A Quiet and Peaceful Place
Published by A. Michael Bronston at Smashwords
Copyright 2012
ISBN 978-1-4658-6925-8
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Freddie Jacobson wrestled with the black leather ski boots, his formerly trim waist pinching as he doubled over trying to secure them, while the boots wriggled out of his grasp. Once he had them subdued, he pulled on the laces firmly and tied them off hard, making his feet hurt. He knew that the laces would eventually stretch and the pain would subside, but the support would remain long after he was out. The dog, aged and grey about the snout, lifted itself ponderously, but gamely, from the floor and walked slowly to the door. Once there, the tri-colored Australian Shepherd sat on the matt, and licked its paws.
“Matilda,” Freddie said, using her full name, which he reserved for times when he wished to make some formal expression. “Bed”.
She stared at him in the forlorn hope that she would yet be called to action, but when he looked at her sternly and pointed across the room, she hobbled to the bed by the fire and lay down.
“You should be enjoying your retirement, you know,” he said, pulling on his faded red anorak. “We both should.”
Mattie looked back at him, unsure of how to respond, but he answered for her, saving her the embarrassment.
“I know. Look who’s talking, right? Go ahead, say it.”
He lifted his palm upward while saying the last, a signal that Mattie recognized, and she said, “Moof,” on cue, but without much conviction, as she was trained to do from long past.
“Thanks a lot. That was a rhetorical question, by the way.”
Mattie put her head on her paws now, tiring of the pointless banter and for being castigated for something which she had been encouraged to do. He opened the door to the fire box and threw in a round log of pine, and formed a tent around it with quarter-split aspen that would burn hot and quick, creating a bed of ashes that would keep the pine smoldering for a long time. Then he moved Mattie’s water dish a fraction closer to where she lay, an action which did not really make it any easier for her to reach, but the solicitous gesture did not go unnoticed, for she waged the stump of her bobbed tail in appreciation.
“Try not to burn down the house,” he said to her in parting, as he stepped out onto the porch.
The air was crisp and the sun strong in the early morning, with the musky scent of decayed leaves moving with the lightest of breezes, the surest sign of the spring to come. Above the winter snowpack lay in its entirety, but at the elevation of the cabin, patches of earth that were exposed to the morning and afternoon sun lay bare and wet, the last years leaves layered flat upon themselves, piled atop the previous year’s, and of years before them. Below, at the stream bed, the ground was dry.
He inspected the bottom of the skis, seeing that the wax was intact and serviceable. It would suit his purpose, but he noted that the bases were due for an overhaul, and he thought that he might work them over later that day. Or maybe he would just put them away until next year, and clean them up then, when a new season beaconed and incited his imagination, as they had for some 60 years prior.
In the cool of the morning the corned snow was still frozen firm, allowing his skis to fly over it, just as he had anticipated they would, and why he gotten out so early in the day. Soon, it would be wet and soft, and there would be no gliding easily over the surface. He slid down the icy driveway that was just starting to emerge from its winter hiatus, then rounded the sign at the bottom that indicated that the summer cabins were above and onto the snowmobile track that led up into the high mountains.
He didn’t stay on the track for long, for the snow was firm enough to make it unnecessary, and once he was clear of the forests he took off over the meadows. Even climbing was effortless, the sticky wax grasping the surface, giving a solid kick, and then gliding free. His breathing increased, his vision became myopic, time and place seemed to intertwine. He told himself that he needed to conserve his energy, but he didn’t listen, he was running out of time and he knew he had to make his move soon.
***
The lead group was twenty-strong, Freddie Jacobson somewhere in the middle, with 40 kilometers done and 10 more to go. The mass of humanity flew over the icy track, the feather-weight skis resounding like freight trains passing over the rough ice. With only 10 kilometers left the competitors battled with their own fatigue and vied for position with each other. There were more racers than tracks, and someone would have to relinquish their position for anyone to move forward. His only option was to wait for a downhill, preferably with a sharp turn at the bottom, where the deck could get reshuffled.
