Legends of the North Cascades

by Jonathan Evison

  “There,” she said, indicating the shaggy red masses near the center of the quagmire, where a mother mammoth sprawled on her side, mired in the mud, lolling her great shaggy head uselessly, as her listless calf huddled nearby, nudging her. For three days it had been thus. S’tka’s hope that the mother would finally expire, and the calf would weaken, had not fully come to pass, though it appeared that the end was close at hand. The mother was lethargic, her eyes distant and unblinking.

  The calf was growing restless.

  “Stay,” said S’tka to N’ka.

  “But Mom, you said—”

  “Get back,” she clucked, quelling his resistance.

  Bad enough that N’ka should end up like the calf, watching his marooned mother suffocating in the mud. She would not see him gored or trampled.

  S’tka began collecting bundles of grass and piling it at the edge of the mud.

  “Look, look,” she said, holding the tufts of grass high for the calf to see.

  “Mom, he can’t understand you,” said N’ka from the sidelines.

  “Silence!”

  S’tka didn’t dare venture into the mud herself, for fear it might swallow her.

  “Food, food,” she said, to the calf. “Eat, eat!”

  “You’re supposed to kill it, Mom. Not feed it.”

  “Shush!”

  “Well,” he said. “It’s true.”

  “Come, come eat the nice grass, baby!”

  “This is never going to work,” said N’ka. “Let me do it.”

  “Ha!” she said. “You, who can barely hike two miles, you’re going to feed us? Ha! Do not forget your place.”

  Before long, S’tka had piled up half her weight in grass, managing finally to arouse the calf’s curiosity, if not his appetite.

  “See, see?” she said to N’ka. “He’s coming.”

  “Get him in the neck,” he said.

  “Good, baby,” she said to the calf. “Look at all the grass I have for you.”

  As S’tka lured the sluggish calf to the edge of the wallow, she bent at the knees, reaching back for her spear in the grass, slinging it low in her grasp, so as not to discourage the beast.

  Though only a yearling, the calf was already huge; his shaggy shoulder a half-foot above S’tka’s head. And even in its feeble condition, S’tka knew he was incredibly powerful.

  The calf ambled slowly through squelchy earth, mired halfway to its knees. S’tka prayed it would not get itself stuck beyond her reach. At the edge of the marsh, it dully registered the heaping grass, S’tka met its plaintive, dull-eyed gaze. “That’s it, baby,” she said. “You stay put.”

  As though warning her calf, the mother mustered the weakest of trumpets.

  “Thank you for coming,” said S’tka, inching closer to the calf.

  “Now, Mom!” hollered N’ka.

  On cue, S’tka threw herself headlong at the calf, striking it in the neck with all her strength. The calf instantly reared back into the mud, and nearly lost its footing, spear still buried in its throat. S’tka slipped backward in the mud and scrambled to her feet, as the dazed calf righted itself, and appeared as though it were readying itself to charge her, when something fleet streaked past S’tka in her peripheral vision.

  N’ka was but a blur as he hurled his spear upward, lodging it in the throat, just below the first spear with a force and accuracy that caused the calf to buckle at the knees and rear back once more, before toppling at the edge of the marsh, where it wheezed and burbled toward its final breaths, blood spewing out of its punctured throat.

  N’ka, the mighty hunter, barely seven years old! What strength and accuracy! What courage! How proud his father would be!

  The Law of Diminishing Returns

  During Dave’s second tour his unit was outside of Mosul on an advise-and-assist, doling out candy to a scrum of kids in front of a clapboard market, Dave razzing Pope about his tireless Christian charity.

  “Aren’t you gonna make them sing some hymns or something? Isn’t it how that works, Pope? You offer the poor sonsofbitches the straw of life, but only after you convert them?”

  Pope shook his head. “Man, you got it all wrong, Dave. These kids are innocents. They’re already saved.”

  “Maybe they’re innocent, maybe not.”

  “They’re innocent, man. They ain’t nothing but children.”

