Going to the Sun

by Jean Craighead George

  “Molly,” Marcus whispered. “They’ve shot Molly.” He dropped his head in his hands, cursed and berated his father. Finally he called softly to Jason. The kid, terrified, even at the sound of a familiar voice, sprinted off toward Small Glacier. He stumbled, bleated, wedged into a lichen-covered crevasse and hid.

  Marcus thought of Melissa. He wanted to cry, but the knowledge of two more permits in that hunting party stifled his grief. He crept into a crack in the rocks and waited for the shots that would seal the fate of the goats of the Jaw. He must finish his work even if it was painful. He must know which of his population were dead.

  If the billies were shot, all of the females would not be bred next month. If the females were shot, the billies might kill each other in fights over the few that remained. If Old Gore was shot, the herd would grow weak. He would not be there to cull the sick and imperfect. Marcus waited an hour, then another hour. The sun cracked his lips and burned his eyelids: still he did not move.

  Around two o’clock he decided that the hunters, Fred and John, had not come to the slaughter. He had succeeded in changing their minds. Relieved, he stumbled to the falls. There he drank long of the icy water and doused his head to cool the fiery misery that burned behind his eyelids. He had lost two goats and saved two. Marcus passed his hand over his cheek, found it salty with tears, and smiled at himself, the tough hunter. What had happened to him in the green alpine meadow with the goats and the blue-eyed wife? He scooped up the sweet water and answered himself: something that was as small as a cell, as vast as the universe, had come to him—love. And this love included the mountain and all its living things.

  Slowly Marcus descended to the meadow. The flowers of summer had bloomed and died and the asters of autumn were upon the high country. He paused before Melissa’s Meadow and remembered her tumbling with Jason in the flowers. Buttercups had bobbed, scarlet giglia had danced and the birds had spun over her head like petals. What would become of Jason now? Where would he go to die?

  Marcus climbed thoughtfully down the saddle to the edge of the blue-black pass that looked down on Sky Lake. He stopped, for a change was in the air. The flowers at his feet trembled, the birds were silent. Even the water fell with the slow throb of a dirge. The hunters were abroad and Marcus, for the first time in his life, read his feelings into nature. He heard it mourning.

  Slowly he went back to the tent and broke camp. He packed all his gear and returned the table and fireplace stones to their original spots. Then he shouldered his pack and picked up his rifle. Briefly he glanced at the silver inlay and the precision-made barrel, then sheathed the gun and slung it over his back.

  He was on his way to the Chalet to face Mr. Morgan, to take Melissa and lead her on into the northern mountains. There was no hope for their marriage in Hungry Bear. His father had killed Melissa’s favorite nanny. Her father wanted him brought to trial, and what jury in Hungry Bear County would really believe that Will struck first? Their love was not strong enough to mend the feud. Both fathers would hate each other with the same passion forever. There was no reason to come down from the mountains, not even for fame. The goats he had hoped to protect were being killed with the very map and notes that should have saved them. And finally, the crushing blow, the blow that would alienate his father forever—Marcus no longer believed in hunting.

  The peak of the Jaw loomed over the wall above Sky Lake as he paced off the miles. He thought of Old Gore up there on his lookout. Something had passed from him into Marcus on those barren rocks, and the hunter had died. Marcus sighed and hurried toward the top of the pass that separated the hanging glacial valley of Sky Lake from the one in which the Chalet stood.

  As he approached the border rim, Ignatius came up over it.

  “Ho, Marcus,” he called. Marcus hurried and they met on the ascending slope.

  “Where’s Melissa?” he asked. “Is she all right?”

  “She sent me to tell you why she has not come back.”

  “Why?”

  “Her father’s angry about the marriage.”

  “I’m going down there. I’m going to get her.”

  “No, no. That’s why she sent me. He has brought up Sheriff Burnes to arrest you.”

  Marcus grabbed Ignatius’s arms, his head whirled and he grew sick with fear.

  “I’ve got to see her,” he said. “I’m going down.”

  “No, no. She’ll convince him but you’ve got to stay away a little longer. Go hide. The trail crew is bringing up your supplies today. They’ve been told to bring you in if they see you.” He handed Marcus a bag of food. “Here.” He stepped closer.

