| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder January 31, 1980
Today I had to go into El Cajon to answer a summons from the Unemployment Office. They were making
another of their half-hearted attempts to find me a job. A job is far from my ambitions at present, but I do want to
keep getting my checks, so I have to play their games.
I spent the morning futilely trying to remove a broken shock absorber from my car. I ended up driving to town
with the broken shock still dangling, and I may sell the car in that condition.
My financial records tell me that keeping a car accounts for half of my marginal income expenditure. It's too
much, I think. Should I need to spend half of my money in order to transport home the goods I buy with the other
half?
It rained all day, and still rains. The goats are well.
Today I had to go into El Cajon to answer a summons from the Unemployment Office. They were making
another of their half-hearted attempts to find me a job. A job is far from my ambitions at present, but I do want to
keep getting my checks, so I have to play their games.
I spent the morning futilely trying to remove a broken shock absorber from my car. I ended up driving to town
with the broken shock still dangling, and I may sell the car in that condition.
My financial records tell me that keeping a car accounts for half of my marginal income expenditure. It's too
much, I think. Should I need to spend half of my money in order to transport home the goods I buy with the other
half?
It rained all day, and still rains. The goats are well.
| Chapter Nineteen MAGGIE MURPHY |
"Love story," said Cat One.
Uncle William's eyebrows went up. "These things take time, my niece," he said.
"My tea is gone, and the day awaits."
"Don't you want to know what happened?" he asked.
Cat One knew what had happened. The story was as familiar to her as it was ludicrous.
She had happened.
Abruptly she turned away from the crystal and said, "I've had enough."
Agnes held the crystal and looked back. She smiled, and Cat One thought how easily this could be a
counselor at some school, a gentle, aging lady. Possibly she would pass for a minister's wife, poised and
comfortable.
Surrounding them could be crystal and lace, old polished wood. Photographs. Clocks.
Certainly anything but the infamous witch, Agnes Tawny, hunching down in her shawl in the cold garden of her
home.
No crystal service, no polished wood. The wind did all the polishing here. The chimney of her cottage was all
that stood. The wood that had not burned was tumbled and scattered and grey. Lost among the grey, lost among
the dead weeds and dead flowers were still bits of black, charcoal and ash.
Agnes' house had burned down many years ago, about twelve, to be accurate.
She had never rebuilt it. No one had ever cared enough to probe the ashes to see if she truly had died in the
flames. Everyone assumed that she had.
When Cat one was ten years old one day she had been walking and had come upon the ruin.
For a few seconds she saw what everyone saw who happened upon the place. For years, any stray hunter or
woodcutter had seen the same overgrown and neglected patch of rubble, weeds and tumbledown fences.
Rather bleak and forbidding, thought ten year old Catherine Dolan, with a shudder. She almost turned to
go.
As she turned her head the scene suddenly clicked into focus. Where before was a random tangle, and to be
sure there was nothing changed, she now saw a path.
Not a track of dirt or beaten grass, it was more of a way than a worn trail, but Cat One could clearly see
that it was a path.
Whoever's path this was had mastered the art of walking over flowers and vines without disturbing a leaf
or a petal.
Catherine followed the path as it wound through the garden. She could see now that, far from the
abandoned waste that she had first seen, these plants were tended with a light yet superb touch.
In a moment she was looking at Agnes with no surprise.
Another might never have seen her, so blended with the nature of the place were her clothing, her hair,
and her face.
How could it be possible? But, in fact, a person could have mistaken her face for a dry gnarl of apple wood.
That day Catherine had seen her as she was. No one else had, not for more than ten years.
"Johnny Dolan was wild," were her first words.
"My name is Catherine Marie Dolan," was what Cat One replied, and she announced, "John Patrick Dolan
is my father." She drew herself up and said, "But he's hardly wild."
Uncle William's eyebrows went up. "These things take time, my niece," he said.
"My tea is gone, and the day awaits."
"Don't you want to know what happened?" he asked.
Cat One knew what had happened. The story was as familiar to her as it was ludicrous.
She had happened.
Abruptly she turned away from the crystal and said, "I've had enough."
Agnes held the crystal and looked back. She smiled, and Cat One thought how easily this could be a
counselor at some school, a gentle, aging lady. Possibly she would pass for a minister's wife, poised and
comfortable.
Surrounding them could be crystal and lace, old polished wood. Photographs. Clocks.
Certainly anything but the infamous witch, Agnes Tawny, hunching down in her shawl in the cold garden of her
home.
No crystal service, no polished wood. The wind did all the polishing here. The chimney of her cottage was all
that stood. The wood that had not burned was tumbled and scattered and grey. Lost among the grey, lost among
the dead weeds and dead flowers were still bits of black, charcoal and ash.
Agnes' house had burned down many years ago, about twelve, to be accurate.
She had never rebuilt it. No one had ever cared enough to probe the ashes to see if she truly had died in the
flames. Everyone assumed that she had.
When Cat one was ten years old one day she had been walking and had come upon the ruin.
For a few seconds she saw what everyone saw who happened upon the place. For years, any stray hunter or
woodcutter had seen the same overgrown and neglected patch of rubble, weeds and tumbledown fences.
Rather bleak and forbidding, thought ten year old Catherine Dolan, with a shudder. She almost turned to
go.
As she turned her head the scene suddenly clicked into focus. Where before was a random tangle, and to be
sure there was nothing changed, she now saw a path.
Not a track of dirt or beaten grass, it was more of a way than a worn trail, but Cat One could clearly see
that it was a path.
