| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goat herder 28 May 1981
I learned from the herd. Even before my awareness of it crystallized, I was learning.
It had to do with humility.
Picture a sunny day. A pure blue sky and hot, gold grass. The goats are content,
browsing dreamily, ear-flicking flies, chewing, swishing. I'm sitting in the tiny shade of a
scrub oak, sweating and bored. We've been out for a couple of hours, and I would like to
get in some water. Unfortunately, we are high on the ridge between Boulder Creek and
Fugitive Creek.
So, "Let's go to the creek!" I suggest, jumping to my feet and striding off down the
trail. The herd notices; two or three goats blink curiously at my energy, then resume
eating. The herd is not ready to go anywhere. "Hey, c'mon, you guys," I plead. The herd
notices but ignores me as it would ignore the random leaps of a kid with a bee sting.
Humility. More and more I learn to watch and wait. My preconceptions fall away. I
follow the herd.
Presently I detect a general drift up the draw that runs down from the higher ridge. The
herd is moving, and we all, goats and man, follow. This time Shauna is out in front. She
is one of the young does, very pretty and gentle. More affectionate that most. Her status in
the herd is not high, being small, young and hornless. She is only a part of the herd, but at
this moment she is leading. I follow the herd and learn.
I learned from the herd. Even before my awareness of it crystallized, I was learning.
It had to do with humility.
Picture a sunny day. A pure blue sky and hot, gold grass. The goats are content,
browsing dreamily, ear-flicking flies, chewing, swishing. I'm sitting in the tiny shade of a
scrub oak, sweating and bored. We've been out for a couple of hours, and I would like to
get in some water. Unfortunately, we are high on the ridge between Boulder Creek and
Fugitive Creek.
So, "Let's go to the creek!" I suggest, jumping to my feet and striding off down the
trail. The herd notices; two or three goats blink curiously at my energy, then resume
eating. The herd is not ready to go anywhere. "Hey, c'mon, you guys," I plead. The herd
notices but ignores me as it would ignore the random leaps of a kid with a bee sting.
Humility. More and more I learn to watch and wait. My preconceptions fall away. I
follow the herd.
Presently I detect a general drift up the draw that runs down from the higher ridge. The
herd is moving, and we all, goats and man, follow. This time Shauna is out in front. She
is one of the young does, very pretty and gentle. More affectionate that most. Her status in
the herd is not high, being small, young and hornless. She is only a part of the herd, but at
this moment she is leading. I follow the herd and learn.
| Chapter Forty-two AN OUTLAW'S LADY |
There were even times when Andrea Clare Dolan and Heidi Westbocker laughed about the incidents that
had offered to mar their lives. When the laughter was over, Heidi would retreat into a slightly sad, haunted
victim attitude that never left her. It was only her friendship with Andrea Clare that gave her any fulfillment
from that episode. The friendship did that in many ways. Merely by existing, it did, for had not the nastiness
occurred, she would never have met Andrea. Oh, perhaps if she had chanced to come back and make her
career in Dove Springs, she would have come to know Mrs. Dolan in the same sense that she herself was now a
familiar sight to any of the local population that used the university clinic.
But she would never even have come back, had she not met the older woman under such profound
conditions. She would have gone on to finish her baccalaureate at Ol' Grey, and would then have departed to
marriage or career, happy to be shed of the little place forever, and never to return.
As it was, her return ten years later was a reverent approach to a place that stood out in her psyche like a
wound. She only had a distant memory of Andrea Clare, but in her heart she was guided as if by a beacon at
sea.
And then there was the joy she shared with her friend over the precious daughter and grandson. It was a
real joy, but only through Andrea's friendship and love. Tragedy had left Heidi Westbocker with no cuddly
newborn to make it all worthwhile, no growing child, no blossoming teen, no exaltation of motherhood.
Certainly she would not wish that it had, she would remind herself, catching her heart in the act of feeling
the left out victim. She was like the barren aunt who conceives her joy through her love for her sister (or her
sister's genes), but claims no desire within herself to have kids of her own. So even there was at least a feeble
consolation that she must need swallow, that everything worked out for the best.
Meanwhile, her better side joined with Andrea to affirm with ease that life is good, as daring as such a
thought might be.
had offered to mar their lives. When the laughter was over, Heidi would retreat into a slightly sad, haunted
victim attitude that never left her. It was only her friendship with Andrea Clare that gave her any fulfillment
from that episode. The friendship did that in many ways. Merely by existing, it did, for had not the nastiness
occurred, she would never have met Andrea. Oh, perhaps if she had chanced to come back and make her
career in Dove Springs, she would have come to know Mrs. Dolan in the same sense that she herself was now a
familiar sight to any of the local population that used the university clinic.
But she would never even have come back, had she not met the older woman under such profound
conditions. She would have gone on to finish her baccalaureate at Ol' Grey, and would then have departed to
marriage or career, happy to be shed of the little place forever, and never to return.
As it was, her return ten years later was a reverent approach to a place that stood out in her psyche like a
wound. She only had a distant memory of Andrea Clare, but in her heart she was guided as if by a beacon at
sea.
And then there was the joy she shared with her friend over the precious daughter and grandson. It was a
real joy, but only through Andrea's friendship and love. Tragedy had left Heidi Westbocker with no cuddly
newborn to make it all worthwhile, no growing child, no blossoming teen, no exaltation of motherhood.
Certainly she would not wish that it had, she would remind herself, catching her heart in the act of feeling
the left out victim. She was like the barren aunt who conceives her joy through her love for her sister (or her
sister's genes), but claims no desire within herself to have kids of her own. So even there was at least a feeble
consolation that she must need swallow, that everything worked out for the best.
Meanwhile, her better side joined with Andrea to affirm with ease that life is good, as daring as such a
thought might be.
| * * * |
Poor Johnny. Carol Gallagher didn't know that he had killed Maggie Murphy. More than that, what she did
know was that he was one of the rescuers, and she was fast falling in love with him. She did see him stooping in
tender solicitation of his wounded friend.
And she was fast falling in love with him.
She respected his rapid triage: you're okay; you're dead; you're hurt; I'll help you. She would like to feel
that she would have done the same, that she would not have collapsed across the corpse of her friend and wept.
She didn't feel like doing that anyhow. The face of Maggie Murphy was gone. The red gouge in its place was
repellant, yet fascinating. There were the same blue jeans; there was the same plaid shirt. There was the same
red hair; there was the same size and shape and form. Carol didn't scream again. She had looked away from
Johnny after a moment, leaving him to his caring for Bob. She was looking again at the body.
It was hard even to have a thought. In a moment or two she offered her help to Johnny Stream.
