| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder January 23, 1980 (continued)
After I fed the goats I went up to the trailer that contains Bob's bedroom and the kitchen.
There I found a blood-spattered note explaining that he had cut himself severely while
working on a new sheath for his knife. He had driven to San Diego, to the doctor. The
sheath and knife lay there on the table. The sheath he is making of grizzly bear skin.
After I fed the goats I went up to the trailer that contains Bob's bedroom and the kitchen.
There I found a blood-spattered note explaining that he had cut himself severely while
working on a new sheath for his knife. He had driven to San Diego, to the doctor. The
sheath and knife lay there on the table. The sheath he is making of grizzly bear skin.
| Chapter Eight LIGHTNING |
The land grew dark and windy. The forest turned black. Crisp apples all were gathered, and the tree left
to turn sere.
Ducks flew south. Andrea Clare watched from her porch. Looking out across the meadow, she saw her
daughter setting out for the heights.
Another would not have noticed. She saw herself, younger, in the grey caped figure that drifted almost
furtively up the valley, toward the thickets and hidden folds of the canyon.
For a moment, as she rocked lightly on her heels, her mind danced lightly through time. There was another
day, another dark, crisp fall. Then the sudden first snowfall, afternoon in the mountains, a steaming red streak
in the snow.
The back porch was lonesome, and her daughter had disappeared into the mountain.
Andrea Clare took her apron in her hands as she turned and walked down the steps. She would feed the
chickens now. It was cold outside.
Cat One walked through a canyon cool with sage. Her mother was in her thoughts. A beautiful woman.
She came to a tiny hut of wood and stone and cattail thatch. A curl of blue smoke twitched from the tiny
chimney and was lost in the branches of the canyon trees.
It was cold, and crisp. Crispy fall weather! Cat One loved it. The walk to this cabin was wild and colorful. Her
cheeks were rosy. She had run. Her breath steamed. She had also climbed a tall oak and spied the cabin before
she approached. It looked unvisited.
She tapped a tin bell with a wooden tapper. An old man opened the door and smiled to see such a fall sprite in
her grey hood. She was smiling in the wind. Her dimples and freckles seemed to dance with every gust. Her
eyes were twinkling too.
"Well, come in; come in out of the cold. " He led her into the cozy cottage.
"Uncle William," she was saying as he closed the oaken door. "Please tell me a story. "
"A story? Oh, gosh, I don't know any stories. " He sighed across the tiny room to where a kettle steamed on a
sheepherder's stove. "I was about to have a cup of tea. Want some?"
"Of course. " She flounced on a large pillow. She took off her coat and poked a stick of wood into the stove.
"Catherine. "
She looked up, and Uncle William handed her the mug he had just filled. It was steaming hot and smelled
spicy and herbal. Cat One purred. "What's this Catherine?" she wanted to know.
"What's this Uncle William?"
"But I've always called you Uncle William. "
"And I've always called you Catherine. "
"Yes, but that was before, silly. Now I'm Cat One. Catherine's gone. She was a little girl. "
"Now see here," he said, detecting scorn. "I was fond of that 'little girl. ' You being someone new, how shall I
trust you? Who are you to come and be my niece?"
Cat One showed a flicker of perplexion, then brightened and forged on. "I'm Cat One, and I am somebody
new, and you shall learn to love me, if you haven't already. "
"Alas for the child. " He turned and gazed at the flames in the open door of the stove.
"We shall both miss her," said Cat One solemnly, "Uncle William."
Then they both chuckled.
"She was a brat, wasn't she?" he laughed.
"Tell me a story, please, Uncle William," she let her voice rise into a Catherine wheedle.
"What story does Cat One wish to hear?" inquired Uncle William, the story-teller by the fire.
"I want to hear a love story," said Cat One.
to turn sere.
Ducks flew south. Andrea Clare watched from her porch. Looking out across the meadow, she saw her
daughter setting out for the heights.
Another would not have noticed. She saw herself, younger, in the grey caped figure that drifted almost
furtively up the valley, toward the thickets and hidden folds of the canyon.
