Zanshin: The Evolution of Mindfulness

____________

Z A N S H I N

by Dick Morgan

                                        The Evolution of Mindfulness

        I was out for a walk yesterday along a route that takes me past the neighborhood light-rail stop. Most days a steady stream of colorful people pass to and from its approaches. I like to think I am a keen observer of people, and an astute judge of character based on people's appearance, gait, demeanor, and eye contact. It is part of my martial arts training: threat assessment, adversarial size-up, safety zones, exit strategy. When I pass through crowds of people, I am continuously practicing these strategic mental exercises. I have been practicing this for fifty years; it is a completely automatic, almost subconscious exercise. I'd like to think after all this time, I'd be pretty good at it; I'd be wrong.

        I'm walking along, looking at people as they pass me; here's a pretty young girl with pigtails and tattoos, a free spirit and no threat to me. Here's a humongous giant of a man in a serapé, size alone would make him a formidable opponent. Fortunately, he appears to be passing by with no eye contact. Here's a beggar with his hand out. I give him a buck. Here's a young adult black man, leather coat, head band, raggedy shoes. Cocky, jaunty walk with his head bobbing up and down. And now he's looking at me. What does he want? How many steps is he from striking distance? Alert! His hands are coming out of his pockets!

        This black guy smiles, salutes me, and says, “How you doing, Captain?” I'm wearing my Greek fisherman's hat with my Vietnam ribbons on the brim, and it looks a bit like the scrambled egg designs of a Navy captain's hat. I was so taken aback by that, by the time I figured out what he meant and turn to thank him, he was gone. I had assessed him largely by profile, and I had been completely wrong. It was a realization that my mental processes were stuck in a rut.

        I am sure my martial viewpoint is indelible to a certain degree, that I will always think strategically. I will always have a defense plan. I carry four knives, after all. But now, without martial arts practice echoing fresh in my mind, I begin to view situations around me without as much defensiveness. Since I have stopped going to practice, I am beginning to realize that my consciousness is shifting. My mindfulness is beginning to become aware of different challenges, different goals, different ethics. I am learning that the dichotomies automatically assumed in martial practice-- good and bad, friend or enemy, win or lose-- are all artificial mental constructs, and many times blind us to deeper truths. I am learning the value of projecting peace and good will instead of toughness and invulnerability. I am learning to quiet the mind so that I can listen better with the heart.

        I can relate to people on a more humane level. Instead of adversarial posturing, there is a celebration of equality and sharing. There is a new feeling of connectedness, an almost joyous unity. I feel my spirit expanding in a new way, not yet envisioned when I wrote Warrior Mind. I am surprised by this shift in my mindful practice, and thankful at the same time. I am looking into the future with more anticipation, and more joy.

         Merry Christmas.

                                       One forest, many trees.

                                       One tree, many branches.

                                       One branch, many leaves.

                                                                     (--unknown)

                                                  Namasté.

Quote

                

                    “What wisdom can you find

                                             that is greater than kindness?”

                                                                        – Jean Jacques Rouseau

Z A N S H I N: The Journey to Awakening

________________

Z A N S H I N

                                           Journey to Awakening

        After fifty years of martial arts practice, I am no longer able to continue.

      There are several reasons for this, but the main reason is my health has changed. I was able to keep practicing in a limited way after having both hips replaced, but when my heart developed an irregular rhythm, the medications to correct that left me weak and light-headed. The past few months have been a difficult time of readjustment to this new person that I have become. I have less stamina, less energy, less breath. Even my thought patterns changed. I have gradually been able to compensate for my new limitations, but martial arts practice was no longer helping. My balance was off. My speed was gone. And worst of all, my sense of indomitability had vanished, and a kind of desperation had settled into its place for a time.

         I have come to terms with all of this. My health is now balanced out, and I am exercising more, and eating less. All in all, I am feeling better than I have in months, despite going or not going to practice.

      Of course there are other reasons I stopped going. The commute was an hour's drive during rush hour, after which my brain would be fried and my heart would be irregular from the stress, not to mention ten dollars worth of gas for every practice. I don't miss that.

        But more central to the point is that my teacher, Grandmaster Jim Garrison retired from active involvement and moved two hundred miles away. The new Soke (headmaster) is Master Michael Martyn, a man with less time and less rank than I, but who is much better trained, and well suited to the position. Pacific Rim Martial Arts Academy, where I have practiced for the last 35 years, could not be in better hands than Mr. Martyn's. And it is his judgment that I am ill-suited to be a student at Pacific Rim any longer.

       The system has evolved, the techniques have evolved. I have not. I am “old school,” rougher than appropriate for the youngsters of today. They are uncomfortable with us old, rough black belts, and some of them drop out rather than toughen up.

        And of course there is the subjective view of respect. I was perceived as being disrespectful by discontinuing a seminar, when in actuality, I was having a medical emergency. But no one asked me how I felt at the time. I have never intended disrespect to anyone in the martial arts world, let alone my long-time teacher, who taught that seminar. I just thought at the time that it would be a great idea to not have an atrial fibrillation induced stroke. I suppose I should have told them I was leaving; That was probably the disrespectful part.  But I wasn't feeling very well, and not thinking straight either. As I said, my view of this incident is completely subjective.  As are all views. Anyway, it is in the past now, and time to move on.

        One has to think about this; I practiced in this system for 40 years-- five years with Mr. Kim at his school in downtown Portland, and 35 years at Pacific Rim. For 39 of those years, I was viewed as a good student; I was polite, respectful, tenacious, and eager to participate. And then the last year, my fiftieth year in the martial arts, my fortieth in this system, I become less active, less able to participate, more distracted by my own crises.
It was simply time for me to go my own way and find my own balance.  The decision for me to go was mutual, and I have only one regret; the black belts were my friends, and I will miss spending time with them.

        But I have not stopped practice. The principles and philosophy of Hapkido are indelibly etched into my brain, and will affect my thoughts and actions the rest of my life. For that I am thankful. I've only stopped going to class.

       My impression of the heart of Hapkido is that we must strive to optimize our force-of-being; that is to say, our health, our mental acuity, our personal integrity, and our connections to those who touch our lives. By practicing Hapkido, we are seeking to manifest our best selves, seeking to be strong both outwardly and inwardly. The actual self defense techniques are only an expression of this. The real practice is within oneself. With this in mind, my practice is ongoing and uninterrupted.

Karate is no different from other martial arts in fostering the traits of courage, courtesy, integrity, humility, and self-control in those who have found its essence.

– Gichen Funikoshi, founder of Shodokan Karate

               After so many years, not practicing martial arts is like awakening from a lucid dream, and trying to remember who you are again.  I'm in the midst of creating a new paradigm for myself, and am no longer accountable to anyone else for its success or failure.  So, who am I, and what are my goals? The goal of seeking to manifest my best self has not changed. In fact, it has intensified. I have more time to devote to regular exercise-- walking, swimming, circuit training, heavy bag work. I'd like to get in better shape so that eventually, I can maybe get my side kick back. Round-house too. I'd like it to not hurt when I arise from a chair. I'd like to not find an automatic frown on my face when I look in a mirror. I'd like to look at my rank certificates hanging in my writing room, and smile. It was all good. But it can be better still.

        This is the life I find myself within:

                  Let it be mindful,

                              Let it be purposeful,

                                                Let it be joyful.

                                               * * * * * * *

ZANSHIN: Change

______________

Z A N S H I N

by Dick Morgan

Change

       I thought about starting this article with the title, The End of an Era. My Teacher for the last 40 years, Grandmaster James R. Garrison, is stepping down from his position as headmaster of Pacific Rim Martial Arts Academy. He is moving out of the area, retiring to a farm near Roseberg, in Southern Oregon. He will still keep his position as Vice President of the World Oriental Martial Arts Federation, still oversee WOMAF business outside of Korea, still be in charge of promotion and rank, and still conduct seminars at Pacific Rim, as well as occasional seminars around the United States. And he will still teach at Pacific Rim occasionally, but not all the time. He is stepping down as Soke (headmaster) of Pacific Rim.

       Grandmaster Garrison's martial art history is extraordinary. He has studied under a list of masters that reads like the Who's Who of martial arts: Robert Dewar, Jhoon Rhee, Koichi Tohei, Walter Todd, Wally Jay, John Chow Hoon, Willy Cahill, Mitsugi Saotome, Sangcook Kim. Grandmaster Kim took Mr. Garrison with him on many trips to the far east to study martial arts from masters in Japan, Hong Kong, and Korea. Together, we have had seminar experience with Dan Inosanto, Fumio Toyoda, James Nakmura, Ellis Amdur, George Ledyard, Rene Ledemeyer, Art Gitlan, and many more I can't remember. Through Grandmaster Garrison, I have met and made friends with many accomplished martial artists through the years: Tom Wilson, Steve Fedux, Jason Mix-- there are just too many to remember. And those who have advanced to the rank of black belt under grandmaster Garrison Garrison have all been stellar individuals with high integrity, because so much was required of them.

       The picture is clear. Pacific Rim has always been a Mecca for those who wanted serious training. And of all the martial arts personalities I have met, I still believe Grandmaster Garrison to be the best teacher I have ever studied under in my fifty years in the martial arts. He brought not only his long history of serious martial art practice, but a life-long study of its history and philosophy. He has the most complete martial arts library in the Northwest, and possibly in the United States. He has the complete written records of the entire history of Hapkido, and the only filmed copy of the entire 48 katas of Shosuishuriu Jujitsu. Many of the Sosuishitsu (renamed) practitioners don't even know there are 48 katas, and only practice the 42 they know of.

       These forty years have been an extraordianry experience, an inimitable and stellar

personal history of my own. I feel rich with it.

But the history will continue. The new Soke, or headmaster, is Master Michael Martyn, sixth degree Judoka, and North American representative for the World Martial Arts Federation. A high work ethic and a fierce competitor, Master Martyn has practiced Judo for 25 years. This is a man who, at an international seminar, walked up to the Japanese students, and introduced himself the same as we do at Pacific Rim. He bowed and said oni-gashimatsu (Thank you for what I am about to learn) to the biggest Japanese Judoka, a man who towered over him. A man who threw him down hard and repeatedly before showing any mercy, slowing down his movement so that Mr. Martyn could learn. A lasting friendship developed between Mr. Martyn and Mr. Agamisu, who later became the head Judo instructor for Tokei University-- the source of most of Japan's Olympic Judo team members. Several of the Tokei University judo team members, all Olympic medalists, have come to Pacific Rim to train with us.

This was a man who endured a Judo seminar sponsored by the World Martial Arts Federation in Tokyo, And after five grueling days of training, was the only non-Japanese student to finish the seminar. Afterwards, he shrugged as he told Grandmaster Garrison, “It was just like training at Pacific Rim!”

       This is a man who has a thriving Friday night Judo class, filled with adults and kids of all ages, eager for randori. ( Judo free practice)

         Pacific Rim will be fine.

         I still don't like change.

Fire in the Night (A novella)

       This is a very long piece, a novella, actually.  On regular paper, it is 120 pages.  If this is your first visit to this site, do me a favor.  Go to the very bottom of the list of entries, and start reading there.  My best stuff is in the earliest entries.  But I like this one very much.  It tool me thirty years to write.  
  

                                                FIRE IN THE NIGHT

                                                             By Dick Morgan

         Sunlight broke through the clouds for a few heartbeats, the length of a breath. It split into beams around the tips of the firs and filtered down into the sparse red and gold of the vine maples. For a moment, he saw the broad, multicolored leaves as a liquid brightness like ripples on the sea at sunset, a magnificent illusion. The radiance of that vision caught his breath, as though time itself had stopped. Then the clouds came together and it was gone. The sky darkened, and a drop of rain hit his face.

         Spec-four Vincent Parker cursed under his breath as he crawled up through the boulders and fallen branches on one of the hills designated either L-7 or L-8 on his recon map; he couldn’t tell which one. Briars tore at his hands, and an icy raindrop ran down his neck and under his collar. He glanced up into the thickening grey. Stupid, moron situation, back-tracking in the middle of a forest only God knew how far from the nearest Guard outpost, any rebel enclaves, or a still operating Mini-Mart. And God wasn’t speaking. Neither was Central Command, for that matter. If the four of them didn’t find shelter soon, hypothermia would overcome them. Bobby was injured and wet to the bone; he could die. “How in Pi’s big joke do I end up in these situations?” he muttered. His stomach growled as if answering, just as he stumbled on a loose rock. His ankle would have hurt more, if there had been any feeling left in it.

          A shit pile all around, as far as Parker could tell. It hadn’t started out that way. Sweet Pi, things never did. He had only joined the National Guard for the college benefits. Who could have foreseen that the Guard would actually be activated? A short-term police action, the Colonel had said. Four companies of the Guard convoyed down from Fort Lewis, expecting to be back by dinner-time. “This so-called secession movement is very popular, but disorganized. It’s just a social protest,” the colonel said. “I don’t expect any active resistance. But still, violence and illegal activity are being encouraged.” “And Colonels, too,” someone in Delta company had shouted back. That was how Delta Company had become the first to reach to the rebel barricade at Fort Vancouver, and Spec-Four Vincent Parker found himself in the middle of a frigging war despite his best efforts to avoid conflict of any kind.

        “Seems peaceful enough,” Sergeant Sloane said. A hundred yards ahead of them, a line of old cars entwined in barbed wire blocked their access to the Fort Vancouver parade grounds. Behind the cars, a crowded movement of heads and arms. “I s’pose it’s too much to hope for that these fuckin’ pot-heads would give us more action,” Sloane added.

Captain Kinney put down his radio. “Might happen. The police tac channel reports one of their cruisers had been firebombed on the north side. The news choppers report a crowd estimate of twenty thousand,” Kinney said. “If only one in a thousand has a firearm, that’s twenty snipers. Our orders are to stand back and outwait them, but stay sharp, Biscuit.” Parker lit a cigarette. Through the smoke, he could see a dozen people lifting a dumpster up onto the hood of a car to build up their defensive position. The dumpster crashed down on an old Ford Mustang, shattering the windshield and crushing the hood. A Shelby Mustang Fastback; these people had no respect. He thought he saw the sun glint off of a rifle barrel, but when he concentrated his vision, it looked more like a metal baseball bat. Still, just to be prudent, he stepped back behind a Guard Humvee.

“Corporal Parker!” Captain Kinney was barking again. “Take two men and move left. Look for weak points in the barrier. Keep your distance, and do not engage unless fired upon. Recon with Captain Vashon on the north side. I can’t raise him on the radio. Then come back and tell me what their situation is.”

        “Yes sir,” Parker said. He grabbed the nearest two men; one was a radioman named Moon, and the other a personnelman named Childers. They started out north at a trot, staying just outside the police line of cruisers and vans. After a couple of blocks, Parker slowed to a walk. “Can’t smoke and run too,” he said, walking slowly and looking over the police line at the barricade from about fifty yards out. There were no breaks in the line of cars and barbed wire at all. But the police line had gaps in it. The officers had collected into small groups, smoking cigarettes and talking. Every once in awhile, someone from the barricade would shout something at the officers. The police would shout back, and then both sides would laugh.

