Going to the Sun

by Jean Craighead George

  “I still can’t see the wisdom of a billy chasing a young thing,” he said to himself. “Old Gore needs every animal in his herd. Doesn’t some inner sense tell him this?”

  Again he thought of Dr. Wing and the deer in the valley. The old bucks, he recalled, drove the fawns from food and therefore had to be hunted and killed. Perhaps Old Gore had outlived his time and should be shot too. But Marcus could not quite believe it.

  More likely, he wrote, he’s testing for the strongest and best. This must be survival of the fittest I’m seeing. Marcus scratched his head. “But why? Remus was strong and healthy...when he had a nanny.”

  Orion stood on one boulder, Old Gore on another. From a distance they watched the meadows where their herd grazed and slept in the sun. No one was near the grass ledge.

  Remus peered out from his crack, checked on the whereabouts of both billies, then dashed to the grass. He cropped so swiftly it seemed his mouth would blister. Old Gore threatened and he ran back to cover.

  That night Marcus described for Melissa the battle for survival that Remus was waging up in the crags. “If he lives,” he said, “he’ll be a tough billy goat. Maybe that’s what’s going on...the making of a tough, strong goat.”

  The following morning Marcus started off early to find Remus. He shoved through the windbreak and crossed the meadow. Buttercups danced at his feet, scarlet giglia and star flowers speckled his lawn. A familiar bleat startled him and he was astounded to see Remus in the meadow.

  “Hey,” he called. “How did you manage this?”

  Molly moved toward the rivulet, Jason moved toward the rivulet and Remus moved toward the rivulet. Molly turned to butt him, but could not. Remus stuck so close to Jason she could not strike without striking her son. The desperate kid had made himself Jason’s shadow. Remus stepped when Jason stepped, he sat when Jason sat, and he kept Jason between himself and Molly at all times. He grazed when she was not looking. Marcus ran to the tent.

  “Melissa,” he cried. “Remus is unbelievable. He’s adopted Jason, and through Jason he’s got a new step-mother once removed—Molly. She won’t butt him as long as he’s so close to her kid.”

  Melissa put on her clothes, ran out into the sun and climbed the big boulder beside the tent. Peering over the windbreak she watched Molly, Jason and Remus move like one goat over the grass, up the rocks, through the flowers.

  “No one can ever tell me the animals are dumb,” she said, hugging Marcus.

  About a week later, a storm brewed below Eight-Mile Pass and rushed up the valley toward the meadow. It was black and full of lightning and fury. Marcus and Melissa ran into the tent and listened as the storm grew and rumbled.

  “I’m going to see what Remus and Molly and Jason will do in this,” Marcus said, pulled on his poncho and went out into the wind. Molly was running up the face of the bowl.

  Behind her trotted Jason and behind Jason ran Remus. Molly charged Remus once, then hurried on. The wind picked up dry leaves and grass and whirled them over the meadow. Head down, Molly crawled under a high overhang and Jason followed her. There was no room for Remus. Lightning leaped off the peaks and arced across the ravines. The storm clouds blackened; then the rain poured down. Remus stood in the cold deluge, bleating pitifully. Once he tried to push under the ledge, but now Molly could butt him without hitting Jason. She bucked and threatened, and Remus backed away. Marcus saw him climb up into the cloud and disappear, his wool gray with water.

  He crept back to the tent sorrowfully. “Molly’s driven Remus up to the billies,” he said. “I guess they will drive him into the wind zone again.”

  “He should have come to our ledge,” Melissa said.

  “Helen and Medusa and their yearlings are bedded down under the overhang. They’re cozy and dry and there’s space for Remus.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know it’s there. Maybe Twisted Horn and Andromeda never showed it to him. Seems a little kid has to learn the niches and cracks of the mountain just like we learn to read and write.”

  The next day Marcus found Remus by the waterfall again. He had lost his position close to Jason and could not regain it. Molly had charged him before he could get near enough to be safe. And so, once more, Remus was watching Orion, waiting for him to desert his grass ledge. Orion rubbed his horns on the grass. A musk spewed out from the glands at the rear of the horns, and Remus ran off. The spume was a message of power and status, of the coming of the rut, and it was more effective than bleats, butts and charges. “I am I,” it said. The little goat trembled.

