| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder 7 February 1980 (continued)
On the way back we ran out of gas. We were in Chevelle, and had neglected to bring the
extra gas. So we hitchhiked to Lake Cuyamaca, catching a ride with a beautiful blonde
from Julian. She was married, but fun to talk to, nevertheless. At Cuyamaca we got two
gallon wine bottles full of gasoline and started back. We walked several miles through the
woods and over several streams. It was pleasant, and by and by a nice couple gave us a lift
the rest of the way.
For supper we had chicken, our last, as we are giving it up. Last month was the last for
red meat. It's a gradual progression towards a raw food diet.
On the way back we ran out of gas. We were in Chevelle, and had neglected to bring the
extra gas. So we hitchhiked to Lake Cuyamaca, catching a ride with a beautiful blonde
from Julian. She was married, but fun to talk to, nevertheless. At Cuyamaca we got two
gallon wine bottles full of gasoline and started back. We walked several miles through the
woods and over several streams. It was pleasant, and by and by a nice couple gave us a lift
the rest of the way.
For supper we had chicken, our last, as we are giving it up. Last month was the last for
red meat. It's a gradual progression towards a raw food diet.
| Chapter Twenty-three WEB OF TALONS |
"So I'm supposed to be one eighth Indian?" Vikor would rage softly at Chela, who did not measure her own
native genetic quantity. "So how do I know Ma didn't get together with a redskin when she got me started?" He
watched Chela's brown arms grow splotched with white flour as she worked, kneading a mound of flour that would
become tortillas that would become burritos and quesadillas for herself and her kids and her sister and her
sister's kids and anyone else who happened by, and Vikor.
"How do I know? Maybe I'm five eighths wild savage!" He grinned at her. Chela retained her motherly
composure, allowing herself only a wry smile.
"You are a wild savage alright," she offered with a twinkle.
When Vikor referred to "Ma," he was talking about Diana. The odd time that he said, "Mother," he meant
Cat One.
Mother. She was his mother, but with the exception of times when he was back in Dove Springs and visiting
her and her parents, he did not speak of her.
He talked about Diana. He thought about her now, as he meditated a room away from the innocent, bloody
horror that he had so cleanly performed less than an hour earlier.
Diana. And why shouldn't he kill? He asked the shadows that teased him with haunting. Why, when his own ma
was a victim of murder before ever she had the chance to bear him?
Diana. Ma.
Vikor felt somehow less real to acknowledge to himself that his "Ma" had blinked out of her imaginary
existence at about the time of his conception. Oh, he was real alright.
Our good Mr. Kirkhaz had seen to that. And Cat One's good, Irish-American parents, Catholic in spite of
Agnes Tawny's early influence on Andrea, had seen to it as well. Although Cat herself had never suggested an
abortion, it had been suggested.
native genetic quantity. "So how do I know Ma didn't get together with a redskin when she got me started?" He
watched Chela's brown arms grow splotched with white flour as she worked, kneading a mound of flour that would
become tortillas that would become burritos and quesadillas for herself and her kids and her sister and her
sister's kids and anyone else who happened by, and Vikor.
"How do I know? Maybe I'm five eighths wild savage!" He grinned at her. Chela retained her motherly
composure, allowing herself only a wry smile.
"You are a wild savage alright," she offered with a twinkle.
When Vikor referred to "Ma," he was talking about Diana. The odd time that he said, "Mother," he meant
Cat One.
Mother. She was his mother, but with the exception of times when he was back in Dove Springs and visiting
her and her parents, he did not speak of her.
He talked about Diana. He thought about her now, as he meditated a room away from the innocent, bloody
horror that he had so cleanly performed less than an hour earlier.
Diana. And why shouldn't he kill? He asked the shadows that teased him with haunting. Why, when his own ma
was a victim of murder before ever she had the chance to bear him?
Diana. Ma.
Vikor felt somehow less real to acknowledge to himself that his "Ma" had blinked out of her imaginary
existence at about the time of his conception. Oh, he was real alright.