With 5 kilometers left, some of the final group had fallen off, but he was still with the leaders. The last big hill was coming up and he tried to conserve energy while not loosing contact. When he began to climb he broke out of the track and ran in the slightly softer snow to the side, gambling that those who stayed in the tracks would have lost most of their wax and would momentarily lose their grip, slowing them down. When the group reformed at the crest of the hill he found himself in eighth place going into the long downhill. He got into a low tuck, trying to draft behind the skier in front. It was a good tactic for gaining momentum, but once the acceleration started, there needed to be somewhere for him to go.
He timed it for the turn at the bottom of the hill where he broke out of the track again and hoped that the extra speed would carry him around the outside of the bend where he could pass the group while they were trying to handle the press of people in the treacherous conditions. He was well past the thickest part of the pack when someone on the inside lost it and slid underneath the person to their outside, setting off a chain reaction. He cut to the outside of the track and avoided the oncoming sprawl of bodies, but the evasion cost him time, while the three who were most in front remained free from the pile-up and sped off from the remainder of the group. He crossed the finish line alone in fourth place, happy to be finished, but not with the results.
“Nice race, coach.”
He looked up to see Abigail, one of his athletes.
“Thanks, Abby. Not bad at all.”
It wouldn’t do to voice disappointment with his finish to one of his athletes, to whom he always exhorted to know that they were their own greatest competitor.
“Where is everyone?”
She pointed to a spot away from the finish area where the team had set up a small camp. The younger athletes would not begin their national championship for 2 days, but the coaches couldn’t resist running in the largest ski marathon in the country, since they were so close by and the schedules worked.
He saw among them the girl he’d been seeing for the last months, Trish. They lived in the same town, where the national team trained. She worked in the office for the team. She was talking to Seamus, one of the coaches from his division and from a close by town. They stood square to each other, both unconsciously swaying at the hips, in rhythm to each other, but going in opposite directions, big smiles all around. He looked for his bag so he could slip into warm ups.
“Hi Freddie,” she said when she saw him, too brightly, surprised and trying to cover her awkwardness.
“Hi,” he said, without enthusiasm, giving his attention to getting into dry clothes, trying not to notice what he had been seeing.
“I was just telling Seamus I’ve got to run,” Trish said. “The boss is looking for me. I just wanted to see you finish.”
“You missed that part, I think,” he thought but didn’t say, but managed to say, “thanks,” anyway.
“I’ll see you in Michigan,” she said, touching his arm in a way that conveyed that she thought she should offer some level of intimacy, but one which might be construed with a shade of ambiguity.
“Okay,” he said, as if it mattered not the least. “See ya there.”
“I didn’t know,” Seamus said when she was gone, but who had read their interaction correctly. “Sorry.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Fred replied, not meeting his eyes. “She, on the other hand, does.”
“Well, I’m sorry anyway.”
“Better to find out now, for both of us. It’s going to be a busy week and sleeping arrangements are complicated enough already.”
“Look Fred, I don’t want to start…” Seamus said, trying to mitigate the damage.
“Too late for that, it would seem,” Freddie said, stuffing his unused clothing back into the duffle. “Let’s just try to get through the week.”
Freddie ran alongside Abby as she crested the hill in the woman’s 5 kilometer race. He did the math as quickly as he could, and yelled the information to her as she came by.
“You’re 10 seconds out of first! Don’t slow down! Don’t slow down! Hold your tuck off the hills until you feel you’re losing speed. Then quicken your step uphill. Tempo! Tempo!”
All of the coaches were passing similar information, depending on the relative positions of their athletes, and what type of encouragement worked for each one of them. Once the skiers were past they put their skis on and took a shortcut back toward the finish stadium. When Freddie arrived he found Abby in celebration with her parents. She finished third, good enough for a medal.
“Great job, Abby,” he told her. “Next year, you got it for sure.”
Abby looked at her parents then, who nodded and smiled, but holding back from the excitement they felt, letting her tell him about the decision they had come to.
“Seamus says I can train with the college team next year if I want. We talked about it,” she said, turning to her parents, who nodded agreement with her. “I think I’m going to do it.”
Seamus coached the juniors and the university team in his town.
