Dave stared at the brochure incredulously. Of all the stupid, pseudoscientific... This is just the sort of woo-woo crap that Kathryn would go in for.
He wondered how much money they were wasting on this trip, only to practice yoga in the middle of the woods and do some kind of mystical mushroom ceremony led by some hippy who printed his mycology degree off of some shady website. What a scam.
He uncrumpled the sticky note and reread it. April 27. That was today. Well, he thought, glancing at the clock, technically yesterday. He swirled the remaining liquid around in his glass, contemplatively.
Kathryn had been blowing up his phone for weeks with “urgent” messages, trying to get him to sign and deliver the divorce papers. Maybe I oughta deliver it in person. It’s not like I have a job to go to. Maybe while I’m at it, I’ll give her downward doggy style boyfriend, Damian, a piece of my mind. In fact, I think I’ll give him more than a piece of my mind. What he needs is a piece of my fist in his teeth.
A quick Internet search told Dave that Mars Hill, NC was an eight hour drive away. It was nearly two in the morning. There was no time to lose. Moving with a sense of urgency, he packed two changes of clothes in a paper bag along with his toothbrush, drank a pot of coffee to sober up and keep himself alert, and grabbed the formerly dreaded manila envelope on his way out the door.
Nine hours later (he’d stopped for something resembling breakfast at a fast food joint in nowhere Virginia), Dave arrived at his destination. Mars Hill, North Carolina was awash in a drizzling spring rain. On a two lane country road that ran next to a lively creek, he drove past cow pastures, roadside produce stands and abandoned tobacco barns until he reached a stretch of road canopied on both sides by a dense layer of lush, green foliage. Soon, he made his final turn onto Encyclopedia Drive, a narrow dirt road, deeply pitted with potholes that aspired to be mud puddles.
Proceeding slowly down the long, bumpy driveway, Dave noticed his hands tightening on the steering wheel and his heartbeat racing. He had spent most of the drive mentally rehearsing his lines for the coming confrontation with Kathryn and Damian, but now he could not remember what he’d planned to say. His resolve began to weaken, dribbling out of him like the rain dripping from the clouds above. Oh, cut it out, Dave, he commanded himself. You’re just sleep deprived, that’s all.
The road went on for quite a ways longer than Dave expected, finally opening on a gravel parking lot, but there was nothing else there. No building, no other cars, not even a sign. That’s strange, he thought. I thought there’d be a visitor’s center or something.
Not willing to give up after driving so far, Dave climbed out of the car to investigate. He stood in the middle of the parking lot, in the rain that was dwindling to a fine mist, and looked around. Mostly, he saw trees. Tall, venerable old trees with vines climbing up their girthy trunks and moss growing on their shady sides. Above the tops of the trees, in every direction rose verdant mountains, cloaked in billowy wisps of fog. And that was it. Trees and mountains. Vines and shrubs and scraggly little forbs.
Is this someone’s idea of a prank? Could Kathryn have left that brochure for me to find, and... Dave shook his head rapidly, as if to repel a mosquito. No, that’s impossible. That’s the sleep deprivation talking again. Snap out of it, Dave. There’s gotta be something here. Just calm down and you’ll find it.
Methodically, he paced the perimeter of the gravel lot. A pair of yellow finches, pecking around on the ground for seeds, flitted to the air at his approach. His eyes swept the area as he walked, but spied no indication of the presence of people, until finally, at the last corner, he found a narrow trail branching out into the woods. Next to the trailhead, half hidden behind an impossibly tall milkweed, was a small, wooden sign with the words “Pleurotis Gnostica Pavilion” carved into it. Dave started down the trail, not knowing what to expect.
A brief walk later, the path ended in a fairly large clearing. At one side of the glade was the pavilion: a covered, screened area with a stage and about a dozen picnic tables inside. Nearby were a well-used fire pit, a few rock benches and a scattering of plastic lawn chairs. On the opposite end of the clearing, a concrete block foundation had been started for a smallish building. That must be the welcome center, thought Dave. As soon as they collect enough donations and yoga retreat fees, they’ll put up a proper building as a front for their fraudulent activities.
But there was no one there. Where’s the yoga retreat? Where is Kathryn? Maybe I should call her. It would almost defeat the purpose of me being here, but what else can I do? He took his cell phone out of his pocket and was about to make the call, but there was no reception. Oh well, that was a stupid idea anyway. Perplexed, Dave made his way across the clearing.
The trail continued on the other side of the construction site. Not particularly wanting to turn back at this point, Dave continued walking. The rain had stopped completely now, and exhausted as he was, the hike energized him. After walking a ways, he began to forget to stew about Kathryn, about the manila envelope sitting back in the car, about getting fired, even about What’s-his-name, the yoga instructor. The cool, post-rain air caressing his skin, the rich aromas of tree bark and dank, black soil filling his nostrils, and the chirping and humming of the forest creatures hidden in the canopy all combined to put him in an almost pleasant state of mind. Like I’m in the middle of a goddamn Disney movie. Any minute now, a chipmunk will scurry up to me and start singing.
After a half-mile or so, he had become so immersed in the mere act of walking, of the soft breeze on his face and the squelching sound his sneakers made in the mud that he did not notice the two people approaching him until they were close enough to reach out and pat his bald spot.
“Nice day for a hike, isn’t it?” the man asked amiably.
Startled, Dave looked up from the ground, where he had been watching for roots and other stumbling blocks. The man was in his later years, but fit, and wore his gray beard long and scruffy. He held a handsome walking stick, crafted of dark wood, polished to a bright gleam and topped with an intricately carved mushroom. Next to him stood a young woman with pale blue eyes, pale freckly skin, and a conflagration of red curls secured by a clip at the back of her head.
“Uh—yes, I guess it is, isn’t it?” came Dave’s belated reply.
“Are you here for a tour? We don’t usually give them on the weekends,” the girl said. “We’re a bit short staffed, at the moment.”
“Not exactly.” Dave flushed, wondering how to explain his current predicament without getting himself arrested.
“Um, wasn’t there supposed to be a—a yoga retreat here this weekend?”
“Yoga retreat?” the man said. “Naw, that got cancelled months ago. Due to low enrollment. The Reserve didn’t have much to do with that, other than renting them the facilities and providing a tour guide. If you didn’t get your refund you should talk to the organizer about it. Some guy from up north somewheres. What was his name? Dean? Darius?”
“Damian,” said Dave. “Oh, you know him?”
“No, not really.”
“Say, are you from out of town?”
“Yes. I came from up north somewheres, too.” Dave paused, reflecting upon his own stupidity and trying to collect his thoughts. “I came because I thought my wife would be here. For the yoga retreat.”
“Didn’t she tell you it got cancelled?”
“No. We’re separated. I guess ‘estranged’ would actually be a better word. Anyway, last night I found a note she left in a book about plans to come down here this weekend, and I...I guess I just really wanted to see her.” As he said it, he realized it was true.
“Oh,” said the man, looking sympathetically at Dave and running his thumb over the oiled grooves of his walking stick. Everyone stood silent for a moment.
“Well,” the girl broke the silence, smiling. “You drove all this way. At least you can take a tour.”
To be continued...
This has been Part 2 of "Surfing the Myconet. Go read Part 1 if you missed it!
Thank you for reading!
Hi! My name is Leslie Starr O'Hara, but I go by Starr. I live in the mountains of North Carolina and I write fiction, satire, humor, and the odd anarchist think piece here on Steemit. FOLLOW ME if you're interested in stuff about science fiction, writing, homeschooling, productivity, or just stuff that will make you laugh your britches off.