For a moment, as she rocked lightly on her heels, her mind danced lightly through time. There was another
day, another dark, crisp fall. Then the sudden first snowfall, afternoon in the mountains, a steaming red streak
in the snow.
The back porch was lonesome, and her daughter had disappeared into the mountain.
Andrea Clare took her apron in her hands as she turned and walked down the steps. She would feed the
chickens now. It was cold outside.
Cat One walked through a canyon cool with sage. Her mother was in her thoughts. A beautiful woman.
She came to a tiny hut of wood and stone and cattail thatch. A curl of blue smoke twitched from the tiny
chimney and was lost in the branches of the canyon trees.
It was cold, and crisp. Crispy fall weather! Cat One loved it. The walk to this cabin was wild and colorful. Her
cheeks were rosy. She had run. Her breath steamed. She had also climbed a tall oak and spied the cabin before
she approached. It looked unvisited.
She tapped a tin bell with a wooden tapper. An old man opened the door and smiled to see such a fall sprite in
her grey hood. She was smiling in the wind. Her dimples and freckles seemed to dance with every gust. Her
eyes were twinkling too.
"Well, come in; come in out of the cold. " He led her into the cozy cottage.
"Uncle William," she was saying as he closed the oaken door. "Please tell me a story. "
"A story? Oh, gosh, I don't know any stories. " He sighed across the tiny room to where a kettle steamed on a
sheepherder's stove. "I was about to have a cup of tea. Want some?"
"Of course. " She flounced on a large pillow. She took off her coat and poked a stick of wood into the stove.
"Catherine. "
She looked up, and Uncle William handed her the mug he had just filled. It was steaming hot and smelled
spicy and herbal. Cat One purred. "What's this Catherine?" she wanted to know.
"What's this Uncle William?"
"But I've always called you Uncle William. "
"And I've always called you Catherine. "
"Yes, but that was before, silly. Now I'm Cat One. Catherine's gone. She was a little girl. "
"Now see here," he said, detecting scorn. "I was fond of that 'little girl. ' You being someone new, how shall I
trust you? Who are you to come and be my niece?"
Cat One showed a flicker of perplexion, then brightened and forged on. "I'm Cat One, and I am somebody
new, and you shall learn to love me, if you haven't already. "
"Alas for the child. " He turned and gazed at the flames in the open door of the stove.
"We shall both miss her," said Cat One solemnly, "Uncle William."
Then they both chuckled.
"She was a brat, wasn't she?" he laughed.
"Tell me a story, please, Uncle William," she let her voice rise into a Catherine wheedle.
"What story does Cat One wish to hear?" inquired Uncle William, the story-teller by the fire.
"I want to hear a love story," said Cat One.
| * * * |
Chela. Vikor met her on that evening flight from San Diego to Houston. The two were seated side by side on
the starboard side of the airliner. Chela had the middle seat. Vikor sat by the window, and the position on the
aisle was empty.
"May I?" she asked with polite confidence that the answer would be sure. Vikor opened his eyes to see her
half-risen from her seat. She wanted to look out of the window and down, at the city.
"Sure," he said, and pressed back into his seat slightly as the pretty young woman leaned across his lap.
"There's not much to see," he added, having just looked himself prior to settling down and closing his eyes.
"Oh, you're right," she said with soft disappointment. She arranged herself back into her own seat and looked
back toward her neighbor, but Vikor had already closed his eyes again.
The plane was still rising and circling after taking off from Lindbergh Field. It banked to the right over the
Pacific Ocean, already above the heavy marine layer that had come in after sunset. Were it not for the cloud
bank, the view of San Diego would have been fabulous.
Chela sighed. Oh, well, she had seen the city for a week. Now she was going home. She glanced again at the
sleeping outlaw. She wanted to talk; he wanted to dream.
Below, the mist was quickly left behind as they flew east. A goatherder on Cuyamaca who chanced to look up
would have seen the lights passing high in the crystal starlight, and not till the jet was half across the sky
would he have heard its deep, distant rumble.
