| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder 12 February 1980
Yesterday we went to Cathy's for dinner and met her brother, Paul, who has a farm in
Costa Rica. It was pleasant, and we got home very late. I worked on the outhouse today,
and spent some time with the herd. Stella and the kids came by at sundown to see our kids.
Yesterday we went to Cathy's for dinner and met her brother, Paul, who has a farm in
Costa Rica. It was pleasant, and we got home very late. I worked on the outhouse today,
and spent some time with the herd. Stella and the kids came by at sundown to see our kids.
| Chapter Twenty-eight THE POND |
| Smooth and still, The water is like a glass mirror Set in place for some Woodland maiden To gaze in While she combs her long, Seductive hair, Cascading sheen of exquisite amber; Through cool morning mist, Dew dropping from the leafy trees And glittering on the Flowing tresses, She steals through the forest To the pond, Barefoot and wary. |
| -- Vikor, age seventeen |
| * * * |
As for Ivan himself, the meeting with his dream-girl had set off a whole sequence of awareness and desire. He
suddenly knew it, as he lay with her cuddled in his arms that night, back in his room in the rambling,
tumbledown, sea-weathered, clapboard dwelling that he shared with his buddies.
He suddenly knew that it was all bullshit… college, engineering… all bullshit. He knew he could go back and
work in the mine and make better money immediately than a wet-behind-the-ears, young engineer would make
for years, assuming that he ever graduated at all.
Yes, he admitted to himself, that was assuming that he did not succumb totally to the lure of procrastination,
drugs and alcohol, women and the beach. Ivan was a healthy young stud, no stranger to the carnal pleasures
available to a free student on the west coast of America. He was not afraid, but he was aware of how it could be
when it went too far. He saw the human flotsam that littered the shoreline and the sea wall down at the end of
Newport Avenue.
He was overcome by a sudden appetite for a wholesome life. Get away from this dead-end town, something
urged from within. The mission in California was complete. The prize was won, not some silly diploma, but the
mother of his children to be. Escape now, the voice ordered him. You are strong. Take this beautiful woman with
you, back to the high, safe hinterlands of America.
Make a life with her. Come home from your shift to the rattle of her pans. Snuggle in a home of your own,
cozy with her in the cold, star-spangled, New Mexico night.
suddenly knew it, as he lay with her cuddled in his arms that night, back in his room in the rambling,
tumbledown, sea-weathered, clapboard dwelling that he shared with his buddies.
He suddenly knew that it was all bullshit… college, engineering… all bullshit. He knew he could go back and
work in the mine and make better money immediately than a wet-behind-the-ears, young engineer would make
for years, assuming that he ever graduated at all.
Yes, he admitted to himself, that was assuming that he did not succumb totally to the lure of procrastination,
drugs and alcohol, women and the beach. Ivan was a healthy young stud, no stranger to the carnal pleasures
available to a free student on the west coast of America. He was not afraid, but he was aware of how it could be
when it went too far. He saw the human flotsam that littered the shoreline and the sea wall down at the end of
Newport Avenue.
He was overcome by a sudden appetite for a wholesome life. Get away from this dead-end town, something
urged from within. The mission in California was complete. The prize was won, not some silly diploma, but the
mother of his children to be. Escape now, the voice ordered him. You are strong. Take this beautiful woman with
you, back to the high, safe hinterlands of America.
Make a life with her. Come home from your shift to the rattle of her pans. Snuggle in a home of your own,
cozy with her in the cold, star-spangled, New Mexico night.
| * * * |
Vikor had been disturbed that random chance had come up with three Texas cities in a row. Damn it! Wasn't
that why he was using random chance? Wasn't it so he wouldn't be hanging around in the same town, or even the
same state, in the period just after a killing? Now it didn't matter. Vikor wanted to go home.
He wanted to go home to Dove Springs. He wanted to talk to his mom about some things. Sitting now in the
restaurant which perched gracefully atop a building on Banker's Hill, he sipped his coffee and considered that.
Houston was still in. Vikor would trust chance that far. As it stood now, there was no connection to Houston. His
own caution should ensure that none was made. For the imaginary investigator to calculate what had been the
fifth name from the hat would be a work of magic.
That was one of the things he wanted to talk to Cat about. Magic. This was not to be the little boy coming
with, "Mommy, what is magic?" In some ways, his questions now were more mundane. They were more to the
point.
"Everything is connected, isn't it?" he wanted to ask her. He didn't need to, but he wanted to ask. Trails? He
wanted to ask about trails, now that he had carved hundreds of his own into the soft matrix of whatever it is that
trails are carved into. Sometimes it's no more than modest mud, freezing a track in time. Sometimes…
sometimes, he bet, it was nothing at all.
He had rented a car in Mission Valley, and then had driven back to the highland that flowed as a populated
ridge, with canyons of chaparral drapery, down past the college, through East San Diego, and tapered out to a
dozen ending bluffs in nicer neighborhoods such as the one he was in now, as well as at the presidio, and also the
shady little "no outlet" that ended at the late Ms Gail Henderson's door.
He smiled wryly. That trail was cold as a lump. There was no one who would leap to the hunch that the young
businessman at lunch in Mr. A's was the same who had perpetrated such an act over in Talmadge, just a few
blocks away. But, and here was where Vikor smiled, that trail was sizzling, the one that went down the south side
of Mission Valley. He wondered seriously whether they would ever check it. What looked to Vikor like a major
trail, like a bull had barged through the brush, might not look like anything more than swaying leaves, twigs in
the breeze, and a long way down, to another.
By then, he would no longer be here, he thought, rising to pay his tab. Dogs or witnesses might point the way
across the parking lots and sidewalks to the car rental agency. Careful work might bring the rented Tempo under
the snoop. Abandoned, and not at the airport either, it would be another tantalizing wisp, and that would be all.
that why he was using random chance? Wasn't it so he wouldn't be hanging around in the same town, or even the
same state, in the period just after a killing? Now it didn't matter. Vikor wanted to go home.
He wanted to go home to Dove Springs. He wanted to talk to his mom about some things. Sitting now in the
restaurant which perched gracefully atop a building on Banker's Hill, he sipped his coffee and considered that.
Houston was still in. Vikor would trust chance that far. As it stood now, there was no connection to Houston. His
own caution should ensure that none was made. For the imaginary investigator to calculate what had been the
fifth name from the hat would be a work of magic.
