| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goat herder 1 June 1981
Nicki was the image of Lucy, a mature young doe. Her horns were straight and
symmetrical, whereas Lucy's were bent and scarred. Nicki was lovely, wicked, but distant
from the herd. Sometimes she would linger so far behind. Or she would fork off on her
own, misjudge the direction of the herd, find herself alone, and then stand and cry
fearfully.
No goat wanted to be alone.
Little Ninga or Kasha, forging ahead on the fringe of the herd, always moving out of the
way of the big goats and horns that pursued them, would finally turn back to the herd if
the pursuit slackened, or turned in another direction.
I learned from the herd, learned that it was a herd. I could see it, feel it, hear it, smell it.
There it was, milling and stamping, eating, snorting, fighting, the herd.
But Judy was not the herd. Nor was Mazie, though she was queen of the herd. Like the
rest of us, she followed the herd.
Nicki was the image of Lucy, a mature young doe. Her horns were straight and
symmetrical, whereas Lucy's were bent and scarred. Nicki was lovely, wicked, but distant
from the herd. Sometimes she would linger so far behind. Or she would fork off on her
own, misjudge the direction of the herd, find herself alone, and then stand and cry
fearfully.
No goat wanted to be alone.
Little Ninga or Kasha, forging ahead on the fringe of the herd, always moving out of the
way of the big goats and horns that pursued them, would finally turn back to the herd if
the pursuit slackened, or turned in another direction.
I learned from the herd, learned that it was a herd. I could see it, feel it, hear it, smell it.
There it was, milling and stamping, eating, snorting, fighting, the herd.
But Judy was not the herd. Nor was Mazie, though she was queen of the herd. Like the
rest of us, she followed the herd.
| Chapter Forty-four JUDY |
"Did you want to fuck her?" asked Cat One of her son, when he rejoined her in the thicket of wild lilac. Cat
Dolan was not normally brusque or obscene. But she was permissive, and she had allowed Vikor to express to
her the turns of his maturing process without censoring his language. Her own mom had done the same with
her, which was probably why she was not obscene herself. On the other hand, she could converse with her son
in the same Anglo-Saxon barnyard language that he used, and sometimes, in sport, she did.
How else should she ask such a vulgar question? Wasn't this aging spinster the same hussy who took to
sucking off the future father of Cat One's child? Where would be the room for any propriety at all in
discussing such a character with that child? Yet…
It must be of some concern to her mother, Cat One would think, and that warm flood of ironic love would wash
over her at the thought of Andrea Clare with anything tugging at her serenity. It was like watching a loved one
toy with tipping a canoe in shallow water on a warm and play-filled summer day. Trivial catastrophe, and maybe
a belly laugh besides.
Andrea must know that her own honesty in all things was relayed to her grandson, according to his curiosity.
Perhaps she would have done the same with Heidi Westbocker, were she to have asked. But never in a
hundred years would Heidi have dreamed that this fifteen year old horn dog knew about her shameful dalliance.
Vikor saw nothing shameful about it. Vikor saw nothing shameful about anything, but he knew that shame
itself was an artful tool for herding people. He himself was not a people herder, nor was he studying to be one.
Dolan was not normally brusque or obscene. But she was permissive, and she had allowed Vikor to express to
her the turns of his maturing process without censoring his language. Her own mom had done the same with
her, which was probably why she was not obscene herself. On the other hand, she could converse with her son
in the same Anglo-Saxon barnyard language that he used, and sometimes, in sport, she did.
How else should she ask such a vulgar question? Wasn't this aging spinster the same hussy who took to
sucking off the future father of Cat One's child? Where would be the room for any propriety at all in
discussing such a character with that child? Yet…
It must be of some concern to her mother, Cat One would think, and that warm flood of ironic love would wash
over her at the thought of Andrea Clare with anything tugging at her serenity. It was like watching a loved one
toy with tipping a canoe in shallow water on a warm and play-filled summer day. Trivial catastrophe, and maybe
a belly laugh besides.
Andrea must know that her own honesty in all things was relayed to her grandson, according to his curiosity.
Perhaps she would have done the same with Heidi Westbocker, were she to have asked. But never in a
hundred years would Heidi have dreamed that this fifteen year old horn dog knew about her shameful dalliance.
Vikor saw nothing shameful about it. Vikor saw nothing shameful about anything, but he knew that shame
itself was an artful tool for herding people. He himself was not a people herder, nor was he studying to be one.
| * * * |
Johnny and Bob drew near to the big sycamore at the bottom of the steep hill. In a few moments, on a normal
day, the school bus would disturb the peace of that whole section of Carmel Valley, from the moment it came
within earshot, rumbling in from the hills and canyons to the north-east. Geoff would have driven it already out
Black Mountain road as far as the wye, navigating at walking speed the torturous switchback where the road
dipped through Bell Valley.
Once the bus made its turn off of Black Mountain Road and onto Carmel Valley Road, the noise from its
engine, drive train and tires became the dominant sound until it disappeared behind the grove of eucalyptus
down past the graveyard. Some days it would come in a muffle of fog, the bus itself unseen, the roar and the
clank of gears clamoring through the grey density like an offshore fishing boat.
Other times, especially in the winter, when the days were short and the bus made pickups in the clear dark
of morning or evening, the sound would echo against the steep valley walls. The silence it would leave behind
when it faded into the west was as consuming as the noise had been.
Right at that same locale, but years earlier, before the war, Bob had demonstrated for Johnny Stream how he
could whistle, one frosty night. This was not like whistling a song; Bob could do that too. But, no, this was the
hollow sound reminiscent of wind blowing across temple bells in a weird dream. He cupped his hands and blew
across his bended thumb-knuckles and through the little chamber within the cathedral fingers. The aural spell
had echoed loudly, filling the valley with a haunting moan, like a spirit or a banshee was prowling and howling
in the cold.
Johnny smiled to himself. He hadn't thought of that whistle in years. He had been afraid that everyone would
wake up over at the convent, or even in the house at the top of the hill. Bob and he had been camping for the
night near Schweitzer's. They had a string of quail to barbecue, and this they did, after climbing onto one of the
nearby ridges to escape the cold that pooled on the valley floor.
He watched as the autumn breeze scudded a tumbleweed across the wide pasture. A whistle like that now
wouldn't travel a hundred feet, he thought to himself, hearing the murmur of the grass. That had been a
special night; the cold and the dark and the stillness and the silence had the valley tuned like a giant flute.
Now they could see the sycamore, and beyond it Harlan's ranch house and barns. What they could not see was
the hours spent by the sheriff's department, plotting trajectories, taping ranges, concealing positions, and
waiting. They were still waiting.
Gunmen were concealed in four separate locations, each with a clear view of the target area and a safe
background for any misses to plunk.
Bob Cabler and Johnny Stream were already being watched from several directions. An observation post near
the top of the steep hill, hidden in the high brush of the north slope, had them in view all the way from the frog
pond, until they disappeared below the shoulder of the hill itself. They would reappear as they drew closer to
the sycamore; at that time they would also come into the sights of the gun emplacement at the top of the steep
hill.
Right across the mouth of Shaw Valley, part of the way up the hill that some had come to call Mount Carmel,
on the same high ground where Amos Knebel had been buried back in nineteen-oh-three, another
sharpshooter waited. If fired, the slugs from the guns of each of these shooters would thud into the ground
near the targets, if they were misses. Out in the cornfield a third rifleman was disguised. The steep hill itself
was the backdrop for his target sector.
A fourth gun, cleverly hidden in an existing tangle of growth and tumbleweed against the pasture fence,
would be shooting against the side of Amos Knebel's perch.
Again, that was if there was shooting. All of this effort was not being expended for the explicit creation of an
ambush. Officially it was backup for what was to be merely a peaceful piece of police work, an investigation.
The sheriff's department and the district attorney's office wanted only to know who were the two fellows who
had been porking a couple of underage females up in Shaw Valley.
If, as was strongly suspected, the two gentlemen turned out to be Cabler and Stream, who had been wanted
for questioning in relation to a couple of earlier incidents involving fatal gunshots, then they would be asked to
divest themselves of their weapons, and to surrender peacefully to the officers asking the questions.
There had been a lot of discussion among the ones in charge of this adventure. The subject had included who
and how: who was going to talk to the notorious pair, and how was this to be safely accomplished? In the end, it
mattered not who asked the questions. Concern for security dictated that the questions be asked via bullhorn
from concealment. (They were all chicken.)