        At a gap between police vans, He heard a voice yelling at the three of them. “Hey, soldiers! You want some grass?”

       “Fuckin’ A,” Childers said. “I’ll be right back, Parker!”

       “Wait!” Parker yelled at him. “Our orders are to keep our distance!” But Childers and Moon were already running between the vans and police cruisers toward the barricade of cars. They slowed to a non-threatening walk up to a sideways Cadillac, and waved to a young, slender girl with red pig-tail braids sitting on its hood. The girl waved back at them, and motioned them closer.

        Then Parker heard voices behind the barricade shouting louder and louder. He could make out only one word: Monk. But he felt something change about the crowd inside the barricade. Something significant had happened. He went through the police line at the gap, and called to Childers and Moon from about ten yards out. But they had their backs turned and were talking to the girl.

        Suddenly, a young man in camo pants and a white tee with a dark diagonal strap across the front came up behind the girl, and yelled at Childers and Moon. Parker could hear the man plainly: “You killed Monk! We’ll kill you back!” The man rotated the strap and a rifle appeared from behind his back. He aimed and fired at Childers in one fluid motion before Childers could even turn away. Childers was knocked backwards and fell, blood streaming from his neck. Moon started a zig-zag run back toward the police line. Another rifle shot, and Parker felt his head jerk to one side as a bullet ricocheted off his helmet; Pi’s violent, demonic kiss. Parker raised up his own M-16 and sprayed the whole Cadillac with automatic fire, emptying his entire clip.

        He heard the man with the rifle yelp and saw him fall backwards. The girl screamed and then fell forward onto the ground outside the barricade, her chest turning red. Parker checked for other gunmen, did not spot any, and took the chance. He sprinted toward Childers and knelt beside him. He turned Childers onto his side so the blood would run out of his mouth. “Hang on, man!” Parker yelled, and started to lift Childers up. Childers turned his face toward Parker, gripped his arm and tried to speak, but the words were just bloody bubbles gurgling out and down his chin, spurting from his throat, soaking Parker’s hands. And then Childers’ grip fell away and his eyes glazed over.

About six feet away, the girl was laying on her back, her head up, looking at him; her breath, a rapid wheezy rattle, her mouth spewing red foam. She was looking right at him as she said, God... damn... you! Then her head fell back onto the ground, and her breathing stopped. Parker quickly lifted Childers’ body onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and started running towards the police line. He could hear voices behind him yelling, Kill them all! Just before he reached the nearest cruiser, he heard three more shots and felt a searing pain in his left thigh. He went down hard, Childers’ body rolling off into the street. He crawled behind the cruiser as the police rushed past him firing their weapons at the shooters.

        Parker’s left leg was bleeding, but there was less of his own blood on his thigh than there was Childers’ blood soaking his shirt front. He could move his leg with only a tolerable increase in pain; the bullet had pierced the skin, but only skimmed through the side of the muscle, missing both the femur and the femoral artery. He could still walk, although it was extremely painful.

Parker climbed to his feet, using the side of the police car for balance. He peered over the hood of the car at Childers’ body. It was sprawled out in the open, his head bent forward unnaturally, the back of his neck gone. It would be crazy to risk being shot to retrieve it in his condition. And Moon was nowhere in sight; he had left them both behind. Parker would have to leave Childers’ body where it lay, and report it to the commanding officer.

He did not understand what had just happened. The crowd on the other side of the barricade had been at ease, some even laughing. Suddenly there was a ripple of frenzied shouts, and then gunfire. Childers never had a chance. He had wanted to say something, Parker was sure. He shuddered to think that but for Pi’s whim, it could have been him lying there. What would he have said? He kept himself low as he moved away from the police line back toward the line of Guard Strykers as fast as he could limp…

Parker had chosen forward observer as his specialty rate because he liked the mathematical purity of maps, and wanted to stay out of the center of things. Well, he’d gotten his wish this time. He only had a vague idea where they were, and no idea what was around them. The clouds had darkened to an ash grey, and the rain was steadier now. He noticed a few snowflakes mixed in with the raindrops. He pushed on through the low brush, trying without complete success to prevent the soaked branches from hitting him in the face. His legs began to ache, especially his left thigh, as he pumped them step after step up the slope.

Hell, two months ago, he had been at the University of Washington studying theoretical physics and math, drinking cappuccinos all night and Pinot Noir all weekend. Two months ago, the local, state, and federal governments had interacted relatively tolerably, except for the fact that the larger the government entity, the less money it had. The Feds had all but declared bankruptcy, and cut back on all their basic social programs. People were fed up with increasing taxes and decreasing services. We can do it better ourselves, many started to say, and that became a popular chant. First the Tea Party, then the Occupy Movement, and finally the Vancouver Rebellion, the talking heads were calling it now. It wasn’t much of a rebellion at first. Only a moderate, non-violent demonstration against federal authority in favor of local control. Washington State had legalized marijuana, but the U.S. Attorney General had issued a statement that federal officers would arrest and fine anyone using or selling the drug. Organizers had made plans to carry a few signs, march around the block and go home, but thousands of people showed up. The whole Fort Vancouver parade ground was surrounded by jammed-up cars, and family groups were inside that perimeter setting up tents, lounging on picnic blankets, smoking pot, and satisfying their munchies out of beer coolers and barbeques. Many were high on something; they were all high on the group dynamic. Local law enforcement and emergency management teams were outnumbered and overwhelmed. Some were even sympathetic, and refused to implement riot control efforts. It’s a federal problem; the people aren’t breaking any state laws, they said. You handle it, they said. So the National Guard was activated.

The Guard had moved troops down from Fort Lewis and established a Central Command post at the state fairgrounds, 10 miles north of Vancouver near Interstate-5. Delta Company had moved up to the rebel barricades around Fort Vancouver to back up the police line around the parade grounds. A police unit had advanced on a group of rock throwers when their cruiser had been surrounded by dozens of protesters, overturned and then set on fire. When Delta arrived, the police line had been repelled by a sea of angry faces, and both sides were at a stand-off. Then that character Monk had walked out between the two factions and calmed the crowd. There were a few moments of dialogue, and some actual singing within the ranks of the rebels. More like chanting, the papers said. Then that idiot captain had ordered his Stryker to drive forward…

When Monk was run over, everyone went berserk. The gathering had almost instantly evolved into a defensive enclave. Shots were fired from both sides of the perimeter. There was mayhem, arson, blood in the street.

Delta Company had barely made it out of there without losing anyone besides Childers. He himself had been grazed by a bullet across the thigh before he could hunker down behind a Stryker as it backed out of the fight zone. Delta Company had fallen back in complete chaos. They had moved up to bolster the police line with serious firepower, but it had been the civilian tactical squad which had saved their asses

The incident had made national news, and then people began pouring in from everywhere. The demonstration had evolved into a massively popular movement to protest federal authority—to establish local independence.

Cascadia, the people were calling it now. Not a state; an ill-defined socio-economic region encompassing the western halves of Oregon and Washington. Well, the Feds were not going to stand for another civil war.

Back at CentComm, the riot situation had been given its name by the Federal Emergency Management Agency in front of the TV cameras: the Vancouver Rebellion. People were coming from out of state to join the rebellion, even from out of the country. Each day the size of the rebellion grew larger, and had grown to encompass the entire downtown section of the city. Ships were arriving with hidden arms. The Guard had encountered RPGs and improvised mines. Interstate-5 was impassable. Guard fuel trucks had been blown up. A helo was shot down but managed to land with only minor injuries to its crew. Communication was difficult; the Guard’s main frequency had been jammed with EMF sound. New communication lines had to be formed. New supply lines into the fight zone had to be tracked.

For three weeks the guard had been preparing for their main assault, and Delta Company had volunteered for forward observation, claiming the right of vengeance. Delta Company had circled their vehicles inside the fenced playground of an abandoned school just inside the city line, and tried to contact CentComm to report their position. But there was no radio traffic at all, and no cell phones worked either. Delta Company found themselves completely on their own.

Some said the rebels had circled around the entire Central Command post. Rumors had it that CentComm was not answering their calls because they had been destroyed. All Delta Company knew was that no more helos were coming in. Food, ammo, gas, and medical supplies were all but gone. They would have to fall back again.

It was to have been an easy mission; Parker as forward observer for Delta Company, was ordered to scout out a route back to CentComm, then radio back the route via GPS points if he could. If he couldn’t, then get to CentComm and bring back gasoline cans, ammo, and half a dozen secure-line cell phones. The Interstate was barricaded and patrolled regularly by rebel snipers. The main byways had had their bridges across the Lewis River blocked by burned out cars and trucks. He would have to go outside the fight zone, outside the populated areas, and backtrack into the mountains to go around.

Backward. That word had caused him some grief in front of the Biscuit. Delta Company Master Sergeant Bradley Baker Sloane, alias B. B. Sloane, B. B. Brain, or simply the Biscuit— because his puffy round face curved and sank into deep sweat-stained crevices all across its blustery surface, and because his thought patterns seemed to arise already war-ravaged from within a porous, doughy muddle. Parker, after hearing his orders, had casually remarked that he should be called a backward observer, after all.

“Ain’t no such thing as backward in a war, fuckhead,” Biscuit had shouted into his face, showering him with spit flecks. “They is victory and they is gettin’ blow’d away. That’s all. Ain’t nothin’ stays the same, and they ain’t nothin’ but movin’ out into it. You got that, Brainiac?” Parker had nodded. “Then move out!” Biscuit had spat.

So Parker had moved out. But not in a helo or a hovercraft, and not alone, as he would have preferred. He ended up as a passenger in a vintage Iraq War humvee with a snot-nosed kid driver and his watchdog buddy for companions. “The kid don’t go nowhere without me,” the massive, fight-scarred lifer had said. And a fourth man, too: Willy Moon, the radioman who ran from trouble. “Just in case it’s fuckin’ ‘lectronics,” the Biscuit had said.

Parker preferred being by himself, and ran at least three miles every morning as a kind of meditation. He kept his thin, wiry body in athletic condition, and his mind alert to everything around him. He found most other people to be a distraction, although his girl friend had been an exception. He had tended the Mayor’s sailing yacht in exchange for living aboard, across the harbor from the University of Washington. Lissa, the mayor’s only niece, had her own key to the cabin and came aboard often. It was comfortable at first, but she had wanted more from him and it had not lasted. After she was gone, he had lost her uncle’s yacht as a place to live. He joined the National Guard to help with his expenses. What could possibly be so bad about that? He’d meet new friends, experience a new horizon…

Well, be careful what you wish for. He’d settle for any horizon now. He could only see a few yards to either side, but once he reached the top of the hill, then the view would be clearer and he might be able to see an identifiable landmark. The clouds had darkened to a slate grey, and the raindrops were larger now. He noticed more and more snowflakes mixed in with them. He hunkered down under a tangle of cedar branches and tried to turn up the collar on his Guard jacket, but it was already up. Water cold as ice dripped down inside it, making his shivering more violent. The four of them needed to find some kind of shelter.

The GPS readout had indicated a detour off the freeway, a bypass between the freeway and the old Mount St. Helens loop. It promised to save them a couple of hours. But the road had suddenly ended at a steep bank before they could stop. The humvee had landed grill-first into the creek which had washed out the road. Bobby the driver was hurt, too stupid to wear a seat belt. Brockman had kept him from flying through the windshield, caught him by the shirt with one hand. Parker was amazed at how strong and quick Brock was for an over-the-hill lifer. Bobby had still thumped his chest on the steering wheel pretty hard, and had probably broken some ribs. He was having trouble breathing, and his coughs brought a wince of pain, although he hadn’t complained much so far.

The four of them had gotten soaked to the waist crawling out of the humvee and wading to solid ground. Willy the radioman was no help with anything. The skinny, unshaven, shirker complained about having to carry Bobby’s backpack along with his own. “Why don’t we just shoot him?” Willy muttered several times. “Be glad to do it. His jacket’s better than mine.” Willy would steal your shoes if you took them off. Not that Parker would miss them. His shoes were soaked through, and his feet were numb with cold. He’d complain, but there was no use in that. The four of them were somewhere deep in the woods with no landmarks to tell them where. If they were going to survive, they needed to get out of the rain and find some way to warm up. Continuing their mission was out of the question, at least for today.

Parker had left the others on the road beside the creek and climbed the nearby slope to try and get some kind of long-range bearing. If he couldn’t get a bearing-- a building where there might be a road, or an identifiable mountaintop-- they would have to backtrack themselves. That could easily take too long for Bobby to survive in this cold.

Parker reached the top of the hill, breathing hard, but at least for the time being, not shivering. His triumph was deflated by the fact that he was on the top of the lowest of the hills which surrounded him. He could see no more than a couple of hundred yards in any direction. Any meaningful landmarks were blocked by still higher hills. He turned slowly in a circle, letting his eyes scan each slope as he caught his breath. He’d have to go back down to the others and tell them which direction to walk, and he had no idea what to say.

He squatted down and sat on his backpack in the wet leaves and grass and let his eyes sweep automatically right and left: a rocky outcrop, a grove of cedar and hemlock trees, blackberries, poison oak, nettles. Nature’s own mine field; frigging terrific. A tiny stream gurgled by the far side of his hill, descending from the next hill higher up. It parted the grass and thorns like a tear in a wet coat and exposed the rocky bones underneath. But it appeared fresh and sweet, curling down from the forest country somewhere southwest of Mount St. Helens. Maybe it was even drinkable.

Imagine, a valley far enough away from the ravages of both war and progress to still be in a precarious balance with its own mathematics. War and progress. If one were as immutable as a tree, that probably amounted to the same thing. Only people made distinctions: north and south, Feds and Rebels, victory and “gettin’ blow’d away.”

Parker lit a cigarette and thought about the Biscuit’s words. He had been close enough to becoming a casualty at the skirmish at Fort Vancouver; he still tried to hide his limping from the others. It was always when he was with other people that things went wrong, that he got hurt. Especially people like the Biscuit. That kind of career soldier who would charge a mine field, or stand up amid the soprano whine of the M-16 rifle fire from both sides of a firefight and curse out orders—orders that inevitably got people hurt, or killed. But never the Biscuits. Somehow his kind never got hit. Parker had a theory about that; perhaps war was a collective consciousness of these Biscuit-brains which would not diminish itself by lopping off a lobe so central to its insanity. “Ain’t nothin’ stays the same,” the Biscuit had said. Sweet Pi, how right he was.

So long ago, it seemed now, his time at the University. He remembered the night he had locked himself inside the computer lab with a bottle of Pinot Noir. He ignored the shouts of the students outside the windows who carried signs declaring a Free Cascadia. In a drunken agitation, he had calculated the irrational number Pi out to five hundred places, looking for some overlooked repetition, some relationship between an arc and a straight line. Pi was just a concept, he knew, but that night it had grown into an elusive, jeering opponent at whom he swore and threw wads of paper. Pi, the Irrational One, the unsolvable problem-- the relentless tendency of folly to get worse.