That was one of the things he wanted to talk to Cat about. Magic. This was not to be the little boy coming
with, "Mommy, what is magic?" In some ways, his questions now were more mundane. They were more to the
point.
"Everything is connected, isn't it?" he wanted to ask her. He didn't need to, but he wanted to ask. Trails? He
wanted to ask about trails, now that he had carved hundreds of his own into the soft matrix of whatever it is that
trails are carved into. Sometimes it's no more than modest mud, freezing a track in time. Sometimes…
sometimes, he bet, it was nothing at all.
He had rented a car in Mission Valley, and then had driven back to the highland that flowed as a populated
ridge, with canyons of chaparral drapery, down past the college, through East San Diego, and tapered out to a
dozen ending bluffs in nicer neighborhoods such as the one he was in now, as well as at the presidio, and also the
shady little "no outlet" that ended at the late Ms Gail Henderson's door.
He smiled wryly. That trail was cold as a lump. There was no one who would leap to the hunch that the young
businessman at lunch in Mr. A's was the same who had perpetrated such an act over in Talmadge, just a few
blocks away. But, and here was where Vikor smiled, that trail was sizzling, the one that went down the south side
of Mission Valley. He wondered seriously whether they would ever check it. What looked to Vikor like a major
trail, like a bull had barged through the brush, might not look like anything more than swaying leaves, twigs in
the breeze, and a long way down, to another.
By then, he would no longer be here, he thought, rising to pay his tab. Dogs or witnesses might point the way
across the parking lots and sidewalks to the car rental agency. Careful work might bring the rented Tempo under
the snoop. Abandoned, and not at the airport either, it would be another tantalizing wisp, and that would be all.
| * * * |
A lot of people climbed Clark's Hill. It was almost park like on a Sunday afternoon with all of the groups,
pairs and singles coming up and going down. University students, tourists (or drifters) and people in pretty good
shape accounted for most of the climbers, and it was climbing for most of the ascent after the start. There wasn't
even a path by then, just a succession of boulders, like a giant child's stack of blocks climbing perilously into the
broad blue sky. It took two hands and two feet, but was not technical beyond that.
This was not a Sunday. The only person the young man whom we are about to meet was to encounter was Cat
One, who was one of the sprinkling of Clark's Hill climbers who hailed from local origin.
Other than that, no one, and in addition there was a drift of misty cloud that hung about the rocks in patches
of white oblivion intermixed with islands of eerily lit space and boulders.
There was more than one route. Hell, there were innumerable routes. On a busy day, the "Ledge," as they
called it over at the university, would be speckled with the bright shorts and T-shirts of men and women spread all
around the circumference of the tapering cone.
There were well-worn ways in the early steps of the ascent that took climbers from a common starting point,
where there was a small parking lot sandwiched up against the slope in between two of the farms that girdled the
base.
These ways branched like tree twigs. Once into the climbing of boulders, a person was restricted only by the
vagaries of solid geometry.
Children could not climb Clark's Hill. There was no rule against it; it was merely that once into the boulders
there were numerous points, at every turn, in fact, where sufficient height was needed in order to muscle oneself
to the next level. Most folks didn't reach that height until age twelve or so.
Cat One had been tall enough for eleven years already, tall enough to explore the myriad ways up the peak
that punctured the sky for miles around.
It had been that many years since she had first eased herself onto the flat, balanced rock at the top that gives
the peak its nickname, first on her belly, then on her knees, and finally standing in breathless challenge to the
heavens.
By the time the top was reached, all of the routes had narrowed down to two. These each led the climber
through the final windy heap of rock, within feet of one on the alternate route, but with no opportunity to see or
hear the other, nor to change routes.
The rock at the top, the ledge, was eight feet long and seven feet wide. Climbers arriving simultaneously at
the summit from each of the two alternates would lift themselves into view of one another across seven feet of
granite.
This happened often, on busy days, and generally occasioned good-natured greetings.
The understood rule on the top of Clark's Hill was that the fifty-six square feet of peak was yours until the
next party arrived. The incumbent peak-dwellers would graciously select their routes down and lower themselves
over the edge, after carefully allowing the newcomers to climb onto the surface.
The spatial irony of the shapes involved, particularly the way the rock dished upward all the way around, just
enough, left the occupant of the rocky spot in the sky unable to see any of the mountain immediately below. The
far horizon with all of the farmland, town and university, and other mountains, was clearly visible, but
disappeared from view as the scenery converged at the feet of the observer.
The effect was like that of standing on a rock slab floating in the sky.
On a day like this, and this was a Tuesday, with the scamper of chilly clouds that wet one to the skin, there
was little likelihood that one's proprietorship of the ledge would be challenged. However, there was no view,
unless a view of nothing is allowed into that category.
In that, it wasn't nothing at all, but cloud, sometimes white when illumined from above by sunshine slipping
through the broken cumulus, sometimes grey.
The island in the gentle country air had become more like a ship in a dark and lonesome sea.
The wind made it colder and wetter. It was no wonder that the reign over such a territory was so lightly
seized, and so effortlessly defended.
Cat One had grown with the mountain in her landscape. She needed no vision to know how secure was the
harbor in which she was anchored, blossomed like a brash anemone, despite the appearance of voyaging through
the sea of nothing.
She stood on the deck of her grey craft and let the hood of her raincoat slide back to expose the gold of her
hair. Legs planted with the determination of Magellan, she steered her cell of mystery.
When our young man hoisted himself over the gunwales, she regarded him with scarcely a flicker of her eyes.
Selabjun Kirkhaz had come all of the long way from a Central Asian Republic to keep this appointment with
destiny on the cloud-soaked crest of Clark's Hill.
He was familiar with the geology, in part because he had been a goat herder in his native land, in part because
he was now a professor of geology, participating in an exchange between his university and the one beneath the
clouds in the valley below.
He was thirty-one.
pairs and singles coming up and going down. University students, tourists (or drifters) and people in pretty good
shape accounted for most of the climbers, and it was climbing for most of the ascent after the start. There wasn't
even a path by then, just a succession of boulders, like a giant child's stack of blocks climbing perilously into the
broad blue sky. It took two hands and two feet, but was not technical beyond that.
This was not a Sunday. The only person the young man whom we are about to meet was to encounter was Cat
One, who was one of the sprinkling of Clark's Hill climbers who hailed from local origin.
Other than that, no one, and in addition there was a drift of misty cloud that hung about the rocks in patches
of white oblivion intermixed with islands of eerily lit space and boulders.