Carol Gallagher had golden hair and a face as cute as a pixie's. She had a warm tan and a short, curvaceous,
muscular body. She had a warm smile too, infectious and shy.
"How can I help?" she asked with no further introduction. Though it was the first words either of them had
spoken to the other, she felt like she had known the half-breed cowboy all her life.
Her question was a relief to Johnny. He didn't know what the hell to do. The bleeding had largely stopped,
but the wound was a mass of hair, dirt and clotting blood. There were canteens full of water on the saddles of
Widowmaker and Spot.
"Can you," his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat and began again. "Can you get me that canteen off
the horse?" he asked.
"Right!" said Carol. Widowmaker had stood where Johnny had left her, her reins dropped. Carol hurried to
the side of the mare and unhooked the canteen from the saddle. She carried it over and knelt down next to
Johnny and Bob.
In a moment she had taken over the ablutions, and Johnny was assisting her, turning and supporting the
head first this way and that. Carol began with the face. It was peppered with dirt and tiny rocks. It was also
bleeding from numerous small abrasions, and it was bruised and swollen.
With deft fingers she cleared his mouth and his nostrils. She dabbed at his eyelids with the moistened
bandanna that she had freed from the young cowpoke's neck. The young cowpoke moaned, but it could have
been a moan of comfort, or pleasure, rather than necessarily a moan of pain and distress.
Johnny held Cabler's head and reflected that with Bob it was always hard to tell if he was serious or just
faking it. He had to stifle an inappropriate grin that might have run to a snigger. Despite the calamitous
gravity of the event still in progress, it was not impossible to imagine Bob Cabler feigning unconsciousness on a
whim, perhaps to open a sly eye in a moment and to utter something nutty to Carol like, "Can we go out
tonight, cutie?"
know was that he was one of the rescuers, and she was fast falling in love with him. She did see him stooping in
tender solicitation of his wounded friend.
And she was fast falling in love with him.
She respected his rapid triage: you're okay; you're dead; you're hurt; I'll help you. She would like to feel
that she would have done the same, that she would not have collapsed across the corpse of her friend and wept.
She didn't feel like doing that anyhow. The face of Maggie Murphy was gone. The red gouge in its place was
repellant, yet fascinating. There were the same blue jeans; there was the same plaid shirt. There was the same
red hair; there was the same size and shape and form. Carol didn't scream again. She had looked away from
Johnny after a moment, leaving him to his caring for Bob. She was looking again at the body.
It was hard even to have a thought. In a moment or two she offered her help to Johnny Stream.
Carol Gallagher had golden hair and a face as cute as a pixie's. She had a warm tan and a short, curvaceous,
muscular body. She had a warm smile too, infectious and shy.
"How can I help?" she asked with no further introduction. Though it was the first words either of them had
spoken to the other, she felt like she had known the half-breed cowboy all her life.
Her question was a relief to Johnny. He didn't know what the hell to do. The bleeding had largely stopped,
but the wound was a mass of hair, dirt and clotting blood. There were canteens full of water on the saddles of
Widowmaker and Spot.
"Can you," his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat and began again. "Can you get me that canteen off
the horse?" he asked.
"Right!" said Carol. Widowmaker had stood where Johnny had left her, her reins dropped. Carol hurried to
the side of the mare and unhooked the canteen from the saddle. She carried it over and knelt down next to
Johnny and Bob.
In a moment she had taken over the ablutions, and Johnny was assisting her, turning and supporting the
head first this way and that. Carol began with the face. It was peppered with dirt and tiny rocks. It was also
bleeding from numerous small abrasions, and it was bruised and swollen.
With deft fingers she cleared his mouth and his nostrils. She dabbed at his eyelids with the moistened
bandanna that she had freed from the young cowpoke's neck. The young cowpoke moaned, but it could have
been a moan of comfort, or pleasure, rather than necessarily a moan of pain and distress.
Johnny held Cabler's head and reflected that with Bob it was always hard to tell if he was serious or just
faking it. He had to stifle an inappropriate grin that might have run to a snigger. Despite the calamitous
gravity of the event still in progress, it was not impossible to imagine Bob Cabler feigning unconsciousness on a
whim, perhaps to open a sly eye in a moment and to utter something nutty to Carol like, "Can we go out
tonight, cutie?"
| * * * |
Heidi was startled, to see so much in Vikor. That same passion for life that she herself was learning from
Andrea Clare was the first. Was it passed down as learning, or did it spring anew in each generation? Over the
next ten years, she saw it grow as the young man matured.
The second was the irrevocable message from deep in her soul, that this man too, this son of her favorite
friend, was not the man for her, and could never be, no matter how he aged and developed. She had seen that
in Professor Kirkhaz.
So had Cat One. Now Heidi saw it in Vikor, but it was not as the others had seen it, the fluttery twinkle of
the genetic torch. This time it was a loud, bright blaze. Stay away, was the message that screamed from the
curious fifteen-year-old, and her mind's reply, my God, isn't he handsome?
Andrea Clare was the first. Was it passed down as learning, or did it spring anew in each generation? Over the
next ten years, she saw it grow as the young man matured.
The second was the irrevocable message from deep in her soul, that this man too, this son of her favorite
friend, was not the man for her, and could never be, no matter how he aged and developed. She had seen that
in Professor Kirkhaz.
So had Cat One. Now Heidi saw it in Vikor, but it was not as the others had seen it, the fluttery twinkle of
the genetic torch. This time it was a loud, bright blaze. Stay away, was the message that screamed from the
curious fifteen-year-old, and her mind's reply, my God, isn't he handsome?
| * * * |
Most of the milk that was traded for honey went to the dogs at Echo Dell. That all ended with the shooting.
Ming agreed to watch over the goats, but not to milk them. He dried them up. It would have eventually been
done anyhow, two months before kidding time.
Ming found milk consumption to be part of the same travesty as was, to him, the eating of any animal
products. He wouldn't even use pots, pans or utensils that had ever been used for meat, fish or dairy products.
They were somehow contaminated.
Once Ming left, and when Bob Cabler had arrived, those utensils were used for the cooking of a virtual
slaughter-house of pork and beef and chicken and fish. Johnny and Bob's altar ran red with the sacrifices that
led them persistently toward purity.
Ming agreed to watch over the goats, but not to milk them. He dried them up. It would have eventually been
done anyhow, two months before kidding time.
Ming found milk consumption to be part of the same travesty as was, to him, the eating of any animal
products. He wouldn't even use pots, pans or utensils that had ever been used for meat, fish or dairy products.
They were somehow contaminated.