“Only because you did so much to get her to this level,” her mother added quickly, trying to take the sting out of it by throwing him a bone.
“Sure, sure,” he said. “That’s great.”
He really did want what was best for the athletes, and there was no doubt that this would help her advance. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a sense that something was being taken from him anyway.
Seamus was nearby with his team and saw what was going on. He came to Freddie after Abby and her family departed.
“Guess I get to say sorry again,” he said. “I told her that before this trip, if it matters, depending on how today went.”
“It does matter,” Freddie said. “It sucks even more. Is there anything else you want? My cars not worth anything, but you can have it. You want it? What about my job? That’s not worth a whole lot either. Go ahead, it’s yours.”
“You know it’s best for her,” Seamus said lamely.
“It must have been best for Trish too. Probably best for me even more. More than that, I think things are best of all for you. Everything’s always for the best, isn’t it?”
“Alright,” Seamus said, thinking Freddie was taking it too far now and turning back towards his team that was packing up to leave. “I’ll see you next year.”
“You want next year? I’ll give you that too. Go ahead, take it!” Freddie shouted to the back that was walking away from him. “I don’t need it, take it!”
He didn’t come back the next year, or the year after that.
***
“Don’t let up,” Freddie Jacobson said out loud as he fought against the shortness of breath while ascending the hill to the cabin, as if he were coaching someone other than himself. “Keep going!”
The skis rattled to a stop at the foot of the step that led to the porch. It was a fantastic ski, fast and furious over hill and dale. The anorak was tied around his waist, a concession to the advancing spring, and the snow was turning to slush, but still fast. Another hour and skiing would become a slog.
“Why’d you have to think of that?” he asked himself, leaning the skis against the shellacked blond colored pine logs that made up the walls of the cabin. “That was almost 40 years ago. If you’re going to daydream about something, why not do it about a race that you win and get the girl. Historical accuracy might be dispensed with at this point, I would think. It’s not like there’s anyone around here who still cares.”
Mattie heard his voice outside berating himself and was in the act of getting to her feet when he opened the door. She took one step out of the bed as if she were coming to him, but then stretched and lay down again with a yawn, albeit with hind quarters trying to wag the tail that wasn’t there.
“Hi Woggle,” he said, scratching her ears. When she tried to wag her tail as a puppy, he called her Wiggle-Waggle, which devolved into Doggle-Woggle, which in turn was shortened to just Woggle. “I won’t tell you too much so you don’t feel bad about missing it, but I’ll give you a hint. It didn’t suck.”
She licked her chops appreciatively, savoring the flavor of whatever it was he was trying to express.
“Yep, we kicked some serious ass out there today, Miss Mattie,” he said, now scratching her back where it made her leg twitch. “Of course, one needs to be careful, you know. The ass that gets kicked, could just be your own.”
Offering proof of that warning, Freddie Jacobson rose stiffly to his full height and hobbled to the seat by the fire. Taking off the boots was only slightly less difficult than putting them on, but it certainly felt better to be taking them off. The chair was by the window where the spring sun poured through and he sat in the glare, tired but satiated, fulfilled yet anxious. It was in the dying of the moment when he could still relish in the joy of pure motion, but was able to see past it into the emptiness beyond that was yet to be filled and yawed open like a chasm. He didn’t want the moment he was in to fade, nor even the one to which he was transported back to, for fear that there would be nothing but nothingness to replace it. He thought of what he might do next and fought against his fatigue, but he lost the battle and lay down on the couch where the sun was warm and inviting, and commenced almost immediately to doze.
***
“Are you ever going to get up?” his wife asked.
“I don’t think so,” Freddie answered, sleepily. “Is there a reason why I should?”
“The wedding is in 2 hours. Aren’t you going to get ready?”
He took a deep breath and weighed the possible consequences of arguing the point, a pathetic one at that, or just doing it to avoid another tiff. The stupid wedding was right downstairs and it couldn’t take him more than 20 minutes to put on an appropriate shirt and whatever else that had to go with it.
