“But you cannot.”
“You haven’t even given me a chance.”
“That is not what I mean. I have no things to make you comfortable here. I . . .”
He looked again at the face, at the eyes, at the sadness, and he was confused. He still carried the things he was taking back to Jerry. He still stood in the path where he had encountered her. He did not want to take her to the place where he slept, to the place where he watched the animals, to the place that was his ground. He chose instead a place higher on the mountain, where the old trees were. He turned to go there.
“Come.”
She followed.
They climbed up through the young timbers, climbed as a deer would climb without a path. The edge of the old trees was rougher. There the undergrowth had been cut, but never cleared. They had to pick their way through vines and ferns. And rocks were stubborn in their ways—loose when footing was needed, and firm when they were blocking the way.
There was a copse that Hadad knew. He had been there often, choosing it as a place to sit and work with his tools. There he would work the stone, the wood, the metals he found, into shapes that were useful, or interesting to the eye.
He entered the cluster of trees and she followed. Here he could put down the gear he had been carrying. Here he could put down the confusion that he did not know how to carry.
They sat on a fallen tree.
“Tell me in different words why you are here.” Ruth looked at the ground, pushed a path with the toe of her boot, and then looked directly at him.
“I think I love you very deeply.”
Hadad looked at the eyes and knew then what he saw there.
“And there is nowhere else for you to go?”
“There is nowhere else I want to go.”
He felt the pull to move toward her, the way he had felt it in Prineville before the car, before she had left the curb. He knew now what that pulling was and now he resisted it.
“Ruth, you cannot stay here.”
“I have a tent and everything I need, everything we need.”
“We cannot stay on this mountain. And it is all I have.”
“Jerry said we can stay on his farm. I asked.”
“You cannot stay with me.”
“I don’t believe that. I don’t believe for one minute that you want me to go away. Please don’t make me beg.”
“Ruth, we are different.”
“Hadad, I don’t know anything about the ways of your people, and the ways of my people don’t apply right now. I don’t know how to say what I’m saying. I don’t know how to let you know what I know. But my heart says that I’m not wrong to be here. I look in your eyes and know that you feel what I feel. I won’t accept your words that say we can’t be together, because there isn’t any logic in them. We can be together, and my truth inside says you want that as much as I do. I don’t know why you hold back. I don’t know why you force the distance between us. But I do know the distance is a lie. And I haven’t got time for lies. My world is collapsing around me. I haven’t got time to wait for you to come to the truth in your own way. I love you. And I want to spend whatever time we have left on this planet with you. And nothing else matters very much.”
“You see only what is on the outside.”
“It’s not the outside I’m looking at. I didn’t fall in love with you for your looks. Your hair’s too coarse, your nose is too big, your hands are larger than your face, your musculature is all wrong, and your eyes are glassy and hide the truth. I’d never paint you as a hero. What I see is on the inside. What I love is on the inside.”
“And what you do not see is between the two.” “You think you are so different because what you feel and what you think are not the same. You think you are so different because you don’t belong to this culture. But we’re all in this together. We struggle along trying to carve out a little happiness for ourselves wherever we can. I may not know the secrets you think you’re hiding from me, but whatever they are, I’ll face them. I can’t argue with what you say I don’t know about you. But I can say this: What I do know about you is that you are honest and kind. And I can’t believe there is anything about you that puts a lie to that.”
“I cannot argue to convince you. I can only say it will not work.”
“Then you will have to tell me you do not love me.” Hadad looked at her. She did not hide behind her eyes. She did not hide in a glance away from his face. She did not hide in a binding look. She waited. He did not look away.
“I cannot tell you that.”
“Then there is no argument that will make me go away.”
“There is one.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I have come to the mountain to die.”
“Then I will observe your death.”
“I am running away.”
“Then I will help you.”
“I have no home.”
“Then we will make one.”
“I am not who you think I am.”
“Then I will learn who you are.”
“And then you will leave.”
“I have no reason to leave.”
Hadad looked at her and knew he must send her away. She had a world to travel, to heal, to rescue. He wanted to hold her and knew he could not live a lie. “Ruth, 1 am a Visitor.”
Chapter 7
“There aren’t any arguments that will convince me, Hadad.” Her response came in the same rhythm as the ones before.
Hadad watched her, waiting.
“Call it arrogance, if you like, but I’m not afraid of the differences between us.”
Hadad watched. Still she carried the energy of her own argument without hearing the truth in his.
“I don’t . . .” The words failed her, and then the tears came. She sat just as she had before; her body did not respond. But her eyes closed and her face contorted. When she opened her eyes, they were soft-focused, wet, and faintly accusing.
“It’s not fair.”
“It is the truth.”
“But you told me to—”
“What is not fair is for my people to take advantage of your people. That is not fair.”
“But what about—”
“Ruth, I will live on the mountain until I die.” “No, no, no, no!” She shook her head violently from side to side and the tears now flowed freely, the sobs grabbing at her torso. Hadad reached out to calm her.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t . . . Don’t...” She pulled away from him and, shaking her head back and forth in a frenzy, got to her feet and backed away out of the clearing and then ran down the mountainside.