  “Old Reverend Pope,” said Dave. “Doin’ the good work. Savin’ souls, one Tootsie Roll at a time.”

  “Tootsie Roll, my ass,” said Pope. “That shit would melt out here in ten seconds flat! You gotta have hard candy.”

  “You got it all figured out,” said Dave.

  “You know the problem with you, Cartwrong?” said Pope. “You know why you say and do some of the sick shit you do?”

  “Do tell, Reverend.”

  “Because you’re afraid, man. You’re scared shitless. More scared than any one of these kids.”

  “Scared of what?” said Dave.

  “That’s a question to ask yourself, dog. But if you ever wanna talk about it seriously, you know where to find me.”

  “You think I’m afraid of dying out here? Is that it?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “What, then?” said Dave.

  “Not my place to say,” said Pope, as they made their way down the dusty, stinking boulevard, seemingly casual but at the same time alert to peripheral movement every step of the way.

  “But if I was guessing,” said Pope, “I’d say you’re scared of a general lack of meaning in the universe.”

  “Why the hell should that scare anyone, Pope? Just means that the stakes are lower.”

  Pope pursed his lips and swiveled his head a few times in apparent disillusionment.

  “Dave,” he said. “That’s where you’re wrong, man. The stakes are higher than you may ever know. Your life, man, it’s a reflection of everything. Everything that ever was. You’re a link in the chain, but it’s more than a chain. It’s like a whole gigantic fabric. A huge quilt. And God, God’s like the needle. God sews it all together. God connects us. It’s a crazy ass quilt, and every square is different, see, but God connects us.”

  “Give me a fucking Tootsie Roll, Pope. You’re full of shit, you know that? Connect? Really? Look around you. Is this place a reflection of everything that ever was? Is it? Those little ragheads tugging at our pockets for penny candy? This blown-to-shit backwater? This stupid fucking business we call security detail? Where’s the meaning in any of this shit? Where’s the fucking connection? These people didn’t ask for this. This war is about money, Pope; this war is about goddamn oil. There ain’t a damn thing holy about that. Why would God require anybody to endure this bullshit? That’s the question, Pope. If there’s a merciful God like you say, then what are we doing here in the first place? Why does this place even exist?”

  Pope got real quiet after that. Dave knew he was percolating a thoughtful answer, but he never did get in his last word, not that Dave would’ve ever let Pope convince him. Three minutes later, as they patrolled a narrow side street on opposite sides, a rat scurried out from under the carcass of a dead dog and they both nearly jumped out of their armor. Wide-eyed, they caught their breath again in tandem, locking eyes across the street with a palpable relief, as Pope began to kick the dead dog aside.

  In that instant, right before Pope kicked the dead dog, Dave entertained the idea that just maybe Pope was onto something. Maybe the stakes were higher than Dave was ever willing to admit. Maybe the oppressed, and the humiliated, and the abused had something to teach us. Maybe they would inherit the earth, after all. Maybe they would save us. Maybe our suffering really was all connected somehow.

  Dave was looking right into Pope’s eyes when the poor sonofabitch kicked the dog carcass and took the hit. Before Dave could hit the deck, he was blinded by a spray of gravel to the face, which was a lot better than Pope ended up—in several pieces, his boot coming to rest in the middle of the street, half his low
er leg still intact.

  Once Dave got to his feet and scrambled to Pope’s aid, he found the Reverend blown half to shit, and his face full of shrapnel. His goddamn blood-filled eyes implored Dave to do something.

  At the sound of laughter from across the street, Dave swung around and started spraying off rounds indiscriminately, watching the children scatter. He didn’t kill anybody, but in that moment, he wished more than anything that he had.

  Innocents, my ass. There was no innocence left in that goddamn desert.

  Dave got down on his knees in the dirty street and propped Pope’s head in his lap, then took a grim inventory of the situation, trying not to reveal the gravity of the situation to poor Pope.

  “Pope, man, look at me,” said Dave.

