Wild Mountain

by Nancy Kilgore

But that whole lifestyle was so different from what she’d worked and slaved to build her life around: her business, keeping it going, doing her share for the community. It was all about responsibility. And now, Frank wanted to go live “off the grid.” Did he want to live like they had in that commune? With just a wood stove and no running water? That would be worse than growing up on the farm. Or, God forbid, like Gus? She couldn’t go there.

  And then he’d left town and hadn’t called, just like Johnny O.

  The barbed wire had come up again.

  She straightened up and looked him in the eye, pushing and willing him back into the flaky customer she could take or leave. “I have to get back to the store.”

  He moved closer, his eyes searching her face. “What’s the matter?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know where you stand.”

  “I’m standing here with you. It’s spring in Vermont.” She gazed down and out, over the river to the pink-tinged hills, glowing with the energy of the new tree buds. In the last two days, the lilacs had shimmered into life, the daffodils had popped open, and daylight was starting to last until almost eight o’clock.

  This was her territory, and she knew where she stood. And maybe Charlie Perry was right. Maybe Frank was just a flatlander, someone who would only disrupt her world.

  She started to walk down the path, then took a step back. He was smiling, and it was spring in Vermont, and she hesitated, but then turned and ran down the path to the store. What did that smile mean? And what did she mean to him?

  26

  “DAD!”

  Frank turned around. Behind him, Erica struggled through a thicket of small pine, her red jacket bright in the overcast light.

  “Are you sure this is the path?” She brushed aside a tangle of waist-high weeds and stepped into a mud puddle. “Oh, shit!” She pulled her foot out with a loud sucking sound, and jumped ahead to a dryer spot. “My new shoe!” The white shoe with its pink trim and pink laces was now covered in mud, her pink sock splattered and spotted.

  Frank stepped lightly over the rocks that jutted out from the wet mud and came back to her. She was rummaging through her pack. “These shoes were supposed to be waterproof,” she said, “but now my foot is soaked.” She blew out her breath. “Where the hell are we, anyway?”

  “I think we’re getting close.” He pulled a map out of the side pocket of his backpack and opened it. “According to Jake, Gus was here.” He pointed to a spot on the hand-drawn map he’d gotten from Luke Spinelli, the police chief. He’d drawn it himself, he told Frank, and even signed it, as if it were a painting.

  After Jake left yesterday, Frank had sat down to study the book on stone circles. Jake had been right, apparently; these stone circles were ancient, some as old as two thousand B.C., but what they were used for was hard to tell. The circles were made of megalithic stones, and most of the scholars seemed to agree that they had been used for some kind of worship—and also that there was astronomical significance. The writing in this kind of research wasn’t very clear; in fact, the whole thing was frustratingly murky to Frank.

  “Gus. There’s something creepy about that guy. I can’t believe I’m out on some woo-woo goose chase with you again, Dad.”

  “Stone circles aren’t woo-woo. It’s just that we don’t know exactly what they were used for.” Frank looked up and back down the trail. “The stone circle is supposed to be right here, where we’re standing. But it’s hard to see, because there’s so much vegetation.”

  Erica sat down on a small boulder that had been warmed by the sun, looked at her shoe in consternation, then at her watch. “It’s been over an hour. How about we take a break?” she said, and swung her pack around to the front. “I’m ready for a sandwich.”

  “Good idea.” Frank took off his cap, sat down on another stone, and rested his backpack on a dry spot on the ground. He felt vigorous and vital, not frazzled and tired, the way she looked. Sudden sunlight, beaming through the hemlock canopy above, stippled their faces and hands as well as the muddy trail.

  Erica brushed aside a bare branch dotted with tiny buds and handed him a sandwich, two carrot sticks, two celery sticks, and some raisins.

  “Mmm.” He smiled. “Peanut butter and banana on sunflower-seed bread. Your specialty.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled. This had been Erica’s first “recipe,” and they both remembered how proud she had been when she’d made it for lunch when she was six.

  Now would be a good time, he thought, to ask her about Jake. “So, what are your plans with Jake?”

