of some kind.

Rather than walking into a local park, he had decided to drive the short distance from his rented apartment to the woodland trail parking lot. This was due to the sidewalks—what little of them existed—being adorned in a slippery coating of glassy ice. The last thing he needed was to break a leg, and not in the theatrical sense. Cornell Hewitt had lived across the road from the entrance to the woods for over a month now. For the first time since moving to Cape James, he had decided to look inside and wander along the woodland trail. Perhaps encountering some authentic New England ecology. Well, at least the hope of something that may be different from what he had known back in suburban Boston. He laughed sarcastically to himself when he realized this excuse had entered his mind. The fact was, it was a Saturday afternoon and he had nothing else to do.

The woodland trail bore no name—nor any indication of signage—denoting that this was the popular walking trail that the Cape James Chamber of Commerce brochure had almost gushingly proselytized as being such. Even more curious, Hewitt wondered why—in the entire month he had lived directly opposite to the entrance—he had not once seen a single soul come in or out of the park. Considering it was meant to be a ‘popular walking and wildlife trail’, its lack of interest among the locals seemed strange and even somewhat cryptic.

Today, it being a Saturday afternoon, presented no exception to that unspoken rule. Like all the previous Saturdays, he had witnessed no one entering or leaving the woodland park. Not a single man or woman, alone or accompanied by a dog. No teenagers are going in there to avail themselves of the secluded privacy. Getting up to the kind of things teenagers get up to. Yet the dirt road leading off the old turnpike appeared to be well-kept with little sign of weed encroachment and certainly no garbage of any kind to be seen. ‘Back in Boston, this place would be swarming with walkers, ’ he thought to himself. He consciously chose not to insert the term ‘home’ before ‘in Boston’ within his train of thought.

Not a single person to be seen here. Not to mention any discarded beer cans and used condoms, which were as absent as any recent human visitation from the empty parking lot. Hewitt just assumed the lack of locals taking advantage of such an amenity was perhaps due to the abundance of similar trails—as well as the numerous seashore attractions—in this part of southern Maine. Either way, loneliness and isolation were hardly a novelty within Cornell Hewitt's new life following his divorce. So he wasn’t feeling especially perturbed or shunned. He was long passed taking anything personally at this stage in his life.

As he got out of the car and closed the door, Hewitt looked around and beheld the bleak and yet strangely appealing woodland vista before him. In late winter, the Maine woodland undergoes a subtle, yet profound transformation that is startling compared to the vibrant colors of both the Summer and especially the Fall. However, during the early onset of winter’s unique atmosphere, an added ambiance is generated by the proximity of the ocean and the breezes meandering in from the Atlantic. A more agreeable way of describing that the air is cold, and certainly now well beyond the pale of being described as either bracing or refreshing. It was already icy, and soon it would become much colder. The uncompromising winter chill carried with it the scent of pine mingled with a hint of decay.

Hewitt already had detected a timeless nature to the place. Familiar, yet somehow different enough to let him know that on some level, this was Maine and not Massachusetts. No, this place was nothing like the suburban parks and trails in and around Boston. The only man-made objects before him were the wooden boundary fence surrounding the parking lot, along with the individual bare patch of dirt leading from the parking area and into the forest. There wasn’t much of that either. The uncompromising rigidity of the fence carried within an expression of ‘fuck you’ as much as ‘please be careful’.

In such a situation, instinct might encourage some to turn back. The type of person who may feel alone and isolated without the rules, and conventions of officialdom to watch over them. Their bureaucratic angel guides to warn of the dangerous potential contained within the woodland. The kind of people who require the comforting presence of a durable wood or metal information board. Strong enough to withstand the harsh New England weather. Here, there was no such state or municipal information board covered with a small overhanging roof. Quaintly wood-shingled with sloping sides to protect the displayed information from rain and snow. Nothing to indicate the park rules and regulations, or historical or cultural insights. Likewise, nothing about the woodland’s flora and fauna, and most troublesome of all—for the timid and wary—nothing regarding visitor safety information.

Ten years ago, this might have prevented Connell Hewitt from entering. He was different now. He was still an accountant. He was still employed in a new job and paying his bills, taxes, and utilities like any good citizen. However, when it came to his previous existence as ‘Mr. Conventional’ who does as he is told, he had now come to realize that playing by the rules—in his case at least—meant losing the game.

Somehow.

He had gone from following every rulebook placed in front of him to now only abiding by the ones that might land him in state or federal prison if he violated them. Otherwise, everything else was in the domain of the arbitrary to him. Not only that, but Connell Hewitt had gone from believing the lie that people are mostly good and well-meaning to practically disliking everyone by default.