And so here he sat, hunkered down in the wet grass in the middle of nowhere, soaked and shivering. He probably should have done things differently: driven slower, not come this way, stayed in college. But he seemed to have a knack for making things worse. Now his independence and self reliance had resulted in his being made a corporal, and then a team leader. Sweet Pi, the harder you tried to avoid trouble, the more you became the problem. Well, if there were others underfoot, they had better follow his rules now. And Order Number One was to survive, get a discharge from this hysteria, and resume his studies at a university as far from wet and cold as his veteran’s benefits would allow.

Parker unshielded his cigarette and let the rain put it out. Suddenly he felt a heavy drop of something thick on his shoulder; it was a black and white goo he recognized just as he heard the loud cawing. He saw a shadow flying off toward the nearest trees. “God damn it,” Parker muttered through his teeth. He drew his .45 automatic and fired at the raven, but it flew on unperturbed. He followed the bird in his sights, but didn’t want to waste another round on such a far and useless shot. The raven glided down below the tree line and disappeared against a flat black background.

Then his eyes shifted from the spot where the raven had been to the black background - a solid darkness that couldn’t be natural. It had to be the top of some sort of structure. So little of it visible, he would have missed it had the raven not flown toward it. “Thanks, Pi,” Parker said, wiping his shoulder off with his bare hand and cleaning it on the wet grass.

No telling what kind of a structure it was from where he stood; they would have to make for that, and hope it was something they could use for shelter from the wind, and what was now a wet and sideways snow.

A loud repetitive swishing noise began on Parker’s right, followed by a scream. It was an angry scream, possibly one of pain. He was alarmed until it was followed by the loudest “Fuck!” he had ever heard. Parker lit another cigarette and waited for the sound to come nearer. The brambles parted and Brockman leaped out, landing like a cat, with his 14 inch commando knife in one hand. “Kiaugh!” Brockman bellowed. Rather more like an overweight, old and arthritic housecat, Parker thought. Brockman was looking back at forty and had huge dark bags under his eyes—way too old and winded to be the rescuer he envisioned himself.

Brockman had shouldered his M-16, and was waving his big knife back and forth like a paper fan while he looked from side to side. As he did so, the hilt butt fell off. An assortment of band-aids, matches, and fishing gear poured out of the handle onto the wet grass. “Fuck,” Brockman said, wiping his nose, nearly cutting it off.

“Are you done yet?” Parker said, puffing on his cigarette.

“Maybe I am and maybe I ain’t,” Brockman said. “I thought we was in trouble. I heard a shot.”

“It was an accident, almost,” Parker said.

“What were you shooting at?” Brock said.

“A raven,” Parker answered. He shit right on my shoulder. Pissed me off.”

“You have enough ammo to shoot at birds? Gimme some ammo. I’m out.”

“Obviously,” Parker said. “But I’ve only got a couple of rounds.”

“Gimme your pistol then,” Brock said.

“You’d be dangerous. I’ll keep it for now. Where are the others?”

“Well, fuck you,” Brockman spat, put his knife back together, and pulled his coat tighter.

A branch broke down-slope from them, followed by a grunt. Parker turned to face it. Brockman rolled sideways into a crouch, knife in hand.

“Parker?” Willy whispered loudly as his narrow greasy face appeared above a fallen cedar trunk. “Where the hell are you?”

“Here.”

Willy climbed over the log easily, like a squirrel. Bobby Soloman struggled to follow, but didn’t have the strength to pull himself up and over. Willy just looked at him from the upper side. “Come on, kid. Frigging slacker,” Willy said under his breath. Brockman sheathed his big knife, scrambled down-slope to the cedar trunk, and hauled Bobby over with one arm. “You could of helped, you know,” Brock glared at Willy.

“He’s too much trouble. We ought to just shoot him,” Willy said.

“You do and I’ll cut your fuckin’ throat. And enjoy it, too,” Brockman glowered at Willy while still helping Bobby up the slope toward Parker. When they were all close, the three of them threw off their small packs and sat on them in the wet grass.

“Damned steep,” Willy said. “Gimme a cigarette, Parker.”

“Get your own,” Parker answered.

“You see a Seven-Eleven around here? We’re in the middle of friggin’ nowhere. At least gimme a drag on yours.”

“Finish it,” Parker said, handing him half a lit cigarette.

“Are we t-there y-yet?” Bobby’s shivering shook his words out unevenly. “I’m c-cold. And I’m all w-wet.” He sat rubbing his ear with a handkerchief almost brown with grime. “I fell down. I want to go h-home,” he said to Parker.

“No, we’re not anywhere yet, and stop sniveling. It makes me puke. We’ve just gained some elevation to try the radio. Willy, give it another try.”

Willy lifted the radio from his belt pack, switched it on and squelched the static. “How far?” he said.

Parker looked at his map. “I figure we must be closer to CentComm than to Vancouver. Set the range in between, say, twenty klicks.”

Static again. “Alpha Fox, this is Delta two-five-five; Alpha Fox, this is Delta two-five-five. Do you copy, over.”

They waited in silence. The only sound was rain hitting the vine maple leaves and splattering into their faces. What now, O great leader?” Willy asked.

“We keep walking.”

“Well, that’s just fucking great,” Brockman spat. “I thought you had a plan. There ain’t nothin’ up here, and you’ve got no idea what to do next. Some forward observer you are. Just a short hike, he says. Think of it as an adventure, he says. Fucking-A right. Fucking rain, Fucking cold, stomach’s growling, and it feels like I shit in my clothes. How much further, I says. Just the top of this hill, he says.” Brockman shook his massive head. “You know it’s going to be black as a rat’s ass in an hour, don’t you? We got to build a shelter while it’s still light enough to see. Bobby, go see if you can gather up some fir boughs, and I’ll try to build us a fire.”

“You buckin’ for sergeant again, Brock?” Willy sniggered.

“Just tired of this freezing fucking rain. How come it is we’re out here on foot in the middle of fucking nowhere with no fucking food, no fucking ammo, and no fucking God damned tents even. Bobby’s stumble-down cold. We’ll all be soon. We need to make a camp.”

Parker watched Bobby as he sat on his pack, shivering and dabbing at his ear with his grimy kerchief, looking for blood from his fall. There wasn’t any. Bobby was the youngest, at just eighteen, small for his age, with a permanent wide-eyed gaze on the world, and an almost exclusive concern for his own pleasure-pain spectrum. When Bobby was satisfied he was not bleeding, he began to comb his long bleached out hair back over his ears.

“What a dickhead,” Willy muttered.

“Leave him alone. He’s just a kid,” Brockman said.

Bobby glared at Willy, then rose and began to wander off, picking up fir branches as he walked.

“Stay put, Bobby. And the rest of you pipe down,” Parker said slightly louder than he intended. “I think there might be something up ahead.”

“Okay, college boy,” Brockman spat. “Why don’t you tell us which way is ahead?”

Parker stood up and put his pack back on, adjusting his clothes and stance so that his M-16 just happened to point at Brockman. It was empty, but Brockman couldn’t know that.

Brockman was the oldest, an ex-college linebacker who had flunked himself into the Guard. Parker knew that Brockman had found a home though, because he had hash marks for three hitches on his sleeve of his dress browns. The Brock, big now mostly from overeating, was a man used to getting his way. Parker knew that Brock had been one of the head Biscuits until he had munched in an officer’s teeth and lost all his stripes.

Parker himself was only twenty-five, and had a much leaner build from his daily runs. If it weren’t for the edge of fatigue in his voice, his four-day beard, and the fact that Brock was out of ammo, Parker knew he would command no respect at all from that big lifer. He just tried to spit out his orders as though he would shoot anyone who didn’t hear them the first time, and Brockman hadn’t quite made up his beer-slowed mind about that yet.

Willy stepped between the two of them. “Hey, when you want him dead, let me do it,” he whispered.

Willy Moon seemed older than his twenty years because most of them had been lived on the streets in Portland. Parker had assumed that because of his name and his coal black hair that Willy was an Indian of some sort, but he had never talked about it. Willy was the thinnest man Parker had ever seen outside of a hospital. Brockman had named him Willy the Weasel five minutes after they met. Parker could fire on either side of him and still hit Brockman, if he’d had any ammo left.

Something about Willy intrigued Parker though, something intangible and full of contrast. Here was a man who ate voraciously yet remained as thin as a board, whose voice revealed neither warmth nor anger, but always had a certain attitude in it, like the edge of a knife. Parker remembered the first time he’d seen Willy, during the escalation of violence after the Vancouver Riot. He had watched Willy protect a rioter from a beating, and then after the man was arrested and placed in a police van, Willy had sifted through the same man’s personal belongings, pocketing whatever interested him. That was the Weasel—a cold smile and calm deliberate hands unhindered by rules. Parker liked him the most, trusted him the least.

“For now, we got better things to do, like getting me something to eat,” Willy said louder. “What now, Sarge?”

Parker moved his M-16 barrel up as though there were ammo in it. “Well,” he said, “I guess shooting each other would be bad for morale.”

“God damned greenhorn reserves’ll be the death o’ me yet,” Brockman said. “Kid, you got any bullets?”

“I got one,” Bobby said. “And don’t call me that. I ain’t a kid. Bobby wiped his nose and made a sound like a straw in the bottom of an almost empty glass.

“Give it to me,” Brockman said. “I need it. I’m the most experienced soldier here.”

“Then how come you’re out of ammo, cowboy?” Willy said.

“Give it to me, so’s I can blow Weasel’s brains out.”

“My dad always said I should save the last one for myself,” Bobby said. “Besides, one more hour of this and I was going to use it.”

Brockman laughed. “Okay, loan it to me then. If Weasel’s still alive in an hour, I’ll give it back. If not, then I’ll give you one of his.”

“I’m out,” Willy said. “Don’t off me for my frigging ammo.”

“Bobby, give Brock your bullet, Parker said. “He’s right about his being the most experienced, but I’m still in charge.” Brockman’s magazine clicked.

“What now, S-sarge?” Bobby said.

“We build a shelter,” Brockman said.

“You’re not a sergeant any more, Brock,” Parker said. “Besides, I thought I saw something up ahead, just over that rise. Might be shelter. Worth a look anyway.”

“Where?” Brockman asked.

“See that group of trees on the hill? Look just below it. Solid black. Might be the top of a structure. How about you go check it out?”

“I think I see it.”

“Check it out, but if it’s a structure, don’t approach it until we’re all there together. Got that?”

“Aye-aye, Biscuit butt,” Brockman said. “I’ll be right back.” He picked up his pack and trudged off in the direction of the hill.

After Brockman was out of earshot, Parker leaned close to Willy. “You really out of ammo?” Willy shook his head. “Give me a couple of rounds then.”

“Twenty bucks, Sarge,” Willy said.

“Stop calling me that. And I’ll owe you. Come on, before Brock gets back.”

Willy removed his M-16 magazine and gave Parker two rounds from it. “Have a nice war,” he said.

Parker loaded the rounds and looked at Bobby; it wasn’t a good idea for Bobby to know about the ammo. He told everything he knew to Brock. But Bobby was hunkered down on his pack with his bruised up face almost all the way inside his coat collar, shivering violently, unaware of anything but his own misery.

Another icy raindrop ran down Parker’s neck and into his shirt. He noticed that he was shivering again. Walking would keep them all a bit warmer. “Cascadia, my ass. More like purgatory,” Parker muttered, and rose to his feet. “Let’s move out and follow Brock,” he said to the others.

Parker helped Bobby to his feet and steadied him with his arm. The kid wouldn’t last much longer. Willy had already walked away from them, headed up slope along the bent over grass stalks that marked Brockman’s trail. The three of them had only gone halfway to the grove of trees hiding the patch of black when Brockman reappeared, walking towards them.

When Brockman reached Willy, he shoved him out of his way and kept walking toward Parker. Willy stumbled to his knees into the wet grass and came up with a thick stubby branch in his hand. He took a step toward Brockman.

Brockman paused and looked over his shoulder without turning; his hand was on his big knife. “Go ahead, you useless fucking piece of shit,” he said. Willy held onto the stick, bobbing it up and down, testing it for its weight and heft. But Brockman was twice his size, and aware of him. He glared at Brockman, but dropped the stick. Brockman continued walking up to Parker.

“You were right. It’s a cabin. Don’t look like nobody’s home. No lights, no chimney smoke, no tire tracks. I looked in the windows, but couldn’t see a damn thing. Thought I’d come get you before I kicked in the door.”

“Good job, Brock,” Parker said. “We’ll have a look, but we’ll knock first. Stay sharp, though, just in case.”

When the four of them reached the crest of the hill, Parker could see the whole cabin situated under the trees just beyond the crest. The roof was of weather-beaten shingles the same color as the fir trunks. Parker was amazed he had seen it at all. The sides of the cabin were also shingled, but so weathered that the upper half was dirt colored, and the lower half was mossy green. There was a covered porch, but it had caved in on one end. The front door had once been white but had faded to pale brown, paint peeling along its edges. There were small windows on either side of the door; two of the panes of one window were busted out. It was as though the tiny house were so ancient and abandoned that it was slowly sinking and blending into the slope of the hill and would soon disappear altogether.

Parker scanned the perimeter. There were no other structures in sight. Beyond the house, trailing down the same slope, he could just discern in the semi-darkness a zigzag pattern in the grass—the stream bed. About twenty meters upstream, a stone causeway formed a dam, with a waterwheel sitting motionless on the near side.

He let his scan spiral inward. There were no military markings, no address, no security measures such as a fence or outdoor lighting. Only some mildewed firewood, scraps of lumber, an unidentifiable twist of rusted metal, an axe with a rust-spotted blade, a single wicker chair.

Parker knew that this was as far as any of them could possibly travel before nightfall. They would have to get inside and deal with whatever or whoever was there. He sincerely hoped no one was around, and that the four of them would not have to use force against an innocent bystander to this conflict. But as bad a shape as they were in, he knew that they would have to do whatever was necessary right now, or they would succumb to the cold.

“I don’t see no lights,” Willy said. “No smoke from the chimney, neither.”

“I told you that, Weasel,” Brockman answered.

“No, you told Parker,” Willy said.

“There ain’t no road to it that I could see, just a path on the other side,” Brockman said. “But it’s nothin’ but an overgrown rut. What grass is on it is standing up tall. Hasn’t been walked on for a couple of weeks, I’d say. I walked down it for a ways, and it just goes on and on. No telling how far out in the middle of the tulee bushes this place is, or how far we’d have to go to reach anyplace civilized.”

“Too far,” Parker said. “We’ll have to stay put one way or another.”

This is an emergency situation. Brock, go knock on the door; I’ll cover you.”

“I’m c-cold,” Bobby said too loudly. “C-can we go back now? I want to go home.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve with a loud, chunky snuff. Parker looked away.

