Billy Goat Hill

by Mark Stanleigh Morris

  Luke saddles up behind me at the starting gate and we cautiously push off, but not a fast running start like we normally do. Sliding along, like a steam locomotive out of steam, coasting in neutral trying to stretch it out to the next water tower, I scan the narrow pinpoint horizon ahead, while Luke strains his neck to see over my shoulder. Our perception of distance is thrown off by our reduced rate of speed, or so I try to convince myself. But, when at last we come to a complete stop, I know we are in serious trouble.

  We are close enough to the tunnel outlet that the absence of that glorious spectral beacon that has always been there waiting with Mac can only mean one thing—the worst has happened.

  Denial goes down in one big gulp of stomach-punching reality, and my head begins to throb with each titan pulse of my quaking heart. Luke clings to my back, his breath hissing in my ears in short gasps of fear and long wheezes of terror. His desperate SOS stabs deep into the heart of my failed sense of responsibility.

  Motionless silence closes around us until at length Luke releases me from his backward bear hug. He stands, and I pivot a quarter turn and lean against the wall. Dejected and hopeless, I am unable to stop the charge of guilt percolating in through all of my pores.

  “The jack must have collapsed, Wade.”

  I guess he had to say it. The audible truth rips me wide open, and I resist looking up at him, ashamed to meet his gaze. When I do look up, I see he is nearly smiling, his face aglow in the soft, lusterless hue of the candlelight. He reminds me of the picture of Jesus in Reverend Bonner’s office, the Son of God posed in serene muted tones, as though the painter had created the masterpiece by candlelight. And that leads me to think of Rodney.

  “Remember, Wade, Jesus is the best friend you can ever have.”

  I wish Rodney could tell me how he rescued the Sergeant from the storm drain.

  We walk to the end of the tube and confirm it is now sealed shut by a cast-iron monster. Only a weak sliver of light rims the outside edge of the circular barrier. Mac is out there, very angry and barking incessantly. The jack must have taken off like a rocket, but Mac sounds okay.

  Thank You, God, for not letting the jack hit him.

  He is whining, sniffing, and most assuredly listening. He knows we are here now, just on the other side of the door from him. I put my mouth close to the door. “Mac! Quiet down! We’re okay, boy!”

  Even under the duress of the circumstances, he obeys like a well-trained dog of the silver screen. But this isn’t a movie, Mac isn’t Rin Tin Tin or Lassie, and he’s not going to valiantly run home and bring back help. There is no intermission, no commercial break, and probably no happy ending.

  “Tell me the story again,” Luke says.

  “What story?” My throbbing head and sore neck are competing with each other.

  “Tell me the story about how Rodney saved the Sergeant from the storm drain.”

  “Geez, Luke, I told you before… he never finished the story!” The screaming makes my head throb worse.

  “Okay already—you big dumb donkey.”

  “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m sorry.”

  He sits next to me. “Don’t worry, Wade. We’re going to get out of here.” He speaks so confidently he almost sounds cocky.

  Suddenly he is above the line of reason and I am below it. Terrific. And just what does that say about me? On the other hand, maybe he has a plan. Yeah, right, like the catbird boy and his magic bulldog are going to work a little sleight of hand, maybe just snap a finger or two and voila! We’ll find ourselves standing outside next to Mac. Maybe he’ll want us to wear groundhog hats so we can find our way out of here by the first day of spring.

  Meanwhile, I’m the one responsible, the older brother, the one who should have known better. This is just great. Maybe I should go ahead and strangle him. Yeah, why not, because when they eventually find our bodies, I’ll be blamed for the whole thing anyway. Let the big dumb donkey’s record show it: Wade Parker—Convicted, 1961, Fratricide (Posthumously). Get a grip!

  All I can do is sit here and think myself into bigger and tighter knots.

  With Mac quieted down, a new sound emerges from the background. I put my ear to the cast-iron monster and listen. “Luke…do you hear something?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What does it sound like to you?”

  “Rain.”

  Uh oh, I mouth.

  “It’s raining hard, Wade. Mac doesn’t like to be out in the rain, you know.”