The sheriff's deputies had done a good job of disguising their preparations. Not a twig was out of place, but
still the hair rose on the back of Johnny's neck. The wind scurried across the open field.
He and Bob had reached the appointed place. A cold draft arose from the valley floor as the sun slipped out of
sight behind Knebel's mesa. Johnny thought of Carol, and little Diana. What was he doing here? He looked up
to the blue sky left behind by the not yet setting sun. There, hanging like an azure balloon in a magician's tent,
was the moon.
There was not the tiniest scrap of white showing on the blue orb. Ordinarily it would have been invisible.
Johnny suddenly remembered being up before dawn on the morning before, and seeing the slim crescent rise in
the eastern sky. By tomorrow night, he knew, there would be a slender bow above the western horizon, just
after the sunset.
This face that now he saw was one that he had always known must exist in that empty sky between the
moons, old and new. Many times he had seen the earth lit globe, with only the barest, luminous sickle to give
the hint where she hung. But then, once spotted, the outline was clear to see. Johnny had always believed that
it was there to be seen on the night before that first new silver sliver appeared, a blue moon, hanging naked for
all to see, hiding in the open sky.
Now it was as though her gravity had tugged him gently so that, without further motion of his body, head or
eyes, he was looking right at the cool, blue ball.
day, the school bus would disturb the peace of that whole section of Carmel Valley, from the moment it came
within earshot, rumbling in from the hills and canyons to the north-east. Geoff would have driven it already out
Black Mountain road as far as the wye, navigating at walking speed the torturous switchback where the road
dipped through Bell Valley.
Once the bus made its turn off of Black Mountain Road and onto Carmel Valley Road, the noise from its
engine, drive train and tires became the dominant sound until it disappeared behind the grove of eucalyptus
down past the graveyard. Some days it would come in a muffle of fog, the bus itself unseen, the roar and the
clank of gears clamoring through the grey density like an offshore fishing boat.
Other times, especially in the winter, when the days were short and the bus made pickups in the clear dark
of morning or evening, the sound would echo against the steep valley walls. The silence it would leave behind
when it faded into the west was as consuming as the noise had been.
Right at that same locale, but years earlier, before the war, Bob had demonstrated for Johnny Stream how he
could whistle, one frosty night. This was not like whistling a song; Bob could do that too. But, no, this was the
hollow sound reminiscent of wind blowing across temple bells in a weird dream. He cupped his hands and blew
across his bended thumb-knuckles and through the little chamber within the cathedral fingers. The aural spell
had echoed loudly, filling the valley with a haunting moan, like a spirit or a banshee was prowling and howling
in the cold.
Johnny smiled to himself. He hadn't thought of that whistle in years. He had been afraid that everyone would
wake up over at the convent, or even in the house at the top of the hill. Bob and he had been camping for the
night near Schweitzer's. They had a string of quail to barbecue, and this they did, after climbing onto one of the
nearby ridges to escape the cold that pooled on the valley floor.
He watched as the autumn breeze scudded a tumbleweed across the wide pasture. A whistle like that now
wouldn't travel a hundred feet, he thought to himself, hearing the murmur of the grass. That had been a
special night; the cold and the dark and the stillness and the silence had the valley tuned like a giant flute.
Now they could see the sycamore, and beyond it Harlan's ranch house and barns. What they could not see was
the hours spent by the sheriff's department, plotting trajectories, taping ranges, concealing positions, and
waiting. They were still waiting.
Gunmen were concealed in four separate locations, each with a clear view of the target area and a safe
background for any misses to plunk.
Bob Cabler and Johnny Stream were already being watched from several directions. An observation post near
the top of the steep hill, hidden in the high brush of the north slope, had them in view all the way from the frog
pond, until they disappeared below the shoulder of the hill itself. They would reappear as they drew closer to
the sycamore; at that time they would also come into the sights of the gun emplacement at the top of the steep
hill.
Right across the mouth of Shaw Valley, part of the way up the hill that some had come to call Mount Carmel,
on the same high ground where Amos Knebel had been buried back in nineteen-oh-three, another
sharpshooter waited. If fired, the slugs from the guns of each of these shooters would thud into the ground
near the targets, if they were misses. Out in the cornfield a third rifleman was disguised. The steep hill itself
was the backdrop for his target sector.
A fourth gun, cleverly hidden in an existing tangle of growth and tumbleweed against the pasture fence,
would be shooting against the side of Amos Knebel's perch.
Again, that was if there was shooting. All of this effort was not being expended for the explicit creation of an
ambush. Officially it was backup for what was to be merely a peaceful piece of police work, an investigation.
The sheriff's department and the district attorney's office wanted only to know who were the two fellows who
had been porking a couple of underage females up in Shaw Valley.
If, as was strongly suspected, the two gentlemen turned out to be Cabler and Stream, who had been wanted
for questioning in relation to a couple of earlier incidents involving fatal gunshots, then they would be asked to
divest themselves of their weapons, and to surrender peacefully to the officers asking the questions.
There had been a lot of discussion among the ones in charge of this adventure. The subject had included who
and how: who was going to talk to the notorious pair, and how was this to be safely accomplished? In the end, it
mattered not who asked the questions. Concern for security dictated that the questions be asked via bullhorn
from concealment. (They were all chicken.)
The sheriff's deputies had done a good job of disguising their preparations. Not a twig was out of place, but
still the hair rose on the back of Johnny's neck. The wind scurried across the open field.
He and Bob had reached the appointed place. A cold draft arose from the valley floor as the sun slipped out of
sight behind Knebel's mesa. Johnny thought of Carol, and little Diana. What was he doing here? He looked up
to the blue sky left behind by the not yet setting sun. There, hanging like an azure balloon in a magician's tent,
was the moon.
There was not the tiniest scrap of white showing on the blue orb. Ordinarily it would have been invisible.
Johnny suddenly remembered being up before dawn on the morning before, and seeing the slim crescent rise in
the eastern sky. By tomorrow night, he knew, there would be a slender bow above the western horizon, just
after the sunset.
This face that now he saw was one that he had always known must exist in that empty sky between the
moons, old and new. Many times he had seen the earth lit globe, with only the barest, luminous sickle to give
the hint where she hung. But then, once spotted, the outline was clear to see. Johnny had always believed that
it was there to be seen on the night before that first new silver sliver appeared, a blue moon, hanging naked for
all to see, hiding in the open sky.
Now it was as though her gravity had tugged him gently so that, without further motion of his body, head or
eyes, he was looking right at the cool, blue ball.
| * * * |
"Attention!"
Sheriff's Deputy Tim O'Farrell had put a lot of thought into writing out the script for this amplified
encounter. He had a number of priorities to contend with. He called them 'prior objectives.' They were as
follows:
Do not injure innocent people.
Clearly identify the authority of the speaker.
Command suspects to disarm.
Command suspects to move away from their guns.
Command suspects to surrender to custody.
Sheriff's Deputy Tim O'Farrell had put a lot of thought into writing out the script for this amplified
encounter. He had a number of priorities to contend with. He called them 'prior objectives.' They were as
follows:
Do not injure innocent people.
Clearly identify the authority of the speaker.
Command suspects to disarm.
Command suspects to move away from their guns.
Command suspects to surrender to custody.
| * * * |
Diary of a Goat herder 2 June 1981
Mazie was undisputed queen of the herd. She seldom led, but was content to maintain a position in the center, or
even to bring up the rear, plodding with age and size at the end of a long stretch or climb, head drooping with the
weight of big horns.
But watch out when Mazie arrives. There's not an ounce of bluff in her, and every goat has felt her horns.
I remember the day Glen Hamilton brought Sadie out. Sadie was a big malamute. Friendly, but she would chase a
goat, and once before had run Lucy around and around the pen, Lucy in terror and finally knocked to the ground by
the huge beast. At which point we rescued her unharmed.
On this day Glen brought her, on a leash, out to where we were browsing on the slope just across Fugitive Creek
and upstream from the crossing.
The goats responded this way. Jacques, the buck with the curly horns, came to the edge of the herd and squarely
faced Sadie. Right alongside him was Mazie, and beside her was Crown Princess Dee Dee. Next to Dee Dee and just
so slightly back was her arch-enemy, Lucy, allied now against the common threat, this lolling-tongued wolf.
So it was the four toughies, all the big horns of the herd lined up in defense. The rest of the goats were gathered
behind them, close enough to have that line of armor between them and the fangs, but as far as possible from Sadie
and whatever business the big goats had with her. Torie, Jody and Shauna wanted no part of that. The confrontation
went on for several minutes. Glen kept Sadie leashed. The goats focused their attention on her. Mazie was openly
aggressive. She would rapidly stamp her hooves on the ground, and then lower her head, shake her horns, and snort.