Lying on the couch in the hotel should have been peaceful and relaxing, but it couldn’t be. Not then, not ever. If nature abhors a vacuum, he thought, marriage surely must abhor quiet. The fact that he’d gone along with everything up to that point should have counted for something, especially with his leg in a cast up to his thigh thanks to having had his smashed ankle surgically reconstructed. The painkillers were a fine consolation prize, but it was a major injury after all, and lying on a couch for a couple of hours shouldn’t have been too much to ask.
To be fair, he hid from her how much pain he was really in. He’d already learned that it only made things worse. Being injured, or worse yet, sick, seemed to set a choice stage for her to throw a fit of any kind where he inevitably ended up having to minister to some ridiculous problem she always managed to come up with. In the end he always found himself being held up as selfish and ungrateful and having to apologize for something, God knows what. It was far easier to suffer in silence.
“Tell me when you’re ready to go, then I’ll get up and get ready, and then we’ll both be ready at the same time, for once,” he said, regretting it immediately.
It started in the usual way and by the time it was time to go down to the wedding it had progressed to the point where she was refusing to leave. He tried to expedite the process of getting through to the apologies so they could just get on with it, and the 2 hours he had hoped to rest was spent in his least favorite but most common pastime, bickering. By the time they got out of the room the wedding was over, but she managed to use his injury as an excuse, saying that they watched from the hall where there was a comfortable chair.
He did find an armchair in the reception room, taking it as a sign of divine providence, and finding a cocktail server who kept a steady stream of Scotch whiskey (neat), coming his way as another. He regaled a small group with the details of the smashing of the ankle, only having to embellish a few unimportant details to make it more dramatic. It turned out he was a minor celebrity for the moment, the local paper had told the story of how the former ski racing champion had been injured in an ice climbing accident.
Just about the time when the pain had faded into the back-round of a well balanced and well opiated Scotch filled numbness, with the distraction of playful interaction and joyful hilarity, his wife announced that she was ready to leave. He climbed dutifully onto the crutches and said good night to all, making their way to the elevator. During the ride up his wife said she had had a nice time after all, and despite how it had started, Freddie felt happy after a pleasant evening.
When the door was closed behind them and he was making his way toward the bed, she said, “Those people sure liked hearing about your big adventure.”
“I suppose,” he said, cautiously. “They seemed nice enough.”
“You think? Well, I guess you would, having people falling all over themselves telling you how great you are.”
“Oh no,” Freddie said. “Not this, not now. Please, not now.”
But it was now, and as he lay on the bed facing the wall, he murmured quietly under his breath, “Dear God, not this, not now. Peace and quiet, can we just have peace and quiet? I’ll do anything for peace and quiet.”
***
“Peace and quiet,” he whispered through the dream, waking slowly on the couch. He opened his eyes and tried to stretch, but found that he could not move. There was a dog’s head fitted perfectly into the curvature of his neck, and its back was pressed firmly against his.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
His voice woke Mattie up and she did stretch, her extended legs pushing into the back of the couch, which forced him over the edge.
“You too?” he accused her from the floor. “Why have all the women in my life always had such a problem with my taking a nap once in a while?”
She looked over her shoulder at him, seeing what the commotion was about, then sighing profoundly, went back to sleep.
“Fine then,” he said, his voice mildly indignant, but with the resignation of those who have suffered long, and lifting himself to his feet he went to the window to observe the day. There was a heavy cloud just beginning to come over the ridge that promised a spring storm for later on in the afternoon.
“Kowabunga!” Freddie said, suddenly wide awake. Mattie’s ears pointed up and her wide eyes questioned him from the couch. “Surfs up, Baby!”
Mattie jumped from where she was sleeping and went expectantly to the cabin door. He went to the bench where he kept the vise and material for tying flies and selected from the cups of finished bugs a variety of sizes and shapes of the Baetis mayfly that inhabited the stream below the cabin. Generically known as the Blue-winged Olive, the aquatic insect lived its life clinging to the rocks below the tumbling flow, waiting for the moment to emerge from its nymphal shuck and fulfill its purpose, to mate and die. It was in the spring, in the moments before the storm, when the air was dense with humidity and heavy with portent that the Baetis assailed the surface in numbers sufficient to ensure that enough of the species would survive the gauntlet laid down by the frenzied trout and join the mating swarms above the water.
