It was spring when I arrived in the valley. I drove along the highway

to the edge of town, then pulled over at the drop-off overlooking the
Bear River. From there I could look out over the basin, a patchwork of
expectant fields stretching to Buck’s Peak. The mountain was crisp
with evergreens, which were luminous set against the browns and
grays of shale and limestone. The Princess was as bright as I’d ever
seen her. She stood facing me, the valley between us, radiating
permanence.

The Princess had been haunting me. From across the ocean I’d heard
her beckoning, as if I were a troublesome calf who’d wandered from
her herd. Her voice had been gentle at first, coaxing, but when I didn’t
answer, when I stayed away, it had turned to fury. I had betrayed her. I
imagined her face contorted with rage, her stance heavy and
threatening. She had been living in my mind like this for years, a deity
of contempt.

But seeing her now, standing watch over her fields and pastures, I
realized that I had misunderstood her. She was not angry with me for
leaving, because leaving was a part of her cycle. Her role was not to
corral the buffalo, not to gather and confine them by force. It was to
celebrate their return.

—

I BACKTRACKED A QUARTER mile into town and parked beside Grandma-
over-in-town’s white picket fence. In my mind it was still her fence,
even though she didn’t live here anymore: she had been moved to a
hospice facility near Main Street.

I had not seen my grandparents in three years, not since my parents
had begun telling the extended family that I was possessed. My