  Great! Now the dog’s getting wet, and I’m to blame for that, too. How am I going to explain this to him? “Listen to me. We’ve got a serious problem here. It’s raining outside. I don’t want to scare you, but do you know what that means?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “Well, pretty soon this tunnel will fill up with water.”

  He floors me completely. “And you’re not scared?”

  “No, not really. Are you scared?” He grins, and the candlelight makes him look like a subterranean gremlin full of mischief, enjoying watching the boy from upper earth sweat.

  “Yes, I’m scared! Geez, you’re something else!”

  “Look, you big dumb donkey, I don’t see a problem here. All we have to do is sit tight and wait for the water to push the door open, right?”

  It doesn’t matter whether he’s right or not, because the cavern instantly fills with the siss-s-s-s sound of an approaching wave. It is only about eighteen inches high, but it hits us with sufficient power to knock us both off of our feet. The wave crashes into the iron door and curls back over the top of us, embroiling the entire space in a churning cauldron of foam.

  The door doesn’t budge one inch.

  I am more startled by how fast the wave has come than the getting knocked down part. Under any other circumstance, getting knocked down by a little old wave would be fun. But this is terrifying.

  Luke gets back on his feet and helps me up. He actually laughs, and I can’t believe it. I have a mouth full of nasty water—even swallowed some—a foulness coating my tongue, and Luke is laughing like a hysterical hyena. This ought to keep his catbirds away!

  “Shut up!” I splutter and gag, spitting out as much of the vile taste as I can.

  “Okay, okay. Are you all right?”

  “No! Darn it, Luke! We’re going to drown in here!” I choke and cough and nearly throw up while Luke calmly suggests that maybe next time I might want to close my mouth. Next time?

  The water is already up to Luke’s waist and he still shows no sign of fear. Is there something wrong with me? Or is my little brother insane?

  “The door is going to push up anytime now, Wade.”

  Then I notice how quiet it has gotten, and I hear the sound of thousands of bubbles rising and bursting at the surface. It’s like being inside a big aquarium with a powerful aeration pump humming below. The water keeps coming, and to make matters worse, the combination of the stress and the gag reflex from choking on the tunnel water triggers a world class case of hiccups.

  “I ho-u-pe the door pushes up soon, Lu-u-ke!” I sound like a sick Chihuahua.

  My mental knot pulls tighter when it occurs to me that the door might have been damaged when the jack gave way. Maybe that’s why it isn’t opening. I want to tell Luke what I’m worried about so he can argue against it and make me feel better. But I think better of it, realizing the situation will only worsen if I make him panic. Just then, the cast-iron jailer groans, and a burst of light flares from the bottom of the aquarium—the crescent moon of Atlantis offering rays of hope.

  Luke squeals, “I told you! I told you!” But the water keeps rising. It is now up to the middle of his chest.

  I look back up the tunnel and see many of the candles are still burning. Strange new multi-colored reflections play across the shrinking distance between the rippling water and the concave ceiling. It looks so weird, surrealistic—the tunnel, the water, the candles, the strange
reflections. I imagine we are caught in the swamping passageway of an antediluvian monastery.

  The door groans again! A waxing moon! Yes! Let the tides recede!

  “Luke! Come closer to the door.”

  “Okay—Wader.” He splashes closer like a playful puppy.

  “Wader? Real funny. If the door opens just a little more, I think you can fit through.”

  “Ten-four—Wader.” He smothers me with a concurring grin.

  “When I yell go, you take a deep breath, hold your nose, and push yourself down as hard as you can toward the light.”

  He nods like he is acknowledging basic instructions he has heard many times before. “Roger—Wader.”

  “As soon as it opens a little bit more, I’ll come along right behind you.”

  “Wilco—Wader.”

  He is excited and laughing and not scared in the least. You’d think we were next in line for the roller coaster at an amusement park. “This is better than the Crippler, ain’t it, Wader!”

  I am scared to death. “Much better.”

  Another groan! More light!

  “GO! GO! GO!”

