| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder January 23, 1980 (continued)
Also we have acquired Judy. She is a puppy, half German Shepherd and half Lab.
She is learning to be a goat dog. When she is not on the range with the herd, she
is penned up with them. She is a part of the herd, like us.
Also we have acquired Judy. She is a puppy, half German Shepherd and half Lab.
She is learning to be a goat dog. When she is not on the range with the herd, she
is penned up with them. She is a part of the herd, like us.
| Chapter Five TAWNGNESS |
Tawngness was old for a puma. Her range was tremendous, and she traveled at a slow pace. She reveled in the
ability of the carnivore to go for days without eating, and so she would do, holing up in the shade of rim rock
and watching the world with serenity. She had just come from such a spell, hunger having finally goaded her to
hunt. Tawngness hunted like patience itself, letting the prey find her with its fragrant messages, letting herself
be lured with the grace of curiosity.
Her nostrils twitched with innocent fascination as the knife slashed and the blood flowed. The young girl who
died was not the normal prey of Tawngness. These days, these years, what was? She had gone with age to the
scavenger role, like the bears that she sometimes encountered on the northern end of her range, like the
ubiquitous dogs, coyotes, call them what you will.
Tawngness had been smug in her younger seasons, that she only ate of her own kill. Cold snacks came from
her own leaf-covered prizes. And how she relished the hot ones! The nubile fawn with jugular severed, still
gushing its scarlet treat, eyes and lips and tongue exposed to the kiss of fangs, and the caress of a raspy
tongue. Tawngness had quivered with excitement at her weekly, meaty indulgence. She mated once every two
years. But sometimes as many kills as she had claws on a paw would sweep her to as many equal passions in
the time of one moon's turning. Deer were her favorite; Tawngness loved deer!
She had done her work well; they were all faster than her now. Now she only savored in her memory the
intimate thrill of the killing bite. Sex with a rough lion nearly twice her size once every couple of years was a
poor comparison. But the intensity of passion was the same.
Hot blood! Hot meat! The indescribable flavor of fresh death! The flavor of dying itself, the victim's aura mixing
with her hungry purr, the sounds, the breath, the cries and snarls! She licked her lips, and her tail twitched,
and she savored the imprint of those many slaughters.
No, young humans were not her normal prey. But age spreads a strange table. A dumpster-diving mountain
lion is not so choosy as the fast, young killer. She takes what she can get.
One thing that she could not get anymore was action from the male. Tawngness had been barren for years.
This was good, for the strain of keeping milk bags full for a litter of squalling kittens would have proved to be
too much for the old cat. She had contributed her share to the floundering effort of her species to survive.
Dozens of kittens had gone into the world spruced by her last loving licks, never to return. That some had
found their territories, their hunting ranges, their prey, their dens and their mates, she could only hope.
But she knew from personal observation, the point of view of the female lion survival veteran, how stupid lions
can be. They made a much spicier target for the vain shooter, and their own pride and glory frequently blinded
themselves to the subsequent need for extra caution.
Tawngness begrudged the coyote curs their superior skill in this area. Besides, when a rancher opened up on
them, there was frequently a pack of the scroungy mongrels, and he couldn't hit them all. What's another
coyote, more or less?
But a mountain lion was worthy of steady sights, and hunting scopes, and some patience and tracking and luck,
as well. The scene of a glowing, golden aristocrat shining in the center of a meadow or at the crest of a crag on
a sunny day was a situation in which Tawngness had seen many a proud young cat place itself. With fatal
results.
Even her mate changed every few years. Mr. Big and Mighty who had fathered the last year's litter would as
likely as not have been hauled away in some teenaged marksman's trunk by the time breeding season came
around once more. Sometimes his replacement was one of her own, the son driven from the territory by the
reigning bully. Returning now as the heir to the mantle, he seldom recognized his mother, when her turn
came. She was just one of several felines that he fancied to entertain along his convoluted, overlapping range.
The times that Tawngness sensed that Captain Romance back there, who had seized her in her season, was
aware that she was the one who had nursed him till he lost his spots, made no difference. Not to her. Not to
him. They parted without words, but still they spoke to one another, about other cougars they had seen or
smelled, about range availability, about density, about the deer herd and about the lady moon who guided them
on all but the darkest nights.
She had no season now, and if nothing else, she could be smug about never having to endure thrills at the paws
of an overgrown kitten. An overgrown kitten who called himself Lightning, for the name went with the
territory.
