The colt bucked and kicked up its heels in mock defense but stayed close at hand, depending on its dam to signal the next move. The boy, still biting the harmonica, reached for the old shotgun but did not pull it from the scabbard. The young wrangler scrutinized the hillside and trees for a big cat. Then he looked up to the rock escarpment high above and froze. There he saw the immense head and shoulders of the beast. The coal-dark eyes gazed down on the boy with a look so ancient, so fearsome and sad, that the boy stopped breathing. His heart pounded and his sinews seized in fear. He knew at once he was looking into the face of a prehistoric and wrathful god.
Time and space began to swell like a bubble until they encompassed everything the boy had ever known. Small bursts of insight evolved, matured, and then were gone. The boy watched in amazement, expecting at any moment to have the huge animal transform itself into Zeus or a flock of butcher-eyed ravens or maybe even an Indian wizard. But nothing happened. The creature did not move, did not threaten with gesture or sound.
The boy’s attention returned to the increased agitation of his mare. She was not about to countenance the present danger to herself or her colt. The mare whinnied, rolled her eyes, and tossed her head. Her intolerance and fear grew more pronounced by the moment. Yet the mammoth creature never moved a muscle or showed a claw. It simply gazed down at the boy’s predicament with complete indifference. An aura of weary apathy was enhanced by a cavernous yawn and half-closed eyes.
Now aware of the sounds his excited breath made through the reeds of the little mouth harp, the boy removed the instrument but never took his eyes from the beast above.
The boy had read accounts of Indian holy men who altered form to accomplish their magic, like Merlin casting spells over the eyes of credible men. These images, resurrected from childhood daydreams, did little to quell the boy’s anxiety. He could almost feel the hair rise on the back of his neck.
As if to validate the boy’s mystical speculations, the shaggy mountain slowly rose to stand on its hind legs. The image appeared to grow more massive every moment. All dimensions expanded until its upright carriage blotted out the morning sun and cast a broad shadow across the trail.
This was sufficient to provoke the mare, and she immediately took charge of a strategic withdrawal. She reared on her hind legs, whinnied a piercing alarm to her offspring, and bolted headlong down the trail at a gallop. To the boy’s amazement, the colt kept abreast of the race, taking the flats almost neck and neck with the mare.
It required a half mile of dangerous riding for the boy to recover any semblance of control over his mount. It was another quarter mile before the mare stopped prancing and snorting at every little sound and movement. The strain and exertion of their recent ordeal rendered horse and rider well lathered with fear and fatigue. Only the foal, carrying no burden, seemed willing to continue the contest, though after a sharp nip from the mare it obediently shadowed her once more.
* * *
The working heart of the post ranch lay in a protected basin between the high cliffs of the ocean to the west and the broad, stony mountains to the east. It was about noon when the boy at last spotted his destination. From a distance he could see the large barn with its corrals, outbuildings, and apple sheds.
A dozen riders were gathered about the corrals adjusting their tack in preparation for an afternoon of hard wrangling. Some were permanent hands or neighbors from the local ranches, but others were Monterey or Salinas boys like himself. They too had made the long ride from home in order to work the ranches of the Big Sur during their summer vacations.
It was hard work, but it promised good money for hands that knew which end of a horse gets the bit. Ready cash was always a reliable incentive for young men in need of the wherewithal to help finance their educations or families or marital ambitions.
When the young man finally rode up he was greeted by name. Most everyone present knew him, liked him well enough, understood his habits and skills, but thought him a trifle preoccupied with worlds of his own invention. He habitually carried books in his saddlebags instead of food and was easily lured into reading on the trail while his horse plodded on.
The sarcastic and diminutive Lupito Morales, a Salinas pal, shouted out from the open hayloft, “Where you been keeping yourself, John? We expected you last night. You missed another famous Post breakfast. Grilled venison, baked apples with honey, and lots of eggs.”
John’s school pal Billy Witt piped in with an embarrassing question. “What have you done with that mare? She looks like Uncle Pepe’s mule after ten acres on a hot day. What did you bring her colt for, food?”
Benny Ramirez laughed and winked. “Perhaps some pretty señorita gave John a cool drink and soft eyes and he could not drag himself away.”