Sadie pressed against her leash, straining to reach the goats, nose stretched toward them.
Jacques struck! With a surprised yelp, Sadie was somersaulted backward in a bruised heap.
A few weeks later Glen came out again to the ranch, and Sadie came down to the creek with a group of our
neighbors. We met them in the shade of the oaks. Sadie was romping freely but gave the herd a wide berth.
Mazie was undisputed queen of the herd. She seldom led, but was content to maintain a position in the center, or
even to bring up the rear, plodding with age and size at the end of a long stretch or climb, head drooping with the
weight of big horns.
But watch out when Mazie arrives. There's not an ounce of bluff in her, and every goat has felt her horns.
I remember the day Glen Hamilton brought Sadie out. Sadie was a big malamute. Friendly, but she would chase a
goat, and once before had run Lucy around and around the pen, Lucy in terror and finally knocked to the ground by
the huge beast. At which point we rescued her unharmed.
On this day Glen brought her, on a leash, out to where we were browsing on the slope just across Fugitive Creek
and upstream from the crossing.
The goats responded this way. Jacques, the buck with the curly horns, came to the edge of the herd and squarely
faced Sadie. Right alongside him was Mazie, and beside her was Crown Princess Dee Dee. Next to Dee Dee and just
so slightly back was her arch-enemy, Lucy, allied now against the common threat, this lolling-tongued wolf.
So it was the four toughies, all the big horns of the herd lined up in defense. The rest of the goats were gathered
behind them, close enough to have that line of armor between them and the fangs, but as far as possible from Sadie
and whatever business the big goats had with her. Torie, Jody and Shauna wanted no part of that. The confrontation
went on for several minutes. Glen kept Sadie leashed. The goats focused their attention on her. Mazie was openly
aggressive. She would rapidly stamp her hooves on the ground, and then lower her head, shake her horns, and snort.
Sadie pressed against her leash, straining to reach the goats, nose stretched toward them.
Jacques struck! With a surprised yelp, Sadie was somersaulted backward in a bruised heap.
A few weeks later Glen came out again to the ranch, and Sadie came down to the creek with a group of our
neighbors. We met them in the shade of the oaks. Sadie was romping freely but gave the herd a wide berth.
| * * * |
Certainly Vikor got no resistance from Cat One to any of his projects or ideas. She had a car, and they
traveled at his whim. Her own life had been tame when contrasted with the one that her son was creating. It
grew richer as she shared it. Trips to San Francisco and beyond. Trips to Los Angeles, and Las Vegas. Visits to
museums of every description, from San Simeon to Norton-Simon, and beyond. He also dragged her to the
movies. Both Collins Cove and Dove Springs still had just the one-screen, old-time theatre down town. These
did not get the range and volume that the young cinema hound demanded, so it was more trips to cities,
sometimes overnighters. He wanted to know what the world was like. He wanted to know what the world
thought it was like. And he wanted to know what the world wanted to be like.
He wanted to know what the world was afraid it would be like too. He had a question for his mother one day.
"Who says violence is ugly?"
Cat shuddered, remembering for just a second that one moment when she had resorted to violence, self-
defense, murder, whatever it had been. Now it was nineteen eighty-three, and that had been twenty-one years
ago. Her son was twenty, and she herself was forty-five.
Who says violence is ugly? "Heck," she replied. "Just about everyone says that."
"But they're all repeating what they have heard," he went on. "Yeah, I know, everyone, like the
government, churches and schools, and the clones that swallow the crap they put out." This from a young man
who had never spent a day at Dove Springs Elementary or any other learning institution except his mother's
knee and Clark's Hill itself.
But he had read some darned interesting books, though, and he had formed some opinions. Right now he was
reaching beyond all that. He was wondering…
"I saw a fresh track up on the hill this morning," he said. "Someone you know."
Vikor and his mother were curling up to a midday, midwinter lunch of cocoa and buttered toast. Outside it
was cold and rainy. The following day would see a cap of snow on the 'ledge,' a Dixie cup that would last till
noon.
Cat One at forty-five was not as enthusiastic about the mountain as she had been in her youth. Certainly the
cold, rainy days had less appeal. That morning, Vikor had been out till he was soaked.
Two questions need to be answered. Sensible rock-climbers might wonder what in the world was so important
about getting out on what can be slick treachery in wet weather.
The second would concern the location of dirt for a footprint on a mountain of rock.
And a third would be, who cares? All three could be skipped with the existential presumption of any being
having a nice day. Vikor was implying that the print was from the shoe of Agnes Tawny. Cat shrugged as if she,
for one, didn't care. But she did.
As for the dirt, the mountain made it's own. Had he lived, Selabjun Kirkhaz could have elaborated endlessly
to his son about the process. All the rock needed was gravity, so that it would push down and crumble and mash
and wear free particles of granite and feldspar, grinding itself between heaven and earth. It broke from its own
weight. It was a mountain that still surged with its own birth, and the two forces colliding over the aeons would
crack the fragile stone to powder and dust.
The rain would wash the decomposed rock down from its cracks and frayed edges, and the mountain would
gather it in random cups and hollows. There, birds and breezes would bring seeds and insects and droppings and
microbes, and the course dirt would live and stabilize and hold the shoe print of an old woman for hours in the
pouring rain.
There wasn't much of it, a few ounces here, a few pounds there, perhaps as much as half a ton in one of the
larger crannies, with grass and scrub oak, holly and buck brush, helping to hold the soft island moored in its
rocky sky harbor.
As for the query about the danger of winter wet rocks, sure, they are slippery. And for all who know not what
it's like to be on the ledge in the company of a storm, or to be out in the wind and rain in general, or to live in
the world we are really in and not to just spend our lives hiding from it, for all of those, Cat One, and Vikor,
and Agnes Tawny would have no answer. Even Andrea Clare Devlin would have been condescending were she to
explain, had she been asked, and had she consented to try.
On a rainy day in the winter, to see a human track on Clark's Hill was to see the trail of Agnes Tawny, for
Cat One and Vikor. In a fit of impulse, but not before she finished her toast and cocoa, Cat slipped into her
rubber-soled shoes and a waterproof nylon poncho. With a half-humorous, half-irritated glance at her son, she
headed out the door. "Who says violence is ugly?" he repeated the unanswered question as the heavy wooden
door swung shut.
"Who says violence is ugly?" Cat One asked an hour later, in the misty realms of giant, bonsai pines, part of
the way up the north side.
She had found Agnes, as always, merely by walking up on the mountain. By now there was scarcely a place
where Agnes had not turned up. This time it was in the grove of twisted pines that guarded several reservoirs
of soil. Agnes was sitting on a rock.
Agnes Tawny was pleased to see Cat. It had been over thirty years now that she had been entertaining the
child's fantasies. The child had grown to a woman, had endured the strains of life, and had a nearly grown child
of her own now. He had been up here earlier, she reflected. He hadn't seen her, but she had seen him. She had
played hide and seek with him for eight years, ever since he had first become tall enough to hoist himself onto
the rocks that began the climb.
Even before that, there had been times in the meadows and woods that flanked the mountain when she had
remained motionless in tangles of greenery and watched the youngster with his mom.
The most she had ever allowed him was a distant glimpse.
The world of Agnes Tawny was much broader than the mere confines of Clark’s Hill, but she was there a lot.
She had been around the world, almost, and she liked it all, but she liked the lonesome little mountain in the
middle of a valley the best. Even so, her current range took her well beyond the limits of Dove Springs. She
would go, because she had to go, to the coast both north and south of Collins Cove, and to the higher inland
mountains. Usually she walked, invisible to all but a chosen few, females all, who might sometimes have a need
for her answers, instructions or questions.
The questions, of the three, were the more powerful gift, the more carefully meted as well. “What do you
want?” she had asked Catherine Marie Dolan once. She asked her more than once; she asked her a thousand
times, but it was all the same time, the irritating little bark from the universe that says to pay attention.
Cat had paid attention. She had answered. She had wanted love, and then success, and power and knowledge
and wisdom. She had wanted flowers and strawberries and apples. She had wanted a Christmas tree and skates.
She had wanted stars and planets; she had wanted dimensions of time. She had wanted understanding,
composure, health, courage. She had wanted to kill deer. She had wanted to travel. She had wanted to look in
the crystal. She had wanted to be born again and again; she had wanted warmer sunshine and colder nights.
