Boo
I lay in bed at night as a boy desiring not to be eaten, fearing the dark of my own burrow.
We don’t live where we get trick-or-treaters, since the cabin is down a long dirt driveway, off a long dirt road, each of which cuts through dense woods that press so closely on both sides it would be nothing for a creature to reach between the branches, snatch an unsuspecting juvenile dressed as a pirate, and carry it away thrashing through the forest. We’ve tried to encourage some Halloween traffic our way. Parents and children are generally discouraged by our ground rules: remain safely in your car, we will bring the candy to you.
Conditions for venturing out at night are more favorable today than last week because we have mowed the field, putting it to bed for the winter. Consequently, the perimeter has been pushed back. Our lines of sight have improved. With the high-powered flashlight, I can spot trouble early and, hopefully, beat it back to the house. Most of the leaves are down, which adds to my advantage. I can see a few yards into the tree line, just the shadows, but it costs whatever is back there another step or two—which is all it might take.
Admittedly, my conscience jabs at me not leashing Huckleberry at night, allowing him to come between me and any unseen danger, sending him out, as it were, as a scout, or worse, bait. He smells what I cannot see, charging ahead into the dark. Last night I think he was overwhelmed, bolting past the lighted perimeter to ward off something in one corner. I urged caution. “Careful!” I called. Then, I heard him barking from an opposite corner. “Huck!” He fled past me, crashing down the hillside toward the pond. Apparently, we’d been surrounded.
Training a flashlight in the dark is similar to flinging open the door to see who has been knocking at it: you’re taking a chance on what presents itself. Down by the pond, where things come to drink, the flashlight followed Huckleberry into the thickets of highbush blueberries. The rustling stopped, indicating he’d gone deeper, or doubled back. Fortunately, nothing else looked up at me, surprised and prepared to take action. But where was Huck? Was he still on the reservation? He appeared, at last, tongue hanging out, satisfied it was time to go inside. They won’t bother us any more tonight. We can check again tomorrow.
No, we do not wander down the driveway by ourselves at night unless compelled to by the sound of crashing trees that have taken out the power, or possibly blocked our escape. The dog himself is reluctant on those windy nights. I have walked cautiously the length of our driveway, poking the beam of a flashlight through the woods looking for dangling wires. I think, who is watching me? Surely, someone is watching. Watching from up a tree, or only a few steps off the path. Deciding whether to act preemptively to remind me and others of the grand bargain made at the start—our night, your day. What small mammal could not tell you about it, and warn you about the risks of leaving your burrow after dark? Do you desire to be eaten?
I lay in bed at night as a boy desiring not to be eaten, fearing the dark of my own burrow. My mother would pull the door closed with a promise to open it after we’d fallen asleep, a bargain that seemed fair at the time, but must have encouraged the monsters. We went camping with my father in the mountains and awoke to a disturbance outside. The essence of parenthood can be conveyed by the words, “Wait here,” as one disappears into the dark between the flaps of a tent. It was a raccoon, and its yellow beady eyes were all we could see in the light of my father’s lantern. Yellow eyes peering out of the darkness are exactly the thing to make you drop the flashlight, especially if they are higher off the ground than a raccoon’s. In which case, get to the burrow.
With respect to the night, our DNA provides clear instruction: get indoors. We fear the dark. Leave nighttime to those for whom it has been reserved. We watch the beavers paddle across the pond at dusk on the way to work, and see them return at dawn. In the summer, we celebrate having bats drop out of the house we have for them on the side of Uncle Ralph (our garage) to ride the night sky as we tuck in the cars and pull down the doors. We listen to the owls and wake to the sound of nearby coyotes. Huckleberry growls before dawn from the end of the bed, which tells me traffic is moving across the lawn on the way home. Snow will arrive before too long, and we will see their footprints.
The trick-or-treaters will venture house-to-house tonight in town, in packs, as superheroes, dragons, witches, and ninjas. They are welcome here if they choose. Ninja or not, honk when you arrive. We will come to you.