Moontrap - Don Berry (40 page)

The rollers swept across the face of the ocean,
driven by the power of a thousand rollers that followed. They touched
bottom near the coast, reared up and arched, fell smashing against
the sand with the rumble of distant thunder. Foam and spray scattered
in the night winds like a thousand filmy spider webs wrenched loose
from the deep green mass. One after another they followed, endlessly
the same, and the bursts of thunder were lost in one another, tangled
and muted and transformed into the steady rumble that shook the sand.

He was here, and that was
enough. He was not guilty

***

The sky was light long before the sun appeared.
Blocked off by the humped peaks of the Coast Range, the sun never
came to the coast itself until an hour or more past real dawn.

The assorted farmers stirred around the fire with
first light, blinked and sat up, wondering why they were here. Some
of them had never seen the ocean, and it was a bewildering sort of
thing, a thousand flat miles and nothing in sight, like the plains of
the Midwest they had crossed to reach the promised land of Oregon.

"What the hell do y' suppose is on the other
side?" one of them said.

"Japan, they say."

"Must be one hell of a long way," said the
first man, staring fascinated at the endless expanse of nothingness.

" '
Bout as far as the moon, I expect."

"Hell, it's farther than that. I c'n see the
moon."

Monday saddled his horse and rode over to where
Thurston was giving orders about the preparation of the morning meal.

"I'm goin' t' ride over t' Solomon Smith's,"
Monday said. "Get a idee from him about the lay o' the land."

Thurston looked up at him suspiciously. "Thought
you'd been down here before."

"
I have," Monday said.

"All right," Thurston said after a moment.

Monday turned his horse away and started walking him
down the beach. He had gone only a few yards when he heard Thurston's
voice behind him call, "Monday!"

He reined up and turned in the saddle to look back.

"I expect you'll be coming back?" Thurston
said.

"I'll be back."

The men gathered around the fire were all looking at
him, and Monday realized Thurston was starting his day's campaign
early. It was just a gibe, something to put a little doubt in the
minds of the men who overheard. He started off again. shaking his
head.

Monday cut across the long sand spit to the half-moon
bay that was the outlet of some river or other. The tide was in. and
the bay a shining circle of water, perhaps a quarter of a mile
across. the surface lightly rippled in the breeze that came gently
off the sea. He skirted the edge, a row of low sand bluffs at his
left, and in half an hour was within sight of Solomon Smith's cabin.

There were three Indian women sitting against the
wall of the cabin, sunning themselves as they worked at some task
Monday could not see. As he approached one of them got up and
scuttled inside the cabin. The other two moved away.

Solomon appeared at the door, his long figure seeming
to stoop as he came out, the ever-present pipe clenched in his teeth.
Monday rode up, greeting him, and dismounted.

"What're y' feelin' like, Solomon?" he
said, extending his hand.

"Pretty fair, Jaybird. How's y'rself?"

"
Good enough."

"Have a pipe?" Solomon said. He handed over
his tobacco pouch and Monday lowered himself against the wall in the
sun.

"What the hell's goin' on, Jaybird?" Smith
said curiously. "What's all the hooraw about?"

Monday looked up, a little surprised. "How'd you
know there was a hooraw at all?"

Smith laughed, taking the pipe out of his mouth.
"Hell, y' can't unload twenty armed men an' a barge full o'
animals without somebody gettin' a bit curious about it. Where'd y'
sleep?"

"Up the beach a little ways. It was nearin' dark
when we got to the landing, so we just come down a bit an' settled
in."

"Looks like a war," Smith observed.

"
Approximating" Monday said. "Posse.
Y' remember old Webb?"

Smith nodded. "Been up t' the valley for a month
or so, him."

"
He killed a man couple o' nights ago."

Solomon looked down at the ground. "Allus was
sort o' wild, Webb."

After a moment he added, "What makes y' think
he's comin' down here?"

"
Told me so," Monday said.

Smith looked at him in surprise, but said nothing.
Monday asked him about trails in to Saddle Mountain.

"No problem," Smith said. He picked up a
stick and began to draw in the dirt. "There's the big trail that
goes across the mountains into the valley," he said. "Running
east and west. 'Bout ten miles inland it gets cut by a north-south
trail. South branch runs all the way down to Killamook country. North
winds around a bit and ends up at Saddle Mountain, more or less.
Clatsops used to think it was a sacred mountain, had ceremonies o'
one kind and another. Highest peak around."

"
No more."

"No more," Smith said. "Not for years.
Y' can't miss the branch. There's a big cairn o' rocks where the
Killamooks leave trading stuff sometimes."

"Thought this was all Clatsop country around
here."

"It is. Sort of unofficial agreement. Long as
the Killamooks stay to the trail, nobody'll bother 'em up to the
crossroads. Sometimes when they get bored they bring a batch of junk
up and leave it at the cairn. Clatsops go take what they c'n use,
leave junk o' their own."

"Don't seem reasonable."

Smith shrugged. "Both of 'em convinced they get
the best of the bargain. It's just a way of passin' the time anyway.
If you turn off north at the cairn you'll get there sooner or later."
Monday stood. "All right, Solomon. I thank y'."

"Any time. Wish y' could stay for a bite t'
eat," Solomon said.

"Maybe I'll stop by when all this is over,"
Monday said. "I been meanin' to get down an' see you an' Trask
an' what not, but I never get around to it. How's things goin'?"

"
Good and bad. The gold strike in California
left me without any men up here, but they're driftin' back, poorer
than when they left."