Our good Mr. Kirkhaz had seen to that. And Cat One's good, Irish-American parents, Catholic in spite of
Agnes Tawny's early influence on Andrea, had seen to it as well. Although Cat herself had never suggested an
abortion, it had been suggested.
| * * * |
The afternoon sped along, and the snow swirled into the deepening gloom. It was freezing. Agnes had left
Andrea Clare alone at the crossroads. Andrea stood there for a long time, the crystal wrapped in her fist, infected
with her own hot pulse. The crystal spread its web of talons, and everything moved helplessly in its pattern.
And there she still stood when the blue sedan rolled quietly into the crossroads and stopped. The car was behind
her. Andrea was unaware that she was no longer alone. The crystal throbbed like a heart.
The driver of the blue sedan nudged his sleeping buddy.
"Hey, Carl," he said. "Get a load of this."
Carl stirred drunkenly and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Peering from under a dirty ball cap through
the windshield of the car he chuckled. "Well, thank you, Lord. Clyde, that little gal is gonna freeze her little ass
off."
"I know," said Clyde.
"We got to save her, buddy," said Carl. He found the bottle that lay on the seat between them and put it to
his lips again. The inside of the car was hot and smelled of brandy and dirty men.
Clyde let out the clutch, and the car slithered across the intersection. The window went down.
Andrea was startled by the sudden wave of warm, reeking air, and a man's voice.
"Need a ride, honey?"
The crystal throbbed, and Andrea Clare's heart pounded. She began to walk toward the village. The snow
whispered around her ankles, and she felt cold. She pulled her cloak about her shoulders.
The sedan crawled ahead, and the voice reached out again.
"Real warm in here, baby."
Carl leaned toward the driver's open window and called thickly, "Do you suck dick?"
Clyde backhanded him. "Asshole!"
Andrea quickened her step, but suddenly both doors flew open on the sedan as it rocked on its emergency
brake. She made to run, but Clyde had her in a bound and roughly pinned her arms in his own.
Carl came around the front of the car then, slipping in the snow and cursing. "Stuck up little slut!" he
snarled.
Andrea struggled. Carl grabbed her belt and slapped her face viciously, and the three of them fell to the
ground. Clyde still maintained his bear hug.
"Let's get her into the car, asshole!" he yelled at Carl who was floundering in the snow with his hand hooked
deeply into Andrea's blue jeans.
"Yeah, right!" growled Carl. He let his hands slide down her legs to seize her ankles. Andrea's nose and lip
bled, her head lolled, and she felt frozen with pain and terror. Only the crystal glowed hotly in her fist. As she
tumbled roughly into the back seat of the blue sedan, she screamed.
Andrea Clare alone at the crossroads. Andrea stood there for a long time, the crystal wrapped in her fist, infected
with her own hot pulse. The crystal spread its web of talons, and everything moved helplessly in its pattern.
And there she still stood when the blue sedan rolled quietly into the crossroads and stopped. The car was behind
her. Andrea was unaware that she was no longer alone. The crystal throbbed like a heart.
The driver of the blue sedan nudged his sleeping buddy.
"Hey, Carl," he said. "Get a load of this."
Carl stirred drunkenly and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Peering from under a dirty ball cap through
the windshield of the car he chuckled. "Well, thank you, Lord. Clyde, that little gal is gonna freeze her little ass
off."
"I know," said Clyde.
"We got to save her, buddy," said Carl. He found the bottle that lay on the seat between them and put it to
his lips again. The inside of the car was hot and smelled of brandy and dirty men.
Clyde let out the clutch, and the car slithered across the intersection. The window went down.
Andrea was startled by the sudden wave of warm, reeking air, and a man's voice.
"Need a ride, honey?"
The crystal throbbed, and Andrea Clare's heart pounded. She began to walk toward the village. The snow
whispered around her ankles, and she felt cold. She pulled her cloak about her shoulders.
The sedan crawled ahead, and the voice reached out again.
"Real warm in here, baby."
Carl leaned toward the driver's open window and called thickly, "Do you suck dick?"
Clyde backhanded him. "Asshole!"
Andrea quickened her step, but suddenly both doors flew open on the sedan as it rocked on its emergency
brake. She made to run, but Clyde had her in a bound and roughly pinned her arms in his own.
Carl came around the front of the car then, slipping in the snow and cursing. "Stuck up little slut!" he
snarled.
