| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder January 23, 1980 (continued)
Sheila Callahan is Flo's daughter. Flo is my dad's lover. I wrote a letter of courtship to Sheila recently, and this will
be her reply.
Sheila Callahan is Flo's daughter. Flo is my dad's lover. I wrote a letter of courtship to Sheila recently, and this will
be her reply.
| Chapter Twelve A THIN LINE |
Vikor did some people watching, one night in Birmingham, Alabama. He watched young men and women, teenagers, on dates. He milled with
the crowds at theatres and shopping malls. He moved through department stores, polite with the salespeople, unobtrusive, doing a little
shopping of his own.
He stopped at the candy store and purchased three pieces of marzipan in a white paper bag. He walked back out into the mall and over to a
bench by a tree where he sat. He ate the chocolates slowly, bite by little bite, and he watched the crowd.
As always, he was much impressed by how alike they all were. The clockwork of wide-eyed forms rotated through the spacious mall. Back out
on the regular street, Vikor stopped for coffee at an outdoor cafe. The clones, black and white, yellow and brown, rich and poor, male and
female, young and old, all stepped to the same complex choreography; they all were dressed by the same insane costume director. How well
they do it; how well we do it. Those were his only thoughts, and he blended in.
Then he began to see the differences. Black and white was the big one right off the bat. Though they strove in those enlightened times to be
like one another, the two races were well on their way to becoming separate species. That's how it seemed to Vikor. He had read about
evolution and genetics, and he had seen the population of the world, in every media, and he had learned history, and the acts of man toward
man.
With Cat One Dolan, his mother, he had also studied the bewitching dance of animal life called predation. No wonder we 'pray,' he had
thought as a little boy, when very early he had first learned the meaning of that word's homonym. It had seemed scary and unfair, the idea
that other beings could prey on us, that they could kill us and eat us.
the crowds at theatres and shopping malls. He moved through department stores, polite with the salespeople, unobtrusive, doing a little
shopping of his own.
He stopped at the candy store and purchased three pieces of marzipan in a white paper bag. He walked back out into the mall and over to a
bench by a tree where he sat. He ate the chocolates slowly, bite by little bite, and he watched the crowd.
As always, he was much impressed by how alike they all were. The clockwork of wide-eyed forms rotated through the spacious mall. Back out
on the regular street, Vikor stopped for coffee at an outdoor cafe. The clones, black and white, yellow and brown, rich and poor, male and
female, young and old, all stepped to the same complex choreography; they all were dressed by the same insane costume director. How well
they do it; how well we do it. Those were his only thoughts, and he blended in.
Then he began to see the differences. Black and white was the big one right off the bat. Though they strove in those enlightened times to be
like one another, the two races were well on their way to becoming separate species. That's how it seemed to Vikor. He had read about
evolution and genetics, and he had seen the population of the world, in every media, and he had learned history, and the acts of man toward
man.
With Cat One Dolan, his mother, he had also studied the bewitching dance of animal life called predation. No wonder we 'pray,' he had
thought as a little boy, when very early he had first learned the meaning of that word's homonym. It had seemed scary and unfair, the idea
that other beings could prey on us, that they could kill us and eat us.
| The 'a' in gray Can turn to 'e' And not affect The sense, But change to 'e' The 'a' in pray, And leap across The fence. |
| -- Vikor, age nine |
| * * * |
"Just think if we still had dinosaurs!" young Vikor had marveled, when his mother read to him from a book filled with pictures of fearsome
allosaurs. In later years, when confronted by the media with news about species extinction and mankind's efforts to prevent it, he remembered
his youthful speculations. With a wry grin he pictured the 'Save the Allosaurus' parade, with one of the big fangers gobbling up the stragglers.
Save the allosaurus. Save the saber tooth cat. Save Vikor. Let us prey.
It wasn't very long before Vikor began to see himself taking sides with the cats and the other predators, not as a savior, but as a competitor.
His earliest passions included the urge to hunt. When, out on a hike with his mother, he would see a bunny beneath a bush, he would freeze to
a point.