"
Same in the valley, pretty much. How's Trask?"

"He's figurin' to leave, settle down in
Killamook country."

"Thought he was satisfied here," Monday
said.

"
Bridge is never satisfied," Smith said.
"But he got swamped by the gold strike, too. Can't do much with
a depopulated country."

" '
Spect not," Monday said. "Well, too
bad t' lose a good man up here."

Smith nodded. "Though in a way," he said,
"it's prob'ly better this way. Bridge is kind of hard t' live
with. Hes pretty independent."

Monday looked at the other man curiously. "You
too?" he said after a moment.
"Me
too, what?" Smith said, puzzled.

"Nothing," Monday said. "It ain't
important. I best get back."

He mounted again and leaned down from the saddle to
shake hands with Smith.

"Say, Jaybird," Solomon said. "What'd
Webb kill that man for?"

Monday heard himself answer automatically, as though
it were someone else speaking. "For me." It was not what he
had intended to say.

2

The second night out the old man was lucky. Just
about the time he began thinking of a campsite, the trail crossed a
small river. It was the only stream of considerable size he had
passed since he left the flat country, and he was grateful for it.

There was a wide meadow on the other side, rich with
ferns and grass, held between the arms of the river's curve. At the
very edge of the water was a running border of cottonwoods.

The stream ran swift and shallow, boiling white water
over the rocky bottom, churning the air-clear water into milky froth
that swirled away down the current. At its deepest the stream did not
reach his horse's belly. They forded easily, and the horse scrabbled
up the tiny bank on the other side, into the cottonwood thicket. The
old man dismounted and worked through the narrow barrier to the clear
meadow, three or four hundred yards across at its widest point. He
left the shelter of the trees and stood looking around him.

The sun was below the hills to the west now, and the
sky was turning bright with the glow of the reddening dusk. There was
a quietness settling on the land, and he stood motionless for a long
time, savoring the sensation of change that came each day. The day
creatures were searching their homes, going into silence; the
night-runners had not yet come into voice.

He breathed deeply, listening. At last he returned to
the grove and brought out the animal that waited patiently for him.
It was probably not too smart, but he wanted to sleep in the clear.
He didn't like the brush of this country, the matted wall that
hindered and hobbled you and forced you to follow trails where
someone else had passed. He wanted space and light around him, it was
how he felt free.

He let the horse wander over the meadow, searching
out that perfect mouthful of grass that was always promised, and
always a few steps farther on. He spent a few minutes gathering
branches for his fire, then settled himself down a few yards from the
thicket, lying on his side with his head supported on one hand, just
looking.

The silence grew deeper with the dusk, and he
followed it with his mind, trying to guess the exact center point
between the night and the day, the precise moment when the day sounds
were completely gone. Like a stone thrown in the air; there had to be
a moment of perfect rest before it began to come down. He was
convinced that between the night and the day there must be an instant
of perfect rest, when all life ceased. A hundred times he had tried
to discover it in the dusk, and always failed.

By the river bank a frog croaked, and the old man
grimaced. The night sounds had begun. He had missed it again. But he
thought he had come closer this night than ever before; it was a
half-victory.

In a few minutes the dark was full of sound and life
around him. They were coming out quickly now, as though the frog had
been a guard to announce the freedom of the night. As he went back to
the little stack of wood he had gathered he heard the rustling of
small scurryings and movings in the cottonwoods. Alight breeze had
come up, and the grasses of the meadow swung gently back and forth in
ranks.

Good moon, too, he thought. Lopsided and red, almost
full, hanging swollen just over the eastern peaks. Five minutes and
it would be small and pale, riding fast to the top of the sky. For
some reason his favorite moon had always been the lopsided one. There
was an absurdity about it that pleased him—a little off-balance,
looking as though it were about to tip over.

As he watched, he saw a thing he loved; the silent,
ghostly swoop of an owl across the smoky red face of the moon. It was
the silence of it that made him wonder. Strong wings beating, that
should have made a thundering in the night. But there was nothing.
All other birds were coarse and unlovely with their flappings and
clumsiness. Some of them could glide with a certain grace; but none
flew like the owl, in silent dignity and solitude.

Gradually the moon lost its fire and turned cold and
silver. The light of it streamed across the surface of the
swift—running stream, broken and shattered and carried away by the
infinity of currents and counter-currents that roiled the surface.
The brilliance darted and flickered along the ripples faster than his
eye could follow. When he had stared at it long, his eyes went out of
focus, and there was nothing but the swirling, mingling patches of
brightness. Haloed brilliance independent of moon and water; light
alone, existing and dancing in the deep blackness of the night,
dancing to its own unheard music.

At last he sighed and shook his head. "
Wagh!
Moon-doggin' again."

But he was beginning to feel better, just the same.
Silliness, nothing had changed in the world around him, but he was
beginning to feel calm.

" 'Nother couple days I ought t' be feelin'
right peart," he said aloud.

It was good to be back
again. And with the best of omens, too, the flight of the owl, the
good moon. Everything was going to be clean and pretty. It was going
to work out all right.

***

The pre-dawn light was a brilliant overcast. The
meadow and its bordering trees glowed with a light of their own. The
sky itself was softly luminous, shading evenly and gently from east
to west. The cool, diffuse light was wholly neutral. Objects were not
seen by light and shadow, as in full sun, but simply by their form,
illuminated softly from all directions at once.

He woke more quickly this morning, and was satisfied
to observe it. He was coming back to life again, once away from the
numbing and dulling influence of man and his doings.