Hadad sat very still, waiting with the rest of the forest for the thunder of human catastrophe to pass.
He heard her cries all the way down the mountain. He heard her steps, at one point sure, at another faulty, then sureness regained, then another stumble. At one point she tripped and fell. The sobs continued. She got up and went on. And then she reached her car, and he heard the metal and then the ignition and the roar of the engine and the high-pitched whine of the brakes, and then the rush of departure, hanging in the air for minutes while the car navigated the curves of the road heading west.
The forest waited in the stillness.
Hadad waited for the forest.
A field mouse ran across the log where Ruth had been sitting.
Hadad watched, without moving, without wanting to move. The mouse investigated the log and went on.
And then in another moment a jay overhead mocked him for his foolishness. Gradually the sounds returned to fill the clearing.
A piece of wood lay at Hadad’s feet. He reached for it and turned it over and over in his hands. He recognized in the grain the flow of hair, and so he took his knife from his pocket and began the slow, careful process of delineating features, evoking the texture of . a face, rounding the crown for a head, sculpting the smooth line of a neck and the spread of bare shoulders. There the wood stopped, and so he retu
rned to the face to work it further into expression and personality.
He had worked for hours before he realized that the face he was carving was Ruth’s. It bothered him to look at it. And yet he could not destroy the work, nor discard it. Now started, he felt compelled to finish it and to refine the work so that it was even more a resemblance.
He would not take food here in this place. This was a place of sharing, of stillness. And so when the sun
had shifted to the west and he became aware of the hours passing, he began to think of going down the mountain to hunt. He had not eaten all day, and even now he did not feel hungry. He was not comfortable with the longing he felt. And it was disquieting to realize he had now told someone who he was. He had been safe as long as no one knew. Now he must always be alert.
He put the knife into his pocket and the carving on the log beside him, picked up the camping gear and returned to the side of the mountain where he slept. He left the gear there and wandered east, seeking the canyons beyond that were shadowed now and would be alive with rodents seeking food themselves. He covered several miles before he was satisfied. Mice, crickets, shrews, a cardinal, two squirrels, four beetles, and a handful of ants made him feel better. But there was still the gnawing feeling of discontent, of longing, that food would not satisfy.
He returned to the cave and picked up the gear. He would return it to Jerry, find out if Jerry’s parents were safe, and then return to the mountain to sleep. He longed for sleep to exorcise the growing anxiety, the feeling of emptiness, of pointlessness, of impatience.
The truck was up by the house half full of packages, the tarp that had covered them pulled back but not removed. Jerry came out from the house, reached for another bundle, and did not see Hadad emerging from the forest. He returned to the house, and when he came back, Hadad was by the truck taking out yet another box.
“Thanks. I can use your help.”
“You found them all right.”
“I found them. My dad had been shot. Just surface wounds, but he’s in a lot of pain. Mom’s frightened. I had to sneak them out of town under the tarp. Dave, it’s bad. The town reeks of rotting meat. Everything’s boarded up. There’s nothing left. A few people hiding in closets. I brought a neighbor, an old lady the folks have been hiding. There’s nothing left.”
“You had trouble to get into town?”
“Ruth brought me a pass to get me through the roadblock. She’d taken it off a dead body up at the hospital. That got me in. It was harder getting out. They search everything. Had to go north, cross a few ranches. Ended up on a firebreak. That got me back to the highway above the roadblock. It wasn’t a very comfortable ride in back here. But I guess it was better than getting dead.”
“It is almost over, then, in Prineville.”
“Probably in Prineville. But they won’t stop there. They’ll spread out, get the other communities in the valley, and then start up the mountains. It’s only a matter of time before they come here. We’ll give the folks a few weeks to recuperate, and then we’re heading north. It’s funny, Dave. No place is safe. You look at the face of one of those aliens and you see everything you’ve ever seen in another man: hopes, fears, dreams, plans, maybe even love. But they’re rotten inside. You can’t trust any of them.”
“What about the fifth column?”
“They’re only pretending to help the resistance. They’ve got their own motives. I wouldn’t trust ’em. We’re stuck with running, man. There isn’t any solution. All we can hope is that we can kill off the ones who find us and run from those who haven’t caught up with us yet.”
“I take this in for you.”
“Thanks. You can meet the folks.”
Hadad had picked up the largest of the boxes, expecting it to be the heaviest, and found it awkwardly light. It took both arms to balance it, and he had trouble seeing around it to the steps and so he maneuvered sideways. He backed into the house, being careful not to scrape his knuckles on the doorjamb. The boxes were stacked on the far side of the living room by the archway. He crossed the room and added this one to the stack. He then turned, saw Madge, nodded in greeting, and then saw the three elderly people huddled on the couch, wrapped in blankets, each holding a steaming mug, staring at him, unsmiling.
Jerry came in with a laundry basket, put it by the door, and started the introductions.
