| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder 26 February 1980
The next morning, four more of the kids were dead. The pen was fairly littered with cold,
stiff little bodies, sodden in the rain.
The three remaining kids were all does, Dolly's, Torie's and Lucy's. They continue to be
healthy and spunky. There are more kids to be born. If a young buck survives, he would
likely be a good choice for a new herd sire, to breed survivability into the goats.
Yesterday I climbed the windmill and installed the new blades. But I don't have a
come-along, so I couldn't draw the wheel up to bolt the last section together. I have some
other ideas how to do it, short of buying a come-along.
Al Douglas and his brothers dropped by for a few minutes this evening. They have been
working on Al's land across the road, digging ditches. I asked him if he had a
come-along, and he said he did. He said he would try to remember to bring it up
tomorrow.
The next morning, four more of the kids were dead. The pen was fairly littered with cold,
stiff little bodies, sodden in the rain.
The three remaining kids were all does, Dolly's, Torie's and Lucy's. They continue to be
healthy and spunky. There are more kids to be born. If a young buck survives, he would
likely be a good choice for a new herd sire, to breed survivability into the goats.
Yesterday I climbed the windmill and installed the new blades. But I don't have a
come-along, so I couldn't draw the wheel up to bolt the last section together. I have some
other ideas how to do it, short of buying a come-along.
Al Douglas and his brothers dropped by for a few minutes this evening. They have been
working on Al's land across the road, digging ditches. I asked him if he had a
come-along, and he said he did. He said he would try to remember to bring it up
tomorrow.
| Chapter Thirty-four TRAILS |
Thirteen years after that glowing stone dropped through the snowflakes into the hand of an old lady standing
in the darkness outside of the crossroads, it was Cat who picked up the trail. What her mother had abandoned
was the hunt.
in the darkness outside of the crossroads, it was Cat who picked up the trail. What her mother had abandoned
was the hunt.
| * * * |
In the morning, long blue surf rolled along the coast, turquoise in horizontal sunshine. Away out in the
ocean, a swimmer was going north. It was quiet. Off to one side was America, awake in the early day,
California, but too far away to be heard. The swimmer was alone, a rhythm of arms and legs. There was only
the lap of water, and the wake of his body.
From time to time a mound of sea would entice him, a curving wave, beckoning him to turn and follow.
He was tempted. A couple of strong strokes and he would be seized in the conspiracy of water and gravity,
would take the fall, slick in her blue flesh, would explode in salty foam, and would be left, at best, on the sand.
At worst, rocks.
He had been a surfer, but waves are shallow by nature. They had seduced him for years, and had left him on
his knees, clutching handfuls of sand, sometimes tired, sometimes bleeding.
The deep water was the goddess. The waves were only women. He swam, rolling in the swells, sky mirror,
bosom of his mother.
Two porpoises, quite near, dove into the air, humped backs and flippers and blowing sounds. The swimmer felt
the vibrations. They were friendly, and safe, like love and pussycats. Not like sharks.
Dark shadows moved under the deep water swimmer. He pointed his brain-stuffed prow toward the distant
cliffs.
ocean, a swimmer was going north. It was quiet. Off to one side was America, awake in the early day,
California, but too far away to be heard. The swimmer was alone, a rhythm of arms and legs. There was only
the lap of water, and the wake of his body.
From time to time a mound of sea would entice him, a curving wave, beckoning him to turn and follow.
He was tempted. A couple of strong strokes and he would be seized in the conspiracy of water and gravity,
would take the fall, slick in her blue flesh, would explode in salty foam, and would be left, at best, on the sand.
At worst, rocks.
He had been a surfer, but waves are shallow by nature. They had seduced him for years, and had left him on
his knees, clutching handfuls of sand, sometimes tired, sometimes bleeding.
The deep water was the goddess. The waves were only women. He swam, rolling in the swells, sky mirror,
bosom of his mother.
Two porpoises, quite near, dove into the air, humped backs and flippers and blowing sounds. The swimmer felt
the vibrations. They were friendly, and safe, like love and pussycats. Not like sharks.
Dark shadows moved under the deep water swimmer. He pointed his brain-stuffed prow toward the distant
cliffs.
| * * * |
A trail is so much more than a path, because it is so much less. A broken twig. Dry moss rumpled from a
rock. A signature on a rental car contract. A whiff in the wind.