She wanted new mountains, new sunsets, new views of Venus on nights with frozen moons. She wanted creeks
that never ended, rivers that never ran dry; she wanted winds filled with the scent of acacia. She wanted
mystery and danger.
She wanted to be the moon. She wanted to be a mountain lion.
She wanted to be a mother.
traveled at his whim. Her own life had been tame when contrasted with the one that her son was creating. It
grew richer as she shared it. Trips to San Francisco and beyond. Trips to Los Angeles, and Las Vegas. Visits to
museums of every description, from San Simeon to Norton-Simon, and beyond. He also dragged her to the
movies. Both Collins Cove and Dove Springs still had just the one-screen, old-time theatre down town. These
did not get the range and volume that the young cinema hound demanded, so it was more trips to cities,
sometimes overnighters. He wanted to know what the world was like. He wanted to know what the world
thought it was like. And he wanted to know what the world wanted to be like.
He wanted to know what the world was afraid it would be like too. He had a question for his mother one day.
"Who says violence is ugly?"
Cat shuddered, remembering for just a second that one moment when she had resorted to violence, self-
defense, murder, whatever it had been. Now it was nineteen eighty-three, and that had been twenty-one years
ago. Her son was twenty, and she herself was forty-five.
Who says violence is ugly? "Heck," she replied. "Just about everyone says that."
"But they're all repeating what they have heard," he went on. "Yeah, I know, everyone, like the
government, churches and schools, and the clones that swallow the crap they put out." This from a young man
who had never spent a day at Dove Springs Elementary or any other learning institution except his mother's
knee and Clark's Hill itself.
But he had read some darned interesting books, though, and he had formed some opinions. Right now he was
reaching beyond all that. He was wondering…
"I saw a fresh track up on the hill this morning," he said. "Someone you know."
Vikor and his mother were curling up to a midday, midwinter lunch of cocoa and buttered toast. Outside it
was cold and rainy. The following day would see a cap of snow on the 'ledge,' a Dixie cup that would last till
noon.
Cat One at forty-five was not as enthusiastic about the mountain as she had been in her youth. Certainly the
cold, rainy days had less appeal. That morning, Vikor had been out till he was soaked.
Two questions need to be answered. Sensible rock-climbers might wonder what in the world was so important
about getting out on what can be slick treachery in wet weather.
The second would concern the location of dirt for a footprint on a mountain of rock.
And a third would be, who cares? All three could be skipped with the existential presumption of any being
having a nice day. Vikor was implying that the print was from the shoe of Agnes Tawny. Cat shrugged as if she,
for one, didn't care. But she did.
As for the dirt, the mountain made it's own. Had he lived, Selabjun Kirkhaz could have elaborated endlessly
to his son about the process. All the rock needed was gravity, so that it would push down and crumble and mash
and wear free particles of granite and feldspar, grinding itself between heaven and earth. It broke from its own
weight. It was a mountain that still surged with its own birth, and the two forces colliding over the aeons would
crack the fragile stone to powder and dust.
The rain would wash the decomposed rock down from its cracks and frayed edges, and the mountain would
gather it in random cups and hollows. There, birds and breezes would bring seeds and insects and droppings and
microbes, and the course dirt would live and stabilize and hold the shoe print of an old woman for hours in the
pouring rain.
There wasn't much of it, a few ounces here, a few pounds there, perhaps as much as half a ton in one of the
larger crannies, with grass and scrub oak, holly and buck brush, helping to hold the soft island moored in its
rocky sky harbor.
As for the query about the danger of winter wet rocks, sure, they are slippery. And for all who know not what
it's like to be on the ledge in the company of a storm, or to be out in the wind and rain in general, or to live in
the world we are really in and not to just spend our lives hiding from it, for all of those, Cat One, and Vikor,
and Agnes Tawny would have no answer. Even Andrea Clare Devlin would have been condescending were she to
explain, had she been asked, and had she consented to try.
On a rainy day in the winter, to see a human track on Clark's Hill was to see the trail of Agnes Tawny, for
Cat One and Vikor. In a fit of impulse, but not before she finished her toast and cocoa, Cat slipped into her
rubber-soled shoes and a waterproof nylon poncho. With a half-humorous, half-irritated glance at her son, she
headed out the door. "Who says violence is ugly?" he repeated the unanswered question as the heavy wooden
door swung shut.
"Who says violence is ugly?" Cat One asked an hour later, in the misty realms of giant, bonsai pines, part of
the way up the north side.
She had found Agnes, as always, merely by walking up on the mountain. By now there was scarcely a place
where Agnes had not turned up. This time it was in the grove of twisted pines that guarded several reservoirs
of soil. Agnes was sitting on a rock.
Agnes Tawny was pleased to see Cat. It had been over thirty years now that she had been entertaining the
child's fantasies. The child had grown to a woman, had endured the strains of life, and had a nearly grown child
of her own now. He had been up here earlier, she reflected. He hadn't seen her, but she had seen him. She had
played hide and seek with him for eight years, ever since he had first become tall enough to hoist himself onto
the rocks that began the climb.
Even before that, there had been times in the meadows and woods that flanked the mountain when she had
remained motionless in tangles of greenery and watched the youngster with his mom.
The most she had ever allowed him was a distant glimpse.
The world of Agnes Tawny was much broader than the mere confines of Clark’s Hill, but she was there a lot.
She had been around the world, almost, and she liked it all, but she liked the lonesome little mountain in the
middle of a valley the best. Even so, her current range took her well beyond the limits of Dove Springs. She
would go, because she had to go, to the coast both north and south of Collins Cove, and to the higher inland
mountains. Usually she walked, invisible to all but a chosen few, females all, who might sometimes have a need
for her answers, instructions or questions.
The questions, of the three, were the more powerful gift, the more carefully meted as well. “What do you
want?” she had asked Catherine Marie Dolan once. She asked her more than once; she asked her a thousand
times, but it was all the same time, the irritating little bark from the universe that says to pay attention.
Cat had paid attention. She had answered. She had wanted love, and then success, and power and knowledge
and wisdom. She had wanted flowers and strawberries and apples. She had wanted a Christmas tree and skates.
She had wanted stars and planets; she had wanted dimensions of time. She had wanted understanding,
composure, health, courage. She had wanted to kill deer. She had wanted to travel. She had wanted to look in
the crystal. She had wanted to be born again and again; she had wanted warmer sunshine and colder nights.
She wanted new mountains, new sunsets, new views of Venus on nights with frozen moons. She wanted creeks
that never ended, rivers that never ran dry; she wanted winds filled with the scent of acacia. She wanted
mystery and danger.
She wanted to be the moon. She wanted to be a mountain lion.
She wanted to be a mother.
Vikor was content, that day on the train, with the answers that Cat One fed him, answers to his questions
about black people. As usual, this had been a subject that his mother had never really pondered herself. She
gave him the standard simplicity of any mother to her child.
"Who was that?"
"That was the porter."
"Why is he so dark?"
"He's a negro, sweetheart."
"Why's his skin so dark?"
"I suppose because his mother and father had dark skin."
"But why did they?"
"Well, they came from a land where the sun is very hot, so all of their people became very dark."
"If I went there, would I turn very dark?"
"No, sweetheart."
On another trip and somewhat older, Vikor met the porter again, and spoke with him. Later he had more
questions for Cat.
"The dark man says he is from Oakland. That's farther north from here; the sun isn't any hotter there than
it is here. So, how did he get to be so black?"
So she told him the story of Africa in a few words. When he was older still he read about slavery, and his
heart broke. He asked his mother more questions then, and together they found answers. The subjects they
studied ranged from archaeology to anatomy, from political science to evolution, and from history to fiction.
When he thought he had it figured out, he played it back for her one day.
"You see," he said, his hands poised in conjecture, "evolution is always divergent." His hands traced in the
air the imaginary pathways of two progressions away from one another. "Species multiply. When they no
longer fit the niche they go extinct. They don't merge back with the parent species."
"So?"
"So, we're like that. We've got mutations."
"Mutations?" Cat One was not unfamiliar with the idea of mutation; she just wanted a more complete
explanation of the seventeen year-old's insight.
"Yeah, mutations. Like straight hair, blue eyes, white skin, facial features…
"I'll bet that back in ancient, prehistoric times our people were persecuted by the tribes."
"Our people?"
"Yeah. White people; Caucasians. I wouldn't be surprised if they used to kill babies born with white skin."