  Down Luke goes in a furious whirlpool of bubbles, disappearing faster than a scrap of soap sucked down a bathtub drain. I scream out victoriously and picture him shooting out in a gusher on the other side. Luke has been born again unto the everlasting light of day! Thank You, Jesus!

  Now I am alone with my fear.

  I am bigger than Luke and can only hope that the door will open wide enough to set me free, too. The candles begin extinguishing one by one, no match against the rising tide. I want to let go, dive toward the light and push on the door, but I’m afraid I will get hung up in the opening and drown. That will be my last option. Until then, I’ll wait and pray that the door opens further—and in time.

  Pray?

  I don’t know how to pray. No one ever taught me how to pray. Besides, what exactly is praying anyway? Do you have to start a prayer a certain way? Say certain words or follow certain rules? Why can’t I just talk to God? I mean, if I just say, “Hi, God,” won’t He listen?

  Maybe I should try to cover all the bases, just in case. Maybe I should cry out to God and Jesus, and throw in a respectful shout to Poseidon and Neptune, maybe even Johnny Weissmuller and Popeye the Sailor Man. They all seem to know their way around water. Heck, maybe a direct appeal to my hero Duke Snider will help get me out of this jam.

  Get a grip, Parker!

  With the entombing liquid swelling up to my aching neck, I finally surrender and follow my heart. I think of Rodney.

  “Remember, Wade, Jesus is the best friend you can ever have.”

  “He loves you very much.”

  “Only Jesus can set you free.”

  “Yes, Father, in the name of my best friend, Jesus, who loves me very much, please set me free from this place. Amen.”

  Saying the prayer helps to calm my mind and shut off the fear. I start to feel light-headed and—buoyant. A few seconds later, the water lets go of me and gives way to a strange mystical vision…

  The Stygian onslaught subsides in a Moses-like miracle, and suddenly the water is gone without so much as a puddle left behind. Down the passageway coming slowly toward me I see a single file line of hooded monks, each tapping lightly on a tabor hanging from straps looped over their necks. The monks are chanting a motet that is further complicated by an echo bouncing off the tunnel walls.

  The monk at the front of the line is a high priest. He carries a swaying censer, the fumes from which confuse me—first smelling of incense, then horsecakes and apple butter, then the wonderful clean scent of Miss Cherry. The monks stop at a distance and fall silent. The high priest comes forward, pulls back the cowl from his mummified face, and stares at me with rheumy centuries-old eyes.

  In his eyes, I see a prophetic vision of his own death, and the purchase of my freedom. But I do not understand. Slowly, his arm rises up from his side and levels at my face. He wags a bony accusatory finger as his tightly pursed lips part, and he speaks to me in a raspy, penetrating monotone utterance—“Equus Asinus Gigantus.”…

  “Huh? I don’t understand.”

  Bubbles gurgle from my lips as I strain upward. I mash my nose against the concrete and attempt to thieve one last deep breath. Pounding heartbeats string together like links in a chain holding me down, while my last breath tightens its grip in my chest and fights to stay with me.

  I sense a gentle pulling at my feet, a comforting feeling that I do not resist. Slipping down, I hear the last candle extinguish with a kisslike hiss, and the watery unknown beyond calls out my name.

  I embrace it with bleary passion…

  Luke and I are seated together on a hard wooden bench. It’s very uncomfortable, but we wait patiently in the anteroom adjoining the office of E. Townsend Parker, Esquire. We remain quiet, not talking, not fidgeting, and behaving in strict accordance with the stern instructions given to us by an unfriendly secretary.

  We arrived ten minutes early for our appointment; still, we were told Mr. Parker would see us only if time permitted. Luke discreetly tugs at his stiffly starched collar while I nervously glance about the lavishly decorated room.

  Two hours later, I look up and see ruby-red lips slowly pull taut in a duplicitous smile. “I’m sorry, Master Wade, Master Luke, but the Earl of Barstow will not be able to see you. He suggests you make another appointment for some time in your next life. Good day, boys.”

  We trudge out to a million dollar lobby and look down into a marble pool full of rare, exotic fish.

  “I hope somebody hangs him,” Luke says.

  Embarrassed, tearful, I say nothing.

