On that cold, clear day in mid-autumn he had never felt more different or more trapped in his own strange fate. "Come along, Wood," he said to the five-hundred-pound log he dragged behind him with long, even strides. Several ordinary men pulling in tandem could not have budged the twenty-food section of oak tree, yet Solomon managed it comfortably. His breath made the faintest silver cloud in the autumn air as he hooked a massive iron chain higher over one shoulder, padding it with a soft wool coat he'd stitched meticulously. "There we go," he said, as the log plowed up damp leaves and roots. He spoke often to objects and animals, low valley clouds and wild vegetation, the great granite rocks fronting the mountain top's labyrinth of caves, the smallest ferns, like green lace. He named every moving and static being, categorized them, imagined they listened to his voice. He lived utterly alone on an isolated Appalachian mountain that had been old when the Himalayas were first thrust up. He realized he talked to himself.

"Ho, there," he said suddenly. A large, grizzled black bear lumbered up the hollow just left of him and growled, sniffing the air, deciphering the scent of human as it pushed heavily though thick laurel shrubs. Soon Solomon and the bear stood not more than a dozen yards apart. His name was Old Joe--even the people down in the cove knew him that way. His ears were ragged, and old fight scars marred his whitening face. Unlike most black bears, Old Joe was ill-tempered and unafraid of either people or dogs. He halted. His growl faded. He and Solomon traded one long look. Old Joe spun around and galloped back down the hollow.

Solomon sighed at his effect on the mountain's other largest creature of solitude, then moved on, giving the chain a jerk as the log caught on a hummock of loamy earth. In the deep shade of the southern forest, a hawk cried out like a courier. "It's moving," Solomon called upwards. "Yes, I know. She'll be here before we know it, and I have to hurry." When he reached the clearing around the cottage he set the log atop two cross pieces he'd nailed together earlier. The ground was already littered with wood chips and splinters. He picked up his ax and quickly chopped the large log into two-foot sections, adding fresh, sweet-scented chips to the mulch around his boots. In less time than a man armed with a chain saw could have done the job Solomon split the log sections into firewood, which he then scooped into his arms and carried to the cottage's back porch. Even though the cottage was outfitted with propane heat, a person needed good hearth fires to warm the soul and let others know all was well. The aroma of the cottage chimney would find him anywhere on the mountain. He stacked the wood neatly atop a pile that lined the entire back wall nearly to the roof. About head high, by his standards.

He went through the house, checking it one last time, bending to scoop up bits of dust or stray rug lint with his thick fingertips, straightening his paintings, rearranging a few of the books that filled tall cases in tall rooms. His ears were attuned to any small sound of arrival; the trace of a car far below, where the road ended and the jeep trail began. He could hear a deer's footstep a hundred yards away, but no sound of his new guest.

Solomon stood on the front verandah, frowning, surveying the yard, then got a rake from a shed behind the cottage. He arranged the wood chips like a mulch in front of the stone walkway, where autumn rains had made the soft loam a little soggy. She was accustomed to pavement, to sidewalks, to civilization. He would be her Sir Walter Raleigh, spread his cape in the mud. He went around the yard, breaking ragged branches off the underskirt of the trees, tidying the forest. A young white pine, scarred by insects and bent from the last winter's ice storms, made an eyesore. He wrapped his hands around its trunk and pushed it over.

After he carried the small tree out of sight, he returned to the yard, put away the rake and the ax then hesitated once again, checking off his mental list of preparations. Delaying the inevitable, said the a capella song he always heard in his own voice. He believed there'd been a time when his ancestors had walked openly in the world, but that time was long past. Why had god or nature created such an outcast human being filled with such painful musings on identity? He was simply Solomon, and this day would change his lonely life forever, beginning a journey he expected would break his heart.

A large hawk swung down from the sky and landed on a tree limb a few feet from him. "Hello, Feather," Solomon said. Frowning, he communed with the raptor for a long minute. "Go and find her," he said suddenly. "Yes. Be my eyes. Take care of her."

Feather lifted off, grazing a current of air, floated over the ridge, and faded from sight.

"All ready," Solomon said with dull acceptance. There was nothing to do now but leave, so that he wouldn't frighten Elisabeth.

So that she would never know he'd been there.

Because for all intents and purposes, he couldn't possibly exist.