by Zane Grey
Long Keven reclined there against the tree trunk, feeling Beryl beside him, watching with wide all-absorbing eyes, and again listening blindly, and still again narrowing his lids down to make the forest kingdom resemble what it might have been at the dawn of man upon the earth.
The forest spoke, the river called, the clouds sailed across the blue above. The smell of the hot dry earth, the sweet myrtle, the faint pungency of the piny mountain slope below and intangible drifting odors filtered into Keven’s blood.
He had the sensation of sinking through space and the immeasurable past back to the primal day when these things had been inculcated into the flesh and bone that had been father to him. He wavered there on the verge, never quite attaining the savage state that his being yearned for. The instant his unthinking self gained that vague haunting happiness of a bygone age, then his consciousness intervened. He would deny it, and become again a man who reveled in his senses, only to smell and see and hear and feel his way back to realization of his state. Never could he utterly win that bliss for more than a fleeting instant. But as he had dreamily felt it stealing over him these endless transforming weeks, so now he grasped its significance, its truth, its glorious power to uplift and satisfy and save.
“Beryl, what are you thinking of?” he asked at last, no longer able to deny his intelligence, his thinking self.
She gave a little start. From whence had his voice dragged her?
“I wasn’t thinking,” she said dreamily.
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
There it was. He had expected that. Keven divined he must approach Beryl differently, if he were ever to get at this aloofness of her. He understood it. He believed she had by nature and training penetrated deep into this strange state of feeling of suspended consciousness that so baffled him.
“Are you happy?” he went on.
“Oh—so happy,” she replied softly.
“You like this? To climb high up the mountain, to look far down, to be under the trees?”
“Love it better than anything except the river—and you. But you are the river, for you came with it.”
“You have an oak leaf in one hand,” continued Keven, “and pine needles in the other. You have been smelling them. I watched you on the way up. I saw you touch the firs with caressing hand. How many times you stopped to look and listen! You turned your ear to the falling water. You see every living creature of the woods before I do. You choose to sit in the sun instead of the shade. You stuck a long golden leaf in your hair, as an Indian might a feather…. A hundred things like these you’ve done. Were you conscious of them?”
“No, Kev, I wasn’t,” she replied. “I’m surprised at you. I’ll have to be careful—if you’re so observant.”
“Dear, I’m terribly serious. I want you to help me to find out something.”
“About me, Kev?”
“Yes, and through that, about myself.”
“I’m an open book for you, Kev.”
“You are not. You are a marvelous mystery. I don’t want you any different. I only want to climb to heaven with you…. Beryl, only a little while ago—well, you know what I was. Then came freedom from that craving for liquor. Then came love! … If I was tortured before, I am tortured more now. I feel health, strength coming back. I sleep, I eat. My nightmares have gone. I can see better out of this half-blind eye…. There, I’ll hold my hand over my good eye…. Beryl, I can see you—and not so dimly. So you and the river and this solitude have done something to my spirit, and through that to my mistreated body. I can’t explain it. I only feel. And I am tortured because it may be only a dream, a delusion.”
“Ah no, Kev. It is life. It comes from my beloved Solitude.”
“But what comes?” he entreated, in perplexity.
“I—I don’t know exactly,” she replied thoughtfully. “But I know how I feel when I’m away. I long for the river and the woods. I don’t want you to think I haven’t learned things and have not enjoyed the time away from home. I have. But out there in what they call civilization I see and I think. Here I see, but don’t think, I guess that’s it. Roseburg and Portland, one a town and the other a city, I enjoy for a while. I liked my work at Roseburg, and especially school. But I saw the haste, the waste, the madness of people. For money! For excitement! For speed! I saw their selfishness and greed, their misery and sorrow, their sacrifice, and oh, the good and courage of a few. Then I would long for the river, and the firs, for my Solitude. And when I got back something stole over me again. All that—that which troubled me faded away. I forgot.”
Keven felt that she had told him much, yet the illusive thing held aloof. He must probe his own heart, perhaps, if he were ever to disclose it. But there was arresting sweetness in this glimpse of Beryl Aard’s soul.
