by M. K. Wren
“No. He’s been…erratic since Dad’s marriage, and I know he’s having a hard time financially. But tonight he seems to be on the edge of something. Maybe it’s Lucas. I don’t know.”
“But you want a friendly outsider on King’s Mountain tomorrow?”
She laughed. “I’d be very grateful, Conan.”
“I’ll be there.” He saw that Kim and Will had left the dance floor. Will was leaning over the back of the couch to pet Heather, who seemed bored with the human activities and had settled down for a nap. Conan said, “I’m going to get something to drink, Lise. Why don’t you finish this dance with Will?”
Perhaps she recognized his matchmaking motive, but she took his suggestion. A. C. was behind the bar when Conan reached it, an empty ice bucket on the counter before him. But he was focused on Al, and neither of them noticed Conan’s approach. Despite the volume of the music, Conan heard A. C. say, “You’ve had three extensions already, Al. Hell, all I’m asking for is the interest.”
“Goddamn it, I’m your son! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“It’s a business transaction, and you knew it when—” A. C. stopped; he had just seen Conan. He put on a smile, asked, “Well, what can I do for you, Conan? We’re out of ice until—oh, here comes Kim.”
Kim brought four trays of ice cubes, and when she had emptied them into the ice bucket, A. C. poured Conan the ice and soda he asked for, put the bucket in the small refrigerator, then came out from behind the bar and for a while stood with his arm around Kim, watching the dancers. Conan saw Loanh make her way to the bar, a little unsteadily, and pour more gin into the tonic left in her glass.
Al stared at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Finally, as she left the bar, he demanded, “You’re a few past your limit, aren’t you?”
She mumbled, “I been pas’ my limit a long, long time, Al.”
The record ended, and in the silence before the next one hit the turntable, A. C.’s voice was audible as he said to Kim, “Wonder if Lucas plans on marrying that nigger girl.”
Neither Demara nor Lucas apparently heard that, but everyone near A. C. did, and to Conan’s amazement, it was Loanh who took exception to it. The music came on again with “Lady Be Good” as she strode to within a foot of him and glared up-at him defiantly. “So, would that be sush a tradegy, Dad? Your oldest son married a gook. And that makes your only gran’son half a gook—”
“You bitch!” Al shoved Conan aside and grabbed Loanh’s arm so hard she gasped in pain, jerked her around to face him.
A. C., who had been only surprised, not angry, at Loanh’s outburst, said, “Damn it, Al, there’s no call to—”
“She’s going to apologize!” Al insisted, shaking Loanh like a doll. She cried out, and Al found himself being pried off her by both A. C. and Conan. Al bellowed, “Let go of me!” and pulled free, repeated, “She’s going to apologize!”
A. C. snapped, “You idiot, just shut up!”
“She’s my wife, and she’s got no right to—”
“Please!” Loanh pressed her hands to her forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “Yes, I will apologize. Oh, Dad, I am sorry, it was never you…” And she began to weep so piteously that A. C. was left open-mouthed.
Lise took her in her arms. “Come on, Loanh, let’s go upstairs.”
Loanh nodded mutely as Lise led her away. Al stood with his feet apart, hands in fists at his side. He looked around, and it seemed that his angry gaze rested longer on Kim than anyone else, then he stalked to the French doors and out into the darkness.
Kim put on a smile and said to A. C., “Well, maybe he’s got it out of his system now. A. C., are you going to dance with me, or are you just going to stand there like a lump?”
A. C. was still frowning, but after a moment he laughed and led her onto the dance floor. Demara and Lucas stayed to finish the song, but no one else did. The party was, for all intents and purposes, over.
At least, Conan thought, he wouldn’t have to try to move Tiff around the dance floor again tonight. She was slumped on the couch next to Heather, snoring gently. Heather was looking around anxiously, and Will went over to her, offered her a reassuring rub, then offered Mark his services in getting Tiff upstairs.