“Pipe down, Kid,” Brockman whispered. “I’ll be right back for you.” He walked up on the porch as quietly as he could manage, given his size, knocked on the door and moved sideways away from it, his back to the moss-covered wall. He held his M-16 with his one round in it at port arms. After a long moment, he took a quick glance into the broken window. “Anybody home in there?” he yelled. There was no response.

“No one there,” Willy said, and walked up towards Brockman. “Swear to God I can see a vacancy sign on this unit,” he added.

Brockman, still carrying his M-16 at port arms, wrapped his left hand into the shoulder strap so he could let go and point at Willy with his right. “Fuckin’- A right for once,” he said. “I think I can see it too.” Brockman stood in front of the door, backing up slightly to give himself room to kick it in.

“Cool it, Brock,” Parker said. “We’ll do this my way.”

“Yeah, Sarge,” Brockman snickered. “Weasel, try to get them on the radio.”

“Hello? Anybody home?” Willy said into his radio without keying the mike.

“Try to get CentComm one more time, Willy,” Parker said.

Brockman held his arms up as though in supplication to a deity he didn’t quite believe in, his M-16 dangling from his left hand. Willy made the call, but got nothing but static.

“Try again,” Parker said.

“Jee-zus fucking key-reist,” Brockman muttered. “You’re gonna try all night ain’t cha?” He rested his forehead on his M-16.

“That’s the standard procedure for field ops. Why?”

“Because I know your type,” Brockman said. “You’ll do it by the book because if it wasn’t for the book, you wouldn’t know how to change your goddamned skivvies.” He turned toward the door again.

“Brock!”

“How long you gonna keep screwing around, anyway? We’ve been callin’ CentComm since we left Vancouver. Face it. We’re off our mission, we’re flat fucking lost, and it’s damned near dark, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s time to take care of ourselves. I’m goin’ in.”

Parker held up his hand. “We’ve got our general orders, Brock. No destruction of civilian property unless necessary to save or defend our position. We’re civilized; we’re not marauders.”

Willy snorted. “Yeah, but when you’re cold and hungry, that’s just so much bullshit.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Brockman said. “Bobby ain’t gonna last much longer sittin’ out here in the wet fucking grass and freezing rain,”

Parker knew Brockman was right. He realized he wanted Brockman to be right. He wanted to get out of the freezing rain as much as any of them. He averted his eyes from Brockman and Bobby, and gave a slight nod of assent. He started to say, “Let’s do it,” but his voice was interrupted by the crash of Brockman’s boot on the door, and it was already done. The door frame around the handle splintered, the window pane shattered, and the door burst inward completely off its top hinge.

“Nice work, Godzilla,” Parker said. Then louder: “National Guard!” Parker crept up the porch stairs, the boards creaking underfoot with each step. He peered into the dark entrance, his M-16 at the ready.

“Yoo-hoo, is anybody h-home?” Bobby called, trying to make his quivering voice cheerful.

Brockman sniggered. “That’s it, kid. Tell them you’re the paperboy.”

Bobby looked at him with a blank face. “P-paperboy,” he shouted.

Brockman laughed. “Hello, garbage man,” he said.

“Hello, trick or t-treat,” Bobby said, smacking his lips.

“Salvation Army. Donations, anyone?” Willy said.

“Jehovah’s goddamned Witnesses,” Parker muttered. “Got your red hot doo-dah magazine right here,” he said, holding his .45 in firing position.

“I’m goin’ in,” Brockman said, looking toward Parker, this time for support.

“Roger that,” Parker said. “I’m right with you.”

Brockman stepped through the door with Parker close behind him. Willy and Bobby entered close behind Parker.

Inside the door, there was a short antechamber with hooks on the wall. One had a foul weather coat hanging from it, and a pair of fur-lined boots below. Over the inner door of the antechamber, there was a small sign nailed to the lintel. Parker shined his flashlight on it. The sign said in fine italic print:

May this home be an oasis of peace and comfort to all who enter.

Parker felt easier about being inside, but they still needed to search the whole cabin for occupants or dangerous conditions. “Spread out. Brock left, Willy right. I’ll look for some way to light the place up. Bobby, you look for firewood.” Brockman and Willy had already disappeared into the darkness, their flashlights making frantic circles on the walls.

Parker entered the main room and shined his light in a slow circle around the room. To his left, smooth grey river stones loomed up to form a massive fireplace with andirons like blackened teeth. In front of the hearth sat a wicker couch overthrown with deer pelts, a hoar of mildew on the tips of the fur. On each side, wooden chairs were drawn close to the fireplace, as though for warmth or conversation. Between them, a rough wooden coffee table was strewn with water-stained books. On the mantle, an oil lamp, the carved wooden statue of a Ho-Ti laughing Buddha, a trophy cup, a green bottle full of dark liquid, and several small photographs. Above the mantle hung an official looking certificate with a picture of an old man’s bearded face on it.

Parker swung his flashlight further to the right. The beam illuminated

a heavy oak table surrounded by thick wooden chairs. On the table sat a glass vase; the vegetation in the vase had died away to black stems. Beside the vase, a plate with a Chinese painting on it, a tin cup, and an old steel fork. Beyond the table, a wooden desk sat below a window facing the waterwheel and pond. On the desk, an oil lamp, an ink bottle, and an open notebook with an ancient quill pen on top. Beside the desk, board and cinder-block shelves filled with books.

To the right of the desk, a doorway led into a kitchen where Parker could see a woodstove, a sink, and several pots and pans hanging from nails in the wall. Further to the right, a glass cabinet filled with mismatched hardbound books. On either side of it, doorways-- both doors ajar, flashlight circles moving around beyond them.

Bobby’s light beam switched on and flickered about like a lost insect looking for a way out. High onto the ceiling, it flitted among bare rafters scotch-taped with bits of newsprint; along the wall, where tiny signs and photos were thumb-tacked everywhere. The light moved slower and slower still, each irregular surface a new mystery. An electric radio sitting next to a kerosene lamp; a wooden rocking chair partially dismantled. Beside the rocking chair, a jumbled pile of dictionaries, thesauruses, and grammar books, the pages of the bottom volumes water-stained and gnawed as though by mice. In one corner, an old, open-top phonograph, and a stack of vinyl records. In another, a spinning wheel, its woolen strands indistinguishable from cobwebs hanging from it like fringe on a shawl.

The whole cabin smelled like a cat-box, yet it was filled with the detritus of a frugal but active life: chipped china, cheap steel silverware, and mouse-chewed classics. Each of the light beams had settled at some puzzle across a room of swirling dust.

Willy came out of one of the doorways, Brockman out of the other. “Nobody here,” Willy said. “And that’s a bathroom. Toilet works, too, but the water’s all brown.”

“Nobody around,” Brockman said. “Don’t look like anybody’s been here for several weeks. I don’t know if this place is some kind of summer cabin, or what.”

“Yeah, wh-what is this place, anyway?” Bobby parroted.

“I don’t know,” Parker said. “But it’s out of the rain at least. Brock, how about starting a fire with that survival do-dad you call a knife? I’ll look around in the kitchen for something to eat.”

“I found some kindling,” Bobby said. He handed Brockman small parts of the rocking chair.

“Negative on that, Bobby,” Parker said. “Those are pieces from that chair. Looks like the owner was trying to repair it. Put that back and let’s find some real kindling.”

“Okay,” Bobby shrugged.

“Never mind, Bobby,” Brockman said. “There’s plenty in the kitchen by the woodstove. I got enough for now. What I need is paper.” He ripped a page of newsprint from its thumbtacks on the wall.

“Willy grabbed the paper away from Brockman. “Let me see that,” he said as he began to read. “It’s a book review. Piercing the Veil, by—“ Brockman grabbed it back before Willy had a chance to read further and pushed him backwards. “Don’t ever grab anything out of my hands again,” he said.

“But some of this stuff might be valuable!” Will said.

“Yeah, as fire-starter. Get the fuck out of my way.”

Parker stepped in between them, but ignored their words. “Bobby, go outside and get some bigger stuff from the woodpile I saw alongside the house,” Parker said.

“Okay,” Bobby said again.

Parker lit the kerosene lamps and left one on the mantle, and put the other one on the oak table. Then he went through the kitchen door. His light beam found another lantern, so he lit that one and placed it on the drain-board as he looked around the room. A cast-iron woodstove with chrome feet and scrollwork on the front. Beside it sat a wood-box filled with cedar kindling, half covered with a spider’s web which Brock must have disturbed. The iron pots and pans were speckled with tiny rust spots. Parker opened the refrigerator, a small electric model which sat on a block of wood and was still only as tall as his stomach. He was met with the overwhelming stink of soured milk. He removed the cardboard carton, took it to a kitchen door that led outside, and threw it as far as he could away from the cabin.

The fridge was still cold, but there wasn’t anything else in it except some old cheese, wilted lettuce, and a bottle of unopened wine. He was pleased to find that it was a Pinot Noir. Magic house, he thought. He opened the wine and took a deep drink.

After his second long drink, Parker heard several coughs, and a loud “Fuck!” from the living room. Then Willy’s voice said, “You got to open the damn damper, bonehead!” That was followed by a loud metallic clank. Parker chuckled, and realized he was already in a better mood.

He tried the sink faucet. Water came out brown and chunky for a minute or more but slowly began to run clearer. While the water was clearing up, he searched the cabinets and found several cans of soup, a bag of uncooked rice, a sack of pinto beans, packages of Ramen, a box of Bisquick, Pam spray, salt and pepper, and a sack of dry cat food. It was enough to get them started.

Parker took another drink of the Pinot Noir and then took the half- empty bottle into the living room. The fireplace was glowing brightly from the kindling Brockman had lit. Brockman was kneeling down on the hearth, feeding larger chunks of wood onto the kindling from a pile Bobby had brought in. Bobby was sitting in the wicker chair covered with the foul weather coat Parker had seen in the entryway. Willy was at the table, smoothing out various crumpled bits of yellowed paper.

“Look what I found, guys!” Parker said. “It’s wine, my favorite, too. Anybody want some?”

Brockman reached beside himself and brought up the half-filled bottle that used to be on the mantle. “I’ll bet it’s Pinott Noyer, just like this’n,” he said, and took a drink. “A little sour, though. Been opened three weeks.”

“How do you know it’s been opened three weeks?” Parker asked.

“Well, Weasel’s been lookin’ around. He’s got this idea,” Brockman said. “Tell him, Weasel.”

“What’s your idea, Willy?”

Willy gestured toward the crumpled bits of paper on the table. “All these newspaper articles are about the same guy,” he said, and pointed to the certificate above the mantle. “That guy,” he said. The black bearded face of the man on it was middle-aged but heavily lined, as though by weather exposure. He was wearing a coat with epaulettes on the shoulder, and a black fisherman’s style cap. The certificate said in large letters at the top; CAPTAIN. “It’s what got me to looking around,” Willy said. That’s a Merchant Marine certificate. And guess whose name is on it?”

“I give up,” Parker said.

“John J. Monk.”

“Wait. Isn’t that the guy who was killed in Vancouver?” Parker asked.

“Yeah, that filthy rebel clown that caused all this fuss,” Brockman said. “But he didn’t look nothin’ like that. The guy in Vancouver had Jesus hair.”

“Well, it’s an old picture,” Willy said. “And anyway, how long ago was it that he was killed?”

“Let’s see, about three weeks, I think. Well, I’ll be damned,” Parker said. “Do you think this cabin belonged to that Monk guy?”

“Don’t know,” Willy answered. “But he was staying here. The notebook on the desk is his journal.”

“Damn,” Parker said. “Say, you want a swig?”

“Sure do,” Willy said. “Brock won’t give me any of his.”

Parker handed Willy the bottle and looked around the room. The air was warm close to the fireplace, but the front door was still agape, hanging from one hinge.

“I’m going to be working in the kitchen. Bobby, you’re the only one not doing anything, why don’t you get to work sealing up that front door?”

“Oh, leave him alone,” Brockman said. “Can’t you see how bad he’s shivering? You already sent him back outside once. Bobby, come closer to the fire.” Bobby stood up.

“We’re all cold, Brock. Bobby, do what I told you.” Bobby stood facing Brockman, but twisted toward Parker.

“Let him get warmed up first, then I’ll help him fix the fucking door. Come closer, Bobby. And take off that wet jacket, kid.”

Parker looked at Brockman and hated him. “Bobby, I gave you an order!” he said.

Bobby stood like a screw twisted into his tracks. His arms stiffened at his sides and his shoulders rose up to just below his ears. His eyes rolled back and a moan came out of his mouth as though it started in his feet and gained volume and momentum as it rose the length of his body. Then he began to hyperventilate.

“Now look what ya done!” Brockman scowled at Parker, bit down on his cigarette, and grabbed Bobby by the shoulders. He pulled the boy into him like a mother grizzly, smothering the small sobs in his chest flab and rocking Bobby back and forth by the head. “It’s okay, kid. Calm down. It’s all over and done with. Shut the fuck up,” he crooned.

“What’s wrong with him?” Parker said.

“Just a couple of burnt out circuits. Ain’t nothin’.”

“What?”

“It ain’t nothin’, I said. He’s had a bad time he needs to forget. Assholes remind him of it. Mind your own business.”

“I want my b-bullet b-back,” Bobby sobbed.

“No, Bobby. You ain’t in no mood to have your bullet back. Maybe tomorrow,” Brockman said. “Shh now. I’ll fix the God-damned door in a minute,” Brockman said to Parker.

“Never mind, I’ll fix it myself,” Parker muttered, turned and walked to the front door Brock had kicked in. He lifted the door from its precarious slant and opened it wide, observing its movement, and then glanced outside. With the cabin lit by kerosene lamps, his eyes could no longer see anything distinctly in the semi-darkness. He walked out for a look around anyway. The only sounds and movement were behind him, inside the cabin. The icy cold persuaded him to let go of his edginess; no one would likely come to this forsaken place for at least the rest of the night. He re-entered the cabin door and examined the hinges and latch. The hinges were easy to fix; the nails had been yanked from the door frame by Brockman’s kick.

Parker found a hammer in one of the kitchen drawers filled with a variety of small tools, nails, screws, scissors, tape, and boxes of thumbtacks. He took the hammer to the front door and pounded the hinge nails back into place. The latch was a different matter; Brock had kicked out the frame itself. Parker took some nails from the kitchen drawer and tacked the pieces of door frame back into itself. It was not secure, but it held the door shut. Next, he pondered the problem of broken window panes. He found plastic sacks and duct tape in his marvelous junk drawer. It wasn’t the strongest seal, but at least the cabin would hold in the heat. On his way back to the kitchen, he noticed Willy going through the desk drawers and pocketing the small items he found—ink pens, a compass, scissors, a pocket knife.

“Leave everything where it is, Willy. None of this is ours,” Parker said.

Willy laughed; it was a kind of sniggering jeer that Parker understood clearer than words. The laugh said, Mind your own business. Screw off. All of this is mine. Parker shrugged. He wasn’t sure what his business was anymore in a situation like this.