"Look, he would breathe to his mother," transfixed. The rabbit flicked its ear.
"I see it," said Cat. She herself had never before hunted for animals. She was engaged in a hunt of more intense proportions, in her crystal
prowling at the beck of Agnes Tawny. Now she found herself answering questions her mother had never had to answer.
Together they had replayed the progress of our species in the development of weapons. After stones and spears they had gone on to fashion a
series of bows and arrows. Cat found herself in the library checking out books on archery and hunting.
Then they took to the woods. Before long they had graduated to guns, and then, still a young adolescent, Vikor had returned to a live and let
live response toward all his fellow creatures who shared the neck of the woods where he did his prowling.
As a little boy he had loved the bunny rabbit, when first he had seen it. He wanted it. He thought none of these words, but he wanted to feel it,
to consume it, to become one with it. The distance between himself and that adorable cuddle of fur was intolerable; he wanted to close it with a
rush and a leap.
The first time he pegged one with a rock he stood over it and wept. Then with his mother's help, he learned to skin it, and together they broiled
it over a little fire, and together they communed with its flesh.
He had loved it. He grew, and he acquired the serenity of the African lion who can lie on the same veldt with its prey and let them graze in
peace. They would be there when they were needed. That was true for the lion and for Vikor. When he came to select his human victims, he
made no distinctions between black or white, yellow or brown. His choices were predicated on a number of variables.
Just as she had not stayed his hand when, as a boy, he had hurled stones at every wild thing until finally he brought one down, she did nothing
to check or scold his impulses to become a killer of humanity.
Most American kids, boys and girls alike, play guns. Following the time-worn formats for acceptable expressions of this urge, they play as
cowboys and Indians, marshals and bandits, cops and robbers, pirates and war heroes. They play swords, stabbing one another's hearts again
and again in the long summer twilights. They play knives and bombs and poison.
Their parents give them dolls, and they hang them from the front porch gallows. But they do not weep over dead dolls and pirate playmates.
They laugh with joy and the vigor of life, and they go out and do it again.
Vikor noticed early in his studies of history that humanity had indeed gone out and done it again and again, and he wept. He wept for the
bunny, that very first time. He cried again when he saw the mush that a bullet makes. But the joy of the barbecue swept these tears away. He
loved rabbits, alive and scampering, or sizzling on a stick.
The tears for humanity took longer to dry. The pain and the waste and the villainy at times almost overcame him. The pathos of the holocaust,
the genocide of the American tribes, the shame of slavery… it was the suffering of the people that galled him to tears. He was moved by the
masses for whom there was no quick death. Unlike the rabbit or the deer, thrilled one moment with the zest of life, and fallen the next in the
convulsive kicks of death, here were people writhing for years in the agony of fences, cages, whips, brands, starvation, intimidation and forced
labor.
Vikor loved black people the first time he saw them, on a trip to the city with his mother. There were none around Dove Springs. He was very
young, and he held tight to Cat One's hand as the friendly railroad porter assisted them with their bags and seating. After the young man had
smiled and wished them a comfortable trip, little Vikor had looked to his mother for answers.
He was content that day with her answers.
allosaurs. In later years, when confronted by the media with news about species extinction and mankind's efforts to prevent it, he remembered
his youthful speculations. With a wry grin he pictured the 'Save the Allosaurus' parade, with one of the big fangers gobbling up the stragglers.
Save the allosaurus. Save the saber tooth cat. Save Vikor. Let us prey.
It wasn't very long before Vikor began to see himself taking sides with the cats and the other predators, not as a savior, but as a competitor.
His earliest passions included the urge to hunt. When, out on a hike with his mother, he would see a bunny beneath a bush, he would freeze to
a point.
"Look, he would breathe to his mother," transfixed. The rabbit flicked its ear.
"I see it," said Cat. She herself had never before hunted for animals. She was engaged in a hunt of more intense proportions, in her crystal
prowling at the beck of Agnes Tawny. Now she found herself answering questions her mother had never had to answer.