There was more than one route. Hell, there were innumerable routes. On a busy day, the "Ledge," as they
called it over at the university, would be speckled with the bright shorts and T-shirts of men and women spread all
around the circumference of the tapering cone.
There were well-worn ways in the early steps of the ascent that took climbers from a common starting point,
where there was a small parking lot sandwiched up against the slope in between two of the farms that girdled the
base.
These ways branched like tree twigs. Once into the climbing of boulders, a person was restricted only by the
vagaries of solid geometry.
Children could not climb Clark's Hill. There was no rule against it; it was merely that once into the boulders
there were numerous points, at every turn, in fact, where sufficient height was needed in order to muscle oneself
to the next level. Most folks didn't reach that height until age twelve or so.
Cat One had been tall enough for eleven years already, tall enough to explore the myriad ways up the peak
that punctured the sky for miles around.
It had been that many years since she had first eased herself onto the flat, balanced rock at the top that gives
the peak its nickname, first on her belly, then on her knees, and finally standing in breathless challenge to the
heavens.
By the time the top was reached, all of the routes had narrowed down to two. These each led the climber
through the final windy heap of rock, within feet of one on the alternate route, but with no opportunity to see or
hear the other, nor to change routes.
The rock at the top, the ledge, was eight feet long and seven feet wide. Climbers arriving simultaneously at
the summit from each of the two alternates would lift themselves into view of one another across seven feet of
granite.
This happened often, on busy days, and generally occasioned good-natured greetings.
The understood rule on the top of Clark's Hill was that the fifty-six square feet of peak was yours until the
next party arrived. The incumbent peak-dwellers would graciously select their routes down and lower themselves
over the edge, after carefully allowing the newcomers to climb onto the surface.
The spatial irony of the shapes involved, particularly the way the rock dished upward all the way around, just
enough, left the occupant of the rocky spot in the sky unable to see any of the mountain immediately below. The
far horizon with all of the farmland, town and university, and other mountains, was clearly visible, but
disappeared from view as the scenery converged at the feet of the observer.
The effect was like that of standing on a rock slab floating in the sky.
On a day like this, and this was a Tuesday, with the scamper of chilly clouds that wet one to the skin, there
was little likelihood that one's proprietorship of the ledge would be challenged. However, there was no view,
unless a view of nothing is allowed into that category.
In that, it wasn't nothing at all, but cloud, sometimes white when illumined from above by sunshine slipping
through the broken cumulus, sometimes grey.
The island in the gentle country air had become more like a ship in a dark and lonesome sea.
The wind made it colder and wetter. It was no wonder that the reign over such a territory was so lightly
seized, and so effortlessly defended.
Cat One had grown with the mountain in her landscape. She needed no vision to know how secure was the
harbor in which she was anchored, blossomed like a brash anemone, despite the appearance of voyaging through
the sea of nothing.
She stood on the deck of her grey craft and let the hood of her raincoat slide back to expose the gold of her
hair. Legs planted with the determination of Magellan, she steered her cell of mystery.
When our young man hoisted himself over the gunwales, she regarded him with scarcely a flicker of her eyes.
Selabjun Kirkhaz had come all of the long way from a Central Asian Republic to keep this appointment with
destiny on the cloud-soaked crest of Clark's Hill.
He was familiar with the geology, in part because he had been a goat herder in his native land, in part because
he was now a professor of geology, participating in an exchange between his university and the one beneath the
clouds in the valley below.
He was thirty-one.
| * * * |
Vikor had some time to burn. The flight he meant to take did not leave until seven that evening. Vikor had
felt eerie about being in San Diego, and not because of the killing. Pish. He had spent many a relaxed day in one
city or another, across the continent, seeing the sights and enjoying life while a fresh corpse stiffened across town.
He didn't make a point of it. He often departed within minutes of pulling down a loaded victim. It depended on
travel connections, and sometimes decisions made with the flip of a coin.
On this day, the reason he felt eerie was that he "remembered" San Diego as the big city that lay just south
of the valleys where he had lived as a child. Just south, that is, of where he remembered living as a child. San
Diego was a word he had first heard spoken by Ma, and then it was a faraway place, a place where she would never
go. Nor did she ever go. Even as Vikor had advanced through boyhood, and the freeway had come to life and had
grown and passed, and had left her niche of dry land shrubbery as nothing more than an onramp to the city, she
never went.
He steered the rented car through a twist of turns and down a sharp ramp that deposited himself and his
mount in the easy, late morning speed of the freeway, heading north.
Invigorating thrills swept through him repeatedly as he surged into land more and more familiar until
suddenly it jumped past mere familiarity to full recognition. Peňasquitos Creek. Sorrento Valley!
He was in Sorrento Valley before he realized it, cruising in the Ford and staring across the curved sweep of
the freeway, past the maze of industrial landscape, the modern, clean, botanical garden of offices, workshops and
factories sprawling throughout the area that Vikor recalled as thickets of willows and near-marsh, where the
valley opened northward to the slough, and the sea.
felt eerie about being in San Diego, and not because of the killing. Pish. He had spent many a relaxed day in one
city or another, across the continent, seeing the sights and enjoying life while a fresh corpse stiffened across town.
He didn't make a point of it. He often departed within minutes of pulling down a loaded victim. It depended on
travel connections, and sometimes decisions made with the flip of a coin.
On this day, the reason he felt eerie was that he "remembered" San Diego as the big city that lay just south
of the valleys where he had lived as a child. Just south, that is, of where he remembered living as a child. San
Diego was a word he had first heard spoken by Ma, and then it was a faraway place, a place where she would never
go. Nor did she ever go. Even as Vikor had advanced through boyhood, and the freeway had come to life and had
grown and passed, and had left her niche of dry land shrubbery as nothing more than an onramp to the city, she
never went.
He steered the rented car through a twist of turns and down a sharp ramp that deposited himself and his
mount in the easy, late morning speed of the freeway, heading north.
Invigorating thrills swept through him repeatedly as he surged into land more and more familiar until
suddenly it jumped past mere familiarity to full recognition. Peňasquitos Creek. Sorrento Valley!
He was in Sorrento Valley before he realized it, cruising in the Ford and staring across the curved sweep of
the freeway, past the maze of industrial landscape, the modern, clean, botanical garden of offices, workshops and
factories sprawling throughout the area that Vikor recalled as thickets of willows and near-marsh, where the
valley opened northward to the slough, and the sea.
| * * * |
Tawngness had a picture in her mind too, a memory of long ago days, and how one night she had encountered
a dog, a female, with her head snubbed to a post with a length of rope, alone in a dark pasture, up in a canyon, far
from her master's ranch house. The owners of the bitch wanted her made pregnant by the coyotes. They
undoubtedly got what they wanted.
