by Doyle, Brian
Probably never seen beautiful women before, says Maple Head. We’ll be legends in the chickaree world.
Up and up and up, through rills of hills, always along the river, which gets thinner and thinner. Another night’s sleep, this one in a lovely little grassy meadow, the stars as uncountable and incalculable and miraculous as either of them have ever seen and both of them are star gawkers. For an hour they count shooting stars.
The next morning, though, neither of them feels like walking. It isn’t that they’re sore, although they’re sore. It’s just so clear and crisp and warm and perfect a spot in the world that leaving seems silly. They sprawl in the grass and talk. The river is a few feet away and now it’s lean enough that you could hop across easy as pie. They drink from it, leaning their faces in like deer. Tiny fish flicker. Nora puts her head under like she did when she was a child and opens her eyes to see the fish startle past and the cold crystal water slides over and into her skin. They talk some more. They talk about how they don’t talk as much as they should. They talk about old boyfriends. They talk about food and wood and kids and legs. They talk about the dark snow falling on Nora. They hold each other and rock gently. They run out of words. They rock and rock. Far far below they can just see a sliver of surf where the ocean is beseeching the land. The slender river burbles and murmurs. Maple Head’s tears slide silently into her daughter’s hair. They rock and rock. Then Nora sits up straight very quietly, looking at the river, and Maple Head sees it too: an ouzel flying in the river, bobbing up to the surface every few feet and then sliding back under. They sit rapt. The ouzel pops up on the bank after a few minutes and shivers and shimmers and the water flies green and gold back into the river and the bird pops back down but this time not into the water but into a beautifully hidden nest hole under a tuft of the meadow like a cowlick over the river. There’s a pause thin as a pin and then both women burst out laughing and the ouzel sticks its head out of the hole in amazement.
10.
Dawn on the mountain is bright and silent. The colors are white and blue. Everything has a shining edge to it. Billy sits against an enormous ice-rimed rock that looks like a boat with spars and mizzenmast and yardarm and everything. He boils water for coffee. For three days there has been nothing but ice and sky. No trees or bushes or flowers or even a sturdy nutty little mat of plants hiding from the wind. Not even lichen or moss. Ungreen, disgreen, greennot. There is white and there is blue. The primary colors. Blue made white and white melted to allow all the others. That’s how it must have happened. He and Cedar had made their way through green and blue, up through those last scraggly junipers and fingery asters, and yellow, those last tough little butterflies, into long hours of dust and ash, slogging through it like brown and gray snow, and then up into the ice fields, as high as they could get, and they have wandered and poked, searched and squinted, for days. Now Cedar checks through their equipment and plots the day. You start here and I start there, he says. Flare if there’s a problem. We should stay together but our time grows short. I’ll take the upper and you take this lower stretch. First priority, caves. If we find likely candidates, flare the other guy. Second goal: anything unusual, bones, fauna, petroglyphs. Utmost caution. Helmets. Walking sticks. Matches. Sunglasses. Ice axes. Flashlights. Headlamps. First-aid kits. Camera. Film for camera. A photographic record of phenomena is just as good as or better than eyewitness accounts. Flare at noon to attest safety. No time to meet for lunch. I calculate that we will have nine hours maximum for light and we had better make the most of them. More coffee? We can leave the fire banked. We’ll want it this evening. Ready? Ready. Stay calm. Don’t be a hero. This is great. This is fun. Can you believe this is happening? Me neither. Who would have thunk it? All these years. Ready? Ready. Flare at noon. Flare if any trouble whatsoever. Camera loaded. Deep breath. Let’s go.
11.
Billy in the kingdom of the ice. He picks his way carefully and cautiously, angling northwest; Cedar went northeast. Ceremonial handshake as they parted. My oldest and dearest friend. Hope to see him again. Born from the rush of the river. Rushes, Moses. Where has the time gone? Eternity is in love with the productions of time. Blake. Time in its motley colors. It has color as well as speed and pace. Of course there are blue times and gray times, black times and golden times, times of red rage, time with russet edges, etc. Time held me green and dying though I sang in my chains like the sea. Dylan Thomas. Should write this down. Be a great project. Measure color spectra over time duration in coordination with perception of same. Owen can make a machine. Also examine perceived color of time in concert with reported emotional state: nostalgia, sentimentality, melancholy, romance, frustration, etc. Public Work. Imagine the report! Colored filters, film spools. Spoor of time.
