The Dog Stars

  IV

  My heart was booming like a bongo but not from the effort. The ground was rough, yes, the way into the creek steep and strewn with boulders. I placed a hand on their warm shoulders as I hopped and pivoted around them, slid on loose dirt following the path of deer. Their droppings lay among the long brown needles of ponderosas and the sun mixed the scents which were strangely close to the musky scent of a living deer close by in pines. So that the hunter in me was roused. But that wasn’t it either. My heart was hammering because I felt like I was heading to my first date.

  That one, Hig’s actual first date—I was so nervous it was a disaster. We went to see Avatar in 3D. I kept having to duck away and pee. Every time I brought back more popcorn or candy. She must have thought I was some sort of diabetic or bulimic or something. I didn’t kiss her at the end nor try and she was clearly flushed and upset, and I’ll never know if it was because she thought I was a geek and couldn’t wait to get rid of me or—this only occurred to me months later—maybe she was as nervous as I and kinda liked me but didn’t know how to ask and felt rejected when I left so abruptly. My first realization that someone else might be anxious for my approval, that they could be scared of me. Before the end of the world that was a profound insight. Now I pretty much took it for granted: everybody was scared of me.

  Which is a weird way to head out on a date. Poor Hig, poor Frankenstein.

  Not her. She smiled. She smiled.

  I’d charmed em hadn’t I? Charmed em right out of Kill Mode. Right out of their knickers. Hadn’t I?

  I stopped dead. Squinted down to the creek, took one more careful step into the shade of a pine. Maybe not.

  The cute thing with the quilt. Codger had no patience. He placed a high value on his time his attention. While I was lying back in the sun enjoying myself, letting them think about things, he was forced to hunker down in the wet cattails, his blood boiling, fearing too—for life, for his gal—thinking, I’m gonna kill that smug sonofabitch. First chance. Thinks he’s so goddamn cute, how cute will it be when I make him watch his own balls roasting on the fire.

  Like that.

  I went on. Nevertheless. With the hair kinda standing up on my neck.

  When I got to the stream I turned down it and followed an easy trail along the bank. Tall grass here, tiny white asters like daisies, Indian paintbrush. Wild strawberry, penstemon. Huge ponderosas, the smell of cold wet stone and vanilla. White moths circling each other over a gravel bar. Mating. The first date thing: that was history. My heart was still racing but not for that. I saw the moths flitting, three then two, in and out of sunlight, and thought: Hig, mating is probably not in the cards not this round. Not ever probably.

  When you get to the short cliff at the top of the meadow, the one with the waterfall, when you swing down onto that tree ladder and put your back to Gramps, he is gonna shoot you dead with a delicious grunt. So there. Think this is a game, punk? You-are-not-a-pheasant-Correct:-you-are-a-dead-man. Write that on your little sheets. Bang. You just wouldn’t leave us alone. Bang. Stop twitching will ya? Bang.

  Bangley: I-told-you-Hig:-never-ever—fuck-you-know-damn-well-what.-R.I.P.

  Hmph. Whatever quandary I was in before I was just as much in now. That’s what I saw as I moved fast down the stream. Another thing: he, they, could’ve climbed up the tree ladder into the upper creek in two minutes flat and could now be waiting for me in the willows behind any tree and ambush me at leisure. I froze.

  Did not want to die. Not now.

  I could be in his sights as we speak. Goosebumps again this time not from the chill.

  Scanned down the creek. A box elder at water’s edge, leaves the color of limes. A few cottonwoods below. When the wind pulsed, their leaves turned back, brightening like the palm of a hand held up in sunlight. Stop. They could be crouched behind those thick shaggy trunks.

  Stop, Hig, Stop. Reconsider the folly of mere human connection. Listen to a tree.

  When you fished, that’s what you were seeking huh? Connection. Think of the cost to the fish. The fish did not want your connection and if a trout could have killed you with one gulp he would have. Gramps is that fish. He can swallow you.

  Huh.