Mattie ran out ahead when he opened the door. He waddled to the bench on the decking around the cabin to where his boots were drying from the day before. He tried to keep the neoprene stocking feet of his waders from touching the surface by walking on his heels, thinking that this would save them from wear, not realizing that this was indeed wearing the heels thin and that they would soon be useless. After slipping on the boots he selected a light fly-rod from the rack and followed Mattie down the trail.
By the streams edge Mattie was inspecting her perimeter, sniffing random tufts of grass for anything untoward that may have invaded her protectorate in her absence. She had worn her own path to this purpose over the years, following the natural boundary provided by the stream bed, but along those of her own choosing to the rear of the cabin. There were multiple paths, the concentric nature of the ever shrinking circle bearing testimony to her fading abilities, yet she would not deny her duty and went about her business carefully.
Freddie Jacobson scanned the surface film of the slick water sections for the telltale slanting black wing of the recently emerged Baetis, and saw none. But he did see the swirl of fish nearly rising to the top, telling him that the emergence was under way and he selected a fly that imitated the nymph that was riding in the water column waiting to break free of the surface. It was not a fly he could see in the water, he needed to find a fish and cast above it in the current and look for the response. If the water broke around where the fly should be, he would set the hook on the hope that the fish had taken it.
He looked for a likely place where the larger Brown Trout would station themselves, and watched for the timing of the swirl. There was a large fin that appeared every 5 seconds on a drift before a rock. He calculated how fast the water was flowing over that spot, and the distance a fly could travel in 5 seconds time. Letting the line fly, he casted smoothly and regularly, keeping it in a holding pattern away from where the fish was, so that it would not be spooked by its passage. When the fin appeared he sent the line shooting towards its target, dropping the fly upstream just as the fish went under. He counted out the seconds in his mind, and when the fish rose to the where the fly should be he pulled the line taut and the game was on.
***
It was June 21st, the longest day of the year, and the group had been floating the river since morning. They were still upon it as the sun was lost over the canyon rim and the long twilight of the summer solstice settled over the water. Freddie Jacobson rowed the drift-boat, the Dory-like craft, over the slick calm waters. The last of the rapids was past and there was only one more bend of smooth water before the final riffle to the take-out.
The customers, for whom the trip was ostensibly planned, were to arrive the next morning, but today was for the five of them who worked for the firm. The action had been non-stop all day, the cicadas plopping noisily onto the surface and the trout gorging on the extravagant fare.
It was an uncertain hatch, the cicada. Each year was different, sometimes they came, sometimes they didn’t. One of the must-do events in the lifetime of the fisherman, people studied local lore for evidence of what the hatch might be and when it would come. Sages were consulted, the old guides of the river, who always gave the same prediction. ‘When they come, they’ll be here. If they don’t, they won’t.’ But this year they did come, and at just the right time.
They were a subdued group now, mellow after having fulfilled the dream, still casting but satisfied to have cigar in hand, which vied for their attention with the whiskey on ice, as they meandered toward the boat ramp. The fish were down for the night and it seemed there was little else to expect from the day than to savor its end.
“Pull your rod in, Michael,” Freddie said from the boatman’s seat.
“What for,” Michael asked from the front of the boat.
“I’ve got an idea.”
He reached under the seat and took out a small cylindrical case that held a 4 piece, eight-weight fly rod. The ‘Big Gun’ he called it. He loaded it with a heavy line at the end of the leader, salt-water style, for big game. From the bag of fly boxes he dug up one from the bottom that was seldom used and housed flies that he’d always wanted to try, but was always too focused on something else to bother with.
There were 3 flies that were made to resemble the mouse, and he picked the biggest, hairiest, ugliest one in the box, tied it on, and handed the rod to Michael.
“See that rock where the current comes off the point over there?”
“Sure.”
“Fling this sucker onto the rock and let it bounce off the point into the water.”
“If you say so,” Michael said unconvinced, but ready for the new game.