She thought now of her kids. Chela had been to San Diego for the funeral of her mama. Back in Japatul,
Bonita and Lillia waited for the return of their own mama. By now they would be asleep in the home of their
Aunt Violeta, who was Chela's sister. 'Shay-la' was how the family pronounced the name of Violeta's pretty
sibling, and 'hop-a-tool' was how they all pronounced the name of the little valley in New Mexico that was home.
Somebody at the wake, after hearing Chela name and describe her territory, had told her that there was a
valley out to the east of San Diego, in the mountains south of Alpine and Descanso, that was also called
Japatul. This was pronounced the same way, 'hop-a-tool. '
She thanked him for the bit of trivia. She doubted that there was any similarity beyond the name. As the
California valley passed in darkness beneath the speeding jet, she reflected on how her own New Mexico
Japatul was sometimes called 'Outlaw Valley. ' She had not told that to her fellow mourner.
A year and a half earlier, on the occasion of their beloved papa's funeral, it was Violeta who had flown to the
coast. This time it had been Chela's turn.
This time it had been Violeta's turn to watch the flock of cousins. This time Chela got to return to San Diego,
to see all the relatives in Point Loma, to see the sunset over the Pacific Ocean, to see how San Diego had
changed since she and her sister had grown up by the saucy harbor, to see how their mama looked, as she lay
with eyes closed, hands folded and clutching to her breast a beautiful, white camellia that she would have loved.
She would have called it japonica. She would have told one who admired the flower how the bush, which her
own fingers had reverently tended for years, was descended in a direct series of grafts, all the way from a
specimen that was brought from China by way of the Jesuits, long, long ago.
She lay in serenity, her japonica clasped in fingers and rosary, mama in her coffin. Chela had stood by herself
in the room at the mortuary for quite some time, alone but for whatever soul or memory might linger, of
Mama. Right then, she had no specific thoughts, not in words, at least. She was rained on by pictures, splashing
images of Mama laughing, Mama weeping, Mama scolding, Mama refusing, Mama, Mama, Mama… when she
did find words in her head, it was like coming home to find the phonograph on with a record skipping
endlessly… Mama's coffin, Mama's casket, Mama's box, Mama's basket, Mama's coffin, Mama's casket,
Mama's box… Mama's basket…
Mama's basket? With a start, Chela realized of a sudden that it did look like a basket, like a big Easter basket
with all the ribbons and flowers, and there's Mama, pretending to be an Easter egg!
So, what is this, hey? Is that you, Mama, still tugging? Well listen, old girl, and I love you, Mama, but, if you
guessed you'd be having a last, fast one, I got news for you, we got one more laugh up our blouses, me'n
Violeta.
We got your money, Mama, and I, for one, hope you watch how we spend it… no, no, not from hell! I love you.
I want you to watch from heaven… I want you to enjoy it! I want you to enjoy that funny feeling you're gonna
get when you see us doing all the things with Papa's money that you wouldn't ever let us do.
I want you to sit there in heaven on your silly fanny with a cross-eyed look of wonder on your face, and when
other heavenly folk come by and ask, 'Hey, what's with you?' I want you to blush and grin like some sheep and
say 'My daughters are throwing away my money on clothes and dope and beer for cowboys, and cars and trips
and honky tonks, and pick up trucks and roll roofing for the cabin, and food for the neighbors who ain't got
any, and silver and gold to bury down under the floorboards, just in case, and just like I knew they would…
you'll be so happy, you won't know whether to laugh or cry, Mama… and then Chela did cry, her mind spun dry
of ranting, and her eyes brimful of real tears.
the starboard side of the airliner. Chela had the middle seat. Vikor sat by the window, and the position on the
aisle was empty.
"May I?" she asked with polite confidence that the answer would be sure. Vikor opened his eyes to see her
half-risen from her seat. She wanted to look out of the window and down, at the city.
"Sure," he said, and pressed back into his seat slightly as the pretty young woman leaned across his lap.
"There's not much to see," he added, having just looked himself prior to settling down and closing his eyes.
"Oh, you're right," she said with soft disappointment. She arranged herself back into her own seat and looked
back toward her neighbor, but Vikor had already closed his eyes again.
The plane was still rising and circling after taking off from Lindbergh Field. It banked to the right over the
Pacific Ocean, already above the heavy marine layer that had come in after sunset. Were it not for the cloud
bank, the view of San Diego would have been fabulous.