Mark sat hunched on the hearth. He nodded as he came to his feet and was ready to walk away without his crutches, then he stared blankly at his encasted foot. Conan helped him onto the crutches, and steadied him as they followed Will and Tiff. Mark had a hard time with the stairs, but finally they reached the second floor and the bedroom west of Conan’s. The walk had sobered Tiff enough for her to thank Will and assure him she could take care of Mark. The glance Will sent Conan hinted that he doubted that, but considered it none of his business. He and Conan retreated, closing the door behind them.
As they reached the head of the stairs, Lise came out of Loanh and Al’s room. Conan stopped and said, “I’ll be down in a minute, Will.”
Will correctly interpreted that to mean that Conan wanted to talk to Lise privately. Will could not, unfortunately, interpret why he wanted to talk to her, and again Conan saw that look of hurt defeat just before Will hurried down the stairs.
When Lise reached him, Conan asked, “How’s Loanh?”
“Well, she’s calmed down. Conan, I’ve never seen her drunk. I mean, she hardly drinks at all.”
“Did she tell you what was bothering her?”
“She just kept apologizing for what she said to Dad. Actually, they’ve gotten along very well, once Dad got over the shock of Al coming home with an Oriental war bride. Besides, Mom loved her like a daughter, so Dad had to come around. Anyway, Loanh said it wasn’t Dad she was mad at. Then she said something really odd.” Lise closed her eyes to clarify the memory. “She said, ‘For me, for my people, family is everything. Without family, one might as well be dead.’”
“Maybe she’s afraid her family is on the verge of dissolution.”
Lise started down the stairs. “The way Al’s acting, it is.”
By the time they reached the living room, the music had stopped, and A. C. was putting away the records, while Will and Lucas were restoring the rug, and Demara and Kim were cleaning up glasses and ashtrays. The fire had burned down to coals.
Heather trotted to Lise to give her an anxious greeting, and Lise knelt and ruffled her fur. “Hi, sweetheart. Yes, you’ve been a really good girl tonight. Come on, we’d better go home.” She rose as the grandfather clock marked the hour. “Well, it’s only nine. Maybe I’ll get some work done tonight.”
Will offered, “I’ll walk you up to the studio, Lise.”
She smiled but shook her head. “Thanks, but you don’t need to, Will. I know that path by heart. Besides, I’ve got my trusty guard dog.”
Will nodded, looking crestfallen, and watched her make her exit through the French doors. Then he looked at Conan almost accusingly, quickly made his excuses to A. C. and Kim, and headed upstairs.
Conan sighed, wondering how he had been put in the position of competitor for Lise’s favors. He wondered, too, where Al was, but decided not to ask. He said his good nights and went up to his room.
He wouldn’t sleep soon, he knew, but at least there was the quiet of solitude, and a good book to keep him company. He could only hope he would get to sleep before his usual two A.M.
For the hikers, the day would begin at five.
Chapter 7
On the occasions when Conan Flagg was forced by circumstances to rise to greet the dawn, he was usually so surprised to find that early mornings offered such a cornucopia of beauty that he wondered why he didn’t rise early more often. On the other hand, he knew he was getting too old to tolerate many nights of four hours or less sleep.
Besides, it was pitch-dark when he woke, and the electric wall heater in his bathroom didn’t have time to take more than the edge off the chill. But the kitchen was warm, and Kim was awake to prepare a hearty breakfast that reminded Conan of the ranch breakfasts his mother had cooked for the bu
ckaroos and hay crews at the Ten-Mile: bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, and biscuits. Of course, a true ranch breakfast might include steak, gravy, and even a pie or two.
Kim’s white-wine-blonde hair was tousled, her sky blue eyes less than bright, and Conan wondered if the domestic role she had assumed might be wearing thin. A. C.’s early morning cheer was relentless. Lucas was equally cheerful, but Al, who was obviously suffering a world-class hangover, didn’t even make an attempt at cheer. He ate sparingly and in silence, putting down cup after cup of black coffee.
After breakfast, the campers—happy and otherwise—carted the camping gear downstairs from the storage room and stowed it in the four backpacks. Kim had prepared their lunch by then, and finally, at seven o’clock, the expedition set forth and marched west across the lawn toward the palisade of trees shielding King’s Creek.