Together they had replayed the progress of our species in the development of weapons. After stones and spears they had gone on to fashion a
series of bows and arrows. Cat found herself in the library checking out books on archery and hunting.
Then they took to the woods. Before long they had graduated to guns, and then, still a young adolescent, Vikor had returned to a live and let
live response toward all his fellow creatures who shared the neck of the woods where he did his prowling.
As a little boy he had loved the bunny rabbit, when first he had seen it. He wanted it. He thought none of these words, but he wanted to feel it,
to consume it, to become one with it. The distance between himself and that adorable cuddle of fur was intolerable; he wanted to close it with a
rush and a leap.
The first time he pegged one with a rock he stood over it and wept. Then with his mother's help, he learned to skin it, and together they broiled
it over a little fire, and together they communed with its flesh.
He had loved it. He grew, and he acquired the serenity of the African lion who can lie on the same veldt with its prey and let them graze in
peace. They would be there when they were needed. That was true for the lion and for Vikor. When he came to select his human victims, he
made no distinctions between black or white, yellow or brown. His choices were predicated on a number of variables.
Just as she had not stayed his hand when, as a boy, he had hurled stones at every wild thing until finally he brought one down, she did nothing
to check or scold his impulses to become a killer of humanity.
Most American kids, boys and girls alike, play guns. Following the time-worn formats for acceptable expressions of this urge, they play as
cowboys and Indians, marshals and bandits, cops and robbers, pirates and war heroes. They play swords, stabbing one another's hearts again
and again in the long summer twilights. They play knives and bombs and poison.
Their parents give them dolls, and they hang them from the front porch gallows. But they do not weep over dead dolls and pirate playmates.
They laugh with joy and the vigor of life, and they go out and do it again.
Vikor noticed early in his studies of history that humanity had indeed gone out and done it again and again, and he wept. He wept for the
bunny, that very first time. He cried again when he saw the mush that a bullet makes. But the joy of the barbecue swept these tears away. He
loved rabbits, alive and scampering, or sizzling on a stick.
The tears for humanity took longer to dry. The pain and the waste and the villainy at times almost overcame him. The pathos of the holocaust,
the genocide of the American tribes, the shame of slavery… it was the suffering of the people that galled him to tears. He was moved by the
masses for whom there was no quick death. Unlike the rabbit or the deer, thrilled one moment with the zest of life, and fallen the next in the
convulsive kicks of death, here were people writhing for years in the agony of fences, cages, whips, brands, starvation, intimidation and forced
labor.
Vikor loved black people the first time he saw them, on a trip to the city with his mother. There were none around Dove Springs. He was very
young, and he held tight to Cat One's hand as the friendly railroad porter assisted them with their bags and seating. After the young man had
smiled and wished them a comfortable trip, little Vikor had looked to his mother for answers.
He was content that day with her answers.
| * * * |
Once on the plane, Chela had thought the tears were all gone, but here she was crying again, as she discovered when Vikor offered her a
clean white linen handkerchief.
"Thanks," she whimpered, and she caught a glimpse of him through the lens of tears. Prior to that, they had not yet looked right into one
another's eyes. Hands and laps, bodies and arms, hair and clothing and, of course, eyelids, had been all that one another had seen of each, or
vice versa, as they had maintained the polite atmosphere of civilized strangers.
For his own part, Vikor was not hunting, although he was always hunting, prowling, moving and observing by habit, being aware even as he
appeared to sleep, feeling for the safety that allowed him to relax with eyes closed.
He knew he was seated next to a pleasant young woman, about his own age, apparently unaccompanied, willing to be friendly, and probably not
dangerous.
He knew also, once he opened his eyes, that she had tears running down her face. By then he already suspected that it was a beautiful face,
when not all wrinkled with grief.
clean white linen handkerchief.
"Thanks," she whimpered, and she caught a glimpse of him through the lens of tears. Prior to that, they had not yet looked right into one
another's eyes. Hands and laps, bodies and arms, hair and clothing and, of course, eyelids, had been all that one another had seen of each, or
vice versa, as they had maintained the polite atmosphere of civilized strangers.