Trails up a mountainside intersect, cross and diverge, double back and disappear, reappear, divide, conquer,
amuse and frustrate. That they all converge at the pinnacle is a trivial addendum to their reality, so much as if
to say that all lives end with death, all sentences with periods, question marks, exclamation points or ellipses…
A trail is something that we find and leave. These two are not the same, yet they are. For the chips of soil, the
scuffs and brushes that we follow, laid down by whoever or whatever has gone before us, are not the same as
the prints, signs and cast-offs that we leave. But for one who, later on, follows the same trail, these will all be a
part of it.
A trail can be nothing more than ripples. It can be a record of catalysis. It can be so esoteric as for Vikor to
recognize the dreams that the prey might have at one point on the trail, and to see the direction, the choices
that that dream might or would influence or decide.
Were he to have an interest in knowing that much about what he was doing, that is. Vikor was more prone to
doing it by the seat of his pants, by the feel of it, than to bothering much with taking it to abstractions.
However, his mother could not avoid such exercises.
rock. A signature on a rental car contract. A whiff in the wind.
Trails up a mountainside intersect, cross and diverge, double back and disappear, reappear, divide, conquer,
amuse and frustrate. That they all converge at the pinnacle is a trivial addendum to their reality, so much as if
to say that all lives end with death, all sentences with periods, question marks, exclamation points or ellipses…
A trail is something that we find and leave. These two are not the same, yet they are. For the chips of soil, the
scuffs and brushes that we follow, laid down by whoever or whatever has gone before us, are not the same as
the prints, signs and cast-offs that we leave. But for one who, later on, follows the same trail, these will all be a
part of it.
A trail can be nothing more than ripples. It can be a record of catalysis. It can be so esoteric as for Vikor to
recognize the dreams that the prey might have at one point on the trail, and to see the direction, the choices
that that dream might or would influence or decide.
Were he to have an interest in knowing that much about what he was doing, that is. Vikor was more prone to
doing it by the seat of his pants, by the feel of it, than to bothering much with taking it to abstractions.
However, his mother could not avoid such exercises.
| * * * |
When Cat One looked into the crystal, it was like she was in the driver's seat of a cosmic space-time ship,
peering madly into a creation of infinite potential. She had only to look, to shift her gaze, to imagine, to dream,
to abandon, to let go, to cling, to amuse herself, to wonder, to question, to love or to stare in wide-eyed horror,
and it all would come to pass. She could deny it, make it, meet it, embrace it, misunderstand it or idolize it, and
when she lifted her attention from the humble rock that served, she had Agnes Tawny to turn to, to question,
to hate, to thank and with whom to share.
It became all too real.
peering madly into a creation of infinite potential. She had only to look, to shift her gaze, to imagine, to dream,
to abandon, to let go, to cling, to amuse herself, to wonder, to question, to love or to stare in wide-eyed horror,
and it all would come to pass. She could deny it, make it, meet it, embrace it, misunderstand it or idolize it, and
when she lifted her attention from the humble rock that served, she had Agnes Tawny to turn to, to question,
to hate, to thank and with whom to share.
It became all too real.
Diary of a Goatherder 26 February 1980
Yesterday I planted the garden. I put in 320 onion sets. Then I mixed all of my seeds together and
broadcast them in the beds, a combination of lettuce, cabbage, onion, radish, carrot, broccoli, spinach,
curly cress, dill, parsley, fennel and maybe a couple more. It should be an interesting garden. I also
planted lots of marigolds on the borders.
Yesterday I planted the garden. I put in 320 onion sets. Then I mixed all of my seeds together and
broadcast them in the beds, a combination of lettuce, cabbage, onion, radish, carrot, broccoli, spinach,
curly cress, dill, parsley, fennel and maybe a couple more. It should be an interesting garden. I also
planted lots of marigolds on the borders.
| * * * |
When the goats slept in the pasture they settled in family groups, nannies and kids, even into a third
generation. All of these little groups were loosely gathered in the shape of the herd in one of the little
meadows. Screened by brush but exposed to the raw, wild moon, the clusters lay, mother, daughter, grandkids,
bink… binkety… bink. The bigger bucks lay by themselves. The moonlight silvered all of the Alpine patterns,
the blacks and whites and occasional tans and browns. There was now and then a sniff or a burp, an ear-flick, a
tummy rumble.