The other of their boats was floating nearby and saw what was going on, so they took up their position as the peanut gallery, heckling Michael as he lofted the unwieldy lump of hair, leather, and foam. With jeers and cheers intermixed, the cheery eyed performer made much of his attempt to swing the faux-rodent through the settling shade and applied it to the side of the rock with an audible SMACK! before it splashed down into the swirling pool.
Barely had the ripples begun to spread when the water erupted into foam and chaos. A true denizen from lowest depths that fed only on the unwary of its own kind and the unfortunate terrestrial creature that happed into its domain, had taken the mouse for its evening meal in one glorious leap. There was screaming and cheering and laughing as Michaels eyes went wide watching the reel screeching as the line paid out.
The fight went on until it was nearly dark, but when Michael held the fish lovingly in his arms before releasing it, Freddie snapped a picture he was to carry with him forever more. On Michaels face was the look of pure contentment, happiness, joy, and friendship. It was what every moment aspired to be, and by comparison to which all others fell short.
Freddie told himself that the day would come when all moments would be like this and he would have the time to live them over and over. He couldn’t know that in only a few short weeks the firm would fail, his friendships would fade, and from then on he would have nothing but time to fill in whatever way he saw fit.
***
Thunder rumbled long and low from beyond the ridge, and the wind brought gusts as the storm grew near. Freddie sat on bank by the stream, releasing the last of the fish for the day. They continued to rise to the duns that were still yet coming off the water, and the air was full with clouds of mayflies that performed their rites liltingly in the air. He watched the females diving to the surface and releasing their eggs, unmolested by the trout, which were focused on more vulnerable prey.
Only the chattering of the riffled waters filled his ears, the quietude that persisted beyond the banks was lost in the ever constant flow, with a noisome clatter that resounded with the sound of glasses and plates being handled in a busy tavern. It was the sound of company, as if all whom he thought of and missed were brought together to tell of where they’ve been and what they’ve done. He too, would tell his story for them, laughing over the painful parts, as did everyone else.
There wasn’t any loneliness by the water, it was filled with the voices of happy memories. It was the laughing recitation of best moments, and he listened to the sound of the telling of the tale as he sat alone on the grass that had begun to grow after the long winter. Soon he would say goodbye to all, until next time, when he would come back to them again.
Mattie saw him from downstream, at the furthest length of her patrol, and she turned up the path to come to him. He watched her come, carefully reviewing each rock on the trodden path. She was halfway to him when a bird that had been perched on the bank was surprised by her, and she lunged for it, but losing her footing on the uneven bank, she fell into the frigid water.
“Mattie!” he screamed, throwing away the rod in his hand, and he ran down the path to where she was being carried away by the current. Her feeble paws lashed at the water to no effect, and she was pulled out to the deeper, stronger water.
Freddie saw what was happening and without a thought dove into the water where the current was strongest so that he would be flushed with it to where she was. His waders filled with water, which made him heavy, and unable to swim, but he projected himself off the rocks, gaining speed among the rapids, until he was able to grab her and they floated together with the stream.
Her breathing was wet from having gone under and she was coughing while trying to keep her head up. With one arm around her body, he used the other to try and pull them to the shore. In trying to keep her head up, he went under many times himself, and by the time they made it into an eddy, he was choking up water too.
He shoved her unto the rocks and was finally able to roll himself out. The waders were filled and he had to lay with his head downhill to let them drain. When he could sit up, he tried to get Mattie to her feet, but she could not stand, so he picked her up and ran with her in his arms back to the cabin. When she saw her bed by the fire, she struggled to get out of his grip, and nearly fell onto the cushion.
***
Mattie leaped out of Freddie’s arms and into the trough of water that was there for the tired dogs to cool off in after their strenuous run. The finish whistle had sounded, the sheep were corralled in the pen, and Mattie was officially crowned as the only Australian Shepherd to ever win the North American Sheepdog Championship. It was thought that an Aussie would never be able to compete with the Border Collies, their natural abilities were just too different. Not unequal, just different.