“In a word, then, Beryl, there is peace comes to one here. And after that, this other thing—this illusive spell, which you and I were under till I broke it.”
“Kev, since you make me think, I’ll tell you something nice I just thought. You are a very bright boy! … But let’s go back to our spell. Let’s climb higher, where we can see. This is nothing. Let’s go up, Kev, up to a place I know, and forget.”
“Yes, darling, I’ll be happy to, but just a word more. Please.”
“Well, go on, you dream-killer!”
“Doesn’t this wonderful spell you speak of come from physical things? What thrills you the most?”
“Smells. The smell of the pines and the firs. The smell of burning leaves—of campfire smoke. The smell of sweet myrtle. Dad always sent me some in letters. My heart would leap. Then I was back here at Solitude. Oh, I love to smell everything here at home. Even a skunk! … Isn’t that dreadful? But it’s true.”
Keven laughed at that, but continued: “Now, Beryl, when you look out there and down, what do you feel?”
“Nothing, till you make me think. I just see.”
He was silent awhile, because realization of this girl’s nature and of his extraordinary good fortune inhibited further speech. If Beryl had Indian blood, which indeed she had in some degree, what was it in him that struggled to meet her on her plane, to understand and feel with her, to get under that smooth, golden-tanned, blue-veined skin of hers? And the answer seemed to be the heritage of a primitive day.
“Come on, enchantress,” he said at length, merrily seizing her hand. “Let us climb on up—and back! But beware of making me love you more.”
Midday found them on the heights, and Keven, at least, was spent and fagged. Purposely he had not looked back or down for hours—but always up the changing slopes.
Beryl led him to a ridgetop of the mountain, the last slow rise of which was black with mantle of firs. Up to this border a meadow almost on end had led, grassy, dotted with purple asters waving in the breeze. The air was thin and cool. Keven panted. He saw the heaving of Beryl’s breast. There were dewy drops on her forehead. They flung themselves down on the ground beneath a huge slanting slab of gray-green mossed rock, which marked the edge of the forest.
“Look, Kev, look with my eyes,” cried Beryl. “This is my throne. I’ve climbed here twice a year since I was ten.”
Keven had fortified himself; he had learned how to look. This last ridge of the mountain ran westward, so that when Keven gazed straight he faced the west. He saw only heavy pearl-white clouds, moving almost imperceptibly, closer than he had ever been to clouds, across the deep dark-azure sky. Then he looked down.
The grassy slope rounded its descent for a way, then fell precipitously a thousand feet, to check its headlong flight in an open cape fringed by firs. A troop of deer dotted the meadowlike promontory. And as Keven gazed a golden eagle sailed wide-winged and grand below him, so that he looked down upon its bright-flecked back.
That little halting bench did not prepare Keven for the blue gulf below. It seemed as if he were falling sheer. How far down the firs, now mere needles of green, millions of them forming the thick black slopes o
f the canyon! But still deeper down a forest as of flaming fire leaped out of the void. A riot of yellow, of scarlet, of orange, of cerise, of purple, seen through smoky veils, blazed the truth of autumn. He swept his gaze farther down, holding his breath in anticipation of the river, but he saw only bits of gleaming brook and dancing white cascades like the wings of a white moth. This canyon, that seemed to penetrate to the bowels of the earth, was only a side canyon.
Up the colored mosaic of slope Keven’s gaze traveled to the black dense belt, on and up to the crags and the bleached firs, grotesque and deformed, and higher still to be riveted on the peaks and domes of the mountains beyond. It was an endless field, with notched horizon as far as the sky, and leagues and leagues of unbroken forested slopes. Here was the mountain kingdom from which the numberless springs and brooks and streams sent their pure waters down to the father river.
Even before Keven sighted the Rogue he heard it, and instinctively he closed his eyes and turned his ear. Low and far away, deep down and faintly clear, its mellow roar! He had not before heard it like this. And he pictured its long green sweeps, its white rapids, its broad still reaches under canyon walls, its majestic curves. But when he forced his eyelids open he saw, far, far down, only a winding broken blue ribbon with knots of white. He rubbed his eyes. Could that be the Rogue? That strip of spotted blue, smiling out of this incredible void!
