| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goat herder 19 June 1981
I put the goats up for sale. Bob didn't want them. I loved them and wanted them alive
and safe, happy, fed, but I was drifting…
People like to eat goats. I do. I have. But none of my own. I was part of the herd.
Programmed to protect it from predators, I was a predator. Fist of steel and stone to the
lion, was I to turn with my own dripping fangs on those that huddled in my lee?
It would inevitably come to that. Male kids are born. There is the sacrifice to be made, the
pagan barbecue, the selection of sperm, noble son of noble mother, and for the rest, edges
of steel, fire and fang.
But Jacques had gone to the auction. All the young bucks but one had died in the
doghouse. The survivor was Houston, crown prince survivor of Crown Princess Dee Dee,
the best milker, by Jacques.
And Luke was left. Until Houston was proved, the herd had no spare bucks. And dairy
does are not for slaughter.
I put the goats up for sale. Bob didn't want them. I loved them and wanted them alive
and safe, happy, fed, but I was drifting…
People like to eat goats. I do. I have. But none of my own. I was part of the herd.
Programmed to protect it from predators, I was a predator. Fist of steel and stone to the
lion, was I to turn with my own dripping fangs on those that huddled in my lee?
It would inevitably come to that. Male kids are born. There is the sacrifice to be made, the
pagan barbecue, the selection of sperm, noble son of noble mother, and for the rest, edges
of steel, fire and fang.
But Jacques had gone to the auction. All the young bucks but one had died in the
doghouse. The survivor was Houston, crown prince survivor of Crown Princess Dee Dee,
the best milker, by Jacques.
And Luke was left. Until Houston was proved, the herd had no spare bucks. And dairy
does are not for slaughter.
| Chapter Fifty-two WIDOWMAKER |
Chela had a guitar, and Vikor learned to play it. She played herself, Portuguese folk songs she had learned as
a child. She showed Vikor a few chords, and he took it from there. He practiced incessantly, at first. Fingering
the chords on a guitar is not nearly as easy, he discovered, as plopping those fingers on the keys of a piano had
been. Eventually they would truck in a baby grand, carefully, over those long ten miles of winding dirt. In the
meantime, he practiced the guitar.
He practiced until he could make each of the simple chords ring resolute and true, without the muffle or the
buzz. He learned to change, from one to another, going over it patiently for hours, A to E, E to A, and C to G, G
to C.
Then he learned to play. Chela's guitar was a good guitar, "A sweet guitar," she liked to say. It was grown and
made in Brazil. It had a hardwood deep, rich tone. One chord, played right, could quiet a room, as had one
chord on the piano in The Jolly Oval. Vikor learned to shape his music around the guitar's mellow sound.
Diana would have recognized the picking of Johnny Stream. She would have smiled and said, "You may have
got your piano playin' talent from that Northern California snob, but, honey, you got that guitar pickin' ability
from me."
Vikor grinned to himself, and his fingers followed the frets. Of course, it was all bullshit, but how Ma does get
in her licks. Diana had never even heard Vikor play the piano. Dove Springs is not in Northern California. And
he got his "pickin' ability" from those long hours of practice. Still, all of it made sense.
Once he could freely make his chord changes, he let the fingers of his right hand take over. He didn't want to
learn Portuguese folk songs, or the top forty, or flamenco. He wanted to learn what the guitar had to say. (By
now he had his own.) And he wanted to learn what he himself had to say. Late in life, well beyond the confines
of the story being told in these pages, he would discover to his satisfaction, that they were the same.
a child. She showed Vikor a few chords, and he took it from there. He practiced incessantly, at first. Fingering
the chords on a guitar is not nearly as easy, he discovered, as plopping those fingers on the keys of a piano had
been. Eventually they would truck in a baby grand, carefully, over those long ten miles of winding dirt. In the
meantime, he practiced the guitar.
He practiced until he could make each of the simple chords ring resolute and true, without the muffle or the
buzz. He learned to change, from one to another, going over it patiently for hours, A to E, E to A, and C to G, G
to C.
Then he learned to play. Chela's guitar was a good guitar, "A sweet guitar," she liked to say. It was grown and
made in Brazil. It had a hardwood deep, rich tone. One chord, played right, could quiet a room, as had one
chord on the piano in The Jolly Oval. Vikor learned to shape his music around the guitar's mellow sound.
Diana would have recognized the picking of Johnny Stream. She would have smiled and said, "You may have
got your piano playin' talent from that Northern California snob, but, honey, you got that guitar pickin' ability
from me."
Vikor grinned to himself, and his fingers followed the frets. Of course, it was all bullshit, but how Ma does get
in her licks. Diana had never even heard Vikor play the piano. Dove Springs is not in Northern California. And
he got his "pickin' ability" from those long hours of practice. Still, all of it made sense.
Once he could freely make his chord changes, he let the fingers of his right hand take over. He didn't want to
learn Portuguese folk songs, or the top forty, or flamenco. He wanted to learn what the guitar had to say. (By
now he had his own.) And he wanted to learn what he himself had to say. Late in life, well beyond the confines
of the story being told in these pages, he would discover to his satisfaction, that they were the same.
| * * * |
| * * * |
Try to sort this out. Agnes is dead, alright. Bits of her could still be found, old bones, but not many. They lie in
clefts in the rocky outcrop that Tawngness used as a dining ledge while she polished her off. White now, they
are crumbs from a meal, calcium monuments to a sacrificed life.
It took Tawngness three days to finish the rest, three days of eating, sleeping, stretching and lounging, three
days of burping and farting and round-tummied, hazy satisfaction, three days of returning, again and again, to
the kill.
Three days of shitting, and another after that, as Tawngness left the Clark's Hill range and migrated
southwest toward Mount Cuyamaca. In each of these fragrant mounds of lion dung the atomic earth of Agnes
Tawny's being was starting over, making new friends, forming new molecules, eager once more for the long
climb, hungry for new life.
Much of her carbon had gone off already, burned in Tawngness' oven, energy traded for two oxygen balloons,
flying, hungry for new life. Each element in its own way made peace with the cataclysm, and new life sprang
from trillions of springs.
When the mountain lion peed, crouching on the trail, nitrogen that had been in the muscles and brains of the
witch went pouring on new missions and fantasies of atmosphere and clover.
Water that had been spit and blood and intra-cellular seas splashed away with the nitrogen to rejoin the creeks
and the clouds, hungry for new life.