For his own part, Vikor was not hunting, although he was always hunting, prowling, moving and observing by habit, being aware even as he
appeared to sleep, feeling for the safety that allowed him to relax with eyes closed.
He knew he was seated next to a pleasant young woman, about his own age, apparently unaccompanied, willing to be friendly, and probably not
dangerous.
He knew also, once he opened his eyes, that she had tears running down her face. By then he already suspected that it was a beautiful face,
when not all wrinkled with grief.
| * * * |
His thoughts returned to his earlier victim. She was rich. Not rich like the successful couple at the threshold of retirement after a lifetime of
savings and investment. No, Gail Henderson was rich like a smuggler, a dope-dealer or a whore, bedazzled with a pile of cash that cannot
readily be banked, nor used to buy the upper middle class array of possessions without attracting the attention of authorities from the I. R.
S. to the police.
It was entirely susceptible to a number of other applications, however, including but not limited to further drug investments, drug use, or
abuse, itself, and a host of other jeopardies including bad faith loans, swindles, waste, roommates, loss, theft and robbery.
And Vikor. Vikor didn't include himself and his purposes in any of the above list of catastrophes. He had killed Gail. The way he figured it,
her money was now his, as were all of her possessions, as well as her flesh, should he want to have a barbecue, which he did not.
That list of possible destinations for Gail Henderson's cash was the reason for the key on her bracelet and the serious locks on her door that
the key fit. Her private suite of rooms in the rambling Talmadge fortress that she shared with the other sisters was itself a fortress.
Gail Henderson's body lay in a sea of blood. Her mother would have been shocked beyond consolation to see her, or what had been her, like
that. Vikor stepped gingerly about the flood, and went up the banistered stairway. On the second floor he was confronted with two large
bathrooms and five locked doors. Each door had a little wooden plaque mounted on it with a brass insert inscribed with each of the roomies'
names. Obviously done by the same craftsman, each was a work of art and distinct in some ways from the others.
Gail Henderson's, complete with a couple of gemstones, was a dignified, low-profile, and serious, crown. The queen is dead, thought Vikor to
himself, as he unlocked first the dead-bolt and then the knob. He let himself into the private bedroom of the departed.
It was more of a suite than a room. This was a big house. The view of Mission Valley through windows and wrought iron on two walls was
magnificent. At night it would be breath-taking, he thought. Vikor quickly ascertained that no one was in either of the adjoining rooms, nor
in the bathroom. This must be the master bedroom. He doubted that, with two other bathrooms opening off of the hall, there were baths in
any of the other rooms. Mommy and Daddy's room might have a private bath, the designer of the house would have reasoned, but not the
kids. Too dangerous. The infestation for generations of a succession of college girls who each might have appreciated a private bath was not
anticipated. Vikor felt sure of that.
He stood in the middle of the room that was decorated more as a parlor than a bedroom. Palms outward he slowly turned, seeking to feel
whatever was there to be felt, secret places, buried treasure, clues and mysteries, keys and combinations.
He found the combination first. It was on a slip of folded paper beneath a pencil holder inside the top center drawer of a small desk that was
tastefully secluded with its own light and bookshelf in a nook beyond the floral couch, chair and walnut coffee table. It was almost the first
place he looked.
5-17-4. He read the numbers and replaced the slip. Then he began to search for the safe. The ones who had hidden the safe had been better
at hiding things than the one who hid the combo.
It must be a part of the original design of the house, thought Vikor, marveling at the ingenuity displayed in the structure it had taken him
nearly an hour to find. During meandering breaks in that part of the search, he had found consolation prizes, Gail Henderson's purse, for
instance. There had been over eight hundred in cash, as well as credit cards, a checkbook with a thousand dollar balance, and the usual
assortments of lipstick, extra cigarettes, a gun, a box of rubbers, a compact, a hair pick, an address book.
Vikor took the money, the cards, the checkbook, and her identification. That more than paid for the whole adventure, he thought to
himself. He left the purse, with the wallet inside of it, and the gun as well, visually undisturbed as he found them. He had lived through a lot
of adventures prior to this one.