Once Ming left, and when Bob Cabler had arrived, those utensils were used for the cooking of a virtual
slaughter-house of pork and beef and chicken and fish. Johnny and Bob's altar ran red with the sacrifices that
led them persistently toward purity.
| * * * |
Here's Diana again:
"It's kind of funny or sad, how once my daddies were dead, me and my ma just walked out. It was okay
then. She could say, help us. Look, we're starving and naked, don't shoot, and nobody would. Because it was
only a woman and child.
"I can hardly believe that I said that last line, 'only a woman.' But it was true. I'm glad I'm on my own now.
My ma is nice, and I love her, but her spirit of adventure and romance died with my daddies. About as full of
holes too, I suspect. It's one thing to be an outlaw's lady, a rebel, if you please. It's another to be talking to
reporters and 'sociologists' and 'activists' and getting all worked up about liberty and justice.
"If I read the signs right, I am the spirit of adventure and romance."
"It's kind of funny or sad, how once my daddies were dead, me and my ma just walked out. It was okay
then. She could say, help us. Look, we're starving and naked, don't shoot, and nobody would. Because it was
only a woman and child.
"I can hardly believe that I said that last line, 'only a woman.' But it was true. I'm glad I'm on my own now.
My ma is nice, and I love her, but her spirit of adventure and romance died with my daddies. About as full of
holes too, I suspect. It's one thing to be an outlaw's lady, a rebel, if you please. It's another to be talking to
reporters and 'sociologists' and 'activists' and getting all worked up about liberty and justice.
"If I read the signs right, I am the spirit of adventure and romance."
| * * * |
Diary of a Goat herder 29 May 1981
For many months I had no clear thoughts on this process. My thoughts became clear as ideas were
discarded. Preconceived notions simply slipped away. I sat for hours watching the herd, following it.
Leading it at times. I became aware of my ignorance. I chose not to think. The stirring of the herd, the
rustle of their bodies and flicks of their ears, tiny hoof-stamping sounds, chewing and snorting, the
belly burbling sound of a rising cud, the clash of horns… these sensations dappled my consciousness
like rain drops on a pool of water.
The sediment continued to sink to the bottom, and my mind became clear.
What days! Goat bells will always be music to me, and goats are beautiful. I remember Maya, one of
Jock's lovely daughters, and a bold daredevil. I can see her now, dancing in abandon down a steep
rocky slope, her tiny hooves bouncing from point to point.
Here comes Ninga, galloping down a grassy slope in pure joy, doing "spinners," perfect three
hundred sixty degree turns in mid-leap, like a four-legged Frisbee.
Sooner or later on most days we would find our way to Boulder Creek where the water was deep
enough to swim. The goats would spread out along the banks, munching on green grass and wild roses.
I would slip out of my sandals, my gun belt, and my cut-off jeans, and wallow gratefully in the sun-
warmed water. Could life get better?
Sitting dripping in the cool shade of a sycamore, gasping in the delicious cool breeze that wound its
way up the canyon.
Idling up a long drowsy canyon in late afternoon, deep in the shade of the ridges. Tagging after the
goats, their stomachs so stuffed with browse that they all look pregnant.
The oaks of home silhouetted in the sunset as we shamble up the dusty road to the gate.
Breakfast! Cold, sweet goat milk, chilled in the creek. Oatmeal or brown rice, with milk and honey
poured over it. I look at the island of cereal in the bowl with the white and gold rivers lacing through
it, a land flowing with milk and honey.
Down the road at Echo Dell, where King Creek crosses the road, was where I got my honey, traded
for fresh goat’s milk.
For many months I had no clear thoughts on this process. My thoughts became clear as ideas were
discarded. Preconceived notions simply slipped away. I sat for hours watching the herd, following it.
Leading it at times. I became aware of my ignorance. I chose not to think. The stirring of the herd, the
rustle of their bodies and flicks of their ears, tiny hoof-stamping sounds, chewing and snorting, the
belly burbling sound of a rising cud, the clash of horns… these sensations dappled my consciousness
like rain drops on a pool of water.
The sediment continued to sink to the bottom, and my mind became clear.
What days! Goat bells will always be music to me, and goats are beautiful. I remember Maya, one of
Jock's lovely daughters, and a bold daredevil. I can see her now, dancing in abandon down a steep
rocky slope, her tiny hooves bouncing from point to point.
Here comes Ninga, galloping down a grassy slope in pure joy, doing "spinners," perfect three
hundred sixty degree turns in mid-leap, like a four-legged Frisbee.
Sooner or later on most days we would find our way to Boulder Creek where the water was deep
enough to swim. The goats would spread out along the banks, munching on green grass and wild roses.
I would slip out of my sandals, my gun belt, and my cut-off jeans, and wallow gratefully in the sun-
warmed water. Could life get better?
Sitting dripping in the cool shade of a sycamore, gasping in the delicious cool breeze that wound its
way up the canyon.
Idling up a long drowsy canyon in late afternoon, deep in the shade of the ridges. Tagging after the
goats, their stomachs so stuffed with browse that they all look pregnant.
The oaks of home silhouetted in the sunset as we shamble up the dusty road to the gate.
Breakfast! Cold, sweet goat milk, chilled in the creek. Oatmeal or brown rice, with milk and honey
poured over it. I look at the island of cereal in the bowl with the white and gold rivers lacing through
it, a land flowing with milk and honey.
Down the road at Echo Dell, where King Creek crosses the road, was where I got my honey, traded
for fresh goat’s milk.
Darwin was right. Survival of the fittest. (Not the strongest.) All the way. Ra, ra, rawwww! It's a raw world.
You humans are the only ones who cook, do you know that?
Oh, the rest of us all cook, but we cook on the inside. You guys cook on the outside. Weird, huh? You know,
I'd like to jump over this fence and just snap your spine…
Fittest for what? That's what I'd like to know. Fit to make a meal for me? That's one way of looking at it. I
guess Darwin would say that it was my fitness involved in that, an ability to survive on such meals. What I
wonder is, do I have to enjoy it? And if not, how come I do?
Darwin is only, was only, half-right. I'm not sure either that he understood that his theory is, was, supposed
to apply to all of existence, not just biological life. When you stretch it out like that, when you say that
something survives because it is fit to survive, it becomes a truism, whether you're discussing asteroids
colliding in space or molecules persisting in solution.
And, at that point, without further help, the theory fails completely to explain anything, but at least we know
it is true.
What's missing? Why do I like to eat deer, goats, garbage, and witches? Love baby. Love.