As close as a lioness could come to humor was what Tawngness would feel in years when a new Lightning would
arrive, and introduce himself, so to speak.
"I am Lightning," he would growl with pride.
A flash across the dew and you are gone, Tawngness would reply to herself, but to the young master she would
growl and flex and arch and tease, and finally she would submit.
Then he would go, and then he would mate again, and then he would hunt and die. Then only the half-cells
surrendered to warm eggs of the lady lion would live, and would try to survive.
And then like a new wave rising from the rhythm of the swell, another tawny, young, tail-lashing wizard of the
night would appear and announce, "I am Lightning."
ability of the carnivore to go for days without eating, and so she would do, holing up in the shade of rim rock
and watching the world with serenity. She had just come from such a spell, hunger having finally goaded her to
hunt. Tawngness hunted like patience itself, letting the prey find her with its fragrant messages, letting herself
be lured with the grace of curiosity.
Her nostrils twitched with innocent fascination as the knife slashed and the blood flowed. The young girl who
died was not the normal prey of Tawngness. These days, these years, what was? She had gone with age to the
scavenger role, like the bears that she sometimes encountered on the northern end of her range, like the
ubiquitous dogs, coyotes, call them what you will.
Tawngness had been smug in her younger seasons, that she only ate of her own kill. Cold snacks came from
her own leaf-covered prizes. And how she relished the hot ones! The nubile fawn with jugular severed, still
gushing its scarlet treat, eyes and lips and tongue exposed to the kiss of fangs, and the caress of a raspy
tongue. Tawngness had quivered with excitement at her weekly, meaty indulgence. She mated once every two
years. But sometimes as many kills as she had claws on a paw would sweep her to as many equal passions in
the time of one moon's turning. Deer were her favorite; Tawngness loved deer!
She had done her work well; they were all faster than her now. Now she only savored in her memory the
intimate thrill of the killing bite. Sex with a rough lion nearly twice her size once every couple of years was a
poor comparison. But the intensity of passion was the same.
Hot blood! Hot meat! The indescribable flavor of fresh death! The flavor of dying itself, the victim's aura mixing
with her hungry purr, the sounds, the breath, the cries and snarls! She licked her lips, and her tail twitched,
and she savored the imprint of those many slaughters.
No, young humans were not her normal prey. But age spreads a strange table. A dumpster-diving mountain
lion is not so choosy as the fast, young killer. She takes what she can get.
One thing that she could not get anymore was action from the male. Tawngness had been barren for years.
This was good, for the strain of keeping milk bags full for a litter of squalling kittens would have proved to be
too much for the old cat. She had contributed her share to the floundering effort of her species to survive.
Dozens of kittens had gone into the world spruced by her last loving licks, never to return. That some had
found their territories, their hunting ranges, their prey, their dens and their mates, she could only hope.
But she knew from personal observation, the point of view of the female lion survival veteran, how stupid lions
can be. They made a much spicier target for the vain shooter, and their own pride and glory frequently blinded
themselves to the subsequent need for extra caution.
Tawngness begrudged the coyote curs their superior skill in this area. Besides, when a rancher opened up on
them, there was frequently a pack of the scroungy mongrels, and he couldn't hit them all. What's another
coyote, more or less?
But a mountain lion was worthy of steady sights, and hunting scopes, and some patience and tracking and luck,
as well. The scene of a glowing, golden aristocrat shining in the center of a meadow or at the crest of a crag on
a sunny day was a situation in which Tawngness had seen many a proud young cat place itself. With fatal
results.
Even her mate changed every few years. Mr. Big and Mighty who had fathered the last year's litter would as
likely as not have been hauled away in some teenaged marksman's trunk by the time breeding season came
around once more. Sometimes his replacement was one of her own, the son driven from the territory by the
reigning bully. Returning now as the heir to the mantle, he seldom recognized his mother, when her turn
came. She was just one of several felines that he fancied to entertain along his convoluted, overlapping range.
The times that Tawngness sensed that Captain Romance back there, who had seized her in her season, was
aware that she was the one who had nursed him till he lost his spots, made no difference. Not to her. Not to
him. They parted without words, but still they spoke to one another, about other cougars they had seen or
smelled, about range availability, about density, about the deer herd and about the lady moon who guided them
on all but the darkest nights.
She had no season now, and if nothing else, she could be smug about never having to endure thrills at the paws
of an overgrown kitten. An overgrown kitten who called himself Lightning, for the name went with the
territory.