Besides he would gladly have killed her for a twenty dollar bill. Now, however, he was admiring the safe in its hideout. He had looked right at
the cluster of rich, dark woodwork that accented one end of the room, an assembly of bookshelves and wainscoting. He had pawed it, tugged
it, lifted and twisted every protrusion, and abandoned it before frustration brought him to a second round during which he discovered that
simultaneous pressure at three separate points on the wainscot would cause the whole section to move inward an inch.
But then what? Quick reexamination of the rest of the woodwork revealed that the isolated section of the shelving that Vikor had inspected
earlier with high suspicion because of its size was now unlocked. He hadn't heard so much as a click when he pushed on the wainscot, but
apparently it was connected to a lever which silently slid a perfectly fitting latch from its locked seat.
He saw now that the latch was a long metal key that when nestled within its corresponding groove bound the entire opening edge of the little
door rigid with the wall. The hinges were likewise clever devices that, in spite of their concealed positions, allowed the two short shelves
loaded with paperback novels to swing outward, away from the safe.
Vikor had seen the same sort of project done much less professionally, leaving telltale rattles should a would-be safecracker apply
methodical pressure across the suspect wall. Despite the perfection of this carpenter's work, depending as it did in part on his use of
absolutely dry, well-seasoned hardwood that would not be subject to further shrinkage during the generations that it would sit and guard the
family treasure, in part on his patient skill at measuring and fitting and finishing so that nary a hint would speak to the observer of secret
chambers, Vikor had discovered the pressure points, the doorway, and the safe.
It was old, but five, seventeen, four, three turns to the left, once around to the right, and then left to the click, and it opened like a
well-oiled gun.
No more survival from day to day, thought Vikor sardonically. He eyed the two neat stacks of cash that the thrifty Gail had squirreled neatly
into a shoebox, and the second shoebox which contained jewelry and, he discovered a moment later, Krugerrands, nine of them. Apparently
Gail Henderson was not so squeamish as some blacks might have been about lodging her wealth beneath the inscription of South Africa.
Gold was gold to Gail.
The money in the shoebox was in two stacks, hundreds and fifties. The bundle of hundreds counted out to three hundred thirty-two bills,
while the fifties totaled only one hundred ninety-two, for a total of forty-two thousand eight hundred dollars. Vikor was young enough to say
wow, and he said it now.
"Wow!"
Wow, wow, wow!
savings and investment. No, Gail Henderson was rich like a smuggler, a dope-dealer or a whore, bedazzled with a pile of cash that cannot
readily be banked, nor used to buy the upper middle class array of possessions without attracting the attention of authorities from the I. R.
S. to the police.
It was entirely susceptible to a number of other applications, however, including but not limited to further drug investments, drug use, or
abuse, itself, and a host of other jeopardies including bad faith loans, swindles, waste, roommates, loss, theft and robbery.
And Vikor. Vikor didn't include himself and his purposes in any of the above list of catastrophes. He had killed Gail. The way he figured it,
her money was now his, as were all of her possessions, as well as her flesh, should he want to have a barbecue, which he did not.
That list of possible destinations for Gail Henderson's cash was the reason for the key on her bracelet and the serious locks on her door that
the key fit. Her private suite of rooms in the rambling Talmadge fortress that she shared with the other sisters was itself a fortress.
Gail Henderson's body lay in a sea of blood. Her mother would have been shocked beyond consolation to see her, or what had been her, like
that. Vikor stepped gingerly about the flood, and went up the banistered stairway. On the second floor he was confronted with two large
bathrooms and five locked doors. Each door had a little wooden plaque mounted on it with a brass insert inscribed with each of the roomies'
names. Obviously done by the same craftsman, each was a work of art and distinct in some ways from the others.
Gail Henderson's, complete with a couple of gemstones, was a dignified, low-profile, and serious, crown. The queen is dead, thought Vikor to
himself, as he unlocked first the dead-bolt and then the knob. He let himself into the private bedroom of the departed.