Tawngness enjoyed the sarcasm with which she was able to express that last concept, while not shaking its
validity in the slightest. The truth of love vibrates like a harp string plucked by the wind, secure in its anchor
points, wailing in constant tune.
I could tell you so much about ultimate reality, till you blinked in boredom probably, and then what good
would we have? I know things that no lion needs to know. You yourself can get your function done here on
earth without knowing much more than you do right now. Can you imagine at your funeral, your pastor telling
your people that the deceased passed away, aware of all the keys to life's mysteries, aware of the source of
existence, aware of ultimate reality?
Think relay. You're going to pass it on whether you want to or not, and whether you understand it or not. It
grates me to be humble… I'm a cat, not a dog… but I must admit that it is the same for me. I understand little
of this, enough to support my scorn, my sense of superiority, even my love of life. This snarl is one of the most
satisfying exercises that I have done, and I have snarled at more formidable beings than yourself, mister
naked goat herder.
You can unravel this snarl as deeply as you wish, but here it is in a nutshell. Make that the skull of a baby
goat. In fact, let's make it the skulls of most of the babies in the world, and let's agree that we're talking about
human babies, not goats after all. I'd love to jump on a stump and make my appeal for the baby mountain lions
of the world, but I've seen what happens to lions on stumps. We've had it, is my opinion. I know I have, but
I'm no kitten. I leave it to the kindness of luck to insure that it will still be a long time until "no kitten"
becomes the endless norm.
Excuse me. For now, I'm talking about human babies. It's a big subject, because there are a lot of them. If
you think our world is crowded now with human beings like yourself, think what it will be like when all of those
babies grow up.
A snarl in a pool of light in a goat pen out in the mountains on a freezing, starlit night may not be the most
obviously didactic tactic, but, friend, I am settling this message deep, deep in your bones. You may never forget
this one-sided conversation.
We had a relative a long time ago, extinct now. When I say 'relative', I mean yours as well, for the saber-
tooth cat was a mammal. If she was around today, she might be able to do the job, but I doubt it. All of the
others failed generations ago, all of the other mammals, all of the other cats, tigers, and mountain lions. Any
of us with genetic dispositions that led us to step into that yawning niche were ruthlessly exterminated in
ancient times, by you, human.
We all have our predators. From mouse to moose, from lizard to lion, from finch to falcon, from minnow to
shark, there is something that loves us enough to want us dead, to consume our meat, to wear our skins, to
parade our feathers, to take what we have grown and saved and to consume it as its own.
Except you guys. You guys with your fucking clubs and axes and spears and bows and guns and traps and
poison. You're such wimps in every other way, but you are still too good for us. A species seeking to prey on
you is asking for it. Extermination, if necessary, is the conclusion that follows the selective elimination of each
and every individual that tries to make humanity its game. Even when it involves complex organization and
persistent teamwork, you follow and harry the foolish, unfortunate predator till she finally is treed and
destroyed. That is what always happens.
It's a tough problem. And it has its tough complement. Not only are all of the other species on earth unfit,
inadequate or unable to perform as your predator, they are equally unfit to serve as your prey!
You wipe them out. The Indians used to say something about the antelope getting its swiftness from the
wolf. But there is no swiftness to be selected that outruns bullets, nor, these days, vehicles and aircraft. There
is no swiftness that outpaces the division of the range by highways and fences and pipelines and canals. There is
no swiftness, but aimless retreat, in the face of clear-cutting, erosion and poison.
There is no wild species that on its own can withstand forever the appetite of humanity. Humanity itself
comes to regulate the consumption, and still the races vanish, fish from the seas, birds from the sky, buffalo
from the plains.
How do I know all this? Let me pretend to allow you this question, and let me tell you something about us
panthers. Sure, Agnes Tawny had human education, and you are hearing that, but we mountain lions reached
long ago a balance in our relationship with the world and with one another that I hope your miserable breed
someday achieves. We still play the games, for life is beautiful, and without conflict there is no resolution. Our
life is still hard and violent and lonesome; that's part of what it is to be a cougar. But at the same time we have
opened our eyes together already in the way that some of your own mystics have imagined.
Simply, it's like I was there for a lot of that prehistory. I was there for as much of it as I care to focus on.
Wherever a mountain lion was, whatever she saw, whatever she became aware of and all that she created by
her being, I can draw on, if I need it.
If I need to see all of the species that disappeared from this continent at the hands of humanity, more than I
have claws on all of my paws, I can.
I suppose it was inevitable that a species would evolve which outdistanced its own predators while it overtook
to the last screaming mother the numbers of its prey. But that you naked monkeys should be the ones is a
truth that it takes all of my humility to bear.
The good part is that the penalty for being so goddess-damned good is built in, and will inevitably serve you
right. I'm not talking about famine and disease either, would that it would be so simple.
So, then they all starved to death. Or, so, then they all caught this virus and died.
Nice! I'm sold, but it's not for sale. You are all too good for that too. Millions of you suffer the anguish of
hunger and sickness, millions die, but always in the end you elude extinction, you learn to farm and hunt
better, you learn sanitation and medicine. You even learn to salvage the weak and the slow, the blind, the
stupid, the lame. You do this out of love and greed and fear; it doesn't matter how you do it. It doesn't matter
why.
I'm not talking about war and slavery, either, not for an ultimate solution. I say that war has the same
relation to predation as a fur ball fucking a football has to sex. You are a violent bunch; you have many of the
natural traits of predators. But for now it might be just as well to look at war as a useless farce.
It doesn't kill enough of you vermin to control and to mold and to shape your population into a harmony and
balance. It is a sloppy, insensate response to the urge to kill planted in your genes. Every act of violence
against other humans is a gesture of compliance with patterns still coming into being. Every mindless assault in
the homes and alleys of the world, every crazed riot, every insane serial killer, every wife beater, every gang-
stomping, every armed robbery, every shooting and stabbing and poisoning and strangulation, every lynching,
burning and stoning, every execution, every torture and every suicide is a new effort of that cluster of appetites
and abilities to blossom at last into fitness.
As for slavery, look at your world. It's not just the explicit examples, the whips and chains of blacks and
Indians and Hebrews and Angles and Celts and every race or nation or individual that is subject to that abuse
and that title. The title means nothing. Every prison, every tax, every kidnapping, every forced confinement,
exodus, or separation, every crime of threat or intimidation, every pillage of living humanity is another
blossom on the face of slavery. Fit to survive? One need only ask, does it exist? It's everywhere, and fit as a
fiddle.
Even the schools fall neatly into the definition. What do we have in the halls of learning? Forced
confinement and separation, threats and intimidation, taxes… where have I thought these thoughts before?
When have I snarled these free warnings?