  “Plans? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how long will you be staying in the cabin, and will he stay with you, or what?”

  “Oh.” She slumped down on her seat. “Honestly, Dad, I just don’t know. We definitely want to be together, but we haven’t made any plans yet. In fact, we haven’t actually talked about it.”

  See? Frank continued his internal conversation with Patsy. I did confront her. Maybe I didn’t set a limit, but at least I brought it up.

  But Frank, Patsy answered, Erica is not a teenager anymore. You don’t have to set limits for her. Just treat her like an adult. Well, maybe that wasn’t what Patsy would have said, but he decided it satisfied him. He’d done the right thing. And if she made any noises about Jake moving into the cabin, he could just say no.

  Erica munched on a piece of celery, picked up a carrot stick, and then froze. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “That noise. Low, like a groan, or—”

  “—the wind.”

  “No, listen.” A low rumble of air, and the sound of branches breaking a few feet away. “Oh, God, a bear!” She jumped to her feet, scrambling to put away the food and close her pack.

  Frank held up his hand, gesturing for her to be quiet.

  “But we’ve got to—” she whispered.

  “Shush.”

  There was more crackling and heavy breathing, and out of the dense undergrowth beside the path stepped the tall figure of a man. It was Gus Throckmorton, gray hair hanging to his waist, wearing the same clothes as the last time Frank had seen him: shapeless pants, old boots, and a stained canvas jacket. He walked slowly toward them and smiled. “Good afternoon,” he said in a well-modulated tenor voice. His dignified air created a shocking incongruity with his appearance.

  Erica stared, open-mouthed.

  “Hiya, Gus.” Frank stood up and held out his hand.

  Gus looked at Frank’s hand, and a shadow passed over his face, a look of sadness or regret. He didn’t take the hand, but turned his head up to the sky, revealing a noble profile, an aquiline nose, and chiseled features. Frank couldn’t shake the notion that Gus was familiar to him—not from seeing him up on the mountain that day with Mona, but from somewhere else, some other part of his life.

  Frank lowered his hand. “We were looking for the stone circle.” He spread out the map in front of Gus. “According to Jake, it was either right here, where we are now, or here,” he said, pointing, “which would be about twenty yards on.” He searched the trail with his eyes.

  Gus smiled, a broader smile this time, with yellowed teeth and an almost beatific look in his eyes. Beatific or demented? Frank wondered. “You have arrived at your destination!” Gus announced, like a butler welcoming them into the great house, or the headmaster of a prep school pronouncing the invocation.

  Frank looked around the site, not sure whether and what to believe. “We’ve arrived at our destination?”

  “This is it.”

  “But where—?”

  “Stone number five, where the pretty lady sits,” he said, and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Stone number four, whence the gentleman has just arisen.”

  Frank looked down at the stone he’d been sitting on, bent over, and rubbed his hand across the top of it, then over the side. The crystalline surface sparkled. “This side is all white. White quartz.”

  “White to keep away the evil spirits,”
said Gus.

  “Evil spirits?” Frank glanced behind the stone, as if to see where the evil spirits would be coming from. “What kind of evil spirits?”

  Gus was silent.

  “And why are the stones numbered?” Frank asked. “That’s how the archeologist designated them.”

  “Archeologist?” Frank and Erica exchange a look: Frank as if to say, I guess this guy isn’t as crazy as you think, and Erica, raising her eyebrows, Okay, maybe you were onto something.

  “Anu knows their real names,” Gus said.

  “Anu?” Erica turned her head so only Frank could see her skeptical look.

  “They are the markers for the stone chamber.”

  “Chamber?” Frank exclaimed. “I thought we were talking about a stone circle?”

  “The stone chamber is the sacred room.” Gus swept his arm out to the left.

  “There? I don’t see anything,” Erica said, then, “Oh, I do see something.” Tucked into the hillside, a hole in the earth, about three feet wide, it seemed to be lined with stones, with a single slab across the top covered by grass and wet leaves. “It looks like a cave.”

