by Doyle, Brian
But their silent reverent contemplative moment, these three teenagers, is cracked not by a young sparrow hawk or elk but by the wildest most reckless bicyclist on the entire face of Wy’east, who can suddenly be heard rocketing down the mountain along the river path, getting ever closer and louder. Dave, who knows full well who this is and what it means for anyone in his path, smiles and immediately scoots his bike off the path and into the forest fringe. The instant Dave moves, Martin vanishes back into the forest, so fast and silent that Dave would use the word evanesced later at the dinner table when he told the story, and a man dressed head to toe in the most brilliant orange skin-tight jumpsuit shot past on a brilliant orange mountain bike, going faster than you have ever in your life seen a bicyclist go along a path featuring tree roots, rocks, whiplike branches across the path, stumps and jags of trees, and a shard of old highway drainage pipe just at the edge of town—which, if you did not know about the pipe and you hit it going fast on your bicycle, you would be thrown into the air and come down someplace near Japan, as Dave’s dad says. That Cosmas, added Dave’s dad, is the greatest most accomplished natural genius bike rider in the history of bicycles, but one of these days if he does not slow down he is going to break his neck, which would be a shame, because he’s the nicest guy, and I’d hate to lose him. If ever there was a case where a town would be reduced by far more than one resident if we lost one resident, it’s Cosmas. There’s everything to like about that guy except that he is the wildest most reckless rider anyone ever saw. I wonder what the animals in the woods think of him when he comes rocketing down the mountain all dressed in orange and singing that song or whatever it is that noise he makes. What a nut. Sometimes I think that everyone in Zigzag must have taken a nut test to be able to live in this village. Your mother struggled to pass her nut test, but I passed immediately with flying colors. Isn’t that so, darling?
8
YOU REMEMBER THE GRAY FOX in the tree, a few pages back? The fox that watched silently as the five marten made their way to their new den? The fox that noted that one of the kits seemed ill or indisposed or not quite growing normally and that another of the kits was slightly too adventurous? This fox noticed things like that. If you didn’t learn to notice things like that in the woods, you wouldn’t live very long. You needed to notice patterns and manners of behavior. If you paid attention, you could learn the ways that mice and voles and rabbits liked to travel on subtle paths and trails and roads through the brush. You could learn to smell their roads even through the snow and wait at key points and junctures and pounce at exactly the right time so that you wouldn’t starve. You could learn that birds’ nests were loaded with eggs in April but not in July, except for sparrows, who raised two sets of fledglings per year. You could learn that trying to steal eggs from hawks was in general a poor idea because they could and would and did fight back, and they had talons like razors. You could learn that young crows in June and July will crowd their parents for a while, moaning and gibbering and pleading for food, until they get a little cocky in early August and wander away from their parents far enough for an enterprising fox to pick them off without being battered by attacking parents. You could learn that carrion is delicious except when defended by the animal that caused it, and all of those animals were more than happy to kill and eat a fox if the opportunity presented itself. You could learn that human animals could and did set steel traps for foxes, and if a fox was caught in such a trap, the fox would be struck with a club until it was dead and then carried away to an unimaginable fate.
The gray fox had learned that lesson all too early and all too thoroughly. This was neither bad nor good, sad nor haunting, not for the fox; it was terrifying, yes, and she would never forget the scent of steel, the particular musky flavor of the scent the trapper used to mask his own scent, the scent of his leather boots and gloves in the snow, the scent of coffee that hung infinitesimally around his trails and traps; but all that information and all that terror was filed away inside her somewhere as useful material for survival. She did not wish to wreak vengeance on the trapper, although she had once watched from a snowy thicket as a fisher deliberately fouled and sprang several of the man’s traps along a frozen creek. She wished simply to avoid the trapper and all of his works and things, which she did so thoroughly for so long that among the small cadre of trappers, male and female, on the mountain, there were stories of the fox they called the Rhody ghost, because she had twice been seen near the village of Rhododendron.
Those trappers who set for fox knew her mark, when she ran, she cantered her feet in an unusual style, but only two had ever seen her, one man twice. Oddly, the third sighting was completely on the other side of the mountain from the first two, but as the man who had seen her twice said, sitting by the fire at Miss Moss’s store one afternoon, who knows the ways of foxes? Whatever you are sure of in the woods, don’t be. You can study behavior and pattern all your life and read a thousand books and talk to a thousand biologists and spend a thousand days out there, and on the thousand and first, there’ll be a fox that eats only ducks, or a beaver that’s got his heart set on destroying a highway bridge that just doesn’t meet his aesthetic standards, or a bobcat set on romancing a cougar, despite cultural differences and social bias and the excellent chance of getting eaten. All you can do is pay attention and hope you don’t die. Farming fur is a hell of a way to make a living, and there’s no real living in it, but those of us who do it, do it mostly for money but also for some sort of education, I guess. You learn things you never expected to learn in a million years—such as there is a fox out there who appears to be either a ghost or a genius at avoiding traps and trouble. I have a lot of respect for the fox population generally when it comes to intellect; it’s pretty much a dead heat between people or foxes on the fox’s native ground, but this one has surpassing gifts. You almost don’t want to catch her except that her silver skin is worth a hundred bucks.