  I backed up, got my body flat behind a tree. The creek was about thirty feet below me, the current already running clear and shallow enough to wade across. Low water for this early in the season, maybe thigh deep at the deepest. Scanned up the opposite bank. It was a slope, steep, of new grass and flowering weeds running up under an open glade of ponderosas. Toward the top of the ridge, crumbling rimrock broke through like moldering ruins, walls and parapets.

  Perfect hiding place. Them. I mean a perfect spot to ride out the end. From here, upstream, you’d never have a clue that the stream would open up into such a wide deep hole, such a meadow. No reason ever to come down here, to follow the water. It wasn’t the easiest going and the old track above, the road I’d landed on, would take you more quickly north and east. To places where the road crossed the little river without effort. From ground level at the top you couldn’t see the hole, the canyon, at all til you were right on it, right on the edge. And I bet that the way up from downstream was beset by waterfalls and cliffs. It was perfect. A hideout. Outlaws of old would covet.

  How did they get the cows in there? Only way in was the ladder. That occurred to me.

  Why when I was in the most critical spots did my mind wander to curiosities? Bangley would not approve. Bangley would say Get down. That ambush idea that’s a good one. Hunker down and think about things.

  I did. Backed up the slope ten paces into the cover of a thick juniper that grew to the ground like a shaggy bush. Snuggled in behind it, pushed in to where I could sit and see through branches down the slope. Stiff twigs brushed my scabbing face stung. The scent was heady. It was like being inside one of those sachets. Why did she do that? Dusty blue juniper berries rained to the ground. Think this is what they made gin out of. Really?

  Now what? I was safe. So what have you gained?

  Crouched in a mass of prickly twigs. I was a troll who lived at the base of a tree. Looked at the world through a scratchy scrim of needles and branches. Lived on rain, on bits of song and memory.

  I lay the rifle on the ground, hugged my knees, leaned into the thicker branches.

  Exhausted. To the bone. The untethering that took such an effort. The flight over already seemed like another life. And the airport seemed like a dream. If the airport was a dream, then Jasper was a dream behind a dream, and before before was a dream behind that. Within and within. Dreaming. How we gentle our losses into paler ghosts.

  Wait til nightfall that’s what. In the dark I can walk downstream. Watch them. Climb down the ladder in safety. One benefit of so many nights fishing, fishing obsessively into the dark: I know how to trust feet to find the way.

  A trout could see the smallest fly on the surface in the darkest night. The sky always luminous, luminous to a trout and the bug silhouetted against it. I loved catching fish in the dark. Often just the sound in a quiet pool, the blip, the tiny hyphenated splash then the tug. I loved it.

  Darkness. Nothing. Sharp smell of warming needles. Sleep. Okay a few minutes. Sleep.

  Up.

  Huh?

  Up. Back out. Touch that rifle you’re a dead man.

  Hard and sharp hard sharp thing against back of neck. Stick. Yup a stick. A long pole. At the other end a man with a gun. Fuck. Fuck. Good one Hig.

  Hands on ground. Back out. Crawl.

  Crawl. Slow. Now flat, lie flat. Hands behind head. Now!

  Knee in back hard. Hand roughly pushing under jacket relieving me of the belted Glock. Hand running down my back, up again, down legs, expert, swift.

  Roll over.

  Same with the front, fast frisk, relieving me of the grenades. Into the pockets of his own barn coat.

  Younger than. Or not. Leaner. White haired. Hard like shoe leather. Creases. Creased lines deep from cheeks down. Grimace lines. Sp
ray of creases from corners of the eyes, outside corners. Gray eyes sparking. Used to sparking back at the naked sun. No bullshit at all. Every movement sure and swift.

  Not sure why: up close I felt less afraid. Didn’t feel panicked at all. Which was probably dumb right now. Gramps was not the least afraid of me, not a shred. Somehow I reciprocated.

  Over again. Roll over.

  Knee hard in back, sharp needles stinging right side of my face. Watched him from the corner of my eye. Shrugged a circle of coiled rope off his left shoulder, shook it out one handed, bound my hands tight. One handed.

  Must be a rancher, I said. Can tell by your hat.

  Shut up.

  Ten-four. Kinda nice not to make idle conversation.

  Didn’t say that, didn’t say anything.

  Knee hard down on the knobs of my spine, hurt as he yanked up, tightened the knot.

