by Robin Duval
The solution when it came took him by surprise.
‘Do you mind if we finish the wine in your cabin?’ she asked. There was a tiny edge of coolness, even severity, in case he might have misunderstood her.
They took the bottle and two tumblers across the clearing, past the bungalow where the party was in full swing, and along a narrow linking boardwalk to Bryn’s own little lodge. He had no easy chairs for them to sit on, so they perched sideways on opposite flanks of the bed.
They managed conversation well enough. He asked her what part of California she came from; Sacramento, she said – not so far away. She enquired if he was a church-goer and he said that, mostly, he was not. He asked if she had ever been to Europe and she said she had been on honeymoon to Paris, which she had not liked very much. No, she was not still married: it had been a student mistake. No children, fortunately. And many years ago.
All this while boisterous outbursts of enjoyment were spilling from the nearby bungalow. It was difficult not to be distracted. Even when the party subsided into silence it was all Bryn could do to rein his imagination back to the four walls of his cabin and prevent it rambling away down the boardwalk. It was a close run thing.
Then… he was never clear how it happened, the wine of course, the usual reasons, but – as he leant across to refill her tumbler – he kissed her cheek. Her face was next to his and it was the natural thing to do. And, to his surprise, she responded immediately and took his mouth to her lips.
He juggled one-handedly with the bottle and the glasses, until – without breaking the embrace – he was able to settle them somewhere on the floor below. As they stretched out on the bed he was moved to try what in most languages in the world is called a French kiss though not, as it happens, in France.
And she did not refuse.
The blood and the alcohol began to surge and his hand slipped towards her breast where he was startled to discover that, notwithstanding its firmness, the only supporting fabric was a light cotton blouse; which, almost by reflex, he began to unbutton.
And that was as far as he got.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Not now. We must not do this.’
So they both sat up on the bed and tidied themselves down.
Somewhere in the outer darkness, the silence was broken by a single joyful female cry.
Time passed.
‘Oh God,’ groaned his companion.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bryn reflexively.
She caught him trying to check his watch.
‘I can’t go back yet.’
‘I know,’ he said at last. ‘But I need to sleep. Why don’t you stay here till you’re ready to leave.’
He got off the bed and went to get a blanket from the pine cupboard.
Quite without warning she dropped her head into her hands and started, soundlessly, to rock to and fro.
‘I’ve had enough,’ she whispered through her fingers. ‘I’m done.’
‘Look,’ he said, half-surprised at the words that emerged. ‘If you like, you can kip down on my bed for the night. I’ll be somewhere else.’
‘Kip?’
‘Sleep. And I’ll take the floor.’
‘Oh,’ she said, a picture of uncertainty.
‘It’s not a problem. Would you mind if I had the hand-sewn quilt though?’
‘Homespun,’ she corrected, and handed it over.
He left her fully clad and dozing on the bed, and retreated into the tiny enclosed cell tucked away in the corner of the room, for whatever discreet toilet duties he could perform. When he emerged, she was asleep under a couple of blankets.
He turned the kerosene lamp down to a gentle glimmer and settled for the night.
‘Are you comfortable there?’
He had pretty well dozed off. It took him a little time to get his bearings.
‘Are you comfortable?’
‘No,’ he replied. Perhaps a little grumpily.
‘Why don’t you come in here?’ she said. ‘If you promise to behave. It’s too cold without the quilt.’
Still confused, he dragged the quilt off the floor and flipped it over the blankets. He climbed in on the empty side of the bed, with his eyes already closed.
‘Sleep tight,’ he said and leant over automatically to kiss her.s As if he had been in bed with Marion.
He stopped himself just in time.
He was looking down on her face from a few inches above and she was gazing up at him. In the dim kerosene light, it was impossible to tell what emotions lay in her wide unblinking eyes. No anger or shock at least. He had a fleeting, inconvenient, image of the last time he had shared a bed with Marion, when she had turned aside with some comment about how tired she was; away to that foreign country of hers. But this woman stayed unmoving and awake, watching him. So he kissed her, again.
