Going to the Sun

by Jean Craighead George

  “Oh, no!” cried Melissa. “They’ve driven him off. Why don’t they help him?”

  “Because now he’s alone. With no one to protect him the society of the goats will test him. Dr. Wing said only the physically and socially fit survive.”

  “I hope he passes the test,” said Melissa.

  Late that night the wind shifted and swept down from

  Tent Glacier. Melissa awakened Marcus, for on the gale came the plaintive voice of Remus.

  She slipped her arms around Marcus and pressed her head against his chest.

  “Poor baby,” she said.

  7

  REMUS

  The following afternoon, as Marcus came up the goat’s trail with the supplies that had been cached behind the cairn at the far end of the lake, he glanced up at the Jaw. The snow was melting fast and the peak looked like some dark Cambodian temple. Between layers of white quartzite, the frost ten million years ago had carved the green mudstone into huge jagged statues. Over them poured silver cords of water that splashed into the bowl, formed a torrent, and cascaded past Melissa’s Meadow. The torrent spilled over the cliff and into Sky Lake. Marcus marveled at the dramatic change in his wild homeland. The sun had transformed it from white to black and crystal in a few weeks.

  As he watched, the mountain goats silently, as if on orders, appeared on the rim of the bowl. They picked their way along the skyline.

  Then one by one, the goats on the north rim turned and leaped downward. Each paused on the same pinnacle, then dropped to the next. The leader walked to the top of the saddle and waited for his five to assemble. Then all trotted in unison down toward the meadow.

  On the south rim, a group of three goats filed down from Tent Glacier. They kept a steady undulating pace, down dikes, along ancient fractures, until they joined the first group.

  The last cluster, a group of four, came straight down from the center of the bowl.

  “Now what are you up to?” Marcus asked the goats, but mostly himself. He recalled Dr. Wing’s interpreting behavior and he decided that they were coming together for safety. A flock of birds had more eyes to find food and see enemies than a solitary one, so the goats must be flocking for some such reason. He raced over the rocks, up the cliff face and on to the pass. Puffing up the now snowless goat trail, he saw that they were assembled in Melissa’s Meadow.

  “This is significant,” he said and crept through the windbreak to the tent. Melissa was boiling the chokecherries as she brewed dye for marking the goats. Breathlessly he described the pageant. “What do you suppose they’re doing?” he asked.

  “Licking salt,” she answered. “I put salt out so we could mark them.”

  “Is that all?” He laughed at himself for making so much of the drama. He knew so much and so little. “When?”

  “Just after you left this morning.”

  “This morning? So soon? How do they know it’s here? Who told them?”

  “Ignatius says that goats are like Indians,” Melissa said. “They have a sort of long-distance smoke signals, but not smoke—some other method of communication, something mysterious.”

  “I believe that,” he said and scratched his head, “but I figure goats have walkie-talkies. How else could they communicate from such great distances?”

  Marcus unloaded the supplies, picked up his notebook and binoculars, and crept into the meadow on his hands and knees. Melissa followed him with the bucket of dye. They squatted under the windbreak.

  Twelve goats had assembled—and one was Old Gore. Marcus’s heart leaped. He had not seen the monarch at such close range before. The goat held his head regally high as he strode among his herd. His legs were like stone pillars, his chest was a massive boulder and his new fur of summer was a blinding white. Marcus’s trigger finger moved at the sight of him. The goat pulled himself up the rocks with his front legs. He did not push up. Consequently, his shoulders were huge and his hocks shortened to give leverage.

  “Imagine shooting him,” Melissa said in disgust. Marcus glanced at her furtively.

  “Yeah,” he murmured, then looked up at Old Gore. The white beast was looking at him. For an instant their eyes met, and Marcus grew chill. An instinctive intelligence shone from those eyes and, with a flash of insight, Marcus felt a meeting of spirits. Then the goat looked away and the sensation passed. Millions of years of evolution separated them. Marcus was the predator. Old Gore was the prey. No aggressive movements from Marcus told the goat to flee. He turned and licked salt.