It was more of a suite than a room. This was a big house. The view of Mission Valley through windows and wrought iron on two walls was
magnificent. At night it would be breath-taking, he thought. Vikor quickly ascertained that no one was in either of the adjoining rooms, nor
in the bathroom. This must be the master bedroom. He doubted that, with two other bathrooms opening off of the hall, there were baths in
any of the other rooms. Mommy and Daddy's room might have a private bath, the designer of the house would have reasoned, but not the
kids. Too dangerous. The infestation for generations of a succession of college girls who each might have appreciated a private bath was not
anticipated. Vikor felt sure of that.
He stood in the middle of the room that was decorated more as a parlor than a bedroom. Palms outward he slowly turned, seeking to feel
whatever was there to be felt, secret places, buried treasure, clues and mysteries, keys and combinations.
He found the combination first. It was on a slip of folded paper beneath a pencil holder inside the top center drawer of a small desk that was
tastefully secluded with its own light and bookshelf in a nook beyond the floral couch, chair and walnut coffee table. It was almost the first
place he looked.
5-17-4. He read the numbers and replaced the slip. Then he began to search for the safe. The ones who had hidden the safe had been better
at hiding things than the one who hid the combo.
It must be a part of the original design of the house, thought Vikor, marveling at the ingenuity displayed in the structure it had taken him
nearly an hour to find. During meandering breaks in that part of the search, he had found consolation prizes, Gail Henderson's purse, for
instance. There had been over eight hundred in cash, as well as credit cards, a checkbook with a thousand dollar balance, and the usual
assortments of lipstick, extra cigarettes, a gun, a box of rubbers, a compact, a hair pick, an address book.
Vikor took the money, the cards, the checkbook, and her identification. That more than paid for the whole adventure, he thought to
himself. He left the purse, with the wallet inside of it, and the gun as well, visually undisturbed as he found them. He had lived through a lot
of adventures prior to this one.
Besides he would gladly have killed her for a twenty dollar bill. Now, however, he was admiring the safe in its hideout. He had looked right at
the cluster of rich, dark woodwork that accented one end of the room, an assembly of bookshelves and wainscoting. He had pawed it, tugged
it, lifted and twisted every protrusion, and abandoned it before frustration brought him to a second round during which he discovered that
simultaneous pressure at three separate points on the wainscot would cause the whole section to move inward an inch.
But then what? Quick reexamination of the rest of the woodwork revealed that the isolated section of the shelving that Vikor had inspected
earlier with high suspicion because of its size was now unlocked. He hadn't heard so much as a click when he pushed on the wainscot, but
apparently it was connected to a lever which silently slid a perfectly fitting latch from its locked seat.
He saw now that the latch was a long metal key that when nestled within its corresponding groove bound the entire opening edge of the little
door rigid with the wall. The hinges were likewise clever devices that, in spite of their concealed positions, allowed the two short shelves
loaded with paperback novels to swing outward, away from the safe.
Vikor had seen the same sort of project done much less professionally, leaving telltale rattles should a would-be safecracker apply
methodical pressure across the suspect wall. Despite the perfection of this carpenter's work, depending as it did in part on his use of
absolutely dry, well-seasoned hardwood that would not be subject to further shrinkage during the generations that it would sit and guard the
family treasure, in part on his patient skill at measuring and fitting and finishing so that nary a hint would speak to the observer of secret
chambers, Vikor had discovered the pressure points, the doorway, and the safe.
It was old, but five, seventeen, four, three turns to the left, once around to the right, and then left to the click, and it opened like a
well-oiled gun.
No more survival from day to day, thought Vikor sardonically. He eyed the two neat stacks of cash that the thrifty Gail had squirreled neatly
into a shoebox, and the second shoebox which contained jewelry and, he discovered a moment later, Krugerrands, nine of them. Apparently
Gail Henderson was not so squeamish as some blacks might have been about lodging her wealth beneath the inscription of South Africa.
Gold was gold to Gail.
