Dog Soldiers (40 page)

She was tired of the boy
’
s smile; it had something of the formal beatitude of hippie greeting, mindless acceptance soul to soul. It annoyed her to see those things on a child
’
s face.

“
Let
’
s go see the old man,
”
Hicks said.

They walked along the dirt road toward the foot of the mountain, past the car skeletons and the tepee to a patch of soil where rows of blackened vegetable leaf withered in the company of thorny weeds and broom. The patch was en closed with chicken wire.

“
Christ,
”
Hicks said,
“
Sally
’
s garden.
”

“
Yes, sir,
”
Kjell said.

“
They strung that wire underneath the whole bed,
”
Hicks told Marge.
“
To keep the gophers out.
”

Marge nodded wearily.

“
Most people poison gophers. But it was the time of peace and love and all that lives is holy.
”
He turned to the boy.
“
You remember that time?
”

“
I don
’
t know,
”
Kjell said.

“
In the end somebody got drunk — I don
’
t remember who — and came down here with a shotgun and blasted all the gophers they could find.
”

“
That was a reaction,
”
Kjell said.
“
Because it was so much work putting in the chicken wire.
”

A narrow trail led along the foot of the mountain, tu
rn
ing at length into a narrow windless passage between walls of red rock that widened into a pine glade. The deep shade and the smell of the pines in the heat gave promise of rest. They could hear fast water not far away. Beyond the glade was a grassy field with
a stand of cottonwood trees be
side a stream. The stream had been dammed with blocks of concrete to form a pool, where bubbles rose from an un seen bottom marring the reflected image of the sheer mountain over them.

“
You want a bath?
”
the boy asked.
“
The creek
’
s nice and warm right here.
”

Hicks was looking at the rock face.

“
Where the hell
’
s the cable lift?
”

“
He dismantled it,
”
Kjell said.
“
Tore it up just the other day.
”

“
All the way here I been waiting to ride that cable. What the hell possessed him?
”

A small black and white quarter horse was nibbling grass among the trees. The boy walked up to it and pulled its head up with the bridle, leading it out of the trees. A length of red cotton cloth trailed from one of its hind feet.

“
What have you got on him?
”
Hicks asked.

The boy swung into the saddle and brushed the horse
’
s neck.

“
I was trying to make a gypsy hobble. He didn
’
t go for it.
”

“
You
’
ll get your teeth kicked out. How come he took the lift down?
”

“
Well, Gibbs was here last week. He took it down when Gibbs split.
”

The good humor drained from Hicks
’
face.

“
Oh my God,
”
he said.
“
Gibbs was here?
”

“
Yeah,
”
the boy said,
“
he was here. Sorry I can
’
t take you up behind me but the track
’
s too steep for anybody riding behind.
”

“
We
’
ll walk,
”
Hicks told him.

Kjell kicked the horse
’
s flank and trotted off up the stream.

Hicks took the canteen from Marge
’
s carry bag and stooped at the waterside to fill it.

“
Gibbs was here,
”
he told her,
“
and I missed him.
”

“
Is that pretty bad?
”

“
Well, it
’
s cruel, that
’
s what it is. It
’
s ironical.
”

It was a three-hour climb to the top and shade was the only comfort. At every rounding turn they sprawled against the rock to take some water and some salt from a zuzu-stand shaker bag. Step over step, Marge followed his tracks upward; by the time they were under the crest she was cramped and weeping.

Around the last bend was another stand of forest, cedar and pine. Under the sound of wind in the trees were strange soft noises — tinklings and faint bells. Whenever Marge turned after a sound, she caught a small flash of un natural color, a glint of bright metal or glass. As they walked she saw that some of the branches hid wind chimes and mirrors, bells of Sarna, painted dolls.

“
He
’
s got all the woods around here done this way,
”
Hicks told her.
“
He
’
s got speakers out here too. And lights.
”

“
Doesn
’
t he like trees?
”

“
Not him. He
’
s a pioneer.
”

The forest ended at a wall made from the mountain
’
s stone. They followed it up the slope for about a quarter mile until they came to an arched doorway, large enough for a crouching man to walk through. Above the doorway were inscribed the letters A.M.D.G.

A paved stone path led up from the gate, rising to a clearing that was bordered on two sides by the top of the forest. It seemed at first to be the crest of the mountain — but there was higher ground above, a scrub-grown bluff from which a narrow stream descended. The fourth side of the clearing was sheer cliff drop, attended by a barrier of split rails. From the cliff edge one could see the narrow valley below and the lower ridge across it, beyond that another ridge and another beyond that. At a great distance, the ghostly frost of a snow peak seemed suspended from the clear sky.