"Gruesome." Cat shuddered. "Why do you say that?"
"Partly because some primitive tribes still do that with any baby born with birth defects."
"Well, how are they going to evolve if they kill off their mutations?"
"They won't. That's just it. They don't want to evolve. They want their children to be just like them.
"We do it too. We don't kill them, but we put them away in homes. If they're not too bad, we do plastic
surgery and let them stay with us."
"You're cold-blooded."
"No I'm not. Look…"
"Wait… if they killed off all their mutations, how did we get here?"
Vikor shrugged. "Kind hearts, maybe. Maybe some mother loved her little monster so much that she
couldn't bear to let it be sacrificed or whatever, so she abandoned the tribe."
"Where would she have gone? How would they have survived?"
"Who knows how they survived? Skill and luck and toughness, I guess. I think they would have headed
north."
"Why north?"
"We're talking Africa, remember. For primitive people, there would have been no way out but north."
"But how would they have known that?"
"They didn't have to know. We're talking about the ones who survived, remember. There may have been
others, little bands that moved east or west or south and ended up trapped between their ancestors and the
deep blue sea. They eventually were massacred; count on it.
"But the ones that drifted north found less and less population density. They found a chance to pull their
gene pool together. With less persecution they were able to grow into a breeding population large enough to
survive, large enough for mother nature to weed out the misfits.
"It wouldn't have mattered why they thought they were going north. Maybe they were looking for cooler
weather. Maybe it was the path of least resistance. Maybe somebody had a dream or a prophecy. Maybe it was
just luck.
"What's important is that they survived."
"You keep saying they," his mother interjected. "Are we still talking about a mother and a baby?"
"Could be. Could be her old man went with them too. It's very possible that not everyone bought the instant
genocide routine.
"But, even if it was just a mommy and a baby, their numbers would have grown. The trek out of Africa may
have taken generations."
It was nineteen eighty, and the boy had been doing his homework. Before another year had passed he would
tire of this phase of his education. New subjects would interest him.
For now, this was one of the passions of his curiosity. Vikor and his mother were resting on a boulder on the
side of Clark's Hill. Below them was the serene little backwater of bucolic America called Dove Springs. It was
a western town, but it was a northern town. It was one of the smug bastions of conformity that could still snivel
at the mishandling of the racial problems in the cities and the South. With nary a black in the township, and
the native Americans long since exterminated, it was easy to be pious about racial justice.
Some of the people in the charming little town down below would have been shocked at the very ideas that
the young man was expressing to his mother up on the rocks. They had been climbing earlier and had
scrambled onto a perch that afforded views of the village, distant horizons, and natural bonsai firs up close,
each one wedged into its own fertile granite niche.
about black people. As usual, this had been a subject that his mother had never really pondered herself. She
gave him the standard simplicity of any mother to her child.
"Who was that?"
"That was the porter."
"Why is he so dark?"
"He's a negro, sweetheart."
"Why's his skin so dark?"
"I suppose because his mother and father had dark skin."
"But why did they?"
"Well, they came from a land where the sun is very hot, so all of their people became very dark."
"If I went there, would I turn very dark?"
"No, sweetheart."
On another trip and somewhat older, Vikor met the porter again, and spoke with him. Later he had more
questions for Cat.
"The dark man says he is from Oakland. That's farther north from here; the sun isn't any hotter there than
it is here. So, how did he get to be so black?"
So she told him the story of Africa in a few words. When he was older still he read about slavery, and his
heart broke. He asked his mother more questions then, and together they found answers. The subjects they
studied ranged from archaeology to anatomy, from political science to evolution, and from history to fiction.
When he thought he had it figured out, he played it back for her one day.
"You see," he said, his hands poised in conjecture, "evolution is always divergent." His hands traced in the
air the imaginary pathways of two progressions away from one another. "Species multiply. When they no
longer fit the niche they go extinct. They don't merge back with the parent species."
"So?"
"So, we're like that. We've got mutations."
"Mutations?" Cat One was not unfamiliar with the idea of mutation; she just wanted a more complete
explanation of the seventeen year-old's insight.
"Yeah, mutations. Like straight hair, blue eyes, white skin, facial features…
"I'll bet that back in ancient, prehistoric times our people were persecuted by the tribes."
"Our people?"
"Yeah. White people; Caucasians. I wouldn't be surprised if they used to kill babies born with white skin."
"Gruesome." Cat shuddered. "Why do you say that?"
"Partly because some primitive tribes still do that with any baby born with birth defects."
"Well, how are they going to evolve if they kill off their mutations?"
"They won't. That's just it. They don't want to evolve. They want their children to be just like them.
"We do it too. We don't kill them, but we put them away in homes. If they're not too bad, we do plastic
surgery and let them stay with us."
"You're cold-blooded."
"No I'm not. Look…"
"Wait… if they killed off all their mutations, how did we get here?"
Vikor shrugged. "Kind hearts, maybe. Maybe some mother loved her little monster so much that she
couldn't bear to let it be sacrificed or whatever, so she abandoned the tribe."
"Where would she have gone? How would they have survived?"
"Who knows how they survived? Skill and luck and toughness, I guess. I think they would have headed
north."
"Why north?"
"We're talking Africa, remember. For primitive people, there would have been no way out but north."
"But how would they have known that?"
"They didn't have to know. We're talking about the ones who survived, remember. There may have been
others, little bands that moved east or west or south and ended up trapped between their ancestors and the
deep blue sea. They eventually were massacred; count on it.
"But the ones that drifted north found less and less population density. They found a chance to pull their
gene pool together. With less persecution they were able to grow into a breeding population large enough to
survive, large enough for mother nature to weed out the misfits.
"It wouldn't have mattered why they thought they were going north. Maybe they were looking for cooler
weather. Maybe it was the path of least resistance. Maybe somebody had a dream or a prophecy. Maybe it was
just luck.
"What's important is that they survived."
"You keep saying they," his mother interjected. "Are we still talking about a mother and a baby?"
"Could be. Could be her old man went with them too. It's very possible that not everyone bought the instant
genocide routine.
"But, even if it was just a mommy and a baby, their numbers would have grown. The trek out of Africa may
have taken generations."
It was nineteen eighty, and the boy had been doing his homework. Before another year had passed he would
tire of this phase of his education. New subjects would interest him.
For now, this was one of the passions of his curiosity. Vikor and his mother were resting on a boulder on the
side of Clark's Hill. Below them was the serene little backwater of bucolic America called Dove Springs. It was
a western town, but it was a northern town. It was one of the smug bastions of conformity that could still snivel
at the mishandling of the racial problems in the cities and the South. With nary a black in the township, and
the native Americans long since exterminated, it was easy to be pious about racial justice.
Some of the people in the charming little town down below would have been shocked at the very ideas that
the young man was expressing to his mother up on the rocks. They had been climbing earlier and had
scrambled onto a perch that afforded views of the village, distant horizons, and natural bonsai firs up close,
each one wedged into its own fertile granite niche.
| * * * |
| * * * |
Vikor and Chela really hit it off, that night on that flight to Houston. So much so, that Vikor bought a pair
of tickets to Santa Fe, while Chela turned one in. They wanted to be sure to sit together, for they had fallen in
love, and any magician could have predicted that. Anyone who knew the infinite details of the natures and
nurtures involved would have seen that the two would tumble for one another at first glance, and would have
known that each new revelation would bind their hearts with another wrap.
They left Rico Vega behind. He was only a part of the background, by way of introduction, if you will. Vikor
was not nearly so open with the details of his past, but, then, it had been Chela who wanted to talk.
of tickets to Santa Fe, while Chela turned one in. They wanted to be sure to sit together, for they had fallen in
love, and any magician could have predicted that. Anyone who knew the infinite details of the natures and
nurtures involved would have seen that the two would tumble for one another at first glance, and would have
known that each new revelation would bind their hearts with another wrap.
They left Rico Vega behind. He was only a part of the background, by way of introduction, if you will. Vikor
was not nearly so open with the details of his past, but, then, it had been Chela who wanted to talk.
| * * * |
At Carol's direction, Johnny Stream got Bob Cabler turned over again so that he was face down. Johnny
supported Cabler's head on his lap so that he could breathe, and Carol inspected the damage at the back of the
young man's head.
Bob had yellow hair. Now the intermix of clotting blood gave a jarring suggestion of orange. Carol Gallagher
grew quickly dispirited herself as she made efforts to clean and to get a good look at the wound. At the same
time, she was heartened to see that there were no brains or fractures, and that he would probably be all right.