She did not respond as before; but neither did she resist. He was careful after the previous experience not to presume too far but somehow, in the natural order of things, his right hand found itself on the back of her thigh and – even as their equivocal, guarded, uncertain, enigmatic kiss continued – eased upwards to her hip.
And there, in the absence of any better encouragement, the story might have ended: with another reminder of that eternal truth that a kiss may be all you will get and all you should hope for; followed perhaps, if you are lucky and not too greatly disturbed, by a good night’s sleep.
What changed the terms of engagement entirely was the discovery that, while she was still wearing the cotton blouse from which he had earlier been so decisively repelled, there was no other garment now beneath his hand. Nothing whatever.
To a female the signals described here may be perfectly comprehensible. But for Bryn the moment was one of perfect confusion. Here he was, dressed in Levi walking trousers and a sturdy tartan shirt, lying under two blankets and a quilt, with a woman who had earlier made it as clear as it could possibly be that intimacy was unwelcome. But in whose bed he seemed now, in more than one sense, to be an invited guest.
It was not a situation from which he was ever likely to emerge with credit. His partner’s unresponsiveness should perhaps have unmanned him. But he had arrived at a tipping point, that onrushing moment when some other power takes over the controls leaving the rider in as little command of his trajectory as, well, a boy on a Coney Island roller coaster. A clear signal could have stopped him in his tracks. But, after what had passed before, that she was acquiescing at all was a brain-spinning revelation. Only once did she say anything. As he began to unzip and unbutton his own garments –
‘Be careful,’ she said softly. ‘You must be careful.’
‘I will,’ he replied.
For a while she lay quietly beneath him; then as the minutes passed – for he was more tired than he had realised – her legs began to tighten around his and her breathing to quicken. Her body lifted upwards and he came to a climax more quickly than he had intended. As he subsided, she took his face in her hands again; and again kissed him.
He fell asleep almost at once.
He awoke once in the middle of the night. They were facing away from each other at opposite extremes of the bed.
And he still did not know her name.
Chapter 7
The community was already stirring when Bryn awoke in the morning. Muted clangs and clatters and lowered voices. Sunrise hikers setting off down the trail to walk in the coolest part of the day. The owners and their little team of vacationing students organising breakfast.
His night-time companion did not move. He guessed by the unevenness of her breathing that she was feigning sleep. She was still turned away on her own far side of the bed, legs drawn up. Probably with eyes wide open. He moved a hand interrogatively towards her and she shrank back like an anemone, and gathered her legs tighter.
He might have hoped for a warmer awakening. He was sorry if she wanted to avoid a difficult start to the day. Though… perhaps… he welcomed it. He eased out of the bed and dressed as q
uietly as he could.
The sun was low on the horizon and a mist hung in the forest undergrowth. He walked past the cabins towards the meadow. A couple of startled marmots scuttled away. Tubular black lumps of bear scat lay on the ground outside the dining lodge. At the edge of the forest a family of deer drifted along in the shadows, nibbling sporadically at the grass. The meadow was vibrant with birds: American robins, killdeer plovers, black-headed juncos.
The air was blissfully sharp and clear. Lassen Peak filled the horizon and the faintest thread of steam was rising from its summit. There was a flash of light in the dirty sky above, like sun reflected on a passing aircraft. Bryn stayed for fifteen minutes or so waiting and watching. No sound, no company. Himself and the shades of the past. Walls of forest on either side, the navelike shape of the meadow, the living mountain rising in the east like an altar.
At breakfast he was directed to the same table as before. There was no sign of the Israelis or of Nadine. He filled up a bowl with cornflakes and – since he was on holiday – toasted himself a Strawberry Sensation pop tart. He was still trying to figure out a tidy and grown-up way to eat it when his night companion arrived.
She must have calculated that Bryn had already taken breakfast and that it was now safe for her to come out. She hovered unhappily at the dining room entrance until Vera Miles pointed inexorably towards Bryn’s table and she came over, slowly. Bryn offered to get her some cereal. She nodded; and he went off and found her something sugarless, healthy and Californian.
