This Must Be the Place

The two boys loved playing in the wooded area running along the edges of Willow Brook, which wound across the westernmost regions of the New Britain, its babbling waters creating the perfect backdrop for their forest adventures. Here, apart from the tall buildings, concrete, and automobiles that congested all other facets of city life, they were allowed to run rampant in a wilderness that was as it had once been. Everything was timeless, suspended in a moment that may have existed a million years ago…it was only the gentle waterflow, bubbling against the small rocks that gave one the sense of time passing.

The boys knew little of their town’s history, seeing only the remnants of what had had once been called the “Hardware Capitol of the World” full of empty factory buildings, their windows broken by stone-throwing children years ago, miles of cracked road and sidewalk, and peeling billboards facing the interstate highway that bisected the city. Blood red rust in running stains painted the crevices beneath old bolts or tired nails. Cigarette butts rolled with the wind, piling in the gutters and hidden corners. Stray tires, yellow throwaway newspapers, the stale reek of weathered metal– the whole place radiated of subtle and steady decay.

After school and throughout the summer the two would run around the countless rows of trees weaving between them, climbing the occasional one. For years it had been their playground, since before they could remember, and their games grew more elaborate with time: tag transformed into good guy/bad guy chases, eventually becoming epic adventures of crime and war. Others had come along, joining in the make-believe, but on any given day, chances are it would be simply the same two boys, neighbors since birth, running amuck on a carpet of dead leaves beneath a dome of sky and branches.

Their houses faced each other across the street. Their parents would talk of their interactions when they were babies growing up in each other’s house; they’d be best friends for life, everyone agreed. All the boys knew was that each had been there for the other whenever a major event in their lives occurred, such as when they both started kindergarten and middle school, and when they went through confirmation together only a few months back. Their bond was intertwined with the Willow Brook woods ever since they first discovered the area when they were six, having been finally allowed to ride their bikes away from under the gaze of their mothers, one of whom would always watch them from a window or front porch. Naturally, they explored the stretches of their wooded arena together as they grew, penetrating farther and farther as each year passed. They did this mostly for variety’s sake, knowing civilization could be found within a few miles in any direction, the true ancient forests having either been cut down or long lost, far from a glittering slab of cement or shard of broken glass. However their stage was a relic radiating waves of pristine instinct, powerful enough to support and almost fashion the fantasies their untamed inspirations generated.

They entered through a clearing at the bottom of the hill at the end of their street, which came to a T. Across the road, directly behind a No Left Turn sign, was a small clearing in the heavy bushes that acted as a wall against any potential trespassers—a hole that would typically go unnoticed by most of the city’s residents driving past in their cars. Beyond this threshold was a darker world, shaded and damp, where tweeting birds and the croaking of frogs joined in chorus to the sound of the whispering trees and running brook.

“I’ve found a new place,” Peter said to Tommy, who had been gazing through the entranceway at the dapples of sunlight on the ground extending far into a horizon obscured by trees which emanated a soft green haze. Neither of them had spoken during the walk down…they hadn’t been in the best of moods of late: Tommy had discovered less than a week ago that his family planned to move into a two-family home in Hartford before the summer was out. Feeling betrayed by his parents, he feared an unknown future, he thought he might very well break down—hopefully not too badly…enough for his father to opt to stay put for a little while longer. He doubted it would ever come to that, but he saw no other possible conclusion to this drastic shift. This would probably be one of the last times he would ever have to see Peter again; although each had promised to write and telephone regularly, an unspoken understanding existed between the two of them of the futility in trying to remain friends while living so far apart.

“Yeah?” said Tommy, realizing that these woods would soon only belong to Peter, who had already discovered unfound territory – something which had never happened before. “Where?”

“Way further downstream than we’ve ever gone, down near the reservoir,” Peter replied, smirking. An adventurous spark of anticipation illuminated his eyes. This had all come pretty much from left field to Tommy, who still was wondering when Peter had taken it upon himself to wander beside the brook alone, technically beyond the town line into the vast tracts of uncharted woodland surrounding the large unnamed pond serving as New Britain’s water supply: nearly ten miles.

“Are you crazy? That’ll take practically forever. It’s already ten of eleven.” Tommy had always acted as the voice of reason between the two, yet at this instant felt the strange desire to explore deeper and farther than ever before, to search in unknown places for lost secrets that would remain in his memory for the rest of his life. Tommy’s reluctance loosened Peter’s grin, his disappointment obvious.