Within six turbulent months, he had gone from not paying much attention to other people and their lives, to considering that life to most people is partaking in little more than a sociological game of Dungeons and Dragons. They are unaware of the personal experiential existence as presented to them in all five senses clarity in which they behold the material world. They only believe what the Dungeon-master tells them is happening. Even if it contradicts the actual reality of the situation. Connel Hewitt—without asking or wanting—became the loser of a game in which he was once an eager player, to now an observer who looks on in disgust.

Hewitt could not help but draw a comparison between his new life—as a middle-aged divorced male—and the early stages of Winter settling over these woods. As the last survivors of the Fall foliage clung pointlessly onto the branches, no longer capable of sustaining their once vibrant hues of green, then orange, and now brown. Everything before Cornell Hewitt was very ‘brown’ in one way or another, and not in a rustic New England gift store calendar sense. More in a cold and dormant sense. ‘Everything is turning to shit just as my own life has turned to shit.’ He sardonically thought to himself.

Then, having realized he had not only thought this in his mind, he had also spoken it out aloud...he then looked around to see if anyone had seen him do this. He did not want to look like a nut who had just recently arrived in the neighborhood. If by chance one of the locals happened to be nearby. It was fine. Only the trees got to hear what he had spoken aloud, and this felt almost comforting, and for reasons Cornell Hewitt could not explain why.

That there was no normally ubiquitous information board with details about the trails and other facts as presented by officialdom still bothered him more than it should. He also realized that he was still trapped within the game to a greater degree than he had deluded himself into being. That old millstone of respectability and social acceptance still hung around his neck.

For now.

Apart from the breaking twigs beneath his footsteps, there was a profound—almost torturous sense of absolute stillness. Within this solitude, the air was refreshingly crisp and cold. Regardless of the occasional odor of decay here and there. Indicating there would be no springtime return for the decomposing flora and fauna now perishing upon the forest floor. Perhaps echoing the decay of his own life. Hewitt once again reminded himself not to keep ill-serving himself with endless twee metaphors if he was going to enjoy—or at least procure a fleeting spasm of distraction—his Saturday afternoon saunter among the ‘excellent natural amenities’ as the Chamber of Commerce had informed him about.

Yet despite the almost mortified nature of the environment around him, every corner of his subconscious mind continually amplified his neurotic tendencies with an ever-increasing magnitude the further he walked along the trail. He was tired of his guilt, remorse, anger, and, worst of all, his anxiety. Being psychologically ambushed in the morning, which ends the initial first few seconds of neutral consciousness upon waking. Only to instantly have her name enter his cognition. Then, he felt the first sensations of blood pumping through the back of his neck. Rapid, pounding heartbeats. The excessive sweating. His clammy hands would begin reaching out towards the paroxetine-based medication.

Where he used to once reach over and hug his now estranged ex-wife.

Being his current intermediate self—during this transitional state of his old life, and what bleakness lay before him—carried with it more risk and dangers than what a foreboding and mortifying empty woodland before him could ever menace him with. He was crossing the threshold from the parking lot and into the woods in an already afflicted condition.

Hewitt was surprised to come across some sparse snow cover here and there. White pristine patches of it, along with the familiar sight of the emerging ice from this year’s frost. Yet, he had no recollection of it having snowed during his time living nearby. Soon, this snow would cover the entire forest floor. Submerging the last of the rotting leaves from the Fall. All would soon exist merely as a memory. That’s if someone had ever noticed their existence, to begin with.

New growth always arrives. Layer upon layer. Time upon time and history upon history. ‘I wonder what human history has taken place within these woods?’ Hewitt rhetorically thought to himself. Which, from merely a cursory level of observation, did not appear to be much in terms of human occupation from what Hewitt could tell.

Above him, clear patches within the slow-moving and low cloud cover sporadically brought forth still radiant sunlight. Which filtered through the barren branches of the now-naked Red Maple, Eastern White Cedar, and Red Oak. While the abundant White Pines stood tall, cloaked with their soft needles, almost arrogant among their dormant and now bare deciduous neighbours.

However, as he encroached deeper into the woods, the trees took on a more gnarled and twisted appearance, which one comes to find in old-growth woods were little logging has taken place. Certainly not the kind of specimens that could be found in any of the Pine Tree State’s tourist brochures. These were old, very old trees, and Hewitt was informed enough to know their survival was both remarkable as well as having defied the agricultural and industrial legacy of New England. Rightly, they should have been chopped down in Colonial times.

Twisted refugees from a lost age.