The Border Collie used ‘the eye’, and a crouching, predatory stance to intimidate the stock into going where the dog steered, directed from afar by its handler. Aussies were expected to herd through brute force, biting heels and barking at the animals, making them do what it wanted, without the finesse and delicacy of the Collie. Freddie didn’t know anything about ranching or sheep when he got the puppy, playing with a ball or chasing a stick was all the sport he had looked forward to.
But there was something bred into him as well, and he knew a champion athlete when he saw one. He was amazed at the intelligence and agility of her. Her speed and endurance, even as a small pup, was astounding.
It was not far, in geographic terms, from the life of the mountaineer to that of the rancher. They occupied much of the same lands, though they were worlds apart. Freddie took the pup across the valley to the ranch where his neighbor ran sheep and cattle, and had a kennel full of every type of herding dog there was. He explained to his confused neighbor that he wanted to train the dog, but had trouble making him understand why. He didn’t have any livestock and wasn’t planning on getting any.
“I think she can compete,” Freddie said.
“Training the dog is one thing,” the sardonic rancher said. “Training you is another one altogether. Good part is the dog can run cattle pretty much by its self, if you stay out of its way.”
“I’m talking about cutting out sheep, and moving small herds,” Freddie said, knowing what the man was going to say.
“You’re crazy,” he was predictably told.” Them dogs ain’t made for that. Could be dangerous for the sheep, too.”
But Freddie was able to convince the man to let him and Mattie borrow some of his sheep in their summer grazing lands to train with, promising to pay full value for them if any were injured. Over the coming years the two of them learned to perform the herding trials event together.
Freddie was waving to the cheering crowd in the stands who were calling wildly for the new champion that had stolen their hearts. She sat panting happily in the water, lapping up a drink in between breaths. There were sheep all over the mountainside, some in holding pens, others grazing on their own after having been herded by the dogs. It was as if she knew the audience was celebrating her, and she basked in their adulation. Then, through the cheering, the panicked bleat of a frightened ewe was heard, and everyone turned to look up to the ridge where the sound was coming from.
Two coyotes had infiltrated the outermost herd and had separated one of the sheep from the others. One was attacking its feet, and once it was down the other went for its throat. Mattie also turned her sharp eyes toward the sound, and in an instant she burst out of the water and was racing up the hill. It didn’t seem possible that she could run faster than she had moments ago while winning a major international competition, but she darted up the mountainside fairly flying.
The two predators saw her coming, and placed themselves between her and the victim, knowing they had her outnumbered and expecting to intimidate her into retreating. But Mattie never slowed down and threw her full weight into the first coyote at a flat 30 miles per hour, only the steepness of the incline keeping her from going faster. The coyote tumbled under her, rolling several times as she went right through it. Not slowing down, she made a short arching turn and pursued the other.
The second coyote had seen enough and beat a hasty retreat. Mattie quickly ran it down, and in the way no other dog but the Aussie can do, she bit through the coyotes heel at full speed, bringing it to a stop. The now horrified attacker, finding its self having gone from predator to prey so quickly, turned to make a stand, but before it could find its footing she was on it.
The ferocity of the attack was terrifying to watch; she flew at the coyote’s throat and roared as she ripped it from the body. The outrage in her was appalling, destroying the coyote with a viciousness that was unearthly to witness. She threw aside the lifeless body and began to go after the other when Freddie blew the signal to come on the whistle. She turned without pause and raced down the mountain as she had gone up. He pointed to the water trough, and she leapt into it, sending a wave flying over the closest viewers, her face and chest covered in blood.
Back in the water, she again panted happily, smiling broadly. The stunned crowd murmured in the stands, not knowing whether to be frightened for her, or of her. But one keen observer of the herding sports turned to his companion and said, “Now, THAT is why you keep an Aussie on the ranch.”
***
He woke in the middle watches of the night, and knew from the chill that gathered around him that the last embers of the waning blaze would soon be going cold. The blanket was drawn heavily over Mattie in her bed, the corners tucked underneath. His head was upon the cushion beside her where he was lying when he had fallen asleep. His arm was draped over all, comforting her and himself, as if protecting her just as she had him throughout her life. He knew immediately that she was gone.
