Even in the kind darkness the woods don’t feel like mine anymore. I smell the diggers and the work site long before I see them—the black turned earth, the sap of murdered trees. The engines stand quiet among the ruins like big yellow grubs. I want to hurt them. I considered it. Hydrogen peroxide in the gas tank would do a good job. But that would hurt the forest too, and I don’t want that.

In the glade I look around at the white trees. I feel so sad. This has been a good home for the gods. But if they stay, sooner or later they will be found. I might not be smart about some things, but I know this—no one would understand about the gods.

I take the shovel off my shoulder, unroll the pouch containing the tools, and dig. I buried them in a sacred formation, in fifteen different places. The location of each one burns in my mind like the pattern of the stars. I could never forget it.

I brush dirt gently from the rounded surface of the first god. The soil I lift it from is black and rich. The gods feed the earth. I put my ear close and listen. The god whispers secrets in a voice like rain. “I hold you in my heart,” I whisper.

I put it gently into a trash bag and then into the backpack. I go to the next station. It is to the east, near the rock like a finger. This one is fragile. I put the shovel to one side and dig carefully with my hands. It’s not buried deep. I like to dig this one up every now and again to look. I unwrap the plastic. The dress lies in my arms, a dark gray in the faint moonlight. I wish I could see it in the sunlight again, its true color, the deep navy blue of the ocean in pictures. But of course I could never do this during the day. I wipe my hands on my jeans and stroke the fabric. The dress tells me things through the tips of my fingers. Each god holds different memories and brings its own feeling. My eyes feel tight and shining. This one always makes me sad. But also itchy, like a kind of excitement. “I hold you in my heart,” I whisper, but it sounds so loud.

Next comes the vanity case, near the middle of the glade, to the left. I do this one as quickly as possible. It has sharp shining things in it and a voice like nettle or vinegar.

On and on I dig, and one by one each god fills the air with its voice. “I hold you in my heart,” I whisper over and over. Each time, it is like going through it all again: the moment of the god-making, the sorrow.