  “You know the mountain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Camp up behind the pillow rocks.” He nodded toward the rim of Chalet Glacier. “Know where I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get Melissa there, no matter what happens.”

  “Ignatius, promise that?”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait.”

  “Black smoke from the Chalet will mean good news.”

  Ignatius moved up the trail to the top of the pass, then dropped into the glacial cirque of the Chalet and disappeared.

  “Tell her,” Marcus called weakly, “that Molly was shot.”

  Slowly he arose. He did not like this plan. He did not like being driven into the rocks like an orphaned goat, but he had no choice. Until Melissa could win over her father, there would be a warrant out for his arrest. And so he felt like an outcast.

  Marcus picked a white chickweed that was growing at his feet. He held the flower between his cracked, rock-worn hands. The flower was fragile and yet it grew and bloomed in this hostile land of the glaciers. He and Melissa were like the blossom. They were in a harsh environment, but they would endure like the chickweed. All would be well. She would win her father over and they would live a happy life among family and friends.

  The jingle of the horse bells sounded. Marcus shouldered his pack and climbed off the trail.

  At the top of the ridge he looked down on the approaching trail crew. Sheriff Burnes was in the lead. Marcus shrugged and walked to a distant ledge walled by gargantuan pinnacles of limestone. Strewn on the ground were huge pillowy rocks, bubbles of ancient lava that had cooled swiftly in ice to form balls. The bulky outline of the Chalet chimney was clearly visible here. He stared at it.

  Marcus slept fitfully. At dawn he rolled over on his back and watched clouds. They looked like goat heads rising eerily out of the Chalet glacier.

  The day inched along. After tea and crackers Marcus shouldered his pack and walked to the rim of the Chalet cirque. He could see the Jaw on one side, the Chalet on the other. No goats moved on the peak. No smoke came out of the Chalet. He wondered why. What had happened? Had Mr. Morgan taken Melissa away? Had he? Around noon Marcus rested against a boulder and scanned the barren world. His mind was weary and blank.

  He glanced up. A ruffled face appeared on the tor above his head.

  “Jason!” Marcus exclaimed and jumped to his feet. Marcus could see a bloody hole in his side. He had been gored by an older goat; for, like Remus, Jason was being driven into isolation. He had no nanny to guide, teach and protect him.

  Marcus tried to catch the kid.

  “I’ll take you to Melissa,” he said. “She’ll raise you here in the mountains. She’ll teach you the ledges and crannies. She’ll show you where the plants grow.”

  Jason bolted. Marcus climbed after him, chased him across a flat sarsen but stopped when he leaped a ravine and darted into a cave of rocks.

  “Jason,” he called, “come here. Baa, baa.” He bleated like a kid calling its nanny. “You’ll be the first little goat raised by humans. Jason, come here.”

  Jason peered out of the cave and came forward a few steps. He listened, trembling, to the familiar voice. A raven screamed; the kid spooked and ran down the ridge.

  Marcus followed him to a razorback ledge, but the kid would not stop. He ran a
long the top of a thin wall of upright rocks, scrambled down it and disappeared.

  Calling as he went, Marcus searched for the orphan, occasionally glancing back at the Chalet chimney. The kid was nowhere to be seen and when Marcus came upon a tumbling stream across from the Jaw he sat down and rested. He would put out salt to lure Jason in. He unzipped a pack pocket and was sprinkling the boulder when a stone fell off to his left. He glanced around, but saw nothing. The sun was now high. Its rays were like darts piercing his head and body. He felt suddenly dizzy from the exertion of chasing Jason in the intense sunlight. Whirls of fire flashed behind his eyes. He flattened his body against a cliff and stood in the scant shadow.

  A stone struck the mudstone above his head, bounced and sped past his face. It missed his skull by mere inches. He looked up.

  “Old Gore!” The goat was surveying his kingdom, his head outstretched, his massive humped shoulders moving solidly as he walked the edge of the cliff.

  Marcus glanced at the Jaw. Old Gore was a perfect shot for the hunters. Surely, his keen-eyed father had spotted the white king, for he was in full view of the camp site at the end of the logging road.