  Pope was in shock, losing a lot of blood from the leg, and from a deep side wound. Dave was gonna have to tie off the leg fast if there was any hoping of saving him.

  “You’re gonna be just fine, Reverend. Just hang tough, now.”

  Pope just looked up at him with imploring eyes.

  “I love you, Dave,” he said. “Everything is gonna be all right.”

  Dave was practically hyperventilating.

  “I’m gonna fix you up, Rev, hold tight. We’re gonna get you out of here, okay, pal?”

  “Relax, brother,” said Pope. “I’m good.”

  Counting Days

  Bella kept waiting for something to happen. Every morning, a fresh dread of the unknown fueled her anxiety. And all she could do was wait. And wait. Even the cats seemed to sense her edginess, and they did their feline best to comfort her, or more accurately, they forced her to pet them whenever they felt like being petted.

  Today was thirteen days since the ranger came, with no sign yet of his impending return. No sign of Mr. Moseley, or Uncle Travis, or anyone else either. And yet she knew somebody would come. She was certain that at any moment her life would change again.

  Her dad did not seem concerned, a fact that both buoyed her optimism and inflated her anxiety. Despite his incessant reading, and apparent interest in such a wide variety of subjects as geology, forestry, para-something-ology, and dentistry, there was a lot that no longer seemed to concern her dad. A whole world, in fact. How could he possibly think everything was just fine when somebody was sure to come for her? His generally not worrying about anything of late was something she was beginning to resent.

  Finally, Bella confronted him in his customary repose, huddled around the dead fire, his face buried in a book, his hand fussing absently with his long, gray-tipped beard.

  “What about the thirteen days, Daddy?”

  “What thirteen days, baby?” he said, glancing up from the page.

  “The ranger said thirteen days was the limit for us to stay.”

  Dave dog-eared the page but didn’t close the book. He scratched his beard once last time for good measure.

  “Today is the thirteenth day,” she said.

  He started to say something, then stopped himself, scratched his neck, and looked down absently at the book in his lap, before looking back up at her.

  “Look, Bella, honey, that rule is . . .”

  He trailed off to heave a sigh.

  ”Well,” he continued, “it’s bullshit, okay? Sometimes the rules are bullshit, baby. In fact, a lot of times they are.”

  As whenever he swore, Bella was dubious. It was usually in anger, and it usually involved saying something he would take back later.

  “But you always told me to follow the rules,” she said.

  Her dad clenched and unclenched his fist the way he did when he didn’t know what to say, as if he could squeeze out an answer. Finally, after a moment’s thought, he offered her an explanation.

  “Baby,” he said. “There are principles, and then there are rules. There’s a big distinction.”

  “What’s ‘distinction’?”

  “Distinction means a difference,” he said. “There’s a big difference between your principles—what you know is right—and the rules, which can sometimes be arbitrary.”

  “What’s ‘arbitrary’?”

  “Arbitrary means, well, random, I guess.”

  “Like a guess?”

  “Kind of like that, yeah. Something that doesn’t always have a good reason for being the way it is. The point is, that it’s important to stick to your principles.”

  “What are my principles?”

  He clenched and unclenched his fist again, scratching at his beard reflexively with the other hand.

  “Well, let’s see. Be a good person, that’s first and foremost,” he said. “Don’t do wrong to others. Always take the high road if there’s a decision about right or wrong. And don’t be greedy. Take what you need in the world, but not more. Basically, just live an honest life.”

  “Is that what we’re doing here?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Exactly.”

  “Are there rules against that?”

  He clenched his fist again but didn’t unclench it this time.

  “Yes,” he said. “More and more every day.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the damn greedy power-mongers want to own us.”

  “You can’t own a person,” she said.

  “What do you think a slave is?” he said.

  “There’s no more slaves,” she said. “Miss Martine told us they stopped slavery a long time ago. In the eighteen-hundreds.”

  “Of a certain kind,” he said. “But there’s different ways of enslaving people.”