There were young does, saved from the previous season's cull. Pregnant now for the first time, they still slept
next to their mothers. They were still the kids, and good-sized kids they were. Tawngness selected one, a black
and white at the very edge of the gathering.
generation. All of these little groups were loosely gathered in the shape of the herd in one of the little
meadows. Screened by brush but exposed to the raw, wild moon, the clusters lay, mother, daughter, grandkids,
bink… binkety… bink. The bigger bucks lay by themselves. The moonlight silvered all of the Alpine patterns,
the blacks and whites and occasional tans and browns. There was now and then a sniff or a burp, an ear-flick, a
tummy rumble.
There were young does, saved from the previous season's cull. Pregnant now for the first time, they still slept
next to their mothers. They were still the kids, and good-sized kids they were. Tawngness selected one, a black
and white at the very edge of the gathering.
| * * * |
Early morning. A house cold enough to be heated, but not heated. Late in the year. Southern California
winter. Charlene comes through the house in a pink terry robe, a blonde on a bummer, hunched against the
cold. The sun is just on the horizon. It is red in the mist.
Charlene makes coffee. Then she sits down. She sits in a dining room, with walls of wood, and blue velvet
curtains. The dining room table is carved oak with six chairs. The curtains are drawn.
Charlene opens the curtains, standing to do it. Then she sits once more. It is quite a lovely morning. Charlene
takes another sip of coffee and opens the stash box. The day was still very cold. She was such a drug addict.
winter. Charlene comes through the house in a pink terry robe, a blonde on a bummer, hunched against the
cold. The sun is just on the horizon. It is red in the mist.
Charlene makes coffee. Then she sits down. She sits in a dining room, with walls of wood, and blue velvet
curtains. The dining room table is carved oak with six chairs. The curtains are drawn.
Charlene opens the curtains, standing to do it. Then she sits once more. It is quite a lovely morning. Charlene
takes another sip of coffee and opens the stash box. The day was still very cold. She was such a drug addict.
| * * * |
Johnny's first shot serendipitously shattered the elbow that had just before held Carol Gallagher pinned in an
arm lock to the body of one of the ersatz grizzly bears. He had released her at the sound of hooves thundering.
Freddy had turned and flexed his bulk at the interruption.
Johnny Stream pulled his horse's gallop to a halt, aimed at Freddy, and flexed his finger. He missed the heart.
Freddy's elbow exploded into red mush. His tough side vanished in the burst, leaving a howling baby, thrashing
in the autumn grass.
Johnny had missed because Widowmaker had jerked when he pulled the trigger. He wheeled her when the
noise of the gun sent her jumping, and, as he settled her to stillness, his eyes swept the scene. He was
immediately encouraged to see that young Bob had shot the villain who had straddled Maggie Murphy on the
ground.
Eddy had risen like a dimwit ghoul to ponder the clatter as the two riders had burst upon his fun. Bob's bullet
caught him square in the chest, turning his heart inside out, puncturing him from front to back and hurling
him out of his shoes and across the space between him and the panel truck.
Unlike Widowmaker, who pranced at every shot, Spot stood still as a bench while Bob did his aiming and
squeezing. Eddy slammed into the truck, just as two more members of the group to be massacred came
tumbling into the open, one through the side, the other one out the back door.
Johnny turned his attention to the man exiting from the rear of the Studebaker, promptly firing a bullet into
his side which sent him spinning up against a eucalyptus tree. Johnny immediately shot him again, this time
hitting him square in the back and leaving him in a blood-drooped embrace of the fat sapling.
Bob now directed his attention at the man standing in horror by the side of the panel truck. His jaw was
dropped with lack of control. None of it made sense to him, the attempted rapes, the killing. He was only along
for the ride. Suddenly sober as a judge he read the zero at the end of Bob's forty-four, and he saw but never
heard it disappear in a squish of smoke. Two hundred grains of lead slammed him out of consciousness, and
Bob's next shot knocked him clean from life.
Meanwhile, Johnny settled the bouncing mare one more time, whirling her again to a halt with his left hand
wrapped in the reins. Freddy's heart beckoned to him like a rabbit in the chaparral. It was pumping Freddy's
blood right out onto the ground, via the shattered elbow. Freddy was continuing to scream, but was beginning to
rally to anger. Carol Gallagher still stood near, frozen in shock.
