Stone Junction (17 page)

They feasted and talked till late in the afternoon. Daniel recounted his visions, listened to Wild Bill explain why they weren’t quite truly visions, and then listened as Wild Bill gave him some history of AMO –
his
version, he stressed, since certain AMO lore was only transmitted orally, which invited revision and invention, and thus kept the facts straight. Wild Bill was relaxed, direct, and far more articulate than Daniel had ever seen him, but whether it was the wine, the morning’s events, or his last day as a teacher that allowed the mask to slip, Daniel didn’t know nor particularly care.

As the sun dipped toward the basin rim, Bill, a bit wobbly, stood and announced, ‘All right, Daniel, it’s the proper moment. Follow me.’

They walked down to the lake’s edge and faced the setting sun. After a long silence, Wild Bill took something from his pocket and turned to Daniel. ‘I want to give you a gift. I give one to each of my students – not like a damn diploma or a token of passage, understand, but an expression of gratitude for all they made me learn in order to teach them anything.’ He gently placed a hand-worked, solid-gold turtle the size of a quarter in Daniel’s palm. The turtle’s eyes were tiny, brilliant diamonds.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Daniel murmured, enthralled by its weight, its luster, the crystalline eyes.

‘Most of my students think the turtle is a symbol of balance between earth wisdom and water wisdom, but what I have in mind is slow learners.’

Daniel closed his hand around the turtle and looked at Wild Bill. ‘You know what I don’t understand?’

‘No,’ Wild Bill smiled, ‘but there’s a lot to choose from.’

Daniel ignored the charm. ‘I don’t understand why you’re so afraid of your tenderness.’

‘That’s another reason it’s a turtle,’ Wild Bill said. ‘Why do you think they have shells?’

Daniel laughed. He curled his index finger around the gold turtle, cocked his sore wrist, and threw it as far as he could toward the center of the lake.

The turtle hit the water with a silent splash, concentric ripples languidly spreading from the point of impact.

Stunned by Daniel’s act, Wild Bill watched the ripples, tried to feel their calm, inevitable dissipation within himself. He turned to Daniel then, nodded, and said, ‘Good.
Very
good. In fact, Daniel, that was
excellent
.’

‘I had an excellent teacher.’

They stood watching as the sun slipped below the rim of the basin. For a moment, as if the turtle in its depths was surrendering its light to the sun, the whole lake turned golden.

Transcription: Telephone Recording Between

Volta and Wild Bill Weber

WILD B.: ‘
Lapidem esse aquam fontis vivi
.’

VOLTA: Indeed. And how are you, Bill?

WILD B.: Headed for the desert.

VOLTA: You have a choice, Bill. I will give you one million dollars, or I will get down on my knees naked and beg you, if you’ll consent to teach another five years.

WILD B.: I’m done. Bye.

VOLTA: (laughing) All right, school’s out. How was your last student?

WILD B.: He’s paying attention.

VOLTA: No doubt. What do you think of him?

WILD B.: No limit. He slows himself down with questions, but some of them are the right ones. Even more, I think he’s capable of understanding some answers.

VOLTA: How did he react to the explosion?

WILD B.: As expected.

VOLTA: By the way, I was honored you consulted me. Or were you just trying to spread the responsibility in case it went awry?

WILD B.: Even the bold and brilliant get nervous.

VOLTA: True. But as long as they’re not
too
bold, they also grow wiser.

WILD B.: He knew to let it go, that he had to. He even had a powerful premonition the night before. He heard his mother calling
Alllee-alllee-outs-in-free
.

VOLTA: I told you he might be the student you were looking for.

WILD B.: You wouldn’t happen to know who his father is, would you? Daniel said not even his mother knew, but since you know everything, I thought I might ask.

VOLTA: Your flattery is wasted on my failure – I have no idea. His mother, Annalee, as I believe I mentioned, was a woman of well-founded pride and immense courage. There’s evidently much of her in Daniel.

WILD B.: No argument, but let’s not get carried away. He’s young. The young make some hideous mistakes.

VOLTA: They’re supposed to.

WILD B.: And there may be a problem. He hasn’t dreamed since his injury, or at least he doesn’t remember his dreams.

VOLTA: That’s dangerous.

WILD B.: So is remembering them.

VOLTA: Let’s not pursue it, Bill. Let’s honor our friendship by respecting our disagreements. You might also honor it by telling me what the problem really is, since you would never consider the lack of dreams anything but a blessing.

WILD B.: Daniel likes the edge. He’s a little too dazzled by oblivion.

