by Doyle, Brian
And Cosmas was there, facing Miss Moss and Mr. Douglas and Edwin; and in the trees were silent birds, and high in a fir there were marten, and Maria said later she was sure she saw an elk for a moment, something big and brown and antlered. And there were dragonflies and damselflies and beetles unceasing; and in the forest there were grass mice and voles and snakes and uncountable infinitesimal beings of every species known and some not yet. All told in the meadow at noon, when the Unabled Lady began to play the music she had composed for the occasion, there were not thirty attendant souls but thousands—and this is not even to count those who flew by, curious, and those who knew from a distance, without having to see, that there was a gathering in the high meadow where the river went from trickle to rill, where the bobcats occasionally met in conference, where one day, many years before, a bearded barefoot man had stopped to rest after climbing over the holy mountain.
66
AT FIRST, when Miss Moss and Mr. Douglas had asked her to compose music for their unwedding unceremony, the Unabled Lady had thought she would compose something sinuous and serpentine, something that would gently suggest the wriggling growth of a love affair, its twists and turns, its ebb and flow, flood and stagger—something with the songs of the mountain in it too, the way the wind fingered and flickered through the fir trees in the Zag and environs, the piercing notes of hawks and osprey, the sift of snow, the suckle of mud. But then she began to experiment with a piece for voices. Initially, she sketched “A Composition for Two Finches to Sing Alternately and Together,” but this proved too reedy for the deep throb of the occasion. Then there were days where she wrote sonatas for bears and bugling passages for elk and massive choral pieces for insects and an oratorio built around the trickle and murmur of the river. And then there were days when she concentrated on vegetative voices in concert with and contrast to wind and rock and even the weather, assuming that the day of the ceremony would be clear, so that the sun would be assigned something like a soft alto part, heard in the imagination more than the ear. One thing the Unabled Lady had learned in her composition work was to allow silence to speak; if you left space for silence, she had discovered, it served as a voice or a tone, shivering where a sound would be, a sort of yearning in the ear.
Finally, after many days and nights of work, she hit on a structure that involved all parties in the meadow that morning, from the whisper of the tall grass to the wheedle of chickadees to the one male voice she used as a tent pole to buttress the whole thing—a deep, sonorous sound with an earthy vibrato that shook your bones and made you feel for an instant that the mountain itself was humming or clearing its throat before issuing stern instruction and imprecation to its cousin peaks far away. Having found the shape of the music—the edge of the meadow, as it were—she wrote the music in headlong wild thrilled bursts, three or four hours at a time, writing furiously, hardly ever pausing to finger the piano or hum aloud to be sure of the key, only once pausing to play a snatch of Henryk Górecki just to be sure of an undertone, stopping only to nap for an hour or three, and then right back to the piano. She forgot to eat and made only teas, running through all the teabags in the canisters on the counter and then ransacking the kitchen for more—which is how she found, in a cabinet ordinarily too low for her quotidian use, a paper packet of teas made from every imaginable dried berry and savory plant on the mountain, with a note from Mrs. Simmons, in her perfect handwriting and awful spelling, saying, mery christmis to you arial! The Unabled Lady laughed aloud and thought, she couldn’t even spell my name right, and then she burst into tears.
* * *
I used to think of writing darker music about life on the mountain, said the Unabled Lady to Emma Jackson later. They were sitting under a cedar tree at the edge of the meadow late in the afternoon of the Ceremony. Moon’s mother was playing the piano—and beautifully too—and Moon was dancing cautiously carefully distantly with Cadence. I thought about writing “A Piece for Two Exploding Methamphetamine Labs” or “A Piece for Children Terrified of Weekend Custody Visits from Their Fathers” or “A Duet for Burglars of Vacation Cabins.” Although now I think I should write those pieces, perhaps interspersed with pieces like “An Elegy for the Rough Grace of Single Mothers” or “Sonata for the All-Night Police Dispatcher.” I could write “A Wy’east Symphony,” all light and dark, with a slow, silvery passage in the middle for winter—a vaulting elevated mysterious piece with the rumble of logging trucks and the melting of glaciers and a volcanic undertone. I could do that, I bet.
You could do that, said Emma Jackson.
I’d better try before my head sinks down so far I can’t see the keyboard anymore.
Good point.
Someone ought to try to write the music of the place, don’t you think?
I agree wholly.
Because people have written books about the mountain, and God knows there are thousands of articles and scientific treatises and historical considerations and memoirs and political tracts and skiing tomes, but there are a lot of ways to tell stories, and what’s a better way than music?
I couldn’t agree more.
Plus with music you can hint at a lot of voices and tones that no other art can hint at quite the same way. Like finches and horses and hawks.
Or the patient mutter of the Robinsons’ car.
The stringent insistence of huckleberries.
The way the river has one high tide a year, but it goes on for weeks.
What are you guys talking about? said Maria, who was wearing the finch in her hair. She reached up, and the finch walked out onto her hand, and Maria reached over and put the finch on the Unabled Lady’s shoulder, and the finch sang a triplet of notes three times. The Unabled Lady laughed and said, really, in G? And she and the finch sang together for a moment, until Cosmas asked that the assemblage join him in a last toast to the happily unmarried couple.
