Moontrap - Don Berry Read online

  The night was fine and pure as they rode along the east bank. There was a sharpness and clarity to the stars that Monday had seldom seen. They hardly seemed to sparkle at all, points of brilliance in the fathomless sky. The moon was not risen, and the depth of blackness was almost supernatural. They could see none of the trail, but let the horses find their way.

  "Why the hell is summer so much better than winter?" Monday said absently.

  "Is a question of light," Devaux said. "Here there is no light, eight months a man lives with no light, and the wet and the cold."

  Monday shook his head. "Y'know, every winter I think I can't stand it any more, I figure I got to leave. But I'm too damn low t' do it in the winter, an' when spring comes, it's so good I forget all about it."

  "Is crazy, that," Devaux said. "Me, I quit thinking in October, then it does not derange me, the winter."

  "When d' y' start again?" Webb asked.

  "May. Good years, maybe the middle of April."

  "What if y' f'rget to turn y'rself on again?" Monday asked him.

  Devaux shrugged. "Makes no difference," he said. "I forgot one year, and nobody noticed."

  Monday laughed and stretched himself up in the saddle. The unpleasant cloudiness of the whisky was leaving him, but the sensation of well-being and peace remained. After the discouragements and rebuffs of the Hrst part of the day, it had been good to have a little fun, without worrying about it. The cannon's explosion had wiped out the bad taste in his mouth from the sermon of Andrews and the Portsmouth.

  "This must be the best summer there ever was in Oregon," he said. "I'll bet the summer of 'fifty goes down in history as the best summer there ever was."

  "Y'iggerant dunghead, that ain't the kind o' thing they write history about. Ain't nobody cares what the weather's like."

  "Look at Valley Forge," Monday said. "Ever'body knows that was a real bad winter, what with all them Revolutionary sojers freezin' their feet off and all that kind of stuff."

  "That's different," Webb said. "That's when a man's miserable, sometimes they pay attention to that. But they ain't nobody gives a damn when a man feels good. I read one hell of a heap o' history, an' I tell you plain, it ain't about when a man feels good."

  "Seems like it ought to be, though," Monday says. "Seems like the times a man feels good are important, too."

  "What ought t' be ain't what is," Webb said. "Ain't nobody cares."

  Monday looked up and watched the bright star-points jog the rhythm of his horse. "They's sure a vast lot of 'em, ain't there? One of these days I'm goin' where I c'n see what the stars look like in the winter, too."

  "Is just the same, I think," Devaux said.

  "No they ain't," Webb said decisively. "They's in different places."

  "How can that be?" Devaux said. "The sky is the sky."

  "Hell, I don't know how, " Webb said. "But they are. I seen 'em many a time in the mountains. You c'n see 'em good there."

  "I never noticed when I was in the mountains," Monday said. "I guess I was never interested."

  "That's 'cause you was too young," Webb said. "Man got to get a little sense before he gets interested in lookin' at the stars."

  "Me, I don't see how they can be different," Devaux said. "I am also commencing to have bad in the head."

  "Whyn't you put up at my place, if'n y're gettin' a headache?" Monday said.

  "Maybe I do that, me."

  "Look," Webb insisted. "Days is shorter in the winter, ain't they? That proves things c'n change."

  "That's just because of the rain an' clouds all the time," Monday said. "You just can't see the sun is all."

  "God damn, y're a arguin' son of a bitch," Webb said.

  It was well past midnight when the three were finally on the trail that led down to Monday's cabin. There was no light, and Monday figured the candle Mary usually kept had burned down. He was, he realized, a lot later than he had figured. having promised to be back early.

  They tied their horses outside and Monday went up on the porch.

  When he opened the door he was assailed by a rotten odor.

  "Jesus Christ," he said. "What's that smell?"

  He started across the room toward the mantel and stumbled on a chair. "Damn it! just a minute, I'll get some light."

  He fumbled on the mantel for the little box of locofoco matches and the candle. In the blackness the match flared, blinding him with its sudden brightness.