She said as much to Johnny Stream.
"I think he'll be okay," she said. "But he needs to get to a doctor."
Johnny was more impressed with Carol's care of his buddy than she was herself. Moment to moment, as she
touched and dabbed and stroked and blotted, the mass of trauma resolved into the discipline of a tended injury.
The bloody rock lay a short way from Carol. It lay where Maggie had dropped it. The body itself lay just
beyond. For a long time Carol kept her back to this solemn array. It was not in her mind that the battered
head that she nursed so delicately had taken its smashing at the hands of the girl and the rock.
"We need to get him to a doctor," she said, although she herself was now sure that, doctor or no, and barring
infections, he would be fine. The open gashes on his head, including, in particular, the long one cut by the truck
door, were now soft, raw pink and already showed signs of invisible stitchery.
"I know," replied Johnny. Actually he was quite content to go on cradling his partner's head while this caring
angel ministered to the wounds. Neither of them did anything differently for a spell.
Perhaps they expected that in short order the world at large would discover them with their wounded hero,
and their pile of bodies. Newsmen would be coming, and the sheriffs. Perhaps the priest from St. James in Del
Mar, or the minister from St. Andrew's would come, to join in the comfort and concern. Any moment, the
silence of the little grove of eucalyptus would be shattered by the parade of bulb-popping, siren-howling,
scarlet-flashing, question-asking, finger-pointing and on-looking members of society.
When he was on his own, Johnny Stream was not anything like the pair of uninhibited clowns described
earlier. He was quiet, reserved and thoughtful. He did take life seriously; perhaps that was why the release of
spirits that happened when he was with Cabler was such a tonic.
Right now he was taking life seriously, and he was seeing all the pieces. Along with the hoopla and the brass
bands he had a clear view of himself in manacles being led as one of the central attractions of the parade, right
behind the meat wagon carrying the carcasses of the city shitheads. Next came a guarded stretcher carrying the
wounded suspect. Then came the black and gold hearse, with the body of rancher Clinton Murphy's daughter
arrayed in tragic pomp, followed by several cars containing Maggie's mother and Marilyn Wells and Mrs. Heinz
and Mrs. Gallagher, each in black, and then would come Carol Gallagher, alone in the backseat of an open rig,
also dressed in black, the heroine who had saved Marilyn Wells' nephew so that he might hang alongside of the
murdering half-breed, Johnny Stream. And all about were mounted men in prancing impatience, every Heinz
and Knebel, and Murphy himself, dressed now in a suit like an old-fashioned marshal, taking charge with
plenty of fresh rope hanging in coils from his saddle.
supported Cabler's head on his lap so that he could breathe, and Carol inspected the damage at the back of the
young man's head.
Bob had yellow hair. Now the intermix of clotting blood gave a jarring suggestion of orange. Carol Gallagher
grew quickly dispirited herself as she made efforts to clean and to get a good look at the wound. At the same
time, she was heartened to see that there were no brains or fractures, and that he would probably be all right.
She said as much to Johnny Stream.
"I think he'll be okay," she said. "But he needs to get to a doctor."
Johnny was more impressed with Carol's care of his buddy than she was herself. Moment to moment, as she
touched and dabbed and stroked and blotted, the mass of trauma resolved into the discipline of a tended injury.
The bloody rock lay a short way from Carol. It lay where Maggie had dropped it. The body itself lay just
beyond. For a long time Carol kept her back to this solemn array. It was not in her mind that the battered
head that she nursed so delicately had taken its smashing at the hands of the girl and the rock.
"We need to get him to a doctor," she said, although she herself was now sure that, doctor or no, and barring
infections, he would be fine. The open gashes on his head, including, in particular, the long one cut by the truck
door, were now soft, raw pink and already showed signs of invisible stitchery.
"I know," replied Johnny. Actually he was quite content to go on cradling his partner's head while this caring
angel ministered to the wounds. Neither of them did anything differently for a spell.
Perhaps they expected that in short order the world at large would discover them with their wounded hero,
and their pile of bodies. Newsmen would be coming, and the sheriffs. Perhaps the priest from St. James in Del
Mar, or the minister from St. Andrew's would come, to join in the comfort and concern. Any moment, the
silence of the little grove of eucalyptus would be shattered by the parade of bulb-popping, siren-howling,
scarlet-flashing, question-asking, finger-pointing and on-looking members of society.
When he was on his own, Johnny Stream was not anything like the pair of uninhibited clowns described
earlier. He was quiet, reserved and thoughtful. He did take life seriously; perhaps that was why the release of
spirits that happened when he was with Cabler was such a tonic.
Right now he was taking life seriously, and he was seeing all the pieces. Along with the hoopla and the brass
bands he had a clear view of himself in manacles being led as one of the central attractions of the parade, right
behind the meat wagon carrying the carcasses of the city shitheads. Next came a guarded stretcher carrying the
wounded suspect. Then came the black and gold hearse, with the body of rancher Clinton Murphy's daughter
arrayed in tragic pomp, followed by several cars containing Maggie's mother and Marilyn Wells and Mrs. Heinz
and Mrs. Gallagher, each in black, and then would come Carol Gallagher, alone in the backseat of an open rig,
also dressed in black, the heroine who had saved Marilyn Wells' nephew so that he might hang alongside of the
murdering half-breed, Johnny Stream. And all about were mounted men in prancing impatience, every Heinz
and Knebel, and Murphy himself, dressed now in a suit like an old-fashioned marshal, taking charge with
plenty of fresh rope hanging in coils from his saddle.
| * * * |
Diary of a Goat herder 3 June 1981
I soon learned that curiosity was a big factor in goats' behavior, as well as outright rebelliousness. After a few days
of meekly following me out the gate and down the hill to Fugitive Creek, the new herd decided it would like to know
what was in the other direction. I opened the gate that day and started out confidently. The goats were also confident,
and once out the gate they followed Dolly, of the curved horn, who doubled back around the pen, and through the
barbed wire fence that bordered the ranch.
I soon learned that curiosity was a big factor in goats' behavior, as well as outright rebelliousness. After a few days
of meekly following me out the gate and down the hill to Fugitive Creek, the new herd decided it would like to know
what was in the other direction. I opened the gate that day and started out confidently. The goats were also confident,
and once out the gate they followed Dolly, of the curved horn, who doubled back around the pen, and through the
barbed wire fence that bordered the ranch.
| * * * |
"Who says violence is ugly? Who is asking?" asked the witch.
"Vikor wants to know."
"Does he mean that in a rhetorical sense, like a dare or an 'oh, yeah?'" It slightly amused Cat whenever
Agnes would slip in modernisms.
"Maybe partly. But no, he wants to know who, not just the clones, he says, the 'everyones' who say it. Not
just the churches and governments and… uh…"
"The schools?"
"Yeah, the schools… he wants to know who is behind all that, I think."
"Do you want to know?"
"I want to be able to answer his question."
"Do you know why he is asking it?"
"Well, sure, pretty much. We go to movies; we read books. They are filled with violence. People buy them,
and they are filled with violence. People spend their spare money on beauty, don't they? Crafts, art, music,
sculpture, literature, drama, even architecture, and landscaping, they're all expressions of beauty, creativity.
Some stuff is ugly, but I don't spend much time with stuff like that. Maybe for the folks who do, it's not ugly .
"And the animals; look at the animals. Vikor pointed that out to me. Are we to say that foxes and bobcats
and eagles and hawks, and coyotes and wolves, and robins and trout are ugly? No one would say that. Aren't
they the same as what they do? Their lives are filled with violence, tons of violence, healthy violence. They are
constantly killing; are they ugly when they do it? Is a trout leaping from the water to take an insect ugly? Is a
mountain lion leaping onto the back of a deer and sinking its fangs into the back of its neck ugly? If so, where
does it get ugly?
"I can see where guts on the outside can be ugly. I can see see where dead and dying bodies can be crushed
into ugliness. I can see where the predator itself, from the point of view of its prey, might seem far from a
beautiful sight. But is the fox going to look ugly to her pups when she comes home with a blood-smeared bib?
Is the mangled bunny going to look ugly to them?
"And blood and guts and bodies and killers are not violence anyhow. They're all things, animals, people. Isn't
the violence an activity? Isn't the wind violent, and waterfalls, and gravity itself? Isn't all of this violence
actually a tool that carves the beauty into reality?
"Didn't the native tribes have some saying, that the speed of the antelope is the gift of the wolf?"
She stopped.