“…but, what the hell,” said Tommy, “let’s go,” and both flashed the other a wide smile, raised their brows, and ran through the clearing into the woods laughing. They flew around the trees, jumping onto large rocks and boulders, eventually reaching the stony wet bank of Willow Brook sweaty and panting.

Tommy dropped to his knees at the edge and poured the cool water over his head with cupped hands while Peter plunged his head into the brook and reemerged, his soaked hair spraying droplets into his hair. Heavy panting was their only exchange as they looked at one another, Peter pointing downstream as water ran from his face into his Star Wars tee-shirt, which stuck to his chest like a second layer of wet skin. Tommy followed it, seeing only endless scattering of trees, the thin snaking creek disappearing into the greenish blur in the distance.

“Each journey begins with the first step,” Peter announced, doing his best impression of Gandalf. By the time Tommy looked over his shoulder to flash a bemused glance, Peter had run off in the direction his mysterious discovery, bounding alongside the stream’s bank, his figure growing smaller and less discernable with each passing second.

“Hey, wait up!” Tommy called, getting up and running after him. The air blasted cold against his wet face as he exerted all of his energy trying to catch Peter, who seemed to only dissolve further into the trees and bush. There were no shortcuts aside from following alongside the water, running on the flat gray rocky ground in order to avoid tripping on one of the random roots or twigs strewn beneath the umbrella of swaying branches, hidden among the rotting leaves of innumerable autumns. However, he had to also be sure not to step to close to the water, slime and moss covering the stone there – such a spill could end disastrously, in torn flesh and broken bones, the cold flow of the dirty brook seeping into his clothes and wounds. He kept one eye on the ground while the other watched (what he assumed to be) Peter, now a flickering slip of gray leaving quivering branches in its wake.

But his caution kept him from ever coming close to catching up to Peter, whose form eventually disappeared entirely. Tommy stopped for a moment to catch his breath and take a good look forward. He couldn’t see or hear anything.

“Peter!” he called, both hands curled around his mouth. There was only silence beyond the sounds of his own breathing, the trees, water, and random chirping. “Hey!” An unseen bird whistled from above, as if responding. Nothing moved in the distance. Perhaps Peter was playing a trick on him. It wouldn’t be unusual, that’s for sure, he thought. How could he have roamed so far as to find anything near the reservoir? Tommy continued forward in a light jog, confused.

Maybe he took his bike, Tommy considered. But that had been broken since Memorial Day weekend, when Peter tried jumping a dumpster behind the old Stanley Works building—he could have broken his neck but somehow managed to grab hold of a thick cord dangling from a second story window. The bicycle plummeted down beneath him as he hung suspended by his hands. Both tires had popped, the chain was broken, and the left handlebar was twisted ridiculously. Jesus Christ! everybody seemed to say at once: Tommy, John and Paul. And Peter acted as if it were nothing, as if he had planned the maneuver from the beginning. Tommy admitted to himself that it sure as hell was amazing, but still…it wasn’t planned—he was certain Peter was pissed as all shit when he saw his bike busted. Tommy wondered if Peter had considered how bad he’d have looked if his body have fallen along with it, landing on all those jagged pipes and rusted engines. The image of a Peter’s broken body, eyes wide and still, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, sent Tommy’s spine a shiver.

Something snapped from behind—a twig on the ground. Tommy spun around but no one was there. Unless, his mind interjected, Peter’s hiding behind one of those trees, crouched low, intent on jumping out when least expected.

“Hello?”

No answer. He figured Peter must really still be running, thinking he’s right behind him. How long before he bothers to stop or look back? he wondered. Twenty minutes tops. Any longer and I’m turning back – screw you and your new places. If he’s going to leap at me like an idiot I’ll clock him as if I was really scared and then laugh and laugh and laugh. Teach him some good.

Tommy strolled forward alone and unsure whether Peter was far in front or close behind. In either case he wanted this farce to finish, for Peter to return and not ruin one of the last days they might have together by acting like a clown. Tommy felt sheepish even begrudgingly participating in this gag—the day had been corrupted already. An hour had already passed since this trek began: he was almost halfway to the reservoir.