  Molly and Jason capered across the bright flower garden to meet Old Gore. He lifted his head and let Molly climb to his side, but when little Jason scrambled toward him, he turned and charged him. At that, Molly rushed Old Gore and he jumped off the rock. Marcus was astounded; Molly seemed to have a higher rank than the massive billy. He would leave when she threatened.

  Helen, Romulus, and a new nanny with a yearling gathered below the two on the rock. Marcus thought the new nanny might be the one he had seen yesterday, below Tent Glacier. He would be glad when they were all marked and he could call them by name and be sure of their comings and goings.

  Suddenly the motherless Remus appeared, his one ear bent slightly to the side. He splashed across a rivulet and ran up to the new nanny. He cried piteously and sought the protection of her legs, but she charged and drove him away. Her yearling, seeing Remus flee, became brave and ran after the turn-tail. Helen and Romulus joined the chase for a few yards.

  Remus retreated into the boulders below Tent Glacier and, bawling pitifully, lay down in a barren saucer, a lonely rejected orphan. He dropped his head, and a tuft of fur twisted off his shoulder and was wafted toward the sun.

  Molly watched Jason lick salt for a few moments, then gracefully leaped down and led him off to shelter in the windbreak. Old Gore assumed his position on the rock.

  “Looks like the nannies run things up here,” Marcus said.

  “Now why is that?” Melissa asked thoughtfully. “Why are the billies always fighting the kids so that the nannies have to protect them? Seems like everyone would try to help a little baby.”

  For the next hour the goats sparred for the salt and then, around four o’clock, according to their own custom, they lay down to chew their cuds. Marcus decided it was time to mark them.

  He picked up the bucket and the willow brush, and, rising slowly, walked into the meadow. He rocked back and forth as he approached the unknown nanny. She got up and stepped aside. He moved toward Helen. She rose and trotted just out of reach. He sidled up to another nanny, and as he did so, Old Gore loped down off the rock and glided up to him. His eyes were bright and his horns were aimed at his groin. Marcus backed quickly into the windbreak.

  “Well, that proves goats attack people,” he said to Melissa.

  “It proves nothing. You stalk like a hunter and that makes him attack you.”

  “Nonsense,” Marcus snapped. “You try it. He’s nasty.”

  Melissa took the brush and pot and slowly walked up to Old Gore. He chewed his cud calmly as she put a single dot on one side of him. Then she walked around to put a dot on the other side, thanked him and skipped back to Marcus.

  “There,” she said. “Number One, Old Gore, king of the mountain.” Marcus shook his head.

  “Doesn’t mean I’m a hunter. It means he likes nanny goats. Here, give me the pot.” He walked toward a yearling; the animal skittered and ran into the rocks. Lunging forward now, Marcus went after the unknown nanny. She glided off. He pressed his lips together in admission of defeat and returned to Melissa.

  “It’s because you’re prettier, that’s all,” he said and handed her the bucket and the brush. “You mark. I’ll write down the dots and names.”

  Melissa picked up the pot and walked softly up to Helen. She put four bright purple dots on her.

  “Great,” Marcus whispered. “Now put two dots on Romulus.”

  Within the hour she had marked all that had come to the meadow, using the code dots they had
worked out the night before.

  “Now to find the rest of the herd and mark them,” Marcus said, puffing up with a sense of achievement. “Dad said there’re at least a hundred on the Jaw. Soon we’ll have an accurate count.”

  He scanned the high rocks and tors for white, warm spots on the black, cold background. “At last,” he said, “we’re on our way, scientifically.”

  Melissa looked at the chart. “We need a name for dot two dots,” she said, “and for the new nanny and yearling, and the two three-year-old billies.” She thought a minute and then wrote down beside the identification dots: three-year-old nanny, Cassiopeia, the young queen who sits among the constellations on a chair.

  “Call the new nanny Medusa,” said Marcus. “She has straggly old shedding fur.”

  “And the three-year-old billies?” asked Melissa.

  “Orion and Perseus,” said Marcus.

  “And Cassiopeia’s yearling?”

  “Oh, let’s call him Paul to be different.”