As close as a lioness could come to humor was what Tawngness would feel in years when a new Lightning would
arrive, and introduce himself, so to speak.
"I am Lightning," he would growl with pride.
A flash across the dew and you are gone, Tawngness would reply to herself, but to the young master she would
growl and flex and arch and tease, and finally she would submit.
Then he would go, and then he would mate again, and then he would hunt and die. Then only the half-cells
surrendered to warm eggs of the lady lion would live, and would try to survive.
And then like a new wave rising from the rhythm of the swell, another tawny, young, tail-lashing wizard of the
night would appear and announce, "I am Lightning."
| * * * |
"Once upon a time, there were three little devils," said Bob Cabler, beginning a story to Diana. She was
already seven, and they were seated by the creek, one day. From where they sat, they could see the canyon
open downhill into the valley. Out in the center of the valley was the concrete dam and the deep, blue pond. All
around the pond was cow pasture, naked grass to the edge of the hills.
"Once upon a time, there were three little devils, Starvation, Slavery and Disease. "
"Ooh, they sound mean!"
"They were mean, alright. They did all kinds of mean things to people, little people like you. " Here he poked
her playfully in the ribs. "Fat hogs like me. " He was cruel to himself because he carried a few pounds extra,
where Johnny Stream was lean as a rail.
"What kind of mean things, Daddy Bob?" Daddy Johnny was back up the canyon in the mine. Ma was there
too, Carol Gallagher. Could be she and Johnny had something to talk about.
"What kind of mean things, Daddy Bob?" asked young Diana.
"Oh, I'm telling you," said Bob, in a voice that sounded like a warning from beyond the grave. "Starvation
was a bad one. She wouldn't let people eat, so they would get real hungry. I mean real hungry. Their hair would
fall out, and they'd get so skinny their bones would show. They didn't have no gumption. All they could do was
sit around day after day till their faces turned into skulls. When finally they got to die they were so weak they
didn't even care.
"But Slavery was worse than her sister Starvation, 'cause she would let the people live. So then it went on and
on, the pain of hunger, but they had to work and work, and then they could eat, but it was never enough. It was
never enough of anything, food, clothes, houses, toys, time. And there were rules, and punishment. People
slept in cages. They got whipped. They were bought and sold like horses or pigs."
It was a cold, grey day. Clouds thickened. It might rain. Diana pulled the blanket around her. She felt a sudden
chill. "Sounds awful," she said, her eyes on the distant pond.
"She was," said Cabler, looking as grim as his story. He could feel the chill himself. October might get here
early this year, he reckoned. "She was gruesome, and every awful thing that ever you can imagine one person
doing to another has happened to people in her power.
"But Disease was worse than her sisters, Slavery and Starvation. Disease made folks feel pain in places they
didn't know they had, pain they wouldn't a' thought they could stand. And she had ways of making people ugly.
The bad part about that is, when you get ugly, people don't love you.
"When they don't love you, they start to not care about you, and when they don't care about you, they don't
care for you. When people were sick, and they didn't get cared for, they got sicker. People got sick in all kinds
of ways, sick in the body, sick in the head, sick in the heart, sick in the soul.
"Their minds were sick. Their lives were sick, twisted and distorted. Their customs and laws and all that stuff,
their religions… even their fears… it was all sick. "
"So, what happened then, Daddy Bob?"
Before replying to Diana's question, Cabler had to think. He had begun the story the way he had because he
was in a blue funk. Johnny and Carol were up at the mine, laughing. They weren't laughing at him, for sure,
and he couldn't really hear them around the bends of the canyon anyhow.
But he would have heard them from six miles away, and he felt left out. He felt left out and jealous, and when
Diana asked for a story… because Bob did know a lot of stories… he decided to make one up. For a moment it
seemed like women were devils, so he came up with a tale of three devils who were women.
Bob had no clear idea of any standard theological or mythological definition of devil. To him devils were what
made any place a hell. And for Bob Cabler, starvation was number one on the list of the qualities of hell. That
was because he liked to eat, and he generally did plenty of it.
The times he had been hungry, the times they had been hungry, the times he had watched baby Diana nursing
off Carol, while the rest of the gang did without, the times they were cold and wet and hungry… those times
were hell for Bob.
