After Dark

There is a story I like to tell late at night — when I have people over and we have all had a bit to drink.

I like my place on the cool side, and on winter days I am happy to make do with a small portable space heater at my feet. But when I have company, I make a fire in the wood-stove that sits on a large fieldstone at the very center of the house. The glass door opens to the main seating area of my living room and there is plenty of space for several people to sit comfortably. I turn off electric lights in favor of candles around the room. We eat leek soup with buttered crusty bread. And when we are done with that, we open the first bottle. We like to start with Jim Beam as a warm up. And the night usually concludes with Yukon Jack.

My place is out in the woods, hardly in the wilderness, but definitely out in the sticks. It is at the end of a 5-mile long dirt road and stands in a small clearing. Sometimes, we will hear an object fall onto the roof and make a loud noise. It always startles us. When there are no trees close enough to be dropping branches or other flotsam, you just have to wonder. There was a time I would go out and investigate. There are all kinds of objects up on the roof, rocks mainly, that I have no idea how they got up there. I suggested to the guys that there might be a Sasquatch in the neighborhood. But it only seems to happen when I have the guys over, so perhaps someone is having fun with us.

There are no blinds on my windows, because where I am there are no privacy concerns. You find yourself expecting to see a face looking in — but it has yet to happen. And when I go outside and look into the woods after dark, I always expect to see eyes looking back at me — but that also has yet to happen. Nothing has ever disturbed me here. But I know I am not alone.

When we are gathered around the stove, with only candles lighting the room, it is easy to see faces in the windows. And the faces inspire stories. And when you have told a story enough times, you have started to believe it yourself — and then you get even better at telling it — and then your audience readily believes it too — especially once you have moved on to the Yukon Jack.

In the light of the day, there are only the gentle shadows cast by sunshine. And when I look out into the trees, I do not expect to see a face. My bird feeders attract many visitors, especially Cardinals and Black-Capped Chickadees. I hear woodpeckers at work and occasionally glimpse one of the hawks which nest on the my property. Deer wander through often.

But sometimes I see something out of the corner of my eye — towards the edge of the clearing. I fancy that I see beehives — and a monk wearing an antiquated hood and mask. He blows no smoke, but persuades the bees to leave the hives by singing to them. The sound of his voice seems irresistible to the bees who leave the hives to settle on him, one by one, until he is a human-shaped blob of stoned bees. Another monk comes along to harvest the honey while the hives are vacant. It can take well over an hour — and the whole time the other monk wears the bees who are hypnotized by his very essence. Then I am suddenly distracted by the sound of a car coming along the road; or the phone rings inside. And the monks and bees are gone.

I love to tell this story. And the best part is the next morning, when everyone wakes up hungover from the night before — and we find a dish of fresh honeycomb on the deck outside the back door — no matter the time of year.

One night, the others locked me in my room and guarded the doors and windows to make sure I did not leave.

But the honey was still there in the morning.