Whoever's path this was had mastered the art of walking over flowers and vines without disturbing a leaf
or a petal.
Catherine followed the path as it wound through the garden. She could see now that, far from the
abandoned waste that she had first seen, these plants were tended with a light yet superb touch.
In a moment she was looking at Agnes with no surprise.
Another might never have seen her, so blended with the nature of the place were her clothing, her hair,
and her face.
How could it be possible? But, in fact, a person could have mistaken her face for a dry gnarl of apple wood.
That day Catherine had seen her as she was. No one else had, not for more than ten years.
"Johnny Dolan was wild," were her first words.
"My name is Catherine Marie Dolan," was what Cat One replied, and she announced, "John Patrick Dolan
is my father." She drew herself up and said, "But he's hardly wild."
| * * * |
Carol Gallagher grew up within a stone's throw of the old shed. She supposed that her folks paid rent to
Murphy. She never made it a point to find out.
She knew that Murphy was the human monster whose castle lay one ridge and valley to the north, across
the big pasture. It was a place to be avoided, and though she went as far as the giant eucalyptus to climb and
play, she went no further.
In the safe shade of the big tree she stayed, up off the ground on thick spreading boughs that radiated in
gentle climbs, starting just above the rub of a cow's back. In a network of switchbacks, a barefoot young
climber could proceed upward without hands to altitudes of sixteen feet, and better, before clinging to
branches was resorted to, and another twenty-five feet of scrambled elevation brought the daring to
spectacular views across and down the big valley, including Murphy's home in the distance across the pasture.
It was in silent wonder that Carol Gallagher one day watched as a young gal not unlike herself became
visible at the edge of the distant Murphy ranch compound. The picture grew at an unalarming yet steady rate.
High in the eucalyptus leaves and hugging a veering trunk, Carol watched, aware that her own departure
from the tree at this point would be at the center of the point of observation of the stranger. Somehow sitting
tight and watching with furtive curiosity seemed more appropriate than to be seen slinking away, a hill rat
returning to the hills.
Perhaps she is only going by on the way to Heinz', thought Carol to herself, glancing as she did at the
little house that stood in the spot that would, in a few more years, be the place where Marilyn and Al Wells
would start their little family. For now it was inhabited only by an owl. It wasn't even to be the honeymoon
home, but was destined to be torn down and replaced with a more modern stucco cottage. For now it was only
an abandoned homestead.
Carol returned her gaze to the approaching hiker. If she were going all the way to the new Heinz ranch
house, she reasoned, she would have to pass between the ruin and the bean field and then on up the dirt road
that disappeared up La Zania canyon. For so late in the day, Carol suspected, that would be quite a walk.
She watched the newcomer stop beneath the tree and turn her gaze upward. Carol had feared the dilemma
of whether or not to reveal her presence, but needn't have. The visitor's eyes fell immediately on Carol's,
along with a smile of delight.
It struck Carol the same, that it was happy chance to meet in the branches of the big old tree, and so it
proved.
"Hi!" said the girl on the ground. She was thirteen, the same as Carol.
"Hi!" said Carol.
Murphy. She never made it a point to find out.
She knew that Murphy was the human monster whose castle lay one ridge and valley to the north, across
the big pasture. It was a place to be avoided, and though she went as far as the giant eucalyptus to climb and
play, she went no further.
In the safe shade of the big tree she stayed, up off the ground on thick spreading boughs that radiated in
gentle climbs, starting just above the rub of a cow's back. In a network of switchbacks, a barefoot young
climber could proceed upward without hands to altitudes of sixteen feet, and better, before clinging to
branches was resorted to, and another twenty-five feet of scrambled elevation brought the daring to
spectacular views across and down the big valley, including Murphy's home in the distance across the pasture.
It was in silent wonder that Carol Gallagher one day watched as a young gal not unlike herself became
visible at the edge of the distant Murphy ranch compound. The picture grew at an unalarming yet steady rate.
High in the eucalyptus leaves and hugging a veering trunk, Carol watched, aware that her own departure
from the tree at this point would be at the center of the point of observation of the stranger. Somehow sitting
tight and watching with furtive curiosity seemed more appropriate than to be seen slinking away, a hill rat
returning to the hills.
Perhaps she is only going by on the way to Heinz', thought Carol to herself, glancing as she did at the
little house that stood in the spot that would, in a few more years, be the place where Marilyn and Al Wells
would start their little family. For now it was inhabited only by an owl. It wasn't even to be the honeymoon
home, but was destined to be torn down and replaced with a more modern stucco cottage. For now it was only
an abandoned homestead.
Carol returned her gaze to the approaching hiker. If she were going all the way to the new Heinz ranch
house, she reasoned, she would have to pass between the ruin and the bean field and then on up the dirt road
that disappeared up La Zania canyon. For so late in the day, Carol suspected, that would be quite a walk.
She watched the newcomer stop beneath the tree and turn her gaze upward. Carol had feared the dilemma
of whether or not to reveal her presence, but needn't have. The visitor's eyes fell immediately on Carol's,
along with a smile of delight.
It struck Carol the same, that it was happy chance to meet in the branches of the big old tree, and so it
proved.
"Hi!" said the girl on the ground. She was thirteen, the same as Carol.
"Hi!" said Carol.
| * * * |
Where Johnny was still in his teens at twenty-one, a social retard, Bob Cabler was, at thirteen,
precociously well established as a teenager. The two met on a common ground. Johnny was amused and
delighted by the rambunctious kid. Plus, nobody else seemed to want him.