Had Tawngness been hungry they might have got little more than a chewed and bloody rope. The female
human's hands, tied with a dirty rope to the bumper, reminded her of that young dog.
She had not been hungry, so she had watched, for the boys were on their way. This time curiosity didn't kill
the cat, but its object left its mark. Had the near-yearling not been in heat, it would have been the coyotes that
left the bloody rope for the fool rancher to contemplate.
She was in heat, though, and Tawngness knew that immediately, for her nostrils had witnessed a billion
seasons, and even her own had been no mystery to her. She shrugged into the downwind brush and waited. What
the hell; you have to be somewhere. There's no going inside for wild animals, and life is hard.
Tawngness was correct in assuming that the coyotes would not notice her. The mixed pack included females,
but none of them were in heat. All twelve of the grey bandits could smell the mongrel. She came closer to being a
German shepherd than anything else.
The first to arrive were two females who lashed in with snarls and nips at the unfortunate victim's face, and
who stopped and sat back on their haunches in wonder, after discovering that their opponent was bound to the
post, and helpless.
The bitch had taken some fang punctures to the face. The smell of her own blood added to her terror. By then
the whole pack had arrived, had circled her, and was busy inspecting her every surface, limb and orifice. That she
was in heat stirred a mild ripple of amazement, for it was not the coyotes' own breeding season, and none of their
own bitches were in heat.
The guys could be ready anytime, however.
Why anyone would want the blood of these scroungy scavengers in their puppies was unanswered for
Tawngness. But at least the scavengers left the bitch alive, and puppies would be born, and somehow it all worked
out.
Tawngness had not been especially sympathetic toward the plight of the young dog. She was low in any kind of
empathy with the whole canine crowd, dogs, coyotes and wolves. But she could not help but feel a sorrow for the
bitch as the yowdel of the pack faded into the distance, and she remained, head still snubbed, whining softly to
herself, longing to kiss and to lap and to clean herself, to make it okay with her healing tongue, and unable to do
so until morning.
Then the morons who owned her would come bouncing over the pasture in their pickup truck. They would cut
her free, leaving the rope as part of the debris that cloaked the old post. A kick and a shout would put her into
the back of the truck. In she would hop, tail between her legs, obedience in bitter flower on her mending face,
hungry and thirsty and tired. Down she would flop on an old gunnysack behind the cab, and as the vehicle lurched
its way back to the dirt road, she would see to her normal, dog hygiene, and when they got back to the ranch
house she would eat, and she would drink, and the young of her users would grow, and divide, and grow.
Tawngness had slunk away from there, before the long ago dawn. It had been too exposed. Ranchers have rifles.
It was none of her business. The show was over.
a dog, a female, with her head snubbed to a post with a length of rope, alone in a dark pasture, up in a canyon, far
from her master's ranch house. The owners of the bitch wanted her made pregnant by the coyotes. They
undoubtedly got what they wanted.
Had Tawngness been hungry they might have got little more than a chewed and bloody rope. The female
human's hands, tied with a dirty rope to the bumper, reminded her of that young dog.
She had not been hungry, so she had watched, for the boys were on their way. This time curiosity didn't kill
the cat, but its object left its mark. Had the near-yearling not been in heat, it would have been the coyotes that
left the bloody rope for the fool rancher to contemplate.
She was in heat, though, and Tawngness knew that immediately, for her nostrils had witnessed a billion
seasons, and even her own had been no mystery to her. She shrugged into the downwind brush and waited. What
the hell; you have to be somewhere. There's no going inside for wild animals, and life is hard.
Tawngness was correct in assuming that the coyotes would not notice her. The mixed pack included females,
but none of them were in heat. All twelve of the grey bandits could smell the mongrel. She came closer to being a
German shepherd than anything else.
The first to arrive were two females who lashed in with snarls and nips at the unfortunate victim's face, and
who stopped and sat back on their haunches in wonder, after discovering that their opponent was bound to the
post, and helpless.
The bitch had taken some fang punctures to the face. The smell of her own blood added to her terror. By then
the whole pack had arrived, had circled her, and was busy inspecting her every surface, limb and orifice. That she
was in heat stirred a mild ripple of amazement, for it was not the coyotes' own breeding season, and none of their
own bitches were in heat.
The guys could be ready anytime, however.
Why anyone would want the blood of these scroungy scavengers in their puppies was unanswered for
Tawngness. But at least the scavengers left the bitch alive, and puppies would be born, and somehow it all worked
out.
Tawngness had not been especially sympathetic toward the plight of the young dog. She was low in any kind of
empathy with the whole canine crowd, dogs, coyotes and wolves. But she could not help but feel a sorrow for the
bitch as the yowdel of the pack faded into the distance, and she remained, head still snubbed, whining softly to
herself, longing to kiss and to lap and to clean herself, to make it okay with her healing tongue, and unable to do
so until morning.
Then the morons who owned her would come bouncing over the pasture in their pickup truck. They would cut
her free, leaving the rope as part of the debris that cloaked the old post. A kick and a shout would put her into
the back of the truck. In she would hop, tail between her legs, obedience in bitter flower on her mending face,
hungry and thirsty and tired. Down she would flop on an old gunnysack behind the cab, and as the vehicle lurched
its way back to the dirt road, she would see to her normal, dog hygiene, and when they got back to the ranch
house she would eat, and she would drink, and the young of her users would grow, and divide, and grow.
Tawngness had slunk away from there, before the long ago dawn. It had been too exposed. Ranchers have rifles.
It was none of her business. The show was over.
| * * * |
When Vikor realized where he was, he felt the familiar outrage of the local, who realizes that his world has
been destroyed while he paid his taxes and watched his TV and took the assurance of his government that his land
was defended within and without.
What is the world but pathways and scenery, the places we go and the things we do, yes, and the sounds we
hear while going and doing, be it a chorus of redwing blackbirds in the cattails, or the whine of a freeway?
Vikor eased himself down what for him was a brand-new off ramp. Newer to him than to the multitudes that
had used it daily for some time, he mused, observing the obvious tracks of wear, the constant skid marks on the
side walls, and the chipped concrete. It was all new; he didn't remember it. What he was remembering was gone.