Lupito piped out from the loft, “Then he remembered us, in a weaker moment, of course, and rode like hell to be at our sides.” The ranch hands within earshot began to chuckle. John blushed with boyish mortification and dismounted. He loosened his saddle cinch and led the mare and foal to the water trough.
The Old Man himself, Joe Post, came out of the barn leading his big sorrel. When he saw the tardy arrival, he handed the halter to Ramon Castro with instructions to saddle the brute “before sunset.” He then walked over to John and began to chide him for keeping bankers’ hours. John blushed again, but he met the old Indian’s eyes with a certainty of purpose.
“Where you been, John? You know damn well we begin work around here at sunup. You’ve already missed the morning sweep. Now listen, son, it’s going to be a short season because of the rains, and I can’t spare even one man, not even a daydreaming book hound like you. How’s your mother and father getting on, by the way? God love ’em. Is Olive still working up a storm? Probably damn happy to see the tail of your horse leave the paddock for a while. Speaking of horses, you better tack your saddle to the buckskin in the last stall. Your mount looks pretty well spent. What happened?”
Old Joe Post was not prepared for the look in John’s eyes when he turned to speak. It was as if his eyes had aged years beyond the rest of the boy. John looked directly at Mr. Post, but the old man got the definite impression that John was looking through him to some distant vision. At first John seemed reluctant to speak, but he squared his shoulders, prepared to receive the impact of disbelief.
“I saw a bear,” John said slowly. “The biggest bear the Almighty ever created! Bigger than any grizzly I’ve ever heard of. Bigger than anything I’ve seen in books. It was resting on that great flat rock just south of the springs where the trail comes close to the cliffs. I swear that bear was big enough to take down a horse and rider with one stroke, but it didn’t. Just stared down at me like Saint Peter. Then it reared up on its hind legs, as big as a barn. I almost soiled my pants, by God. The mare spooked like a scalded cat. Can’t say I blame her much with the colt in tow. I swear she almost flew. It was all I could do to bring her in check before she took a header and killed us both.”
Joe W. Post looked at John hard and long and then looked at his mare. A broad grin broke across his wise old face and he laughed. “Pig’s feathers! Son, there haven’t been bears like that in these parts since my father was a boy, all killed off years ago. My grandfather said one of those monsters could pick up a whole steer and walk off with it still kicking. You couldn’t have seen a Great Sur Bear, John. They’re all dead, son; take my word for it. You’ve been daydreaming again. Now you go saddle up that buckskin like I told you. You’re holding up the parade.” Ramon Castro brought up Joe Post’s saddled horse and the old Indian mounted, calling his schoolboys, wranglers, and vaqueros to follow his example.
John took no offense from Mr. Post’s words. He knew what he had seen, of that there was no doubt, but he wasn’t about to make himself look ridiculous by arguing the point with a respected Sur veteran like Mr. J. W. Post. John took the mare’s reins and started toward the barn to do as he’d been told. The colt happily followed.
John heard Joe Post call aft
er him. “This is going to be a tough season, John. If you don’t cut down on the woolgathering and keep your mind on your job, those pretty Salinas girls will find you with empty pockets come the fall term.” John nodded politely and led his mare into the barn.
No one enjoys being called a liar, not in so many words, and John relished the stamp less than most. He also knew the futility of heated debates with experts. Cattle, water, and fresh grass would certainly take precedence over John’s illusory bear. In any event the whole incident was soon forgotten. Forgotten by everyone, that is, except John.
Without making it obvious, he was determined to find some evidence of his doubted discovery before the season was out. To that end, he even purchased some plaster of Paris from a local blacksmith to make castings of the bear’s prints, should he be lucky enough to pick up the bear’s trail again. He was most careful not to divulge the plaster’s intended purpose, wanting to avoid any further homespun ridicule.
The phantom bear had become John’s secret “questing beast.” Like King Pelinor and his dragon, John was determined to find proof of his own fabled beast. Unfortunately, there had been intermittent rains that washed the game trails clean every few days. He was also burdened with having to work remote sections of land that were far from his last sighting of the bear. This led John to initiate clandestine forays away from work. Despite his supposed secrecy, these sojourns hardly went unnoticed by Joe Post or the other hands.