This line of thought reminds him what he is supposed to be looking for and just as he realizes this, he sees, by heavens, a cave, the slice of its opening hidden so exquisitely from view by ice and stone that only someone standing right here, at exactly this angle, slightly below and to the west of it, can see how that lip of rimed rock is essentially a door, permanently flung open. He clambers up carefully and cautiously, using his stick, making sure of every step. The opening is essentially exactly his size, tall and thin. He turns on his headlamp. Thinks about firing a flare for Cedar but his curiosity is electric and insistent. He steps inside. His pack clunks against the opening. The cave is dry and silent. Flashlight … on. The cave is deep and spacious. A thin ashen dust on the floor. No bones to be seen. No footprints that he can see. Animals at this elevation would be rare but not unknown—eagles, marmots, ravens, ptarmigan.
You think so? says a voice from the sifting darkness at the end of the cave. I don’t think so.
Billy is so startled he actually jumps, his pack jingling, and cracks his helmet against the roof of the cave.
Cedar? he says.
No.
Who are you?
A very good question.
Silence. Billy can hear his own heart thammering and thrummering. He suddenly has to pee. This is not happening, he thinks. His mind is all scrambly. How could there be a person in a cave that seemed so remote no human being had ever in a million years even laid eyes on the door?
Another excellent question, says the voice.
How can you hear me?
Don’t be afraid, says the voice.
How did you get here?
A third excellent question.
Is this a dream? Am I dead?
You’re not dreaming, technically, and you’re not dead, yet, says the voice. But we need to talk about that. There are some things we need to talk about, so here I am. I have been sent, that’s probably the best way to explain it. Why don’t you sit down and we can get started? Don’t worry about Cedar. He’s safe. He will come looking for you in about an hour, because you didn’t send up a flare when you found the cave, as you agreed to do, but that decision actually works out for the best, because it gives us a chance to talk. Would you like something to eat?
12.
The young she-bear is away up in the hills near the meadow where Maple Head and No Horses are holding each other and laughing and laughing. The bear had smelled them before she heard them and now she sees them, holding each other and rocking slightly like slender trees in great winds. The bear’s two cubs trundle along behind her in ragged parade order, fascinated by bees and berries. By now the cubs have names in the dark tongue of bears. The smallest is called smallest and the largest is called eats snakes. These are their very first names. Bears wear many names over the course of their lives, sometimes carrying several at once. Names having to do with lust are forbidden by ancient custom. There have been bears in these hills for four million years. Bears remember everything having to do with bears. Bears love eating more than remembering stories about bears but it is a near thing. One time a small bear killed a wolverine in an argument about an elk calf and that story was told for seven thousand years, mothers telling it to their cubs in the cold dar
k places where they prepared to sleep through the winter. There are stories of white bears and blue bears and bears with stars and moons on their chests. There are stories of bears who swam in the sea and bears who could learn the languages of other animals and a bear who could climb even the thinnest trees even when she was very old. There was a bear who killed a whale trapped at low tide in the mouth of the river, that was a story told for many years, and a bear who would eat only fawns, and a bear who would eat only fish, and a bear who destroyed any horse he ever found, and a bear born without rear legs who lived on berries and nuts and never left the meadow where he was born, and bears who climbed trees to eat the eggs of eagles, and a bear who clambered onto a log in the river just to see what would happen and the river carried him out through the surf and he went away into the sea and was never seen again. That is the story of the bear who went into the sun, a story every bear hears while young. Bears do not tell stories about animals other than bears. By ancient custom all stories about other animals are told through the manner in which they affect the lives of bears. So that cougars, for example, who are called deereaters in the dark tongue of bears, figure greatly in the stories of bears, but always through stories of bears who fought them, or outwitted them, or tricked them into leaping on dark bushes they had mistaken for bears, or ate their tails, or lost an eye to their razor fingers, or imitated their yowling so successfully that they would come bounding toward romance and find instead a bee’s nest, which is a story that happened to a bear who once lived not far from where Maple Head and No Horses are still laughing at the ouzel, who is still wondering what to make of this new liquid noise in the world.