Energy that might have carried old Agnes Tawney up onto the rocks of the hill now carried the puma in her
nighttime race with the wind. Some of it all went along with her, some of the fire and wind and water and earth
that was, that had been, Agnes. Stored in the fat, cemented in the bone, flexing in the muscles and shining in
the fur and the eyes, some of what had composed the body of the old woman now became the building blocks of
a lion's life.
Where rode the memory? What happened to the personality? What of her ambitions, her plans and her plots?
They would have been of no use to Tawngness. They were left behind, to vanish like waves against the shore.
clefts in the rocky outcrop that Tawngness used as a dining ledge while she polished her off. White now, they
are crumbs from a meal, calcium monuments to a sacrificed life.
It took Tawngness three days to finish the rest, three days of eating, sleeping, stretching and lounging, three
days of burping and farting and round-tummied, hazy satisfaction, three days of returning, again and again, to
the kill.
Three days of shitting, and another after that, as Tawngness left the Clark's Hill range and migrated
southwest toward Mount Cuyamaca. In each of these fragrant mounds of lion dung the atomic earth of Agnes
Tawny's being was starting over, making new friends, forming new molecules, eager once more for the long
climb, hungry for new life.
Much of her carbon had gone off already, burned in Tawngness' oven, energy traded for two oxygen balloons,
flying, hungry for new life. Each element in its own way made peace with the cataclysm, and new life sprang
from trillions of springs.
When the mountain lion peed, crouching on the trail, nitrogen that had been in the muscles and brains of the
witch went pouring on new missions and fantasies of atmosphere and clover.
Water that had been spit and blood and intra-cellular seas splashed away with the nitrogen to rejoin the creeks
and the clouds, hungry for new life.
Energy that might have carried old Agnes Tawney up onto the rocks of the hill now carried the puma in her
nighttime race with the wind. Some of it all went along with her, some of the fire and wind and water and earth
that was, that had been, Agnes. Stored in the fat, cemented in the bone, flexing in the muscles and shining in
the fur and the eyes, some of what had composed the body of the old woman now became the building blocks of
a lion's life.
Where rode the memory? What happened to the personality? What of her ambitions, her plans and her plots?
They would have been of no use to Tawngness. They were left behind, to vanish like waves against the shore.
| * * * |
Johnny and Bob sometimes wrestled in the ring in Marilyn's barn. On occasion, after one of the late night
drinking bouts, there would be a series of friendly scuffles in the shavings. Especially, after a barn dance up at
the Heinz' main barns, there were sometimes tensions to be worked off between male guests for whom push
had come to shove.
If a beef came to fisticuffs, it usually happened right on the dance floor in the big, old, redwood barn. It would
be quickly quelled by the others, who preferred square dances and Virginia reels to anyone's getting hurt in a
punch-out. But, later on, the assembly would migrate down through La Zania canyon, a column of trucks and
sedans in the dirt road headlights of the wee hours.
There was a kitchen in the barn, and lima beans, cooked with bacon hours earlier, would be warmed up, and
dozens of eggs would be fried. Folks with a distance to drive would some of them start drinking coffee. Music
was over with, except perhaps for the muted sounds of a radio. Conversation would reign, with all of its boasts
and challenges. Perhaps a pair of guys who each needed to know the strength of his rival would provide the
amusement for the after-hours crowd.
Johnny always won his matches. Bob Cabler was quite a bit bigger, heavier, and stronger than the compact
Johnny, but it didn't matter. Johnny was like a twisted whip of live leather. He never started the contests that
he was involved in; it was always someone who had heard, who could not believe, that Johnny would be so hard
to overcome.
He never turned up in a fistfight. He had too much sense for that. He had seen a few mended faces, and
broken hands, in his time, and he was not naive. He knew that a lot of these fellows that he bested in fair
wrestling could probably knock him to pieces if they were to trade punches instead of headlocks.
It was lucky no one ever did try to punch him out, for by the time he had matured about as much as he was
going to, he would have shot or stabbed to death any bully who wanted to take such liberty with Johnny's head.
He never had to do that.
drinking bouts, there would be a series of friendly scuffles in the shavings. Especially, after a barn dance up at
the Heinz' main barns, there were sometimes tensions to be worked off between male guests for whom push
had come to shove.
If a beef came to fisticuffs, it usually happened right on the dance floor in the big, old, redwood barn. It would
be quickly quelled by the others, who preferred square dances and Virginia reels to anyone's getting hurt in a
punch-out. But, later on, the assembly would migrate down through La Zania canyon, a column of trucks and
sedans in the dirt road headlights of the wee hours.
There was a kitchen in the barn, and lima beans, cooked with bacon hours earlier, would be warmed up, and
dozens of eggs would be fried. Folks with a distance to drive would some of them start drinking coffee. Music
was over with, except perhaps for the muted sounds of a radio. Conversation would reign, with all of its boasts
and challenges. Perhaps a pair of guys who each needed to know the strength of his rival would provide the
amusement for the after-hours crowd.
Johnny always won his matches. Bob Cabler was quite a bit bigger, heavier, and stronger than the compact
Johnny, but it didn't matter. Johnny was like a twisted whip of live leather. He never started the contests that
he was involved in; it was always someone who had heard, who could not believe, that Johnny would be so hard
to overcome.
He never turned up in a fistfight. He had too much sense for that. He had seen a few mended faces, and
broken hands, in his time, and he was not naive. He knew that a lot of these fellows that he bested in fair
wrestling could probably knock him to pieces if they were to trade punches instead of headlocks.
It was lucky no one ever did try to punch him out, for by the time he had matured about as much as he was
going to, he would have shot or stabbed to death any bully who wanted to take such liberty with Johnny's head.
He never had to do that.
| * * * |
From the start, Vikor was an exceptional baby. Cat surprised her mother and Johnny Dolan by giving birth at
home by herself. Andrea Clare was somewhat put out.
"We have a telephone," she scolded.
"I had no thoughts for the telephone," replied Cat. She was in bed, though she had delivered on the floor. She
and the baby were cuddled up sweetly, swaddled with quilts. It was January, stormy and cold outside. The
Dolans had been to Collins Cove, on the coast, to have lunch and to enjoy the drive.
They had not anticipated the storm, nor did they plan for baby Victor to arrive while they were gone. Certainly
Andrea Clare did not. She had wanted to be there.