But gradually he realized that it was his river—that he was gazing from a great height into a valley ten miles wide at the top, and sheering down over endless slopes and shadows of forest, over wooded basins and black canyons, over labyrinthine mazes of gold and red and magenta, of bright spots lost in the green, to the ragged iron cliffs, and to the tiny blue-and-silver thread between.
He watched then and no longer thought about what he saw. Even Beryl’s head, finding his shoulder, seemed a fragrance and a caress of the senses. Her hand sought his, clung and rested there.
The gulf in the green earth yawned beneath; the mighty slopes flowed down; the river wound its way to be lost; the lilac haze spread across the valley. The white clouds sailed to cast their shadows. And the soaring golden eagle black-barred the sky. Low and far away roared the river. Up to the cool heights wafted the woody smells, like enchantment in their power. And the past of man merged in the present, strange and vague to peering eyes, yet strong and attainable in the scents of the earth.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
KEVEN rode with Aard down the trail toward Illahe, leading pack mules, which were to be loaded with supplies for Solitude.
The sun did not break through the mist or dispel the frost until the riders were well below Missouri Bar. Opposite a still reach of river Aard halted his horse and pointed down.
“Let’s watch a little,” he said. “I see steelhead risin’, an’ if I don’t miss my guess, here’s the run Beryl is lookin’ for.”
“Gosh!” ejaculated Keven, as he watched a ring widen on the smooth dark waters. “That was a lunker.”
Aard took his interest in studying the pool. It soon became manifest that a great school of steelhead were resting and rolling here. Below was a stiff fall, difficult for salmon and steelhead to ascend, and still farther down extended a long series of rapids, rocky and shallow, with no eddies. Keven became all eyes and had a great longing to ride back after his tackle; but was ashamed to mention his desire to his employer.
These steelhead were spread up and down the still deep pool, and they showed close to the rocky walls, in the middle of the river, and everywhere. They rolled on the surface, they lazily broke water, and then a big one leaped, to thump back solidly. Keven whooped. He saw broad silversides turn just below the surface and vanish. They were big fish. When they rolled they flapped the water with wide tails. Then another jumped, shining pink and pearl in the light. The pool would become smooth for a moment, then suddenly show boils and splashes and ever-widening circles.
“Wal, that’s the run of big ones,” observed Aard. “Let’s see. It’s October eighth. Took ’em eight days an’ nights to run up this far…. Kev, did you ever wonder about these big steelhead never gettin’ started upriver till after the canneries shut down October first?”
“Humph! Sure, it’s funny,” replied Keven.
“Wal, not so damn funny for us upriver folk,” replied Aard shortly. “I reckon nothin’ can or ever will be done about it, but it sure ought to be…. You’ll have some good news for the lass. Mebbe she won’t be tickled! Reckon this bunch will hang up at Missouri awhile an’ then come on to Solitude. Both steelhead an’ salmon make good stays at Solitude, which accounts for the grand fishin’.”
“Aard, that’s a tackle-busting run of trout,” replied Keven dubiously.
“Ahuh. An’ the next batch of smoked steelhead will come high…. Wal, git up, Baldy, we can’t loaf here all day.”
They rode on, while the clouds of mist melted into the green and blue, and the sun shone hot, and the dry scents began to float drowsily, and the blazing golden-purple glory of autumn mantled the river.
Below the long white-running stretch of rapids, where again the river slowed and stilled, Aard halted to point.
“Kev, there’s the other an’ better side of the story,” he said.
“By gosh, yes. Little salmon going back to the sea!” exclaimed Keven, thrilled. Showers of tiny glittering glades and slivers of silver glinted in the sunlight. All along the whole stretch! Millions of baby salmon going down to the sea, to the home they knew only by instinct!