Marilyn had lost patience with trying to keep him in school. Her husband, Al, a welder, was enough of a
teenager himself, with his leather jacket and motorcycle, to be at most a bad example for his contribution to
the raising of nephew Bob. Bob teamed up with Johnny on the first day he met him, when Johnny rode down
to Marilyn's barn to introduce himself.
He wouldn't have done that on his own, but he was in the line of duty. Heinz had instructed him to make
himself known to his daughter, and to tell her to feel free to ring up to the house and ask for his help if need
arose.
This had amused Marilyn. It amused her even that her pa did not accompany the new man down for
introductions, but she was not surprised. Anyhow, she liked Johnny.
She was especially glad to see Bob take to him. The thing, she speculated later, was that the newcomer
was not afraid of Bob. Marilyn and Johnny had been standing in conversation in between the barn and the
ring for several minutes when Bob rode up in a thunder flurry of hoof beats. When the dust cleared the big
thirteen year old was on the ground, reins in hand, eyes and chin in confrontation with the dude who was
talking to his aunt.
Except for this was no "dude." It was not lost on Johnny that the young wrangler probably greeted every
new face at the stables in the same way, at least every new male face. The fact that he himself was still in
one piece indicated that the confrontations did not develop into the full on violence that at first seemed like
a promise, beaming from those murderous, blue eyes.
Now it was Johnny's turn again, to be amused. He could see where the average gent, out for a ride at the
stable, might take a step back or put up his fists, or both, in response to the hot-headed glare. Perhaps many
did as Johnny did, nothing, nothing but to return the gaze as levelly, to wait, to see.
Bob, at any rate, seemed prepared to ride the train of events to any eventuality. He did not, at least,
appear to be wearing a gun.
Johnny was. Right out in the open, on his hip. Soon, Bob Cabler would be doing the same.
"Bob," said Marilyn. "This is Johnny. He's working for Pa now."
"You ride in?" came the question from her nephew. Like Bob, Johnny was holding the reins of an
obedient horse in western saddle. Johnny's mount was complete with a bedroll, saddlebags, and a lever action
rifle in a scabbard. He had just been hired and had not even determined where he was to be bedding down
when he was told to come and introduce himself to Marilyn.
In a large way, much of the work to come would be supervised by Marilyn, her projects done by a joint
crew consisting of her nephew and her dad's hired hand.
For now, Bob's question was to the point. "Yeah," said Johnny. That was all.
"Johnny," continued Marilyn with introductions, "this is my nephew, Bob Cabler. He's my number one
hand."
"I'm your only hand," he reminded her. Turning his attention back to Johnny, he asked, "From where?"
"Fugitive Creek."
"Where's that?" asked Bob, no longer hostile but curious. He was distracted like a dog with a ball.
"East. In the mountains."
"Yeah? Fugitive Creek, huh? I like that name."
"I figured you would." So a friendship was born. By the time we come to the day in our story, the
friendship was four years old, and Bob Cabler was, for all practical uses, a man.
The tentative underpinnings of their relationship were worked out on that first project that the new team
did together, and for which Johnny Stream had been specifically hired. This was to continue the fence
program that had been begun years earlier. As Marilyn had expanded her activities with both cattle and
horses, the jeopardy to her pa's fields of beans and barley became intolerable.
In fact, Marilyn currently had no cattle anymore, not since her most recent herd had gone in to consume
twenty acres of lima beans. The days of the open range were over, Marilyn.
"You get the fences fixed," Pa had ordered. "Then you can git some more cows. Not till."
So she was reduced to her horses, which kept her busy enough or she would have gone out and rebuilt
the fence herself. But without the cattle, Bob had free time. She got Pa to agree to contribute equal hours
from a hired hand, to work with Bob and to get the job done.
Heinz did not currently have a hand. He preferred to do all the work himself if it killed him. But
sometimes he hired a transient when he had a big job.
He privately doubted that Marilyn's lazy nephew could be motivated to participate in such a job of hard
work. If he hired a guy, he might have to send him down the road in a day or so. The next time a drifter
came to the house on the ridge top and asked for work, Heinz had hired him on the spot.
The boss had been frank about the chances of Johnny's getting to keep his new job. "I've got my own
horse," he grizzled to the young cowboy. I didn't always drive a tractor. In two days I'm gonna saddle up and
ride over and take a look at that first stretch she's gonna set you on. I'm gonna be counting posts and
thumping wire. And if you can't get that boy to work, you better be prepared to get two men's work done by
yourself, or you're outta here. I'm only paying someone to build half a fence."
None of it made too much sense to Johnny. The fence part he could understand. The part about Bob?
Take it as it comes.
In reality, Bob was a great worker. Spurred by the strength and endurance of Johnny, he made his own
Herculean efforts to match the native stamina. When Bill Heinz rode around in a couple of days, he didn't
even count. One thump on the wire that was already strung and he left before the fellows ever knew that he
was there. He rode off in surly silence, proven wrong, but wryly happy.
precociously well established as a teenager. The two met on a common ground. Johnny was amused and
delighted by the rambunctious kid. Plus, nobody else seemed to want him.
Marilyn had lost patience with trying to keep him in school. Her husband, Al, a welder, was enough of a
teenager himself, with his leather jacket and motorcycle, to be at most a bad example for his contribution to
the raising of nephew Bob. Bob teamed up with Johnny on the first day he met him, when Johnny rode down
to Marilyn's barn to introduce himself.