It was understood that Cat would be having her child at home. The university emergency room was close
enough, were there any problem. Cat herself had been born in that house, and Andrea herself had come into
the world in the older house. So she was experienced with each of the primary roles. It was her fond wish to
serve as midwife at her daughter's ascension to motherhood.
Little Victor had foiled that ambition. But Cat One had not been alone in her labor. Agnes was there.
Perhaps it's strange, that Andrea Clare did not think of that. She was irate, and needed to be soothed. She felt
that Cat should have called the clinic so that someone could have been sent over in Andrea's absence.
"They would have wanted to bring me in," Cat protested. "They can't spare someone to come over and sit with
me in labor. I wanted to have my baby here," she said, and her voice fell into a mother's coo. Andrea was
soothed.
"Oh, he's so sweet," she said. She was looking at Victor, and Victor was looking right back. She may have
missed out on the midwife role, but grandmother could not be denied. "Can I hold him?" she asked.
"For a little while," said Cat gently. Victor flowed smoothly from the arms of his mother to those of his
grandmother, and she just adored him. He was so wide awake, but Cat had been as well. She hadn't even been
Catherine yet, when she had looked at her mother with the pierce of a thousand centuries, that same deep
center that is each of us.
Now Andrea saw the same infinite well in the eyes of her grandson, who was only five hours old, and who only
said, "Goo."
Agnes had seen the same. It was an easy job, to be midwife to Cat One Dolan. Cat insisted on doing it all
herself, and she insisted on doing it all. She severed the umbilical cord with her teeth. She ate the afterbirth.
She licked her wriggling darling clean and dry from head to toe. She held him to her breast and let him find
colostrum and all that comes with it.
Agnes had tended the fire, had made tea and kept company, and she had cheered her on when the moment
came. She had rejoiced with her and the baby, and to herself she had marveled. So here he is, was all she could
think. So here he is.
So here he is.
When the headlights of the Dolan's pickup truck stabbed the dark outside, Agnes slipped out of the side door
and was gone.
She strode off into yet another storm, like a champion. She had seen him! Yes!
Of course, Andrea Clare Devlin Dolan never thought for a moment that Agnes had just left. Cat was mildly
amused, but it only added to her bliss.
Andrea figured Agnes to be gone, to be dead. She no longer recalled that a dozen or so years after the cottage
had burned she had become aware that Cat One was herself in communication with the witch. She had even
talked with her about it.
But the years had passed, and as they passed there was little to be said, about Agnes, and Andrea forgot, first
that she wasn't dead, and then, that she had ever lived.
Which was fine with Agnes. She wished Andrea Clare Devlin Dolan well. She wished her well. But she needed
not to share secrets more with her; in a sense, her work was done. Through the magic of biology she had led
Agnes to Cat One, and so to Vikor.
Even Cat was not in on the secret of what was to come next. Agnes laughed, threw back her head, and bounded
into the rocks.
home by herself. Andrea Clare was somewhat put out.
"We have a telephone," she scolded.
"I had no thoughts for the telephone," replied Cat. She was in bed, though she had delivered on the floor. She
and the baby were cuddled up sweetly, swaddled with quilts. It was January, stormy and cold outside. The
Dolans had been to Collins Cove, on the coast, to have lunch and to enjoy the drive.
They had not anticipated the storm, nor did they plan for baby Victor to arrive while they were gone. Certainly
Andrea Clare did not. She had wanted to be there.
It was understood that Cat would be having her child at home. The university emergency room was close
enough, were there any problem. Cat herself had been born in that house, and Andrea herself had come into
the world in the older house. So she was experienced with each of the primary roles. It was her fond wish to
serve as midwife at her daughter's ascension to motherhood.
Little Victor had foiled that ambition. But Cat One had not been alone in her labor. Agnes was there.
Perhaps it's strange, that Andrea Clare did not think of that. She was irate, and needed to be soothed. She felt
that Cat should have called the clinic so that someone could have been sent over in Andrea's absence.
"They would have wanted to bring me in," Cat protested. "They can't spare someone to come over and sit with
me in labor. I wanted to have my baby here," she said, and her voice fell into a mother's coo. Andrea was
soothed.
"Oh, he's so sweet," she said. She was looking at Victor, and Victor was looking right back. She may have
missed out on the midwife role, but grandmother could not be denied. "Can I hold him?" she asked.
"For a little while," said Cat gently. Victor flowed smoothly from the arms of his mother to those of his
grandmother, and she just adored him. He was so wide awake, but Cat had been as well. She hadn't even been
Catherine yet, when she had looked at her mother with the pierce of a thousand centuries, that same deep
center that is each of us.
Now Andrea saw the same infinite well in the eyes of her grandson, who was only five hours old, and who only
said, "Goo."
Agnes had seen the same. It was an easy job, to be midwife to Cat One Dolan. Cat insisted on doing it all
herself, and she insisted on doing it all. She severed the umbilical cord with her teeth. She ate the afterbirth.
She licked her wriggling darling clean and dry from head to toe. She held him to her breast and let him find
colostrum and all that comes with it.
Agnes had tended the fire, had made tea and kept company, and she had cheered her on when the moment
came. She had rejoiced with her and the baby, and to herself she had marveled. So here he is, was all she could
think. So here he is.
So here he is.
When the headlights of the Dolan's pickup truck stabbed the dark outside, Agnes slipped out of the side door
and was gone.
She strode off into yet another storm, like a champion. She had seen him! Yes!
Of course, Andrea Clare Devlin Dolan never thought for a moment that Agnes had just left. Cat was mildly
amused, but it only added to her bliss.
Andrea figured Agnes to be gone, to be dead. She no longer recalled that a dozen or so years after the cottage
had burned she had become aware that Cat One was herself in communication with the witch. She had even
talked with her about it.
But the years had passed, and as they passed there was little to be said, about Agnes, and Andrea forgot, first
that she wasn't dead, and then, that she had ever lived.
Which was fine with Agnes. She wished Andrea Clare Devlin Dolan well. She wished her well. But she needed
not to share secrets more with her; in a sense, her work was done. Through the magic of biology she had led
Agnes to Cat One, and so to Vikor.
Even Cat was not in on the secret of what was to come next. Agnes laughed, threw back her head, and bounded
into the rocks.