“I’m tired. Can I go to bed now?” Bobby said.

“Yup, go…” Brockman said.

“Not yet, Bobby,” Parker interrupted.

“Why the hell not?” Brockman said.

“Because we need to warm up and get something to eat first. Then we need to clean up our mess. Then we need to put our heads together, take stock of our situation, and plan ahead for tomorrow, and everybody needs to know what’s going down. After that, we’ll see who gets to sleep where,” Parker said.

“I’m gettin’ tired just listening to you,” Brockman said. “How long you figure that’s gonna take?”

“Twenty minutes, max. I’m pretty damned tired,” Parker said. “What’s in those rooms? Anything useful?”

“A big-ass bed in that one,” Willy said. “Top blanket is kind of mildewy, but there’s three more blankets in good shape. And there’s clothes, too,” Willy grinned. “Men’s clothes. None for Bobby.”

“F-fuck you, a-a-asshole,” Bobby said. “I’m gonna go l-look for some dry pants.”

“Bring me a dry shirt,” Willy said.

“F-fuck you, a-asshole, Bobby said.

“Look Bobby, I’ll trade you this compass, and this cool pocket knife.” Willy took the two items from his pocket and waved them in the air in front of Bobby as though they were gold coins.

“Hey Sarge?” Bobby looked toward Parker. Brockman was eyeing him too, his jaw set, eyes like a cat’s on a mouse. Parker sighed. “What the hell,” he said, and shrugged. There was no stopping the pilfering of the cabin now. Chances were that no one would be by to stop them, at least for tonight. “But we’ll leave this place in the morning exactly like we found it.”

“Okay,” Bobby said, and went into the bedroom with his flashlight.

”Why?” Willy said from behind the table. He had a pair of forks from the table in his hand; he held them up near the lantern and examined them close to his face.

“We have our orders,” Parker said, but Willy ignored him.

“This one is Navy standard, probably stolen. Worth maybe a quarter,” Willy said. “And this one is some kind of cook kit fork with a hole in it for a knife and a spoon to attach. And the dishes-- broken and super-glued. Real classy guy, Monk. I haven’t found anything even a second hand store would want.”

“Don’t think about it. They’re not ours anyway.”

“They are now,” Willy said. “The owner’s not coming back.”

“How do you know Monk was the owner? The cabin might belong to someone else, and Monk was just a visitor.”

“He was more than a visitor. His writing is thumb-tacked all over the walls. At least it was, until Brock tore a bunch of it down and lit his fire with it. Yup, this is Monk’s place, all right. And he’s dead. All of this is up for grabs. Look at this plate, Sarge. Chinese, I’d say. The only one not chipped. Maybe a ten dollar plate. And over here, one from a fancy restaurant. Only way to get one of those is to steal it. I just don’t get it. Here is a place out in the middle of nowhere, no road to it, no electricity, no phone. The guy used oil lamps and a wood-stove, and a completely random variety of tableware. Some’s valuable, most is junk. It’s like he was a collector, but with no taste at all. Hard to figure a guy like that. His books are random too, as far as I can tell. I wonder if any of them are valuable?” Willy went to the bookcase and began thumbing through the titles.

Parker shook his head and turned away. He went to the kitchen to see what manner of food he might be able to fix. He lit a fire in the woodstove, making sure the damper was open. While he waited for the fire to burn down into a bed of hot coals, he explored the kitchen further. He found a large supply of canned goods-- vegetables, soups, stews, tuna-fish. Outside the back door, a sack of potatoes, some still good. And two more bottles of Pinot Noir. He felt rich.

He opened two cans of beef stew and chose half a dozen of the best potatoes, then searched around for a peeler. In less than a minute, another drawer yielded all manner of utensils, including a peeler.

Parker peeled the potatoes, diced them, and set them to boil, then added salt and pepper. The steam from the boiling pan began to smell slightly briny; if only there were a bit of garlic, he thought. A moment later, he noticed a tiny shelf high above the stove with several small bottles on it. The first one in the row said garlic powder. He smiled for the third time that evening as the rich feeling came to him again. This was some kind of house. He felt as though all he had to do was make a silent request, and the little cabin would reveal his desire to him. He reached for the garlic, and wondered what more he could possibly wish for.

While the potatoes were cooking, Parker opened another bottle of Pinot Noir and went into the living room. Willy was busy pulling books out of the bookshelves one by one and examining them. His army jacket had been replaced by a black hoodie which said Question Authority in white letters across the front. Brock had just finished stringing a length of twine across the fireplace mantle, and was hanging wet jackets and shirts from it. He was wearing a humongous buckskin shirt complete with mountain-man fringe.

“Where in the hell did you get that?” Parker asked.

“Bobby found it,” Brock said. “It almost fits, too. Which don’t make sense, ‘cause Monk was just a little guy, like Weasel.”

“His sweatshirt fits me fine,” Willy said. “But his clothes are like his silverware- a random mix of stuff. Weird guy. And his books, too. I was looking around, wanting to see if anything was maybe valuable, and look what I found.” Willy showed Parker an old, dust-covered, linen-front, hardbound book. “I think it’s a Koran, but it’s written in Arabic, so I’m not sure. I didn’t think Monk was a damn Muslim. Right next to it I found a Gideon Bible, stolen, likely. And here’s Lao-Tsu, the Upanishads, and The Life of Buddha. Next to that, poetry-- Kahlil Gibran, Rumi, Walt Whitman. Hard to figure a guy like Monk.”

“Well, I figure the fucking lunatic got this fine fucking shirt just for me. Knew I’d be dropping by and wanted to make me feel fucking welcome,” Brockman held out one arm and wiggled it to sway the fringe.

“What is it with you, cowboy?” Willy grimaced. “Everything is fuck this, or fucking that. It’s like some kind of mental disorder, isn’t it? Some kind of compulsive Pig Latin, like fucking gee, fucking I fucking get fucking tired fucking of fucking this fucking fucking fucking profanity! Why don’t you try using real words?” Willy was leaning into Brockman like a drill instructor, but looked more like a tiny scaffold against a massive building. But Brockman was surprised by his intensity, and leaned back away from Willy with his mouth open.

“Fuck is too a real word,” Brockman finally muttered. Then as he regained his composure, added, “Fucking asshole.”

“I’d like a rest from it too, Brock,” Parker said quietly. It just doesn’t seem to fit the mood of the place. Besides, you’re a bad influence on Bobby. Look. Everybody calm down. Here’s some more wine I found.” Parker passed the bottle directly to Brockman, who took a long drink.

“Now you’re talkin’,” Brockman wiped his mouth with a buckskin sleeve.

Bobby came out of the bedroom dressed in a thick maroon bathrobe, and hung up his shirt and pants on the twine Brockman had strung.

Parker stood in front of the fireplace and held his hands out to warm them. “Nice fire,” he said quietly.

Brockman had taken off his shoes and socks; he sat down on the mildewed pelt over the couch, and put his bare feet out toward the fire. “Yeah, great fu—I mean, great cabin. You done good to find it. I take it back what I said about your forward observing.”

Parker looked at the mildew on the fur over the couch, got one of the blankets Bobby had brought from the bedroom, covered one end of the fur with it, and sat down.

“Pansy ass,” Brockman grinned.

“Low threshold for your lifestyle,” Parker said. He formed a bit of a smile—just enough to soften the insult, but not blur it.

“Well, rotten fur or not, this sure beats the hell out of sitting on top of a hill in the freezing rain, and dark so thick you can’t tell if your eyes are open.” Brockman lit a cigarette and leaned back, placing his bare feet inches from the fire. “I thought I’d never thaw these out.”

“Hey, cowboy, how ‘bout a smoke?” Willy said from across the room.

“Fu—I mean, no dice. Only got one more, and I ain’t giving you my last one,” Brockman said.

“Too bad Monk didn’t smoke,” Willy muttered.

“B-but he did,” Bobby said.

“What, Bobby?” Willy said.

“I-I think this’s his bathrobe. Look what I found in the pocket.” Bobby held up an opened pack of Camels.

“Dibbs! Way to go Bobby!” Willy said. But before Willy could reach them, Brockman grabbed them from Bobby’s hands.

“Thanks, kid,” Brockman grinned.

“I said dibbs. They’re mine!” Willy said.

“They ain’t yours now,” Brockman glared.

Parker could see the coming scuffle would likely get out of hand. Better to stop it now. “Hold on, both of you. We’re all in this together. Brock, count out how many there are and divide them up. And I’ll take one for my fine leadership skills.”

Brock snorted at that, but he seemed in a better mood. The pack was less than half full; Parker took one, Brock and Willy each took three.

Willy lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Damn, my favorite, too,” he said. “It feels just like this old house knew we were coming, just like Brock said,” Willy grinned.

“Why damn, Weasel. You actually listened to me,” Brock said. “I’ll die happy now.”

“I’d be happy to help you along,” Willy said. “More cigarettes for the rest of us.”

“Yup, I’m going to have to kill you so that I can sleep with my eyes all the way shut,” Brockman nodded, as though that would be nothing important.

“Hey, chill out, and enjoy what you’ve been given. You didn’t have these smokes a minute ago, and you were in a better mood then.” Parker started to light his own cigarette with an ember from the fire, but stopped when he remembered that he was cooking. “If they make you so unhappy, give them all to me,” he said as he got up.

“No way,” Willy said.

“Not gonna happen,” Brockman said at the same time.

“Fine,” Parker smiled. “Behave yourselves. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, Dad,” Willy said. Bobby sniggered at that.

Parker found that his woodstove fire had almost gone out, but the potatoes were done. He poured the potato cubes into a bowl and sprayed them with Pam, then poured the beef stew on top of that. After adding a bit of seasoning, he carried the bowl to the table by the bookcase in the living room. “Dinner, such as it is,” he said. “If you don’t like it, you can be cook next time.”

Parker ladled the food into four bowls in equal amounts and set one in front of each chair. He turned up the lamp light as the others seated themselves around the table.

“Ain’t this a cheery sight?” Brockman said, picking up his fork.

“Just like home,” Bobby said. “We ought to say grace,” he added.

“Say what?” Willy said.

“Grace,” Bobby said. “You know, thank God for this food and all.”

Brockman laughed. “Why sure, Bobby, we’ll do that.” He lifted his fork high in the air. “Good veggies, good meat; good God, let’s eat,” he said as he stabbed his food and took a big bite.

“Amen,” Bobby said as he picked up his fork.

Willy opened his mouth in a smirk to say something in Bobby’s direction, but Brock’s fork came down hard on the table in front of him. Willy held up his palms and said nothing.

They ate in silence, except for Willy mumbling “Not bad,” and Brock, with his mouth full, grunting his agreement, and pointing at Willy and then at Parker with his fork. When they were finished, nothing was left.

“You done good, Sarge,” Brockman said as he picked his teeth with his fork. “You go sit your ass by the fire. Put on a log when it needs one. I’ll wash these up.”

“Well damn, cowboy, you’re like a regular mom,” Parker said.

“That’s me, Mama Brock,” he answered, gathering up the bowls.

Parker tried easing himself into the wicker sofa, but the soft comfort left him uneasy. His back and shoulders were still tensed against some unknown enemy that might leap in among them and surprise them in the midst of such bright comfort. He was still wary of the soothing warmth as it seeped into his tired limbs.

He stood abruptly and began pacing from window to window, but could see absolutely nothing in the blackness outside. He unlatched the front door and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind him.

There was no moon nor any stars. He could only see a few snowflakes falling through the light near the windows. The only sounds came from within the cabin-- Bobby’s clubby footsteps, and occasionally the sound of a dish clinking against something in the kitchen. Otherwise, all was pitch black and silent.

Parker stepped off the porch to be away from the light of the cabin, to be further engulfed in the pitch black night. Away from the porch, he could hear the water gurgling in the spillway, the light breeze moving through the cedar branches, the hoot of a disgruntled owl. He felt completely alone.

He remembered Lissa’s face then, her curly auburn hair falling over her eyes as she spoke. They were naked together in the dark state-room of a motor-yacht moored across from the University of Washington, the thousands of lights from the shore of Lake Union reflected in her eyes. We are talking about people here, their passions, their beliefs! Don’t you care? He remembered her hands gesticulating as she talked, landing on his arm when she was done. That’s exactly the problem, he had answered. You can’t predict passion, you can’t prove beliefs. No, she had answered. You feel them. Feel what? He had asked her then. He remembered what there was to feel-- her touch in darkness such as this. But her passion was like a tidal wave. I can’t feel what you feel all the time. It interferes with my studies. Nothing personal, he had said in a moment of frustration. She had withdrawn her hand, and he had felt something then-- the finality of it. Nothing is ever personal with you, is it, Vince? She had said. After she was gone, the yacht had felt darker, his life emptier. Straightening up, he had found a book that she had left behind in an obvious place for him to find: Piercing the Veil, by John J. Monk.

Darkness is always empty, he thought.

He heard a slight thump off in the underbrush, followed by the quick shrill screech of a small animal’s last breath beneath the talons of another. Then, silence. Except when it isn’t, he thought.

Again the hoot of an owl. This would not be the one feeding; no wonder he sounded pissed off. Well, pay better attention, owl. He listened intently for a moment longer, then began to feel foolish, thinking there could be anything to worry about approaching from the darkness. It would be insane to hike through such hilly terrain at night, with the rocks all slick with moss, the creeks engorged, and the slopes ankle deep with mud. Perhaps the fighting would resume with the light of dawn, as soon as targets appeared in the gun-sights of animals like the Biscuit. But the four of them were isolated enough from that insanity, for the night at least. Another hoot. So, the darkness held at least one annoyed owl. Okay, owl. I’ll leave the watch to you. Watch for soldiers. Watch out for angry, self-righteous people with bats. Or guns. And watch out for winter; that seems to sneak up on you too. He shivered, grabbed an armful of firewood and stepped back inside, slipping the deadbolt into place with his free hand.

As he turned into the main room, its warmth touched him like a caress. Circles of lamplight blended with the flicker of the fire across the many surfaces and caused the room to waver and dance. The dead, dank smells of the cabin had been driven back, replaced by smells of burning wood, warm leather, hot stones, and steaming clothes. He imagined the warmth penetrating each of the surfaces, as though it were a kind of life-blood which joined together disparate parts into one living whole. Something within him responded, relaxed a little. He set the wood by the fireplace and settled down into the couch again.

Brock came in from the kitchen, drying his hands on his shirt front. “Say, you look like a wet cat, Sarge. Take your shoes off, warm your feet up. There’s dry pants that might be your size. Snug around the middle, but room for lots a’ balls,” Brock approached the fireplace; he added a log to the fire and stuffed a piece of paper from the mantle underneath it to help it get started. Then he stood tall and stretched his massive back.

“For the umpteenth time, I’m not a sergeant. Only a lousy spec-four. And stop burning those papers. I may want to look at them.”

“All right, all right,” Brockman said. “Somebody punch his reset button.”