The hikers, in the meantime, were gathering at the other tables. A hubbub of anticipated morning pleasures filled the room. At any moment Nadine might burst in upon them – with delighted questions about how her puritan companion had spent the night. There was nothing Bryn could say to ease the situation. He began to collect up his crockery.
‘Where were you this morning?’
Her head was still bowed over her bowl.
A couple of the Israelis settled at the other end of the table.
‘I went out to look at the mountain.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘It’s very beautiful first thing.’
‘Oh really?’
‘And I was wondering how anyone would know if it was about to erupt.’
‘It’s not about to erupt.’
Her eyes were fixed on the bran flakes and chopped banana. As he contemplated her obscuring veil of uncombed hair, he felt immediately ashamed. He had sleep-walked into a relationship begotten of confusion, pity and opportunity. Oh and lust. He was in a bad place.
‘Have you heard of Mount St Helens?’ she said.
He had heard of Mount St Helens. In 1980 its summit had sheered off in the most serious eruption of modern American history. It was in the same range of mountains as Lassen Peak, three or four hundred miles northwards.
‘Oh and by the way,’ she said. ‘My name’s Margaret. I’m a teacher.’
She looked up at him, their first eye contact. Her gaze was sad and hostile and puzzled.
‘People knew for months that Mount St Helens was going to erupt. They just couldn’t say when. All kinds of signs. Earth tremors. Steam explosions. It doesn’t happen out of the blue, you know.’
And that was it. She gathered up her bowl and cutlery and rose from the table.
‘My name’s Bryn,’ he offered to her departing shoulder blades.
He watched her cross the room and tip her detritus into a black plastic container. She was a truly fine looking woman.
A little later, as he was settling his bill, Max the owner asked what he was planning for the day.
‘I was thinking of walking up the mountain. Do you think that would be dangerous?’
‘Vy should it be dangerous? Great valk.’
‘There does seem to be a lot of volcanic activity.’
‘Vot the hell d’ya expect? Vy d’ya think it’s called a Volcanic Park?’
‘Well… you know… tremors, steam, that kind of stuff.’
Max planted the flats of both hands on the table and stared Bryn full in the face. He spoke very carefully and slowly and clearly.
‘Ve do not have a problem here. The mountain is a plug volcano. Know vot that means? It means it’s plugged. With granite. So it can’t blow no more. Ve do not need another boy like you putting it around that the place is dangerous. All you monkeys ever achieve is a goddamn threat to our business. Vidout any reason. Do I make myself clear?’
Bryn nodded. The old man seemed satisfied.
‘The problem round here is the snows and the spring melts knocking our buildings down. But it’s summer now. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘You best take your sack lunch,’ he said, passing over a well stuffed brown bag. ‘You’ll need it. Enjoy your valk, von’t you.’
Bryn drove out and round to the main entrance to the Park. It was the usual dappled mountain highway, intermittently overcrowded by pines, so that the car plunged alternately through dense gloom and blinding sunshine. He approached as near to Lassen Peak as the regulations permitted. It was still early enough to be mostly free of tourists. He reckoned he could see the Pacific Crest Trail, white in the sunshine, gleaming to the east; and a few tiny figures passing up and down it. The mountain was now a few miles ahead, with that wispy plume of steam still rising from its apex. The smell of sulphur was stronger than ever.
He was in a deep despond. Somehow the disaster with Margaret the teacher had stirred up afresh his depression over the break-up with Marion. He felt contrary and irresponsible and possessed by a mighty desire for solitude, and with a mass of pent-up energy to expend. Walking into the mouth of an officially inactive volcano would be the least of his concerns.
He became rapidly bored with the safe main tourist path and diverged to investigate a pool of furiously bubbling mud circled by a fragile white crust and with a sign warning visitors to keep away. A hundred yards further on was a small hole in the ground through which steam was gently venting. This was already becoming a serious climb. He was in an unvegetated no-man’s land of sand-coloured rock, way off the official route. The mountain peak, however, was plain enough ahead. It should not be too difficult to reach it.