“Dave, this is my mother and father, Evelyn and Ralph, and this is Mrs. Hardesty. I told you, Mother. Dave is from Prineville, used to work at the mill. I brought him up here my last trip.”
The woman Jerry had indicated was his mother nodded politely, even tried to smile, but the weariness from the trip made it a feeble attempt. The man nodded automatically, starting to doze again, obviously awakened by the intrusion, unwilling to attend to anything more than the steaming liquid he was holding, almost unable to stay awake long enough to enjoy it.
Mrs. Hardesty was older than the others, wizened and gnarled, but alert and cautious. She looked him over carefully and then rose from her seat, bent and crippled, and walked cautiously toward him. She sniffed at him and looked him over again. She growled before she spoke. The sound came from her throat, but its anger came from deeper.
“Get out of here. You’re one of them. Get out of here and leave us alone.” Her voice was gravelly but distinct. And her eyes pierced any illusion that she was senile. “Jerry, get this alien out of this house immediately. You’ve brought one of them here. Now none of us are safe.” •
Hadad froze, staring at the old woman. She was the first human he had met with the senses of an animal. She did not frighten him; she had no power except, perhaps, the power to influence. But he respected the keenness of her perceptions and knew she would never be swayed by any argument in his favor.
“Mrs. Hardesty, this is my friend.”
“You’re a fool. He’s got you fooled. I can smell it in him. Get him out of here. Get us away from him.” Hadad looked over to Jerry, and then, embarrassed, looked at the floor. He glanced up at Madge, saw her embarrassment, tried to smile, and nodded, and then went to the door and out to the porch. Jerry followed him.
“Dave, I apologize. What can I say? After what they’ve been through, she has to be scared of her own shadow. I can’t blame her, but I’m sorry she took it out on you.”
Hadad nodded and went around the bed of the truck to get the gear he had brought back.
“I have finished.”
“This doesn’t mean you’re leaving us, does it?” “No, just I have finished.”
“Ruth found you then.”
“You knew she was looking for me?”
“Look, buddy, I don’t mean to presume, but from the look on her face when she asked about you, I sort of put two and two together. There’s room out behind the shed for a tent; Tony has had one up there every summer. I’ll keep Mrs. Hardesty out of your hair. You won’t bother us. You’re welcome to stay.”
“Ruth has gone away.”
“Her choice or yours?”
“Jerry, it is not right for her to come here.” “Dave, she hasn’t got anywhere else to go either. Territory gets shifted under conditions like these. She’s welcome.”
“But I cannot be for her.”
“She’s not the one?”
“I do not understand ‘not the one.’”
“She’s not the girl you left in Prineville?”
“She was in Prineville, yes.”
“Dave, maybe I’m sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong, but I don’t see any reason when two people love each other why they don’t give it try. What can it hurt? If it doesn’t work out, she goes away, that 1 can understand. But I think you’re crazy letting her go when you feel the way you do.”
“And how do I feel?”
“You mean you don’t care about her?”
“Jerry, I am committed to Ruth’s happiness.” “Yeah.”
“She is strong. She will endure. She is entitled to have happiness. She will find someone who can be
for her.”
“And you? What about you, Dave? Are you strong? Will you endure? Are you entitled to happiness? Will you find someone who can ‘be’ for you?”
“There is no one who can be for me.”
“That’s hogwash, man. You’ve just been alone too long. You’ve forgotten what it feels like to be loved. You’re a fool, man. I say go find her; bring her back.” “To use your words, I love her. And so I tell her I cannot be for her.”
“You’re crazy, Dave.”
“Perhaps to you.”
“Perhaps to me. If you change your mind, there’s always room.”
Jerry took another basket into the house. Hadad saw the mattress in the bed of the truck and lifted it onto the porch. He did not attempt to go inside with it. Jerry did not come out right away, and so Hadad left the camping gear on the porch as well, and went back across the garden and off into the woods.
It was twilight in the gorge. The sky above was still blue, and the pines etched a sharp silhouette at the top of the ridge. Soft grays replaced the vivid tones of daylight, woodsmoke augmented the damp green of evening. The moon was high, still pearlescent in the light-blue sky.
Hadad climbed diligently, wearied by the day, eager for sleep, unwilling to break the rhythm of the forest by hurrying. He moved above his cave, broke the pattern of his climb, and came back by a different route, as he always did. He was not followed by man. Man would stalk him. Man he must outrun. He was not followed this time by dog or coyote. But at other times they had followed. And so he changed his patterns continually to keep his private places separate from the eyes of predators.
He expected to find his space unnoticed, undisturbed. He had never found animals inspecting it, having edged his space, his territory, with rue. And so he was ready for the sleep to come when he came into the clearing.
She was seated on the pallet he had made of worn blankets, and at first she looked down at the figure she was tracing on the cloth in front of her, but as he stepped into the clearing, Ruth looked up and stared at him, penetrating him with the searching eyes of the deer, binding him with unblinking eyes that pulled him toward her, this time without restraint, without condition, without reservation.
V 14 - The Oregon Invasion Page 9