He wouldn't have done that on his own, but he was in the line of duty. Heinz had instructed him to make
himself known to his daughter, and to tell her to feel free to ring up to the house and ask for his help if need
arose.
This had amused Marilyn. It amused her even that her pa did not accompany the new man down for
introductions, but she was not surprised. Anyhow, she liked Johnny.
She was especially glad to see Bob take to him. The thing, she speculated later, was that the newcomer
was not afraid of Bob. Marilyn and Johnny had been standing in conversation in between the barn and the
ring for several minutes when Bob rode up in a thunder flurry of hoof beats. When the dust cleared the big
thirteen year old was on the ground, reins in hand, eyes and chin in confrontation with the dude who was
talking to his aunt.
Except for this was no "dude." It was not lost on Johnny that the young wrangler probably greeted every
new face at the stables in the same way, at least every new male face. The fact that he himself was still in
one piece indicated that the confrontations did not develop into the full on violence that at first seemed like
a promise, beaming from those murderous, blue eyes.
Now it was Johnny's turn again, to be amused. He could see where the average gent, out for a ride at the
stable, might take a step back or put up his fists, or both, in response to the hot-headed glare. Perhaps many
did as Johnny did, nothing, nothing but to return the gaze as levelly, to wait, to see.
Bob, at any rate, seemed prepared to ride the train of events to any eventuality. He did not, at least,
appear to be wearing a gun.
Johnny was. Right out in the open, on his hip. Soon, Bob Cabler would be doing the same.
"Bob," said Marilyn. "This is Johnny. He's working for Pa now."
"You ride in?" came the question from her nephew. Like Bob, Johnny was holding the reins of an
obedient horse in western saddle. Johnny's mount was complete with a bedroll, saddlebags, and a lever action
rifle in a scabbard. He had just been hired and had not even determined where he was to be bedding down
when he was told to come and introduce himself to Marilyn.
In a large way, much of the work to come would be supervised by Marilyn, her projects done by a joint
crew consisting of her nephew and her dad's hired hand.
For now, Bob's question was to the point. "Yeah," said Johnny. That was all.
"Johnny," continued Marilyn with introductions, "this is my nephew, Bob Cabler. He's my number one
hand."
"I'm your only hand," he reminded her. Turning his attention back to Johnny, he asked, "From where?"
"Fugitive Creek."
"Where's that?" asked Bob, no longer hostile but curious. He was distracted like a dog with a ball.
"East. In the mountains."
"Yeah? Fugitive Creek, huh? I like that name."
"I figured you would." So a friendship was born. By the time we come to the day in our story, the
friendship was four years old, and Bob Cabler was, for all practical uses, a man.
The tentative underpinnings of their relationship were worked out on that first project that the new team
did together, and for which Johnny Stream had been specifically hired. This was to continue the fence
program that had been begun years earlier. As Marilyn had expanded her activities with both cattle and
horses, the jeopardy to her pa's fields of beans and barley became intolerable.
In fact, Marilyn currently had no cattle anymore, not since her most recent herd had gone in to consume
twenty acres of lima beans. The days of the open range were over, Marilyn.
"You get the fences fixed," Pa had ordered. "Then you can git some more cows. Not till."
So she was reduced to her horses, which kept her busy enough or she would have gone out and rebuilt
the fence herself. But without the cattle, Bob had free time. She got Pa to agree to contribute equal hours
from a hired hand, to work with Bob and to get the job done.
Heinz did not currently have a hand. He preferred to do all the work himself if it killed him. But
sometimes he hired a transient when he had a big job.
He privately doubted that Marilyn's lazy nephew could be motivated to participate in such a job of hard
work. If he hired a guy, he might have to send him down the road in a day or so. The next time a drifter
came to the house on the ridge top and asked for work, Heinz had hired him on the spot.
The boss had been frank about the chances of Johnny's getting to keep his new job. "I've got my own
horse," he grizzled to the young cowboy. I didn't always drive a tractor. In two days I'm gonna saddle up and
ride over and take a look at that first stretch she's gonna set you on. I'm gonna be counting posts and
thumping wire. And if you can't get that boy to work, you better be prepared to get two men's work done by
yourself, or you're outta here. I'm only paying someone to build half a fence."
None of it made too much sense to Johnny. The fence part he could understand. The part about Bob?
Take it as it comes.
In reality, Bob was a great worker. Spurred by the strength and endurance of Johnny, he made his own
Herculean efforts to match the native stamina. When Bill Heinz rode around in a couple of days, he didn't
even count. One thump on the wire that was already strung and he left before the fellows ever knew that he
was there. He rode off in surly silence, proven wrong, but wryly happy.
Getting into the car was torture. Johnny managed to get onto the seat, but then he had to lift his right
leg in. That hurt, a lot.
Once in, he was alright, and his injured leg, or rather, the foot on the end of the injured leg, was able to
work the accelerator just fine. No way on the brake though, but fortunately, Chevelle was an automatic, so
Johnny had his left foot free for the brake.
He started the motor, backed around carefully, and drove on out and came to the padlocked gate. Now it
was stop and shut off the car, drag his body out and through the dust again, and open the gate.
He undid the lock and allowed the heavy iron barrier to swing free. It emitted a long, loud squeak into
the dry noon air. Johnny decided to leave it open. He crawled back into the driver's seat and started to drive
to town.
This was not so bad. Johnny flipped on the radio.
leg in. That hurt, a lot.