  “Are you all right. Wade?”

  After-rain air engorges my lungs, oxygenating my blood and restarting my brain—the sensation of light-headedness, faint and pleasurable.

  “Are you all right, Wade?”

  My eyes crack open to billowing white clouds bobbing in a sea of blue. Am I dreaming? Something shakes me, perhaps pulling my arm, I am not sure.

  “Wade! Are you all right?”

  Woof!

  Not quite back over the line of consciousness, I think the fish in the marble pool are barking at me.

  “Wade!” Luke slaps my face repeatedly.

  I’m alive! I bolt up to a sitting position, look quickly for the wizened finger-pointing monk, and start coughing uncontrollably.

  Woof! Woof! Mac zealously informs Luke that I am all right. Woof! He climbs on top of me and sloshes his tongue all over my face.

  “Okay, boy,” I sputter, trying to push him off.

  As I attempt to hold Mac away from my face, my eye catches something in the distance. I think I see a man hanging by the neck from the catwalk under the old A.T. & S.F trestle. “I hope somebody hangs him”? Am I still dreaming?

  “Mac, quit! Get off!” Luke yells.

  Mac reluctantly climbs off of me.

  I close my eyes tight and rub the lids. When I open my eyes again, the man is not there. Geez.

  I look at Luke and can tell he’s been crying. “I’m okay.” I give him as much of a smile as I can.

  He breaks down completely, blubbering and shaking, deep breaths catching in his throat as he tries to speak. “I-I-I thought you-you-you were dead!”

  I pull him down to me and put my arms around him. I feel him shudder hard and surrender the tension in his body as he melts into me. “I’m okay, Luke.” I pat his back.

  He whimpers, “I love you, Wade.”

  “I love you, too.” I begin to cry as I hold him.

  Mac sighs and looks straight at me, as if to say, I told you so. Then he lays himself out across my legs, the stoic sentry still doing his duty.

  Over Luke’s shoulder, I see our knapsack and the rest of our debris. Hundreds of candle remnants are scattered about like wreckage on a beach. We huddle together drenched and crying, sprawled out on the wet concrete like worthless mullock dumped outside the mouth of a dangerous mine.


  Cookie cutter shadows drift across us, then bright sun and instant steam rising off the concrete, followed by more shadows. The vacillating sky epitomizes my entire state of affairs.

  What do I do now? I’m not worth spit. I guess God is still punishing me for killing that man. What else could explain this?

  Whatever happened after I blacked out in the tunnel, the trauma has left my body aching and sapped of energy. The knot on the top of my head throbs unmercifully, but at least I can remember how that happened. I know my physical body will recover, and the emotional deadening I experienced from the first near drowning at Three Ponds was measurably worse than this. This flogging by dunking was less severe because I assumed Luke’s safety had been obtained.

  But am I building up a tolerance or becoming immune? Or have I merely beaten the odds and benefited from blind luck? My will, my purpose of mind, isn’t even part of the equation. My will is locked in paralysis and my very life, although apparently buoyant in the presence of water, is at a standstill. The roots of failure have riddled the soil of my existence, and I have become nothing more than a stubborn, noxious weed barely clinging to life.

  Our reunion becomes unbearable as I listen to poor Luke, tears streaming down his face, relate how he waited outside that stubborn metal hatchway. “I prayed for you, Wade. I prayed real hard.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “And God answered me. The door burst open! And water gushed out like a giant garden hose!”

  He witnessed me shooting out of the tube and onto the deck as lifeless as a defeated salmon tossed to the rocks by a raging rapid. He relates the details with such two-dimensional emotion and affection that it sounds more like a wild cartoon than a violent near death experience. But I know better. My bumps and bruises, physical and mental, are real.

  The worst part is seeing with my own eyes how Luke nearly died of sadness. He lays his head on my chest. “I don’t want to live without you, Wade.”

  Some older brother I am.

  We slog up from the arroyo on a slick, narrow switchback, the path topping out on a brushy ridge straddled by a hole-ridden chain-link fence. We breach the fence and appear on the street out of wind and looking like a couple of sewer rats seeking the safety of higher ground.