Much of this she had heard, had learned, from Agnes. There were no apologies for a world gone wrong. There
were no appeals to some devil to be the source of all the pain, the lies, the violence if you will. My goddess,
Agnes would chuckle cynically at the subject in general. The Creatrix would find her tool bag pretty light were
violence in all of its expressions to be lifted from its pouch. Now Agnes looked back in silent longing. She
wanted to tell Vikor himself, to take the twenty year old little boy on her lap and to tell him in the
commonsense language of fairy tales and dragons, that he was the knight errant.
He would join the heroes at the forefront of the quest. Though he would fight alone, he would join them; they
were separate molecules in the same scurrying wind that romped through the schoolyard yesterday like an
infant whirlwind chasing its childish tail, that fills and rips sails today, and bends the trees and grass, and that
tomorrow uproots the dreams of nations. He would be part of the wide cyclone that would sweep to the west, to
the south, to the east, and at last to the bitter north, the rude, impatient wind that would scour humanity.
She wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell him, but Agnes knew that even she, wise woman of the hills, could
not look into the eye of the design. Nor could she tell Cat One, even though she was destined to know.
But she could answer her question. Cat One was not asking, is my bold son to become a killer? Is he a new
breed of predator that will prey on humankind with the mercy of a hawk? Is he the wolf that will give back
speed and grace to the antelope that is woman and man?
She was not asking if Vikor should go to the cities, to the rumpled folds of civilization that line its boundaries
even at its heart, to the places where people are too smug, too numb, too senseless, too slow, too naive, too
sick, and too alone. Is he to bring life to the nightmares of the weak and their mothers? Is he to bring final
death to their dreams?
She was asking, "Who says violence is ugly?"
Agnes had thought about it before. She had probably whispered it to herself in those same words, perhaps
when watching a hawk streak across the sky to strike a dove, so that then the two became as one and
continued in a new trajectory to the ground. "Who says violence is ugly?" At a time like that, the question
really would be rhetorical nonsense, or rhetoric, at best. Agnes Tawny was always willing to allow any of her
observations and conclusions to belong to that category, nonsense.
Where, my goddess, would imagination be, without nonsense? And where would we be, without imagination?
But she had thought of it short of nonsense as well.
And she was not sure if Catherine Marie Dolan was going to be able to understand the answer.
"Simply put," she said, "it was… it is… those who would make slaves…" She stopped, holding her breath to
see if there were more questions. It had begun to rain again. Perhaps Cat One would fold the simple message
into her mind, and depart. Mission accomplished. To Agnes' relief, that was approximately what she did.
"Make slaves?"
"Yes."
"Those who would make slaves say that violence is ugly."
"You've got it." You've got it like a cryptic secret, cuneiforms on parchment, sealed with beeswax and
stamped by the witch-queen. Agnes liked to over dramatize her life and her words. If she spoke more she
would be sarcastic as hell. She was bad enough the way she was, at least inside of her own mind. Cat One took
it literally, and with no offense. Cat One never took offense. She had when she was young, when every
revelation was a bitter struggle. But now… ah, now Cat One could have carried a crucible of molten iron from
Agnes to her son without spilling a drop.
"Vikor wants to know."
"Does he mean that in a rhetorical sense, like a dare or an 'oh, yeah?'" It slightly amused Cat whenever
Agnes would slip in modernisms.
"Maybe partly. But no, he wants to know who, not just the clones, he says, the 'everyones' who say it. Not
just the churches and governments and… uh…"
"The schools?"
"Yeah, the schools… he wants to know who is behind all that, I think."
"Do you want to know?"
"I want to be able to answer his question."
"Do you know why he is asking it?"
"Well, sure, pretty much. We go to movies; we read books. They are filled with violence. People buy them,
and they are filled with violence. People spend their spare money on beauty, don't they? Crafts, art, music,
sculpture, literature, drama, even architecture, and landscaping, they're all expressions of beauty, creativity.
Some stuff is ugly, but I don't spend much time with stuff like that. Maybe for the folks who do, it's not ugly .
"And the animals; look at the animals. Vikor pointed that out to me. Are we to say that foxes and bobcats
and eagles and hawks, and coyotes and wolves, and robins and trout are ugly? No one would say that. Aren't
they the same as what they do? Their lives are filled with violence, tons of violence, healthy violence. They are
constantly killing; are they ugly when they do it? Is a trout leaping from the water to take an insect ugly? Is a
mountain lion leaping onto the back of a deer and sinking its fangs into the back of its neck ugly? If so, where
does it get ugly?
"I can see where guts on the outside can be ugly. I can see see where dead and dying bodies can be crushed
into ugliness. I can see where the predator itself, from the point of view of its prey, might seem far from a
beautiful sight. But is the fox going to look ugly to her pups when she comes home with a blood-smeared bib?
Is the mangled bunny going to look ugly to them?
"And blood and guts and bodies and killers are not violence anyhow. They're all things, animals, people. Isn't
the violence an activity? Isn't the wind violent, and waterfalls, and gravity itself? Isn't all of this violence
actually a tool that carves the beauty into reality?
"Didn't the native tribes have some saying, that the speed of the antelope is the gift of the wolf?"
She stopped.
Much of this she had heard, had learned, from Agnes. There were no apologies for a world gone wrong. There
were no appeals to some devil to be the source of all the pain, the lies, the violence if you will. My goddess,
Agnes would chuckle cynically at the subject in general. The Creatrix would find her tool bag pretty light were
violence in all of its expressions to be lifted from its pouch. Now Agnes looked back in silent longing. She
wanted to tell Vikor himself, to take the twenty year old little boy on her lap and to tell him in the
commonsense language of fairy tales and dragons, that he was the knight errant.
He would join the heroes at the forefront of the quest. Though he would fight alone, he would join them; they
were separate molecules in the same scurrying wind that romped through the schoolyard yesterday like an
infant whirlwind chasing its childish tail, that fills and rips sails today, and bends the trees and grass, and that
tomorrow uproots the dreams of nations. He would be part of the wide cyclone that would sweep to the west, to
the south, to the east, and at last to the bitter north, the rude, impatient wind that would scour humanity.
She wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell him, but Agnes knew that even she, wise woman of the hills, could
not look into the eye of the design. Nor could she tell Cat One, even though she was destined to know.
But she could answer her question. Cat One was not asking, is my bold son to become a killer? Is he a new
breed of predator that will prey on humankind with the mercy of a hawk? Is he the wolf that will give back
speed and grace to the antelope that is woman and man?
She was not asking if Vikor should go to the cities, to the rumpled folds of civilization that line its boundaries
even at its heart, to the places where people are too smug, too numb, too senseless, too slow, too naive, too
sick, and too alone. Is he to bring life to the nightmares of the weak and their mothers? Is he to bring final
death to their dreams?
She was asking, "Who says violence is ugly?"
Agnes had thought about it before. She had probably whispered it to herself in those same words, perhaps
when watching a hawk streak across the sky to strike a dove, so that then the two became as one and
continued in a new trajectory to the ground. "Who says violence is ugly?" At a time like that, the question
really would be rhetorical nonsense, or rhetoric, at best. Agnes Tawny was always willing to allow any of her
observations and conclusions to belong to that category, nonsense.
Where, my goddess, would imagination be, without nonsense? And where would we be, without imagination?
But she had thought of it short of nonsense as well.
And she was not sure if Catherine Marie Dolan was going to be able to understand the answer.
"Simply put," she said, "it was… it is… those who would make slaves…" She stopped, holding her breath to
see if there were more questions. It had begun to rain again. Perhaps Cat One would fold the simple message
into her mind, and depart. Mission accomplished. To Agnes' relief, that was approximately what she did.
"Make slaves?"
"Yes."
"Those who would make slaves say that violence is ugly."
"You've got it." You've got it like a cryptic secret, cuneiforms on parchment, sealed with beeswax and
stamped by the witch-queen. Agnes liked to over dramatize her life and her words. If she spoke more she
would be sarcastic as hell. She was bad enough the way she was, at least inside of her own mind. Cat One took
it literally, and with no offense. Cat One never took offense. She had when she was young, when every
revelation was a bitter struggle. But now… ah, now Cat One could have carried a crucible of molten iron from
Agnes to her son without spilling a drop.
| * * * |
Time flies, whether you are having fun or not. Morning changed to afternoon. Flies began to accumulate,
drawn by the warming meat.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Johnny, by and by. “It’s going to start to smell bad.”