  Marcus held his breath. No shot came. He fumbled for his field glasses and focused on the road. The tent was gone, the fire was but a black circle on the ground. The hunters had departed.

  “Thank God,” he called up to Old Gore. The goat startled at his voice. The brilliant sun was behind him and the white fur lit up like an arc-lamp. The eyes blazed. Old Gore rushed down the sheer wall like a bullet aimed at Marcus.

  “No, Will, no!” Marcus yelled into the blinding light. The goat veered off to the right, clattered across the mud-stone slabs and rounded a pinnacle. But in the passing, Marcus had seen Will’s eyes in the goat’s eyes. They were rimmed with the white Morgan lashes.

  “Will,” he shouted. “You’re going to the sun! You’re going to the sun!”

  Marcus staggered to his feet and ran across the slabs to the pinnacle. He heard the goat running behind him up on the top of the ledge.

  Marcus climbed after him. His nostrils dripped sweat and the top of his head burned from the sun, but he had a job to do. Ignatius was right; he was going to shoot the goat. The moment had come.

  Half way to the ledge top he stood, legs apart, scanning every possible goat haunt and habitat. A clatter sounded to his left. Down the ridge came the goat, head down, horns leveled, head aimed straight for his guts.

  Marcus, reaching backwards, grabbed the barrel of his rifle and pulled it swiftly from its sheath. In a second he pressed a bullet into the chamber, slammed the chamber bolt and aimed. Old Gore stopped in the space of a foot. His whole body trembled to a halt at the sight of the gun. In an instant he had become a sensitive instrument tuned to the hunting attitude in the man.

  Striking his four hoofs on the bedrock, Old Gore vaulted, spun in mid-air and dropped over the ledge out of sight. Marcus sped to the spot where he had vanished. There was no trace of Old Gore.

  Melissa had been right; the wild animal could tell a hunter. The goat had absorbed Marcus’s intent through eyes, ears, nose, and fur. Now he would be difficult to find.

  Marcus was inspired by the animal’s insight. The spirit of the hunt possessed him. He would track him down and release Will.

  The goat had the advantage of keen nostrils and ears, wild knowledge of the rocks, and his mountain-climbing feet with their cartilaginous shock absorbers that kept him from injuring himself when he leaped. But Marcus had his gun and his wits. If only his head did not reel. He must be alert. The animal could lead him to cliff tops and ram him to his death. He could come up behind him and gore him on his horns. Marcus moved cautiously down over the ledge where Old Gore had disappeared.

  A narrow ravine separated him from the main thrust of the Jaw. He studied the mountain. To his right lay the chimney; to the top and beyond it, the star-like Small Glacier where Molly and Jason had played. The sight of old haunts reassured him.

  He rammed his foot into a crack. He would descend to the bottom of the ravine, then climb up to the Jaw. He calculated that Old Gore was headed for this familiar peak. Now that he knew he was being hunted, he would seek his own terrain. An animal fighting its own species on its own territory always wins in the animal world, no matter how strong the opponent. Old Gore was trying to bring Marcus to his home. But he, Marcus, was at home there also.

  Suddenly Old Gore flashed across an opening below him, put a monocline between them and was out of sight again. The goat was indeed on his way to the Jaw. Marcus laughed, stepped into a niche, eased himself downward and jumped onto a ledge that tilted down to the bottom of the ravine. He would wait here, out of the sun. The goat would have to cross the river below, and when he did so, he would shoot him.

  He lifted his rifle to his chest.

  12

  OLD GORE

  Marcus watched the ravine for almost an hour, his eyes panning from rock to crack to ledge. The deep shadows made black holes in the canyon walls and he imagined Old Gore in every one of them. He kept his finger on the rifle trigger.

  At noon the sun blazed straight down and wiped out the shadows. Marcus could see footholds and handholds he could use all the way to the bottom. He picked a route for his descent. The goat still had not shown himself, and so he would go down and get him.

  Carefully he slung his leg over the rim and started into the canyon-like ravine. His pack pulled at his shoulders and the sweat poured down his back, but he did not notice. He inspected every cavern and overhang.