War and slavery, and they're not doing the job for you humans. Your population has swollen to a swarm.
Your billions of feet trample the world, my world; your billions of hungers snatch and tear at the world's life to
consume and to enslave and to spoil and to waste. Minerals and forests disappear into your gaping ovens, and
what come out are deserts and slums and poison, and the garbage dumps where I am reduced to finding my
shank of bone.
Fuck you all! You don't deserve the message I bear, but I have no choice, thanks to you. No, humanity,
listen up. The choice is all yours. Most of you will not even hear what I'm passing on. Most of those who do will
not understand.
Even of the few that do understand, most will refuse the torch that is offered. And of those who do dare to
raise the hunted blaze once more, most will fail, and be enslaved, or die.
You humans are the only ones who cook, do you know that?
Oh, the rest of us all cook, but we cook on the inside. You guys cook on the outside. Weird, huh? You know,
I'd like to jump over this fence and just snap your spine…
Fittest for what? That's what I'd like to know. Fit to make a meal for me? That's one way of looking at it. I
guess Darwin would say that it was my fitness involved in that, an ability to survive on such meals. What I
wonder is, do I have to enjoy it? And if not, how come I do?
Darwin is only, was only, half-right. I'm not sure either that he understood that his theory is, was, supposed
to apply to all of existence, not just biological life. When you stretch it out like that, when you say that
something survives because it is fit to survive, it becomes a truism, whether you're discussing asteroids
colliding in space or molecules persisting in solution.
And, at that point, without further help, the theory fails completely to explain anything, but at least we know
it is true.
What's missing? Why do I like to eat deer, goats, garbage, and witches? Love baby. Love.
Tawngness enjoyed the sarcasm with which she was able to express that last concept, while not shaking its
validity in the slightest. The truth of love vibrates like a harp string plucked by the wind, secure in its anchor
points, wailing in constant tune.
I could tell you so much about ultimate reality, till you blinked in boredom probably, and then what good
would we have? I know things that no lion needs to know. You yourself can get your function done here on
earth without knowing much more than you do right now. Can you imagine at your funeral, your pastor telling
your people that the deceased passed away, aware of all the keys to life's mysteries, aware of the source of
existence, aware of ultimate reality?
Think relay. You're going to pass it on whether you want to or not, and whether you understand it or not. It
grates me to be humble… I'm a cat, not a dog… but I must admit that it is the same for me. I understand little
of this, enough to support my scorn, my sense of superiority, even my love of life. This snarl is one of the most
satisfying exercises that I have done, and I have snarled at more formidable beings than yourself, mister
naked goat herder.
You can unravel this snarl as deeply as you wish, but here it is in a nutshell. Make that the skull of a baby
goat. In fact, let's make it the skulls of most of the babies in the world, and let's agree that we're talking about
human babies, not goats after all. I'd love to jump on a stump and make my appeal for the baby mountain lions
of the world, but I've seen what happens to lions on stumps. We've had it, is my opinion. I know I have, but
I'm no kitten. I leave it to the kindness of luck to insure that it will still be a long time until "no kitten"
becomes the endless norm.
Excuse me. For now, I'm talking about human babies. It's a big subject, because there are a lot of them. If
you think our world is crowded now with human beings like yourself, think what it will be like when all of those
babies grow up.
A snarl in a pool of light in a goat pen out in the mountains on a freezing, starlit night may not be the most
obviously didactic tactic, but, friend, I am settling this message deep, deep in your bones. You may never forget
this one-sided conversation.
We had a relative a long time ago, extinct now. When I say 'relative', I mean yours as well, for the saber-
tooth cat was a mammal. If she was around today, she might be able to do the job, but I doubt it. All of the
others failed generations ago, all of the other mammals, all of the other cats, tigers, and mountain lions. Any
of us with genetic dispositions that led us to step into that yawning niche were ruthlessly exterminated in
ancient times, by you, human.
We all have our predators. From mouse to moose, from lizard to lion, from finch to falcon, from minnow to
shark, there is something that loves us enough to want us dead, to consume our meat, to wear our skins, to
parade our feathers, to take what we have grown and saved and to consume it as its own.
Except you guys. You guys with your fucking clubs and axes and spears and bows and guns and traps and
poison. You're such wimps in every other way, but you are still too good for us. A species seeking to prey on
you is asking for it. Extermination, if necessary, is the conclusion that follows the selective elimination of each
and every individual that tries to make humanity its game. Even when it involves complex organization and
persistent teamwork, you follow and harry the foolish, unfortunate predator till she finally is treed and
destroyed. That is what always happens.
It's a tough problem. And it has its tough complement. Not only are all of the other species on earth unfit,
inadequate or unable to perform as your predator, they are equally unfit to serve as your prey!
You wipe them out. The Indians used to say something about the antelope getting its swiftness from the
wolf. But there is no swiftness to be selected that outruns bullets, nor, these days, vehicles and aircraft. There
is no swiftness that outpaces the division of the range by highways and fences and pipelines and canals. There is
no swiftness, but aimless retreat, in the face of clear-cutting, erosion and poison.
There is no wild species that on its own can withstand forever the appetite of humanity. Humanity itself
comes to regulate the consumption, and still the races vanish, fish from the seas, birds from the sky, buffalo
from the plains.
How do I know all this? Let me pretend to allow you this question, and let me tell you something about us
panthers. Sure, Agnes Tawny had human education, and you are hearing that, but we mountain lions reached
long ago a balance in our relationship with the world and with one another that I hope your miserable breed
someday achieves. We still play the games, for life is beautiful, and without conflict there is no resolution. Our
life is still hard and violent and lonesome; that's part of what it is to be a cougar. But at the same time we have
opened our eyes together already in the way that some of your own mystics have imagined.
Simply, it's like I was there for a lot of that prehistory. I was there for as much of it as I care to focus on.
Wherever a mountain lion was, whatever she saw, whatever she became aware of and all that she created by
her being, I can draw on, if I need it.
If I need to see all of the species that disappeared from this continent at the hands of humanity, more than I
have claws on all of my paws, I can.
I suppose it was inevitable that a species would evolve which outdistanced its own predators while it overtook
to the last screaming mother the numbers of its prey. But that you naked monkeys should be the ones is a
truth that it takes all of my humility to bear.
The good part is that the penalty for being so goddess-damned good is built in, and will inevitably serve you
right. I'm not talking about famine and disease either, would that it would be so simple.
So, then they all starved to death. Or, so, then they all caught this virus and died.