He knew where he was by reference to the valley that was Rancho Peňasquitos, and that stretched away to the
east relatively unchanged, but for the road which headed from the industrial complex straight out into the wide
pastureland just south of the creek, before angling up to the south rim and disappearing into the looming
progress that coated all of the ridges.
Here were cattails again, he noted, as his little car whistled into the curve that led him up and away from
where he now longed to go.
He made a U-turn, and then he did remember. From his new perspective, looking west, he saw, and he
remembered its being built, and he remembered when it was not there.
Vikor remembered standing on the end of the ridge just to the north, with his mother. With his ma. He was
about four years old, and to him, the earth-moving machinery that carved through the valley just below was
convincing as a breed of huge monsters.
The structure that replaced them was another monster, a new limb of a frightening creature that was snaring
the whole world in its grasp, this freeway.
been destroyed while he paid his taxes and watched his TV and took the assurance of his government that his land
was defended within and without.
What is the world but pathways and scenery, the places we go and the things we do, yes, and the sounds we
hear while going and doing, be it a chorus of redwing blackbirds in the cattails, or the whine of a freeway?
Vikor eased himself down what for him was a brand-new off ramp. Newer to him than to the multitudes that
had used it daily for some time, he mused, observing the obvious tracks of wear, the constant skid marks on the
side walls, and the chipped concrete. It was all new; he didn't remember it. What he was remembering was gone.
He knew where he was by reference to the valley that was Rancho Peňasquitos, and that stretched away to the
east relatively unchanged, but for the road which headed from the industrial complex straight out into the wide
pastureland just south of the creek, before angling up to the south rim and disappearing into the looming
progress that coated all of the ridges.
Here were cattails again, he noted, as his little car whistled into the curve that led him up and away from
where he now longed to go.
He made a U-turn, and then he did remember. From his new perspective, looking west, he saw, and he
remembered its being built, and he remembered when it was not there.
Vikor remembered standing on the end of the ridge just to the north, with his mother. With his ma. He was
about four years old, and to him, the earth-moving machinery that carved through the valley just below was
convincing as a breed of huge monsters.
The structure that replaced them was another monster, a new limb of a frightening creature that was snaring
the whole world in its grasp, this freeway.
| * * * |
| What is the monster That eats our children? What is the monster called That kills our wives? What is the monster called whose teeth Are steel, and glass, and fire? What is the monster called Who stalks our lives? Is it the traffic? Is it the highway? Is it the whining of the sirens And the tires? Is it the endless, rubber-bellied snake That slides across the tar, The monster grim that quenches its desires On our blood, On our blood, On our blood, blood, blood, On our blood. |
| -- Vikor, age six |
It separated them, little Victor and Diana, his ma, from their convenient access to the coastline for the full
stretch of their territory. Here at the southern limit, this great berm of earth and asphalt and concrete and
moving steel lay between them and the Torrey Pines on their hill of gullied sandstone. North of that was the big
bridge, and then the little town behind another bluff of pines and sandstone and red rim rock. Then it was the
racetrack and the San Dieguito river, and then another little town, and so on.
Access to each of these areas required Ma and Vikor to pass above or below the freeway at one of several far
apart options. One of these lay in Vikor's field of view now as he drove westward. He remembered when there
were far fewer offices and workshops and warehouses. He remembered himself and his ma furtively working
their way along the reedy bank of the creek, passing undetected below the freeway that vaulted high, high above
their heads. Now there were two freeways joining on their towering pillars. Below were still reeds and willows, wild
yellow iris and a calm stretch of water.
This time, Vikor found his way to one of the typical small complexes right over at the east side of the
developed area. There was a snack shop there, and a variety of business, a print shop, computer consultants,
electronic assembly, things like that. He parked in a space that had no sign asking him not to do so, and he
walked over to what turned out to be the entrance to a hiking and bike riding trail. By the time he reached the
old adobe ruin, he was, to put it simply, amazed.
stretch of their territory. Here at the southern limit, this great berm of earth and asphalt and concrete and
moving steel lay between them and the Torrey Pines on their hill of gullied sandstone. North of that was the big
bridge, and then the little town behind another bluff of pines and sandstone and red rim rock. Then it was the
racetrack and the San Dieguito river, and then another little town, and so on.
Access to each of these areas required Ma and Vikor to pass above or below the freeway at one of several far
apart options. One of these lay in Vikor's field of view now as he drove westward. He remembered when there
were far fewer offices and workshops and warehouses. He remembered himself and his ma furtively working
their way along the reedy bank of the creek, passing undetected below the freeway that vaulted high, high above
their heads. Now there were two freeways joining on their towering pillars. Below were still reeds and willows, wild
yellow iris and a calm stretch of water.
This time, Vikor found his way to one of the typical small complexes right over at the east side of the
developed area. There was a snack shop there, and a variety of business, a print shop, computer consultants,
electronic assembly, things like that. He parked in a space that had no sign asking him not to do so, and he
walked over to what turned out to be the entrance to a hiking and bike riding trail. By the time he reached the
old adobe ruin, he was, to put it simply, amazed.
| * * * |
Eventually Johnny left the mountain, after swearing to himself that it was paradise, and that he would stay
forever. There was little work and not much money, out on Cuyamaca in that long ago time, but that was only a
part of the reason that Johnny Stream headed at last downstream, downhill, down west. With saddlebags full, his
bedroll lashed behind the saddle, and the Winchester tucked into its boot, he drifted down the Viejas Road,
through the res', then over the saddle west of Alpine and into the watershed of the San Diego River.
He passed through Mission Valley, at that time a patchwork of dairies and truck farms, and finally reached
the coast. There he turned northward and continued his journey up through Rose Canyon, following for a while
the easement of the Santa Fe Railroad until it brought him into Sorrento Valley.
From there, following a nameless urge, an invisible trail we might say, he turned east, heading for the
mountain that he could see several miles inland at the head of Carmel Valley.
Here was a beauty different from the harsh grandeur of the mountains. Johnny's horse clip-clopped placidly
past lush green crops of lima beans, prairies of glistening barley, fenced pastures with fat Herefords and Holsteins
grazing in bucolic contentment, quaint old farmhouses, wide, spreading sycamores, and ranch roads lined with
magnificent eucalyptus trees. He could see how the lovely valley had been carved from what must have been at
one time a level plateau, or mesa. The ridges that lined Carmel Valley itself, as well as its numerous side-canyons
and arroyos, were of a uniform height. The only feature of the land that projected above this height was Black
Mountain, rising to about twelve hundred feet. The Torrey Pines highland back against the coast was high only in
contrast with the sea-level slough that circled it east to north.
