Wordplay! with Chloë Moore ’24
By Patrick Coy-Bjork ’24
For this month’s wordplay, we are proud to feature a piece from our very own Chloë Moore! Please enjoy this excerpt from Chloë’s writing.
Chloë had this to say about the work,
“This is an excerpt from Chapter 2 of a story? novel? novella? that I’ve been working on since last year. It’s set in my home of upstate New York and follows a scientist as she navigates her constricting marriage and finds strange, nonhuman being hiding in the woods of the Adirondack mountains. Like much of my work, it deals with and eco/naturalist and queer themes. Thanks to The Words for featuring it!”
Deepwoods by Chloë Moore
On day four, our last day of this trip, I wake before Guide. She is bundled in her sleeping back, upturned nose just poking out, wisps of hair on her forehead. Delicate, almost, like a bird, so still compared to the joviality of her awake self. Slide out without waking her. Shoes on. A hat, since it’s still early, and colder than before.
Alone, for this walk, in the silver gray morning, under the cinereous sky and the silhouetted branches. Steps make just a bit of noise on the trails, pine needles shushing against each other, twigs cracking and leaves crunching. Wish I could walk and leave no trace, blend so well into the ground that no one would know I’d ever been here. Take low impact camping to a whole new level.
And yet today is almost violently alive. The air is cold enough to be sharp in my nose. The condensation building on my top lip with every exhale. My hands bunched in pockets, nails against palms, thumb inside other fingers. Every shift in the air currents can be sensed. Moves the flyaways from my ponytail over my forehead, the nape of my neck.
I don’t have a destination. Just walking to walk, to feel how it feels to be alive in these woods, to accept that this body takes up space and learn to live through it. Looking around as it gets lighter. Sky warming up, blushing as the sun peaks over the horizon in the east. I can see her rising by the rays that cross the visible sky. Can’t be out too much longer or Guide might wake and worry. Should turn around now, really. But something keeps me going.
Then, for a reason I can’t name, stepping off the trail. Maybe scientific hunch. Maybe a need to be somewhere no one has tread. Maybe no reason. Just one of those things. Now the walking gets harder, though, stepping over fallen logs and moving around shrubby clumps of mountain maple, being careful not to stomp on the occasional mushroom. Pushing further into the woods. Getting darker. Outrunning the rising sun. Trees getting taller, bark getting rougher. The duff on the floor must be inches thick here, covering undisturbed soil.
The ground starts sloping downwards. That’s strange. The area around Marcy Dam is flat until it rises into mountains. But this is definitely a decline. And something is changing in the morning air. Getting cleaner, maybe, can feel every molecule in my nose. Almost shimmering, in between the trees further down, which are in far too much shadow for the morning. Heartbeat hammering away against my sternum. Throat feeling funny. Something is different here. Not quite wrong, but not quite right. Nothing says immediate danger. Just unknown.
In the dark of this little valley, two birch trees stand out, white and cream pink almost glowing. Strange. The crowns curve towards each other, making an arch, almost a doorway. Stop in front of it. Nothing looks any different through the trees, just the same strange, glinting dark. All my sensibility says don’t go through. Science says explore, but the part of me that knows my mother’s stories of strange goings on in the rural South says no. Some things aren’t meant for our eyes. And yet. And yet. A tugging in my navel says go forward. One foot. Another. Tiny little steps. Almost through. Then, a shout.
Whip around. Guide’s voice. Where are you?
Turning back to the doorway: “I’ll be back.” A silent promise. Then, back up the incline. I’m okay! I’m coming! The walk back to the trail is faster on the return. Guide standing in the middle of the trail, eyes bright, panting.
What the hell were you thinking? You’ve been gone for hours. You didn’t wake me up. I had no idea where you were—didn’t know if something had happened—do you have any idea–?
Something burning in the back of my throat. Had been doing so well and now she’s yelling. Has it really been hours? Check the watch. Shit. Lost track of time in that strange darkness.
Sorry. Barely a whisper. Didn’t mean to mess up the schedule. Guide runs her hands through her choppy hair.
Not the fucking schedule. Double take. Didn’t think she talked like that. Always so gentle. I was worried about you. That’s almost more of a surprise than the cursing. Guide walks in a small circle a few times, like a dog shaking something off. Not smart to go off alone like that. Who knows what could’ve happened?
I’m okay. I’m okay. I just wanted to explore. Guide slows her pacing and faces me again. Her breathing slows.
But why off the trail? She’s almost pleading. I don’t know how to explain myself. This is just as bad as colleagues asking me about my work.
I don’t—I just—I’m a scientist. We have to go off the beaten track to find something to learn about. That’s how it always has been. Guide breathes. Nods. Still not happy. But strangely accepting. Her eyebrow stops twitching. Phew.
Okay. Just—next time wake me up, yeah?
Next time? The words unfurl inside me, a hint of future trips. I haven’t ruined everything.
Next time I’ll wake you up. Such a simple thing. Not really a price to pay if it means I can go back to those strange birches.
What were you looking for, anyway? The cheeriness has basically returned to Guide’s voice. I want to tell her, in that moment, but something holds me back. I don’t know enough. Can’t present information you don’t understand.
Just seeing what the forest looks like untouched. It’s not really a lie. Her eyebrow quirks, a halfway twitch. She can see right through me. When I make the next leap in forest ecology, you’ll be the first to know. She smiles.
Will I get cited in the paper? Nod. Of course. In the acknowledgements. She shakes her head a final time. We walk back to the lean-to in comfortable silence.
Thank you Chloe for submitting your fantastic writing!