Nice! I'm sold, but it's not for sale. You are all too good for that too. Millions of you suffer the anguish of
hunger and sickness, millions die, but always in the end you elude extinction, you learn to farm and hunt
better, you learn sanitation and medicine. You even learn to salvage the weak and the slow, the blind, the
stupid, the lame. You do this out of love and greed and fear; it doesn't matter how you do it. It doesn't matter
why.
I'm not talking about war and slavery, either, not for an ultimate solution. I say that war has the same
relation to predation as a fur ball fucking a football has to sex. You are a violent bunch; you have many of the
natural traits of predators. But for now it might be just as well to look at war as a useless farce.
It doesn't kill enough of you vermin to control and to mold and to shape your population into a harmony and
balance. It is a sloppy, insensate response to the urge to kill planted in your genes. Every act of violence
against other humans is a gesture of compliance with patterns still coming into being. Every mindless assault in
the homes and alleys of the world, every crazed riot, every insane serial killer, every wife beater, every gang-
stomping, every armed robbery, every shooting and stabbing and poisoning and strangulation, every lynching,
burning and stoning, every execution, every torture and every suicide is a new effort of that cluster of appetites
and abilities to blossom at last into fitness.
As for slavery, look at your world. It's not just the explicit examples, the whips and chains of blacks and
Indians and Hebrews and Angles and Celts and every race or nation or individual that is subject to that abuse
and that title. The title means nothing. Every prison, every tax, every kidnapping, every forced confinement,
exodus, or separation, every crime of threat or intimidation, every pillage of living humanity is another
blossom on the face of slavery. Fit to survive? One need only ask, does it exist? It's everywhere, and fit as a
fiddle.
Even the schools fall neatly into the definition. What do we have in the halls of learning? Forced
confinement and separation, threats and intimidation, taxes… where have I thought these thoughts before?
When have I snarled these free warnings?
War and slavery, and they're not doing the job for you humans. Your population has swollen to a swarm.
Your billions of feet trample the world, my world; your billions of hungers snatch and tear at the world's life to
consume and to enslave and to spoil and to waste. Minerals and forests disappear into your gaping ovens, and
what come out are deserts and slums and poison, and the garbage dumps where I am reduced to finding my
shank of bone.
Fuck you all! You don't deserve the message I bear, but I have no choice, thanks to you. No, humanity,
listen up. The choice is all yours. Most of you will not even hear what I'm passing on. Most of those who do will
not understand.
Even of the few that do understand, most will refuse the torch that is offered. And of those who do dare to
raise the hunted blaze once more, most will fail, and be enslaved, or die.
| * * * |
The arsenic mine was a lonesome place. Tucked up in a long canyon, hiding in the draw on the backside of
Black Mountain, it was a lonesome place. Nobody went there.
Carol Gallagher had been to the top of Black Mountain. Everyone does that once. But, same as everyone,
she did not suspect that the old hole existed, lost down in the deep seam of chaparral-covered mountain slopes
that was just a part of the view from the peak.
It was a spooky place. Johnny told Carol that it had been originally a gold mine. “They never found much”
he said, “but the arsenic made them sick, so they had to quit digging.”
“Will it be safe for us to stay there?” Carol wanted to know. After all, arsenic? “Isn’t that really poisonous?”
“We won’t be raising any dust,” the half-breed replied.
The two were waiting in the shade of cottonwood trees near the entrance to the canyon. They had
dismounted, Carol great with child. She rested, sitting on a rock. Bob Cabler had gone ahead to scout the trail
all the way to the mine.
"Why were they digging for gold way up in there?"
"Who knows? Probably they were panning in the creek and got some color, some dust. Who knows?"
"Do you think there's gold up there?" she asked.
"I don't think about things like that," said Johnny Stream, and it was true. He didn't think about things
like that.
"I didn't know there was any gold ever found around here," she persisted.
"Me neither. You'll see; they didn't get much."
"How do you know they were looking for gold?"
"I don't. But I never heard of anybody panning for arsenic."
"So, how do you know it's arsenic? How do you know it turned out to be an arsenic mine?"
He turned to look at her more directly. "Bob heard his Aunt Marilyn talking about it once. I heard it
mentioned once or twice myself."
"How come I never heard of it?"
He laughed. "You haven't heard everything about these hills," he said. "There's a little girl who is watching
this story being written, right now. Did you know that?"
Carol brushed her hair from her eyes and looked at the father of her baby-to-be. "Whatever made you say
that?" she asked. Johnny wasn't usually given to making strange remarks. During the six months she had
known him, she had learned that the little that he did say had best be paid attention to.
"I don't know," he replied. His eyes held a haunted, far away look. Carol had seen this look before, by the
side of the fire up on the mountain. Down by the waterfall.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked. But just then Cabler returned from his scouting expedition.
"It's all clear," he said. Johnny blinked and looked at his partner.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's move."
Black Mountain, it was a lonesome place. Nobody went there.
Carol Gallagher had been to the top of Black Mountain. Everyone does that once. But, same as everyone,
she did not suspect that the old hole existed, lost down in the deep seam of chaparral-covered mountain slopes
that was just a part of the view from the peak.
It was a spooky place. Johnny told Carol that it had been originally a gold mine. “They never found much”
he said, “but the arsenic made them sick, so they had to quit digging.”
“Will it be safe for us to stay there?” Carol wanted to know. After all, arsenic? “Isn’t that really poisonous?”
“We won’t be raising any dust,” the half-breed replied.
The two were waiting in the shade of cottonwood trees near the entrance to the canyon. They had
dismounted, Carol great with child. She rested, sitting on a rock. Bob Cabler had gone ahead to scout the trail
all the way to the mine.
"Why were they digging for gold way up in there?"
"Who knows? Probably they were panning in the creek and got some color, some dust. Who knows?"
"Do you think there's gold up there?" she asked.
"I don't think about things like that," said Johnny Stream, and it was true. He didn't think about things
like that.
"I didn't know there was any gold ever found around here," she persisted.
"Me neither. You'll see; they didn't get much."
"How do you know they were looking for gold?"
"I don't. But I never heard of anybody panning for arsenic."
"So, how do you know it's arsenic? How do you know it turned out to be an arsenic mine?"
He turned to look at her more directly. "Bob heard his Aunt Marilyn talking about it once. I heard it
mentioned once or twice myself."
"How come I never heard of it?"
He laughed. "You haven't heard everything about these hills," he said. "There's a little girl who is watching
this story being written, right now. Did you know that?"
Carol brushed her hair from her eyes and looked at the father of her baby-to-be. "Whatever made you say
that?" she asked. Johnny wasn't usually given to making strange remarks. During the six months she had
known him, she had learned that the little that he did say had best be paid attention to.