Though little was said at the time, John found the point well taken every payday when he discovered his salary docked for this or that. But with his honor at stake he thought the sacrifice worth the expenditure. The discovery and exhibition of the truth possessed a potential glory beyond the value of money. John believed exoneration was a feast best enjoyed by the light of another’s blushing embarrassment.
To John’s way of thinking, the search for the great bear had become as unique and important as Arthur’s Grail. Consequently, he redoubled his efforts by riding out on long evening searches. His dedication, however, to the romantic vision of his own vindication almost cost him his horse and his life one night.
While following a steep game trail north of the ranch, John’s mare lost her footing, and both horse and rider tumbled down a rocky embankment. The rider was bruised, bent, and embarrassed; but his mare was cut up, and for that he felt truly guilty and ashamed. The penalty for his error involved a painful extrication for horse and rider to regain the trail and then a long, slow walk leading the injured mare.
John then had to face mocking rebukes. Leading home an injured mount indicated carelessness in the extreme. Callow cowhands were a dime a bushel, but good horses were worth more than hard money in this country. The fact that the mare belonged to John didn’t count for much since it meant he’d now have to use one of the ranch mounts for the duration of the job. His own mare would be unfit for the trail for some weeks.
This incident curtailed John’s nocturnal quests for a while, but not permanently. He was always secretly on the lookout for his quarry. Every day he carried his casting plaster, tin mug, and extra canteen in the hope of finding just one mighty paw print to verify his account to Mr. Post and the other skeptics.
* * *
At the end of the season the inevitable happened. John found his wages docked into nonexistence, with never a sign of his mythical bear to show for it. First he had to reimburse the Posts for the care of his horse. The farrier was called in lieu of a veterinarian, but that wasn’t cheap either. The resultant diagnosis and treatment meant two things. One, John’s mare and her colt could not possibly travel back to Salinas for weeks, with all that implied in care, board, and feed. And two, John was broke. He couldn’t even afford the stage fare back to Salinas. Old Joe Post had been right. Those pretty Salinas girls would find John with empty pockets come the fall term.
The Posts had a broad reputation as a hospitable and compassionate clan, given to forbearance where youth and folly were concerned. John’s antics were barely a passing diversion to people who had seen just about every kind of addlepated eccentric who ever mounted a horse.
On the last day of work the Posts laid out a lavish farewell feed as a token of gratitude for the hired and volunteer labor. It was a traditional Post roundup fiesta. Mrs. Post engineered an enormous feast of roasted wild boar and vegetables, baked pigeons in currants and cream, abalone steaks grilled with green onion and chiles. Other local delights included wild mountain honey cakes and quarts of pickled quails’ eggs, acquired in a trade with the enigmatic Sing Fat. Everything looked truly marvelous; everything except John’s immediate future.
After a dessert of hot apple pie with thick ginger cream, Mrs. Post approached John and handed him a small, brown envelope accompanied by a pat on the cheek. She said the Ranch hoped to see him again next season. The little manila packet contained four dollars, exactly the price of the stage fare back to Monterey. From there he was on his own. Mrs. Post knew John would jump a local freight to Salinas like the rest of the boys. He would find his way home in good order, and that was all that really mattered. Next year, she hoped out loud, John would keep his mind on his job.
Unhappily, John returned home without ever collecting the least evidence of his bear. But that was just as well as far as he was concerned. The less said about the incident the better. He was already tied up in knots trying to think of a way to explain to his folks what happened to his mare. To reveal more than was absolutely necessary would only cause him further embarrassment. The stage ride to Monterey gave him plenty of time to think about the numerous distressing alternatives to the truth.
But John never forgot his Great Sur Bear, the mountain wizard, the God of generations. For John, if for no other living human, the immortal beast was as alive and real as he was, and that was all that really mattered.