VOLTA: Adolescence encourages ecstatic mistakes.

WILD B.:
Too
dazzled. But that’s just a sense I have, nothing else.

VOLTA: Is there a possibility your own fears or desires amplify your perception of his?

WILD B.: Of course.

VOLTA: I’m not challenging you. I sense the same thing in Daniel. You know, Bill, we ride the same wave so often, if it weren’t for your hard-headed foolishness, we’d have no disagreements at all.

WILD B.: Praise life for the saving graces.

VOLTA: That’s a bit like praising time for tomorrow.

WILD B.: Speaking of tomorrows, Daniel wants to know what’s next.

VOLTA: I wouldn’t attempt to consider it without consulting you. You’ve been with him eighteen months.

WILD B.: And about the last three he’s been cooking in his own juices.

VOLTA: Ah, hormones. Kiss the brain farewell. Any specific recommendations?

WILD B.: Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. Daniel’s had a solid dose of the alchemical salts; an infusion of outlaw spirit might be timely – though it would be wise to have a tempering influence near at hand.

VOLTA: The Stocker operation. Mott and Aunt Charmaine.

WILD B.: Bingo.

Through more of Alexander Kreef’s legal wizardry, Daniel was released from custodial probation and, after passing a high school equivalency exam, allowed to seek gainful employment. Alexander Kreef had heard that Ariba Farm and Ranch Company was hiring, and happened to have one of their cards in his pocket. Daniel was hired over the telephone and told to report to the Rocking On Experimental Range Station, a three-thousand-acre ranch in southern Oregon. Mott Stocker, the ranch foreman, would be expecting him.

When they met at the horse barn a week later, Daniel was glad Mott had expected him and not been taken by surprise. Mott was six foot eight and a solid 260, his powerful physical presence strengthened by the thunderbolt-shaped scar on his forehead, his long black tangled hair and beard, and what proved to be his usual attire: an Australian bush hat with a band of sharks’ teeth strung on a thin, gold wire; a long-tailed buckskin shirt, grease-stained and grungy, belted with a snap-holstered Colt .45 automatic and sashed with a bandolier of extra ammunition; a jockstrap (buckskin pants when he went to town); and a pair of motorcycle boots. The only thing fragile about Mott Stocker was the pale blue of his eyes, a color that seemed almost too delicate to exist, that hovered on the threshold of perishing back into light.

Daniel liked Mott’s eyes and worried about the rest. As they saddled up, Daniel wondered how Mott’s mule, Pissgums, could survive his rider, not to mention the weight of the bulging saddlebags and twin scabbards, one holding a sawed-off twelve-gauge pump, the other a marine-issue M-16.

Daniel, with an attempt at lightheartedness, nodded toward the arsenal and said, ‘Are we expecting trouble?’

With a deep and thoughtful drawl, Mott said, ‘Better to have ’em and not need ’em than to need ’em and not have ’em.’

‘What’s in the saddlebags?’

‘Grenades, small mortar, extra rounds and clips, some other stuff.’

‘Well, you have ’em, that’s for sure.’

‘Yeah. But what I’d really like is a bazooka – one of those World War Two jobs. Awful hard to come by, though.’

A little nervously, Daniel asked, ‘Just where are we headed.’

‘Gonna ride up on Grouse Prairie and meet Lucille.’

‘Who’s she?’

‘Dan, they told me you were coming here to learn the ropes. Some of the rope can tie us up, some of it can hang our ass. It’s an important part of the business to never ask more questions than you need answers for.’

‘I thought this was a cattle ranch.’

‘Moo,’ Mott drawled.

They reached the log bridge on Crawdad Creek right after sunrise. Halfway across, Mott jerked back hard on his mule’s reins, bellowing ‘Whoa, Pissgums, you sum’bitch!’ Daniel, following, pulled up his horse. Mott dismounted and reached under the bridge timbers for a quart jar of clear liquid.

He unscrewed the cap and lifted it toward Daniel. ‘Breakfast.’ He drank a third of the bottle. ‘
Wahhh!
’ he roared, offering the bottle to Daniel.

Daniel took it, his eyes watering at the fumes. ‘What’s this?’

‘Warmth in a cold world,’ Mott wheezed. ‘Whiskey. Homemade.’

Daniel took a cautious sip. ‘Whew,’ he said huskily, ‘it burns.’

‘Don’t be shy. Best have another slash – long ride to the top.’

Daniel took an even smaller sip and handed the bottle back to Mott, who offered it to the mule. Pissgums sniffed the bottle, snorted, shied slightly, then lipped the rim. Mott poured slowly till Pissgums tossed his head and backed away.