* * *
Louis saw all this. Sure he did. He was ten feet deep in the fringe of the meadow. A new female elk was with him. She was five months old. She was his twentieth child and thirteenth daughter. They were very close. Usually elk calves born in spring stay with their mothers for a year until new calves are born, but in this case the daughter preferred the father and went where he went far more often than elk calves usually do with their fathers. They understood each other somehow. They were easy with each other. These things happen. Beyond the usual relationship, beyond the orthodox, beyond the normal, beyond the expected, beyond the necessary, sometimes there is an easiness, a friendliness, a connectiveness. You know what I mean. It happens in all sorts of relationships. There are the ways you are supposed to be in that relationship, and then sometimes there is something else. That is how it is with Louis and his daughter. Often he walks ahead, and she follows, learning things, but sometimes she walks ahead, and he follows with affection, learning things. What will we call her? She has several names, this little elk calf, twenty weeks old, three feet tall, spotted with white stars on her russet coat, eager and quick witted, bold and curious, silly and somber. Her mother has a sound to call her, her father also, and it may well be that many other beings in and around her residence have sounds or songs or whistles or signs by which they are referring to her among all other things. For us, here in this story, why don’t we call her Kuleewit? A lovely word, sonorous, forest-like, as resonant as a thrush in a thicket. And indeed that word was spoken on this mountain once by a Nimi’ipuu man far from his home, traveling alone all the way to the sea for complex reasons, and on his journey, he passed over Wy’east, not far from the path later trod by Joel Palmer, and in a meadow not far from this one, he saw a young elk, and he called to her, ta’c kuleewit!, which means good evening! in his language, and she turned and nodded, which he accepted as a sign that he was in a good place and should continue his journey, which he did, but that is another story. But we will borrow his word and drape it on Louis’ daughter, and this is apt, for she was born in the evening, just as swifts left the castles of their old tre
es and stitched new languages in the starry sky.
67
MISS MOSS ASKED DAVE’S MOTHER TO SPEAK, and she stood and said, No one can speak for all of us, but someone ought to try. We are gathered here with respect and affection for this man and this woman, who today, before all of us, go together deeper into mystery. Certainly, we are here to witness, we are here to support, we are here to celebrate, but we are also here as living testimony, each and every one of us, that when they need help, when they need attention and assistance against foul wind and dark tide, we will be there. When they are troubled, we will lend them ears. When they seek counsel, we will lend them what little wisdom we have. When they are helpless, we will lend them our hands and our hearts. When they are dark, we will endeavor to bring them light. When they are hungry, we will endeavor to bring them sustenance of whatever kind we can provide. That is what we do here. That is what we promise by our presence. This ceremony is about all of us. We are bound each to each in this place even if we don’t admit it except in times like this. We don’t have to like each other, but we do have to attend to each other. We are graced and blessed to be here, and we are especially graced to be asked to witness and celebrate the love of two people we cherish. To be asked to be with them on the day they dive into life together, not knowing where it will take them, is a gift from them to us that no one can measure. We will savor this day, we will enjoy every moment of it, we will remember it for many years to come, but most of all, we will remember that on this brilliant day, Richard and Gina shared with us the joy and prayer of their love; and there is no greater gift than that. So let us thank them here together, with our hands and voices raised in blessing older and deeper than any religion, and say to them in one voice we celebrate you, we will carry you in our hearts as two made one, from this day forward!
And there rose among them at that moment a tumultuous shout all thrilled with joy, and there were tears also, many of them of many kinds, and among the voices raised were those of other species of beings for example equine and avian, but no one who heard that joyous noise could tell which voice was which, only that many voices were raised in salutation and laughter and unquantifiable uncategorizable prayer. The halls of the trees around the meadow rang as if they were bells that shimmered and echoed for a long time; and then there was such music and dancing and eating and drinking as could not be fully described were we to devote more books to them, and long books too.
* * *
It was important to Miss Moss that no man or woman was minister or celebrant at the Ceremony, except the principals; but she and Mr. Douglas did ask Cosmas to stand with them, as a sort of Prime Witness; mostly because we looked pretty cool against the mountainous glow of his orange jumpsuit, didn’t we? said Mr. Douglas to Edwin later when they were standing at the edge of the meadow watching Miss Moss dance with Emma and Maria.
Well, one of us looked pretty cool, thought Edwin, but another one of us looked so nervous and tongue-tied that I thought for a moment I was going to have to say something when it was someone’s turn to say Yes, I will to that lovely girl. That would have been an interesting moment, wouldn’t it? Imagine the moral implications and emotional ramifications if she would have asked for your affirmation and you didn’t say anything, and I was the one who had to say Yes, you do, or Yes, I do, or Yes, we do. Very confusing.
Cosmas came over bringing beer.
No beer for Edwin, said Mr. Douglas. He’s driving.
Very generous of him. I will consider that I owe him a beer.
Thank you so much for being … what? The tallest witness?
An agent for Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, perhaps. They would be so delighted, Richard. I extend their most sincere and heartfelt congratulations.
Thanks.
Miss Moss came over, flushed from dancing.