In the absence of other close mountains, Black Mountain assumed the majesty of one of the great stand-out
peaks of the world like Shasta, Fuji, or Kilimanjaro. Johnny Stream had neither seen nor heard of any of those
towers of snow-mantled stone. What he saw before him was enough, and he rode mesmerized merely by the
revelation that there was another place in the world as lovely as Fugitive Creek.
He rode all the way to the top of the mountain that first day, following the dirt road that had already been
carved in the name of progress, winding and switching back and forth until finally he and his horse were deposited
at the top.
Except for the road, the mountain was unspoiled, even at the top. The purpose of the road was unclear to
Johnny. The summit was covered with a thin, naturally-occurring layer of round pebbles, no larger than finger
tips and red with the color of iron.
He stayed on the mountain all night. Johnny had filled his canteen at a cow pond near the base of the hill. He
had only to unroll his bedroll, munch some jerky, and gaze till the end of twilight at the view that the mountain
afforded in every direction.
Miles to the east, where the mountain range really began, the peaks were in varying shades of purple-grey,
and far enough away to be called distant.
To the west was the sea, a long glimmering scimitar of sunlight that went as he watched through the heavenly
shades of orange, violet and red, until at last it settled into the magic of blackness. Between the mountain and the
sea lay the dreamy valley. Johnny's gaze followed the waterways, tracing the outline of small canyons, arroyos,
gullies and ravines that spread like the veins of a leaf from their confluence at the mouth of Carmel Valley. Just
beyond that was the slough, an expanse of marsh and open water that gathered the flows of all the creeks from
Sorrento Valley, Peňasquitos, and Carmel Valley, before delivering them across the sand to the Pacific Ocean.
South and north were endless ridges guarding endless valleys, perhaps all of them as lovely as Carmel Valley,
perhaps none of them. Johnny drank it in with the zest of a conqueror.
forever. There was little work and not much money, out on Cuyamaca in that long ago time, but that was only a
part of the reason that Johnny Stream headed at last downstream, downhill, down west. With saddlebags full, his
bedroll lashed behind the saddle, and the Winchester tucked into its boot, he drifted down the Viejas Road,
through the res', then over the saddle west of Alpine and into the watershed of the San Diego River.
He passed through Mission Valley, at that time a patchwork of dairies and truck farms, and finally reached
the coast. There he turned northward and continued his journey up through Rose Canyon, following for a while
the easement of the Santa Fe Railroad until it brought him into Sorrento Valley.
From there, following a nameless urge, an invisible trail we might say, he turned east, heading for the
mountain that he could see several miles inland at the head of Carmel Valley.
Here was a beauty different from the harsh grandeur of the mountains. Johnny's horse clip-clopped placidly
past lush green crops of lima beans, prairies of glistening barley, fenced pastures with fat Herefords and Holsteins
grazing in bucolic contentment, quaint old farmhouses, wide, spreading sycamores, and ranch roads lined with
magnificent eucalyptus trees. He could see how the lovely valley had been carved from what must have been at
one time a level plateau, or mesa. The ridges that lined Carmel Valley itself, as well as its numerous side-canyons
and arroyos, were of a uniform height. The only feature of the land that projected above this height was Black
Mountain, rising to about twelve hundred feet. The Torrey Pines highland back against the coast was high only in
contrast with the sea-level slough that circled it east to north.
In the absence of other close mountains, Black Mountain assumed the majesty of one of the great stand-out
peaks of the world like Shasta, Fuji, or Kilimanjaro. Johnny Stream had neither seen nor heard of any of those
towers of snow-mantled stone. What he saw before him was enough, and he rode mesmerized merely by the
revelation that there was another place in the world as lovely as Fugitive Creek.
He rode all the way to the top of the mountain that first day, following the dirt road that had already been
carved in the name of progress, winding and switching back and forth until finally he and his horse were deposited
at the top.
Except for the road, the mountain was unspoiled, even at the top. The purpose of the road was unclear to
Johnny. The summit was covered with a thin, naturally-occurring layer of round pebbles, no larger than finger
tips and red with the color of iron.
He stayed on the mountain all night. Johnny had filled his canteen at a cow pond near the base of the hill. He
had only to unroll his bedroll, munch some jerky, and gaze till the end of twilight at the view that the mountain
afforded in every direction.
Miles to the east, where the mountain range really began, the peaks were in varying shades of purple-grey,
and far enough away to be called distant.
To the west was the sea, a long glimmering scimitar of sunlight that went as he watched through the heavenly
shades of orange, violet and red, until at last it settled into the magic of blackness. Between the mountain and the
sea lay the dreamy valley. Johnny's gaze followed the waterways, tracing the outline of small canyons, arroyos,
gullies and ravines that spread like the veins of a leaf from their confluence at the mouth of Carmel Valley. Just
beyond that was the slough, an expanse of marsh and open water that gathered the flows of all the creeks from
Sorrento Valley, Peňasquitos, and Carmel Valley, before delivering them across the sand to the Pacific Ocean.
South and north were endless ridges guarding endless valleys, perhaps all of them as lovely as Carmel Valley,
perhaps none of them. Johnny drank it in with the zest of a conqueror.
| * * * |
"Ladies!" The first flick of his voice told the girls that its owner was not from around these hills. He was from
somewhere else, an eastern city, perhaps. "Ladies," he called from the shadows where he sat with his liquor, his
pals, and his wheels. "Are you ladies goin' swimming?"
There were sleepy murmurs from inside the panel truck. Carol and Maggie stopped dead in their tracks. Had
they been on a street in the city they would have continued to walk. Had they been on the sidewalk in Rancho or
Del Mar, Maggie might have smacked him in front of witnesses who knew her, had his approach grown more
offensive. Had they been at a gate to one of the ranches, with no one else about, the wind blowing and a
threatening stranger making dangerous advances, she would have pulled the Winchester from behind the seat
and shot him dead.
But the girls did not lug firearms with them on their hiking and swimming jaunts. Safe in the hinterlands of
their own neighborhood, safe in the private maze of dirt roads and distance, surrounded by horse and tractor men
who patrolled and tilled friendly acres, they had presumed themselves to be.
Unfortunately (for themselves), Eddy and Freddy and the other two did not know how safe the two ladies
really were.