Once in, he was alright, and his injured leg, or rather, the foot on the end of the injured leg, was able to
work the accelerator just fine. No way on the brake though, but fortunately, Chevelle was an automatic, so
Johnny had his left foot free for the brake.
He started the motor, backed around carefully, and drove on out and came to the padlocked gate. Now it
was stop and shut off the car, drag his body out and through the dust again, and open the gate.
He undid the lock and allowed the heavy iron barrier to swing free. It emitted a long, loud squeak into
the dry noon air. Johnny decided to leave it open. He crawled back into the driver's seat and started to drive
to town.
This was not so bad. Johnny flipped on the radio.
| * * * |
Go figure. Lightning's range extended across the territories of seven females. He did his best to get each
of them pregnant every two years. That's an average of two or three kittens every two years from each dam.
Postulating half male, it works out that Lightning supplied, let us say, seven new studs to the environment
every two years.
Who needs them? The females with good dens are set up all ready. But, okay, one of them might get
lucky. The old boy might make his mistake, and pay for it. One cat out; one cat in. That still leaves six
prowlers. The females won't have them in their territories. So, whereas it may be easy to elude the master
cat, primarily by the strategy of following him, trailing him so cleverly that he does not know that he is being
trailed is not quite a given.
The trouble is, a true paranoid, he knows he is being trailed, whether he is or not. What he does not
know is what he can do about it. His pride tells him that he can ambush the upstart, that he can turn and
wait the day and a half till the younger cat comes snooping. His pride tells him that he can confront him and
best him and drive him from the range.
His fear tells him that to confront is to expose himself. His fear tells him that it could be a sheep in lion's
clothes back there, with the shepherd on its heels. Normally he just keeps moving along like some old
western movie drifter. When the cats on his trail move singly through town sometime later, they can hear of
the ruckus that the hero stirred, but by then the hussy is pregnant, and Lightnin' is gone.
The follower cat learns to make wide circles around the dens of the females. He's there too little and too
late, and the female is in a mood to rip him up for real. Perhaps he might prevail in a full on cat fight, but
that is not why he came. The seduction that Lightning had found buried in the fur ball of claws and fangs was
gone; only the claws and fangs remained. With kits on the way, no hungry male hangers-on would be
tolerated, biting into the game pool, and maybe biting into the litter in her absence. Fat chance, buddy. See
these?
Wannabe Lightning found it best to avoid these incidents. Unfortunately, this removed him from the
master cat trail, the effortless drift honed into the landscape over the many thousands of years. On the
unguided trail of the countless extra males who preceded him, a young cat exposed himself to no end of
jeopardy. There was no escaping that, in the not so very long run, the seven would die. They would seek out
their own deaths. (No one was going to do it for them!) Some years, some cats were lucky. Some years the
old guy himself (lucky if he's three) dies. A wannabe finds his niche.
Sometimes a territory is split, and two brave toms can each crown himself king, but that doesn't go on
forever. Territory can be mended as well.
Junior has the option, whenever he thinks that he is cat enough to do it, of merely picking up the pace.
The feline demon that he encounters if he draws too near to a litter-hole vanishes if he rides into town
before the deed is done. A coy tail lash and a hiss is the worst he will get from her at that point.
But it's Lightning, over there by the pine tree, looking an arrow of pure, yellow-eyed murder into your
kitten-crud soul, that makes this option a challenge.
of them pregnant every two years. That's an average of two or three kittens every two years from each dam.
Postulating half male, it works out that Lightning supplied, let us say, seven new studs to the environment
every two years.
Who needs them? The females with good dens are set up all ready. But, okay, one of them might get
lucky. The old boy might make his mistake, and pay for it. One cat out; one cat in. That still leaves six
prowlers. The females won't have them in their territories. So, whereas it may be easy to elude the master
cat, primarily by the strategy of following him, trailing him so cleverly that he does not know that he is being
trailed is not quite a given.
The trouble is, a true paranoid, he knows he is being trailed, whether he is or not. What he does not
know is what he can do about it. His pride tells him that he can ambush the upstart, that he can turn and
wait the day and a half till the younger cat comes snooping. His pride tells him that he can confront him and
best him and drive him from the range.
His fear tells him that to confront is to expose himself. His fear tells him that it could be a sheep in lion's
clothes back there, with the shepherd on its heels. Normally he just keeps moving along like some old
western movie drifter. When the cats on his trail move singly through town sometime later, they can hear of
the ruckus that the hero stirred, but by then the hussy is pregnant, and Lightnin' is gone.
The follower cat learns to make wide circles around the dens of the females. He's there too little and too
late, and the female is in a mood to rip him up for real. Perhaps he might prevail in a full on cat fight, but
that is not why he came. The seduction that Lightning had found buried in the fur ball of claws and fangs was
gone; only the claws and fangs remained. With kits on the way, no hungry male hangers-on would be
tolerated, biting into the game pool, and maybe biting into the litter in her absence. Fat chance, buddy. See
these?
Wannabe Lightning found it best to avoid these incidents. Unfortunately, this removed him from the
master cat trail, the effortless drift honed into the landscape over the many thousands of years. On the
unguided trail of the countless extra males who preceded him, a young cat exposed himself to no end of
jeopardy. There was no escaping that, in the not so very long run, the seven would die. They would seek out
their own deaths. (No one was going to do it for them!) Some years, some cats were lucky. Some years the
old guy himself (lucky if he's three) dies. A wannabe finds his niche.
