some holy water on myself and drank a garlic tonic that a genie once swore would ward off the
Evil Eye.
Do not ask about the Evil Eye unless you actually want to know.
By nightfall I’ve covered at least twelve miles. This would, according to the map, put me
near the middle of the Barrens, as the area between the municipal Dump and Highway 93 was
about twenty-five miles across. But I have no expectations of making such good time in reality.
If it was this easy, the place would have been surveyed and developed long ago, and I should not
be here. I believe the mystery will deepen as night falls.
This is what happens. I am awakened several times during the night by sounds halfway
between crow’s cries and human voices. I do not rush out of my tent to investigate. I am patient
and listen for the pattern, listen to hear if they become closer or further, if they become more or
less intelligible. Neither occur. Instead, they just fade for a time, and then I go to sleep again, and
then they return. I am unable to determine if they grow loud again or if they begin loud. After
about three such cycles, they go away completely and I go back to sleep.
In the morning I find my campsite undisturbed. No sign or track of any animal and my
food and tent are exactly the same as the night before. Nor have my immediate environs shifted:
the trees and rocks are as I remember them. Memory can be treacherous, but I find no disturbing
unfamiliarity (or familiarity, for that matter) in my surroundings. I decide to take advantage of
this and after a quick repast, engage in some light meditation.
I draw in the air around me and center myself. I attempt to see the Barrens with the
unseen eye. My other eyes are half-open, soft, accepting reality. I attempt to hear the Barrens in
its voice beyond sound. At first I hear only quiet, which is actually good, as the noises of the