Maggie was at a loss for words. She immediately sensed the radical danger that suddenly they were in, safe
hinterlands be damned. Eddy and Freddy were already getting to their feet, and the mumbling from within the
truck was continuing.
Maggie reached a hand protectively to Carol, to brush her on the arm in reassurance. Carol was doing the
same, or maybe she was reaching for salvation. For a moment the two stood linked, sharing a glance of concern.
Maggie returned her thoughts to the question. "No," she lied. "We're going to meet our brothers."
"We already saw your brothers!" came the crack back. Eddy was walking unstably toward Maggie and Carol.
He took a drink from the bottle, and then stopped to lay it on the stony ground in the exaggerated pantomime of
an alcoholic spastic. A small wave of tequila surged from one end of the container to the other, met itself coming
back, doubled and divided, found its own level, subsided and came to rest.
"They said they were going to Tijuana to get some pussy!" This crudity… he pronounced it "tee-ah-wah-nah"
… brought Maggie Murphy to full hostility.
"You get the hell out of here!" she snarled. "Get your truck off this land!" Her rage was lost on Eddy, who
rapidly closed the distance.
"To T.J!" drawled Freddy. He was also on his feet. Maggie was surprised how quickly it was happening. Eddy
had her wrist in a filthy grip before there had been time for herself and Carol to decide to run.
She responded with an automatic knee-thrust to the crotch, but that was effectively blocked. Despite his total
inebriation, Eddy was strong and tough. Now he began to show Maggie Murphy that he could be rough, as well.
Ma always said there was a difference, between being tough, and being rough. "Tough is when you can take
it," she would murmur to her wild son. "Rough is when you're dishing it out."
Eddy dished out a couple of painful slaps across the face of Maggie Murphy. She was tougher than that. She
responded by biting the fist that held her. A second later, relying on the distraction, she sent another knee toward
the balls. Eddy howled in a rage at the bite. He blocked the kick again by turning his hip, and upped the ante on
roughness, shaking her away from him like a wet towel, wrenching her arm at wrist, elbow and shoulder. Then he
came around with his left and connected with a real punch in the eye.
Maggie collapsed in a swirl of treetops and day stars. Meanwhile, Carol had been seized by Freddy. She was
overcome with much less resistance than was Maggie. Carol Gallagher was in shock. The events of the next few
moments maintained a curious singularity in her mind forever more. It was a turning point. It was confrontation
of life, truth, reality.
It was the beginning of the rest of her life.
Maggie had collapsed, for the time being, into a heap of tears. Eddy was on top of her, pawing at her plaid
shirt, ripping free the buttons. Her breasts heaved with exertion.
Both young women were wearing plaid shirts and blue-jeans.
Carol was being similarly mauled while still on her feet. Her peeps of protest were ignored. Freddy was a big
guy. He enveloped her, struggles and all, in a groping bear-hug, her raised arms of protest swept down and
pinioned by her sides almost as a side effect of the man's muscular embrace. Worse was his ugly face, pressed
now so large against her freckled neck, and gnawing on her skin.
The other two fellows had just stumbled into the daylight when Johnny and Bob crested the rise that
surrounded the wooded pond, and which left it in a depression almost like a crater.
somewhere else, an eastern city, perhaps. "Ladies," he called from the shadows where he sat with his liquor, his
pals, and his wheels. "Are you ladies goin' swimming?"
There were sleepy murmurs from inside the panel truck. Carol and Maggie stopped dead in their tracks. Had
they been on a street in the city they would have continued to walk. Had they been on the sidewalk in Rancho or
Del Mar, Maggie might have smacked him in front of witnesses who knew her, had his approach grown more
offensive. Had they been at a gate to one of the ranches, with no one else about, the wind blowing and a
threatening stranger making dangerous advances, she would have pulled the Winchester from behind the seat
and shot him dead.
But the girls did not lug firearms with them on their hiking and swimming jaunts. Safe in the hinterlands of
their own neighborhood, safe in the private maze of dirt roads and distance, surrounded by horse and tractor men
who patrolled and tilled friendly acres, they had presumed themselves to be.
Unfortunately (for themselves), Eddy and Freddy and the other two did not know how safe the two ladies
really were.
Maggie was at a loss for words. She immediately sensed the radical danger that suddenly they were in, safe
hinterlands be damned. Eddy and Freddy were already getting to their feet, and the mumbling from within the
truck was continuing.
Maggie reached a hand protectively to Carol, to brush her on the arm in reassurance. Carol was doing the
same, or maybe she was reaching for salvation. For a moment the two stood linked, sharing a glance of concern.
Maggie returned her thoughts to the question. "No," she lied. "We're going to meet our brothers."
"We already saw your brothers!" came the crack back. Eddy was walking unstably toward Maggie and Carol.
He took a drink from the bottle, and then stopped to lay it on the stony ground in the exaggerated pantomime of
an alcoholic spastic. A small wave of tequila surged from one end of the container to the other, met itself coming
back, doubled and divided, found its own level, subsided and came to rest.
"They said they were going to Tijuana to get some pussy!" This crudity… he pronounced it "tee-ah-wah-nah"
… brought Maggie Murphy to full hostility.
"You get the hell out of here!" she snarled. "Get your truck off this land!" Her rage was lost on Eddy, who
rapidly closed the distance.
"To T.J!" drawled Freddy. He was also on his feet. Maggie was surprised how quickly it was happening. Eddy
had her wrist in a filthy grip before there had been time for herself and Carol to decide to run.
She responded with an automatic knee-thrust to the crotch, but that was effectively blocked. Despite his total
inebriation, Eddy was strong and tough. Now he began to show Maggie Murphy that he could be rough, as well.
Ma always said there was a difference, between being tough, and being rough. "Tough is when you can take
it," she would murmur to her wild son. "Rough is when you're dishing it out."
Eddy dished out a couple of painful slaps across the face of Maggie Murphy. She was tougher than that. She
responded by biting the fist that held her. A second later, relying on the distraction, she sent another knee toward
the balls. Eddy howled in a rage at the bite. He blocked the kick again by turning his hip, and upped the ante on
roughness, shaking her away from him like a wet towel, wrenching her arm at wrist, elbow and shoulder. Then he
came around with his left and connected with a real punch in the eye.
Maggie collapsed in a swirl of treetops and day stars. Meanwhile, Carol had been seized by Freddy. She was
overcome with much less resistance than was Maggie. Carol Gallagher was in shock. The events of the next few
moments maintained a curious singularity in her mind forever more. It was a turning point. It was confrontation
of life, truth, reality.