Freddy struggled to his knees, and Johnny shot him again. This time it penetrated the little pump, and Freddy
went out in a splash of gore that spattered the unfortunate Miss Gallagher's blue jeans.
arm lock to the body of one of the ersatz grizzly bears. He had released her at the sound of hooves thundering.
Freddy had turned and flexed his bulk at the interruption.
Johnny Stream pulled his horse's gallop to a halt, aimed at Freddy, and flexed his finger. He missed the heart.
Freddy's elbow exploded into red mush. His tough side vanished in the burst, leaving a howling baby, thrashing
in the autumn grass.
Johnny had missed because Widowmaker had jerked when he pulled the trigger. He wheeled her when the
noise of the gun sent her jumping, and, as he settled her to stillness, his eyes swept the scene. He was
immediately encouraged to see that young Bob had shot the villain who had straddled Maggie Murphy on the
ground.
Eddy had risen like a dimwit ghoul to ponder the clatter as the two riders had burst upon his fun. Bob's bullet
caught him square in the chest, turning his heart inside out, puncturing him from front to back and hurling
him out of his shoes and across the space between him and the panel truck.
Unlike Widowmaker, who pranced at every shot, Spot stood still as a bench while Bob did his aiming and
squeezing. Eddy slammed into the truck, just as two more members of the group to be massacred came
tumbling into the open, one through the side, the other one out the back door.
Johnny turned his attention to the man exiting from the rear of the Studebaker, promptly firing a bullet into
his side which sent him spinning up against a eucalyptus tree. Johnny immediately shot him again, this time
hitting him square in the back and leaving him in a blood-drooped embrace of the fat sapling.
Bob now directed his attention at the man standing in horror by the side of the panel truck. His jaw was
dropped with lack of control. None of it made sense to him, the attempted rapes, the killing. He was only along
for the ride. Suddenly sober as a judge he read the zero at the end of Bob's forty-four, and he saw but never
heard it disappear in a squish of smoke. Two hundred grains of lead slammed him out of consciousness, and
Bob's next shot knocked him clean from life.
Meanwhile, Johnny settled the bouncing mare one more time, whirling her again to a halt with his left hand
wrapped in the reins. Freddy's heart beckoned to him like a rabbit in the chaparral. It was pumping Freddy's
blood right out onto the ground, via the shattered elbow. Freddy was continuing to scream, but was beginning to
rally to anger. Carol Gallagher still stood near, frozen in shock.
Freddy struggled to his knees, and Johnny shot him again. This time it penetrated the little pump, and Freddy
went out in a splash of gore that spattered the unfortunate Miss Gallagher's blue jeans.
| * * * |
Far was it from Cat One to lay any measure of sanctimonious bullshit on her son. He reminded her in ghostly
ways of Selabjun Kirkhaz.
Little Vikor. Little Victor Dolan. The son of a rapist and a murderess, how could he be expected to adhere to
any of the moral precepts of either of his parents' cultures? She remembered the day she had told him of his
father.
She had anticipated the question. Agnes had told her nothing, and had merely asked her questions that left
her feeling vacant and undecided. She realized that in the end she would handle it as she handled everything.
Like all of us, she would find out for sure how she was to answer the question when she heard the words
coming from her own mouth.
It was the simple truth in the end. Vikor was eleven at the time. After, he was silent for days.
Alone on the mountain, he pondered fate. He found that he could not simply imagine a better outcome. Life,
had Cat not kicked Kirkhaz, branched into several unpleasant possibilities, ranging from his killing her to his
mere existence, with everything from prison to marriage, wife-beating and child abuse thrown in.
Had he not raped her, Vikor would not have been born. Not, that is, unless one were to return to the
beginning of time to rearrange everything so that the breeding couple would meet under more mutually
pleasant conditions, and all of that without disturbing the genetic makeup of the two parents.
Maybe it would have been simpler for God to merely redirect the flow of genes through different folks
altogether, to come up with the identical combination that makes a Vikor.
Or, maybe it would have been easier for the Master Craftsman to suspend his laws of chemistry and physics
and to weave Vikor Dolan out of the warp and woof of nothingness. But how could anything be too hard for an
almighty god?
From a totally personal, private, selfish point of view, given the raw ingredients, the characters of the
California farm-girl and the Central Asian geologist, it was easy for Vikor to see that he had done very well.
