Come and be one with Mother Earth!
Here’s the story I read at The Accidental Extremist Launch Party and Reading on May 21. Enjoy — CDB
In 1996 I was headed for Scotland from London on a bullet train flying through the forest. Wind and leaves whorled around the cars hurtling toward the highlands, but no amount of drizzle could dampen my spirits. I was going to meet a girl I’d never met from my same scholarship program, named Beth, who was studying fiddle music—and I was ready for a break from dreary London.
When I’d spoken to Beth a few days before she’d asked me: would I mind doing something a bit unusual on day one? There was some party, in some cave, and would I come? That sounded like a perfectly normal thing to do with strangers I’d never met, so I agreed.
I needn’t have worried. After stumbling around in the woods a bit longer we found the cave. It was a small opening carved into a top of a steep sandstone cliff perhaps fifty feet high. Soon someone explained why we’d come. This was not just any cave. This was Wallace’scave. As in William Wallace, Braveheart, the guy who led 30,000 men against the Crown in 1303. The guy who’d been disemboweled in the process. Well, great guns then, cheers! We built a fire and as the rain let up, Beth and her friends played hours of traditional music. This was far better than I’d imagined. A real-life Brigadoon. Riverdance meets Rambo. Perfect.
Turned out there was also a sort of second party gathered down below the cave consisting of locals and one Mexican fellow in a pancho. Soon we joined forces. Going back and forth between the parties was sketchy: the hillside slippery and pitch-black to boot. I had a headlamp with me, and ended up ferrying a few others back and forth from our cave to their camp. Besides, our own cave had filled with passed-out revelers, so I just decided to stay up. Then I heard the voice of a girl foundering somewhere on the rocks. After a search, I found her mired below the cave.
“I’m headed to a verrry special pleece,” she burred. “The enerrrgy spot.”
Uhh what’s that? Erin, I’ll call her, was lovely, with long brown hair. She explained that the energy spot was another cave, this one filled with mysterious symbols carved by Picts, the ancients who ruled Scotland before the Romans came along in the 10th century. And how would I like to see it?
Suddenly the night was looking even better. I felt guilty about leaving my hosts behind, but then again, they were deep into the whisky so would it matter? And imagine my luck in finding this damsel in distress! On the road doing research for months, I’d barely even chatted with a girl much less hiked to The Energy Spot with one. Sure, I said. Let’s go!
By the time we’d clambered and slipped all over Scotland to reach the cave, I’d convinced myself Erin and I had met for some cosmic reason. We found the pictographs and cooed over the “vibes”. Then we sat down by the cave. It was still pitch black.
I decided to get to know my Guinnevere a bit better—who was she, where did she come from? What did she hope to do with her life? I waited for her answer suppressing my nerves, the heady rush of anticipation roaring in my ears. Maybe she would say, who knows, traveler. Let’s not think about it right now, and then…
Instead she looked towards the sky, took a deep breath, and announced,
“I want to be…an ecoterrrrorist!”
A what? “That’s right,” she said gravely. “The farms and corporations have been raping Mother Earth for farr too long,” she intoned, growing more serious with every word. This was not good, I thought. She’d just told me her mom and dad were farmers. I’d replied mine were, too, of hazelnuts, which is true.
“The farmers are the worst,” she said through gritted teeth. “They trap innocent wild boars and slay them. I want to gather up all the wee squealers and nurse tham back to health, and release them!”
I considered at precisely this moment that wild boar sausage was maybe my favorite food, and I considered bringing that up, but quickly thought better of it. Nor was this the time or place to begin a philosophical debate on whether or not a young lass ought to consider handcuffing herself to trains and breaking into mink farms, but of course, I somehow did exactly that. Which failed, the chill between dipping into degrees Kelvin. Finally I tried to break the ice by reaching for a kiss.
“Ye cretin!” she screamed, leaping to her feet. “Did ye just think to bring me here for a shag!?” No, I stammered—really! I didn’t! I…I…Wait, Didn’t you bring me here?
“Let’s goo,” she said, disgusted. “Ye have bungled it up completely.”
I had. Trouble was, there were leaves and pine needles all over us from the trek. I’d be seeing my hostess Beth back in Wallace’s Cave, and what would she think of me now?
Erin laughed, and did the opposite, smearing leaves and muddy branches in her hair and all over her sweater to appear the ravaged forest nymph. “Can you um, can you please not do that?” I asked. “Bah!” she huffed, and turned up the trail.
Soon were were back. The fire was petered out. Beth was up chatting with friends. Erin didn’t even look back, chuckling as she disappeared into the woods. So paint me blue and call me Braveheart, I thought. She’ll probably be nursing a Wee Squealer back to health and leashing it as a Porcine Shield to a long-range missile somewhere before long. Who knows, I never saw her again.
Then I settled in for a nice two-hour nap against a wet tree in the rain. — Christian DeBenedetti