Sometimes a territory is split, and two brave toms can each crown himself king, but that doesn't go on
forever. Territory can be mended as well.
Junior has the option, whenever he thinks that he is cat enough to do it, of merely picking up the pace.
The feline demon that he encounters if he draws too near to a litter-hole vanishes if he rides into town
before the deed is done. A coy tail lash and a hiss is the worst he will get from her at that point.
But it's Lightning, over there by the pine tree, looking an arrow of pure, yellow-eyed murder into your
kitten-crud soul, that makes this option a challenge.
| * * * |
For Diana it was the moon that issued the challenge. Transfixed in the pearly twilight, her mind stored
the message that continued to flow, coded in moonbeams.
You need not tell your son, but his actions alone will change the world. None but his children and his
lovers will care to hear his words. Even that fascination will fade with repetition and dearth.
But what is said of his deeds will scatter my hints to humanity like dandelion seeds. Even though
replayed in ignorance and misunderstanding, even though mouthed not by the wise but by fools, even though
scorned and condemned, branded as evil and shunned by those who label themselves righteous, even though
heralded without fame and recognition, his triumphs will awaken the germ strewn in the furrows of
millennia.
To yourself, and to any that you care to tell, is given the chance to understand. It will not matter
whether or not they do. It is no concern if you yourself do not understand my urging.
But if you do, remember this, that even I am not able to predict the future. Even though I know and I
swear that what is yet to come shares equally the reins of reality with the past, I do not know what it will be.
Life is a struggle, even for me, sweet Diana. A hurling asteroid may knock me from your skies. Your own
race may yet reach me and rape me as they do my fair blue sister, seize my secret minerals and leave me
riddled like the fabled green cheese. Crowded cities may yet stain my landscape; I don't know.
I cannot see what is to come, but I can imagine, and I have seen what has gone before. I have seen the
wars and slavery that have been the feeble, perverse expressions of humanity's instinct to kill. To kill
without consuming, and then again to consume without killing, is what makes a mockery of the hunt.
I have seen the crime, the swindles and the corruption that leave feelings of fear, pain, constraint and
betrayal in those who would serve the aesthetics of creation in such a finer form as happy innocents.
All is beautiful; have no doubt of that. Even the boot-tromp of the Nazi has its appeal. But I am the
moon. I see it all, and I would spare myself the vision of your species falling to its doom in a tangle of
self-laceration. I cannot see the future, but I can imagine myself in a clear night sky, unwatched by loving
eyes, my beams falling only on silent ashes, my murdered sister matching my vacant silver gaze.
I can imagine a time to come when bold travelers from another galaxy might stand on my surface and
say, "This one, though her mountains be steep and glorious, though her sands be the stuff of dreams, this
one has been forever barren, unbred to the creative magic of sunlight and water and verdure and vulnerable
flesh. But this one," they might go on, stepping lightly across this same timid gulf. "This one," they would
say, talking about you, sweet Earth. "This one had it all, and still she hangs desolate, with no sentient beings
but us to host the tragic sorrow."
All of such I can imagine, but it is not my nature to turn bitter over possible futures. I can also imagine
your world grown fresh, blossoming with joy and insight, pruned with the vigor of living beings who are not
afraid to kill, and not afraid to die.
Humanity can be left behind like the mammoth and the saber-toothed cat. Do we miss them? Not a bit.
They were glorious, but this is a new world, passed to you from your ancestors as you must pass it, without
envy, to your descendents.
Pounce! That is what you must teach your boy. Pounce, not with a cage, but with a dagger!
Stab! Stab, not to torment, but to kill!
Love! Love, not to embrace, to own or to control. Love just to witness freedom, just to marvel over
beauty, just to rejoice in the bounty.
Be like the cougar, my son, you may tell him. Be like the hawk, and give sharp eyes and caution to your
victims. Be like the wolf, and give lively senses and a swift gait to your prey. Be like the dolphin and give to
the children of humanity the wide freedom of the sea.
Mercy, say to him, when you name the virtues that will describe his own perfection. Courage, cunning,
humility and nerve. Appreciation, gratitude, discrimination and restraint. Kindness, serenity, strength and
reverence.
Teach him to hunt, Diana. Teach him silence. Teach him to stalk by moonlight and sunlight and the lights of
civilization.
Teach him by your own example. Let him practice like a kitten with a bug. Have him join you in the
quest for deer and rabbits and quail.
Others will show him the ways of the city; others will show him the trails of humanity. You teach him
how blood flows, how eyes gaze sightless, how limbs stiffen and death subdues.
Teach him to kill. Teach him to hunt. Teach him to break with the crowd, to be with it but not of it.
Teach him to stay on the fringe, even when he penetrates to the depths of the metropolis.
Others will show him the lays of those distant ranges; you make him ready to learn.
the message that continued to flow, coded in moonbeams.
You need not tell your son, but his actions alone will change the world. None but his children and his
lovers will care to hear his words. Even that fascination will fade with repetition and dearth.
But what is said of his deeds will scatter my hints to humanity like dandelion seeds. Even though
replayed in ignorance and misunderstanding, even though mouthed not by the wise but by fools, even though
scorned and condemned, branded as evil and shunned by those who label themselves righteous, even though
heralded without fame and recognition, his triumphs will awaken the germ strewn in the furrows of
millennia.
To yourself, and to any that you care to tell, is given the chance to understand. It will not matter
whether or not they do. It is no concern if you yourself do not understand my urging.
But if you do, remember this, that even I am not able to predict the future. Even though I know and I
swear that what is yet to come shares equally the reins of reality with the past, I do not know what it will be.