‘Introspection is a bitch.’ Hewitt thought to himself as the vista all around him grew darker and less hospitable. He was starting to understand why he should not believe another line of tourist information issued by the local Chamber of Commerce ever again. This place was a wilderness in a location where such a wilderness should not exist. Two hours north of Boston and on the outskirts of Portland. For a brief moment, he wondered if he had stumbled upon a movie location set and the cast and crew had gone to have lunch. This wasn’t the case. This was a genuine ancient woodland.

Even so, there was something also interesting and even fairytale-like about this place. The deeper he went into the woods, the more akin it looked to the illustration of a collection of Grimm’s Fairytales he had as a child. While this woodland was not ‘enchanted’ in the aesthetic sense, it was not exceptionally foreboding either.

Yet there was one thing that did stand out in Cornell Hewitt’s perceptions. Absent were the typical woodland imprisoned stone walls, crumbling remains of root cellars, and solitary standing stone chimneys. So typical of what can be found even in the deepest and far more remote New England woodlands. All dating from a time before the forest took root in once-cultivated farmlands and human habitation. There was none of this here. Hewitt recalled being amazed when, once watching a TV documentary, that far more recently than most imagine, much of New England had been cleared and turned to agricultural lands. That the endless blanket of trees which the region is so noted for today, is mostly a legacy of the post Civil War era when people moved off the land and instead went to work in the many mills and factories. Which thad taken advantage of the local hydro-power of New England’s many fast flowing rivers making their way to the ocean. Yet here, within spitting distance of his one-bedroom apartment, was a sizeable cluster of woodland which had somehow managed to escape all this.

Considering the proximity of this woodland so close to Portland, there should be—at the very least—signs of Colonial and Puritan era rudimentary agricultural efforts in the guise of moss-covered stone walling, along with remains of former homesteads and decaying farm buildings. There was none of this. Indicating that no produce was ever harvested, nor had any livestock had grazed here. This appeared to be a place were nature had always held dominion.

Cornell Hewitt was starting to understand the attraction of the place. Untouched natural seclusion. ‘No one who was ever fucked up enough, came here to ruin the place with their bullshit...Maybe I am the first!’ He smiled to himself, thinking this. Then he realized it had been a while since he had joked to himself at all. He was glad he has spent his afternoon here rather than watching some bullshit film at the movie theatre in South Portland.

It was getting dark. However, he decided he was coming back tomorrow. This time, after breakfast. Yet still, it slightly bothered him as to why no one else would avail of this woodland trail. Considering its accessibility and sizeable population, all within a thirty-minute drive. At the same time, he enjoyed the feeling of having the place all to himself.

He was also starting to feel that the trees towards the deeper regions of the woods took on a somewhat artistic element to their appearance. Similar to how he had seen them captured within some of the paintings by Andrew Wyeth at the Farnsworth Art Museum in Rockland. How the Pennsylvanian artist had painted the ends of the pine branches in a harsh, scattered, and almost decaying manner.

This is how the pine branches within the forest interior also looked to Cornell Hewitt. ‘So Wyeth had painted them from experience and not from within his imagination. ’ Pondered Hewitt. This is precisely what these pines were looking more and more akin to.

The deeper he encroached into this sylvan realm. It was bringing out an almost philosophical repressed aspect of his personality that was surprisingly comforting to him. Even if he wasn’t quite ready to become another tortured poet.

He recalled having pointed out how Wyeth’s pine branches had been painted to Pamela. That time, they went to the exhibition at the Farnsworth with her. ‘Pamela...I wonder what she is doing right now...’ Hewitt said to himself—upspoken this time—as if the trees around him already knew the answer to this question any more than he himself knew the answer. Or perhaps best he didn’t know. Pamela—in tandem with the decaying organic matter beneath the soles of his shoes—where a million vertebrates and microbes slaughtered one another in symbiotic carnage—was just another episode in his life story. As Hewitt lifted his foot to examine how much of this microscopic annihilation had colonized the underside of his expensive L.L. Bean-insulated winter snow duck boots, he said to himself.

“How similar that world is to our civilized human world.”

This time, he did not care who, or what, was listening to him. It no longer mattered, and for a brief interlude of sensory self-awareness, he felt almost liberated by the thought of everything being ultimately irrelevant. As he turned around to leave, he caught the sound of a wailing, eerie voice in the distance. About one hundred feet beyond the tree line. ‘Some fox looking for a date...’ He said to himself. Hewitt knew this creepy, unnerving sound from having heard it from beyond the trees behind his old backyard in suburban Boston. Although this particular woodland quadruped screamer sounded different. But not enough to distract him from getting back to his apartment to watch the Red Sox take on the Yankees.