He realized now, as he wondered what to say next, that cold and wet and every other sort of pain and misery
were all just different forms of hunger. The hunger to be warm and dry, the hunger for a friend, the hunger for
life to be satisfying, the hunger for comfort and adventure, the hunger for love, all of them could lead to
starvation. To Starvation, herself, for she was a devil in this story.
As were her sisters, Slavery and Disease. Dizzy, Sally and Star. Sally. Slavery. Now there was a bitch. Bob felt
that he had endured her lash. School had been slavery for Bob. Unrelenting, march in lines, do what she says
slavery. He hated it. Everywhere he fomented discontent among the Sally-eyed zombies that were his fellow
students, and always he was found out and punished. Tempting his buddies to play hooky with him was one of
the passions of his boyhood. He had to be what he was, a brave little boy, to endure the wraths that would follow.
The little red school house in Carmel Valley was a good place to play hooky from. Bob could guide the willing
young sinners through a selection of misdeeds that ranged from frog hunting and swimming naked to tree
climbing and exploring, from playing on farm equipment, parked out of sight up one of the many little canyons,
to stealing walnuts, apricots, persimmons or corn in the husk to be shucked and eaten raw or roasted on a
sneaky little fire.
Back in the school house the next day there would be punishment for each of the miscreants, but Bob's would
be the larger share. Swats on the palm, standing in the corner, wearing the dunce cap, and lines.
Lines was the worst. The strap? Hell, Bob hurt his hands worse'n that every time he roped one of his
grandfather's calves just for fun. The hat? Hell, he'd wear any kind of hat and dance a jig for them to boot!
Playing the fool was one of Cabler's main tricks. Standing in the corner was a bitch. But lines!
Lines meant he had to stand at the board and write in chalk, over and over again, "I will not play hooky," or,
"I will not come late," or "I will not fight. "
He got away after eighth grade.
A simple toothache had been enough to reveal to Bob more than he had ever wanted to know about disease.
But there are things about disease, slavery and starvation that Bob Cabler would never know. Things about
Dizzy, Sally and Star.
So what happened then? This was to be a children's story. Eventually Diana herself would come to know things
about Dizzy, and Sally and Star that her real dad's buddy would never. She would smile to herself in later years
when she remembered some of the disjointed tales that Bob had told her during those babysitting hours.
"Savior Cat. " (Save yer own cat!)
"Savior Cat?"
"Savior Cat came zooming down from the mountaintop where he lived. He was a huge, golden mountain lion,
with wings!"
"Wings?"
"Yup. Wings. Savior Cat flies up to Star… that's what Starvation called herself… Star… he flies up, and in a
powerful snarl he says, 'Where are the children?'
"And she just looks stupid, and shrugs her devil shoulders like, 'I don't know.'
"And then Savior Cat gobbles her up." Sitting there at the mouth of the canyon, wrapped in her old rabbit fur
blanket, Diana shivered. She couldn't resist glancing up at Black Mountain which rose behind them like some
ancient throne of power. She could imagine a mountain lion with wings swooping down with fangs and claws,
ready to kill.
Bob went on. "Then Savior Cat flew over to where Sally… Slavery… was making some people work so hard
that their clothes were drenched and their veins were standing out. And then he snarls, loud, 'Where is
freedom?'" Cabler was getting pretty worked up by now. Freedom was one of his favorite idols, and he was
proud of himself. Diana listened intently as he spoke.
"'Where is freedom?' he said, and the devil just looked dumb, like she didn't even know what Savior Cat
meant. Then he gobbled her up!"
Diana snuggled up against Bob and trembled.
"Then, Savior Cat, he flies up in the air again, and he circles around with his tail flying out behind him in the
wind, and then he comes down and lands, and there's Dizzy. "
"Disease," whispered Diana.
"Yeah," said Bob, with a dry mouth, and for a moment his mind offered him pictures of all that Dizzy was. His
grandpa's shingles, his grandma's arthritis, the hoof-in-mouth when they had to shoot the cows, the kids in
braces who were suddenly everywhere, his own little girl, Diana, feverish with measles that time in the silo,
even his own last cold, he saw it all. "Disease."
"So Savior Cat, he spreads his wings, and he snarls at Dizzy, and he asks her, 'Where is health?' And she
doesn't know what he's talking about. The only health she knows about is the health of her own little goblins,
the germs and virus and tumors and kidney stones and shit… excuse my French. She just looks at him like
he's crazy, but she's scared, and then he eats her up. "
"And then after that… ?"