Chela sighed. Oh, well, she had seen the city for a week. Now she was going home. She glanced again at the
sleeping outlaw. She wanted to talk; he wanted to dream.
Below, the mist was quickly left behind as they flew east. A goatherder on Cuyamaca who chanced to look up
would have seen the lights passing high in the crystal starlight, and not till the jet was half across the sky
would he have heard its deep, distant rumble.
She thought now of her kids. Chela had been to San Diego for the funeral of her mama. Back in Japatul,
Bonita and Lillia waited for the return of their own mama. By now they would be asleep in the home of their
Aunt Violeta, who was Chela's sister. 'Shay-la' was how the family pronounced the name of Violeta's pretty
sibling, and 'hop-a-tool' was how they all pronounced the name of the little valley in New Mexico that was home.
Somebody at the wake, after hearing Chela name and describe her territory, had told her that there was a
valley out to the east of San Diego, in the mountains south of Alpine and Descanso, that was also called
Japatul. This was pronounced the same way, 'hop-a-tool. '
She thanked him for the bit of trivia. She doubted that there was any similarity beyond the name. As the
California valley passed in darkness beneath the speeding jet, she reflected on how her own New Mexico
Japatul was sometimes called 'Outlaw Valley. ' She had not told that to her fellow mourner.
A year and a half earlier, on the occasion of their beloved papa's funeral, it was Violeta who had flown to the
coast. This time it had been Chela's turn.
This time it had been Violeta's turn to watch the flock of cousins. This time Chela got to return to San Diego,
to see all the relatives in Point Loma, to see the sunset over the Pacific Ocean, to see how San Diego had
changed since she and her sister had grown up by the saucy harbor, to see how their mama looked, as she lay
with eyes closed, hands folded and clutching to her breast a beautiful, white camellia that she would have loved.
She would have called it japonica. She would have told one who admired the flower how the bush, which her
own fingers had reverently tended for years, was descended in a direct series of grafts, all the way from a
specimen that was brought from China by way of the Jesuits, long, long ago.
She lay in serenity, her japonica clasped in fingers and rosary, mama in her coffin. Chela had stood by herself
in the room at the mortuary for quite some time, alone but for whatever soul or memory might linger, of
Mama. Right then, she had no specific thoughts, not in words, at least. She was rained on by pictures, splashing
images of Mama laughing, Mama weeping, Mama scolding, Mama refusing, Mama, Mama, Mama… when she
did find words in her head, it was like coming home to find the phonograph on with a record skipping
endlessly… Mama's coffin, Mama's casket, Mama's box, Mama's basket, Mama's coffin, Mama's casket,
Mama's box… Mama's basket…
Mama's basket? With a start, Chela realized of a sudden that it did look like a basket, like a big Easter basket
with all the ribbons and flowers, and there's Mama, pretending to be an Easter egg!
So, what is this, hey? Is that you, Mama, still tugging? Well listen, old girl, and I love you, Mama, but, if you
guessed you'd be having a last, fast one, I got news for you, we got one more laugh up our blouses, me'n
Violeta.
We got your money, Mama, and I, for one, hope you watch how we spend it… no, no, not from hell! I love you.
I want you to watch from heaven… I want you to enjoy it! I want you to enjoy that funny feeling you're gonna
get when you see us doing all the things with Papa's money that you wouldn't ever let us do.
I want you to sit there in heaven on your silly fanny with a cross-eyed look of wonder on your face, and when
other heavenly folk come by and ask, 'Hey, what's with you?' I want you to blush and grin like some sheep and
say 'My daughters are throwing away my money on clothes and dope and beer for cowboys, and cars and trips
and honky tonks, and pick up trucks and roll roofing for the cabin, and food for the neighbors who ain't got
any, and silver and gold to bury down under the floorboards, just in case, and just like I knew they would…
you'll be so happy, you won't know whether to laugh or cry, Mama… and then Chela did cry, her mind spun dry
of ranting, and her eyes brimful of real tears.
| * * * |
Vikor's eyes stayed closed, but he wasn't asleep. He thought about the strange career that he had chosen, that
had chosen him.
