| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goat herder 21 June 1981
With only a back pack and a guitar, I drifted away, farewell to Bob, who stayed on for
the mountain summer, swimming and beer. I had seen it before.
In late July I found myself on San Clemente Island off the coast of San Diego, helping
with the wild goat roundup. Hot, hard, dangerous work, and an island littered with
unexploded Naval ordnance, lava cliffs and cholla.
What a senseless project it came to be. We gathered them into pens by the hundreds, then
fed them and medicated them, nearly a thousand in a vast herd by the time I left, not yet
disease from overcrowding. But an island with no predators? The Navy would have killed
them all. Good idea. People are hungry. Lions are hungry.
When winter came, Bob married the school teacher in Descanso and moved with Judy to
her stone cottage.
The Douglas's, a new family on Boulder Creek Road, adopted Kathy, and she thrived.
Luke died during the same winter.
Judy had nine puppies. I've been to the ranch lately, saw the vines growing on the old
goat pen.
With only a back pack and a guitar, I drifted away, farewell to Bob, who stayed on for
the mountain summer, swimming and beer. I had seen it before.
In late July I found myself on San Clemente Island off the coast of San Diego, helping
with the wild goat roundup. Hot, hard, dangerous work, and an island littered with
unexploded Naval ordnance, lava cliffs and cholla.
What a senseless project it came to be. We gathered them into pens by the hundreds, then
fed them and medicated them, nearly a thousand in a vast herd by the time I left, not yet
disease from overcrowding. But an island with no predators? The Navy would have killed
them all. Good idea. People are hungry. Lions are hungry.
When winter came, Bob married the school teacher in Descanso and moved with Judy to
her stone cottage.
The Douglas's, a new family on Boulder Creek Road, adopted Kathy, and she thrived.
Luke died during the same winter.
Judy had nine puppies. I've been to the ranch lately, saw the vines growing on the old
goat pen.
| Chapter Fifty-three THE EMPTY PEN |
| * * * |
There was one more relic that had stayed behind, besides the stray bone. The crystal had fallen to the earth
with Agnes the night the cottage burned, the same night that Catherine Marie Dolan was born. When the
panther hauled away the body, the little leather pouch remained.
Here's a scenario. Suppose the crystal was essential, irreplaceable, a necessary element in the nutrition of
reality. Agnes and the stone were separated, and each described its own path into the future to the reunion.
Agnes, to Tawngness, to Diana, to Vikor; crystal, to Cat One, to Vikor.
It required Cat One to imagine her father in bolder tones, an attitude added that made him, as Agnes had
said, "wild."
It needed for Johnny to drop to the typewriter on that long ago New Year's morning, to pick out, "Once upon
a time…"
with Agnes the night the cottage burned, the same night that Catherine Marie Dolan was born. When the
panther hauled away the body, the little leather pouch remained.
Here's a scenario. Suppose the crystal was essential, irreplaceable, a necessary element in the nutrition of
reality. Agnes and the stone were separated, and each described its own path into the future to the reunion.
Agnes, to Tawngness, to Diana, to Vikor; crystal, to Cat One, to Vikor.
It required Cat One to imagine her father in bolder tones, an attitude added that made him, as Agnes had
said, "wild."
It needed for Johnny to drop to the typewriter on that long ago New Year's morning, to pick out, "Once upon
a time…"
The sun dropped from the low gray clouds and settled on the horizon. The rain had stopped. Like a candle, the
sun shed shadows on the hills and the cool, wet body. The hair was sodden. The blood was nearly washed away.
Later there would be the candles of the stars. By the lips of the corpse, dead wet grass gave up its hay
fragrance to the dark.
When darkness came to be total, the full moon came gliding over the mountain. Far away to the east on
Cuyamaca Mountain, a man watched the moon rise. His eyes were shiny with tears. Up on the high ridge, the
wind howled in the pines.
He limped slightly as he walked back toward the old trailer. Passing it, he continued on down to the creek.
Oak and manzanita were bathed in silver. The moon wore a gown of white cotton.
Kneeling, he heard the sound of the creek laughing. He heard too the voices of young girls singing. Now the
tears were flowing in earnest.
The moon. Running through all the times and places, like a perennial clue, that rising reminder that nothing
is quite real.
The man's heart was aching. On his knees he sorrowed for death he knew nothing about. An old goat herder,
an empty pen with gate creaking on hinges, all silvered in the moonlight.
He sees her skim the treetops, totally free, mercifully dead from a life she never lived. His daughter. His
mother. His pure and perfect goddess, white as the ice in the heart, red as the eyes of the snake.
The huntress. Finally known, finally loved.
The wind arched over the land, heart bare to the stars, and cried down the mountains to the sea.
sun shed shadows on the hills and the cool, wet body. The hair was sodden. The blood was nearly washed away.
Later there would be the candles of the stars. By the lips of the corpse, dead wet grass gave up its hay
fragrance to the dark.
When darkness came to be total, the full moon came gliding over the mountain. Far away to the east on
Cuyamaca Mountain, a man watched the moon rise. His eyes were shiny with tears. Up on the high ridge, the
wind howled in the pines.
He limped slightly as he walked back toward the old trailer. Passing it, he continued on down to the creek.
Oak and manzanita were bathed in silver. The moon wore a gown of white cotton.
Kneeling, he heard the sound of the creek laughing. He heard too the voices of young girls singing. Now the
tears were flowing in earnest.
The moon. Running through all the times and places, like a perennial clue, that rising reminder that nothing
is quite real.
The man's heart was aching. On his knees he sorrowed for death he knew nothing about. An old goat herder,
an empty pen with gate creaking on hinges, all silvered in the moonlight.
He sees her skim the treetops, totally free, mercifully dead from a life she never lived. His daughter. His
mother. His pure and perfect goddess, white as the ice in the heart, red as the eyes of the snake.
The huntress. Finally known, finally loved.
The wind arched over the land, heart bare to the stars, and cried down the mountains to the sea.
| The End |