  "Mary!" he called. "Wake up, we got company."

  He touched the wick and the yellow flame streamed up, dark shadows leaping out toward the wall. He started to turn, catching an unfamiliar shape out of the corner of his eye, but he was too late. In a fraction of a second he saw Webb's hurtling shape, and then the old man's rifle butt plunged into the pit of his stomach, doubling him over. Webb lifted his knee, crashing viciously into Monday's face and throwing him backward from the fireplace to sprawl unconscious against the wall.

  Webb looked at him for a moment, then turned back to look up at the gently swinging form of the woman suspended from the beam.

  "That is no answer," Devaux said, his eyes fixed on the contorted face that witnessed death by strangulation. "He will wake up some time."

  "Couldn't think o' nothin' else," Webb muttered. After moment he went over to the bed, lifted the heavy pillow from the swaddled bundle there. He looked down at the blackened and twisted tiny face and clenched fists for a moment, then gently put the pillow back. He turned back to the center of the room.

  "Me," Devaux said, "I thought all Indians afraid to hang."

  "This don't prove no different," Webb said. After a moment he blinked and said, "We best cut 'er down."

  He picked up the overturned chair and reached for his knife. Against the wall three heavy shadows danced to the soundless music of the candle's flame.

  Chapter Fifteen

  1

  They buried her toward the river, next to a clump of blackberry where she had gone every day in season, to pick the full sweet berries. The late-afternoon sun slanted flat along the river, golden red, making flame bursts of the trees on the other bank. Monday tamped down the tiny mound with the flat of his shovel. He squatted, resting his forehead against the handle. looking at the ground between his feet. He was numb. wholly numb. After the initial grief of waking he had sunk into suspension, doing what had to be done without thinking about it, moving slowly, unconscious of the passing of time.

  Webb leaned on his own shovel and watched the back of Mondays head.

  "Y' figger t' mark it any way?" he said. "Cross or somethin', maybe." Monday looked up. He passed his hand across his forehead. "Mark it?" he said. He frowned and after a moment repeated, "Mark it. No. I know—I know where she is." He looked at the pile of fresh-turned earth, the color of a newly plowed field. "She's right—here," he said.

  He turned away his eyes closed.

  They walked slowly up the slight: rise to the cabin. At the porch Monday absently knocked the dirt from his shovel blade, as though he were returning from any other day's digging. There was a sharp flash of anguish as he lit the candle inside, a clear, stopped vision of turning to catch sight of the dangling, shapeless form in the center of the room. For a long time, every time he lit a candle it would be there, just at the edge of his sight. He would always be just on the verge of turning, catching a glimpse . . .

  He shook his head and blew out the candle. The house was already cool, though the sun was not yet down. And it was empty He went back out on the porch and sat with his back against the wall, watching the thunderous silent reds and purples of the dying day.

  "What d'you want, hoss?" Webb asked him.

  "Go away," Monday said. "Leave me alone."

  Silently the two men saddled their horses again and mounted. Webb sat slumped in the saddle for a moment, frowning down at the neck of his animal. He guided the horse a few steps until he was just opposite Monday.

  "Listen, coon," he said.

  Monday looked away from t
he sunset and turned to the old man, his face blank.

  "Y'know down t' the coast, there's a two-hump mountain. Round fifteen miles this side o' Solomon Smith's I hear."

  Monday nodded absently. "Saddle Mountain they call it. Ain't much of a mountain."

  "Reckon t' take a look at 'er anyways," Webb said.

  Monday nodded again.

  "Y'understand?" Webb demanded. "This nigger's headin' down there."

  "All right," Monday said indifferently.

  The old man sat quietly for a moment, looking at Monday. Then he clucked to his horse and turned off on the trail, Devaux riding silently beside him.

  Monday turned his attention back to the setting of the sun, watching the shifting colors and the changing shapes of clouds without interest. When the colors had faded and there remained no more than a thin, copper-green stain in the western sky, he got up slowly and went back into the cabin. Mechanically he kindled a fire in the fireplace and watched the yellow flames begin to work at the wood.