“Say, that’s pretty good lingo for a gunner’s mate,” Willy said, approaching the fire with a small stack of newsprint.

“Thanks, runt.”

Willy took out one of his cigarettes, and absently patted himself down for a lighter. “Say, how about a light?” he said in Brock’s direction. Brockman turned toward him and jutted his chin out. Willy leaned forward and touched the end of his cigarette to Brockman’s. They stood glaring eye to eye, puffing into each other’s faces, jaws clenched as though around the pull ring of the same grenade. Then Willy pulled away. “Thanks, ape,” he said.

“Well, go ahead, Chief,” Brockman said, turning toward Parker. “It don’t matter right now what you are. War’s cancelled for tonight. Warm your feet, why don’t you?”

Parker unlaced his boots, then kicked off his socks into a corner. Water pooled from them as they landed with a heavy plop. He moved them off the wooden floor onto the hearth bricks, and then put his feet inches from the fire. He would have to move them soon, but the slow spread of pain made him wince through a smile. He eyed the pile of clothes that Bobby had brought in from the bedroom. On top was a pair of grey woolen pants, about his size, too. “What the Hell,” he muttered. It was just for tonight. Tomorrow was another war, but for tonight, good dry pants! He went to the pile and put them on. Along with a pair of socks—cinnamon argyles—and then made his way back to the couch and the fire.

Brockman tossed his cigarette butt at the fire. It missed, and bounced off the brick face onto the small cloth rug. He stomped it out with his bare heel, picked it up, and re-tossed it into the fire. After all that was done, he said, “Ow. Gettin’ some feelin’ back in my feet. Move over, Bobby. I want to sit down and see if I burnt myself.”

Bobby did not move; he was asleep under his huge foul weather coat. “Well, ain’t that cozy,” Brockman smiled. “Look, Sar- I mean, Parker… Say, you got a first name?”

“Yeah. Vincent,” Parker said.

“Well, look, Vincent. I’m going to stuff little Goldilocks here into that bed in there, if you got no general order against it.”

“Seems a waste for somebody not to use it,” Parker shrugged.

“I was thinkin’ that too,” Brockman said. He wrapped Bobby into the foul weather coat and picked him up like he was no more than a puppy. “Night-y night,” Brockman said in a higher than usual voice—perhaps speaking as Goldilocks, or maybe for himself. Parker just lifted a hand in a quick wave. Brockman, for all his blustering, was like a doting parent when it came to Bobby.

Parker wriggled his toes and decided his feet were hot enough. He stood and spread his spare blanket more evenly over the empty couch.

Willy came over to the couch carrying his stack of cut-out newspaper articles. “Look at this, Vince,” he said.

“What have you got there?”

“These are newspaper articles about Monk,” Willy said. “This one is dated a week before Monk was killed. Listen to this. The Harvester’s Union Board voted unanimously to change the name of their organization to The Circle of Friends, in honor of John J. Monk, the inspirational founder and guiding spirit of the Cascadian Isolationist Movement. The colorful poet has written many inspirational columns in the Vancouver Voice, the local homeless people’s street-corner newspaper, calling for complete separation of local and federal legalities, stating, “If a free man is to be governed, it should be by a forum no larger than his own circle of friends.” Monk’s article, republished many times, and gone viral on the internet, has been widely accepted as a battle cry for peaceful, organized secession…”

Parker smiled. “Battle cry for peace, ay? Sounds like information, but its really just propaganda. It’s info-ganda.”

“Yeah, well there must be dozens of articles here. Maybe I’ll find something that’ll tickle your high-collar fancy, Sarge.” Willy eyed the couch. Parker motioned for him to sit if he wished, and so he did. Willy took a long puff on his cigarette and exhaled a large smoke ring and then another smaller one through the center of the first one.

“I’ve never been able to do that,” Parker said.

“It’s all in the practice,” Willy smiled. “You do it over and over again until you have bad lungs. Here, give it a try.”

Parker took a puff off of Willy’s cigarette and blew a smoke ring. His second ring was the same size, and overtook the first ring; the two rings merged into one giant perfect circle which kept its shape until it was sucked up the chimney. “Best one ever,” he said.

“Yeah, nice one,” Willy said. “But it’s like everything else here,” Willy said. “There’s something about this place that’s weird, but in a good way. It’s like in this old cabin, I can do anything, be anything, and everything will be all right. It’s a little bit spooky.”

“I’ve felt that too,” Parker said. “What do you think it means?”

“Well, I think it’s Monk. He always had, like, an air about him,” Willy said. “A kind of positive energy that made people feel good about themselves. It’s hard to explain if you never met him. But this house has that same kind of energy. It’s like old Monk’s ghost is hanging out here,” Willy said.

“The news reports called him an eccentric. I took that to mean nut job,” Parker said. “That true?”

“The news media only tells you what they want you to know,” Willy said. “I don’t think Monk was crazy, but he did seem to think differently than most other people. Here, listen to this; it’s from an interview, I think, after Monk published his book. It’s not all here. Brock has ripped apart a lot of these, but here’s this part:

B-3

Life? Monk said again. Listen, do you remember that old Chinese tale about the butterfly? ‘I dreamt I was a butterfly, and then upon waking, I could not tell if I was a man who dreamt he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.’ We must remember that we are spiritual beings having a temporary physical experience. Life is just an introduction to the infinite.” Willy turned the page over, but there was no more. “That’s it,” he said.

Parker closed his eyes and shook his head for a moment. “Thanks, Moon. That was really a big help. I understand everything now.”

“Well, he didn’t make sense all the time,” Willy said. “He thought kind of multi-dimensionally. It wasn’t always clear.”

“Yeah, well, you have to think clear enough to get out of the way of trucks,” Parker snickered.

“Not as simple as that,” Willy said.

“What do you mean? I read Monk was run over by a truck. Wasn’t he?”

“A Guard Stryker vehicle,” Willy answered.

“He was a rebel leader, if not the rebel leader. The Guard took him out. What’s not simple about that?” Parker asked.

Willy didn’t answer right away. He took a puff and blew several perfect smoke rings, each inside the next, before throwing the cigarette butt into the fire. Then he leaned back into the wicker sofa. “Look, it’s complicated. He wasn’t a rabble rouser. He wasn’t the rebel leader. He was a poet.”

“Yeah, I know,” Parker said. I got that book of his from a friend. “But I never got around to reading it; I don’t read much poetry. So what do you know about him, Willy? How did a poet get involved in all this?”

Well, I told you he wrote that column for the Vancouver Voice. His thing was, like, he wanted more social involvement on a local level. More personal involvement, you know, like caring for each other. He’s gotten quoted in the media a bunch of times, but I can count on a fingerless stump the number of times they got it right. They just used his writing for their own agenda.”

“It sounds like regular politics to me.” Parker shrugged and shook his head. For all his years at the University, he felt a little stupid. He didn’t care for the liberal arts studies, and didn’t read the newspaper every day. He had conscientiously avoided the social sciences, especially current events, as though they were environmental pollutants. Hard science is like brain food, he’d explain to friends who would urge him to this or that rally or demonstration. Politics are like Twinkies, he’d say next. Today’s mouthful is just tomorrow’s gas.

But he knew the basic headlines: The Federal Government Intervenes. The Federal Nuclear Regulatory commission refuses to hear testimony from environmental groups about the geologic hazards of a nuclear dump site. The National Forest Service clear-cuts popular recreational wild-lands. The National Bureau of Agriculture regulates who can grow what where, and who can harvest it. The Federal Government forecloses on loans to small farmers who can’t compete with huge agricultural conglomerates. Because of federal regulations, whole valleys grew single crops which were harvested by giant machines. All those farmers and pickers out of work, and food prices soaring. Federal legislation prohibited fishing, hunting, squatting, building, production, or transport without permits. And especially no toking. It was inevitable that people would eventually stop in their tracks and say, wait a minute! Let’s live on our own land and grow our own food and invest our money in a locally run, nuclear-free, independent and balanced ecology and smoke whatever we want! What a dangerous idea. Of course the National Guard had to be alerted. Even a lunatic could see that.

“Maybe it was just politics,” Willy sighed. “But people’s lives were at stake. People were homeless and hungry. Translate that as very unhappy. Monk was just suggesting a better way to live, outside of the government’s vision for us. It wasn’t about hurting people.”

“But that’s what it came to. Rebellion means conflict,” Parker said.

“But that was the thing, Parker. Monk wasn’t about rebellion or conflict. He was trying to prevent what happened. His writing was about celebration-- of who we are, and about what we can be for each other. He was kind of a visionary. Some people called him a prophet. But I don’t think that. He was just a crazy street preacher.

“A preacher? No shit,” Parker said. Then, realizing his word grouping, he added, “Oh. Sorry. You mean like a minister?”

“I’ve been looking around in his desk, and reading some of his journal. He was a questioner, a seeker—you know, why are we here, what’s the nature of the universe, that kind of crap. But whether he found any answers, who knows? There’s a certificate over on the wall by the desk. It says he was an official minister of the Church of the Divine Unity. But it’s just an internet print-out. Says he got the deluxe version with the colored scroll work on the top, and it cost him ten bucks.”

“So he was a mail-order preacher.” Parker chuckled. “The old short cut to the clergy—you walk deep into the forest and you become enlightened when nobody is watching. Monk was nothing but a New Age flim-flam man.”

Willy shook his head. “Whatever the paper says, he was more than that. He was a giver, a helper. He was a go-to guy for people on the street. Everyone knew Monk. Everybody I know liked him.”

“Did you know him?”

“Yeah, I knew him. He helped me out when I was in a hard place.”

“Care to tell me about it? I mean, if you want to.”

“It was when I first hit the street. Couple years ago now. I was a long-time foster kid. My mom’s in jail, and I don’t think she even knew who my father was. When my grandmother died, I was shuffled back and forth in foster homes for a couple of years. The last one, the foster dad was a real abusive prick, only in the game for the foster-kid money. When I’d had enough of his bullshit, I left. I took all his silverware and his power tools and pawned them. But the pawn shop turned me in and I ended up in juvie. When I got out, I was too old for home placement. So I was just a stupid kid with no place to go, on the street with nothin’, not even a coat. Monk found me begging for change at the bus station and took me to a shelter, got me some food, and a coat.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Because that’s what he did. Monk was a volunteer at the 4th Street Clinic. He helped find shelter for people who needed it, and medical care too. He saw to it that street kids had enough to eat. He took them to the free dining halls, and even ate there with them. He only had one request: don’t cuss during the prayers. He was like a street person himself. He ate with the kids and slept on the street sometimes. His clothes were as ragged as anybody’s, and sometimes he smelled bad. But he was more than that. I saw him giving out folding money to desperate people, more than once. I’d never seen any street person give away money before. But Monk did. He was different. Everybody knew that, but Monk was never harmful or mean spirited, so people just shrugged and said, let Monk do what Monk does.”

“Did you talk to him more than that once? Other times, I mean?”

“Couple of times, but just to say hello. He’d ask me how I was doing, though. He remembered people. But that first time was the important time. He got me onto my feet again. That’s what he did. Here’s a Monk story; this is classic Monk. After he connected me with the shelter, he comes up into my face, and he asks me, did you ever see Dumbo? And I said, you mean like the flying elephant Dumbo, the movie? And he said yes. He said Dumbo could fly because a little mouse gave him a magic feather. He said it turns out we all get to have a magic feather. Then he gave me this big feather and said, believe in yourself, kid. The universe wants you to succeed; all you have to do is get out of your own way. Well, I kept that feather for months. Used to wear it in my hair, like an Indian.”

“But you are an Indian.”

“Who told you that? I’m Guatemalan. My real name’s Willy Luna. But Willy Luna had a police record that kept him from getting a job. Now, as William Moon, I don’t; I’m clean as a whistle.”

“So how did you end up here?”

“Bobby wrecked the humvee, same as you.”

“I mean in the Guard.”

“Monk got me into STEM school. You know, Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math. But that program dumps you into the military. I didn’t really mind though. It was three squares a day, and I got to study electronics,” Willy shrugged. “I’d probably be in jail or dead, if it weren’t for Monk. But I have to admit, he was a bit weird. One of a kind, Monk was. Completely off the radar.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, who was he, really? He didn’t belong to any charity, or church, or social service group, anything like that. He just helped people one-on-one, because he wanted to. I found something else in the belly drawer of his desk, too. I found a monthly budget ledger. It showed that he got social security checks deposited into a bank account, and it looks like he gave over half of it away. Who does that?”

“What?”

“That’s right. Monk gave away over half his income to hard case charities, like the 4^th Street clinic. But if you look around here, what did he need money for? He lived way out in the woods where no one could find him. He wasn’t hooked up to municipal water, or sewer, or electricity, or even a phone. A downed tree would keep him in firewood for a month. He probably got his clothes at Goodwill or Value Village, and probably got a haircut once a year, if that.”

“I’ve been trying to find this area on the recon map, match the hills and valleys to what I see,” Parker said. “I can’t find exactly where we are, except that this whole area is BLM land. Federally owned. This house isn’t even supposed to be here. Monk was a squatter.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Monk probably knew the Feds had so little money they’ve laid off all their wild-land people, rangers and such. There’s no one overseeing this area but satellite photography, and this cabin is under a bunch of big damn cedars. Yup, as far as the government is concerned, Monk was completely invisible. Probably lived here for years.”

“So the real question,” Parker paused. “The real question is, what was this guy you’re telling me about doing in the middle of a riot?”

Willy rose to put a log on the fire, and then stood with his back to it, his hands behind him. “Ahh,” he sighed. “Well, it didn’t start out as a riot. It started out as a Facebook happening. You know, everyone contacts everyone they know and the word gets out. There’s a gathering to celebrate something or protest something at such and such a place, such and such a time. You can get a lot of people together without much lead time that way.”

“So whose idea was that?”

“Well, it was Monk’s idea originally. He suggested the gathering in his column. But it was supposed to be a celebration of local pride. He helped sell papers on the street corner down by the Harvester’s Union farmer’s market, and he talked to lots of people there about it. He’d rant, and preach, and sometimes sing, halfway between entertaining and embarrassing. At least he did until the police shut down the market and ran everyone off. That’s really what started this whole uprising.”

“A farmer’s market being closed?”

“Well, yeah. The straw, you know, that broke the camel’s back and all.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t read much about any of it. What happened?”

“That’s because the regular papers don’t want you to know. Like I said, I’d been on the street a while by then. I knew a few people, knew a few things to help me get by. I’d pick crops in the summer. Berries and beans, mostly. Sometimes, apples and pears over in the Yakima Valley. The Harvester’s Union was getting us pretty good money then. But the fatheads in Washington decided it was the Union that was causing the food prices to go up. Never mind the fancy picking machines that put us out of work, or the apples from Yakima being shipped to Alabama, and shipping us back apples from New Zealand. Never mind the government telling the farmers what crops they could grow next year—to balance the economy, you know. It was really the big food chains that were pulling the strings. They didn’t like the competition. It was all our fault, you know. So a lot of the farmers stopped growing wheat and grew marijuana instead. It’s legal in the state now, and the Harvester’s Union farmer’s market was a great place to sell it. Until the Feds used that as an excuse to shut it down. People coming in from out of state to run our lives pissed a lot of people off. Monk simply capitalized on those feelings. Hey, I think the column that started all this is thumb-tacked on the wall above the desk.” Willy sauntered to the desk, removed thumbtacks from a yellowed piece of news-print, and brought it to Parker. “Take a look at this,” he said.

