the stream and knelt in the cool wet sand at its bank. He reached in with cupped hands, let the clear water flow over them for a moment, and then took a double handful and splashed it on his face.
The pup that followed him came up beside him and licked his ear. Ben dipped water again, and held as much in his hands as he could to let the pup drink. It lapped thirstily at the water. When Ben’s hands were empty, the pup went on licking his hands. Ben laughed quietly. He had found a companion.
Over many years Ben and the pup wandered the mountains and mesas and deserts, sometimes dwelling with a people for several months, other times skirting villages that promised to be hostile. In the northern forests they met the people of Rabbit. In the deserts they met the people tricked by Coyote. On the coast they met a multitude of peoples who spoke different tongues and ignored their neighbors.
The pup grew into a great dog, fierce to enemies and kind to children. He guarded Ben, the first to have shown him kindness. He came to the end of his days when a fearful woman threw a large rock at him, caught him unawares, and knocked him from the narrow trail he was walking over the side of a steep cliff. Ben heard him thump on the rocks below, howl one long howl, and woke up to find the plane taxiing to the gate. His face was wet. He felt a lightness of being, as though he had discarded an old familiar weight.
Rain drummed on the covered walking chute that led into the airport proper. When Ben looked out the windows, he saw it sluicing down the windows. Errant gusts of wind blew the stream sideways from time to time. Ben sighed. He hated driving in the rain. He briefly contemplated staying in the City for the night, but he was anxious to get back to Butter and Dickon, so he struggled to his car, dumped his luggage in, and started the engine.
Slow, writhing snakes of traffic clogged the freeways. Ben reminded himself to be patient as he negotiated the bridges and lane changes that took him north, north to Butter and Dickon.
A blockade closed the road from Las Tumbas to San Danson for all except local traffic. The patrolman on duty recognized Ben as a San Danson Villager, and waved him through, after explaining that downed trees and high water made the road dangerous. “Go slow,” the trooper said, “but keep going. If you have to, stay in Pueblo Rio for the night.”
Ben thanked him and proceeded forward. At two different places he had to drive on the shoulder to avoid fallen forest. At Pueblo Rio, the river was trickling into the main street, but it was still passable. The road from Pueblo Rio to San Danson climbed a little way higher, and the river did not yet threaten it. Ben sighed with relief, and allowed himself to drive a little faster.
He was grateful to reach the garage at San Danson Station. He had not included an umbrella in his travel kit, but he had an old poncho without too many holes. He started the walk through the Village toward Dickon’s cottage, not even stopping at his own. He didn’t quite know who he wanted to see more, Butter or Dickon. Several yards from Dickon’s cottage an explosion of brindle fur and ecstatic barking greeted him, and showered muddy water all over him as Butter welcomed him home.
Good Grief
One of those rare days came when the coast was clear of fog, though a storm whipped the ocean far to the west. The surf performed spectacular ballets along the shore. Ben went out with Butter to walk along the beach near the mouth of the cove. They found a large pine tree stump either washed down by the floods or pushed up on shore by the waves. It was not very damp. Ben sat down. Butter sat by his side. He scratched the dog’s head, hitting the places behind her ears that never tired of his touch.
Dickon found them like this. Butter stood long enough to wag her tail to greet Dickon then sat back down. Butter knew the wisdom of silent companionship was what Ben needed. For once, Dickon knew it as well. He stood near Ben, looking out at the surf’s choreography.
Ben’s voice was ragged when he spoke. “I know I haven’t wanted to talk. You’ve been patient with me, Dickon,” he said. “Thanks for that.” He fell silent again. Dickon turned his head to look at Ben. Ben’s gaze was far out to sea beyond the surf, riding the storm waves. Dickon wondered what to say. Before he thought of anything, Ben spoke again.
“Do you have any family living, Dickon?”
“No.” Dickon stared out at the gray and black waves. Under the surf, the water changed to green, almost the same shade as Dickon’s eyes.
“I don’t think I do, either,” Ben said. Dickon waited for Ben to explain. He was aware Ben’s nephew and sister-in-law still lived in Colorado. Ben went on, “Maybe my nephew might keep in touch, if he can do it without angering his mother.”
