The damp darkness continued for weeks in that narrow redwood canyon, until even the humans felt like fungus. Many of the clothes in Marty’s closet got mildew stains, and had to be thrown away. A leather jacket given to him by Gorilla Joe was completely covered by a creamy white mold, as if coated with mayonnaise. The middle of January brought one of those great winter storms from Alaska that washed the California coast clean, and it rained hard for two days straight. The gentle creek that trickled past Marty’s bedroom window in the summer was the only way for the water to flow out of the San Geronimo Valley, and it soon became a raging torrent. Huge, frothing waves the color of creamed coffee raced each other down from the McAuliffes’ dam, then crashed into the massive redwood stump next to the Animal Witch’s house, deflecting the surging maelstrom right past their cabin; rushing downstream to smash against the rocks of the Inkwells. The agitated, swirling water came up to their foundation, and crested about three feet below the kitchen floor. “Toto, we’re not in the suburbs anymore,” Marty said, but nobody could hear him. The window next to his bed was just a few feet from the calamitous cataract, which made it impossible to rest. His captain’s bed was elevated, so he could roll over and peer out at the thunderous rapids. It was like trying to sleep right next to Yosemite Falls! Even his sleeping bag became damp from all the moisture in the air.
In darkness, the creek was cacophonous and subliminally terrifying, because Marty couldn’t see if a sudden wave was going to wash him away. Susie withered from the constant, subconscious sense of panic it induced in the survival instincts of children, and slept on the couch with a pillow wrapped around her head. Marty learned to live with the implicit danger the way a fisherman gets used to bad weather, but could never completely ignore the implicit terror. In contrast, there was a mystical fascination with the chaos of water during the day, and it became their only entertainment because the cable and power were knocked out by the storms. The kids crowded into the raised back doorway and watched the variety of debris rushing past on the raging rapids… right beneath their feet. Deck chairs and cushions, fallen logs, packing crates, cardboard boxes, tables, firewood, old ladies knitting in rocking chairs… okay, that last one was an exaggeration. She wasn’t actually knitting.
Freyja and Krishna tried to stay out of the house as much as possible, in case they had to make a run for it. Freyja enjoyed the rain, and could often be found up in the driveway, looking down at the house to see if her people would be sensibly evacuating, or if she’d have to come and rescue them. Krishna was nowhere to be found. She probably thought the humans had lost their minds – sleeping next to a raging torrent like that – and she prudently headed for high ground.
Thankfully, the creek receded before overflowing its banks, but it permanently changed Marty’s impression of his place in the world. He recognized that the flat areas of their property were actually the first small “flood plains” that Papermill Creek encountered for a long stretch. Upstream it squeezed through a very narrow canyon, which focused the energy of the torrent until it piled up on itself before releasing into the open, park-like forest around their home, which was perfectly shaped to accommodate a flooding creek. It was only a matter of time before it would happen again. He silently blessed the wise, former owners who had raised the house’s foundation four feet, and hoped they hadn’t learned the hard way.
January was as dark and damp as an underground grotto. Winter in a redwood forest is deep-cleaning time. The land is hidden from the light, and rejuvenated in a nourishing bath of water, silt, and minerals. The accumulated mask of fallen branches, debris, and duff are scrubbed away, and the earth can breathe again. The White family, too, experienced a kind of baptism that washed away the plastic sins of their formerly sterile suburban lives, and reconnected them with the reality of dirt. It was impossible to keep the house clean, even by creating a “mud corner” where they stashed their boots. Marty noticed how the pervasive moisture in the air made their food damp and spongy, and their popcorn would become soft before he and Susie finished eating it. When the electricity was on, they could at least watch TV or listen to his stereo. However, their power lines came through the park from Olema, where treefalls frequently cut them off for several days. PG&E considered them a very low priority because there were so few houses on that line. Going to school or work became a pleasure, because at least there would be dryness, heat, and power. Otherwise, the kids sulked around inside the soggy cabin like salamanders, because it was too dark and wet to go outside even when it stopped raining. Huge drops fell down the fireplace, making it hard to get a good fire going, and all the firewood was soaked anyway. Marty tried to read by candlelight as long as he could, and then folded into his bed the way a fish is wrapped in newspaper. His sleeping bag felt damp and heavy, as if he were trapped inside the belly of a whale.