It seemed like such a simple thing to do, to kill and rob and flee. It seemed logical to do it a lot, to get good at
it, and to play the odds. It seemed shrewd to move at random, from city to city.
Vikor had actually drawn names of cities from a hat when selecting his destinations for each round of plunder.
This, he reasoned, left it random. It made it impossible for a tracker to anticipate his next move.
There was to be none of this "suspect was apprehended after holding up the eighth in a series of liquor stores
in Dorkville," or "gas stations on First Street," or "banks in the downtown area. "
Sure, there was time to pull several jobs in one city, probably all on the same day. Then it was down to the
airport and out, with a new name and no tracks, no clues.
Now where did that come from? Who would be tracking him? Some cop? Some special investigator? Some
agent from the F. B. I?
Maybe it would be a private eye, or a bounty hunter. Maybe the wrath of the family or friends of one of our
heedless hero's victims had led to the hiring of a civilian goon, or the posting of a reward.
Perhaps it would be a tracker with native blood, a hunter, or a shaman, a reader of signs or trails. It would
need be a hunter who could find a trail in the air, thought Vikor, at times when a jet would lift away like a
hawk from the scene, the city, of a kill. It would have to be someone who could track the random wind, he
would think, and being young he would laugh. I am Vikor, he thought with all of the innocence of vanity.
And somewhere on a mountainside, a cougar looked at the sky with a sardonic glitter. And that is exactly how
we do it, would be how we read his mind, if it were so simple and ourselves so wise. His nose might twitch in the
offering of the breeze, telling tales and pointing. I am Lightning, and I do track the wind.
had chosen him.
It seemed like such a simple thing to do, to kill and rob and flee. It seemed logical to do it a lot, to get good at
it, and to play the odds. It seemed shrewd to move at random, from city to city.
Vikor had actually drawn names of cities from a hat when selecting his destinations for each round of plunder.
This, he reasoned, left it random. It made it impossible for a tracker to anticipate his next move.
There was to be none of this "suspect was apprehended after holding up the eighth in a series of liquor stores
in Dorkville," or "gas stations on First Street," or "banks in the downtown area. "
Sure, there was time to pull several jobs in one city, probably all on the same day. Then it was down to the
airport and out, with a new name and no tracks, no clues.
Now where did that come from? Who would be tracking him? Some cop? Some special investigator? Some
agent from the F. B. I?
Maybe it would be a private eye, or a bounty hunter. Maybe the wrath of the family or friends of one of our
heedless hero's victims had led to the hiring of a civilian goon, or the posting of a reward.
Perhaps it would be a tracker with native blood, a hunter, or a shaman, a reader of signs or trails. It would
need be a hunter who could find a trail in the air, thought Vikor, at times when a jet would lift away like a
hawk from the scene, the city, of a kill. It would have to be someone who could track the random wind, he
would think, and being young he would laugh. I am Vikor, he thought with all of the innocence of vanity.
And somewhere on a mountainside, a cougar looked at the sky with a sardonic glitter. And that is exactly how
we do it, would be how we read his mind, if it were so simple and ourselves so wise. His nose might twitch in the
offering of the breeze, telling tales and pointing. I am Lightning, and I do track the wind.
| * * * |
And I am Tawngness, she voiced to herself in silence. It was nineteen sixty-two, but she did not know that. It
was Diana who lay, the abandoned kill, in the rainy, summer twilight, but she did not know that.
But she knew that once, a long, long time ago, she had eaten human flesh. Perish the thought that she might
have killed the offering; she had never done that! But it had been in the winter.
She had been hungry. She was still in her smug youth (it had been only nineteen thirty-eight, after all, but she
didn't know that either), and she was indeed a huntress, but she had been hungry, and she had been drawn.
She knew of the little cottage hidden in the folds of land at the base of Clark's hill. She had never been that
close to it before, as she was that afternoon. She lay beneath the lower boughs of a spruce that was one of
several at the edge of the tiny meadow, and she watched.
She was still exploring, Tawngness was, looking for the range and the game, looking for the stability of a good
den.