Johnny ran breathless, light with the spell of love and imagination. Reaching the first gateway he dashed
between a pair of weathered eucalyptus posts, braced separately and anchored to support the strands of barbed
wire and the gate, hanging listless and unused, mired in weeds and twilight. Rounding the unpainted wood shed
his feet felt like they were just coming back to earth. With a last fond wish he let himself think of
Widowmaker. He longed for the sight of her standing patient in the small corral where she waited for her
cowboy's return.
The Sheriff's troops were forgotten. Night seemed already to be descending on this part of the valley, with the
sun gone behind the hill and the long shade sweeping to the tips of the ridges. It may as well have been
twilight. The earth was cool, and moist for early autumn, more like winter ground after some of the rains had
come. Fresh outcrops of rich, green grass had sprouted here and there, at the base of the shed, around the
hitching post, and out on the outer edge of the corral.
Widowmaker had cropped all of the luscious, deep, green grass that she could easily reach. Beyond the rails
the occasional patch of spring promise teased her. But now her head was raised in attention. Johnny burst into
the shed without slowing, banging open the door and crashing against the old calf-pen on the inside. Drooped
wearily on the eucalyptus rails, he saw his old saddle! It was still there, hung on the rail against the wall.
There with it, hung just as he had always left it, was his old bridle! In a second he had them both and was
sprinting toward the corral. Widowmaker stood at patient ease and waited while he hurled the saddle into place,
stopped to bridle her, that same old bridle, then finished cinching the saddle.
between a pair of weathered eucalyptus posts, braced separately and anchored to support the strands of barbed
wire and the gate, hanging listless and unused, mired in weeds and twilight. Rounding the unpainted wood shed
his feet felt like they were just coming back to earth. With a last fond wish he let himself think of
Widowmaker. He longed for the sight of her standing patient in the small corral where she waited for her
cowboy's return.
The Sheriff's troops were forgotten. Night seemed already to be descending on this part of the valley, with the
sun gone behind the hill and the long shade sweeping to the tips of the ridges. It may as well have been
twilight. The earth was cool, and moist for early autumn, more like winter ground after some of the rains had
come. Fresh outcrops of rich, green grass had sprouted here and there, at the base of the shed, around the
hitching post, and out on the outer edge of the corral.
Widowmaker had cropped all of the luscious, deep, green grass that she could easily reach. Beyond the rails
the occasional patch of spring promise teased her. But now her head was raised in attention. Johnny burst into
the shed without slowing, banging open the door and crashing against the old calf-pen on the inside. Drooped
wearily on the eucalyptus rails, he saw his old saddle! It was still there, hung on the rail against the wall.
There with it, hung just as he had always left it, was his old bridle! In a second he had them both and was
sprinting toward the corral. Widowmaker stood at patient ease and waited while he hurled the saddle into place,
stopped to bridle her, that same old bridle, then finished cinching the saddle.
| * * * |
"Stream." The scratchy, faraway voice was Bob's.
"Shhh," whispered Carol, placing a soothing hand first on Bob's hand, then on his face, to let him know he
was not alone. He had gone back to sleep after waking briefly a couple of hours earlier.
"Thirsty," he rasped. She gave him water, holding the canteen to his lips as he drank.
"Where's Johnny?" was Bob's next concern.
"He'll be back," she soothed. "He rode back to your aunt's stable to get some things. Some supplies."
Bob indicated that he understood. It made sense to him. They were camping out, weren't they? Johnny knew
where to find all the bedding and canned goods and jerky that they might require. He noticed that the moon
had risen while he slept. That was good. Johnny Stream had probably known it would rise, had probably waited
for it before starting his ride. He'll be back, no problem. Real problems were closer to hand. "You ain't gonna
like this," he offered.
"What's the matter?" asked his blonde nurse.
"I gotta pee."
"Shhh," whispered Carol, placing a soothing hand first on Bob's hand, then on his face, to let him know he
was not alone. He had gone back to sleep after waking briefly a couple of hours earlier.
"Thirsty," he rasped. She gave him water, holding the canteen to his lips as he drank.
"Where's Johnny?" was Bob's next concern.
"He'll be back," she soothed. "He rode back to your aunt's stable to get some things. Some supplies."
Bob indicated that he understood. It made sense to him. They were camping out, weren't they? Johnny knew
where to find all the bedding and canned goods and jerky that they might require. He noticed that the moon
had risen while he slept. That was good. Johnny Stream had probably known it would rise, had probably waited
for it before starting his ride. He'll be back, no problem. Real problems were closer to hand. "You ain't gonna
like this," he offered.
"What's the matter?" asked his blonde nurse.
"I gotta pee."
| * * * |
| * * * |
Diary of a Goat herder 20 June 1981
But the goat-eaters thronged to the ads. Every Abdul and Juan who rang my sister's
phone had to be screened.
I even had to rescue Shauna from a Descanso lady liar who promised a home, but
promised a barbecue to her out-of-town relatives. Shane, one of the drifters who hung out
at the priest's house, helped me steal her back to safety.
People came to look, and some of them bought a doe or two. A teenage girl named Janet
came with one family. She was a goat girl; she had some goats of her own. She only came
to see them.
She heard me say that if someone would take them all, I would give them to a good home.
I was alien to the spirit of selling. Betrayal it felt like.
Janet came back and took the goats to her family's ranch over on Buckman Springs Road.
She missed one, Torie's daughter, Kathy. Too wild to catch, born on the mountain,
mother-nursed and pals only with Judy, her safety. The lonesome pair bounced around the
ranch in the following days, quiet emptiness, slipping through the fences, old life
evaporated in the summer wind.
But the goat-eaters thronged to the ads. Every Abdul and Juan who rang my sister's
phone had to be screened.
I even had to rescue Shauna from a Descanso lady liar who promised a home, but
promised a barbecue to her out-of-town relatives. Shane, one of the drifters who hung out
at the priest's house, helped me steal her back to safety.
People came to look, and some of them bought a doe or two. A teenage girl named Janet
came with one family. She was a goat girl; she had some goats of her own. She only came
to see them.
She heard me say that if someone would take them all, I would give them to a good home.
I was alien to the spirit of selling. Betrayal it felt like.
Janet came back and took the goats to her family's ranch over on Buckman Springs Road.
She missed one, Torie's daughter, Kathy. Too wild to catch, born on the mountain,
mother-nursed and pals only with Judy, her safety. The lonesome pair bounced around the
ranch in the following days, quiet emptiness, slipping through the fences, old life
evaporated in the summer wind.