At first he did not move, avoiding having to acknowledge the reality, and he moved his hand over the thick fur of her neck, saying, “Good girl, good Mattie, good Woggle,” over and over again.
He finally got up and remade the fire, but then lay back down on the floor by the cushion on the river rock hearth and waited for the dawn. He waited for the sunny side of the cabin to be warmed by the spring day, and then dug through the wet and cold dark loaming soil on that side of the house. The daffodils were beginning to sprout and he tried not to damage them, knowing she would like to have them there where she used to bite off their heads so that he would come chase her away.
In the deep hole he laid her on the bed in the curled up sleeping position she was in, and finally covered the grave deep with rocks so that she be not violated by those marauders she so successfully had kept at bay in the past. When all was finished he sat by her in the sun until the day was nearly spent, when the unaccustomed sound of a heavy motor came up the hill to him, and he raised his eyes to look.
The county snowplow was clearing the road to open the loop through the cabins for the summer. The driver saw him there by the wall and stopped the plow.
“Hey there,” the driver called, walking up the drive.
“Afternoon,” Freddie replied, but not getting up.
“Looks like you got yourself a jump on summer up here. Be a little easier now, with the road clear.”
“I guess so,” Freddie said.
The driver looked around and noticed there were no snowmobile tracks to the cabin.
“How you get up here, anyway?” he asked.
“I live here. This is home.”
“Really?” the driver asked, looking at Freddie differently now.
“Sure,” he answered, but thinking he needed to give some kind of explanation he added, “It’s peaceful. And quiet. Peace and quiet; what more can you want?”
The way he asked the question suggested that it was obvious that there was nothing more that could be wanted, but there was an irony in his voice too, suggesting that there was a joke to be found at the end of this universal truth.
“Well, have a good one,” the driver said, having run out of things to say.
“You too.”
When morning came Freddie woke on the couch with his sleeping bag draped over him. He went out onto the decking of the cabin and saw that the day was starting just as the two before had, clear and cold. He walked around to the side of the cabin that was still enveloped in frost and shade and looked at the mound of rocks among the daffodils. Some of the flowers were preparing to open for the first time and it made him happy.
The skis were leaning on the rail where he left them and he strapped them together and hung them in the shed where they would stay for the summer. He then remembered his fishing rod that he had thrown aside when he saw Mattie fall and he went and got it. When these two tasks were completed he went back inside and sat by the fire, thinking of what to do next, but nothing came.
Soon cars were coming up the newly plowed road and families came along, opening up their cabins. He could hear his neighbors talking, looking over what may have been damaged through the winter. The children went down to the stream, fishing poles in hand along with cans of worms, hoping to manage dinner, like good scouts.
Freddie went out onto the deck and sat in the sun, waving to his neighbors as they worked. They waved back and called a greeting, the kind that was friendly and vague, and just low enough in amplitude that it could not be clearly understood. He knew they thought he was a crazy old man, and while they wanted to remain on good terms with him, they wanted to keep a well established distance between them. He didn’t blame them for thinking that, they were probably right, and he respected their wishes by not overstepping the boundary they had established.
The fishermen were having success and he watched as several of the trout he had caught and released many times go to their doom. He reminded himself that the thinning of the herd was not something to be regretted in this case. He didn’t have it in him to do it himself, and the health of the river would be the better for it in the long run.
When they came up the hill to show off their catch, he went down to the river and walked along the bank going downstream. He went past where Mattie had gone in, past where he had dove after her, past where he pulled her out, to where he could neither see nor hear the cabins above. There was a rock that he could step onto that protruded into the current where the water cascaded noisily over the fall. He sat down and turned his face toward the warming sun and listened. They were all there, just as they were before, and he listened again to the pleasant conversation that was carried on between the pattering of the waves. It was distant and hard to make out at first, but soon he was sure he heard the sound of a distinctive and insistent bark, calling for him to come and play. He smiled and nodded his head with his eyes closed, and promised her that he would.
The End
Thank you for reading. I can be contacted at:
a.michaelbronston@yahoo.com