  He went to the cooler below the floor in the rear and fumbled around among the paper-wrapped packages until his fingers touched the cold smooth surface of the bottle. He brought it back to the table and sat down. For a minute he stared at the growing fire, motionless. Then with a sudden gesture he yanked the cork out of the bottle and tilted it up, letting the raw fire burn his throat and savoring the pain of it. He put the bottle back down, blinking to clear his eyes.

  "That's all," he said to the fire. "There's nothin' more to take away.

  The fire flared and he watched it uninterestedly. After a while he put his head down on his arms and began to weep.

  ***

  It seemed not grief so much as utter emptiness. A great vacuum had been made in the world, and the world did not acknowledge its existence. Night came and the stars came out, and somewhere in the sky the moon was riding, tonight a pale sliver slipping through the blackness. "Fingernail moon," she called it. Was that Shoshone? Or had she made it up? Now he would never know. There were many things he would never know now, all the answers to the questions he had not thought to ask. There was always time tomorrow for the forgotten questions of today. Until time ceased suddenly. and it was too late to ask.

  In the tiny lagoon by the river, a log lay half beneath the water, great bulbous eyes peering about at the world, a thick voice croaking in the night. A doe drank placidly at the beach, her forelegs in the water. She shook the droplets from her muzzle, sparkling in the moon, looked around her, and bent to drink again. Small animals rustled in the brush.

  Too late for questions now, and in any event there were few enough answers. The ultimate answer was always the same; absence.

  Nothingness. Emptiness. There was now no reason to do anything. To light the fire was futile; it burned the wood and was gone. A man ate and his body used the food and it too was gone, having served no purpose but to keep him alive enough hours to find more food. An endless cycle of inutility, without reason, cause, or outcome.

  A raccoon hunched silent by the river, puzzling at the bright and tantalizing image of the moon that wavered before it, infinitely attracting, infinitely mysterious in its shining. The raccoon looked around, black eyes bright and searching.

  It was all over now. Hollowness, the ringing emptiness and gray cycle of day on day, planting, harvesting so you may survive the winter to plant and harvest again, under the cold indifferent sky.

  By the lagoon a snake waited patiently, moving silently from time to time toward the frog's hoarse croaking. The raccoon tentatively reached out one fine and agile paw to touch the surface of the flickering moon. Shrews darted from their tree-root nests and foraged in the night with the terrible voracity of hunger. Owls flew.

  2

  Night emptied itself into the ocean. The eastern sky stretched thin and pale across the endless forest, and in time was visited by a hollow sun that climbed the day in a furious masquerade of life. Night passed; day came. The animals of darkness sought shelter in the dawn silence,

  and the animals of light blinked at the world.

  Monday woke, remembering, and stood suddenly at the table. The fire was out. He sat back down again, resting his head on his arms, as he had slept. After a while he rose and went outside, not noticing the light except as absence of a darkness that had existed before. He walked down the slope toward the river and the blackberry patch. There was no one there. The little pile of dirt rested inert in the dawn, dark from the moistness of the night. During the day it would dry again, becoming light gray, and then the night wetness would come again, making it dark. Summer would end in a flurry of rain that wet it down, and the leaden sky of winter would press it, flatten it, and when the spring came again grasses would begin to grow. Another summer, another fall—perhaps there would be clear, bright days in fall—and another

  winter . . .

  He turned and went back into the cabin. The day stretched out vacantly before him and he did not know how he was to fill it. He made a small fire because it seemed appropriate, and there was nothing else to do. He stared at it, thinking about fires and cooking, his mind drifting aimlessly. He stood up again suddenly and looked around the cabin, but nothing had happened there. He absently swung the coffee pot in over the tiny pyramid of flame. After a moment he went outside and sat on the porch, but there was nothing to see. When he came back in, there was an acrid smell in the cabin, and he realized he had forgotten to put water in the pot. He swung it out away from the fire, watching the thin tendrils of oily blue smoke that drifted from the spout. Then he sat down again, his elbows propped on the table and his head supported by his hands, trying to remember if there was anything to do. There was nothing.