It was more usual for him to soothe the savage, than to trump his fists with bullet or blade. Later on, after the
beans, and after the ones who were leaving had gone, the sensible guests would draw bedrolls, quilts and
blankets about their shoulders, perhaps have a nightcap, and listen while he played his soft guitar.
Johnny would have killed to save Miss Stella as well. He called her the soft guitar, where most in his world
were hard, with the steel strings and rough twang of country music. Stella sang with sweet, gentle strings of
classical gut. When her owner picked them, images formed of Irish fingers by ancient fires, plucking the
shimmering strands of a harp.
When he sang it still was country music, for the words spoke of love and loss, cowboys and outlaws, mountains
and stars. But it was folk music too, for the lyrics spelled the reason and passion of people in patterns that had
lasted since deep in the past.
In a short time the guests would snuggle into their bedding and drift to dreamland in melodies of adventure
and romance. Horses would prance, and hearts would break. Tears would run with the beauty of wild rapids.
People moving, beautiful lands, friendship and the spells of wind and trees and snow would all dance at the
harpers gesture, and the voice first imagined in the ancient breeze would purr in lullaby.
beans, and after the ones who were leaving had gone, the sensible guests would draw bedrolls, quilts and
blankets about their shoulders, perhaps have a nightcap, and listen while he played his soft guitar.
Johnny would have killed to save Miss Stella as well. He called her the soft guitar, where most in his world
were hard, with the steel strings and rough twang of country music. Stella sang with sweet, gentle strings of
classical gut. When her owner picked them, images formed of Irish fingers by ancient fires, plucking the
shimmering strands of a harp.
When he sang it still was country music, for the words spoke of love and loss, cowboys and outlaws, mountains
and stars. But it was folk music too, for the lyrics spelled the reason and passion of people in patterns that had
lasted since deep in the past.
In a short time the guests would snuggle into their bedding and drift to dreamland in melodies of adventure
and romance. Horses would prance, and hearts would break. Tears would run with the beauty of wild rapids.
People moving, beautiful lands, friendship and the spells of wind and trees and snow would all dance at the
harpers gesture, and the voice first imagined in the ancient breeze would purr in lullaby.
| * * * |
| * * * |
Carol and Bob at last drifted into sleep themselves, at the end of the trail of the travail. Meanwhile, Johnny
had made good time, loping easily through the full moonlight along the dirt roads that led back to the stables.
He had waited for the moon; now in its pearly light he could let Widowmaker run. He let her pick her way up
the trail out of the canyon. Once on the road he turned her head to the north, touched her with his heels, and
they were off.
Widowmaker was Johnny's favorite horse, and she wasn't even his. She belonged to Bob's Aunt Marilyn. But
he rode the spunky mare with her owner's full permission. Marilyn Wells didn't have time to give each of her
mounts the exercise it needed. Widowmaker was a great little filly, and Marilyn knew Johnny well enough to
know that the horse was in good hands.
Now those good hands held the reins in a loose and relaxed grip, allowing just the right belly of slack to let the
horse know that she was free to run. From time to time he touched her with his heels to let her know that she
should continue to do just that. The silvery landscape flowed by.
The road they were following skirted the western flank of Black Mountain for a distance. They came soon to a
fork. Johnny slowed up some and guided the mare into a left turn. Then he gave her another nudge from his
boot heels, and off they flew once more. Now they were on Black Mountain Road itself and heading due west,
straight away from the peak.
The road swept through curve after curve. Much of it was lined on each side with eucalyptus trees that Bill
Heinz had planted over the years.
had made good time, loping easily through the full moonlight along the dirt roads that led back to the stables.
He had waited for the moon; now in its pearly light he could let Widowmaker run. He let her pick her way up
the trail out of the canyon. Once on the road he turned her head to the north, touched her with his heels, and
they were off.
Widowmaker was Johnny's favorite horse, and she wasn't even his. She belonged to Bob's Aunt Marilyn. But
he rode the spunky mare with her owner's full permission. Marilyn Wells didn't have time to give each of her
mounts the exercise it needed. Widowmaker was a great little filly, and Marilyn knew Johnny well enough to
know that the horse was in good hands.
Now those good hands held the reins in a loose and relaxed grip, allowing just the right belly of slack to let the
horse know that she was free to run. From time to time he touched her with his heels to let her know that she
should continue to do just that. The silvery landscape flowed by.
The road they were following skirted the western flank of Black Mountain for a distance. They came soon to a
fork. Johnny slowed up some and guided the mare into a left turn. Then he gave her another nudge from his
boot heels, and off they flew once more. Now they were on Black Mountain Road itself and heading due west,
straight away from the peak.
The road swept through curve after curve. Much of it was lined on each side with eucalyptus trees that Bill
Heinz had planted over the years.
| * * * |
Vikor was fascinated that the ramblings about the freeway having its own life were so in accord from one to
another. Of course, by the nineties, the idea probably had occurred to millions, now that the bulk of the
creature had become so well developed. With its arching cloverleaves and all the rest of its archaeological
drama, it showed its kinship with the chariots and arches of ancient Rome. When did it have its genesis? Is it
nothing more than the path of humanity itself that has evolved to such a technical momentum that it appears
to have a life of its own?
Maybe to Agnes appearances were not deceiving but real. What else is each of us but a collection of
mitochondria operating on their own terms in a superstructure of anatomy? Yet we form our awareness, which
in a neurological focus at the molecular level is not some stable, static thing, but is more of an event, a
passage, a transfer or a response to all of the inputs that form the environment.
As far as blending in goes, which was the part of this nonsense which Vikor found applicable, the process was
merely to go with the flow. Diana and her son had watched the pattern for hours, at all hours, day and night, at
times, and they had seen which vehicles were stopped by the highway patrol. Always they were vehicles that
stood out from the crowd, sometimes due to color, sometimes mechanical disrepair, sometimes quality or
market value, and sometimes, a lot of times, velocity. Most of the cars and the trucks on the road fell within
the parameters of visible normalcy. With the exception of recklessness, which was a category as distinct as a
sore thumb, speed was the main distinguisher that made a vehicle stand out.
"You look at your speedometer last, if you look at it at all," said Diana. She was repeating what she had heard
from her own ma. Even after their return to society, Carol Gallagher Stream was an expert at maintaining a
low profile. The old, white Chrysler that society provided her with, that she and her daughter might make their
interaction, cooperation, use and abuse convenient, was marginal at best when it came to equipment. The paint
had gone shabby as well. She drove through Carmel Valley at a pace that harmonized with the landscape, but
on the highway she matched speeds with the other motorists.