A mile and perhaps an hour or so later, he was working round a swollen outcrop of granite already warm in the morning sun when he came up behind a vehicle barring the way. It had been neatly parked in the shadow of the rock, and – to all appearances – abandoned.
It was a black Dodge Pickup, new and unblemished. One of its two doors hung open and there was a map spread out on the bench seat inside. The flat back of the truck was covered over with a tarpaulin sheet loosely tied down at the edges.
He made a note of the Oregon number plate – in case it would be useful to the authorities. He laid his hand on the bonnet for any evidence of recent use but – with no sun falling on it – it was as cool as the morning air. He thought he might look under the tarpaulin. There was a small electricity generator there, a rifle – broken open and empty – and a couple of pneumatic drills. In the corner were some items wrapped in a canvas sheet, which gave off an unpleasant, rather chemical smell. He did not investigate further.
There could of course be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the vehicle’s presence. The Dodge might after all be an official vehicle, left there while a couple of park employees went off on a morning recce. So, half-expecting to find company on the higher slopes, he continued up the mountain.
Some small, furry creatures, rabbit-shaped but with rat-like ears, scurried away as he climbed. It was harder work now and he began to regret that he had left the tourist-friendlier main track. The rivulets of snow visible from across the valley were building up, deeper and more extensive than he’d expected. On the edge of one of them lay a blacktail deer, quite dead. In the sky above, an eagle – perhaps the same one he’d seen the previous day – was slowly circling.
Some way further on he looked up again to see if the bird was still there. It was in th
e air, but ahead of him, in fact almost directly over the summit. Then a few hundred yards short of the lip of the crater, he became aware of a second dark brown shape in the snow, as clearly dead as the first one. He had almost passed it, with his attention fixed on the way ahead, when the disturbing thought occurred that the huddled creature this time could not be a deer; nor any other four-footed animal. He turned aside to take a closer look.
It was the body of a middle-aged man.
He was lying on his side with eyes open, unblinkingly fixed on the valley below. Sparely dressed in jeans, scuffed boots and a well-worn sweatshirt, as if ready for a hard day’s labour. But he did not look like a labourer. He was lightly built and narrowshouldered and the domed bald crown of his head rose out of a curtain of long, fine, very white hair.
Bryn debated what he should do.
First, look in the trouser pockets for some form of identification.
Coins, and some small stones. And a handkerchief with the letter S embroidered in a corner.
Now close the man’s eyes.
The skin was still warm… perhaps he should check the pulse in the neck – just in case.
As he pushed the hair aside, a small round hole materialised between his two fingers. It was neat and clean, with no blood or discolouration. Precisely at the base of the man’s skull.
It took Bryn less than an hour to get back to his car. He intended to report his find to the Visitor Centre near the park entrance but before he had even started the engine, a ranger in a Chrysler Jeep came up the road and drew alongside him. Bryn explained the situation as succinctly as he could and they travelled back in convoy to the small cabin that served as the ranger’s office.
As he learned later, there were few homicides in this part of America. The average number of murders in the entire county was less than two a year. The annual report of the Sheriff’s Office revealed a far greater concern with boating accidents, livestock crimes and mountain rescues.
So the shocking news threw the young ranger into a spin of confusion. After checking a number of documents for guidance, he called the Park Superintendent. When she shortly arrived, the pair withdrew to the other side of her Jeep and held a lengthy conference call on their handheld radios. After that they climbed into the Superintendent’s vehicle and sat together silently for twenty minutes, while Bryn passed the time in the ranger’s office pecking unhungrily at his sack lunch and reading brochures about Park wildlife. He discovered that the furry creatures high on the mountain were American Pikas. And was still reading an article about their significance to climate scientists – Pikas, he noted, were unusually sensitive to heat and withdrew to higher elevations as the temperature rose, providing a most useful indicator of global warming trends – when the police turned up in force.