One evening, Freyja didn’t come in when Susie called. Otter and Rabbit were living with a friend over the hill during the inclement weather, but the Norwegian Elkhound, with her thick, moisture-proof coat, wasn’t bothered by the dampness one bit. She usually came back often to check on her people, but this time she vanished. Marty tried calling her, too, and shook the dog food bag, but there was no response. He remembered what Otter said about how she arrived, and wished he was here. They all went outside with their rain slickers and flashlights to see if she might be hurt somewhere, needing help. There was no sign of their canine friend anywhere. Marge tried to get a hold of Otter or Rabbit, but they weren’t answering their phone. None of them slept very well that night, for worrying and waiting to hear Freyja scratching at the door.
The next day, Marty had to go to school, but he thought of the missing Norse goddess all day. Would she be home, waiting for them when they returned? Or was the Lagunitas Triangle more of a Bermuda Triangle for dogs? Marty and Grunion – or rather Susie – were the first to arrive home after their long, wet walk from school. There was no sign of Freyja. They had already spread the word to all the kids they knew to look out for her, and kind Mrs. Joplin offered to make some flyers if they brought in a photo the next day. Naturally, Marty hoped that wouldn’t be necessary, and she would be waiting for them when they got home. She wasn’t there. He and Susie called, and searched up and down the length of the property, but there was no sign of her. There was no way she could have crossed the still half-flooded creek, so she had to be on their side. She surely wouldn’t go down to the McAuliffes’ bridge where the two black hellhounds lurked on the porch.
When Marge, Tim, and Julie got home, the entire crew went on a search and rescue operation in the gloomy twilight. Tim and Marty went as far as the Inkwells, yelling above the constant rush of the creek, and even checked the China House… but it was dark and deserted. With dripping clothes, they came home empty-handed and heavyhearted.
The following day was Tim’s day off, and he promised to search in places where they hadn’t been yet. Marty brought a photo of Freyja to school, but it wouldn’t photocopy well because she was nearly the same color as the toner. It was a long, sad walk home, but when he and Susie got there, Freyja was barking on the other side of the door! They burst in and made a huge fuss over her, naturally, while Tim grinned in the background, hugging his round belly with satisfaction.
“Where did you find her?”
“I didn’t – that’s the weird thing – she just came home!” He spread his hands out in utter disbelief. Tim could have taken all the credit and fabricated an epic tale of heroism, but he was too humble. “Funny thing, though,” he added, scratching his thick, wiry beard. “She smelled strongly of fresh-cut pine, as if she had been inside a new building, or maybe a crate.”
“A crate? You mean a wooden one?” Marty rubbed the backs of her ears in sympathy, and buried his nose in the nape of her neck. He could still smell a hint of pine, reminiscent of mountain air.
“Yup,” Tim repeated emphatically. “Smelled just like pine lumber. She was really hungry, too. Ate a whole bowl of food and drank lots of water. And her collar is gone. I think somebody held her captive!”
“The Animal Witch!” Marty and Susie’s eyes opened wide at each other.
“Now, wait a minute,” Tim began, in that tolerant tone of his, “We don’t know it was her. There’s no way either of them could’ve crossed the creek. She had to be up on the hill, or something.”
They both had the same idea. “Let’s go find out!”
The two of them dashed out the door and took up positions behind a redwood stump to spy across the creek. There was no sign of activity in the decomposing shipwreck of a shack. The empty windows stared back at them suspiciously. The creek was much lower now, but still flowing strong, leaving muddy, naked banks where everything had washed away. A blue jay hopped briskly from branch to branch; as intensely curious about them as they were about the dark and silent house across the creek.
After a minute, Tim joined them with the binoculars. “These might come in handy. Are we playing detective now?” Marty grabbed them gratefully, and scanned the witch’s porch, the patch of weeds in her yard, and especially the lumber pile out back. He could see no sign of any crate, enclosure, or fresh wood at all.
“Maybe Freyja was buried alive in a coffin, like that creepy movie we saw on TV.” Susie offered, “Hey, where is she, anyway?”
Tim turned around, and stiffened like someone punched him in the gut. The front door of the cabin was open.