"I don't know," he replied. His eyes held a haunted, far away look. Carol had seen this look before, by the
side of the fire up on the mountain. Down by the waterfall.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked. But just then Cabler returned from his scouting expedition.
"It's all clear," he said. Johnny blinked and looked at his partner.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's move."
| * * * |
| * * * |
Diary of a Goat herder 30 May 1981
After a while, I didn't take books or writing materials with me when we went out to browse. I
learned to watch the goats. Beyond boredom, I found myself content to observe their movements
constantly, very unanalytically. I merely let their sounds and images play on my attention. I was
passive. For a time I was into braiding grass to occupy my hands during the long hot hours. At sunset I
would have a long rope of wild grass, intricately woven. I would toss it into the pen for the goats to
play with and devour during the night. But as my interest in the habits of the herd grew, my grass
weaving faded away. I watched the goats.
After a while, I didn't take books or writing materials with me when we went out to browse. I
learned to watch the goats. Beyond boredom, I found myself content to observe their movements
constantly, very unanalytically. I merely let their sounds and images play on my attention. I was
passive. For a time I was into braiding grass to occupy my hands during the long hot hours. At sunset I
would have a long rope of wild grass, intricately woven. I would toss it into the pen for the goats to
play with and devour during the night. But as my interest in the habits of the herd grew, my grass
weaving faded away. I watched the goats.
| * * * |
Now Johnny's thought switched to Carol Gallagher, but she was another memory that he would rather not
indulge, and he wondered if his mind was a cruel comedian. In contrast with the rude decadence that he was
presently engaged in, the affair with Carol had been one of pristine gallantry.
Even Bob stood in awe of the social crystal that was spun before his eyes from nothing. Johnny did not
merely step into the vacancy created by Bob's absence from the arms of Carol. He created his own vacancy,
woven of the moods of the wind, the talk of the creek and the rumbling summer thunder. He molded for her
the image of a man, in the slow and prolonged conversations by the light of fire or stars. Hesitant, yet smooth,
with strength to spare, he spoke of his desires and fears. He designed life as he imagined heaven to be, and it
captivated her heart. Waxing in naive and romantic longing for the love of a mother that he had barely known,
he settled glory like the magic trappings of the empress of all creation on the lovely, brave creature who would
earn such a title, and when she took a breath she noticed that the sparkling gown fit her like princess desire.
He stole her a horse, and together they rode thousands of feet higher, winding deeper into the wilderness,
seeing the sweet beauty of the mountains at every turn of the trail.
He gave her a dagger. Sheepishly, he insisted that she pay him for it, so it wouldn't sever their friendship,
and she gave him a quarter and would have given him four million quarters, had she owned them to give.
It was only a skinning knife, but she called it her dagger, in her mind. Johnny had another. Together they
worked, and she learned as he taught her, how to skin anything from a weasel to a buck.
He taught her how to share sunsets, how time together without words or contact can be as sublime as any.
He taught her what a peace it can be, when time is shared with one who does not demand a constant flow of
conversation, trivial or earnest.
Together they bathed nude in the rocky pools of Fugitive Creek, before ever they became lovers. She
learned that innocence itself is a real thing that can be spread like lotion over bodies and minds and hearts and
spirits alike, till finally it has no meaning in a world where all is innocence, and the sweet lotion is no less than
the cool, slick mud of Mother Earth herself.
On his own, Bob Cabler came to each of them. "I know what I said before was kinda mean," he said to
Johnny. "I'm sorry." He was referring to the backhand remark he had tossed at Johnny once, hurling a sharp
shard of his own broken heart. "You fuck her, Stream!" he had said on that occasion, while his horse, Spot,
reared with the tension of Cabler's pain and jealousy. "I did!" he roared, and galloped away, letting what was
left of his poor, broken ticker simply explode in a thunder of hooves and dust, letting the wind blow the tears
from his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Now I want to say it again in the nicest way I know how. Stream," and the seventeen
year-old face blushed with sincerity, "I think you ought to fuck Carol."
Johnny was amused by his friend's humble attitude, and it warmed his heart. Bob was holding his hat in
front of him like he was applying for a job or apologizing for his horse's eating the old lady's sweet peas.
"Uh, if you haven't already," added Bob, frozen for once to self-conscious mumbling.
Feeling older than ever, and still only twenty-five, Johnny embraced his young partner. "Thank you,
Cabler," he said with earnest sarcasm. "I'll do that as soon as I can. Okay?"
With Carol Gallagher, later that same day, Bob Cabler was considerably more hat in hand in approaching the
one who for a couple of months had been as intimate with him as a fervent bride. Now it was a wonder that he
didn't call her 'Miss Gallagher,' maybe even 'Miss Carol.' He needed every bit of humility that he could scrape
up in order to cover his presumption in the first place that the young woman, who was five years his senior to
boot, had any need or longing for his permission to go screw her brains out with Johnny Stream. She still saw
through it, but she held her own sarcastic trap shut.
She could see that he meant for the best, and that this was a ritual that he felt in all good sense should be
followed, even if it necessitated his making it up. In the absence of a role model, what else could he do?
"Carol," he began. "I'm sorry I got you bent out of shape. No, listen," he continued, fancying that he saw
her opening her mouth to speak. “I mean it. I’m sorry. All that shit was my fault.
“But I want to tell you something. I think my friend Johnny is in love with you. I don’t know if he’s told you
that yet; don’t know if he ever will.” Here was a blink and a shrug from Bob, while Carol sat in patience and
made no move to speak. Her heart was patting joy, for she herself already believed that Johnny Stream was in
love with her.
She was sure in love with him. She was in love with who he would be when he had stepped into the role they
had created in unhurried idylls, walking by the waterfalls and talking about life.
In a strong sense he had taken that step by fighting for her on the day of the battle, but life was moving
fast, and there was one more step to be taken, and now Carol was seized with urgency from her hips to her lips.
“It’s okay with me.” Bob searched for words. “I think you should do it.” Please don’t ask me ‘do what?’ he
prayed inside. His jealousy was as tangible as blackberry pie, but he meant what he said. She could see that,
and she smiled.
"Thank you," she said. They smiled at one another, and later, when Bob would remember that smile in his
lonesome dreams and reveries, he would see what he took for the slightest message, hidden there and wrapped
in secret code, that said for him and him alone to imagine perhaps he saw, 'I'll be back.' She even gave him a
little kiss, so it had to be true.
And it was.
The future can rob from the present sometimes. The present can erode the past. We sell ourselves short if
we make believe that the sad outcome of the affair ever negated the eternal joy of those first few weeks. We
needn't allow the changing times to rob the middle-aged, frowzy, blonde, fat woman in the Chrysler of the
grandeur in her sweet, sad memory.