I should just turn back now, he reflected. Leave him in these woods by himself, sitting wherever and waiting until he finally realizes I’m not coming. But, if he’s really found something interesting down there…it was me who slowed down; he’s probably thinking I ditched him first. Who knows? Maybe I’ll just keep going. If I get to the shore of the pond and he’s not there, I’ll leave. I wouldn’t know where to go without him anyway.

As he walked alone beside the brook he stared at its flowing ripples making translucent shadows on the ground underwater. Water’s moving so much faster than me. My reflection from an hour ago touched a surface already dissolved into millions of gallons of reservoir. Mud, underwater plants, fish. How do they clean all that shit out before it reaches our tap? Chlorine maybe. Still can’t be good for you. How does Hartford get its water? There’s not a single source anywhere near there, except for the Connecticut River. Don’t think that’s drinkable. Not anymore anyway.

The rusted shell of a derelict car sat in an uneven ditch to his left, the shoots of two young trees sprouting through the glassless front window. It had been either blue or gray—possibly silver—although the paint had faded to almost nothing. A 1950s roadster, driven up here and left for dead decades ago. A squirrel scurried from underneath, passing a naked rim, paused to give Tommy a neutral glance, and disappeared up a nearby tree with barely a sound. He imagined an aging greaser, running from the law, chucking his old car deep in the woods to escape undetected from police roadblocks or lookouts. A man now long buried and forgotten, like his abandoned vehicle, never to ride again.

Rustling from somewhere to the left: he saw a single pine branch moving, less than ten feet away. He stopped all motion and held his breath. The wind was shaking many the leaves, but none of the others close to the ground. Some of the leaves had already turned orange or red; some fell in silent grace from on high. He heard the sound again. Was someone out there, hiding, shadowing him? He prayed it was Peter. What if it’s one of those people everyone says lives in these woods, hiding out from the police or dropped out of normal society? Sean said his father met an old Indian named War Eagle, or something. He refused to leave the ancestral land of his tribe. Said War Eagle was nothing to worry about, but there are others, camped out here each night, hunting deer or rabbit. A runaway convict would kill me in second, without a thought, rather than risk being ratted out. Matters little to them I’m barely thirteen. Tommy experienced a wave of anxiety: maybe it was the old greaser’s ghost.

Don’t be stupid, he thought to himself.

He took cautious steps forward, trying to peer through the mazelike patterns of leaf and branch woven into the forest veil beside him. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. But those recluses are probably awfully skilled at camouflage and tracking after living in the woods so long, he figured. Perhaps I should start running…if someone’s following me, they’d have to make some noise to keep up. The plan sounded logical and he carried it out almost immediately.

He broke into a run.

Whizzing by a blur of green, Tommy was sure to keep his ear open for any unusual sounds while he kept his steps muffled by keeping mainly on his toes. He didn’t think he had maintained the pace for long, but soon found himself on a downward slope next to the speeding brook, growing wider and wider. He realized he had made it to within a quarter mile of the reservoir, which lay below, over the edge of a small cliff, like a giant silver dollar sunken in the rolling banks of green. Willow Brook emptied into the pond via a short waterfall, barely thirty feet high. At the points just before the drop, the stream raged around jutting stones only to fall in a continuous splash at the edge of the pond, which looked almost solid in its calm.

“Whoa!” he said aloud, coming to an abrupt halt. If I wasn’t paying attention I could have gone flying over the edge. He imagined the sensation of weightlessness he would feel careening to the sharp waters then pictured himself, as contorted as his vision of Peter at the bottom of dumpster, a lone figure beneath the brook’s torrential conclusion of froth. Nobody would find me for weeks, he realized, except maybe Peter.

Tommy looked around for a clue as to which direction Peter may have gone. Did I miss a path somewhere while running? he wondered. He backtracked a few steps uphill and saw a narrow clearing to his right, revealing the beginnings of a new trail. He stepped inside: the path completely disappeared in places, but it could be followed without much trouble. He wanted to call out Peter’s name, in case he had been waiting nearby for Tommy to finally arrive, but the thought of a supposed stalker, lurking within earshot, nipped this urge in the bud before his lips ever parted. He determined to walk only a short way. If I don’t see anything, he resolved, then I’m out of here like there’s no tomorrow. He hadn’t walked more than a few minutes before he found what he thought Peter had been so enthusiastic about.