"After that there was no more Dizzy, Sally or Star. No more Disease. No more Slavery. No more Starvation.
After that the world was full of free, healthy, well-fed children. With the devils gone, it was heaven on earth."
He seemed satisfied with the conclusion of the naive tale, but Diana had one more question.
"Daddy Bob," she said, "I got a question. Without the devils like Dizzy and Star, how did people die?"
He took it as a joke.
already seven, and they were seated by the creek, one day. From where they sat, they could see the canyon
open downhill into the valley. Out in the center of the valley was the concrete dam and the deep, blue pond. All
around the pond was cow pasture, naked grass to the edge of the hills.
"Once upon a time, there were three little devils, Starvation, Slavery and Disease. "
"Ooh, they sound mean!"
"They were mean, alright. They did all kinds of mean things to people, little people like you. " Here he poked
her playfully in the ribs. "Fat hogs like me. " He was cruel to himself because he carried a few pounds extra,
where Johnny Stream was lean as a rail.
"What kind of mean things, Daddy Bob?" Daddy Johnny was back up the canyon in the mine. Ma was there
too, Carol Gallagher. Could be she and Johnny had something to talk about.
"What kind of mean things, Daddy Bob?" asked young Diana.
"Oh, I'm telling you," said Bob, in a voice that sounded like a warning from beyond the grave. "Starvation
was a bad one. She wouldn't let people eat, so they would get real hungry. I mean real hungry. Their hair would
fall out, and they'd get so skinny their bones would show. They didn't have no gumption. All they could do was
sit around day after day till their faces turned into skulls. When finally they got to die they were so weak they
didn't even care.
"But Slavery was worse than her sister Starvation, 'cause she would let the people live. So then it went on and
on, the pain of hunger, but they had to work and work, and then they could eat, but it was never enough. It was
never enough of anything, food, clothes, houses, toys, time. And there were rules, and punishment. People
slept in cages. They got whipped. They were bought and sold like horses or pigs."
It was a cold, grey day. Clouds thickened. It might rain. Diana pulled the blanket around her. She felt a sudden
chill. "Sounds awful," she said, her eyes on the distant pond.
"She was," said Cabler, looking as grim as his story. He could feel the chill himself. October might get here
early this year, he reckoned. "She was gruesome, and every awful thing that ever you can imagine one person
doing to another has happened to people in her power.
"But Disease was worse than her sisters, Slavery and Starvation. Disease made folks feel pain in places they
didn't know they had, pain they wouldn't a' thought they could stand. And she had ways of making people ugly.
The bad part about that is, when you get ugly, people don't love you.
"When they don't love you, they start to not care about you, and when they don't care about you, they don't
care for you. When people were sick, and they didn't get cared for, they got sicker. People got sick in all kinds
of ways, sick in the body, sick in the head, sick in the heart, sick in the soul.
"Their minds were sick. Their lives were sick, twisted and distorted. Their customs and laws and all that stuff,
their religions… even their fears… it was all sick. "
"So, what happened then, Daddy Bob?"
Before replying to Diana's question, Cabler had to think. He had begun the story the way he had because he
was in a blue funk. Johnny and Carol were up at the mine, laughing. They weren't laughing at him, for sure,
and he couldn't really hear them around the bends of the canyon anyhow.
But he would have heard them from six miles away, and he felt left out. He felt left out and jealous, and when
Diana asked for a story… because Bob did know a lot of stories… he decided to make one up. For a moment it
seemed like women were devils, so he came up with a tale of three devils who were women.
Bob had no clear idea of any standard theological or mythological definition of devil. To him devils were what
made any place a hell. And for Bob Cabler, starvation was number one on the list of the qualities of hell. That
was because he liked to eat, and he generally did plenty of it.
The times he had been hungry, the times they had been hungry, the times he had watched baby Diana nursing
off Carol, while the rest of the gang did without, the times they were cold and wet and hungry… those times
were hell for Bob.
He realized now, as he wondered what to say next, that cold and wet and every other sort of pain and misery
were all just different forms of hunger. The hunger to be warm and dry, the hunger for a friend, the hunger for
life to be satisfying, the hunger for comfort and adventure, the hunger for love, all of them could lead to
starvation. To Starvation, herself, for she was a devil in this story.