It was at that point that Conan became aware of the beauty of the early morning. The sun hadn’t yet topped the hills east of the lodge, and the lawn was misted with dew, every blade of grass beaded with crystal drops; the sky was deep blue, streaked with pink cirrus clouds, and Mount Hood hung in the mists, its highest slopes already bathed in the coralline light of the rising sun.
A staked NO HUNTING sign marked the beginning of the trail. Inevitably, A. C. took the lead. Lucas followed, then Al, hanging back out of range of conversation, and finally Conan. The chill air was perfumed with resins and rich earth as the trail curved south, following King’s Creek downstream. Conan heard the rush of water behind a screen of vine maples displaying their small, perfect, gold and scarlet leaves; from above came the tchk of squirrels, pipings of chickadees, and raucous shouts of jays. He settled into an easy stride, relishing the reassuring sturdiness of his hiking boots, the rustle of his hooded, down parka with its Gore-Tex shell, even the weight of the backpack.
All too soon, the tall silver firs and hemlock gave way to a clear-cut where young Douglas firs crowded like Christmas trees, a monoculture waiting to grow into pulp for paper or, if left to grow long enough, into two-by-fours. Or waiting for a mutating insect, bacteria, or virus to devise a means to overcome the species’ natural defenses and destroy all of the trees. Whichever came first.
Conan followed the trail through this tree farm for perhaps half a mile before he caught up with A. C. and his sons. They had stopped on the footbridge that crossed King’s Creek. The bridge consisted of a couple of planks laid on a fallen log, with a pole railing on one side. The creek was only four feet wide at this dry end of a dry season.
A. C. turned, a finger to his lips, and as Conan cautiously approached, he saw why they had stopped. Downstream a hundred yards, a doe and her two fawns, both nearly grown, their coats the same gray-brown as their mother’s, were drinking, constantly flicking their huge ears. The light wind was from the south, so they didn’t catch the human scent. The doe might be suspicious, but as long as the humans remained still and quiet, she apparently considered herself safe.
A. C., speaking in a whisper, offered a further explanation. “It’s past deer hunting season. They know. If this was deer season, you’d never even see them. Now it’s just the elk that have to worry.” Then abruptly, he waved his arms, shouted, “Shoo! Get outta here!” and the deer flashed instantly away into the forest.
Lucas asked, “Why did you do that, Dad?”
“Don’t want ’em getting too tame. You don’t ever want to let a deer think men are friends.”
Al gave that a curt laugh. “Dad, I never thought I’d see the day when you gave a damn what a deer thought.” He turned and strode up the trail on the other side of the creek. A. C.’s lips compressed, but he didn’t speak, and after a moment Lucas started after Al.
Conan followed A. C. and, noting another NO HUNTING sign, asked, “A. C., did you have the area posted last time I was here?”
“No. I just got tired of those city yahoos swarming all over my land shooting at anything that moves. Most of those guys sit behind a desk in Portland all year. Come hunting season, they get a rifle and a case of beer, and they think they’re hunters.” He paused to give Conan a dubious squint. “You don’t like any kind of hunting, do you?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Yeah, I remember ol’ Henry giving you a hard time about that when you were still a kid. Said you were a good tracker and a good shooter, but—”
“—a lousy killer,” Conan finished for him. “I’ve never changed my mind about that part. Have you?”
A. C. shrugged uneasily. “Haven’t done any hunting since Carla died. Seemed like after spending so much time watching her die, I just didn’t have the stomach for watching anything else die.” Then before Conan could make any response, A. C. struck out up the trail.
The trail moved gradually away from King’s Creek, and Conan began to feel the steady upward tendency. His body had adjusted itself over the years to absolute sea level, and it needed more than one day to adjust to the rigors of functioning at over four thousand feet.
The Christmas tree farm gave way to an older manmade forest of Douglas firs, most about forty feet tall. The shade they cast was dense and cool, but sunlight slanted through in hazy shafts, patching trunks and undergrowth with mottled shadows. On the few occasions when the trail was straight for any length of time, Conan could see A. C. ahead, then Al, then Lucas taking the lead, none close enough to each other to carry on a conversation. At intervals of about a quarter mile, A. C. had posted more NO HUNTING signs. Sometimes Conan caught glimpses of Mount Hood through the trees, radiantly clear now that the morning mists had dissipated. It was after eight-thirty when the trail made a wide turn to the southeast and entered old-growth forest.
