I’m called Charley all the time now. They only call me Smiley as a joke because I frown so much. I still get to carry my Little Master on my shoulders. No one has dared to stop me, because my father is on my side about this. At least on this one thing.
Even my Little Master mostly calls me Charley now. He still droops sometimes . . . lots of times. He puts his ears down by his cheeks. Not “put”; it’s that the Hoots let their muscles go, so nothing holds their ears up. They just flop. I treat him better than his own kind did, but he’s sad anyway. He wants his house and his cozy cubby and crib and his kind of food. (Just as much as I want the kind of food I used to have.) And even though he’s here with me (he has me closer than he ever had before), he misses his doll, which is a copy of me. We sleep in the same lean-to, so I don’t see why I won’t do instead, but he says I’m too big to hold easily and I wiggle around in bed too much. We start the night together though—his leg partly around my neck, sort of as if he was still riding me. It’s good his legs are skinny and soft.
Margaret/Sunrise made him a new doll, and he was polite about it (Hoots are always kind), but he still wants the old one. It was worn out, but even so, realer than the one she made. It was made of Pliable. We don’t have any of that up here, so Margaret had to use cloth. She embroidered my face on it, my hair, of fine black yarn, my eyes, not quite as dark as the hair. I like it a lot, so Little Master gave it to me.
He keeps asking if I’ll take him back home to get his old one. I always say yes, but I have to think about how we could sneak away and when. My father wouldn’t want me to go. Nobody here would.
I’m feeling pretty droopy myself. They keep telling me I’ll get used to it. They keep telling me it’s a lot better to be bosses—all of us masters of ourselves and each other. They say we live free. Well, what we do is, we vote. “Democratically” is what you call it. They say it’s a lot better, but if it’s so much better, how come we have to get water way down at the creek where we have a barrel-on-a-pulley-sort-of-thing that goes up and down a steep bank? What’s so democratic about that? Except that it’s the same for everybody. And the water’s icy cold. If we want it warm, we have to heat it up ourselves. And light! There isn’t any! What little there is comes from candles and fires and oily lamps. You can hardly read without getting so close you could burn yourself up. They have a lot of books, though—in a special book cave. They also have a press so they can make even more. I always did like books—when I had time for them. There’s not much more time for them here than there was back home.
I want to go back there just as much as Little Master does. I like our old stalls with hot-and-cold running water and fancy kitchens, heaters you can turn on any time you want. When we go, I’ll pick up a few things, too. What I want most is that picture of my mother that was framed in silver. Maybe there’s some real food left there, too. I’m strong. I could bring back a lot of things, though that picture will be awkward. Little Master and his doll will be on me, too. Maybe I’ll only be able to bring that one picture for myself.
They say there’s nobody down there in our town anymore, but what if there was? Even one? Somebody that got forgot? One of us, all alone, or one of them, trying to live life rolling around on his little stool? Maybe Little Master and I could stay and help out. Besides, there are too many skinny Tennessees all over the place here, and they walk around as if they thought they were just as important as us Seattles. They’re all so set on democratic here, I haven’t found anybody I dare ask about what you call the other thing.
The worst is, my father is in love with one of them. It’s that freckled one who was trying to be nice up when they captured us. They’re going to get married. (We don’t have marriages there with the Hoots, and the Hoots don’t either. I don’t see any point in marriages. Little Master says, “Us Hoots always say it makes trouble. Especially for Sues and Sams. They have to breed true. That’s for the good of everybody.”)
I guess my drooping shows because my father sits me down, exactly like the Hoots always did, to explain things. Except he puts his arm around me. Heavy arm. He never talks much—it’s too hard for him—so I wonder all the more what he’s going to try to say.
We leave Little Master with Margaret/Sunrise. He’s safe with her. She’s good to every creature. She doesn’t care what kind you are. You could even be a rat. Maybe even a rattlesnake. Little Master doesn’t like it—he knows she won’t host him—but he knows she’ll protect him.
My father takes me out to the cliffs above the creek. We can’t get close because the banks are too steep. We sit on rocks way up and look down at it. My father has on worn, handmade sandals that have ragged pieces of them hanging out. They’re made of some sort of fiber. I suppose I’ll have to wear things like that when I outgrow these shoes.
I want to ask a hundred things. Like about the other word for when it’s not democracy, and why didn’t they find a better place to put their houses than way up here, but I don’t because I know he doesn’t want to waste any of his talking.
“It takes . . . time,” he says, as if everybody hasn’t already told me that over and over, including him. Then he kind of coughs and jerks and finally goes on. “This. . . . We’re free. When you’re older. . . .”
He always stops in the wrong places. That’s what makes it so hard to listen.
“ . . . be voting.”
I say, “I vote for hot water.” I look at his sandals. “I vote for shoes.”
“Wouldn’t you like. . . .” Another stop. “Your own life?” Stop. “Not be ridden? Not told? Where? Forced? Whenever they! They!”
I can’t stand to try to listen to him. When he taught me how to catch rattlesnakes and marmots, and how to make fires and dig up Solomon Seal, there was hardly any talking at all.
“Wouldn’t you rather. . . .” Wait. Cough.
