There’s been an unexpected visitor.

She arrived in the darkest hour of the night on horseback. She was alone. A knocking on the homestead door awoke me and I was roused by the sound of a neighing horse beside. I rose, found the knob in the darkness, and opened the door to a familiar silhouette.

“Charles? Is that you?”

I embraced her at once. Mary had found me. Our tears intertwined on our clinging faces as we shared a kiss I thought we’d never have. Perhaps I am not as terrible as the universe thinks I am. Perhaps, I thought, cradling her in my arms, I did not deserve all that had happened.

“Charles,” she said, her cheeks sparkling wet, “my father, he was, he was part of that cult under the school. Those women, Charles! God, those women!”

“I know. Come, I have something to show you.” The house was in complete darkness. We came in. I closed the door. “We were there, Mary. I was there.”

I had the luxury of hiding the child in the dark as I explained myself. She was mercifully asleep then. It took thirty minutes of careful words before I could heed Mary’s repeated calls to “light a candle!” I showed her the child, whose feathers shone iridescent in the candlelight. Mary is a special soul. She took but a moment to join our cause after that, having seen all the evidence she needed, though I did sit with her to read the diary. The dawn was breaking as we finished, our eyes stinging red from exhaustion, our voices hoarse and weak. The only thing left unaching was my soul, which had been lit by a thousand matches as we sat, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. We must have fallen asleep soon after.

We awoke beside each other to another knock on the door.

“Is it you again?” I asked her. She giggled.

Another knock. It was Ed.

“Wake up, kid!” he yelled through the door. “It’s almost noon, you know!” His accent is undeniable.

He thoughtfully opened the door without a response and was left wide-eyed on the doorway at the sight of us.

“Come on in, why don’t you?” I said from bed.

“God, kid, even I couldn’t pull that off out here. Who might this flower be?” he asked, voice lowering.

Mary laughed and rolled her eyes. “You must be Ed. I’m Mary Coen, of diary fame. You’re taller than I expected.” We both laughed then.

“The pages take three inches,” Ed said, not missing a moment. Resilient man. “Did you come to join our cause, ma’am? We have plenty of room!”

“In that case I must!” She smiled at me out of the corner of her mouth, her way of telling me she’d stolen the upper hand.

“Hail Mary, there’s two of them.” Ed went to leave, almost closing the door, then changing his mind. “I’ll get some food and drink gathered up and get the Duvals up here. What do you say to that?”

“I say get some Bordeaux!” Mary said, raising an invisible glass to him. This time Ed had no second thoughts about closing the door behind him.

“There’s already three too many Duvals around here,” I heard him mumble from the open window, “and here comes a fourth.”

The two of us laughed and returned to an even deeper slumber. I dreamt of red banners flying over New York, San Francisco. I dreamt of a brook out in the Tulle countryside where the Duvals would go in the summer, though the only Duvals in the dream were David, Mauve and I. Mary and I rolled over the hills above the brook in each other's arms. We grew tired and sat in the warmth of the sunset, the wind blowing through the trees above, rustling the leaves. Our shadows were cast over the hills, massive and peaceful in the gentle light. A drizzle of rain came through the branches. We saw no harm in joining the others in the water, wet as we were, so we splashed after each other like children without parents to watch over us. David and Mauve sat under a great pine near the far bank and, the brook having grown to swimming size, we swam to them. Ed gathered a picnic, dressed it all with food and drink, and we went to him, singing a song I can’t recall. We drank to our lives, though they are so fleeting. We spoke of our dreams, of a far away place, away from the world where we could be at peace, together.

I awoke to a knock on the door. The bed was empty. The child laid in a bundle at my feet. I could remember building it, though the memory didn’t fit with the others. The knocking would be Mary, I thought, helping Ed to wake me. The picnic of my dreams was to begin soon. I noticed, without a thought, that the sunset now streamed through the broken windows.

“Chuck?”

Ed opened the door, alone and looking concerned.

“You’re back!” I said, and felt a lump of dryness in my throat. “How long was I asleep? And where’s Mary?”

“Mary? I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“She went with you for the picnic, I’m sure. She must have awoken before me and gone to help you, I thought. Is she close behind?”

Never have I seen a more frightening sight than Ed’s eyes in that moment. They went from a dull concern, unaimed, to full fear.

“What are you talking about?”

“The picnic! Or have I slept too long and missed it?”

“Chuck, who’s Mary?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! She’s right behind you, isn’t she? Mary Coen, Ed, for God’s sake! Tell me how long she’ll be!” I could tell from his face I wouldn’t be getting an answer. His fear had given way to grim realization.

“Mary Coen, son of the teacher.”

I didn’t answer.

“No one’s been in this house but you and I and the kid.”

My mind flashed images of the previous night, of my opening the door in the darkest hour to no one. I had read through the diary aloud by candlelight, sitting alone on the bed. I’d fallen asleep at sunrise, smiling with the warmth of nothing.

“You were here at noon. You came to the door and asked me how I managed to get a woman so quickly out here.”

“I haven’t been here since yesterday.”

I ripped off the bed sheets and saw, cradled underneath the pillow, the diary.

“She was here. I felt her here next to me! I heard her voice, I saw you in the doorway, as clear as I see you now!” I didn’t believe him. “Where is she, Ed? You show me Mary Coen right now, you bastard! What did you do to her?”

I stood and my legs buckled. Ed caught me, a whimpering, steaming mess. I’d had enough. I didn’t want to live anymore.

“Take it, Ed! You have to have it! Write in it! Kill me and write in it! Please!” I buried my face in his shirt and wept my body dry.

“Look at me, kid.” I couldn’t. “We’re here to help you and we will. I will. I’ll drag you around in a rickshaw if it comes down to it, but I’m not going to kill you! You hear? I’m not killing you and I’ll tell you why. If I kill you, who’s going to be the king of France when we take it back, huh? Dave? I couldn’t get a oui out of him if I put a gun to his head! Listen to me, kid. Do you have Coen’s revolver?” I pointed a shaking finger to a ruined cabinet by the door. He patted me on the shoulder, stood and found it. “I’m taking this, for your own peace of mind. We’re winning this war and we’re winning it clean. No more death, at least on our side, you hear me? If you want death we’ll need a few more than four and a half soldiers.” He sat back down next to me and sighed. “I’ll tell you what, I’m going to sit here until the lovebirds get worried and come find me, then we’ll have a picnic out in the field away from everyone. That way you can bring the kid with you.”

It was night when David and Mauve arrived and near midnight when we started to eat. One thing Salinas has in surplus is food, and one surplus I don’t have is friends. I missed the Duvals. I see mother and father in them, and the child reminds me too much of you, Otto.

The beauty here is striking. I imagine Adam would have liked Salinas for all its plains and rolling hills and for its many opportunities for solitude. I find the quiet refreshing. I won’t say I’m of your mind now, Adam, but I understand. San Francisco is full.

I can’t say what will happen tomorrow, but I know the trees and grass will still be here when I wake. The open sky will still strike at my heart. This is a valley of dreams and I will dream it.