Reaching the crest of a short incline he saw the crumbling beginnings of a low wall of stacked stones. Continuing, the wall was sturdier, more square, yet still disheveled, with stray stones lining the right side of the path. He couldn’t imagine who built it or why. Dark green moss had grown in clumps, filling the spaces between the individual rocks, covering most on their underside. He kept walking, expecting Peter to finally appear, being so close to such a residue of civilization, but was losing hope with every second.

The path curved to the right (towards the shore, Tommy’s mental compass determined), the wall keeping it distinct from the forest mess, which had increased with growths to the point where it would be impossible for a human to navigate, especially in silence. Tommy’s thoughts of predatory forest inhabitants gradually melted away; if Peter had gone anywhere, it had to be this way.

There were a number of short hills, fallen trees, and other small impediments, but he continued. The birds, frogs, and crickets had become louder as he progressed, shutting out the sounds of either water or wind. The sun, too, was blocked by overhanging branches, forming a roof that threw dim afternoon shadows crisscrossing over the pathway. He began to think that there would be no end to this, that the trail would most likely lead him in a gigantic circle and he would be left in the woods until nightfall without a flashlight. If the psychotic woodsmen don’t get me, then a bear or wolf will, Tommy figured: I give up.

He was about to stop when he caught sight of something on the other side of the wall, just ahead, partially hidden by the tangle of trees. Three more steps and he was able to tell that it was a simple stone building, similar in composition to the wall, box-like, with a small rectangular window on the side facing the path. As he got closer Tommy saw the top had caved in, vines and ivy infiltrating its innards. On the edge of the roof was a small black bird standing, a lone sentry on a shattered miniature castle. Was this what Peter had been talking about? he wondered.

He climbed over the wall, the moss tickling his palm, for a better view. The bird flapped away as soon as Tommy stepped from the path, leaving the structure unattended. The unstable, aged building was quite short, its missing ceiling easily having been under eight feet in height. If there had ever been a proper floor it was undetectable: within the four walls lay a continuation of the leafy soft ground everywhere outside, ridden with large gray fragments of the sunken roof, an arbitrary four-by-six boundary within the wilderness. There was nothing else of any significance, not even a broken beer bottle or graffiti. Tommy was mildly disappointed; he had hoped to find perhaps an old stairwell leading to an underground chamber filled with…who knows what? He stepped inside it and brushed his hand over the stone surface while staring out the tiny window at the trees and wall, a spider’s web screening the upper-left-hand corner of his framed view. Dozens of insects had been caught and woven into the web’s fabric, frozen in their final panicking moments. How long had it been since the first one wandered helplessly into its snare? He inhaled deeply a faint dry must of the congregating decades and a sense of a simpler past, still remnant from centuries ago, overcame him. He felt lightheaded from the reality of time as an unrelenting progression, a river washing over anything and everything attempting to proclaim its existence.

He stepped back outside pondering who and what may have existed, once upon a time, to fashion all of the images he had witnessed in these woods: the building, the wall, the path, the pond and brook, each tree and stone. He scooped down and picked up a triangular rock, held it close to his nose and stared at the glimmering speckles of dirt. How did this get here? Dropped by someone? Who? When? Was it a natural force? God? His imagination could compensate for simpler mysteries; although they may not be correct, at least a graspable story developed, whereas the randomness of the stone wall and building and the sublime yet intricate nature of the woods left his mind reeling for answers which he feared could never come.

He tried to return to the path, but his heart felt tight, his jaw shuddered; a surge of panic pulsed through his chest and temples. He never had felt so alone, so lost. These woods, the city – nothing could ever be known. His whole life had been so secure, his reality provided for him by others and the predictability of the world known through habit…but in less than two weeks he’d be in a strange city, full of streets as foreign as these forests paths, forsaken by his parents and left without his best friend, who already had forged himself an existence apart from Tommy. Tommy looked at his two hands, which suddenly appeared quite alien to him, and felt the tremendous weight of infinite isolation bear down upon his tiny, flickering soul.

“Peter?” he called out in desperation. From behind he heard flapping: the black bird had returned to perch upon the broken roof. It glanced in a variety of directions, chirping, seemingly unaware of Tommy’s presence.

He closed his eyes and yelled out his friend’s name, once more, into the darkness behind his lids. Only the continuing sound of whimsical chirping greeted his straining ears. A hushing breeze blew across his face, cooling. It was pleasant, almost uplifting. He kept his eyes shut, trying to accept this singular instance of serenity before facing the return home…alone.