His life was one of security and plenty. He had lots of love, not only from the doting Cat, but from his
grandparents as well. Johnny and Andrea had learned enough from their own lives to make the most of their
daughter's. Traumas be damned; he is one of us, and, my god, isn't he handsome.
He grew up strong and healthy. For a male role model he had Johnny Dolan, the sturdy carpenter. He had
space and freedom. He had watchful eyes and caring arms to shepherd him through every adventure.
So wise at eleven! In the end Vikor returned to his mother and assured her that he accepted the responsibility
for her answer. He had asked the question.
And then he did a very dear thing. He put his arms about Catherine Marie Dolan. He was almost as tall as her
by then. He squeezed her in his strong boy arms, and his own heart was seized by compassion for all she had
endured, and he whispered, "You poor little thing."
ways of Selabjun Kirkhaz.
Little Vikor. Little Victor Dolan. The son of a rapist and a murderess, how could he be expected to adhere to
any of the moral precepts of either of his parents' cultures? She remembered the day she had told him of his
father.
She had anticipated the question. Agnes had told her nothing, and had merely asked her questions that left
her feeling vacant and undecided. She realized that in the end she would handle it as she handled everything.
Like all of us, she would find out for sure how she was to answer the question when she heard the words
coming from her own mouth.
It was the simple truth in the end. Vikor was eleven at the time. After, he was silent for days.
Alone on the mountain, he pondered fate. He found that he could not simply imagine a better outcome. Life,
had Cat not kicked Kirkhaz, branched into several unpleasant possibilities, ranging from his killing her to his
mere existence, with everything from prison to marriage, wife-beating and child abuse thrown in.
Had he not raped her, Vikor would not have been born. Not, that is, unless one were to return to the
beginning of time to rearrange everything so that the breeding couple would meet under more mutually
pleasant conditions, and all of that without disturbing the genetic makeup of the two parents.
Maybe it would have been simpler for God to merely redirect the flow of genes through different folks
altogether, to come up with the identical combination that makes a Vikor.
Or, maybe it would have been easier for the Master Craftsman to suspend his laws of chemistry and physics
and to weave Vikor Dolan out of the warp and woof of nothingness. But how could anything be too hard for an
almighty god?
From a totally personal, private, selfish point of view, given the raw ingredients, the characters of the
California farm-girl and the Central Asian geologist, it was easy for Vikor to see that he had done very well.
His life was one of security and plenty. He had lots of love, not only from the doting Cat, but from his
grandparents as well. Johnny and Andrea had learned enough from their own lives to make the most of their
daughter's. Traumas be damned; he is one of us, and, my god, isn't he handsome.
He grew up strong and healthy. For a male role model he had Johnny Dolan, the sturdy carpenter. He had
space and freedom. He had watchful eyes and caring arms to shepherd him through every adventure.
So wise at eleven! In the end Vikor returned to his mother and assured her that he accepted the responsibility
for her answer. He had asked the question.
And then he did a very dear thing. He put his arms about Catherine Marie Dolan. He was almost as tall as her
by then. He squeezed her in his strong boy arms, and his own heart was seized by compassion for all she had
endured, and he whispered, "You poor little thing."
| * * * |
His mother remembered all of that, every word of it, forever. But when Vikor, relaxing with his coffee in the
evening in an outdoor cafe in Birmingham, Alabama, looked across those same eighteen years, he remembered
the Spartan lives of little Victor and Diana. He had never asked Ma about no pa. The total isolation of the pair
in the remnant of wilderness that survived in coastal San Diego County was so much a part of him that the
intrusion of any outsider, even one so ephemeral as the memory of a father, was never even imagined.
When he left at fifteen, to find his own territory, he was as ready to deal with the world as fifteen years of
living wild with the hardships of cold and hunger, wind and rain, danger and stealth could make him. He could
make himself warm, well-fed, calm, dry, safe and aware. With all of that and some good water to drink, he
figured that he could make it.
He was right of course, but there were later times when his heart shook. He had headed straight for the
desert, as if to make even the drink of good water a challenge. He arrived penniless. The little bit of money
that it had cost to buy a ticket to Banner was all that he had accumulated from collecting cans and bottles from
the sides of dirt roads and back country pastures and selling them down at the Driftwood Market.
The money was all gone, but he had a pack full of jerky and lima beans and rolled barley. He had a shelter
half and a pack frame, a bedroll and a knife. All he needed was water.