Vikor stirred in the seat of the airliner. Now why was he remembering that? He had a picture in his mind of
his grandma bumping along in her old sedan. Riding alongside her was Diana, eyes keen to the adventure.
There she was at seven, when it was a new experience.
There she was at thirteen. It was fifty-nine, and she was cool, and if the old Chrys' wasn't the coolest, it was
cool enough at least for Carmel Valley.
There she was at fourteen, and she was bored, but, hey! Fuck you; she was still cool. Even if she was no
goddess yet, she was already worshipped.
By fifteen the flock of devotees had grown from a few to a few more. A sprite at best, she shunned them all.
She abandoned the society that had embraced her and her ma. They had been treated like a dirty pair of socks,
needing only to be washed and wrung, sterilized and mended. Then they could be used some more.
By sixteen she had been forgotten, out of sight and out of mind. Her ma still remembered her, and still cried
in the late hours. But Diana had been trouble. It wasn't so hard, to see her less and less, and then to see her
one day no more at all. There was no signal to let Carol know that this next absence would be eternal. She had
accepted her permanent farewell long, long before she ever realized that she had already heard it.
another. Of course, by the nineties, the idea probably had occurred to millions, now that the bulk of the
creature had become so well developed. With its arching cloverleaves and all the rest of its archaeological
drama, it showed its kinship with the chariots and arches of ancient Rome. When did it have its genesis? Is it
nothing more than the path of humanity itself that has evolved to such a technical momentum that it appears
to have a life of its own?
Maybe to Agnes appearances were not deceiving but real. What else is each of us but a collection of
mitochondria operating on their own terms in a superstructure of anatomy? Yet we form our awareness, which
in a neurological focus at the molecular level is not some stable, static thing, but is more of an event, a
passage, a transfer or a response to all of the inputs that form the environment.
As far as blending in goes, which was the part of this nonsense which Vikor found applicable, the process was
merely to go with the flow. Diana and her son had watched the pattern for hours, at all hours, day and night, at
times, and they had seen which vehicles were stopped by the highway patrol. Always they were vehicles that
stood out from the crowd, sometimes due to color, sometimes mechanical disrepair, sometimes quality or
market value, and sometimes, a lot of times, velocity. Most of the cars and the trucks on the road fell within
the parameters of visible normalcy. With the exception of recklessness, which was a category as distinct as a
sore thumb, speed was the main distinguisher that made a vehicle stand out.
"You look at your speedometer last, if you look at it at all," said Diana. She was repeating what she had heard
from her own ma. Even after their return to society, Carol Gallagher Stream was an expert at maintaining a
low profile. The old, white Chrysler that society provided her with, that she and her daughter might make their
interaction, cooperation, use and abuse convenient, was marginal at best when it came to equipment. The paint
had gone shabby as well. She drove through Carmel Valley at a pace that harmonized with the landscape, but
on the highway she matched speeds with the other motorists.
Vikor stirred in the seat of the airliner. Now why was he remembering that? He had a picture in his mind of
his grandma bumping along in her old sedan. Riding alongside her was Diana, eyes keen to the adventure.
There she was at seven, when it was a new experience.
There she was at thirteen. It was fifty-nine, and she was cool, and if the old Chrys' wasn't the coolest, it was
cool enough at least for Carmel Valley.
There she was at fourteen, and she was bored, but, hey! Fuck you; she was still cool. Even if she was no
goddess yet, she was already worshipped.
By fifteen the flock of devotees had grown from a few to a few more. A sprite at best, she shunned them all.
She abandoned the society that had embraced her and her ma. They had been treated like a dirty pair of socks,
needing only to be washed and wrung, sterilized and mended. Then they could be used some more.
By sixteen she had been forgotten, out of sight and out of mind. Her ma still remembered her, and still cried
in the late hours. But Diana had been trouble. It wasn't so hard, to see her less and less, and then to see her
one day no more at all. There was no signal to let Carol know that this next absence would be eternal. She had
accepted her permanent farewell long, long before she ever realized that she had already heard it.
| * * * |
The stable that was known as Marilyn's barn extended an equal distance north-east and south-west from the
ring. All the way, high trusses arched over a passage where hay trucks could drive through without turning
around. The alleyway was lined along either side with horse stalls, each with its own doorway opening into its
own corral, outside of the building.
There were various doors. Johnny and Widowmaker plodded through the entire length of the stable. Nickers
sounded in low acknowledgement from this or that stabled horse. The mare shuffled through the deep shavings
in the ring. They went past the kitchen, the office, the tool storage, the granary, tack room, and the sleeping
quarters for the hired hand. Everything smelled like fresh sweet hay. These rooms were not all located one
after the other, but were scattered on either side of the long barn, interspersed with the separate stalls.
Everything seemed in order as Johnny came out on the other end of the building. There were more corrals
away from the barn, and he went by starlight to one that was empty.
He dismounted as if in a dream, so weary and disoriented he felt. He unsaddled Widowmaker and turned her
into the corral. Johnny fetched a flake of hay from the pile under the roof of a separate, freestanding hayshed
with open sides.
There was an overhanging shed off the near south side of the barn under which were stored the manure
spreader, a tractor, and an old hay wagon. Johnny had often before found himself a place to sleep on the old
yellow straw that was piled on the bed of the wagon. He headed straight for it now, tossing his saddle over a
wagon wheel like he had done a million times, and laying the bridle and reins over that, just as neat as a pin.
He had released the bedroll from its thongs on the back of the saddle. Now he unrolled it in the back of the old
wagon onto the same thin layer of straw, and he was asleep in seconds. He closed his eyes, and he told himself,
with the desperate fervor of imagination and exhaustion, that everything was going to be all right.
And it was.
ring. All the way, high trusses arched over a passage where hay trucks could drive through without turning
around. The alleyway was lined along either side with horse stalls, each with its own doorway opening into its
own corral, outside of the building.
There were various doors. Johnny and Widowmaker plodded through the entire length of the stable. Nickers
sounded in low acknowledgement from this or that stabled horse. The mare shuffled through the deep shavings
in the ring. They went past the kitchen, the office, the tool storage, the granary, tack room, and the sleeping
quarters for the hired hand. Everything smelled like fresh sweet hay. These rooms were not all located one
after the other, but were scattered on either side of the long barn, interspersed with the separate stalls.