May I offer a few words at this juncture? said Cosmas.
Up to ten, any length you like, said Miss Moss.
Well, then, said Cosmas, with a smile. Remember that we are here for you.
That’s only nine words, thought Edwin. Throw in an adverb.
We will, said Miss Moss.
Not just the pleasure of the ceremony and its hurly-burly aftermath, said Cosmas, but every bit of this place. This is your place. Wherever you go from here, this was the place that brought you together. Its ratty old rusted mailboxes and the stop signs with bullet-hole punctuation. The trucks in the woods with trees growing through them. Beaver-barked trees. The whinnying of flickers and the chatter of kingfishers. Mud up to your knees in April. Maggots in deer carcasses. Cars from deep in the last century. Snarling tourists. Rude bald county officials. Clear-cuts. Huckleberry pies. Chaining up your tires in October for the next eight months at least. Cottonwood snow drifting and sifting everywhere against that incredible afternoon light sometimes. Remember that. That’s all part of it. As we are. Strange as we are, suspicious, vulgar, selfish, grumpy, troubled. This is no paradise. This is no lovely sweet village in a novel. This is a crossroads notable only for the county’s sand-truck depot and your store. But we throw together here as best we can. Sometimes we are actually a sort of village for a day. Like today. Remember that. Wherever you go, remember that. Today, you and Dickie made us a village. Tomorrow, we go back to being an obscure crossroad.
Hurly-burly, thought Edwin, is a very good word. Does a hyphenated word count as two words? If you hyphenated a whole paragraph, would it actually be one word?
* * *
Dave’s dad is talking to Moon’s dad. Beer is involved. Here’s the greatest metaphor story ever, he says. One time I went to the funeral of a man who used to be a logger, and it was a great roaring funeral—he was Irish, and they have the roaringest funerals—and people got to drinking and dancing and courting, and a baby was conceived on the coffin of the guy who died. Hey? Is there a greater metaphorical story than that? Hey?
What’s the metaphor?
I haven’t the faintest idea, said Dave’s dad. What a story, though, hey? I love that story.
I heard a story like that where a couple is getting married and the woman goes into labor on the altar, says Moon’s dad. Now there’s a metaphor for something or other. The way I heard the story, she said I do and then screamed with the first jolt of labor pain.
That’s a great story. Can I borrow that story? That’s a keeper of a story.
Is Miss Moss in labor? asks Maria, suddenly at his elbow.
I don’t think so, said Maria’s dad. She looks … serene. Serene is not a word I would use for a woman in labor. Your mother was anything but serene. I would use a word like shrieking if I were using one word for a woman in labor.
I hope she’s pregnant, says Moon’s dad. We have not had a new baby in the Zag for a while. Although I have been traveling and may have missed a few. Jack?
I think we should take up a petition and see if they can have triplets, said Maria’s dad. Or at least twins. We are down two in population since the Robinsons. I wish they were here. He was the nicest guy ever, and she was nicer. They would be sitting right there under that tree holding hands if they were here. You never saw two people hold hands more than they held hands. They would sit quietly together on folding chairs at any and all events and hold hands. Let’s put two chairs together under the cedar just in case they are here somehow and want to sit down. You don’t want two people of that age to have to stand if they can sit, you know what I mean? And we’ll get a little wine for them, and some berries. I’ll be right back.
68
WERE THERE PRESENTS? Absolutely. Gobs and mobs and piles and towers, all of them cheerfully defiant of the bridal decree that there were to be no presents whatsoever, since there was no Wedding as regulated by any ostensible civic or religious authority. The presents were delicately stacked and balanced all over the chairs and the mantelpiece and the floor by the fireplace in the store so that when Miss Moss and Mr. Douglas walked into the store the next morning, they stepped into the mossy darkness and sensed some burly unfamiliar j
umble where usually there were only the two lean old chairs by the fire, and Mr. Douglas flipped on the light, and they were startled and amazed for a second, and then Mr. Douglas laughed, realizing that Dave had engineered this surprise because Dave had the only other key to the store, but Miss Moss started to cry for reasons that remain murky. She went into the kitchen to warm the griddle and start the soup as Mr. Douglas picked his way through the gifts to start the fire, but when he heard a gasp from the kitchen, he ran to see if she was okay, and she showed him the gift certificate in the soup pot—a week in a cabin on the Oregon coast, all expenses for travel and meals and steelhead fishing trip paid. The place on the gift certificate where the donor’s name was usually recorded was blank, but later, when Mr. Douglas asked Edwin if he knew anything about the gift or the donors, Edwin made a point of looking away and closely following the manic swoop of a kingfisher, and Mr. Douglas got the message and laughed and said okay, fine, I will just tell Ginny that it was you. Thanks. I have never been to the coast, isn’t that ridiculous? Two hours away from the biggest ocean in the world, and I never once set foot in salt water. I don’t believe that Ginny has, either. Have you? Don’t answer that. Of all the horses in the world who would of course have a story to tell about being in the surf, you would be foremost. Of course you have been in the ocean. Foolish of me to even ask. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have been on a ship. You have, haven’t you? Is there anything you have not done in this life? Don’t answer that.