What if I gave you a hundred bucks not to catch her? said Miss Moss from behind the counter. She was kneeling down tinkering with something or other, and you couldn’t see her face, but her voice was crisp.
Be tempting, said the trapper. But then you’d be on the hook for all the other animals I wouldn’t catch, not to mention someone else might catch her, not to mention eventually that fox is going to die, and I might as well be the beneficiary of her pelt before it turns to dust in a cave somewhere.
It’s interesting to me, said Miss Moss, emerging suddenly above the counter, how some animal beings on the mountain become famous among human beings, generally for their elusiveness. They are like football running backs no one can easily catch, and so their legends develop.
Also size, said the trapper equably. Bears, for example. Or Louis the elk.
Although I might argue, said Miss Moss, that Louis is famous not because he is big but because everyone wants to shoot him every year, and no one has yet in more years than any of us can easily remember. That animal might be a hundred years old. Though it is entertaining when hunters claim they shot him and they didn’t.
Not so entertaining for the elk they did shoot thinking it was old Louis, said the trapper. But I am not picking on hunters who eat their meat. You have to eat, and you have to feed your kids; that’s the agreement if you have kids—you have to actually take care of them. I have a problem with rack hunters, but who am I to talk, catching and skinning Rocky Raccoon? It’s not like I eat him, after all. Which reminds me, I better get to work. I got a lot of work to do this summer before the season opens. You’d be surprised how little actual trapping a trapper does. Mostly it’s walking and looking. They should call us wookers instead of trappers, or lawkers. You got to do a lot of walking homework in spring and summer before trapping exams in the fall. I thought I was all done with school when I graduated from Zigzag High, but no—still studying for tests all year long. Thanks for the fire, Ginny. My old cold bones feel better here than anywhere, and that’s a fact.
Be safe, be well, driv
e careful, said Miss Moss, and she vanished again behind the counter, to tinker with something or other.
9
DAVE WALKED IN THE FRONT DOOR of the store, noticing that the bell that was supposed to jangle and clang when someone entered was broken. This was exactly the conversational opening he needed, for he was here to boldly ask Miss Moss for a job. His sister Maria said there was no way Miss Moss would be able to afford a helper, didn’t Dave ever notice that Miss Moss was the only employee in Miss Moss’s store? How could someone with no employees hire an employee suddenly? But Dave thought he would ask, and he had armed himself with information that only a sharp eye would gather about Miss Moss’s store and environs: the broken bell; the vast incoherent disorganized welter of things out back that could be organized and categorized and offered for sale; and the fact that Miss Moss had no online presence whatsoever, even though surely the tourists and skiers and hikers and hunters and trappers who stopped at the store for one thing or another would be interested in being informed about products specifically aimed at their expressed interests and/or purchasing histories, to name the first three things that Dave had written down and had clutched in his hand.
But where was Miss Moss?
Right here, she said, once again emerging suddenly from behind the counter and smiling at Dave. What were you looking for this time, Dave? Traps for bears?
No, ma’am, said Dave. This time I am here to propose something.
You’re here to propose to me? I am very honored.
No, ma’am, said Dave, blushing instantly and thoroughly. I am here to propose that you employ me in any capacity whatsoever, and I have several reasons and ideas about why employing me would be a good thing for the store.
I have been proposed to, you know, said Miss Moss. Twice. Well, one and a half times, to be accurate.
Ma’am? said Dave, a little rattled; he had been prepared to launch into his speech, which he had practiced for an hour with Maria, Maria acting as Miss Moss, complete with spectacles and sandals and wry amused tone of voice.
The first time was a little confusing, and I am not quite sure even now if the young man in question was actually proposing or sort of musing about what might possibly happen someday if the stars aligned, said Miss Moss. I think maybe he was talking about how a proposal might happen rather than actually proposing. It was very confusing. You’d have to count that as a half proposal at best.
Yes, ma’am, said Dave.
Whereas the second time was a legitimate and honest proposal, and made while he was kneeling too, which was impressive, said Miss Moss. An excellent proposal. The best I ever received, no question. A really memorable proposal. My favorite ever.
Did you say yes? asked Dave.
Well, now, Dave, what exactly were your reasons and ideas for employment here?
But her swift shift of gears caught Dave by surprise, and for a moment he was silent, trying to replace the thought of Miss Moss being proposed to with the coherent and persuasive speech he had memorized.
Dave?
Ma’am. Well, ma’am, there are several areas to discuss. One is what the store needs right now to get up to its best speed. The second is what the store could use to open new commercial vistas. The third is the character and responsibility of the candidate for employment.
Vistas?
Yes, ma’am.