Everything seemed in order as Johnny came out on the other end of the building. There were more corrals
away from the barn, and he went by starlight to one that was empty.
He dismounted as if in a dream, so weary and disoriented he felt. He unsaddled Widowmaker and turned her
into the corral. Johnny fetched a flake of hay from the pile under the roof of a separate, freestanding hayshed
with open sides.
There was an overhanging shed off the near south side of the barn under which were stored the manure
spreader, a tractor, and an old hay wagon. Johnny had often before found himself a place to sleep on the old
yellow straw that was piled on the bed of the wagon. He headed straight for it now, tossing his saddle over a
wagon wheel like he had done a million times, and laying the bridle and reins over that, just as neat as a pin.
He had released the bedroll from its thongs on the back of the saddle. Now he unrolled it in the back of the old
wagon onto the same thin layer of straw, and he was asleep in seconds. He closed his eyes, and he told himself,
with the desperate fervor of imagination and exhaustion, that everything was going to be all right.
And it was.
Widowmaker! Fortunately he was already in his civvies. With the last ache of a wound never to heal, he
heaved himself into the saddle and gave himself over to the spirit of the horse's legs and the speed of her
gallop. He had pushed open the gate to the small corral when he rushed in with the saddle and reins. "Go for it,
Widow," he gasped, and he gripped the saddle horn as she lurched through the opening and turned away to the
quiet maze of hills and canyons to the north.
She broke into a gallop immediately, and in seconds she was out the back gate, over the slight rise, and out of
sight. She didn't stop, but continued to gallop, cleaving the nameless dark canyon that grew darker by the
moment with the advance into twilight. By the time they cleared the ridge top and crossed Black Mountain
Road, the sun had completely set.
Horse and rider crossed the skyline together as an unwatched purple shadow, and plunged into the canyons of
night. It was after dark when Johnny rode at a nearly soundless, slow pace into the open breezeway of
Marilyn's stable. 'Stable' was just a bit too proper for folks who were close to the owner; Johnny and Bob
tended to refer to it as 'Marilyn's barn,' and so did most folks. Now the faint clip-clop sounded like a whisper as
he traveled the length of the big structure. There was a ring in the center of the barn under the same vaulted
roof. It was thick with wood shavings.
heaved himself into the saddle and gave himself over to the spirit of the horse's legs and the speed of her
gallop. He had pushed open the gate to the small corral when he rushed in with the saddle and reins. "Go for it,
Widow," he gasped, and he gripped the saddle horn as she lurched through the opening and turned away to the
quiet maze of hills and canyons to the north.
She broke into a gallop immediately, and in seconds she was out the back gate, over the slight rise, and out of
sight. She didn't stop, but continued to gallop, cleaving the nameless dark canyon that grew darker by the
moment with the advance into twilight. By the time they cleared the ridge top and crossed Black Mountain
Road, the sun had completely set.
Horse and rider crossed the skyline together as an unwatched purple shadow, and plunged into the canyons of
night. It was after dark when Johnny rode at a nearly soundless, slow pace into the open breezeway of
Marilyn's stable. 'Stable' was just a bit too proper for folks who were close to the owner; Johnny and Bob
tended to refer to it as 'Marilyn's barn,' and so did most folks. Now the faint clip-clop sounded like a whisper as
he traveled the length of the big structure. There was a ring in the center of the barn under the same vaulted
roof. It was thick with wood shavings.
| * * * |
I myself would prefer to see such an analysis done in America, using mountain lions. And I would like to see
the reality of it as well, but there my faith stops.
Imagine what it would take, to change the minds and attitudes of all in this country, that they might let
human-killing panthers co-exist.
That was Tawngness talking to Johnny again, more of her own embellishment to that same winter message.
the reality of it as well, but there my faith stops.
Imagine what it would take, to change the minds and attitudes of all in this country, that they might let
human-killing panthers co-exist.
That was Tawngness talking to Johnny again, more of her own embellishment to that same winter message.
| * * * |
The reality of sacrifice crowds its way into the most sheltered life. The thirst for pain becomes irresistible. The
need for tears.
Learning is painful, no matter how beautiful the symbol. Have you ever watched how painfully leaves die?
There is a world, one of three, in which the source of reality is the lack of reality in the other two. A world
where unreal existence from one world, a place, a time, a thing, a girl, live with the same from another.
Imaginary in its reality. A magic fraught with death. The fatal wound of never having been, a wound that
seems at first to offer a chance of recovery. So a struggle is born.
A man and a woman are in love. Sunsets and sex. They discover how close they have always been. Their lives
are like leaves unfolding always into each other with deeper and deeper pleasure. Lives as perfect as can be, a
velvet throat for death to nurse.
need for tears.
Learning is painful, no matter how beautiful the symbol. Have you ever watched how painfully leaves die?
There is a world, one of three, in which the source of reality is the lack of reality in the other two. A world
where unreal existence from one world, a place, a time, a thing, a girl, live with the same from another.
Imaginary in its reality. A magic fraught with death. The fatal wound of never having been, a wound that
seems at first to offer a chance of recovery. So a struggle is born.
A man and a woman are in love. Sunsets and sex. They discover how close they have always been. Their lives
are like leaves unfolding always into each other with deeper and deeper pleasure. Lives as perfect as can be, a
velvet throat for death to nurse.
| * * * |
"And I'm left sitting on the mountain staring into the canyons over my ten brown toes, my chin on my knees.
Wind blowing my torn dress and strands of hair. Scratched and brown. Chapped lips and squinty eyes. I felt as
old as the mountain herself.
"I picked up my bow and started on my way down the mountain. I felt so alone; then I saw that white gown
lying in the road ahead. It was just dawn on a Sunday morning, warm and gray. I watched for a long time, and
no one was near. Moving swiftly, I took the gown and left the road, finding my way down through the brush. It
was a beautiful dress.
"By a small pond with an earthen dam and a grove of eucalyptus trees, way off in the hills and down off the
mountain, I stopped. There were no cows around, and no people. I slipped out of my old leather skirt and the
old blue work shirt that were summer rags but nearly all I had. Now the mountain had provided again. I waded
into the water and sank to my knees, leaned back, and let the cold water close over my head. I sank in green
liquid, cold green weeds tickling my skin. Then I emerged.
