Part 10

      When my knees start getting sore, I pull myself up, brushing hair out of my face with a clean spot on the back of my hand. I need my water bottle, and before that, I need to rinse my hands off in the creek. As cathartic as weeding can be, I've always hated the feeling of dirt stuck under my fingernails, so I head back toward the creek.
      Kneeling down at the water's edge, I gaze contentedly at the creek bed, seeing a spot where the tiles and marble are still mostly visible. The colors of the tiles, the brightness of the marble, look so lovely with the bright blue of the summer sky as a backdrop. Looking along the water's edge, I see a patch of the tiny star-like white flowers I'd noticed before. The tendrils have grown so long now, that they have started trailing in the water, some of the petals and leaves floating free to drift along the water's surface. I brush a finger lightly against one of the stems floating in the water, smiling as it swirls gently along my finger with the current.
      Shaking my hands off, then drying them on my jeans, I head back to the bench for my bag. It's hard to keep from downing my whole bottle of water, but I hold back, knowing I'll want some later. I wonder if the spring the creek starts from is on the property, or elsewhere in the woods? I'd still need to test it before drinking... I seem to remember that there's some kind of tablet you can put in a bit of water to see if it's drinkable, but I'm pretty hazy on it. Guess I didn't stay in Girl Scouts quite long enough.
      Bag – with camera, sketchbook and supplies inside – in hand, I head back to the creek for awhile. I move slowly along the bank, taking pictures to capture colors and details, sketching out interesting things, making notes on light and juxtapositions. I leave my iPod on some soundtracks, nice background music to work to.
      Some time later, I come to an area where the tiles no longer extend onto the main ground, and my path is somewhat blocked by a dense grove of trees and the underbrush in the spaces between them. The trunks are very dark, nearly black, but I can see flower buds on long stems between the leaves. The leaves themselves are... lots of small leaves on a single stem. The same structure as palm tree leaves, only these are about an inch long and totally oval in shape. They're actually really pretty, and the bark is really dramatic – I'd love to draw them against a background of snow. Some kind of weed with giant leaves covers most of the ground between the trunks, the plants growing up to my waist, higher in places. But there are no thorns or anything on the plants – though I see a few on the trees themselves – so I push my way through. I would have loved these leaves as a kid, they would have made great props for any kind of tropical setting. The breeze rustles lightly through the leaves overhead. The trees aren't terribly large, most of the trunks are a foot or less across, and they're not impossibly tall, nothing like the height of old oak trees. Maybe like a sugar maple's height. But despite the deceptive size, the trees feel old... maybe it's just the dark roughness of the bark, especially in contrast to the brightness of the day.
      The grove isn't deep, maybe ten or fifteen feet and I'm out of it again – and I find that the creek has curled around it, and on the other side a bridge crosses over the water. It's a wooden bridge, and is surprisingly high for the short distance it covers, arching steeply into almost a perfect half-circle. Two lines of flat wooden beams make up each side railing, one rail about waist height, the other a little lower than shoulder height. Every six feet or so are vertical posts. All of the lines are very smooth and clean, the wood looking largely intact despite its age. As I move closer to it, I can see traces of pale pink on the underside of the bridge – I wonder if it was once painted red? Or coral, maybe, picking up the color of the tiles? That must have been it, I feel sure now that it's occurred to me. It looks like there was once some kind of carving on the pillars, there are deep indentations, but the detail has been worn away over the years, and I can't make out any trace of what it was.
      The wood itself feels pretty sturdy still. The wood pillars don't go into the water at all, they meet with stone pillars six inches or so above the creek's surface. I don't see any sign of rot at all, just the smooth greyness that comes with long exposure to the outdoors. Tentatively, I put a foot onto the bridge, leaning against it to test my weight on it. It doesn't give at all, so I stand fully on it, still wary. I set my bag on the dry ground behind me – if I get wet, I will get dry, but my camera and sketchbook won't deal with a bath quite so casually. I take a few slow, cautious steps onto the bridge, glancing back along the creek to the fence, then looking the other direction, to where the creek might lead. It goes another twenty feet or so before it hits another bend, and a vast weeping willow tree blocks my view past there... but I have to say I don't mind in the least. I've always loved those trees, and wished I had one in my yard. This is one of the largest ones I've ever seen, and its branches bend so perfectly over the water, the long strands of leaves trailing into the water and curling around in the slow current. I stand there for some time, just staring at how perfect it is... knowing that I can't possibly draw it the way it stands, it would seem so arranged and unreal! I lean onto the railing, just staring, lost in the interplay of the leaves in the water...
      A sharp barking interrupts my intent gaze. Turning abruptly toward the sound, I feel the railing quake a little under the pressure my arm puts on it as my weight shifts, and I step back toward the middle of the bridge. Looking back at the railing, I see that some bug or another has gnawed away at the wood, and it's barely holding together there. Quickly, I walk back to dry ground, looking gratefully over toward the dog, which sounded like it was on the other side of the water. Sure enough, a large black dog stands just at the edge of an area of dense brush. I whistle, and the dog cocks its head, but refuses to come nearer.
      Testing my weight on the bridge again, I decide my chances of crossing it are probably just fine – it's maybe ten, fifteen feet, and half of that is over dry ground anyway. I walk (a little quickly) over it, and slowly approach the dog. I can see the sunlight glint off the id tags on its collar, and it seems friendly enough. Walking slowly, calling softly, I move toward it. It wags its tail, cocking its head at me... but won't take another step. A bit confused, I stop about five feet away. Bending down a little, I extend a hand, and whistle gently. The dog starts to take a step forward – and then stops suddenly, whimpering, and backs up, tail drooping a little. It's so strange... he's acting like he wants to come near me, but is afraid of something. I don't think it's me... We always had a dog growing up, lots of my friends did, and while cats can be finicky with people, I've never seen a dog act that way.
      I keep walking toward the dog, very slowly, and he perks up, taking a step closer again, tail wagging, tongue lolling. He's about the size of a German Shepard (one of my neighbors growing up had one), but nearly all black, with a little patch of white at his chest. His fur looks softer too, his body structure a little less angular than German Shepards tend to be. But just as my hand is within a few inches of his eager nose, he whimpers again and scuttles backward, looking up at me with forlorn eyes.
      “What's wrong? Do I smell funny? I won't hurt you, it's okay...”
      But the dog just looks at me mournfully, his tail drooped but still wagging slowly. He barks softly, and turns slowly away, beginning to trot off into the trees – which turn into woods at this point. I take a few steps after him... but then he's gone. I blink and peer more closely at the spot I last saw him, but he must have just gone behind some brush, blending into the shadows under the old trees.
      I try to shrug it off, but I have an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach about the whole thing. The dog felt something he didn't trust... and I'm almost certain it wasn't me. Looking around at the ground, I don't see anything odd... But the trees suddenly feel larger, older, more ominous to me, and I take a few steps back myself, back into the light in the garden. The trees look just as old from out here... it's funny, it didn't seem so dark under them when I went in after the dog. Looking up, there are no clouds in the sky to have covered the sun... and I wasn't there for more than five minutes, the light shouldn't have changed so drastically in that time. No, the light hasn't changed, the shadows are falling on the bridge just the same as they were ten minutes ago, I was looking closely at them. Maybe I just wasn't paying much attention to the trees, being so focused on the dog?