Andrea struggled. Carl grabbed her belt and slapped her face viciously, and the three of them fell to the
ground. Clyde still maintained his bear hug.
"Let's get her into the car, asshole!" he yelled at Carl who was floundering in the snow with his hand hooked
deeply into Andrea's blue jeans.
"Yeah, right!" growled Carl. He let his hands slide down her legs to seize her ankles. Andrea's nose and lip
bled, her head lolled, and she felt frozen with pain and terror. Only the crystal glowed hotly in her fist. As she
tumbled roughly into the back seat of the blue sedan, she screamed.
| * * * |
So, the years went by. That year's kits survived and thrived, and moved away to the sound of well-wishing
snarls. Some years, the litters failed. Once, the wild expanse of chamise, that had shielded the den in other years,
betrayed her with fire, and her kittens burned to death.
Some years, one or more were seized by a sneaky owl or a hawk. There were years when all of the darlings
took sick and died, and Tawngness would mourn as her tits froze.
Sometimes she had had to defend the den from coyotes. Once she had arrived late, saving two while two
others were carried by their necks to horrid fate. Once, Tawngness had killed a coyote that was one that menaced
her brood, and several times she had drawn blood on others, earning respect and life-long avoidance from this or
that particular mutt.
Dogs were bad. She had lost the whole litter once, to a pack, and barely had escaped with her life. And she had
killed three in the process.
snarls. Some years, the litters failed. Once, the wild expanse of chamise, that had shielded the den in other years,
betrayed her with fire, and her kittens burned to death.
Some years, one or more were seized by a sneaky owl or a hawk. There were years when all of the darlings
took sick and died, and Tawngness would mourn as her tits froze.
Sometimes she had had to defend the den from coyotes. Once she had arrived late, saving two while two
others were carried by their necks to horrid fate. Once, Tawngness had killed a coyote that was one that menaced
her brood, and several times she had drawn blood on others, earning respect and life-long avoidance from this or
that particular mutt.
Dogs were bad. She had lost the whole litter once, to a pack, and barely had escaped with her life. And she had
killed three in the process.
| * * * |
Johnny knew all about health, when it came to food. He also knew how to break every rule. He made his own,
and he broke them all, his own and the more conventional strictures as well.
The best way to enjoy gluttony, he maintained to himself, was through inappropriate combinations. Pizza was
a loving example of this. Perhaps it would make more sense to call it the most enjoyable way to perform gluttony,
although to Johnny, there really was no gluttony without inappropriate combinations. It was how he could
innocently eat several pounds of meat from his barbecue at one session.
It was also how he could eat an entire pot of rice, or drink a quart of goat's milk. But all that was routine; the
vice was in the pizza, or the hotdog, sandwich, toast and bacon, casserole or meat and potatoes. Johnny loved
them all, and used them for his break outs, his sins, his kicking loose of the rules. But, when he was following his
rules, he ate to abandon and never gained an ounce.
"Whenever you eat or drink anything, you are using yourself up."
Johnny never forgot those words. He would tell Bob, "Each time we fast, each time we go a whole day without
eating, we are adding a day to our lifespan."
"That is," Bob would say, "if we don't get killed first."
and he broke them all, his own and the more conventional strictures as well.
The best way to enjoy gluttony, he maintained to himself, was through inappropriate combinations. Pizza was
a loving example of this. Perhaps it would make more sense to call it the most enjoyable way to perform gluttony,
although to Johnny, there really was no gluttony without inappropriate combinations. It was how he could
innocently eat several pounds of meat from his barbecue at one session.
It was also how he could eat an entire pot of rice, or drink a quart of goat's milk. But all that was routine; the
vice was in the pizza, or the hotdog, sandwich, toast and bacon, casserole or meat and potatoes. Johnny loved
them all, and used them for his break outs, his sins, his kicking loose of the rules. But, when he was following his
rules, he ate to abandon and never gained an ounce.
"Whenever you eat or drink anything, you are using yourself up."
Johnny never forgot those words. He would tell Bob, "Each time we fast, each time we go a whole day without
eating, we are adding a day to our lifespan."
"That is," Bob would say, "if we don't get killed first."