He stayed for ten years. He nearly died a dozen times. He wandered, on occasion, far into the desert, carrying
as much water as he could, fasting to cut down on consumption of the precious fluid. He would go as far as he
dared before turning back in retreat to the nearest water hole. Little seeps and springs in clumps of rock,
lonesome windmills and cattle troughs, even the odd hand-pump… Vikor came to know where every drink of
water was on that part of the desert. He came to like it best in close to the afternoon shade of the Laguna
mountains.
He worked for spells as his grandfather Stream had, as a ranch hand, a cowboy in a truck hauling hay to
remote pastures, a fence builder, a laborer. He never achieved the horsemanship of grandfather Stream. He
never achieved the skill with tools of grandfather Dolan. He never stayed with anything long enough to become
a journeyman, let alone a master. He was an apprentice to life. Change itself became the trade that he finally
mastered.
One day he changed into what he had been all along, a crafty, calculating, unrepentant, methodical killer.
He was out with the Springfield, one chilly winter's day. He picked up the track of an automobile, tire prints in
the occasional patch of sand that occurred here and there in the two ruts that sneaked up through the canyon
that Vikor was hunting.
Vikor himself had come over the stony ridge on the south-east side of the canyon. He dropped down into the
relatively lush desert floor of the water-course. When he transected the ancient road, he discovered the fresh
set of tread marks. They appeared to be going one way only, up, and the canyon was a dead-end.
Continuing to hunt, Vikor moved slowly up the draw.
In the meantime, Jack Bush had already opened his fourth can of beer. The tire tracks were fresh; he had
driven up the faint road just minutes before. But he had opened his third beer when he had left the pavement
half an hour earlier and the first as soon as he had hit the highway in Riverside.
Vikor eyed the scene from the cover of a patch of sage. It was a very new car, a Cadillac. Dusty now, it was a
color for which our hero had no name, a muted shade of quality somewhere in the center of purple and brown
and pink.
Nor would Jack Bush have remembered what the dealership had called the dusky color. He could hardly
remember his own name.
All that he knew was that he was happy, and that he was happy because he was rich. It was a new experience
for him. He had plunked cash for the Cadillac. Some old fogy of an uncle had died without issue and had
remembered the nephew who was following his decadent ways. He remembered him as a brash boy, his sister's
kid, and not as the insipid, middle-aged bar-hanger that he had become.
The two had not spoken to one another in years. Uncle Tom had married rich, late in life, and then had followed
his bride to the grave before he had enough time to squander the inheritance. Jack Bush had picked up that
function and had made it his own. Had he lived, the money would have been gone in… we could only guess;
perhaps he would have reformed.
Vikor shot him through the heart as he raised the can to his lips. The soft-tipped .30-06 bullet made mush of
his middle.
It hadn't been that long ago. Vikor sipped his coffee in Birmingham, keeping an eye on the family with the
two grown imbeciles in tow who were, for some reason, out for donuts and ice cream at nine o'clock at night.
Most of Bush's money, what was left of it, was in the bank. Vikor never even knew it existed. Jack had no
checkbook or passbook with him. All he had was a couple of credit cards and a pocket full of cash. Two
thousand, nine hundred forty-three dollars and fifty-nine cents, to be exact, but Vikor never knew about the
fifty-nine cents either, he was so excited about the twenty-nine one hundred dollar bills.
He buried the two quarters, the nickel and the four pennies, together with the corpse, a little farther up in the
rocks, away from the watercourse. He covered them all with rocks, and he wished Jack Bush a nice day, as if
he had not already had one.
The keys were in the ignition. Vikor batted himself in the head when he realized how close he had come to
burying them with Bush. But, no, had they been in the pockets of the deceased, he would have found them.
He fired up the Cadillac, laid his battered cowboy hat on the seat beside him, backed the car around until it
faced back the way it had come, and away he drove. He left behind a beer can and a second set of tire prints,
and Jack Bush, and fifty-nine cents.
Out on the hard road, Vikor ran like a scared, wild dog, but he wasn't scared. For him it was a thrilling race of
victory. He was tired of the desert. He was rich. He had fresh wheels and not some cantankerous old Chevy
pickup either. Cool and lush San Francisco seemed just over the horizon, and he didn't reckon anyone would
miss Mr. Bush for a while longer. He just had a feeling that nobody would even wonder right away. The man
had obviously been unreliable, out drinking in the middle of the day in the middle of the week in the middle of
nowhere. No one would know when or where to expect a guy like that, and if all the rest came along with it, no
one would even care.