"It was still morning. The gown was clean white cotton, so soft and simple. I adored it. It had been so long
since I had had something so nice. I put it on.
"Then I went dancing across the grass, twirling my new dress around me happily. I was the most beautiful
woman in the world, and my only lover, the wind.
"Then I saw the car. How long it was there, I don't know. It wasn't like me to be so foolish.
"There were two men. They were standing by the car. It was one of those souped-up hot rods with flames
painted on the sides. The men were young, and they had guns.
"My bow was over there by my other clothes. I felt suddenly afraid.
"'Look, a goddess,' one of them said. The other laughed. They seemed pleasant. I smiled. I wanted to run
away, turn and run like a deer, catch up my things and disappear. But my feet wouldn't. I couldn't. I seemed
forced, by their gaze, to stay. Under my pretty cotton gown I trembled, vulnerable.
"'Do you live around here?' the same one asked. I nodded. 'What's your name?' he asked.
"It seemed that he was tearing at the ritual to ask such questions, to ask any questions. But who was I to
complain about my torment? I was being forced. It made no difference what or whether I replied.
"I knew they would strip me, and they did. I knew they would whip me. And they did. Stripped of cotton gown
and freedom, hands tied with a dirty rope to the bumper of the truck. A dream of anguish. I screamed at the
lick of the leather belt, and they gagged me. Between beatings they raped me till blood flowed on my thighs and
my knees were raw in the dirt and stubble.
"I never reckoned I had so much pride, and how painfully it broke. The huntress vanquished. I learned to
hang my head. In despair I learned that all my prayers had been directed to myself. I deserved what I got.
"I didn't know that, when the afternoon was old, and the wind was blowing with first drops of rain, that one
would take my head and lift it, would stare into my helpless eyes, would wrap his hand in my hair and stretch
my neck to a strain. Then, in the only merciful act that was ever done to me, he drew my own knife, from its
deerskin sheath, on the crumpled cotton gown, and he slashed my neck. If I'd had a voice I'd have cried like a
lamb, but my throat was cut. Life was dancing away from me in crimson liquid. I lay in the mud, late afternoon
rain and blood. The pain was gone. I was alone again. I felt the shape of my limbs on the ground, my wrists still
tied.
"For a moment, I even felt sorry for myself. I knew I was dead."
Wind blowing my torn dress and strands of hair. Scratched and brown. Chapped lips and squinty eyes. I felt as
old as the mountain herself.
"I picked up my bow and started on my way down the mountain. I felt so alone; then I saw that white gown
lying in the road ahead. It was just dawn on a Sunday morning, warm and gray. I watched for a long time, and
no one was near. Moving swiftly, I took the gown and left the road, finding my way down through the brush. It
was a beautiful dress.
"By a small pond with an earthen dam and a grove of eucalyptus trees, way off in the hills and down off the
mountain, I stopped. There were no cows around, and no people. I slipped out of my old leather skirt and the
old blue work shirt that were summer rags but nearly all I had. Now the mountain had provided again. I waded
into the water and sank to my knees, leaned back, and let the cold water close over my head. I sank in green
liquid, cold green weeds tickling my skin. Then I emerged.
"It was still morning. The gown was clean white cotton, so soft and simple. I adored it. It had been so long
since I had had something so nice. I put it on.
"Then I went dancing across the grass, twirling my new dress around me happily. I was the most beautiful
woman in the world, and my only lover, the wind.
"Then I saw the car. How long it was there, I don't know. It wasn't like me to be so foolish.
"There were two men. They were standing by the car. It was one of those souped-up hot rods with flames
painted on the sides. The men were young, and they had guns.
"My bow was over there by my other clothes. I felt suddenly afraid.
"'Look, a goddess,' one of them said. The other laughed. They seemed pleasant. I smiled. I wanted to run
away, turn and run like a deer, catch up my things and disappear. But my feet wouldn't. I couldn't. I seemed
forced, by their gaze, to stay. Under my pretty cotton gown I trembled, vulnerable.
"'Do you live around here?' the same one asked. I nodded. 'What's your name?' he asked.
"It seemed that he was tearing at the ritual to ask such questions, to ask any questions. But who was I to
complain about my torment? I was being forced. It made no difference what or whether I replied.
"I knew they would strip me, and they did. I knew they would whip me. And they did. Stripped of cotton gown
and freedom, hands tied with a dirty rope to the bumper of the truck. A dream of anguish. I screamed at the
lick of the leather belt, and they gagged me. Between beatings they raped me till blood flowed on my thighs and
my knees were raw in the dirt and stubble.
"I never reckoned I had so much pride, and how painfully it broke. The huntress vanquished. I learned to
hang my head. In despair I learned that all my prayers had been directed to myself. I deserved what I got.
"I didn't know that, when the afternoon was old, and the wind was blowing with first drops of rain, that one
would take my head and lift it, would stare into my helpless eyes, would wrap his hand in my hair and stretch
my neck to a strain. Then, in the only merciful act that was ever done to me, he drew my own knife, from its
deerskin sheath, on the crumpled cotton gown, and he slashed my neck. If I'd had a voice I'd have cried like a
lamb, but my throat was cut. Life was dancing away from me in crimson liquid. I lay in the mud, late afternoon
rain and blood. The pain was gone. I was alone again. I felt the shape of my limbs on the ground, my wrists still
tied.
"For a moment, I even felt sorry for myself. I knew I was dead."
| * * * |
The good niches in human life have always been the ones of effortless plenty, environments wherein survival
was almost a by-product of one's eager relationship with life. Whether walking in Eden, or working a garden of
one's own, whether hunting in such bounty that hunting itself becomes a graceful sport, whether fishing in
crystal paradise, or merely wandering the land as a beggar from societies of unrestrained prosperity and
generosity, the good life sees no need for cruelty and desperation.
We have niches like that to spare, these days, and we all rejoice in the wealth of our neighbors. Our
technology purrs like a kitten; our nerves too.
Perhaps that's what they'll say.
was almost a by-product of one's eager relationship with life. Whether walking in Eden, or working a garden of
one's own, whether hunting in such bounty that hunting itself becomes a graceful sport, whether fishing in
crystal paradise, or merely wandering the land as a beggar from societies of unrestrained prosperity and
generosity, the good life sees no need for cruelty and desperation.
We have niches like that to spare, these days, and we all rejoice in the wealth of our neighbors. Our
technology purrs like a kitten; our nerves too.
Perhaps that's what they'll say.