And I can’t stand the way some of his scars pull his lips to one side. I can’t stand looking at his fuzzy eyebrows.
“ . . . with your own people?”
“I was with my people. And what about the Tennessees? They’re not my people.”
He sits looking at those sandals of his. They’re ugly, but I’ll bet he doesn’t care, just so they’re made here and by Sams and Sues that vote.
“That’s how they want us . . . one against another. . . .” Wait. Jerk. “Charley . . .”
It’s always even harder for him to say my name. It sticks in his throat.
“I came . . . partly . . . for you.”
“My mother,” I say, “Why don’t you rescue her?”
That stops him. I mean even more than he already is stopped. He cares about that skinny Tennessee, but he doesn’t care about my mother at all.
He takes his hand off my shoulder and stays stopped for a while. Then he makes a move as if to put his heavy, sandpapery hand on my arm (hands that have been moving too many rocks), but I flinch away just in time.
“You have . . . have to understand. The Hoots. . . . They . . . needed more Seattles. Like me. Like Mary.”
“Having me was just a job you had to do. You never even liked her. You don’t even like me.”
“Charley!” It’s like he’s choking on my name, but he says it twice more anyway. “Ch . . . Ch . . . Charley.”
I say, “I’m Smiley out of Merry Mary. I love her. She has a scar across her face—because of me. She tried to keep me.”
He picks stems from the clumps of stiff grass beside us—for no reason I can tell. (There’s no real grass anywhere around here and it isn’t even green.) He keeps looking down the bank to the noisy, rushing creek, takes a big breath, then more silence, then, “I’ll try,” he says.
“You will?” If he says he will, I’ll bet he really will. “When? How?”
“The runners. Tennessees. The ones who wear . . . cam . . . mouflage. Though no way the Hoots don’t see us before. . . . Hear us . . . smell . . . before. It’s from runners that I knew where you were and what they were. . . .” Stop a whole minute. “ . . .
making of you. It was selfish of me, but we saved a lot of others.” Another stop. “Got . . . a lot of . . . important. . . .”
“Yes, I know, a lot of hats.”
But I feel funny, thinking maybe I could get to see my mother.
My father stands up. “Come. I’ll. . . .”
He doesn’t bother finishing. He starts climbing down the steep bank, and then, when we get to the creek, he starts climbing on up beside it. It’s very rocky. Big rocks. Sometimes you have to step over parts of the stream which, if you stepped into it by mistake, you’d be swept away. Even my father would. Even though he looks like a bunch of rocks all stuck together (feels like it, too), he’s not that strong.
But why is everything around here so hard to do! There’s not a single place smoothed out. Not one. He’ll ruin his sandals even more than they already are. But I suppose his Tennessee lover will make him more.
Just when I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll get someplace before it’s time for supper (and I’m already hungry, I’ve been hungry ever since we got up here), we come to where the cliffs on each side are even steeper than they have been. We start climbing one side that has little handholds and footholds. Now and then there’s a chain imbedded in the rocks to help pull ourselves up with. Pretty soon we get to a cave with ruins, except, once you get far enough in, you see they’re fixed up. The ruined part is out in front, all tumbledown; behind that, everything is nice. Well, as nice as things get up here.
My father doesn’t say a single word. And thank goodness. He leads me all around. He even shows me a big batch of Hoot poles. I don’t ask anything because I don’t want him to talk. I was surprised he talked as much as he did back there on the bank. (How can you get to know somebody who hardly ever talks and always looks at you with a crazy stare?)
I do see the reason for a place like this . . . for them . . . for Wild Sams and Sues hiding out, but, if you lived up here, look how hard it would be to get water! Even worse than where they are now. You’d have to climb all the way down the cliff and then up with the water. And this is supposed to be what free is!
I know . . . I do know my father used to be one of those with spikes at their cheeks and even spikes inside their mouths, and great big-soled shoes like the Sams that hauled Sunrise away. One almost trampled her under his metal soles. Nobody told me but it isn’t hard to guess. He’s gritting his teeth all the time. He has frown lines as if he’s either angry or thinking much too much—except maybe not when he looks at that freckled Tennessee. No, that’s not true, he looks angry even then. Her person name is Jane and her Hoot name is Bright Spot. I suppose because of her freckles. My father likes to call her Bright Spot. He takes her hand as if he’s the way the Hoots are about holding hands. But he looks angry even when he’s happy—if he ever really is happy. Maybe he can’t be. But I know he likes it out here in the middle of nowhere. He stares at the mountains as if it’s those he loves the most of all. Or maybe hates—it’s the same old stare for everything.
That Tennessee comes and puts her arm around him and then she stares, too. They watch the glow from the setting sun turn the mountains pink and purple, and the shadow of the opposite mountains move across the valley, and then they watch the moon come up. Inside the house, I’ve seen my father stare into the fire that same way, with his writing pad on his lap. I’ve seen him hardly write but two lines all evening.