He drove west, up Banner Grade, his face a broad grin into the summer wind. He wound his way north,
through the mountains, past Santa Ysabel and Winchester, then angled across Southern California to the
coastline north of Los Angeles. He drove north on the coast highway, and he was still running. He had stopped
to buy different clothes. He got a haircut and a shave at the same time, in Santa Barbara, just for the hell of it.
Like a rock that has fallen over a cliff, he never hesitated for a second, once he had pulled that trigger.
The battered old Springfield was still in the trunk when he abandoned the Cadillac. The wild, free maniac had
a lot to learn if he were to spend the balance of his days free from the iron bars. He got lucky on this one. No
one ever, ever found the body of Jack Bush, who had been a resident of Riverside. No one ever looked for him
down in the Anza-Borrego. No one ever traced the Springfield back to the Mexican to whom Vikor had traded
work for the rifle. No one ever worked that hard on the case of Jack Bush. But it was just luck.
Vikor had a lot to learn. He learned it, somehow, on that flight to Birmingham. Still running by instinct, still
glaring on civilization with the wild-eyed zest of the maniac who finally and suddenly has the whole world by the
throat, he took to the air, like a hawk.
evening in an outdoor cafe in Birmingham, Alabama, looked across those same eighteen years, he remembered
the Spartan lives of little Victor and Diana. He had never asked Ma about no pa. The total isolation of the pair
in the remnant of wilderness that survived in coastal San Diego County was so much a part of him that the
intrusion of any outsider, even one so ephemeral as the memory of a father, was never even imagined.
When he left at fifteen, to find his own territory, he was as ready to deal with the world as fifteen years of
living wild with the hardships of cold and hunger, wind and rain, danger and stealth could make him. He could
make himself warm, well-fed, calm, dry, safe and aware. With all of that and some good water to drink, he
figured that he could make it.
He was right of course, but there were later times when his heart shook. He had headed straight for the
desert, as if to make even the drink of good water a challenge. He arrived penniless. The little bit of money
that it had cost to buy a ticket to Banner was all that he had accumulated from collecting cans and bottles from
the sides of dirt roads and back country pastures and selling them down at the Driftwood Market.
The money was all gone, but he had a pack full of jerky and lima beans and rolled barley. He had a shelter
half and a pack frame, a bedroll and a knife. All he needed was water.
He stayed for ten years. He nearly died a dozen times. He wandered, on occasion, far into the desert, carrying
as much water as he could, fasting to cut down on consumption of the precious fluid. He would go as far as he
dared before turning back in retreat to the nearest water hole. Little seeps and springs in clumps of rock,
lonesome windmills and cattle troughs, even the odd hand-pump… Vikor came to know where every drink of
water was on that part of the desert. He came to like it best in close to the afternoon shade of the Laguna
mountains.
He worked for spells as his grandfather Stream had, as a ranch hand, a cowboy in a truck hauling hay to
remote pastures, a fence builder, a laborer. He never achieved the horsemanship of grandfather Stream. He
never achieved the skill with tools of grandfather Dolan. He never stayed with anything long enough to become
a journeyman, let alone a master. He was an apprentice to life. Change itself became the trade that he finally
mastered.
One day he changed into what he had been all along, a crafty, calculating, unrepentant, methodical killer.
He was out with the Springfield, one chilly winter's day. He picked up the track of an automobile, tire prints in
the occasional patch of sand that occurred here and there in the two ruts that sneaked up through the canyon
that Vikor was hunting.
Vikor himself had come over the stony ridge on the south-east side of the canyon. He dropped down into the
relatively lush desert floor of the water-course. When he transected the ancient road, he discovered the fresh
set of tread marks. They appeared to be going one way only, up, and the canyon was a dead-end.
Continuing to hunt, Vikor moved slowly up the draw.
In the meantime, Jack Bush had already opened his fourth can of beer. The tire tracks were fresh; he had
driven up the faint road just minutes before. But he had opened his third beer when he had left the pavement
half an hour earlier and the first as soon as he had hit the highway in Riverside.
Vikor eyed the scene from the cover of a patch of sage. It was a very new car, a Cadillac. Dusty now, it was a
color for which our hero had no name, a muted shade of quality somewhere in the center of purple and brown
and pink.