Carol stirred from her own reverie. They had changed positions several times, and now they had Bob
arranged so that he rested chest down with his head turned sideways on his own folded jacket that Johnny had
retrieved when he went to get the second canteen from Bob’s horse, Spot. Johnny had also got the horses,
which were beginning to graze away from the scene of the crime. He tied them to a nearby sapling and rejoined
Carol and Bob.
“What?” she asked with a blink of surprise.
“It’s gonna start to smell bad here,” he repeated. “We already got a lot of flies.”
She nodded absently. Her own mental panoply centered on herself at the interrogation table at some sheriff’s
office in the county seat, and later on the witness stand in the courtroom.
She saw herself having to explain to the patrician relatives of Maggie Murphy who she was, and having to
defend herself. Why was she here? Why were they here? Why was Maggie Murphy, who had portals open into
the more refined echelons of north county society, hanging around with hill trash out in the brush around
Black Mountain? Who were these dead men? And then she would have to defend that she did not know.
She would have to claim attempted rape, but that assailant was dead and had left no clues. Who killed Maggie
Murphy would be the loudest question? When that question would crash again in its turn, she would stir
uneasily. She would glance at the body, the rock, and Bob, and then her mind would cloud and she would be lost
again. It had all happened right in front of Carol Gallagher, but…
They had managed to drag Cabler around so that he was in the shade of one of the eucalyptus trees as the
sun grew hot. This left the evidence to form a triangle: Maggie, the stone, and Bob. When Johnny came up
from the pond where he had gone to refill the two canteens, he set the water vessels near Carol, and then sat
himself in the spot to complete a square, with Carol Gallagher in the center. Four corners now were Maggie,
the stone, Bob, and Johnny. Carol was between the body of her friend and the body of the young man who
rested unconscious or asleep. She was between Johnny, on her right, and the stone on her left.
The world starts over now, she thought to herself. Everything that I have left to build on is right here.
Nothing.
Nothing. She looked at Johnny, and she said, "Let's just lash some branches together and put him on it and
get the horses to drag him somewhere else." It was a childlike idea, a wouldn't-it-be-nice-if-only kind of an
idea, a simple idea, naive.
But Johnny Stream was a simple soul. He could respond to simple suggestions, and he had both rope and
twine. In short order, while Carol continued to watch Bob, he made a travail, lashing two long eucalyptus
branches together with shorter cross-sections, leaves and twigs intact, so that the resultant litter was springy
and aromatic.
drawn by the warming meat.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Johnny, by and by. “It’s going to start to smell bad.”
Carol stirred from her own reverie. They had changed positions several times, and now they had Bob
arranged so that he rested chest down with his head turned sideways on his own folded jacket that Johnny had
retrieved when he went to get the second canteen from Bob’s horse, Spot. Johnny had also got the horses,
which were beginning to graze away from the scene of the crime. He tied them to a nearby sapling and rejoined
Carol and Bob.
“What?” she asked with a blink of surprise.
“It’s gonna start to smell bad here,” he repeated. “We already got a lot of flies.”
She nodded absently. Her own mental panoply centered on herself at the interrogation table at some sheriff’s
office in the county seat, and later on the witness stand in the courtroom.
She saw herself having to explain to the patrician relatives of Maggie Murphy who she was, and having to
defend herself. Why was she here? Why were they here? Why was Maggie Murphy, who had portals open into
the more refined echelons of north county society, hanging around with hill trash out in the brush around
Black Mountain? Who were these dead men? And then she would have to defend that she did not know.
She would have to claim attempted rape, but that assailant was dead and had left no clues. Who killed Maggie
Murphy would be the loudest question? When that question would crash again in its turn, she would stir
uneasily. She would glance at the body, the rock, and Bob, and then her mind would cloud and she would be lost
again. It had all happened right in front of Carol Gallagher, but…
They had managed to drag Cabler around so that he was in the shade of one of the eucalyptus trees as the
sun grew hot. This left the evidence to form a triangle: Maggie, the stone, and Bob. When Johnny came up
from the pond where he had gone to refill the two canteens, he set the water vessels near Carol, and then sat
himself in the spot to complete a square, with Carol Gallagher in the center. Four corners now were Maggie,
the stone, Bob, and Johnny. Carol was between the body of her friend and the body of the young man who
rested unconscious or asleep. She was between Johnny, on her right, and the stone on her left.
The world starts over now, she thought to herself. Everything that I have left to build on is right here.
Nothing.
Nothing. She looked at Johnny, and she said, "Let's just lash some branches together and put him on it and
get the horses to drag him somewhere else." It was a childlike idea, a wouldn't-it-be-nice-if-only kind of an
idea, a simple idea, naive.
But Johnny Stream was a simple soul. He could respond to simple suggestions, and he had both rope and
twine. In short order, while Carol continued to watch Bob, he made a travail, lashing two long eucalyptus
branches together with shorter cross-sections, leaves and twigs intact, so that the resultant litter was springy
and aromatic.
| * * * |
Auld lang syne. Old long since. Of the nine individuals who joined in that wishful chorus on that high winter
night, none had ever heard the old song done better, which shows what whiskey can do. The goats watched their
merry band of protectors with wary acceptance. Noses reached for nonexistent offerings of corn chips, potato
chips, pretzels and beer. Heads pushed playfully against the butts of folks who would absently reach back with
the hand not holding a drink to tousle the hair behind the ears of whatever Dolly or Torie was seeking
attention.
Since the two killings, Bob and Johnny had been taking turns sleeping right in the pen at night with the herd.
Those were exciting nights; then were dreams, fraught with adventure. The herd was confined in the small pen
in the north-east corner of the larger pasture that occupied the south-east corner of the property. Across the
fence was government land, free range, wild mountain wilderness. It was in the pasture that the predator had
made her strikes. Were she to come again she would need to jump right into the pen. Her light foot landing
would place her in the small confine with the herd, the herdsman, and the gun. The fellows took turns with the
.357 Magnum for sleep out duty.
Lying in a bedroll on the stamped earth, revolver at one hand and flashlight at the other, and with, like as
not, one or more of the goats cuddled close and Judy, the puppy, mixed in the huddle, was a strange feeling.
When it was Johnny's turn he found that he was not afraid. The goats were a comfort to him; their feeling of
security, having a human in the pen with them, was infectious. Yet his dreams were crazy, the fun kind of
crazy that is easier to enjoy in a dream. When he awoke it would be with his hand on the gun and ears pricked.
Had something awakened him?
Sometimes a goat would snort, and a ripple of awareness from Johnny and Judy and the herd would probe at
the black velvet surroundings. Ears and noses would twitch; eyes would search and find only stars. And the
black velvet would purr with smooth nothingness, and would hide within her darkness, like cat claws concealed
in furry paws, the wire and the barbs and the pulsing current, and the fangs of the mountain night.
night, none had ever heard the old song done better, which shows what whiskey can do. The goats watched their
merry band of protectors with wary acceptance. Noses reached for nonexistent offerings of corn chips, potato
chips, pretzels and beer. Heads pushed playfully against the butts of folks who would absently reach back with
the hand not holding a drink to tousle the hair behind the ears of whatever Dolly or Torie was seeking
attention.
Since the two killings, Bob and Johnny had been taking turns sleeping right in the pen at night with the herd.
Those were exciting nights; then were dreams, fraught with adventure. The herd was confined in the small pen
in the north-east corner of the larger pasture that occupied the south-east corner of the property. Across the
fence was government land, free range, wild mountain wilderness. It was in the pasture that the predator had
made her strikes. Were she to come again she would need to jump right into the pen. Her light foot landing
would place her in the small confine with the herd, the herdsman, and the gun. The fellows took turns with the
.357 Magnum for sleep out duty.
Lying in a bedroll on the stamped earth, revolver at one hand and flashlight at the other, and with, like as
not, one or more of the goats cuddled close and Judy, the puppy, mixed in the huddle, was a strange feeling.
When it was Johnny's turn he found that he was not afraid. The goats were a comfort to him; their feeling of
security, having a human in the pen with them, was infectious. Yet his dreams were crazy, the fun kind of
crazy that is easier to enjoy in a dream. When he awoke it would be with his hand on the gun and ears pricked.
Had something awakened him?
Sometimes a goat would snort, and a ripple of awareness from Johnny and Judy and the herd would probe at
the black velvet surroundings. Ears and noses would twitch; eyes would search and find only stars. And the
black velvet would purr with smooth nothingness, and would hide within her darkness, like cat claws concealed
in furry paws, the wire and the barbs and the pulsing current, and the fangs of the mountain night.