The money in the shoebox was in two stacks, hundreds and fifties. The bundle of hundreds counted out to three hundred thirty-two bills,
while the fifties totaled only one hundred ninety-two, for a total of forty-two thousand eight hundred dollars. Vikor was young enough to say
wow, and he said it now.
"Wow!"
Wow, wow, wow!
| * * * |
Had she known that slang a couple of generations earlier, Tawngness would have purred the same wow, on that night when the lightning
answered her primal prayer. She tasted the witch-meat, but not the dreams and pictures. She savored the lady-brains, but knew nothing of
the memories that scattered unharmed like sparrows from a handful of gravel, thrown by a careless child.
Even Agnes Tawny could not see into the future, and so, like the rest of life, she knew disappointment and loneliness. She had sat in her
little house, while thunderheads drew the circles of a bulls-eye around and around and around it. She had missed the past, and she prayed
and wept and rejoiced for Andrea Clare.
Speaking of whom, the very same was just then holding the newborn Catherine Marie Dolan. Soon she would nurse; soon they would
nurse. Soon they would lock into that ancient embrace that is so much what it is to be a mammal. Red turns to white. Blood turns to milk.
Andrea turns to Catherine. Catherine turns to Andrea. Agnes turns to Tawngness. Tawngness turns to Agnes. Ask any of them if it is
real, but be prepared to interpret any answer that you get from Tawngness.
As mother and baby snuggled in cozy comfort in the warmth of family and farmhouse, the mountain lion began to drag the body of the old
woman. Only about a mile away from the farm, as the trail meandered, the fire itself went unnoticed. Upstaged, perhaps, by the drama of
birth, the fire burned to the last ember and left precious little behind, except for the blackened chimney. Potshards, iron implements,
copper and silver utensils, stones, and crystals, and everything buried in ash, were all that remained.
When the site was discovered, no attempt was made to attach a date to the event. It was enough that it was sometime in thirty-eight or
thirty-nine, and that was how it entered local legend. As for Agnes, she was dragged into the woods and up to a rocky ledge. Beneath that,
over the next three days, Tawngness ate every bit of the old woman's body.
Then she moved on. Dove Spring's was not the area to find a suitable den, she knew, by the time her hiatus was consummated. She
traveled freely and drifted south and east on no fixed route, and in no fixed direction. She traveled at night a lot. But often enough she
rose in the daytime as well, to peek about, to see what the locale looked like in the sunshine.
At Clark's Hill, she had seen too many farms. From the mountain itself she had seen it. Tawngness had gone all the way up to the Ledge,
and had looked over the range. Although there were deer on the hill, and there would be more out in the wooded patches along streams
and boundaries, there were not enough to support her steady diet. She could bag a rabbit here or there, and maybe now and then a fox. But
that wasn't nearly enough.
Particularly if she were to be nursing kits, she would be needing a deer every few days, one a week, at least. She did not think this out in
any such analytical fashion. She just knew it in her bones, and her earlier failure reinforced the knowledge. Perhaps she was overly
selective. She wandered for a long time, and when in the spring she found what would become her home territory, it was a beauty.
Mostly it was wild. That was good. All she had been able to see from the top of Clark's Hill were farms. There was prey there, alright, but it
was stock. Pens of pigs, paddocks of horses, pastures of cattle, the temptation for a lion in an area so sparse of deer would have been fatal.
Wild deer don't shoot back. In a curious but real way, cows and pigs do. Hunting goats, for instance, can hold ten times the peril for lions
that deer hunting ever achieves.
Tawngness had been in mountain lion country for several weeks when she found her home at last. Mountain lion country was good, wild
country, where a gal could range about and find a steady supply of good, wild protein. Meat was good that didn't bring out posses of
shooters and dogs, that didn't make its hunter into a criminal nuisance.
In Tawngness' ancestry, every mistrust of humanity, every unreasoned fear of caged or branded game, every random, superstitious or
misunderstood feeling or notion that served to keep the cougar away from the homes and flocks of man had given its owner an advantage.
In a wild world with plenty of space to keep away, the ones who did so prospered in contrast with the ones who, with equally irrational
traits, were given to freely marauding domestic victims.