He did promise I could keep my Little Master. He’s an important man, so when he says something, then that’s what has to be. That’s not voting. He’s not so democratic. Especially not with me. I don’t get to vote on anything—so far not one single thing, except I can keep Little Master. He tells me what to do all the time—and other people, too. It’s not just his size, but his silence, and the way he stares, scares them like it does me. I don’t think he hits people. Which is a good thing, because he’s the strongest person around. I wonder how many Tennessees it would take to hold him down? I can hardly wait till I get to be like that. Then I guess I’ll get to vote. I guess I’ll have more votes than anybody.
Finally we climb on down—down and down and down and then up, over the bank, and past where we were sitting. Of course we’re late for supper. There’s nobody left in the dining hall, but they saved us some stew. Who would ever want this mess? But I do now. (If it was rat stew, or even mouse, they wouldn’t tell me. Or marmot.) Jane serves us. It’s just us three. (My Little Master is still with Sunrise.) Every time Jane puts a plate down or picks one up, she finds a way to linger her hand on my father’s shoulder or the back of his neck or his head.
Before he sits down, my father takes his hunting knife and cuts off a dangling weedy string from his sandal, and I think how Little Master and I had better get on down to our town while I still have good shoes that fit me so I can pick up a bigger pair. (What with that Tennessee pawing all over my father, I want to get out of here even faster.)
As we eat, just as silent as usual, I do ask my father something I’ve been wondering. “Is Heron your person name and Beauty your Hoot name or what?”
Jane frowns at me.
“I have no . . . person . . . name.” He says it as if he doesn’t want one. You’d think, of anybody around here, he’d want one most of all. Then he says, “Beauty later,” as if spitting. “Heron . . . was first.”
Here we all eat together at a couple of long tables and benches in a long stone house (there isn’t much wood). You’d think it would be noisy, but it’s quiet except for the children sometimes. I think it’s my father, makes everybody quiet. I think when such a big person stares around and never says anything, it makes everybody not want to talk.
The children eat in an alcove at a smaller table. I’d have to eat there, too, because of my age, but, because of my size, I get to eat with the grownups. Also, my father keeps me next to him. Also, I eat with my Little Master beside me. I have to keep him away from the others, especially the young ones of us. It’s dangerous for him here and he knows it. Everybody wants to leave him out on the mountain without a mount, too far away to crawl back.
I’m glad I don’t have to eat with those young ones. I’m not friends with any of them. On purpose. There isn’t a single other Seattle child there. You can tell right away. Small and smaller, thin and thinner. Except one fat girl might be. I’ve heard the Hoots say that some Seattles have a tendency to fat if they’re not worked properly. If she was down there—home—she’d look like she’s supposed to look.
Little Master and I live with my father and that Tennessee and Sunrise, and one other Sue and Sam couple. Those two are not Seattles and not Tennessees either. I don’t now what they are. They’re probably from those random matings the Hoots warn us about. They’re nothing. Nobody. I only talk to them if I have to.
We have three small rooms and the lean-to where Little Master and I sleep. That lean-to was stuck on after we came. Even though there’s a stone wall between us and the rest of the house, we can hear my father having nightmares. Little Master always comes to hug me when that happens. I’m glad he does.
That Tennessee of my father’s tries to talk to me lots of times, but I walk away. Even if she asked if I wanted ice cream I wouldn’t answer. (They do have some up here. They go higher for ice.) Anyway, I don’t know how to talk to Tennessees. I’ve hardly said a word to a single one in my whole life so far and I don’t think I’ll ever want to.
She calls my father “my dear” right in front of everybody. She’d better not try that with me.
These are supposed to be our kind of houses with our kind of things in them, but my kind of house would have hot-and-cold running water and a heater and refrigerator (not an icebox and a fireplace) and a nice, airy bed and the blankets wouldn’t be heavy and scratchy. Where I’d put my house it wouldn’t be so cold and windy. And in my world everybody would have real shoes.
Besides, I just can’t get used to seeing all of us Sams and Sues walking around with no Hoots on them. They look like half-people.
I’ll be glad t
o get home. Maybe we won’t ever come back. Everything down there can’t be all smashed up. And there’s other towns. Our town wasn’t even a big one.
I tell Little Master to be ready to go pretty soon. I hope the rest of us don’t notice how his ears are up now and swivel back and forth. He’s paying attention and all of a sudden liking everything, even the place, even the food. Makes me wonder why bother going anywhere, just say we’re going to go. Except I know he’d droop again if it didn’t happen. Besides, I want to go as much as he does. I can’t wait to get out of here.
I don’t tell Sunrise about us going. She’s like a mother to me, but I don’t anyway. I give her a big hug. She never likes to get hugged when I have Little Master riding me, but she’s pleased anyway. She says, “What’s that for . . . all of a sudden?”
“Breakfast.
“We should eat more often,” and then, “Oatmeal?” and then, “Charley?”
But we’re halfway out the door already.
“Charley!”
She is suspicious. She waves her potholder at us, irritated. “What was that for?” But she won’t stop us.
One good thing about this place, we have chores, but nobody keeps track of us. Not even my father. He did in the beginning, but not anymore. At first he stayed beside me, not only to protect me and Little Master from the others, but to teach me things about living here. Like now we’ll not be scared to pick all the mountain currants we want on the way down.
The Mount Page 5