  “Like how?”

  “Well, like rules that don’t make sense, rules that say a person can’t live where a person wants. There’re laws that aren’t fair, laws that say certain people can’t do certain things. And debt, debt is a kind of slavery; it’s kind of like a chain that keeps people tied to a life they can’t afford.”

  “Do we have debt?”

  “Not anymore, baby. What we owe, we owe to the earth.”

  She knew such a vague answer was insufficient. She hated it when he parentized her.

  “What if the ranger comes back?”

  “We’re not doing anything wrong,” he said. “We have as much right to be in these mountains as anybody. Nobody has jurisdiction over nature.”

  “What’s ‘jurydiction’?”

  “It means nobody can own nature. The world doesn’t belong to anybody. Baby, the ranger can’t do anything. He won’t do anything, okay? So don’t you worry.”

  “Will he come back?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he comes back,” he said.

  “Maybe we should move somewhere else,” said Bella.

  “Like where? You want to go back to town? Because if you really want, I can take—”

  “No,” she said.

  “You could live with—”

  “No,” said Bella. “Just somewhere different.”

  “Baby, any town we go to will just eventually—”

  “I mean farther into the mountains,” she said.

  He finally unclenched his fist.

  “I’ve thought about that,” he said. “A lot. But we can’t just keep moving around, Bella, that’s no way to live. We’re not nomads. This is our home now. We have shelter. Everything we need is here. And besides, winter is coming any day. Nobody is going to stop us from making our lives here. They can’t, and they won’t, baby.”

  “Even if we’re breaking their rules?”

  “We don’t live by their rules, understand?”

  “I dunno,” said Bella. “It seems like a bad idea to stay if we’re not ortherized. What if they put us in jail?”

  “For what?”

  “For staying past thirteen days.”

  “The worst they can do is fine us a couple hundred bucks,” he said.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  But the truth was his promises were no longer a comfort to Bella. It used to be she could trust him. It used to be he was always right. Lately, though, more and more,
his judgment failed to inspire confidence.

  As though he could sense her unease, her dad pulled her in close, trapping her in a hug.

  “Everything is gonna be all right,” he said.

  And for the moment, at least some of her anxiety fled.

  If Not Remote

  Judy awoke with a start, the clock on the nightstand glowing a red 3:40 a.m. What jarred her from her sleep was not a dream, rather a sudden, sharp certainty that could only be likened to a premonition. Once awake, she knew better than to pursue sleep again. Rising from bed, she slid into her slippers and padded to the kitchen to boil water.

  Her first such jolt of foreboding arrived when Davey was only seven weeks old, and she was sure he’d stopped breathing in the night. Just as now, back then she’d risen from bed, hurrying to the crib where she discovered that Davey had somehow managed to roll over onto his stomach, though he was breathing when she found him. She kept vigil by the crib the remainder of the night, and in the morning drove all the way to JCPenney in Bellingham to purchase a crib wedge. She started having the bad omens again regularly in 2003, when Davey was in Iraq. There must have been a dozen nights where she awoke in a sweat, convinced that Davey was in trouble. It was an incredible weight off her back when he returned in the fall, at least physically intact.

  When the kettle began to hiss, Judy poured a mug of water and plopped a tea bag in to steep. She had half a mind to dial Travers, but resisted the impulse. What could she say to him? What could he do? All Judy had to offer was a terrible impression that something was wrong, somehow, somewhere with Davey or Bella. And there was absolutely nothing anybody could do about it.

  Judy sat at the kitchen table most of the night, with the little TV on, muted, oscillating between dread and grief, volleying between frustration at her powerlessness and anger at Davey for putting her in such situations, time and again. What good was she as a mother, or grandmother, if she could not protect them? What good was anybody to anybody once they were beyond arm’s reach?

  Finally, when Judy surmised that the hour was no longer indecent, she switched from tea to black coffee, and promptly dialed Travers, who was already awake and eating breakfast.