The sensation was much like hearing the lush chords of Sibelius for the first time. The Swan of Tuonela, perhaps. The lords of this forest were a mix of fir, cedar, and hemlock, their trunks like columns of rough stone, three to five feet in diameter. Only a green-gold shimmer of light escaped the canopy above to fall on the undergrowth of bunchberry, with its small, white blossoms centered in huge leaves; wild lily of the valley flaunting fronds of berries like red jasper beads; and red huckleberry with its tiny scarlet berries. The earth was sienna brown, dotted with mushrooms and fungi ranging from fleshy white umbrellas to wiry lavender stalks to ochre ledges that clung to the tree trunks and the flanks of fallen giants.
It was the kind of forest Conan had often heard A. C. dismiss as trash forest because of the wind-downed trees rotting into nurse logs and the mix of noncommercial species. His recommendation was simple: clear-cut it and start fresh with Doug fir.
In the past, Conan had discussed the wisdom of that alternative with A. C., who always enjoyed a good argument, even if it never occurred to him that he might change his mind. A. C. grew up at a time when the forests of Oregon still seemed infinite, and he refused to believe that in his lifetime those forests had been decimated, leaving the man-made monocultures and only a few remnants of true forest.
The trail wound through the old growth for over a mile, its upward incline constant, and Conan was content to lag well behind the others. Then abruptly he was in second growth again and, after another half mile of climbing, came out onto a fresh clear-cut that occupied the top of a rounded knoll. The stumps were still black from the slash burn, the controlled fire that left the razed earth bare for Douglas fir seedlings. Some of the seedlings, less than a foot in height, were green and thriving. Others had died, probably browsed by deer. There was no sign of deciduous shrub growth, and Conan wondered what kind of herbicide spray Ace Timber was using.
A. C. and his sons were waiting in the center of the clear-cut, and as Conan approached, A. C. pointed northeast. “Conan, if your eyes are sharp enough, you can see the lodge down there.”
Conan picked out the highway, the access road, and the gray box of the lodge with its angled roof. It was so small he doubted he could have identified it if he hadn’t known what it was. Nearly four miles as the crow flies, A. C. said. Five miles by trail. Conan looked b
eyond it to the incredible mass of Mount Hood, its snowfields blinding in the mid-morning sunlight.
“And there—” A. C. turned and pointed south toward a hill marked by a bare, basalt cap. “—there’s King’s Mountain.”
Conan nodded and didn’t bother to remind A. C. that this wasn’t his first hike to the hill he called a mountain. A. C. enjoyed his rituals, and pointing out their beginning point and destination at this halfway mark was one of them, although six years ago Conan had had to find the landmarks through the trunks of the trees growing on this knoll.
With Lucas and Al falling in behind him, A. C. continued across the clear-cut, where the trail had been only recently restored, red-brown as dried blood slashed across the gray of burned earth. It entered another stretch of old-growth forest, still climbing, and finally, after another quarter mile, the hikers reached the camp site.
It was surrounded by old growth, and Conan found it ironic that A. C. had never logged around this place that was so meaningful to him. It was a flat, open area, about fifty feet across, covered with reddish pumice. A circle of stones served as a fire pit, with chain-sawed logs arranged around it as seats. Nearby was a pile of split wood left, no doubt, by Art Rasmussen. To the west, a forested slope dropped into a ravine thirty feet deep where Loblolly Creek chattered in the shadows. To the east, the prow of a ridge capped with columnar basalt loomed a hundred feet above them. Below the basalt palisade was a barren talus slope made up of rocks eroded from the basalt, ranging from pebbles to man-sized boulders. Miniature falls of gravel intermittently whispered down to join the ragged skirt of debris at its foot.
This slope, to Conan’s eye, had not achieved its angle of repose. But of course he’d had the same thought six years ago. For that matter, he’d had the same thought the first time he camped here when he -was fourteen years old. He said nothing. A. C. would only assure him that the slope had never given way in all these years, which he assumed meant it would never give way in the future.