  The next day, Marcus took the name and code chart back to the meadow and sat down. Melissa joined him. The markings had an incredible effect. Slowly the goats became personalities before their eyes, each individual distinct and different from all others.

  “Cassiopeia’s afraid of Molly,” said Melissa after a long silence. “But she charges Old Gore and Roman Nose.”

  “The most violent nannies,” said Marcus, “are the nannies with yearlings and kids. They protect them from those butting billies.”

  “I still want to know why the billies butt yearlings and kids.” Melissa watched carefully.

  Jason was suddenly possessed with spirit. He flipped, leaped into the air and war-danced on a last spot of slush. Bucking, rippling, he humped and popped. Down from a nearby rock came Old Gore. He charged Jason, head down, and was stopped just short of striking him by Molly.

  She charged, and Old Gore turned and trotted away.

  “Now why would he do that?” asked Marcus. “Why does that great big goat charge that little tiny kid? Most adults protect the young.”

  “There must be a reason,” said Melissa. “He doesn’t strike little kids for fun.”

  “He’s not competing with them for food like the buck deer,” said Marcus, “because he lets them eat. Something else is operating here.”

  About three hours later most of the goats wandered into the windbreak, bedded down in their saucers and began to chew their cuds. Marcus watched. Old Gore was at the edge of the meadow, the sun shining on his alabaster coat. Stooping low, Marcus crept toward him.

  Old Gore spun around and charged. There was no tree to climb, no place to run that the goat could not manage more agilely than Marcus. Terrified, Marcus remembered what his father had done when a moose charged him—waited until the animal was almost upon him, then dodged. He waited. Old Gore rushed; Marcus jumped nimbly aside. The goat ran on up the meadow, and, without waiting another second, Marcus crashed through the windbreak and into camp.

  “Christ!” he said to Melissa, wide-eyed, breathless. “He charged me again.”

  She shook her finger at him. “Marcus, you look just like a sneaky hunter when you even think of Old Gore.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “But, I think—well—” He took her hand. “You know, the night Will died Ignatius prayed to Old Gore to release Will’s spirit and send it to the sun. Maybe Will’s spirit is in Old Gore. Maybe that’s why he hates me.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said. “Ignatius loves his old legends. Old Gore can read you like a book. Generations of goats before him have lived because they could read the likes of you. You’re a hunter.” She went back to her plants.

  “Are we going to argue again?” he snapped.

  “As long as you covet that goat,” Melissa said. “Will’s not inside him. You just want an excuse to shoot him.”

  Marcus turned his back on her and went into the tent to fix dinner.

  They ate in silence. Then Melissa returned to her work counting and identifying grasses and forbs. Marcus picked up a habitat chart, walked out across the meadow and climbed the saddle. The goats were spread out, a billy here and a couple of nannies and yearlings there, an isolated three-year-old on a ledge or sill. He carefully recorded all this.

  Presently, in the distance, he saw a single purple dot. It shone out across the barren rocks as it moved toward the chimney on the Jaw.

  “Old Gore,” he whispered. “What’ve you got up there? More nannies and kids? Are you hiding them? I’m coming up to see at dawn.”

  Melissa was watching the sun setting over Idaho when he got back to the tent. She was still silent. He sat down behind her and rested his forehead on the back of her neck.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned Will. Is that the trouble? Do you miss him?” he asked huskily.

  “I miss him, but not the way you think. Once he gave me a loaded gun to clean.” She wiped pin-point beads of sweat from her forehead. “I’m just glad that he didn’t take anyone with him when he went.” She watched the clouds form herds of pink sheep on the horizon. Marcus let a sigh flow out of his throat. She had feared Will, not loved him at all.

  “Marcus,” she said, her anger finally gone, “this week the goats shifted from grass to flowers and forbs. The grasses are now growing rapidly.” She handed him her chart. He studied it for a long time, for he saw the undeniable truth, but he could not quite say so.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to climb the Jaw,” he said. “I’m going to see where the other goats are—the nannies with kids—the surplus.” He looked at Melissa’s work again. Could his father be wrong? Could Dr. Wing, Dr. Errington have made a mistake? He glanced at the grasses at his feet. Goats had grazed the ledge and Melissa’s Meadow for weeks; and yet they were as green and beautiful as a botanical garden. Marmots played in the grass, birds nested by the rivulets, insects buzzed over the ledge and garden, for the goat-mown garden was healthy and rich with life. But his father must be right. There must be a surplus to crop. Goats left unhunted must eat themselves out of house and home.