  “What was the stone chamber used for?” Frank asked.

  “Is,” said Gus. “What is it used for.”

  “Okay. What is it used for?”

  Gus’ face took on a glassy-eyed stare, and he started to walk in a straight line from where he had been standing, as if directed by a guy-wire, straight through and between them. He walked slowly, deliberately, and a white dog came out of the woods and glided along beside him. As Gus crossed the trail with the white dog following, he muttered in a monotone voice, only a few words audible. “Lesbians…fire of heaven…it weren’t for them kind to know… Anu….” The distinguished enunciation had disappeared, and now he sounded like a backwoods Vermonter. He disappeared into the trees.

  “But—” Frank reached a hand out toward the departing mountain man, who was now invisible, then lifted his arms in exasperation. He took the stone circle book out of his pack and looked in the index. Indian rituals. That must be it. He turned to the page indicated. There are indications that Native American tribes used the stone circles for various purposes. Well, that wasn’t much help.

  Erica had been making her way across the site, pushing her way through bare-branched saplings of elder and poplar. She squatted down in front of the opening, a small hole surrounded by some kind of stone construction. “Let’s go inside!” she called.

  Frank walked over to the hole. “It looks like an animal cave,” he said, but when he got closer, he pushed aside some leaves and moss to reveal the slab, a large capstone that spanned the top of the opening. This was supported by walls of flattened stones, precisely layered and constructed. “Corbelled,” he said, and ran his hand along the side of the entry wall. “The walls slant inward to the top.”

  “It’s definitely not an animal cave.” Erica, on her hands and knees, was already inside.

  He crouched and crawled in behind her.

  She was sitting on her haunches, her flashlight turned on and directed to the ceiling.

  The walls arched overhead in a finely-chiseled construction of small stones, above a square chamber that was big enough for about four people. The air was dry, not moldy or damp, as he’d expected.

  “It’s like a tiny cathedral,” Erica said in an awed tone, almost a whisper, “or a tomb.”

  They sat quietly, silenced by the feeling of peace in this enclosure, its curved shape creating a womblike feeling, and the layered stones an austere, timeless atmosphere.

  “A sacred space,” he said.

  Erica shone the flashlight on the walls. One of the wall stones was carved with a faint design, a curved line like a sideways letter C. She ran her fingertips over the etched sides of the carving. “I wonder what these are for.”

  “Looks like the crescent moon.”

  “Except that there are a bunch of them,” she said as the flash-light illuminated several other stones with the same etched design.

  Erica directed the light to the center of the room, where an empty beer can lay in the charred remains of a small fire.

  “Gus’s libations?”

  “Probably.”

  There was quiet here, no animal sounds, no wind, nothing moving, and a stillness so profound that Frank felt lulled into an inner quiet, a kind of meditation. Erica’s eyes were closed, her hands pressed together in prayer position.

  27

  MONA GLANCED UP FROM THE CASH REGISTER. Outside the dusty window, wispy tentacles of cirrus clouds drifted in a sky of brilliant blue, and the day remained as calm and still as yesterday had been windy. Brandi Chen, Iris Gold’s best friend and one of those super-slim yoga women, slipped in the door and scooted by on her way to the post office at the rear. Otherwise, the store was quiet: the Saturday-morning lull, the hush before the rush. But of course, there wasn’t much of a rush these days, without the bridge. All those people across the river were probably going to the West Paris general store now. Johnny was right—she was losing business. At the thought of him, she tensed with a familiar mixture of fear and confusion. What should she do about that second letter? “Something else will happen,” he had said, if she didn’t show up tonight. That was definitely a threat. Should she tell someone? She couldn’t tell Frank, of course—it would be too embarrassing. Who wants a new relationship burdened with an old and threatening ex? Roz would probably just say “I told you so,” and insist she get a restraining order. She couldn’t tell Cappy. He was too involved with the fire. The truth was, she was just too ashamed to tell anyone, after she’d bragged about how she’d gotten rid of that louse for good. If she didn’t show up tonight, maybe Johnny would take the hint and disappear again.