  Far away Cassiopeia scented the spume and turned toward the silent call. To her the reeking symbol, the smoke signal of the goats, was contact, not rejection.

  Remus climbed into the raw, stone wilderness and lay down in the wind’s territory.

  With a pang of sorrow, Marcus took out his notebook and wrote: Remus is an outcast again. I wish Melissa had planted her grass seeds. We could drive Remus to the other side of the Jaw and he could live there. But maybe aloneness is worse than lichens.

  The next two weeks saw a change on the mountain. The gentians of August were replaced by the tiny alpine goldenrods of September. Occasional snow flurries whitened the peak of the Jaw, and the rivulets froze in the night and melted during the day.

  The change made Marcus restless; the hunting season was approaching and he was worried about his role in the scheme of things. Melissa watched him, suspicious of every move.

  She spoke to him tersely and there were long hours when she climbed up into the rocks and played with Jason. Often she spoke about college and becoming a plant physiologist like Aunt Jerome, and Marcus would become nervous. One day he shouted at her: “What am I going to do when you’re in college?” But she did not answer.

  Two days before September 15, the opening day, Marcus awakened before dawn and crept out of the tent. He paced the ledge in the cool air. His goat permit still rested in his pocket. His father had gone to a great deal of trouble to secure it. He wanted Marcus to get Old Gore. He wanted Marcus to find where the herd dwelled so that he could take his hunters to them and recover the Kulicks’ losses. Marcus, frustrated now and confused, kicked a stone off the cliff. In the mist he could see Paul and Medusa, Helen and Romulus. They were goat-persons. He could not possibly shoot them nor lead his father to them.

  Just what did he owe his father? He dug his nails into the palms of his hands and cursed his torn loyalties.

  A flock of ravens had gathered above the Jaw. Ravens were both predator and scavenger. What role were they playing this morning, Marcus asked himself, although deep in his guts he knew. He crept into the tent.

  “Melissa,” he said, shaking her gently. “Get your grass seeds. We’re going to the north side of the Jaw today.”

  A few minutes later they were out in the alpine light, moving swiftly along the saddle, then up the wall of the bowl. They clambered out on the ledge and jogged to the base of the chimney. With locked fingers Marcus boosted Melissa into the narrow flume. She placed her hands and feet on the sides and shinnied up with ease and grace. No longer amazed by his nimble wife, Marcus climbed after her.

  At the top of the Jaw they rolled on the slab and lay low. The wind was whipping across the peak and screaming evilly. Presently Marcus saw that the ravens were dropping into a ravine. He noted their position, edged over a boulder, down a slope, and slid to a crevasse on the north face. Melissa scrambled along behind him until they reached the edge of the ravine. There they looked down on Remus.

  “He didn’t make it.” Marcus sat down. “Twelve goats on the Jaw.” Melissa was crying, her tears making rivulets down her dusty cheeks. He put his arm around her. “There’s some scheme here we cannot see. But we will and then other goats will live.”

  A damp wind struck the hot rocks they sat upon and turned into vapor. A cloud was born. It billowed, thickened and wiped out the vistas and valleys. Afraid to move for fear of falling, Marcus held Melissa and waited for the sun to burn away the cloud.


  “The Jaw’s crying too,” Melissa said.

  The cloud thickened and the wind whistled through the pinnacles of rock, chipped by frost when the peaks of the Missions stood above the primordial glacier ten million years ago.

  “At last I know,” Marcus said quietly. “I know why we can’t shoot goats.”

  “Why?” Melissa whispered.

  “Because kids need nannies for a long time. They need them not only to protect and nurse them when very young, but to teach them about the mountains. It’s dangerous up here and it takes a long time to learn the avalanche trails, the shelters and the firm rocks that won’t break and send goats to their deaths.

  “And so, when a hunter shoots a nanny with a kid, which they often do because nannies look like the billies, they shoot two goats, not one. That’s why goat populations drop so fast and suddenly.”