Vistas.
Vistas, yes, ma’am. Areas of possible lucrative trade and income growth.
Dave, are you sure you are fourteen? Did you go to college already and not tell anyone?
Almost fifteen, ma’am. Heading to the Zag in September.
Hmm.
Let’s look at each area in order. Right now, it seems to me that the store is efficiently run but not perhaps sufficiently staffed. It could be that the staff, because she has to do every aspect of running the store, is weary and cannot do more that needs to be done.
Good point, said Miss Moss. Such as?
Repair the bell over the door, said Dave. Computerize inventory and organize storage. Create and execute advertising and marketing plan. Establish social media presence. Research and execute online sales. Do something about the backyard. Research possibility of expanding hot food sales beyond soup and coffee. Other repairs and renovation as needed.
Persuasive, admirably detailed, and slightly embarrassing to hear, said Miss Moss. Excellent points. And the third area? The character of the applicant?
Honest and ready to work any hours possible, starting today, said Dave, mentally thanking Maria for that last touch. Starting today, that’ll sound impressive, Maria had said, and she was right—it did sound impressive.
References?
Ma’am?
Character references. Anyone able to attest to your character?
Yes, ma’am. My parents. My teachers.
Maria?
Ma’am?
Your sister will attest that you are kind, honest, generous, diligent, steadfast, reverent, thoughtful, responsible, energetic, self-sufficient, creative, and good at heart?
I think so, Miss Moss, said Dave. I think she would. I’m sure she would.
Then you’re hired, said Miss Moss. Anyone whose kid sister thinks the world of him can work here anytime. Welcome to the staff.
Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.
Eight bucks an hour to start, raised to ten in a month if you earn it?
Yes, ma’am. Very fair, ma’am.
Can you really start today?
Yes, ma’am.
Start with that damned bell, said Miss Moss, smiling. I have fixed that bell ten times, and obviously we need an expert on that project. Then go around and make a list of everything you see that needs repair, and we will prioritize. Give me four hours today, and then go home. Thank your sister for her character reference.
I’ll do that, ma’am. And thanks, ma’am.
Good to have you on staff, Dave. I’ve never had a staff before. At the moment, you are the finest staffer I’ve ever had. Stay in that exalted state.
Yes, ma’am, said Dave, and he suddenly had a powerful urge to ask Miss Moss about the marriage proposal again, but somehow he knew this wasn’t the moment. He went to fix the bell.
10
THE BEARS ON WY’EAST had many centuries ago quartered the mountain according to mysterious clan and tribal lines, and the rare battles between and among them were all occasioned by flouting of the lines; and every bear knew the ancient stories of arrogant young muscled bears who went deep into a forbidden territory and did not return, their bones scattered across the mountainside for all to see. And there were darker old stories too of wars between bears and cougars, for example, an enmity nearly as old as the mountain itself, or between bears and wolverines, despite the eerie similarity of their furious strengths, their capacities for a sort of grim rage few other animals knew or desired. Indeed, among the marten and the other members of the mustelid clan, there was at most a cold respect for the biggest of their tribe and no affection whatsoever. While the fisher, for example, could lose its temper when its kits were threatened or attacked, it did not and would not muster the savage, utter destruction of a bear or wolverine in full and uncontrolled rampage; the fisher preferred a sudden, swift violence and then a swifter disappearance so that there were hunting dogs, for example, who leapt after a hissing fisher and never knew the manner or incredible rapidity of the blow that caused their death, a terribly fast slicing of the jugular and instant retreat so that the dog found itself suddenly gushing out its life in the snow, a great weariness arriving like a tide.
But the marten, like the otter, fought rarely if at all, seeing no need for it except to assert territory or fend off danger to its kits, and the tools of battle rusted all the more because the marten was graced and given such astounding physical tools. It was the fastest and surest of all animals in trees and canopies, able and thrilled to rocket through the branches faster and more accurately than even the wood hawks who could arrow like small feathered jets thro
ugh thickets, spinning and turning as necessary with an exquisite timing no human athlete could even imagine. And they were a muscular race, the marten—for all that they weighed less than ten pounds; they had steel chests and a boundless endurance that together spelled doom for all but the luckiest headlong squirrel or sprinting rabbit. Claws of razor wire, teeth like tiny daggers, the ability to hear a snapped twig from a thousand feet away, vision equally sharp day or night, and a coat of the thickest warmest glossiest waterproof fur, it was as if Time, who designs all beings and whittles them to their absolute essence, had decided to build the most perfect small mammalian hunting machine, mixing a bit of bear and lynx and hawk together into a small dose of cheerful, efficient predation, giving it the wildest wilderness for home and making its enemies few, relentless though they be—the hawk and eagle to pluck up wriggling kits, the coyote and lynx and fox to cull the old and slow adults, and most of all man, who did not even eat those he killed but stole their skins to make coats for himself, because he did not have his own fur or enough hair to keep him warm against the wind.