When he got home, John was faced with the immediate problem of scraping together four dollars to repay Mrs. Post’s generosity. It was imperative that he unburden himself of that obligation as soon as possible to regain his sense of honor, if not pride. Two of the dollars he pulled from his tin strongbox, which was hidden behind a loose board in his closet, but the last two greenbacks he had to borrow from his father. Happily his father asked no questions, but he required the two dollars be paid back by the end of the month.
John went to the Bank of Salinas early the next day to have a check drawn up. He knew hard cash would never arrive at its destination. He wrote a short letter to accompany the funds and tried to make it sound as mature and businesslike as possible to cover his youthful chagrin.
John’s letter was addressed to Mrs. J. W. Post, Big Sur, California, and dated August 12, 1920. It began, “Esteemed Madame, Enclosed find check for stage fare from Post Ranch to Monterey. Distance thirty-eight miles. Rate ten cents a mile. Total four dollars. Hoping that I have not inconvenienced you by my delay.” It closed, “I beg, my friend, to be allowed to remain, yours very respectfully, J. E. Steinbeck Jr. P.S. Kindly forward a receipt.” The return address indicated was 130 Central Avenue, Salinas, California. John kept that receipt for years to remind him of his bear and the expense incurred by magic visions.
BLIND LUCK
An outsider would have said that young Chapel Lodge was truly a creature fashioned by the hand of the Almighty for the purpose of testing the human bounds of endurable loneliness. His father was a traveling man who was always on the shy side of making a decent living for his family. His mother doubled in brass when it came to sharing her husband’s borderline schemes for success. As a result, she rarely had time for her only child, whom she considered an impediment to her future prosperity.
The poor child’s family had lived under so many roofs, in so many towns, that the boy was ignorant of the meaning of the word “home.” Since a real home was the one thing he could not have, it became the one thing he longed for most, even if a tangible intuitive definition eluded him.
As a young boy Chapel spent most of his time desperately alone. Every so many week
s or months he would be hauled up by his pants loop, loaded with the shabby baggage into the back of a dusty buckboard, and invariably plunged into curious and even more peculiar domestic arrangements. The experience always left him feeling remote from the world and very helpless. His formal education was spotty at best, thanks to his parents, and in later years he would laugh and count himself lucky to be able to read and write with any skill whatsoever. Chapel’s enforced solitude in a long register of “cheap and cheaper” boardinghouses presented scant diversions. The most readily available distractions were the page-worn periodicals and lurid dime novels left behind by departing boarders.
In a world in which the fates and their mercurial favors move with the subtle regularity of the tides, it would follow that even Chapel should have secured his share of good fortune at some time, but such was not the case. In fact, Chapel’s whole life was an atlas of “from bad to worse.” Good fortune was not to be had at any price or from any quarter, so he stopped expecting it.
When he was only fourteen, Chapel’s indifferent parents deposited their youthful “dilemma” with a brutish old skinflint of an uncle who lived near Fresno. His father had puffed up, thumbed his glaring suspenders like a ward heeler, and exclaimed that he had made important business connections back East that needed addressing, or so he said, and that a train trip to Kansas City was an imperative move toward success in these matters. Chapel’s parents casually assured their son that they would return by spring, wreathed in greenbacks and robed with dazzling prospects. Meanwhile, “Hey you! Boy!”—which Chapel once mistook for his own first name—was to obey his uncle in all things and make himself useful for once.
After secretly reappropriating the $125 they had settled on the old man to care for the boy, Mr. and Mrs. Lodge boarded an eastbound train and disappeared over the horizon. They never returned. They never even sent so much as a note of explanation. They just vanished, leaving not the least trace of their existence save a gaggle of angry creditors and a veritable turnpike of unpaid bills. No one ever saw or heard from the Lodges again. The rabid old uncle didn’t seem unduly surprised by the deceitful nature of his brother’s desertion, though he happily took every opportunity to denounce the theft of the money due him. As far as the old panther was concerned, the most damnable, unrepentant scoundrels were usually found close to home, or in it. Chapel’s parents and their chicanery remained a thorn under the old man’s blanket, and he refused to abide the outrage gracefully. But he would get his money’s worth, even if he had to take it out of the boy’s hide for the going price of a strong cottonwood switch.
Down to a Soundless Sea Page 3