Some of the factors in the makeup of either response were genetic. Those that favored avoidance of humans were passed on. Even so, it
has become a thin line between some and none for the mountain lion population.
answered her primal prayer. She tasted the witch-meat, but not the dreams and pictures. She savored the lady-brains, but knew nothing of
the memories that scattered unharmed like sparrows from a handful of gravel, thrown by a careless child.
Even Agnes Tawny could not see into the future, and so, like the rest of life, she knew disappointment and loneliness. She had sat in her
little house, while thunderheads drew the circles of a bulls-eye around and around and around it. She had missed the past, and she prayed
and wept and rejoiced for Andrea Clare.
Speaking of whom, the very same was just then holding the newborn Catherine Marie Dolan. Soon she would nurse; soon they would
nurse. Soon they would lock into that ancient embrace that is so much what it is to be a mammal. Red turns to white. Blood turns to milk.
Andrea turns to Catherine. Catherine turns to Andrea. Agnes turns to Tawngness. Tawngness turns to Agnes. Ask any of them if it is
real, but be prepared to interpret any answer that you get from Tawngness.
As mother and baby snuggled in cozy comfort in the warmth of family and farmhouse, the mountain lion began to drag the body of the old
woman. Only about a mile away from the farm, as the trail meandered, the fire itself went unnoticed. Upstaged, perhaps, by the drama of
birth, the fire burned to the last ember and left precious little behind, except for the blackened chimney. Potshards, iron implements,
copper and silver utensils, stones, and crystals, and everything buried in ash, were all that remained.
When the site was discovered, no attempt was made to attach a date to the event. It was enough that it was sometime in thirty-eight or
thirty-nine, and that was how it entered local legend. As for Agnes, she was dragged into the woods and up to a rocky ledge. Beneath that,
over the next three days, Tawngness ate every bit of the old woman's body.
Then she moved on. Dove Spring's was not the area to find a suitable den, she knew, by the time her hiatus was consummated. She
traveled freely and drifted south and east on no fixed route, and in no fixed direction. She traveled at night a lot. But often enough she
rose in the daytime as well, to peek about, to see what the locale looked like in the sunshine.
At Clark's Hill, she had seen too many farms. From the mountain itself she had seen it. Tawngness had gone all the way up to the Ledge,
and had looked over the range. Although there were deer on the hill, and there would be more out in the wooded patches along streams
and boundaries, there were not enough to support her steady diet. She could bag a rabbit here or there, and maybe now and then a fox. But
that wasn't nearly enough.
Particularly if she were to be nursing kits, she would be needing a deer every few days, one a week, at least. She did not think this out in
any such analytical fashion. She just knew it in her bones, and her earlier failure reinforced the knowledge. Perhaps she was overly
selective. She wandered for a long time, and when in the spring she found what would become her home territory, it was a beauty.
Mostly it was wild. That was good. All she had been able to see from the top of Clark's Hill were farms. There was prey there, alright, but it
was stock. Pens of pigs, paddocks of horses, pastures of cattle, the temptation for a lion in an area so sparse of deer would have been fatal.
Wild deer don't shoot back. In a curious but real way, cows and pigs do. Hunting goats, for instance, can hold ten times the peril for lions
that deer hunting ever achieves.
Tawngness had been in mountain lion country for several weeks when she found her home at last. Mountain lion country was good, wild
country, where a gal could range about and find a steady supply of good, wild protein. Meat was good that didn't bring out posses of
shooters and dogs, that didn't make its hunter into a criminal nuisance.
In Tawngness' ancestry, every mistrust of humanity, every unreasoned fear of caged or branded game, every random, superstitious or
misunderstood feeling or notion that served to keep the cougar away from the homes and flocks of man had given its owner an advantage.
In a wild world with plenty of space to keep away, the ones who did so prospered in contrast with the ones who, with equally irrational
traits, were given to freely marauding domestic victims.
Some of the factors in the makeup of either response were genetic. Those that favored avoidance of humans were passed on. Even so, it
has become a thin line between some and none for the mountain lion population.