They quickly abandoned their posts and dashed back to the house but she was not inside. Crazy with frustration, they ran outside calling, “Freyja! Freyja!” but she had disappeared again! The three of them split up, but couldn’t locate her. Susie called her mom at the pet store, frantically sobbing and telling her the whole story about how Freyja had come back but now she was gone. Marge came home early because she finally got a hold of Otter, and Marty hoped that the clever Inuit might be able to track “his” dog (who had really become everyone’s dog). Otter mournfully stroked his long, thin mustache and listened very intently to their story, then stopped Tim at the part about the pine smell, and had him repeat it. He sniffed around the yard for a while with mystical authority, then stomped his feet on the porch to loosen the mud and came back inside. He grimly removed his hat, ran his fingers through his long black hair, and put it back on. “She’s gone.” He paused to let that sink in. “I’m sorry, folks. Them good dogs sometimes come back and visit one last time, but her spirit has left our world.”
Marge sat down on the couch, stunned, and Susie started crying. Tim looked very distraught and guilty for letting her get away, but Otter made it clear a door would not have an obstacle for her. Marty realized his cheeks were wet, too! One realization began forming in his mind: she actually came back to visit them! Otter explained it was the strong pine smell that meant she had been to the “other side,” as he called it, reminding them all that no pine trees grew in the area. “She prob’ly got hit by a car, or taken by the spirits of the forest, but it ain’t no different. She’s with the trees, now.” Marty couldn’t fathom how he deduced this with such certainty, but he felt it to be true as soon as he said it. He realized for the first time that there were other states of being besides the one in which he was currently imprisoned. They never saw Freyja again, but Marty always treasured the inexplicable memory of a love so strong that it crossed dimensions.
The whole family entered a collective period of mourning. Otter stayed with them for a couple of nights, walking the trails and roads all over the canyon during the days, even though he knew he’d never find her. As the days became noticeably longer, and the sun could once again rise above the southern ridge, their spirits lifted somewhat. Tim still shared Marge’s bed. Otter and Rabbit were splitting time between their main room and a friend’s couch, because their teepee was still soaked. Ron often stayed overnight to entertain Julie. Their little cabin was damp and crowded, and smelled like a cheap boarding house from the unreliable plumbing.
Marty missed his dog buddy, Freyja. Ever since Heidi was mauled by that raccoon, the place was becoming a death trap for dogs. It was a great relief when they finally went a few days without rain and he could get out for a hike. The China House loomed dark and deserted as he warily passed by. This time there was no sign of Space People, nudists, or concubines. He could hear the roar of the Inkwells long before he could see it. It had transformed into a churning tumult of water, as huge, brown, frothing waves cascaded over the rocky knolls that normally enclosed the swimming holes. Crossing over the maelstrom on the concrete pipe was too intimidating, so he walked straight down the railroad bed, following the raucous cascade of the remaining floodwaters. The old right of way was strewn with fallen tree limbs and small mudslides. He saw two places where trunks had been cut away after falling on the power lines. In the back of his mind, he kept hoping to see Freyja running around the next bend towards him, but it wasn’t to be.
Their power finally got restored, and the news on TV was all about the Patty Hearst trial. The famous heiress had been kidnapped by revolutionaries and helped them rob a bank, but her defense lawyer argued she had been “brainwashed” and forced to be an accomplice. The rumor at Marty’s school was that the gang had been holed up in Lagunitas in the “Argentine House” and had a shootout with local sheriffs when they were captured. Hoggy claimed he and his brother had seen the bullet holes! There were always rumors about celebrities hanging out in the Valley, or checking into the rehab center in Forest Knolls. It seemed the harsh but mystical terrain was tough on people, too.
As winter sloshed its way into spring, their normally rutted road became nearly impassable. Small streams and rivulets from the winter storms ran down the steep hills and converged on the parking area, which lately resembled an estuary. Otter built a crude but effective dock out of cinder blocks and plywood so people could at least get in and out of their vehicles cleanly. When the water flow subsided enough to dig through the muck, Tim carved a perpendicular drainage ditch across the driveway to divert the remaining trickle. Marty and Otter inspected the length of the property, marveling at the height of the debris that got stuck in trees and bushes from the flooding creek. The teepee was a soggy, sagging shadow of its summer glory, and the canvas was ripped off one side. The water had covered the entire bottom half, and left a slimy, muddy residue on everything it touched. They cleared away the mud as best they could, but the structure was ruined.
“Welcome to ‘Soggynitas,’” Marty announced with respectful sarcasm.
Otter shrugged his rounded shoulders in resignation underneath his long black hair. “Whatcha gonna do? When the snow melts, you can see the dog shit.”