  The cloud thinned and the sun sparkled on the ancient sea sand in the mudstone layers. “And that’s why we can’t transplant them to new regions,” he went on. “Goats must have a wise resident to teach them the dangers of the mountain, and show them to shelter and where the grasses and forbs grow.”

  Melissa, her head against Marcus, watched the cloud rise and reveal the lumberers’ raw slash on the Jaw. “I was going to help Remus by replanting the old ledges for him,” she said.

  “It’s never too late to start mending a mountain,” Marcus said. “You can help the other goats.” Melissa smiled, picked up her seed bag and jumped down to a goat trail. She hurried around boulders and slabs to a ravaged ledge. Marcus could hear her singing as she sowed her tiny seeds.

  A clatter of hoofs sounded behind and above Marcus. He looked up at Old Gore. Marcus had not seen him since the last week of August. The cold September nights had started the growth of his winter wool, and he was huge and yak-like in this winter raiment. His beard was full and impressive. It reached almost to his knees. The king of the Jaw lowered his head and threatened. Swiftly Marcus put a boulder between them.

  “I’m leaving, Old Gore,” he said. “I’m going down to stop the hunting of you goat-persons. So stop butting me.” He shook his fist at the mountain beast, and Old Gore lifted his head and sniffed the cool air. Migrating swallows wheeled and turned behind his white head, and the cold-weather clouds of autumn clustered like snowflakes high above him. The wind filed at the lichens at his feet.

  “I’m going down to help you,” he said. The goat sat down on his haunches. He seemed truly human with his long white face and flat broad shoulders. Marcus thought of Will. Was he behind those beady eyes?

  Suddenly he had to know. He had to be rid of his haunting doubt once and for all.

  “Will?” he whispered hoarsely.

  The split black lips curled open. “Marcus,” the goat called. Marcus slipped and grabbed the rocks. The sweat ran from his pores and he felt faint.

  “Marcus,” the voice said again, and he turned to see Ignatius step around the rock.

  “Holy God!” said Marcus. “Am I glad to see you. I thought Old Gore was calling my name. I’m getting high-altitude fever.” He laughed nervously and glanced back at the white king to make sure there was no one inside him.

  “I bring news from the valley,” Ignatius said. Marcus wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and, trembling visibly, sat down to listen.

  “News from the valley,” Ignatius repeated, aware that Marcus was not listening to him.

  “Oh, the valley,” he said. “I had forgotten the valley.” Hungry Bear with its fights and feuds and miseries came roaring back to mind.

  “What news?” he snapped, angry at being reminded of home.

  “Melissa’s father has heard rumors about her being with you,” Ignatius said. “He’s coming up to the Chalet to make sure she is not.”

  Marcus got to his feet and brushed the rock dust from his pants. “I’ll go meet him,” he said. “I’ll tell him we’re married.”

  “No, no.” Ignatius shook his head so violently that his braids whirled. “When he heard that you and Melissa were probably together, he asked Sheriff Burnes to arrest you for murder. Now he’s angry. There was never anything but your confession and now he wants to bring you to trial. He’ll try to put you in jail if you show up.”

  Marcus clutched the rock. He had not thought of such a terrible possibility, since his father had reassured him he would not go to jail. Now, he realized, his deepest fears could come true.

  “Aunt Jerome,” Ignatius went on, “wants Melissa to come down and be at the Chalet alone when her father comes. He will see she’s not with you, be satisfied and go home.”

  The plan did not seem right to Marcus. “We’ll pack up and move on north,” he said as his head cleared and he saw what they must do. “She can’t go back. She’s not a kid anymore.”

  “But you cannot leave the Jaw,” Ignatius said, his eyebrows meeting in threat.

  “Why not?” Marcus asked nervously.

  “The white goat king,” he answered. “You cannot leave until he is dead. You must shoot him and release the spirit to the sun.”

  “Why don’t you do it?” Marcus snapped.

  “A Blackfoot doesn’t kill goats. You are the one to release the spirit.”