  You shoulda kept on. Nobody bothers us here.

  I did, I can tell.

  Shut up.

  Knee grinding ribs. He stepped back, five steps sideways, uncoiling rope, reached down, picked the AR out of the tree and slung it.

  Now stand.

  Didn’t even give me a chance. One jerk hard on the rope yanked me to my feet, about ripped out my shoulders.

  Walk.

  I walked. And.

  A relief to do what someone said. Someone who knew exactly what he was doing. Just follow orders. It occurred to me as I stumbled down the hill that if he had wanted me dead I’d be dead. Just like me before when I was on the rim and they were cowering below. Reciprocating. He was reciprocating now. A perfectly reciprocal relationship. Damn.

  I’d been closer than I thought. Maybe two hundred yards to where the creek went over the lip, poured over the twenty foot falls. I could see the top of their tree ladder sticking up to the left of the current. I could hear the cascade hitting the pool at the bottom. It sent up spray and the spray in the sunlight shimmered with a shifting shred of rainbow.

  From this angle through the mist the little box canyon looked like Eden. Green and bounded, waterfed, remote from death. How was I going to get down that? Was he going to lower me by my bound arms—up behind me and tear out both shoulders? Or just shove me over the edge, hope the pool is a few feet deep? Break an ankle or legs, cripple me, all the better.

  The whistle pierced, I jumped. Jerked around. Could’ve been the peregrine but right in my goddamn ear. She came out of the stone hut. She carried the scoped rifle. Bolt action. Also a small blanket. She sat at a wood slab table, rolled the blanket, propped the barrel on it like a sandbag, sighted upwards, thought better of it, lifted the gun and pulled down a bipod, two legs at the front of the barrel, sighted again. Better angle. On me. She’d done this before, that was clear.

  She’s very good. I taught her. You screw up just a little, you die.

  He stepped forward and with one tug freed the knot on one wrist, left one tied to the end of his rope.

  Climb down.

  One handed? I’m afraid of heights.

  Which was true. Flying is different.

  He kicked me in the ass. No shit. A swift boot. Toe in the buttocks which lurched me forward, almost sent me over the edge. That hurt. Like a bastard. Kinda hurt my feelings. What if I had stumbled over? First time since he woke me up I really wanted to hit him.

  Use two hands.

  I crouched, clutched the tree with both hands swung down.

  My name is Hig.

  I was born in the Year of the Rat.

  I have no serial number but my pilot’s license number is 135-271.

  I am an Aquarius.

  My mother loved me. She really really loved me. My father. Absent but. Well. I had an uncle that taught me to fish.

  I wrote thirty poems after college, twenty three of which were for my wife.

  Jasper was my dog.

  No kids. My wife was pregnant.

  My favorite books are: Shane. Infinite Jest.

  I can cook. Pretty well for a guy.

  Profession: contractor. I don’t like it. I hated it. I should have been a high school English teacher or something. A pet groomer. I am free of disease, as far as I know I am healthy. I visit families with the blood sickness about twice a month.

  My favorite poem was written by Li Shang-Yin in the ninth century.

  Maybe it wasn’t my favorite poem before before but it is now.

  I have always been particularly attuned to loss. I guess. Got a bumper crop now.

  May I have some water?

  He tied me to a post in the yard. Facing the sun. Sat me on one of the stools, hands behind me. Tight. They stood and studied me. I squinted, tried to make them out. Thought of something.

  My right jacket pocket.

  He stepped forward reached in, dug around, pulled out two fresh cans of Copenhagen. Nine or ten years old, expired, but still. I’d brought them as gifts, so. He stepped to my side so I could see him bent, his head down, looking at me sideways, close. Then he opened one of the cans with that expert tear of the thumbnail, creasing the paper around the tin lid, the quarter twist and pry. He stuck his nose in, breathed. I could smell it. Salt and dirt. The tobacco was dust dry, I knew from Bangley, but he pinched two fingers, stuck a small load in his upper lip. He was an upper lip man. Spat.

  Three points.

  That all? Two tins. I think six is fair.

  He handed her the tins and I was surprised to see her take a dip. He pulled the second stool around to the side of me, sat.