A good den. Tawngness had already had her first litter, but she had not yet found the good den. She had lost
that litter, forced to abandon them to their little deaths by discovery or starvation. Mama lion's tits shriveled,
and she returned to her quest. Now it was nearly winter; she was hungry; she was still rambling, and she was
drawn to this vigilance. She waited with the resignation of a sentry.
The cottage waited in deepening gloom. Storm clouds billowed about the mountain itself. Low thunder guttered
in the distance and grew more near. The air was pregnant with rain. Candles flickered from the windows of the
tiny wooden house with the stone chimney. The low eaves were clustered with vines. The ground around was a
mosaic of herbs and stone. Thunder rumbled in the canyon, and the twilit clouds flashed.
Tawngness had not yet met Lightning, the Magnificent Panther, in all or any of his forms. (Her first kittens
were fathered by Venga, on another range, in another territory. ) But on this afternoon she saw the real
lightning. Ears flat with a feline wince, she clutched at the ground as the yellow claw swiped at the witch's
cabin. The thunder was simultaneous. So was the rupture of the glass, the burst of windows, the hurtle of
objects outward bound from the explosive impact. In a second the scene composed itself to a settled ball of fire,
as the wrecked cottage blazed.
It was all Tawngness could manage, to cling and not to flee. She was safe, but her brain danced with alarm. She
was near enough to feel the warmth, as the fire raged and died. She had learned that, for the big cats, to break
cover was often the big mistake. She froze in hiding.
The tumbled body of an old woman hurtled from the opening door of the cottage at the moment of the
electrical strike. She fell outside of the grip of fire. Tawngness watched her weak struggle, saw her lift herself
on her elbow and turn to look back on the doom of her home.
was Diana who lay, the abandoned kill, in the rainy, summer twilight, but she did not know that.
But she knew that once, a long, long time ago, she had eaten human flesh. Perish the thought that she might
have killed the offering; she had never done that! But it had been in the winter.
She had been hungry. She was still in her smug youth (it had been only nineteen thirty-eight, after all, but she
didn't know that either), and she was indeed a huntress, but she had been hungry, and she had been drawn.
She knew of the little cottage hidden in the folds of land at the base of Clark's hill. She had never been that
close to it before, as she was that afternoon. She lay beneath the lower boughs of a spruce that was one of
several at the edge of the tiny meadow, and she watched.
She was still exploring, Tawngness was, looking for the range and the game, looking for the stability of a good
den.
A good den. Tawngness had already had her first litter, but she had not yet found the good den. She had lost
that litter, forced to abandon them to their little deaths by discovery or starvation. Mama lion's tits shriveled,
and she returned to her quest. Now it was nearly winter; she was hungry; she was still rambling, and she was
drawn to this vigilance. She waited with the resignation of a sentry.
The cottage waited in deepening gloom. Storm clouds billowed about the mountain itself. Low thunder guttered
in the distance and grew more near. The air was pregnant with rain. Candles flickered from the windows of the
tiny wooden house with the stone chimney. The low eaves were clustered with vines. The ground around was a
mosaic of herbs and stone. Thunder rumbled in the canyon, and the twilit clouds flashed.
Tawngness had not yet met Lightning, the Magnificent Panther, in all or any of his forms. (Her first kittens
were fathered by Venga, on another range, in another territory. ) But on this afternoon she saw the real
lightning. Ears flat with a feline wince, she clutched at the ground as the yellow claw swiped at the witch's
cabin. The thunder was simultaneous. So was the rupture of the glass, the burst of windows, the hurtle of
objects outward bound from the explosive impact. In a second the scene composed itself to a settled ball of fire,
as the wrecked cottage blazed.
It was all Tawngness could manage, to cling and not to flee. She was safe, but her brain danced with alarm. She
was near enough to feel the warmth, as the fire raged and died. She had learned that, for the big cats, to break
cover was often the big mistake. She froze in hiding.
The tumbled body of an old woman hurtled from the opening door of the cottage at the moment of the
electrical strike. She fell outside of the grip of fire. Tawngness watched her weak struggle, saw her lift herself
on her elbow and turn to look back on the doom of her home.