  Half way to the bottom he stopped and rested his head against the hot stone wall. He sniffed, stood straight and followed his nose to a ledge. The fresh droppings of the goat lay on the rocks. They were still warm and fetid with the incense of Old Gore.

  “Ha,” he said, sniffing and gripping the ledge. “I’ll track you down like a dog.” He heaved himself over the ledge. Through a tear in his pants the muscles of his calf showed. His leg looked like peeled ironwood, hard, fibrous. The summer had prepared his body for this terrible contest. He was as hard and tough as Old Gore.

  Marcus tracked the droppings up a steep incline and back toward the top of the ravine. Could this be right? Why was the animal going back? He should be headed home. About ten feet from the top Marcus reached for a handhold but found none. Carefully he slid his fingers back and forth over the slick rock surface as he sought dents and cracks on the glassy area. Not a jag or fissure presented itself. He looked down two hundred feet into the ravine, where the last water from the snowfields seeped through scoured boulders and rocks. One slip of his hand and he would be down there. He dropped back to the ledge.

  Goat steps sounded above. Old Gore was running lightly just over the hump but below Marcus’s line of vision. Marcus lurched upwards, put his fingers in a smooth dip and pressed. His fingertips held his weight as he flexed his arm muscles, walked his feet up the wall and reached up for another hold. He found a slick scoop, pressed, and pulled. His fingers held precariously. With the next reach he found a firm grip and lunged to the top. He held his rifle and dashed far back from the rim of the ravine. He did not want to be near the edge if the goat charged.

  The plateau was empty. The ravine and the Jaw were abeyant, hushed. The clouds were still.

  “Where is he?” Marcus grunted and aimed his gun at the ravine, the clouds, the peak. He started up a steep wall for a better view.

  A stone clanked in the ravine. Marcus looked up to see where it had come from. He cocked his head and listened.

  Old Gore was up above, seeking a new route to the Jaw.

  “Ha!” Marcus shouted. Again stones clattered and with a cry Marcus glanced up to see the great white king vault over his head as he crossed to the Jaw in one flying leap. Marcus could not shoot; both hands were gripping the wall.

  Bucking, grunting, Old Gore spiraled up a talus slope and vanished into the rocks. He was safe in the cuts and kerns of the Jaw.

  “One for you,” Marcus shouted
, when he realized that the goat had tricked him. “Now it’s my turn.” He jumped to a pinnacle, and kicked rocks into space. Then roaring at the top of his lungs he ran down to the bottom of the ravine and up the other side.

  “I know that mountain too,” he yelled as he ran. “I won’t quit, Will. Not till you’ve gone to the sun.”

  His lips were burned, and the skin on his neck blistered, but Marcus barely felt the pain. He snorted as he dug his toes into the rocks and scrambled up the side of the Jaw to the goat trail. There he scanned and sniffed and watched for the goat. Old Gore had taken the long route to his favorite hideouts on the peak, but he, Marcus, would take the tough shortcut. He would beat him to the trail near the chimney.

  Striding, moving from one limy sarsen to the next, Marcus went straight up the slide. A golden eagle soared out over the top of the Jaw, looked down and called out the greeting of its species: “eee-eeee-eeee.” Breathing hard, Marcus rested a moment, watching the great bird whose head turned from side to side as it looked down on him.

  “Where is he?” Marcus called. “Where’s he hiding?” The soaring bird caught a thermal wind and spiraled up out of sight. Marcus pummeled the stones in the frustration of not having wings. He climbed on.

  At last he pulled himself up onto the ancient goat trail. He faced up-mountain and, rifle aimed from his hip, waited for Old Gore to round the bend. Marcus’s bloodshot eyes glistened and he gasped for oxygen; his head throbbed. But he was there first. “Yaw,” he whispered to the wind. “Yaw.” Then he cursed. Fresh droppings lay upon the trail. He picked one up. It was warm, maybe five minutes out of the body. The goat had already been here.

  “Where are you?” he said between clenched teeth.

  At the next bend he came upon droppings steaming with heat. He ducked behind a boulder. The goat was only yards away, headed across one hundred feet of open talus. He would be a perfect shot in exactly one minute. Marcus clicked off the safety on his gun. “One one-hundred, two one-hundred...” The goat would have no place to hide. “...three one-hundred...”