  The next morning Marcus awoke to hear Remus bleating in the high rocks. His cry sounded less piercing and so Marcus crawled out of the tent to see why. The voice had come from the side of the bowl near Tent Glacier. Marcus pulled on his boots. He grabbed a cold potato cake and trotted off.

  Half way to the glacier a ptarmigan approached him and walked silently by his side. She was not alarmed by his presence, for this grouse of the mountain top rarely saw people. She had a brood patch, a bare spot on her breast that kept eggs warm and meant she was incubating eggs. Marcus wondered why she was not on her nest, for the air was chilly.

  A few feet higher he found the nest on the bare, gravelly rocks. The eggs were cold. They would never hatch. He wondered why she had deserted them.

  When he stopped to rest, the answer fluttered all around him. The ptarmigans were so abundant on the rocks that he could almost reach out and grab them. He found other deserted nests, and the pheasants on the North Fork came back to mind. They, too, deserted their nests—when there were too many for the land to support. “Errington’s law of compensation—it does work,” he said as he watched the friendly birds walk, stop and stare. A raven circled overhead and Marcus knew the eggs would not be there long. The great corvine of the wilderness spotted the food, cried “caw” and dropped down on the rocks.

  As Marcus climbed he thought about the death of Twisted Horn. One goat had died and two had replaced it—Jason and Remus—but now it seemed Remus would die too. He was an outcast. “So where’s the surplus?” he asked himself. “Must be on the other side of the Jaw.” His father was too knowledgeable to make a mistake about surpluses.

  Marcus found Remus under a warm ledge. When the kid saw him, he raced out on the ice, rippled from years of snow being laid down like rings on a tree. Remus cavorted. He had so much vitality that Marcus marveled. Only yesterday he had been weak and frightened, driven into the rocks
where no grass grew to give him strength.

  Marcus was about to go home when an unmarked nanny caught his eye. She backed away, bleated, and Remus ran to her. He butted her teats and suckled. Marcus gasped.

  “Remus!” he cried joyfully. “You’ve found yourself a step-mother!” He looked at the nanny affectionately. She waggled her ears but did not move away. “Did you lose your kid?” he asked. “Is that why you can nurse Remus?” The nanny bucked her head and nuzzled the kid.

  Marcus salted a rock at his feet. He took out the bottle of dye and the brush. Gingerly the unmarked goat came toward the salt. Remus sniffed Marcus, then waggled his tail in recognition. His new mother gained courage and walked up to the mineral, within Marcus’s reach, and he painted three dots on her. “At last, I’ve painted one,” he said. “You’re Andromeda, after the goddess of the rocks.” Then he opened his code book. “Fifteen goats,” he said, “Minus two—Twisted Horn and your kid, Andromeda.”

  Marcus climbed down to the meadow. The sun was shining on the patches of bright blue penstemons that bloomed by the tent door. Melissa was playing with Jason. She was down on all fours, bucking and laughing as the kid war-danced around her. Marcus watched with awe. Melissa, indeed, had magic communications with the goats.

  “Guess what?” he called.

  “What?”

  “Remus has been adopted.” Melissa clapped, jumped to her feet and ran to meet him.

  “That’s just lovely,” she said. “Goats adopt orphans. I love it, don’t you?” He nodded. He did love it, very much.

  The sun went down like a celebration that evening, and Melissa and Marcus chatted as they watched it from the edge of the cliff. Flaming clouds fountained up from the sun; distant lakes turned emerald green.

  Melissa was talkative and more affectionate than she had been in days. Did she sense that Andromeda had gotten to his guts? Had she noticed that he had approached Old Gore without stalking? Had she seen the ease in Roman Nose when he had walked past him? He studied his sensitive wife. She was smiling as she hugged her knees and looked out across Sky Lake to the dragon-back spires of the Missions.