  Sun’ll be out of your eyes in twenty minutes.

  She stood stock still in front, still backlit. She was tall. I couldn’t make out her face. Could feel the bore of her stare though.

  Does she talk?

  Whoops. Minus three. Back to zero. That’s where you like to be. That’s what I’m getting.

  I like to travel light.

  He nodded barely.

  That’s good. The dip. Been a while. I don’t give a shit how you like to travel. You could be carrying around a dining room set for all I care. Looked around. We could use one.

  If I say anything you’re gonna dock me points right? I mean unprompted. Right?

  He nodded. Minus one.

  And then I lose my frequent flyer opportunities I’m guessing.

  Minus two. Get to minus ten I shoot you dead. No appeal. On the spot. Mention her again I dock you five. Cause now you know better. Tell an untruth, that’s ten points, you’re dead. Shit your pants you’re dead. Piss yourself that’s up to you.

  Suddenly I wasn’t having any fun. I heard the thudding of the waterfall, rhythmic like a tribal drum, heard one of the sheep bleat and that’s exactly how I felt. Plaintive and kind of traumatized.

  I looked at him.

  You know what?

  I said that.

  Know what? Fuck you. Fuck you and your points. I came here in peace and you tried to kill me twice. I came here looking for something, I don’t know what. I don’t know what, you got that? Not death, though. We had enough of that back at the airport. Enough death.

  I sat tightly bound on the stool and I looked at him and I could feel tears streaming down my face, stinging the cuts on the left side.

  I lost my dog a week ago. Jasper. I don’t need you or your shit. I got nothing. Go ahead, subtract twenty fucking points, shoot me dead. I’ll be fucking glad. Go ahead.

  I could taste the salt of my tears.

  Let him up Dad, she said. Enough. Let him up.

  Her voice was husky. I blinked up at her straight into the sun. Felt his capable hands loose the rope.

  I walked away from them to a cottonwood by the edge of the creek and pissed. I didn’t care. I wasn’t shy. The pour and burble of the stream covered my sobs. Cool in the deep shade. Sobbed so hard I gagged. Maybe they were watching, no, they were definitely watching, fuck them. I just let it finish, then breathed. Knelt and splashed my face, the cuts that were already rashing into a spray of scabs. Drank. Why the fuck was I crying all the time? I didn
’t give a shit, not really. I wasn’t cracking up, it’s just what I felt like doing. Nine years barely a drop, then Jasper, now this.

  The world opens suddenly, opens into a narrow box canyon with four sheep, and we grieve. Two shepherds, maybe not in their right mind, and we grieve. The relief of company not Bangley, not the blood disease, we grieve. We grieve. That this was once the middle of nowhere and now it’s not even that. And I am not even that. Before I could locate myself: I am a widower. I am fighting for survival. I am the keeper of something, not sure what, not the flame, maybe just Jasper. Now I couldn’t. I didn’t know what I was. So grieve.

  I stood in the shade of the tree in the cool breath of the moving water and let the sound, the light breeze blow through me. I was a shell. Empty. Put me to your ear and you would hear the distant rush of a ghost ocean. Just nothing. The slightest pressure of current or tide could push and roll me. I would wash up. Here on this bank, dry out and bleach and the wind would scour and roughen me, strip away the thinnest layers until I was brittle and the thickness of paper. Until I crumbled into sand. That’s how I felt. I’d say it was a relief to have at last nothing, nothing, but I was too hollow to register relief, too empty to carry it.

  I really didn’t give a shit what this old bastard did to me. Nothing to lose is so empty, so light, that the sand you crumble to at last blows away in a gust, so insubstantial it’s carried upwards to shirr into the sandstorm of the stars. That’s where we all get to. The rest is just wearing thin waiting for wind.

  Certainly not a place to negotiate from. There is nothing to trade. I didn’t even think, I spared his life and his daughter’s he owes me at least one. What? One thing. Twenty frigging points.

  Walked back.

  I’m leaving. Back up that fucking tree. Pretty clear you prefer your own company.

  I looked at her.

  Could I please have a dip? Was never a habit, but right now it smells good. Thanks.