Parker scanned the article. The title read,

In Support of Local Community

Come celebrate Cascadia. Let us gather together on All Saint’s Day… the article began. Monk wrote about a solidarity gathering to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness-- the American way. Only the thing was, he seemed to feel that the American system of government interfered with Americans’ pursuit of happiness.

Let us help and support one another locally, and turn our backs to the people in Washington who could not care less... the article read. It ended with a quote:

“The impersonal hand of government can never replace the helping hand of a neighbor.” -- Hubert H. Humphrey

Parker chuckled. “Well, that sounds peachy keen in theory, but I’m a realist. I can’t really relate to that kind of idealistic crap.”

“But it turns out a whole lot of people could. His column was posted on line, and circulated on the social websites. Posters were made and stapled to telephone poles all over the city, all which Monk knew nothing about. And the thing was, the original message of ‘celebrate’ got changed to ‘protest.’ Here, look at this.” Willy handed Parker a thick stack of rumpled green flyers with holes in the corners.

Parker took one and looked at it. The heading read, Protest Government Intrusion: Rebel Against Limits on your Freedom by Out-of-State Interests. Join John J. Monk in a mass demonstration to protest federal intrusion into our state and local autonomy… Parker stopped reading. “Very different flavor,” he said. “Monk must have been disappointed.”

Willy took back the flyer. “When he found one of these, he must have gone around the city and taken down as many as he could find. But it was too late. Suddenly it’s All Saint’s Day, and there’s twenty thousand pissed off people getting high at Fort Vancouver.”

“If the gathering wasn’t what he intended, why was he there then?”

Willy shrugged. “Who knows? I think he suspected the tendency of large crowds to go crazy,” Willy said. “I think he was trying to stop it.”

“One man?”

“Well, he was Monk. Not the most rational man on the planet. He may have felt he had the Almighty in his corner.”

“They say God is supposed to watch over fools and lunatics. So the Almighty might have taken special interest in this Monk character.”

“Well, his journal is over on the desk. Maybe you should take a look at it,” Willy said.

“Why?”

“You might find it interesting. His view of the world was unique, to say the least. At least read his last entry, if you get a chance.”

“Not now,” Parker yawned. “I’m beat. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Well, you asked, so I was just saying. But you ought to read it if you get a chance before we head out.”

“Yeah, Yeah,” Parker yawned. “Study up on the nut job.”

Willy frowned at him, rose from the couch and went to the desk again.

Brockman came out of the bedroom and closed the door slowly, so it wouldn’t make a sound. He came to the fireplace and lit another cigarette. “Kid’s out like a busted light,” he said. “After we’re done bein’ noisy, I’ll open the door so the heat can get in. If he don’t flail around, there’s room on that bed for another body.”

Willy strolled to the fireplace. “Hey, Gunney, how about a cigarette?”

“No can do, Weasel,” Brockman said. “I’m out.”

“Well, give me a hit then,” Willy said. Brockman gave him the cigarette, and Willy took a puff, but walked away with it instead of giving it back.

“Hey! Come back here with that,” Brockman said.

“Umm, good,” Willy said. But he kept his legs bent, ready for quick movement in case Brockman decided to chase after him.

Brockman scowled at Willy, but instead of chasing him, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out another cigarette.

“Why you lying turd,” Willy said.

“Well at least I ain’t a fu- a goddamned thief,” Brockman said, lighting up.

“How many you got left?” Willy asked.

“This is it. I had an extra pack in the cargo pocket of my pants, but they got soaked.”

“Let’s dry ‘em out,” Willy said.

“Ain’t possible.”

“Well, let’s give it a try.”

“They’re in the garbage in the kitchen.”

“Well, I’m gonna dig ‘em out and try to dry them up,” Willy said, and headed for the kitchen.

“Good luck with that, you goddamned dumpster diver.” Brockman headed for the couch. Parker joined him, and stretched out his new argyle socks toward the fire.

“Say, Brock, what’s wrong with Bobby?” Parker asked.

“He’s a moron,” Brockman said. “Well, he ain’t exactly an official moron, but he’s none too bright. Only thing he knows how to do is drive. He can drive any vehicle you put him in, even a Bradley. Gets ‘em going like a bat out of hell. The problem is he ain’t too good at stoppin’.”

“That I noticed. But what about that fit he had earlier? What’s the story behind that?”

Brockman didn’t answer right away. He took a couple of puffs on his cigarette first. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I s’pose you have a right to know. Coming in here’s been hard for Bobby.”

“Why?”

“’Cause Bobby was driving the Stryker that ran over Monk. He’s been feeling mighty guilty, like a murderer. Coming in here has reminded him of that bad time.”

“Whoa, I did not know that. Do you know what actually happened? Do you know why he did it?”

“I was there, Parker. I know what happened. And Bobby didn’t do it. That asshole Captain Vashon did it.”

“But you said Bobby was driving,” Parker said.

“He was behind the wheel. I was up on the 50 caliber in the same Stryker. I saw the whole thing.”

“What happened?”

“When we pulled up to the riot scene, there was wall to wall people as far as we could see in every direction but the way we came in. Up ahead there was a police cruiser on its top, and on fire. Turns out that just before we got there, a squad car had advanced on a couple of rock throwers and tried to arrest them. But the crowd just swallowed them up and overturned their cruiser. I heard that Monk helped get the two officers out of the burning car, but they was burnt some. They needed help, but the police squads couldn’t get to them. Too many angry people with rocks and bats, even shovels and axes. The tear gas was thick, and the crowd was throwing the grenades back. People were jumping onto the riot squad shields, and by the time the cops controlled the jumpers, two more would replace each one. The riot squad wasn’t gonna leave their men lying in the street, but they wasn’t making any headway either.

That’s when we rolled up. We deployed behind the cops. They fell back behind us, and we were in the thick of it. I’m on the .50, and from my standing position, I could see two bodies in the street, uniformed officers down. The captain was worried about them two cops, and ordered Bobby to drive forward. Just then, the crowd line falls back, and Monk steps out of it wearin’ nothing but his skivvies with his hands up in the air—you know, like this…” Brockman held up his arms, hands extended outward in a universal signal to stop. “Well, the captain says to Bobby to keep driving forward slowly until we could get to those downed cops, but Monk walks directly in front of the Stryker. I heard him say that the cops would be okay, that he was havin’ ‘em cared for. Then he said somethin’ about spirits; I didn’t get it all. I couldn’t hardly hear him ‘cause the crowd is yellin’, Monk! Monk! Monk! in unison, like a damn chant or somethin’.”

“Well, the captain goes all red in the face and starts gesturin’ in the air. He yells at me, ‘That’s Monk! That’s the ring-leader! All of this was his fault! Brockman, take him out!’ Well, I can see people bending over the cops, and they don’t look like they’re hurting them. Now, I’m on the .50, and my finger is on the trigger, but I ain’t gonna shoot without a reason. That’d be murder. Just then, Monk turns around, and his hands are still up, and I hear him shouting at the people to be gentle, or something like that. The crowd is still yellin’ his name and I can’t separate all the sounds too well. And then Monk lets out this amazing sound. It’s like a humming, but it’s really loud, louder than any regular voice. It sounded like UUUUUMMMMMM,” Brock said. “There were people in the crowd that started to make the sound with him, and the yelling out of his name fades away and is replaced by this single steady sound. It’s like a song, but like, only one note. All’s I know is there was this moment when that sound, you know, thousands of voices makin’ the same sound, well it kind of took over your mind, and everything seemed to slow way down. Monk sits down on the pavement, and he’s out of sight in front of the Stryker, but we can still hear him makin’ that sound. And then people in the crowd start sittin’ down, and the cops are confused about what to do. Some of them are makin’ that sound too, and the ones formin’ up their line and gettin’ ready to rush on past us, well, they just stop. They don’t know what to do.”

“Well, the captain went ballistic. He was cussin’ at me and sayin’ those cops ain’t gonna take his moment, and he’s callin’ me a traitor for not shootin’, and he’s yellin’ at Bobby to run Monk over. Take out their leader and we’ll gain control, he said. Bobby refused to do it, but the Stryker was still in gear. So that asshole captain reached over with his left foot and pushed Bobby’s gas-pedal to the floor, and the Stryker lunged forward right over the top of Monk. It happened so fast, I lost my grip and fell off the back and hit my head. I was dazed for a minute, but when I came around, I could see Monk behind the front left wheel, and his whole middle was flat as a pancake. Bobby was with him kneeled over, and they was talkin’. The captain got out and pulled Bobby away and started shaking him real hard. Well, I’d had enough of that asshole. Sorry, Vince, but sometimes there ain’t no better word for it. You look asshole up in the dictionary, and the captain’s picture’ll be there.”

“So what happened then?”

“Bobby was sniveling and shaking all on his own, but the captain wanted him to get in and drive over Monk again on his way forward, and he slapped Bobby in the face. I pulled the captain off Bobby and smacked him a good one, a left hook right in the mouth. He went down like a sack a’ apples. Well, the crowd had stopped their humming, and for a minute or so, everything was real quiet. But I could see that Monk was dead, and so could everyone else. I heard someone shout, Kill them! And I knew we had to get out of there. Then a rock hit the Stryker rear-view mirror and broke it. And a bottle with a lit cloth fuse hit the ground right at my feet. I’m guessin’ it was supposed to be a Molotov cocktail, but some people ain’t too bright. It was a plastic bottle, or I’d be a cooked goose now. Bobby was in no shape to drive, so I pushed him into the cab, slid him over and got in behind the wheel myself. I’d never drove a Stryker before, but it’s amazing how fast you can learn when you’re scared shitless. Three bullets hit the windshield then, wham, wham, wham! But them Strykers is built with special glass. The police moved their line in front of us, but the crowd is moving forward over the tops of their shields like a frigging wave, and their line is breaking apart. I hear the Stryker on my left open up with his .50. That wasn’t pretty, but it scattered the crowd for a moment. So I backed out of there as fast as I could before the horror wore off the crowd. They had us outnumbered a hundred to one, and I know there wasn’t enough ammo to get us out if we stayed and fought.

“What happened to the captain?”

“Well, I ain’t no deserter. I‘d picked him up and threw him into the back before I got Bobby, despite the bottles and rocks. It’s how come I didn’t get a Dishonorable. An act of disobeying a direct order under fire followed by an act of heroism, they said. But they busted me anyways.”

“Damn,” Parker said. “I didn’t know any of that.”

“Yeah, that Monk was a Jesus-haired, ragged ass rabble-rouser, But he saved those two cops from getting burned up, and he might a’calmed everybody into a peaceful resolution of the whole thing if it hadn’t been for Vashon. That asshole was completely taken over by his own blood-lust. They’ll make him a general some day. But still, I’m glad I didn’t shoot Monk with the .50 even if he did end up dead anyway.”

“I wonder what Monk said to Bobby?” Parker said.

“I don’t know. And don’t go upsetting the kid; he ain’t balanced right, you hear me, Vince?”

“Yeah, I hear you, Brock.” Parker said. “Say, have you got a first name?”

“It’s Harold, but don’t go tellin’ the Weasel. I wouldn’t hear the end of it.”

“Nothing wrong with Harold. Good solid name.”

“Thanks. Call me Brock though. Things are weird enough here, dressed in civvies and throwin’ around first names. Why, I’m in danger of gettin’ used to this, puttin’ my feet up and forgettin’ about the Guard.”

“I know what you mean, Brock. It’s this house. It’s some place where time slows down and pressure kind of falls away. I swear to God, it’s like the world has stopped, or at least swerved around this place.”

“Well, that ain’t such a bad thing, at least for tonight,” Brock said. He crossed his legs so that his feet were nearer the fire.

“Anyway, the house interests me, and so does the man who created it,” Parker said.

“Yeah, well, poke around all you want, but go easy on the kid,” Brock said. “Night, Vince,” he added. Brockman threw his cigarette butt into the fire, closed his eyes, and sat with his arms folded in a way that indicated to Parker that he was done talking for the night.

Parker arose and stretched; his feet were hot as they touched the floor. He reached beside Brock and gathered up the shards of paper clippings Willy had brought him, then walked around the room to cool his feet down. He found himself beside the writing desk, so he put the clippings on top of the opened journal. On a whim, he sat at the desk and began to look through them.

The clipping on top was torn in half, and not dated. He began to read anyway: Listen; they say you can’t take it with you, Monk told the crowd. But I say we take everything with us. We don’t leave anything behind, not really. We may try; we may say, forget this, or forget that, or forget yesterday or the day before, but we carry inside of us everything we are and everything the world is from one moment to the next. If we treat others badly, that eventually becomes a heavy burden. If we help others and treat them well, that creates a lightness of spirit. Life’s great irony is that the only way to honor our own spirit is to honor others. Listen again: be happy!

Maybe Monk was an idealistic simpleton, he thought. He sure as hell wasn’t in the Guard. One doesn’t always get to choose one’s duty. Parker sighed, and picked up another piece of newsprint. It was headed The Vancouver Columbian and dated May 2^nd:

The notorious eccentric and sometime philosopher John J. Monk appeared in downtown Vancouver yesterday, wandering through the streets and stores without apparent direction. Since this was his first public appearance after the publication of his book, Piercing the Veil, the Columbian dispatched a reporter to attempt an interview. Reporter Bob Phillips encountered Monk under the maple trees of Fort Vancouver Park, naked to the waist in the rain, chanting rhythmically, and waving around a long wooden oar. During periods of waning chants and relative lucidity, Phillips was able to ask Monk a few questions.

Phillips: How do you feel about your work being used to rationalize a regional consciousness, resulting in a potential movement towards regional independence?

Monk: Movement? What movement? There is only agreement on issues. A group sentiment, shared dreams.

Phillips: Well, there’s a growing sentiment of support and general sympathy for the isolationist ideals proposed in your book, Piercing the Veil. How do you feel about your new popularity among the isolationists?

Monk: I hope they leave me alone.

Phillips: I’d like to ask a question many people are curious about. Why do you sometimes carry a wooden oar about with you?

Monk: (smiling) Oh, do you remember the old round song, Row, row, row your boat?

Phillips: Yes, but…

Monk: Let’s sing it! Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream…Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream!

Phillips: So is that how you sum up the meaning of life?