13.
What are you? says Worried Man.
Incredibly, a fourth excellent question, says the voice. And you didn’t say you wanted something to eat, so let us turn to the matters at hand. First of all, as you may suspect, I have awkward news.
Are you an angel?
Technically, no, says the voice. And I am not here to tell you that you are dead, or about to die. You are not about to die. Let’s get that out of the way. People are always so paranoid about death. However, you will be entering the seventh stage very soon.
What?
I have been sent to commend your efforts thus far, says the voice. Your kindness, especially—very impressive. Plaudits, high marks. If this was a test you would have scored very well. My sincere congratulations. Believe me, not everyone earns plaudits. I would applaud if I could do so. And your humor especially really helped your grade. Kindness is first, of course, but you’d be surprised how much humor weighs. Also curiosity. If only people knew. Although perhaps they do.
Billy sits. His pack jingles. A puff of ancient dust arises and hangs in the air for an instant like incense.
You sound … Welsh, says Billy.
No no, says the voice. Much as I admire the Welsh. A tough little people. Mountain fastnesses. No empire will ever conquer the Welsh. I shouldn’t tell you that, but it’s probably evident to any sensible observer after many thousands of years. But we digress. I have been sent to tell you that you are about to have a massive stroke, which will damage your body permanently, as it were, but leave you lucid, if speechless. In short you keep your head but lose your voice and body. This will seem like a blow but it’s a gift. I am afraid I cannot explain further. Your task in your time remaining is to discover the nature and character of the gift, and then use it to the best of your considerable ability.
How much time will I have left?
No no, says the voice, I am not authorized to tell you that sort of thing, and indeed I have no idea. I am a … messenger. Not everyone is allowed a messenger before the seventh stage. I am not sure you understand what a compliment this is. There are only a few messengers. I can understand you are rattled by the message, but really, as you people say, it could be worse. I could be delivering the message that you have completed the seventh stage. Not many people get that message either. One did in your town recently, a woman. A great compliment too, that message. Very few people are applauded at the end of the race, as it were. It’s hard to explain.
Wouldn’t it be easier, says Billy, if I just died now? I mean, my family will have to care for me, and that will be such hard work. I’m sure you can empathize. I wouldn’t want to inflict that on them. I think I’d rather die now. Or maybe you can give me a couple of weeks to wrap up my affairs? Or a month? A month would be great. I can get a lot done in a month. You’d be surprised. But less is good. Less is fine. I am good with less. Three weeks? That’s a good compromise. I say four, you say two, meet you in the middle.
When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, says the voice, it concentrates his mind wonderfully. A man from Britain said that, very pithy man he was, too. Still is. It’s hard to explain. But we digress. I am not authorized to negotiate, and I have another message to deliver. Your daughter has been lifted from a great darkness. There is a very great work before her. So those are the two messages I have been sent to deliver. Our time is finished. Are you ready?
Not at all, says Worried Man.
Would you like a moment to prepare?
Can I ask a question?
Maybe one.
What about time? What is it, where is it, can it be found?
That’s three questions. Four, really.
Please? I spent years on this. Most of my life.
Is maith an scealai an aimsir, time is a storyteller, says the voice, isn’t that what your son-in-law says? He is wiser than he knows, that young man. But time is more than a storyteller. Storytellers are something else altogether. I am not authorized to explain further. It’s impossible to explain. Languages are not yet equipped. They have so much more to learn. Languages will … expand. There will come a time when languages are sentient themselves. I suppose I shouldn’t say these things but I must say it is a pleasure to use language. Such a supple and musical device. I can see why you enjoy it so. But we digress. It’s time.
I have an idea, says Billy. Why don’t we discuss this? We are both intelligent beings, if being is the right word for you, and I think I have a workable solution to our dilemma. You have been sent to deliver a message. I have come here on a mission, as it were. But my mission is unfinished, and as you say yourself I am granted a messenger out of respect, let’s say, for previous effort. So what say we compromise? I suggest a thorough but workable paralysis, one that pushes me to the seventh stage, as you say, but leaves me capable of … research.