  The door opened with a jangle, and in stepped Cappy Gold, wearing a magenta sweater, jeans, and sandals. He paused and glanced around the store, nodded as Brandi sailed past and out the door behind him, then went over to the deli cooler.

  Mona put down the stack of twenties she’d been counting. She didn’t, she realized, have much emotional reaction to Cappy at all now. Wasn’t it odd how feelings could change so dramatically? One day, your whole body zinged into high gear at the sight of him, and a year later, he was just another guy. A slightly dull guy, at that. “Cappy,” she called. “What’s the story on the arsonist?”

  Cappy cast another furtive glance around the room and came over to the counter. With his usual deadpan expression, he said, “We got him.”

  “Well, who is it? Is it that gang around Robbie Fayerweather? Remember how he bawled about gay marriage?”

  “No. Not him.” He pulled on his earlobe and fiddled with the silver stud in his ear. “This is confidential, you know.”

  “You know me, Cappy. I’m not about to spill the beans.” She placed her stack of bills under the tray.

  “Okay, but this is between you and me.”

  For Chrissake, spit it out. “Yes, yes, between you and me!” She could barely conceal the impatience in her voice. Outside, a humongous black truck pulled up and parked.

  Cappy inclined his head toward her. “Gus Throckmorton.”

  “Gus?” She slammed shut the cash register drawer. “No! Gus talks a lot of nonsense, but he’s harmless as a flea!”

  “We have information that he was revealing details that no one would know unless they’d been there.”

  “Oh, God.” She lowered her voice as tall, skinny Acheson Levy opened the door. “Are they going to arrest him?” she whispered.

  “That’s up to the police,” he murmured, and with a nod, glided out the door.

  Mona watched Acheson Levy roaming the soaps and detergent aisle. He put a finger to his lips, pointed at a bottle of Ivory Liquid, then shook his head and pointed at another brand. He did this several times, then took a piece of paper out of his pocket and studied it, shook his head again, and walked down the aisle.

  “Can I help you, Acheson?” she called.

  He looked up, star
tled. “Well, ah—” he mumbled, then wandered back down the aisle without answering.

  She shrugged and looked out the window again. The line of clouds had drifted off toward the east, and the sky shone translucent blue. She drummed her fingers on the counter. Gus? They must have made a mistake. Gus spouted off about ghosts and muttered about lesbians, but he’d never been violent. It couldn’t have been Gus. Or even Charlie Perry, as mean as he’d become over the gay marriage issue. No, the only person she could think of who would do such a thing was Robbie Fayerweather—and his crowd. That night at the Stone Tavern, he’d ranted about keeping Vermont pure, safe from the gays, then hauled off and punched Cappy. Why wouldn’t Cappy suspect Robbie? She rolled up the sleeve of her blue fleece pullover and held up her arm to look at her watch, a round-faced timepiece with a green ribbon band. After she’d bought it, she’d realized that the big watch face and large numerals were meant for older eyes, but now she loved not having to put on her reading glasses to see the time. One-thirty. She needed to go talk to Cappy again. He coached boys’ basketball at the middle school, but he wouldn’t be there yet. Most likely, he was at the firehouse.

  Acheson came up to the counter with a large box of detergent, a double pack of toilet paper, three bottles of wine, a packet of aspirin, and two Spider-Man comic books, and released them all onto the counter with a splat. Why wasn’t he at work at this hour? Must be another one of those perks they got over at Mountain Valley Hospital, where Acheson worked as an X-ray technician. Personal days, or la-la days, or something. Must be nice to have all those extra days off on top of holidays—plus get the best health insurance of anyone. Sometimes, Mona had to admit, she wished she’d stayed in the world of institutions rather than going into her own business.

  She rang up his purchases and reached for a bag. “No, I don’t need a bag,” he said, and opened his jacket and pulled out a used plastic grocery bag with a hole in it. He put everything except the detergent into the bag, picked it up in one arm, holding his hand over the hole, and picked up the box of detergent with the other.