Life is a struggle, even for me, sweet Diana. A hurling asteroid may knock me from your skies. Your own
race may yet reach me and rape me as they do my fair blue sister, seize my secret minerals and leave me
riddled like the fabled green cheese. Crowded cities may yet stain my landscape; I don't know.
I cannot see what is to come, but I can imagine, and I have seen what has gone before. I have seen the
wars and slavery that have been the feeble, perverse expressions of humanity's instinct to kill. To kill
without consuming, and then again to consume without killing, is what makes a mockery of the hunt.
I have seen the crime, the swindles and the corruption that leave feelings of fear, pain, constraint and
betrayal in those who would serve the aesthetics of creation in such a finer form as happy innocents.
All is beautiful; have no doubt of that. Even the boot-tromp of the Nazi has its appeal. But I am the
moon. I see it all, and I would spare myself the vision of your species falling to its doom in a tangle of
self-laceration. I cannot see the future, but I can imagine myself in a clear night sky, unwatched by loving
eyes, my beams falling only on silent ashes, my murdered sister matching my vacant silver gaze.
I can imagine a time to come when bold travelers from another galaxy might stand on my surface and
say, "This one, though her mountains be steep and glorious, though her sands be the stuff of dreams, this
one has been forever barren, unbred to the creative magic of sunlight and water and verdure and vulnerable
flesh. But this one," they might go on, stepping lightly across this same timid gulf. "This one," they would
say, talking about you, sweet Earth. "This one had it all, and still she hangs desolate, with no sentient beings
but us to host the tragic sorrow."
All of such I can imagine, but it is not my nature to turn bitter over possible futures. I can also imagine
your world grown fresh, blossoming with joy and insight, pruned with the vigor of living beings who are not
afraid to kill, and not afraid to die.
Humanity can be left behind like the mammoth and the saber-toothed cat. Do we miss them? Not a bit.
They were glorious, but this is a new world, passed to you from your ancestors as you must pass it, without
envy, to your descendents.
Pounce! That is what you must teach your boy. Pounce, not with a cage, but with a dagger!
Stab! Stab, not to torment, but to kill!
Love! Love, not to embrace, to own or to control. Love just to witness freedom, just to marvel over
beauty, just to rejoice in the bounty.
Be like the cougar, my son, you may tell him. Be like the hawk, and give sharp eyes and caution to your
victims. Be like the wolf, and give lively senses and a swift gait to your prey. Be like the dolphin and give to
the children of humanity the wide freedom of the sea.
Mercy, say to him, when you name the virtues that will describe his own perfection. Courage, cunning,
humility and nerve. Appreciation, gratitude, discrimination and restraint. Kindness, serenity, strength and
reverence.
Teach him to hunt, Diana. Teach him silence. Teach him to stalk by moonlight and sunlight and the lights of
civilization.
Teach him by your own example. Let him practice like a kitten with a bug. Have him join you in the
quest for deer and rabbits and quail.
Others will show him the ways of the city; others will show him the trails of humanity. You teach him
how blood flows, how eyes gaze sightless, how limbs stiffen and death subdues.
Teach him to kill. Teach him to hunt. Teach him to break with the crowd, to be with it but not of it.
Teach him to stay on the fringe, even when he penetrates to the depths of the metropolis.
Others will show him the lays of those distant ranges; you make him ready to learn.
| * * * |
How to create someone whose only role is to die?
That was the problem that beset the imagination of Johnny Stream as he sat in drunken wonder at the
keys of the old typewriter in the office at Marilyn Wells' barn. He didn't know it, for his immediate attention
was commanded only by the afternoon "erupting into gunfire". That he was enjoying a cold-blooded look
through the rift into another world never occurred to him.
Nor did the hordes of questions rise to his conscious attention, questions with which the unconscious
parts of his imagination went running, in search of answers, down the labyrinth of genetic patterns, memory,
and the random maze of connections among them. Yet, running they went, and one of the questions was,
who was the friend that Carol was with that day, just a little time into the future?
She was the one who, along with her friend, Carol, was enduring the mindless assault by the
brain-damaged, inbred cretins from the city.
She was the one who savaged the back of Bob Cabler's head with a rock in her ferocious, confused
defense.
She was the one that Johnny shot in the head with his last bullet.
She was the one whose death earned Bob and Johnny the permanent designation as outlaws. The handful
of dead or nearly dead trouble makers from the city could have been excused, ignored, or commended.
Captured alive, they would have hanged.
She was Murphy's daughter.
She was Maggie.
She was a red-head.
That was the problem that beset the imagination of Johnny Stream as he sat in drunken wonder at the
keys of the old typewriter in the office at Marilyn Wells' barn. He didn't know it, for his immediate attention
was commanded only by the afternoon "erupting into gunfire". That he was enjoying a cold-blooded look
through the rift into another world never occurred to him.
Nor did the hordes of questions rise to his conscious attention, questions with which the unconscious
parts of his imagination went running, in search of answers, down the labyrinth of genetic patterns, memory,
and the random maze of connections among them. Yet, running they went, and one of the questions was,
who was the friend that Carol was with that day, just a little time into the future?
She was the one who, along with her friend, Carol, was enduring the mindless assault by the
brain-damaged, inbred cretins from the city.
She was the one who savaged the back of Bob Cabler's head with a rock in her ferocious, confused
defense.
She was the one that Johnny shot in the head with his last bullet.