“What’s her problem?”
“She thinks I’m bound for Hell on a fast train.”
“Because you’re gay?”
“Yes.” Ben stood and stretched. Butter stood as well, shaking the sand from her tail.
“I can’t speak for anybody else,” Dickon said, “but I don’t think I’d need a family that hated me.”
“Did your family know you are gay?”
“Yes. I told them soon after Vin Decatur died. Mom was angry with me at first. Dad was just sad. They were a lot older than average parents were. I came into their lives as an unexpected accident. They never planned on having a child to raise.”
“Did you reconcile with them before they died?”
“Oh, yes. They never cut me off.” Ben put his hand on Dickon’s shoulder and squeezed him gently.
“I take it you had no siblings,” he said.
“I did,” Dickon said, “a twin sister. She died three months after we were born. I didn’t know that until my father was dying, and Mom told me.” Dickon sighed. “I think they found it too painful to mention.”
“My folks never knew I was gay,” Ben said. “They died in a car wreck before I came out. Sometimes I wished I could tell them, and introduce them to Len. My brother and his wife never wanted to meet Len.” Ben’s gray eyes clouded with pain. Dickon stared out toward the waves.
“At least they went quickly,” Dickon said, after a silent space. “I watched my father get old, and then his body started giving out on him, part by part. First his legs got too weak to hold him up without a walker. Then his back went, and he couldn’t even use the walker. Mom and I pushed him around in a wheel chair.” Dickon coughed.
“The worst was when his mind went. He was always a scholar, reading obscure books, looking for the odd fact that would unlock some puzzle. When the senile dementia hit, he lost all that. His wits wandered through fragments of his childhood, and through the fire and brimstone theology he’d grown up with. It was a blessing when he went.” Ben heard the unvoiced sadness under Dickon’s matter-of-fact recitation. He put his arm across Dickon’s shoulders.
“I should be comforting you,” Dickon said. Ben nuzzled Dickon’s ear. He noticed the touch of gray in Dickon’s red sideburns.
“Not necessarily,” Ben said. “Just being together is a comfort.” He took his arm from Dickon’s shoulders. Butter rubbed against his leg. He bent down to stroke her head.
“Your Mom outlived your father, then?”
“Yes,” Dickon said. “But not by much. I brought her here, so I could take care of her. She didn’t like living in this world without my father. They were married over fifty years. She died within a year, from loneliness, I think.” Dickon bent down and rubbed Butter’s ears. “That’s when I found out what the word ‘family’ means when you don’t have kin.”
“How do you mean?”
“When your blood kin is dead, or cuts you off, your family becomes the people around you who care about you and take you for who you are.”
“Then you and Butter are my family,” Ben said.
Dickon kissed Ben. “You and Butter are my family,” he said. Butter exploded in a frenzy of joyous racing in circles around her people. That was her way of saying they were her family.
“It’s a new day,” Ben said, “and a new beginning. Wh
o’d have thought it possible at our age?”
The sun kissed the heads of Obadiah and Obaheah, and dribbled gold on the dark waves. Dickon and Ben turned toward the Village. Butter raced ahead, ready for supper.
Vanna in the Wilderness
Vanna left the court in a fury. She looked the fool. John Diss would pay, she vowed to herself, for this legal pyrotechnic display. She, Vanna, had been the accepted murrelet specialist in this area, until he imported this foreigner from Canada. She’d make him pay.
But worse, the San Danson Villagers had won the round. After this the courts would have little sympathy for getting rid of this pestiferous community, this blight of cottages on the cove Vanna had vowed should be pristine, unpolluted by the dark hand of man or the vagaries of the Mandors, who had stolen it from her ancestors.
Vanna marched from the courthouse to her office. She snarled a greeting at Bertha Van Nation as she entered the office. Bertha guessed at once that the hearing had not gone Vanna’s way. She sighed. Vanna’s vitriol could vitiate the office venue for days, until she had concocted another scheme to achieve her objectives. Bertha wondered again if she should quit. The money was good, and the job got her out of the house. Not yet, but soon, she’d quit.
Bertha typed busily, not on Commission business, for there was none to type, but on a short story she hoped to sell to a magazine that catered to readers