  The day went in tiny spurts of consciousness, spaced by long intervals of unawareness. He discovered himself standing on the riverbank, watching the current, but could not remember coming down. He became aware that he was sitting again, staring at the fire, but the last he remembered clearly he had been standing. Somewhere.

  The trails his mind followed into the future had all been blocked, save one. And that had begun to spiral in upon itself, twisting and writhing like a gut-shot coyote, without purpose or direction. The current of time had become unchanneled, losing self in an endless futile whirlpool that swirled around him. leaving the center still and empty, with only the vague awareness of motion at the perimeter.

  The sun swung up and passed the center of the slq; and the level of the water-clear whisky in the bottle dropped slowly. He discovered as the morning passed that by spacing swallows he could maintain a blurred sensation of unreality, without emptying the bottle too quickly. In a circle around him as wide as his arms could reach, everything was unreal.

  Beyond that, perhaps there was solidity and actuality; but beyond the radius of his arms, nothing was important. It was a state that suited him, and what little concentration he could gather up he devoted to maintaining a veil between himself and the world around him. The numbness did not in any way remove pain, or longing; but it blunted the sharp edge of importance and made it more difficult for the lance of sudden anguish to dart unexpectedly into his mind.

  The drifting bubble of futility remained whole until mid-afternoon. He had lost the conception of time, since there was nothing to mark one hour off from the next. It was all one, what existed and was no more, and what would be. The isolation of the cabin at the end of the trail was a help, for there was no distraction other than the silent progress of the sun. When he could hold his mind to it better, he thought he could maintain the silence and the lack of motion forever.

  When he heard the soft plodding of a horse approaching he did not look up from the table.

  When the door opened he was momentarily blinded by the brilliance of the afternoon sun that came flooding into the obscure dimness of the room. He looked over without interest and saw the thick figure of Meek silhouetted briefly against the cascading brightness of the doorframe. Then the marshal closed the door behind him and came to sit on the othe
r side of the table from Monday, his face seeming somehow loose, without tone.

  "You look like hell," Meek said after a moment.

  Monday raised his shoulders in a light shrug. He lifted the bottle and rubbed his cheek with the smooth, cool, surface, looking over Meek's shoulder.

  "Feelin' sorry for y'rself ain't goin' t'help nothin'," Meek said.

  Monday said nothing. Meek put the flat of his hands on the table and looked around.

  "Webb here?" he said.

  Monday shook his head. "No."

  "Where's he at?" Meek said.

  "Down t' the coast," Monday said absently. He tilted the bottle up and took a long swallow.

  "Where at down t' the coast?"

  "Saddle Mountain, maybe."

  Meek looked down at the table and swept a crumb off with the flat of his hand. "He tell y' that?"

  Monday nodded.

  Meek was silent again for a moment. Finally he pushed himself up and stood looking down at Monday. "You best come in t' town," he said.

  "Don't feel like comin' in t' town."

  "You best come in anyways. There's trouble."

  Monday half laughed, turning the bottle in his hands, but the sound was faint. "I got troubles enough here," he said absently.

  "Troubles past is past," Meek said without sympathy.

  Monday inclined his head indifferently.

  Deliberately Meek leaned over the table and slapped him with the back of his hand, his face set. "Straighten up, Jaybird," he said coldly.

  Monday recoiled, his cheek stinging, anger beginning.

  Meek braced himself against the table edge and said, "Get y'r gear an' come in t' town with me, hear?"

  "No call t' do that, Meek," Monday said quietly.

  "Call enough. There's trouble an' we're both in it up t' the ass. Preacher Andrews is dead. Webb kilt 'im last night."

  Monday looked up, finally reached. He returned to the world with a sense of loss, his eyes cleared and he saw Meek's drawn face for the first time. He stood up unsteadily and looked down at the table planks, trying to sort it all out in his mind. "What happened?" he said finally.