‘Goddamn, you’re getting particular,’ Mott said to the mule, then turned to explain. ‘He don’t like it if it hasn’t been aged at least a month.’

‘
Hee-ee-yaw-yaw-yaw
,’ Pissgums brayed, and bolted suddenly across the bridge.

Mott pulled his .45, cupping it as he swung on the fleeing mule.

Daniel yelled, ‘Hey! Don’t shoot!’

Mott fired, the bullet kicking up dust twenty yards in front of the mule. Pissgums stopped in his tracks and began browsing innocently.

Mott looked at Daniel. ‘Don’t worry, Dan. I always give him a warning shot ’fore I cut loose for serious.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t give him the whiskey,’ Daniel said.

‘Naw. The whiskey’s
good
for him. Gets him perky. Don’t
ever
give him any dope, though. Can’t handle it at all. Gets the
bad
paranoia.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Daniel promised.

A half hour later they dismounted in a grove of white oaks. ‘Coffee break,’ Mott said, pulling a stainless-steel thermos from a saddlebag. ‘Hope you like it strong.’ He poured a black ropy goo the consistency of hot asphalt into one of the cups. ‘I mix it equal parts coffee and hashish. The hash thickens it up.’

Daniel hesitantly took the steaming cup. ‘I thought you were supposed to
smoke
hashish.’

‘Ruin your lungs,’ Mott told him, pouring a cup for himself.

‘Do you take a lot of drugs?’

Mott drained his cup, wiping his mustache with a buckskin sleeve. ‘Yup. You?’

‘I tried some in Berkeley.’

‘What’d ya do? Give ’er up?’

‘Not really. Things just changed.’

‘Ya see,’ Mott said slowly, ‘that’s
exactly
the reason I take ’em. The drugs never change, but you do, so that way you have something to measure your changes against – sorta like a boulder in the river tells you the water level.’

‘I’m not sure I follow that,’ Daniel said, taking a sip of the resinous brew.

Patiently, Mott said, ‘Look at it this way, Dan: How can you know you’re changing less’n something else isn’t?’

‘Suppose it’s all changing together?’ Daniel countered.

‘Then you’d need drugs just to keep up.’

‘Or something,’ Daniel said. He was having difficulty just keeping up with the conversation.

‘Besides,’ Mott grinned, ‘I like it when the colors all run together.’

There were three more stops before lunch: a fire-hollowed fir stump that held a tank of nitrous oxide which Daniel politely sampled and Mott nearly drained; a buried stash of black opium the consistency of taffy – Daniel declining, Mott biting off a piece the size of a walnut; and taped in the crotch of a young maple, a waterproof canister of LSD microdots, Daniel trying one, Mott several.

They ate lunch at the Palmer Ridge line shack. The cupboards were stocked with quart jars of chili and the propane refrigerator was full of beer. Mott dumped the contents of several jars into a large, cast-iron kettle. ‘Seeing as how we just met today,’ Mott said as he lit the stove, ‘I’m gonna cook you up my Special Mott Stocker Seven-Course Mountain-Man Shitkicker Lunch: a bowl o’ red and a six-pack. I make a whole bathtub full o’ chili the end o’ every month and stash it around wherever I might find myself working. Let me warn ya right now, Dan: It’s pretty damn tasty fare.’

The first bite left flesh hanging from the roof of Daniel’s mouth. He sucked air to cool it.

‘Spicy, huh?’ Mott said, shoveling another spoonful.

‘Yaaa,’ Daniel gasped.

‘You bet. Secret’s in the chiles. I grow my own, out o’ my own stock – been perfecting it for about ten years now. You mighta noticed that little hothouse out in back of the barn? That’s all chiles. And I go in there every chance I get and insult ’em. Call ’em stupid-ass, low-down, dipshit heaps of worthlessness. I pinch ’em, piss on ’em, slice off a branch here and there. Water ’em just enough to keep ’em alive. No water – that’s what makes ’em hot, but the abuse is what makes ’em
mean
.’

Daniel, popping his second can of beer, was still unable to speak, but he nodded in understanding.

Mott shoveled down more chili, sweat coursing off his forehead. ‘This is venison chili. Where’s the beef? Hey: Fuck the beef. And fuck all them fancy chili cookoff winner recipes. This stuff is deer meat, chiles, spring water, little bit of wild pig blood, and three tablespoons of gunpowder. Sometimes I throw in a handful of them psilocybin mushrooms if there’s any around, though personally I think they weaken it.’