Nor would Jack Bush have remembered what the dealership had called the dusky color. He could hardly
remember his own name.
All that he knew was that he was happy, and that he was happy because he was rich. It was a new experience
for him. He had plunked cash for the Cadillac. Some old fogy of an uncle had died without issue and had
remembered the nephew who was following his decadent ways. He remembered him as a brash boy, his sister's
kid, and not as the insipid, middle-aged bar-hanger that he had become.
The two had not spoken to one another in years. Uncle Tom had married rich, late in life, and then had followed
his bride to the grave before he had enough time to squander the inheritance. Jack Bush had picked up that
function and had made it his own. Had he lived, the money would have been gone in… we could only guess;
perhaps he would have reformed.
Vikor shot him through the heart as he raised the can to his lips. The soft-tipped .30-06 bullet made mush of
his middle.
It hadn't been that long ago. Vikor sipped his coffee in Birmingham, keeping an eye on the family with the
two grown imbeciles in tow who were, for some reason, out for donuts and ice cream at nine o'clock at night.
Most of Bush's money, what was left of it, was in the bank. Vikor never even knew it existed. Jack had no
checkbook or passbook with him. All he had was a couple of credit cards and a pocket full of cash. Two
thousand, nine hundred forty-three dollars and fifty-nine cents, to be exact, but Vikor never knew about the
fifty-nine cents either, he was so excited about the twenty-nine one hundred dollar bills.
He buried the two quarters, the nickel and the four pennies, together with the corpse, a little farther up in the
rocks, away from the watercourse. He covered them all with rocks, and he wished Jack Bush a nice day, as if
he had not already had one.
The keys were in the ignition. Vikor batted himself in the head when he realized how close he had come to
burying them with Bush. But, no, had they been in the pockets of the deceased, he would have found them.
He fired up the Cadillac, laid his battered cowboy hat on the seat beside him, backed the car around until it
faced back the way it had come, and away he drove. He left behind a beer can and a second set of tire prints,
and Jack Bush, and fifty-nine cents.
Out on the hard road, Vikor ran like a scared, wild dog, but he wasn't scared. For him it was a thrilling race of
victory. He was tired of the desert. He was rich. He had fresh wheels and not some cantankerous old Chevy
pickup either. Cool and lush San Francisco seemed just over the horizon, and he didn't reckon anyone would
miss Mr. Bush for a while longer. He just had a feeling that nobody would even wonder right away. The man
had obviously been unreliable, out drinking in the middle of the day in the middle of the week in the middle of
nowhere. No one would know when or where to expect a guy like that, and if all the rest came along with it, no
one would even care.
He drove west, up Banner Grade, his face a broad grin into the summer wind. He wound his way north,
through the mountains, past Santa Ysabel and Winchester, then angled across Southern California to the
coastline north of Los Angeles. He drove north on the coast highway, and he was still running. He had stopped
to buy different clothes. He got a haircut and a shave at the same time, in Santa Barbara, just for the hell of it.
Like a rock that has fallen over a cliff, he never hesitated for a second, once he had pulled that trigger.
The battered old Springfield was still in the trunk when he abandoned the Cadillac. The wild, free maniac had
a lot to learn if he were to spend the balance of his days free from the iron bars. He got lucky on this one. No
one ever, ever found the body of Jack Bush, who had been a resident of Riverside. No one ever looked for him
down in the Anza-Borrego. No one ever traced the Springfield back to the Mexican to whom Vikor had traded
work for the rifle. No one ever worked that hard on the case of Jack Bush. But it was just luck.
Vikor had a lot to learn. He learned it, somehow, on that flight to Birmingham. Still running by instinct, still
glaring on civilization with the wild-eyed zest of the maniac who finally and suddenly has the whole world by the
throat, he took to the air, like a hawk.
| * * * |
Some weeks later, in another time, in another world, when the full moon rose again, and when it had just
rained, the acacias bloomed.
Plush yellow flowers. Billows of yellow. Scented acacia, acacia, drifting in full moonlight, glowing yellow in the
moonlight, cool air filled with aah fragrance, everywhere, face buried in its branches.
rained, the acacias bloomed.
Plush yellow flowers. Billows of yellow. Scented acacia, acacia, drifting in full moonlight, glowing yellow in the
moonlight, cool air filled with aah fragrance, everywhere, face buried in its branches.