It was the beginning of the rest of her life.
Maggie had collapsed, for the time being, into a heap of tears. Eddy was on top of her, pawing at her plaid
shirt, ripping free the buttons. Her breasts heaved with exertion.
Both young women were wearing plaid shirts and blue-jeans.
Carol was being similarly mauled while still on her feet. Her peeps of protest were ignored. Freddy was a big
guy. He enveloped her, struggles and all, in a groping bear-hug, her raised arms of protest swept down and
pinioned by her sides almost as a side effect of the man's muscular embrace. Worse was his ugly face, pressed
now so large against her freckled neck, and gnawing on her skin.
The other two fellows had just stumbled into the daylight when Johnny and Bob crested the rise that
surrounded the wooded pond, and which left it in a depression almost like a crater.
| * * * |
Tawngness remembered the rope and the post, in a way, peering into the afternoon grove of eucalyptus from
her hiding place in the chaparral. She was the scavenger now, eating little, subsisting on road kill and garbage,
snatching dead fish at the ocean's edge, stealing prey from smaller predators, cleaning up after them, occasionally
marauding, and once in a great while making her own wild kill, usually a bunny, but sometimes a succulent fawn.
She never forgot the taste of deer. In nineteen sixty-two there were a number of them still hiding out in the
canyons east from the coast. Tawngness saw them, and smelled them, and felt the shape of their fleet feet with
her nose pressed to the mud. She knew them; they knew her.
But she couldn't catch them.
Well, she could catch them, she might have said to herself. With diligent, complex hunting and planning and
waiting she could ambush one, could hurl upon it her dull fanged bag of bones, and, if it were slow enough, small
enough, weak enough, blind enough, stupid enough, or scared enough, she could kill it.
Marauding was almost as infrequent, and incalculably more dangerous. Getting kicked or trampled, maybe
even gored, was worse than it could ever get with a wild kill. Plus, even calves have rifles, and they have cowboys
who know how to use them.
She was still the huntress, but now the hunt took subtler forms. As for garbage, she was quite the
connoisseur, having indulged her palate on everything from apple fritters to left over hot dogs. The odds and ends
of Mexican food leftovers were one of her favorite treats. So was popcorn.
She still remembered how deer tasted. Sometimes she would spend the hours swishing back and forth across
the meadows of high grass, hoping to surprise a hidden fawn. And sometimes she did.
She also still remembered the taste of human. Almost a quarter century had passed without her coming again
upon death's hidden fawn, but she had the feeling in her heart, or, pardon, in her stomach, that told her that she
was about to come upon it once more.
Again the sympathy was missing, but she couldn't elude the sorrow. She watched with the patient
understanding of a visiting surgeon as one of the males drew Diana's own knife and slashed her neck.
The body sagged to the ground, with only the hands held bumper high by the rope. After a moment of
watching it bleed, the same guy cut the rope free from the bumper. She lay in the late afternoon rain, mud, and
blood. The two continued to stare stupidly at the shape of her limbs on the ground, her wrists still tied.
Tawngness could see the rope. It was as forlorn as the thin twist of old hemp left behind on that fence post
years ago. The brutes admired their deed a moment longer, if admire was the word. Perhaps they struggled to
comprehend. At length they got into the car and drove away. Tawngness watched the cumbersome vehicle pick its
way up the rocky, rutted road, and disappear finally over the rise.
She waited still. There had been rain; then it stopped, and the sun reappeared, just in time to set beyond the
wet hills between the pond and the sea. The hills and the grove were a mixture of gold and shadow. Then the gold
was gone, and the clouds disappeared, and stars twinkled. Still she watched.
Eventually the moon arose.
her hiding place in the chaparral. She was the scavenger now, eating little, subsisting on road kill and garbage,
snatching dead fish at the ocean's edge, stealing prey from smaller predators, cleaning up after them, occasionally
marauding, and once in a great while making her own wild kill, usually a bunny, but sometimes a succulent fawn.
She never forgot the taste of deer. In nineteen sixty-two there were a number of them still hiding out in the
canyons east from the coast. Tawngness saw them, and smelled them, and felt the shape of their fleet feet with
her nose pressed to the mud. She knew them; they knew her.
But she couldn't catch them.
Well, she could catch them, she might have said to herself. With diligent, complex hunting and planning and
waiting she could ambush one, could hurl upon it her dull fanged bag of bones, and, if it were slow enough, small
enough, weak enough, blind enough, stupid enough, or scared enough, she could kill it.
Marauding was almost as infrequent, and incalculably more dangerous. Getting kicked or trampled, maybe
even gored, was worse than it could ever get with a wild kill. Plus, even calves have rifles, and they have cowboys
who know how to use them.
She was still the huntress, but now the hunt took subtler forms. As for garbage, she was quite the
connoisseur, having indulged her palate on everything from apple fritters to left over hot dogs. The odds and ends
of Mexican food leftovers were one of her favorite treats. So was popcorn.
She still remembered how deer tasted. Sometimes she would spend the hours swishing back and forth across
the meadows of high grass, hoping to surprise a hidden fawn. And sometimes she did.
She also still remembered the taste of human. Almost a quarter century had passed without her coming again
upon death's hidden fawn, but she had the feeling in her heart, or, pardon, in her stomach, that told her that she
was about to come upon it once more.
Again the sympathy was missing, but she couldn't elude the sorrow. She watched with the patient
understanding of a visiting surgeon as one of the males drew Diana's own knife and slashed her neck.
The body sagged to the ground, with only the hands held bumper high by the rope. After a moment of
watching it bleed, the same guy cut the rope free from the bumper. She lay in the late afternoon rain, mud, and
blood. The two continued to stare stupidly at the shape of her limbs on the ground, her wrists still tied.
Tawngness could see the rope. It was as forlorn as the thin twist of old hemp left behind on that fence post
years ago. The brutes admired their deed a moment longer, if admire was the word. Perhaps they struggled to
comprehend. At length they got into the car and drove away. Tawngness watched the cumbersome vehicle pick its
way up the rocky, rutted road, and disappear finally over the rise.
She waited still. There had been rain; then it stopped, and the sun reappeared, just in time to set beyond the
wet hills between the pond and the sea. The hills and the grove were a mixture of gold and shadow. Then the gold
was gone, and the clouds disappeared, and stars twinkled. Still she watched.
Eventually the moon arose.