The months in the arms of Bob had been so profoundly different. Here was the most wide open outlet for lust
that the goddess has created. From start till finish, the romance with Bob had been a riot of laughing, headlong
debauchery.
Her love for Johnny Stream was that and more, and if this in some way diminished the wholeheartedness of
the lust, it broadened the base of devotion so that it stood like a castle, secure from disruption. The moon could
change and change again, and hearts could flow like water. Johnny would be there. If he had food, he would
share it. If he had shelter, she would be welcome. If he had nothing but jeopardy and hardship to bear, he
would bear it better were she and hers part of the burden.
indulge, and he wondered if his mind was a cruel comedian. In contrast with the rude decadence that he was
presently engaged in, the affair with Carol had been one of pristine gallantry.
Even Bob stood in awe of the social crystal that was spun before his eyes from nothing. Johnny did not
merely step into the vacancy created by Bob's absence from the arms of Carol. He created his own vacancy,
woven of the moods of the wind, the talk of the creek and the rumbling summer thunder. He molded for her
the image of a man, in the slow and prolonged conversations by the light of fire or stars. Hesitant, yet smooth,
with strength to spare, he spoke of his desires and fears. He designed life as he imagined heaven to be, and it
captivated her heart. Waxing in naive and romantic longing for the love of a mother that he had barely known,
he settled glory like the magic trappings of the empress of all creation on the lovely, brave creature who would
earn such a title, and when she took a breath she noticed that the sparkling gown fit her like princess desire.
He stole her a horse, and together they rode thousands of feet higher, winding deeper into the wilderness,
seeing the sweet beauty of the mountains at every turn of the trail.
He gave her a dagger. Sheepishly, he insisted that she pay him for it, so it wouldn't sever their friendship,
and she gave him a quarter and would have given him four million quarters, had she owned them to give.
It was only a skinning knife, but she called it her dagger, in her mind. Johnny had another. Together they
worked, and she learned as he taught her, how to skin anything from a weasel to a buck.
He taught her how to share sunsets, how time together without words or contact can be as sublime as any.
He taught her what a peace it can be, when time is shared with one who does not demand a constant flow of
conversation, trivial or earnest.
Together they bathed nude in the rocky pools of Fugitive Creek, before ever they became lovers. She
learned that innocence itself is a real thing that can be spread like lotion over bodies and minds and hearts and
spirits alike, till finally it has no meaning in a world where all is innocence, and the sweet lotion is no less than
the cool, slick mud of Mother Earth herself.
On his own, Bob Cabler came to each of them. "I know what I said before was kinda mean," he said to
Johnny. "I'm sorry." He was referring to the backhand remark he had tossed at Johnny once, hurling a sharp
shard of his own broken heart. "You fuck her, Stream!" he had said on that occasion, while his horse, Spot,
reared with the tension of Cabler's pain and jealousy. "I did!" he roared, and galloped away, letting what was
left of his poor, broken ticker simply explode in a thunder of hooves and dust, letting the wind blow the tears
from his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Now I want to say it again in the nicest way I know how. Stream," and the seventeen
year-old face blushed with sincerity, "I think you ought to fuck Carol."
Johnny was amused by his friend's humble attitude, and it warmed his heart. Bob was holding his hat in
front of him like he was applying for a job or apologizing for his horse's eating the old lady's sweet peas.
"Uh, if you haven't already," added Bob, frozen for once to self-conscious mumbling.
Feeling older than ever, and still only twenty-five, Johnny embraced his young partner. "Thank you,
Cabler," he said with earnest sarcasm. "I'll do that as soon as I can. Okay?"
With Carol Gallagher, later that same day, Bob Cabler was considerably more hat in hand in approaching the
one who for a couple of months had been as intimate with him as a fervent bride. Now it was a wonder that he
didn't call her 'Miss Gallagher,' maybe even 'Miss Carol.' He needed every bit of humility that he could scrape
up in order to cover his presumption in the first place that the young woman, who was five years his senior to
boot, had any need or longing for his permission to go screw her brains out with Johnny Stream. She still saw
through it, but she held her own sarcastic trap shut.
She could see that he meant for the best, and that this was a ritual that he felt in all good sense should be
followed, even if it necessitated his making it up. In the absence of a role model, what else could he do?
"Carol," he began. "I'm sorry I got you bent out of shape. No, listen," he continued, fancying that he saw
her opening her mouth to speak. “I mean it. I’m sorry. All that shit was my fault.
“But I want to tell you something. I think my friend Johnny is in love with you. I don’t know if he’s told you
that yet; don’t know if he ever will.” Here was a blink and a shrug from Bob, while Carol sat in patience and
made no move to speak. Her heart was patting joy, for she herself already believed that Johnny Stream was in
love with her.
She was sure in love with him. She was in love with who he would be when he had stepped into the role they
had created in unhurried idylls, walking by the waterfalls and talking about life.
In a strong sense he had taken that step by fighting for her on the day of the battle, but life was moving
fast, and there was one more step to be taken, and now Carol was seized with urgency from her hips to her lips.
“It’s okay with me.” Bob searched for words. “I think you should do it.” Please don’t ask me ‘do what?’ he
prayed inside. His jealousy was as tangible as blackberry pie, but he meant what he said. She could see that,
and she smiled.
"Thank you," she said. They smiled at one another, and later, when Bob would remember that smile in his
lonesome dreams and reveries, he would see what he took for the slightest message, hidden there and wrapped
in secret code, that said for him and him alone to imagine perhaps he saw, 'I'll be back.' She even gave him a
little kiss, so it had to be true.
And it was.
The future can rob from the present sometimes. The present can erode the past. We sell ourselves short if
we make believe that the sad outcome of the affair ever negated the eternal joy of those first few weeks. We
needn't allow the changing times to rob the middle-aged, frowzy, blonde, fat woman in the Chrysler of the
grandeur in her sweet, sad memory.
The months in the arms of Bob had been so profoundly different. Here was the most wide open outlet for lust
that the goddess has created. From start till finish, the romance with Bob had been a riot of laughing, headlong
debauchery.
Her love for Johnny Stream was that and more, and if this in some way diminished the wholeheartedness of
the lust, it broadened the base of devotion so that it stood like a castle, secure from disruption. The moon could
change and change again, and hearts could flow like water. Johnny would be there. If he had food, he would
share it. If he had shelter, she would be welcome. If he had nothing but jeopardy and hardship to bear, he
would bear it better were she and hers part of the burden.