She was the one whose death earned Bob and Johnny the permanent designation as outlaws. The handful
of dead or nearly dead trouble makers from the city could have been excused, ignored, or commended.
Captured alive, they would have hanged.
She was Murphy's daughter.
She was Maggie.
She was a red-head.
| * * * |
The road to town was dirt. There were many steep drops into rocky canyons far below. The whole thing
was twisty as hell. Johnny swung into the first curve, and his injured leg flopped over to the side. That
sideways twist caused such severe pain in his hip that he nearly drove over the edge and into the canyon. He
began to wonder if the bullet had shattered the bone.
After that first curve he drove more slowly, and he supported his knee with his hand on the turns.
When he reached Descanso, Johnny turned into the parking lot in front of Perkins Store, and there was
Ming!
He was sitting in front of the store on the bench, right where he had been when Johnny first met him
several weeks earlier.
Johnny had been reading the bulletin board on the front of the store one day when he saw a notice from
someone looking for a place to live. The card was signed by B. Crownover, and gave a Descanso Post Office
box for an address. This person wanted to rent any sort of space, even space for a tent, and planned to start a
business producing tofu. He also mentioned that he was a vegetarian and had a small dog.
It had been several weeks since Michael Wertz had left the ranch, and Johnny was in the mood for more
company, especially someone who might occupy the home fort while Johnny was out on the range with the
goats.
Since Johnny had no phone, he dropped a line to the post office box, and suggested a meeting the
following day, there in front of the store.
Johnny had hoped that B. Crownover would turn out to be a woman.
The next day he drove into town, parked, and walked toward the store, curiously examining everyone in
the area in an attempt to identify Miss or Mister Crownover. Looking back at him from the bench was a
scruffy fellow of undetermined age. He had several days’ growth of beard on his angular face, and his tall,
lean body was wrapped in a strange collection of Salvation Army duds.
Johnny was not one to pass remarks about clothes. In his note he had mentioned that if the weather
stayed the same, hot, he would be dressed only in a pair of cut-off blue jeans, his usual summer costume.
But, as luck would have it, it turned cold for a few days, and Johnny was fully clothed.
This meant more denim, jeans that reached a pair of boots with two pairs of socks, wool over cotton. A t-
shirt and a flannel shirt, red over white, covered his arms and torso, and a denim jacket covered all that. In
spite of scruffy hair and a beard, he appeared to be a member of a definable population of mountain guys.
The definition grew more elusive in warm weather when Johnny would show up in Perkins store in only
the ragged cutoffs, very brown from the sun, wiry and furtive and hairy and rugged. This same direction
magnified when he was at home or on the trail, his gun at his side and his flare little dulled by any nearby
society.
Still he was quiet and refined. He needed no effort to be arresting, even in his most modest attire.
Silence and a penetrating gaze had been his toys for many years. At times he abused them, but even at his
most civil, he seemed like one who had to come in from a further wilderness, even to have friendly palaver.
was twisty as hell. Johnny swung into the first curve, and his injured leg flopped over to the side. That
sideways twist caused such severe pain in his hip that he nearly drove over the edge and into the canyon. He
began to wonder if the bullet had shattered the bone.
After that first curve he drove more slowly, and he supported his knee with his hand on the turns.
When he reached Descanso, Johnny turned into the parking lot in front of Perkins Store, and there was
Ming!
He was sitting in front of the store on the bench, right where he had been when Johnny first met him
several weeks earlier.
Johnny had been reading the bulletin board on the front of the store one day when he saw a notice from
someone looking for a place to live. The card was signed by B. Crownover, and gave a Descanso Post Office
box for an address. This person wanted to rent any sort of space, even space for a tent, and planned to start a
business producing tofu. He also mentioned that he was a vegetarian and had a small dog.
It had been several weeks since Michael Wertz had left the ranch, and Johnny was in the mood for more
company, especially someone who might occupy the home fort while Johnny was out on the range with the
goats.
Since Johnny had no phone, he dropped a line to the post office box, and suggested a meeting the
following day, there in front of the store.
Johnny had hoped that B. Crownover would turn out to be a woman.
The next day he drove into town, parked, and walked toward the store, curiously examining everyone in
the area in an attempt to identify Miss or Mister Crownover. Looking back at him from the bench was a
scruffy fellow of undetermined age. He had several days’ growth of beard on his angular face, and his tall,
lean body was wrapped in a strange collection of Salvation Army duds.
Johnny was not one to pass remarks about clothes. In his note he had mentioned that if the weather
stayed the same, hot, he would be dressed only in a pair of cut-off blue jeans, his usual summer costume.
But, as luck would have it, it turned cold for a few days, and Johnny was fully clothed.
This meant more denim, jeans that reached a pair of boots with two pairs of socks, wool over cotton. A t-
shirt and a flannel shirt, red over white, covered his arms and torso, and a denim jacket covered all that. In
spite of scruffy hair and a beard, he appeared to be a member of a definable population of mountain guys.
The definition grew more elusive in warm weather when Johnny would show up in Perkins store in only
the ragged cutoffs, very brown from the sun, wiry and furtive and hairy and rugged. This same direction
magnified when he was at home or on the trail, his gun at his side and his flare little dulled by any nearby
society.
Still he was quiet and refined. He needed no effort to be arresting, even in his most modest attire.
Silence and a penetrating gaze had been his toys for many years. At times he abused them, but even at his
most civil, he seemed like one who had to come in from a further wilderness, even to have friendly palaver.
| * * * |
| * * * |