  “Aw, come on, Ignatius,” Marcus said angrily. “That’s not true. Will’s not Old Gore. I don’t want to hear any more about it.” His eyes flashed angrily. But then he thought of something. “I do have one job I must do.” Ignatius stepped toward him, anticipation on his face.

  “My father can’t bring his hunters up here. I’m going down to tell him he can’t hunt goats.”

  Ignatius grasped his hand triumphantly. “That’s good. That’s good. You have learned well. All goats must live...all but one.” Marcus pulled his hand away and glared at the lean bronzy man.

  “No!” he shouted.

  “You’ll see,” Ignatius said. “You’ll kill him yet.”

  Overhearing their conversation, Melissa scrambled to the foot of the boulder. “You’d better not,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “I’d never be able to live with you again. If you as much as chase him, I’ll leave.” Marcus knew she meant it.

  He pulled her up and into his arms, and held her as Ignatius repeated the news from the valley and the instructions from Aunt Jerome.

  “I’m going down and tell your father we’re married, Melissa,” Marcus said.

  “No, no. Let me tell him. I can convince him to give us his blessing. I know I can.”

  “Melissa,” Marcus said softly, quietly. “I’ve got a better plan. We’re going to pack up and get out of here. We’re going to Canada.”

  “Give me a day with my father,” she pleaded. “I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise.”

  “You need that much time too, Marcus,” Ignatius said.

  “What for?” asked Melissa.

  “I need time to go to the valley and tell my father he can’t bring his hunters up here.”

  With a joyful cry Melissa hopped from one foot to the next. “Oh, Marcus! Come on, then. Let’s hurry; we both have jobs to do.”

  When they got back to the tent, Melissa packed swiftly, shouldered her load and stepped out the door.

  “Why are you taking all your stuff?” Marcus asked in sudden fear.

  “To be convincing. I’d better look like a permanent resident, not a visitor.”

  “I guess so,” Marcus said slowly. Melissa turned to Ignatius.

  “What time will Father arrive?” she asked.

  “On the afternoon pack train, probably about five.”

  She squinted at the sun. “Two hours to go. We can make it if we run.” She blew a kiss to Marcus and trotted down the goat trail.

  “Melissa, don’t go!” Marcus yelled sharply. “Not even the goats are worth our being separated.”

  “I’ll be back,” she called. “Get to your dad. There’s only one and a half days before the season opens.” Despite her pack she ran lightly among the rocks and flowers.

  “You’re
Mrs. Kulick now,” Marcus cried. “Don’t go.”

  But Melissa had disappeared. He picked up his pack with a sense of foreboding, collected his maps and notes and carefully put Melissa’s plant study in his shirt. If anything would convince his father that the goats should not be shot because they did not eat themselves out of house and home, it would be this careful and very scientific study Melissa had compiled. The Research Center would be proud to publish this, he realized. Melissa could probably get into Harvard or Yale or Stanford on the basis of this work alone.

  Marcus walked up the saddle, scaled the falls, wedged his way up the chimney and returned to the top of the Jaw. Then he leaped down the north side. He jumped brooks, slid down snowfields, crossed chasms, trotting swiftly so that the fear he felt about Melissa’s going home would not send him bolting to the Chalet to snatch her.

  Three hours later he reached Hardpan Highway and hailed the first car that came by.

  “Hungry Bear, please,” he said.

  10

  THE ROAD

  The setting sun made gold circles on the river as Marcus slowly approached his house. He yanked open the kitchen door. No one was there. He went into the living hall and found his father pulling off his shoes as he sat before the fire. He was a small figure in the big hall, walled with the glassy-eyed bison, elk and moose.

  “Hi, Dad,” Marcus said.

  Ed Kulick looked up in surprise. “Hey, Marcus! Well— it’s good to see you. I was just coming up to find you. My three hunters are at the Hungry Bear Hotel, waiting for the sun to rise the day after tomorrow.” Marcus’s father got to his feet and picked up a rifle from the gun rack.

  “Where’s the big goat?” he asked. “Let’s see your maps.”

  “Dad, you can’t hunt goats,” Marcus said with a firm voice.

  His father stared at him, then threw back his head and laughed.