I am not …
Yes, authorized, I know. But how about paralysis only of the lower body?
I cannot think that would meet the terms of the assignment, says the voice.
Okay, says Billy. Whole body, but leave me head and arms.
I don’t think …
Hands?
Well … one hand.
One hand it is. Head and one hand, then. Agreed. Which hand?
Your choice.
Let’s go lefty. A new frontier. And if I am keeping my head I really should be left with my voice, yes? You could change it if you want. Could we go an octave lower? That would startle May. It’d be funny.
I am not authorized …
But time marches on, says Billy briskly, and I am sure you have a great deal to do with your time. I can only imagine the press of your duties, the messages to be delivered, the crucial importance of every passing instant. And I am sure I have kept you longer than you intended. Garrulity—it’s a problem for me. May says so, and May has never been wrong.
Well …
But inside Billy roils, he shivers. No body! No more making love to May! No walking! No holding babies like footballs! No kneeling or sprawling or scuttling or shambling or ambling or shuffling or sprinting! No canter and no gallop! No dancing with May ever again in the velvet dark of the Department of Public Works with a bottle of wine waiting on the shelf! No throwing footballs to the boy on the beach and prancing about like a stork on acid when Danno makes an unbelievable spectacular divi
ng catch flying face-first into the surf and emerges soaked and triumphant holding the ball like a dripping golden trophy and the boy and his grandfather laugh so hard their cheeks and stomachs ache for days! No wrapping his arms like tree trunks around the lean grin of his sweet swift daughter and muttering stories into the thicket of her hair! No puttering around in the shop with Owen trying to make real from steel the ideas hatched in his hoary head! No more shaking Cedar’s hard hand like a slab of wood! No cupping May’s left breast in his right hand as they fall asleep mumbling and smelling like salt and honey!
Time, says the voice. You are a deft negotiator. Permission has been granted. Remember that kindness is first. I would recommend that you lie flat now so that you don’t crack your head.
Billy is suddenly exhausted. He stretches out, staring at the ceiling of the cave. Stalactites hang from the roof, stalagmites grow from the floor. C is for ceiling and G is for ground. We are aware of the quicksilver nature of time. The rushing of the waters. Time is a storyteller. Time is a …
14.
Cedar, walking northeast and steadily uphill on a diagonal, sees one cave slit after another and marks them carefully on a map he draws to scale in his notebook. He numbers the caves, giving them all NE prefixes to distinguish them from the caves Billy has no doubt identified on the northwest side of the scarp: NE1, NE2, NE2.5 (a tiny one), etc. He pokes into the ones he can get to without undue strain. Some are mere cracks, without depth beyond the gape of their opening; others narrow immediately upon entrance; others bend back upon themselves; one (NE8) makes an immediate right turn and opens to a sort of window in the mountain. Lovely sculpture, thinks Cedar. Cave design, there’s a life’s study. Forces of geology at work in fissure. Nature of stone under duress. Effect of climate and weather. Index of temporary inhabitants. Comparison of conditions by amount of sunlight captured by mouth of cave. Does cave structure reflect orientation? Do temporary inhabitants prefer south-facing caves? I have not seen hide nor hair of any inhabitant in these caves. Too cold. No food at this elevation. No prospect of food, no reason to be here. Except if you are on a goose chase looking for unimaginably huge spools of what might appear to be film of some sort. As if such a thing would ever in this life be possible. Maybe I shouldn’t have humored him. Maybe a real friend would have long ago said, Billy, this is nuts, could we get back to fences and water supply and piping and ditch dredging and building a jetty? But no: sure, we can climb a huge mountain at our age. Sure we might find immense spools of used time. Sure such a discovery would create a stir unlike any other in the history of human beings and change the nature of human consciousness. Sure it makes sense that two obscure public works employees from an obscure town on the Oregon coast would be the guys to make such a discovery. No, we don’t have anything better to do with our dwindling time and infinitesimal savings than parade off to a mountain and probably have heart attacks and freeze to death and be found decades later by intrepid mountaineers half our age. Headlong pursuit of the most ridiculous speculation in the history of the world: excellent idea! I am all for it! What an idiot I am! What an idiot he is! Where is that idiot?