At the edge of the clearing farthest from the cliff was a corral from which Kjell
’
s pony, unhobbled, watched them come up. Near it, within the trees, was a cabin with wires leading in several directions from its roof. A low business like hum sounded from inside it.

The purpose of the place was a vaulted whitewashed building with a tall bell tower. It was a severe building of simple construction — except for the decorated facade around its entryway, approached by three low worn steps. The facade was small but ingeniously worked; scrolls and biblical scenes appeared beside swastikas and rain patterns. A figure in soutane and biretta looked down on martyrs who carried their own heads in one hand and ceremonial gourds in the other. The serpent tempting Eve bore a set of carefully rendered rattles. The upper most figure was Christ in Judgment, wearing the feathered headdress of a cacique.

Marge looked up from the facade to the bell tower and saw that it supported a set of loudspeakers on either side. She shaded her eyes and shivered in the bright sunlight.

A balding red-faced man walked down the steps from the doorway. The first thing about his face that Marge noticed was the mouth. He was bearded and the dark brown hair of his whiskers and mustache outlined the thickness and pinkness of his lips. A breeze stirred the short hairs on his rosy scalp.

“
Look,
”
the man said,
“
we
’
ve found you again.
”

Hicks nodded to him with a smile that was affectionate and contemptuous.
“
I wasn
’
t sure you
’
d be here. Just took a flyer.
”

“
We stayed,
”
the balding man said,
“
in case everything might begin all over.
”
He had a very slight accent, Dutch or German.

“
The last time I was here,
”
Hicks said to him,
“
I was fish
ing for steelheads. K-jell just reminded me.
”
He let the seabag fall.

“
You should have stayed with us,
”
the man said.

Holding the same ironic smile, Hicks bent and touched the top of the man
’
s Mexican sandal. The man had stooped to intercept his gesture.

“
What
’
s the matter, Dieter? Can
’
t a man loose your san
dal these days?
”

“
These days a man can do what he likes.
”

He turned to look at Marge.

“
You
’
re tired?
”

She nodded. His smile, she thought, was the same as his son
’
s, a bit too serene for her liking.

“
Is there something we can get you?
”

“
Who, me? Not a thing.
”

“
C
’
mon,
”
Hicks said,
“
we just climbed your goddamn mountain. Give us a beer at least.
”

They followed Dieter through the ornate entrance and into a large cool room with
an enormous stone fireplace fac
ing the door. There was a single narrow window opening on a shaded garden and when the door was closed it was difficult to see. She made out the letters A.M.D.G. over the lintel.

Near the fireplace was a refrigerator; Dieter opened it to shelves piled with Mexican beer and several pitchers of tea-colored liquid. He opened them each a beer and filled his own glass from one of the pitchers.

Hicks took Dieter
’
s glass from his hand and sniffed the
contents.

“
What kind of piss is that?
”

“
Rose-hip wine,
”
Dieter said.

“
Is that a more enlightening drink?
”

“
Yes,
”
Dieter said.
“
The taste of Zen and the taste of
rose-hip wine are the same.
”

Across from the straight-backed refectory chair in which Marge sat was an altar on which stood a crucifix hung with Christmas balls and gift-wrapping paper. Behind it was a large reproduction of Ilya Repin
’
s portrait of the dying Moussorgsky.

“
So he drinks about twenty pitchers a day of it,
”
someone said. It was Kjell, sprawled on a mattress in a confusion of electronic equipment — microphones, headphones, speaker tubes, and a labyrinth of
insulated wires. A copy of
Trea
sure Island
lay face down across them.

“
I make it myself,
”
Dieter said,
“
it
’
s stronger than beer. I
’
m sure the Jesuits did be
tter but they had more organiza
tion.
”
He turned to Marge, who was fidgeting.
“
What would you like to do? Freshen up?
”

“
I guess so,
”
Marge said.

“
It
’
s a long climb without the lift.
”
He stood hospitably.
“
It
’
s outside. I
’
ll show you.
”
Marge was going through her bag nervously.
“
I know where it is,
”
Hicks said.
“
I
’
ll show her.
”
He picked up the bag and led her through a curtained doorway at the rear of the a
ltar and down a sunlit passage
way that opened to an overgrown garden beside the stream.