As were her sisters, Slavery and Disease. Dizzy, Sally and Star. Sally. Slavery. Now there was a bitch. Bob felt
that he had endured her lash. School had been slavery for Bob. Unrelenting, march in lines, do what she says
slavery. He hated it. Everywhere he fomented discontent among the Sally-eyed zombies that were his fellow
students, and always he was found out and punished. Tempting his buddies to play hooky with him was one of
the passions of his boyhood. He had to be what he was, a brave little boy, to endure the wraths that would follow.
The little red school house in Carmel Valley was a good place to play hooky from. Bob could guide the willing
young sinners through a selection of misdeeds that ranged from frog hunting and swimming naked to tree
climbing and exploring, from playing on farm equipment, parked out of sight up one of the many little canyons,
to stealing walnuts, apricots, persimmons or corn in the husk to be shucked and eaten raw or roasted on a
sneaky little fire.
Back in the school house the next day there would be punishment for each of the miscreants, but Bob's would
be the larger share. Swats on the palm, standing in the corner, wearing the dunce cap, and lines.
Lines was the worst. The strap? Hell, Bob hurt his hands worse'n that every time he roped one of his
grandfather's calves just for fun. The hat? Hell, he'd wear any kind of hat and dance a jig for them to boot!
Playing the fool was one of Cabler's main tricks. Standing in the corner was a bitch. But lines!
Lines meant he had to stand at the board and write in chalk, over and over again, "I will not play hooky," or,
"I will not come late," or "I will not fight. "
He got away after eighth grade.
A simple toothache had been enough to reveal to Bob more than he had ever wanted to know about disease.
But there are things about disease, slavery and starvation that Bob Cabler would never know. Things about
Dizzy, Sally and Star.
So what happened then? This was to be a children's story. Eventually Diana herself would come to know things
about Dizzy, and Sally and Star that her real dad's buddy would never. She would smile to herself in later years
when she remembered some of the disjointed tales that Bob had told her during those babysitting hours.
"Savior Cat. " (Save yer own cat!)
"Savior Cat?"
"Savior Cat came zooming down from the mountaintop where he lived. He was a huge, golden mountain lion,
with wings!"
"Wings?"
"Yup. Wings. Savior Cat flies up to Star… that's what Starvation called herself… Star… he flies up, and in a
powerful snarl he says, 'Where are the children?'
"And she just looks stupid, and shrugs her devil shoulders like, 'I don't know.'
"And then Savior Cat gobbles her up." Sitting there at the mouth of the canyon, wrapped in her old rabbit fur
blanket, Diana shivered. She couldn't resist glancing up at Black Mountain which rose behind them like some
ancient throne of power. She could imagine a mountain lion with wings swooping down with fangs and claws,
ready to kill.
Bob went on. "Then Savior Cat flew over to where Sally… Slavery… was making some people work so hard
that their clothes were drenched and their veins were standing out. And then he snarls, loud, 'Where is
freedom?'" Cabler was getting pretty worked up by now. Freedom was one of his favorite idols, and he was
proud of himself. Diana listened intently as he spoke.
"'Where is freedom?' he said, and the devil just looked dumb, like she didn't even know what Savior Cat
meant. Then he gobbled her up!"
Diana snuggled up against Bob and trembled.
"Then, Savior Cat, he flies up in the air again, and he circles around with his tail flying out behind him in the
wind, and then he comes down and lands, and there's Dizzy. "
"Disease," whispered Diana.
"Yeah," said Bob, with a dry mouth, and for a moment his mind offered him pictures of all that Dizzy was. His
grandpa's shingles, his grandma's arthritis, the hoof-in-mouth when they had to shoot the cows, the kids in
braces who were suddenly everywhere, his own little girl, Diana, feverish with measles that time in the silo,
even his own last cold, he saw it all. "Disease."
"So Savior Cat, he spreads his wings, and he snarls at Dizzy, and he asks her, 'Where is health?' And she
doesn't know what he's talking about. The only health she knows about is the health of her own little goblins,
the germs and virus and tumors and kidney stones and shit… excuse my French. She just looks at him like
he's crazy, but she's scared, and then he eats her up. "
"And then after that… ?"
"After that there was no more Dizzy, Sally or Star. No more Disease. No more Slavery. No more Starvation.
After that the world was full of free, healthy, well-fed children. With the devils gone, it was heaven on earth."
He seemed satisfied with the conclusion of the naive tale, but Diana had one more question.
"Daddy Bob," she said, "I got a question. Without the devils like Dizzy and Star, how did people die?"
He took it as a joke.