“Yes, that’s the hopeful side. It always cheers me up,” went on Aard. “Man is a greedy, destructive cuss. But nature is prolific an’ resourceful. Those little salmon will come back when they are matured—some of them will get by the nets. An’ so the cycle goes on. It’s a blessed an’ mysterious thing, son.”
The trail led up off the open slope into the woods, where it wound, sunlight-streaked and shadow-barred, under the trees. It zigzagged in to head the canyons, where dark shades alternated with amber light, and the brooks trickled over the mossy rocks. Moss and fern were singularly expressive of Oregon. In every dell and glen they encrusted trees and roots, stones and logs, with their furry and lacy beauty.
Deer crossed the trail, to crash into the brush, mountain quail ran and twittered and whizzed through the golden aisles; and the gathering autumnal congregation of birds fluttered in flocks with sad requiem to the death of summer.
They reached Illahe about the middle of the morning, but owing to various delays did not get packed until afternoon. Keven, while waiting for Aard to do a last errand, espied two khaki-clad fishermen clambering wet and weary and fishless up from the river. As they approached he had an eye for their tackle. One of them slopped down on the step while the other went into the store. A barefooted, freckle-faced urchin edged closer to the fisherman, drawn by the shiny rod and reel.
“Sonny, your Rogue River is no good,” declared the man.
“Oh, yes it is, Mister. You jest don’t know how to ketch ’em,” replied the lad.
The angler laughed and addressed Keven. “I suppose all you natives, young and old, think the same about city fishermen.”
Keven laughed himself. “I’ve got sort of that way myself.”
“Excuse me. I took you for a native,” said the man, turning to look at Keven. He had keen blue eyes, a sunburned face, and a ready smile.
“No offense. But really it’s a compliment,” returned Keven, smiling.
“What are those flies in your hat?” queried the other, in sudden interest.
“They’re homemade,” answered Keven, removing his hat. “Bumble Bee, Black Gnat, Tan Upright.”
“Who tied these?” asked the fisherman curiously, as he fingered them.
“A girl friend of mine,” said Keven laconically.
“Trout don’t rise to these things, do they?”
Keven laughed at that incredulous query, for once upon a time he had vouched precisely the same thing.
“Rise? My dear sir, steelh
ead not only rise to these, but they pile out on the rocks after them.”
“Aw, go wan!” ejaculated the fisherman, for all the world like a boy, and he grinned like a boy. But he was eager, hopeful, too.
“Straight goods,” returned Keven. “Last Monday I caught nine steelhead on that Tan Upright. Largest, seven pounds. It’s a pretty good fly, but she—my friend—ties a still better one. Buff and black, with a white wing and a tiny sliver of red. She calls that one Solitude. It’s sure dynamite.”
“Have you got one with you?”
“No, I’m sorry. I lost the last one. She wouldn’t give me another. We had an argument about steelhead—she’s a great fly-fisherman—and we fight a lot about tackle, method, theory, and so on. You know fishermen.”
“Lord, yes. Crankiest people on earth…. Would you sell these flies?”
“No. You’re welcome to them. And I’ll give you a tip about fishing the lower Rogue, if you want it.”
“Young man, we want it as badly as we need it,” rejoined the other heartily. “My friend and I are from Portland. First time on the Rogue. We’ve fished the Stilliguamish, the Umpqua, and other famous rivers. Caught trout, too. But this Rogue is a rogue, believe me. Beautiful water. But we just can’t raise fish.”
“I had the same trouble. Was born on the upper Rogue. Fished from the time I was a kid. And I thought I was a great fisherman till I struck the lower Rogue. I was beaten to smithereens by a girl.”
“You don’t say!” said the Portlander, who after the habit of his kind was heartily engrossed. “She must be some fisherman.”
“I’ll say she is…. Now let me give you a tip. Try those flies. Locate some steelhead. Don’t let them see you. Keep back from the shore and out of the water. Wading is okay, after you have exhausted the water close in. And the result of that will surprise you. Most steelhead lie along under the bars and rocks, close to shore. Cast a short line and draw your fly in. Make it dance or jiggle, like a fluttering bug.”