Monk: Life? (There was a short period of laughter), Let me see… Continued on Page B-3

Parker exhaled and shook his head. He needed to see if there was any wine left in his bottle on the couch. Brock was nodding off, the socks on his feet steaming in front of the fire. Brock’s head fell forward and then jerked back with a snort. His eyes were closed, though, and he didn’t notice Parker retrieve his bottle. Parker drank half of what was left, a good mouthful, and licked the stem so that he wouldn’t miss a drop. Then he returned to the desk. He’d had enough of the paper clippings; he swept them off the top of the Monk’s journal.

The journal lay opened to the last entry on the right-hand page. Willy was wrapped in a blanket lying underneath the table, where no one was likely to trip over him, asleep and lightly snoring.

Parker sat down at the desk. His eyes were drawn to the open page of the journal. He began to read.

October 31^st

I saw Leanna today at the farmer’s market. She came to find me and warn me to stay away tomorrow. The Circle of Friends—the Harvester’s Union-- has become dominated by people with radical ideas. The All Saints Day gathering in Vancouver has been stolen from me by agitators from The Marijuana Initiative; the radical advocates intend to use my gathering as a massive demonstration of civil disobedience. I have found posted on telephone poles all over town a most egregious call to both smoke and sell marijuana at the old farmer’s market site at Fort Vancouver. The poster suggests blatant non-compliance with the law, and that people bring weapons to defend themselves against being arrested, and gas masks, if they have them. Leanna said this protest has been posted on social websites all over the web, and the turnout may be substantial.

I am shocked and dismayed that my idea of joining together in celebration has mutated into one of violent confrontation and revolt. I have nothing against marijuana use, but do not use it myself. The few times I did, it made me stupid. It made me think I was a wonderful human being, even when I had done nothing to justify the feeling. Why should I be of service to others when I can feel just as good inside without any effort at all?

My whole life, I have espoused ethical behavior as the only true path toward Nirvana and supernal bliss: compassion, integrity, respect, and piety. If you seek freedom, fine, be free. But do not forget your duty, your Dharma. For what have you gained, if you have lost compassion? These people are angry and defiant, and are dedicated to the endeavor of making themselves even more stupid. Rational minds will not prevail. And the larger the social group, the more likely ethical values will be ignored. A riot is inevitable now; a bloodbath possible.

Tomorrow I must go to this gathering to see that at least one compassionate mind is present. In complete darkness, a single candle may be enough to illuminate the Way. But in the whirlwind of an angry mob, a single candle may likely be blown out. There will be much danger.

It could be possible that this is my last journal entry. What can I say in conclusion, then, to sum up my life?

I have loved many, but L. most of all. Seeing her again after these years reminded me of that. I don’t know why I had to leave back then. I suppose I thought my life too important to change. She was not one to compromise either, and so we parted ways. But looking back at what we might have been, I’d give up every triumph and every prize won since to have a chance to make that choice again. Yesterday, she smiled when I told her that. She took my hand and said we’d have been good. Maybe there is still a chance to find out; I will go to her tomorrow and apologize for being such a fool so long ago. Maybe I can persuade her to turn our backs on this violent world together. I can think of nothing better to fill the void I feel.

I tell you, seek togetherness; that is all there is. I have searched the world and found nothing else of value.

As for the nature of God, only He knows the answers. I have sought evidence of His presence all my life, and have found only emptiness and questions. But within the silence and the emptiness, I have found that the questions do not matter. Only the clarity of the song you dance to, and the intent of your dance.

And what is the song? It is the music of the spheres, the sound of everything together. It is my spirit expanding to join with all around me. I am a part of the stones of the earth and the trees on the mountain; I am a conduit of the water which flows from the sky to the sea. The creatures of the forest eat from my bowl, and I wish them well. As for other men, I wish them success on their own separate journeys, and aid them if I can. Wish others well; it is good energy, the only energy that matters.

Desiring answers more explicit than this has caused me much suffering. I have come to believe that there is no salvation, only acceptance. God does not provide incontrovertible proof of His nature. But if you seek Him, no matter how you do it, you will find Him. All spiritual paths lead to God, if sincere. And if not, then all paths lead to Him anyway, eventually, so try at least not to piss Him off.

We only exist now—but now exists forever. We must remember that our every act is like a stone skipping across the surface of the Universe. Let us act justly and compassionately so that the ripples we create do not hinder others from their own enlightenment.

I have believed all my life in an ultimate answer and have sought it along many paths, but I know nothing more now than when I was a child. Perhaps the first step is believing as a child believes, and the second is in the seeking. Perhaps all paths are circular, and we have already arrived. I do know that at this moment, here in the forest, with the sun glistening off the multi-colored leaves and the sweet smell of wood-smoke in the air, this feels as close to heaven as I can imagine.”

“Remember me as the one who woke up.”

--the Buddha

The bike fell through the porch again. When I get back, I’ll have to replace the supports underneath. And I will need much more firewood for the winter. There is no end

Parker turned the page to see if there was more, but there wasn’t. The journal seemed to end in mid-sentence with no punctuation. And Monk had certainly been wrong; there had definitely been an end. Had Monk been wrong about everything? Some of what Monk had written sounded trite and childish, yet some of it spoke to something deep inside of him, something for which he had no word.

He closed the journal and turned off the lantern, but then on an impulse, picked up the journal and carried it to the couch. Brockman was gone. The door to Bobby’s room was open, and he thought he could hear two sets of snoring within. Fine. That left him the whole couch. The fire was low, just red coals before the amphitheater of a large burned-out log. He placed another log in front of it and tamped it in with a poker. Then he sat with his feet toward the fire, swirling the last bit of Pinot Noir in the bottom of the bottle. Flames burst forth like bright flowers in a slender line, their edges waving and pulsing; patterns of the hearth wavered in his eyes as though turned to liquid, or something viewed through liquid. Something beyond, or something within.

Parker inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of wood smoke, and lantern oil, and dust, and mildew, and the singular smell of old books. What was this place? The tiny cabin was halfway between a camp-site and a monastery. He felt the room around him giving its shelter and its warmth, and he stopped his questions. It was here, it was now. He knew for the moment that was all there was. He heard this thought as though Monk had spoken it-- his wrinkled, hairy face gazing at him from above the mantle, his voice, a trick of the wind perhaps, or something welling up within. From out of the darkness, a requiem.

He exhaled fully, to relax his tensed up body. Such a long, strange day. He had come with the others by troop transport, a caravan of open-backed trucks, Strykers, Humvees, and a couple of Bradleys. The Guard’s four hundred troops had begun surrounding the mass of people congregated at the old Fort Vancouver site when the communications had failed. Then in the chaos which followed, he had been assigned to backtrack. That had led him to the washed out road where Bobby wrecked the humvee. What a half-wit. All of them already soaked from the plunge into the creek, they had hiked for an hour to gain some advantage from elevation. But it had been no use. With night closing in, they were lucky to find this place at all. The fact that he was out of the rain, sitting by a fireplace fire with a full belly, dry pants, and a bottle of wine was incredible, almost magical.

This Monk character had built a rough but comfortable refuge completely secluded from the rest of the world. That was all but impossible these days; Parker had to admire him for the accomplishment. But what sort of man would live like this? Was he a hermit? A preacher, like Willy had said? What sort of man walks into a crowd of thousands of angry, armed people and tries to calm them down? Was he a lunatic after all?

It was clear that Monk was a man of thought, not a violent one. Parker would have liked to sit with him before this fireplace and have a philosophical discussion about the nature of the universe. Maybe Monk could have convinced him of some supernal reality that could not be proven scientifically, but Parker doubted it. Anyway, the discussion would have been fun. Wouldn’t ever happen now, and Parker regretted that. Poor old Monk, squished by a Stryker. Parker wondered what his last thoughts were. He wondered what his own would be, if he knew for certain he were dying, as Childers must have known. Poor Childers had wanted to say something, but his throat was gone. Monk must have known he was dying, and he had two or three minutes. Bobby had been there for Monk. What did Monk say to him in his last seconds of life? What would there be to say?

Parker pondered that, and thought Monk might have said something profound, or at least, interesting; he seemed to like summing things up. Maybe Bobby would tell him. He’d ask, if he could get Bobby away from Brock long enough.

Parker poked the fire again to stir up the flame, and settled back into the couch. It was just long enough to lie on if he bent his legs up. He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and over the top of himself. Monk’s journal lay beside him on the floor. He picked it up and let it fall open where it might; he looked through the flickering square of white to the black spots on it, focusing a moment until they became words.

“My name is not important,” it began. He read on until his vision swam, and didn’t at all remember the closing of his eyes.

His mind drifted like a stick in a quiet stream, along the edges of his existence. He saw children come down to the water’s edge with their tiny boats and fishing poles, their fathers gently coaching them: put in here. He was one with them in their play, fresh from their classrooms, spelling bees, and equations written on chalkboards, and the secret notes passing among furtive hands. He knew the hands, and the notes as well. Further back were mountain paths he had walked along, weary from the journey, and sandy beaches at the journey’s end. Yet he remembered standing at the water’s last rhythmic surge, looking out beyond the breakers and yearning; there was more beyond, he knew, but what? If it had a form, he could not contain it. If it had a name, he could not speak it. But he was drawn along the flow toward that which was beyond as though he were made of driftwood and could not bend away.

He drifted through the rows of children at the water’s edge and watched them grow and quarrel, fight and die. More children came. Some died like heroes, some died like sheep, with terror in their eyes. In the end, it made no difference. The quarrels went on with new faces, but with the same voices. The voices echoed among the mountain crags, but he could not understand the words of them; they were just empty sounds. What could console him amid the estrangement he felt?

Perhaps it was love. He found himself beyond the breakers, in the cabin of a boat. She was with him then; he could feel the touch of her thighs against his own…

She reaches out to him, and her hand strokes his face, the stubble of his beard. He sees her eyes in the dim light; they are large and black, like a deer’s. She is dreaming of the thicket, her thin limbs move tentatively, her breathing shallow, as though poised for leaping. Come stay with me, she says, and I will cook for you and mend for you and we will take care of each other. We will live together in the woods and grow our own vegetables and catch our own meat, and make our own candles, you and I. He does not recognize her voice. We’ll hold one another through the cold months and bask with one another through the blooming of the mountain flowers. We will make a home and family, she says. A voice comes from his mouth, not his own: My place is on the sea, it says.

It does not matter, she answers. In the time we have, we will form our own world anew, land and sea, free of pain and free of anger, free of fear and repression, free of violence, free of hunger and all weights to the spirit. He contemplates the word spirit, and the emptiness he feels within it. What is not, is not heavy, he answers. I have done this already. The words surprise him; they are foreign, and contain an edge he had not intended. Come ashore with me and you will be strong and free, she says. We will be steadfast, a rock of calm, a lighthouse at the edge of the sea. She is troubled, her hands grip tighter, as though she were falling and he were an outstretched branch.

I am already free, he answers. He wonders about his own words, about the voice which is not his—they astonish him. She breathes heavily now; he can feel her desperation as a blanket upon them. Make love to me, touch my body, feel my energy respond to yours, she says. I will love you so fiercely there will be no time for questions.

He can feel the energy in two parts; the part which is his own and this other, which is not, can never be his own. He lets himself drift toward it, a stick upon the stream; but then the current quickens, and he is seeking the other, hoisting and trimming sails for maximum speed.

He touches her with his hands and with his body, there among the lanterns, rolling with the swells. He marvels at the other, the curve of her back, the roundness of her buttocks, the dark heat that arises from her. And she explores him as though she has never seen this thing before, a mystery she must solve, but cannot. Their motions become a rhythm, the rhythm becomes a purpose; skin glistens with it, and scents the air between them. A shudder sweeps over them, the undulations cease, the mystery ebbs like a tide as though somehow solved.

But no, it is not! The energy which was in two parts remains; for even as the grey slaps against the grey and the motions of all become one, there is still the other. He watches her as she combs her hair; she smiles around the barrettes in her mouth, the same mouth that a moment ago said this: Just say the word and I am yours forever and ever. And in the deepest moment of passion he has spoken it. She is enveloped by this word, contained and nurtured by it as though this word were the only truth there is. But for him, the moment is gone, and so is the word. In the beginning was the word; the word was with him, and the word was him. But in the end, the word settled down among the other collections of his life, its meaning fading, spent. Surely to speak it now would be a lie, and so there is nothing inside at all. It is this great emptiness that has become the central meditation of his life. Perhaps it is enlightenment that he searches for. What is that? Balance, or peace within, as he has told her. Perhaps he yearns for the fountainhead of truth. He has held that dear his entire life, and even now, suffers much to reach the edge of it. He has traveled to the far borders of the land in search of it, only to be told again, the answer is not here. But some who have heard the truth know of one who speaks it. There is one, they say, who is so filled with the truth that all who speak with him are cured of the lies they live with. He stops to think; perhaps if everything ends up the same to him, and it is not rapture, then it is not sadness either. Life is only as it is. Perhaps that is the only truth; but he must know for certain for his own peace of mind.

He wanders among the low parched deserts and among the cool forest hills, but always the people would answer, no, such a man is not here. This man lives to the west and south. Or, perhaps the man has gone on a journey too. A little more to the north, they say. The man is visiting friends in the east. And so he travels north and east, by jeep at first, then, on foot. The man has gone up this very mountain many times, the people say. The man sits within a hut you cannot see from where you are. And so he climbs the slope, step by slippery step among the rocks and slime and drizzling rain, ever nearer but never quite arriving, until one day he beholds the hut. It is cold and dark and full of spiders, but he is eager to know the truth and sweeps his way within. The hut is empty, save for the last faintest echoes of laughter. The fire is dead, the center of the Yule log burnt into an ashen arch. But beside the hearth there is a scroll. He unravels it and begins to read…

My name is not important, the words begin; and neither is your own. You might be a father or a son, but my father is dead, and I have no sons. You might be a friend that I have spoken with of such things that pour forth like this in the middle of the night, when the bones ache and the head falls forward and wonders whether it will ever lift up again. I have had such moments. Or you might be a stranger to me, and I not so much as a vague memory or a wisp of wind at your collar. But even the winds have voices, and every soul which seeks the truth stops to listen to the lightest of them. This is my truth, should you care to seek it; friend or stranger, it makes no difference now.

I too was young and looked upon the world as a garden; I too counted out my victories and savored them like fruit. I held them high for all the world to see, and measured my success in the number of those who were bedazzled by such things. I have traveled far to enter the high and low arenas, and fought for trophies long since lost in the wake and detritus left behind. Even so, I have more scars than trophies, and learned more from them as well. They taught me to see things as they are. But those who seek the truth of things are no different than those who seek trophies, wealth, or power, or a discarded crust of bread; they all find themselves on the other side of it wanting more, in the end.

But that was how I viewed the future when I was young. I would sit alone upon the hilltops and count the stars. I will have this many, I would say, and count out half. But I would smile, and knew in my heart that all I saw was mine. I would sit before the hearth as you do now and dream of myself, tall and straight and loved by men and women alike. The fire of it! I would be a man of the sea, with a slant of deck beneath my feet, a flat horizon, half the world made of sky. And so I went down from the mountain and gave myself to it. The sea swallowed me whole and spat me out battered and wizened, grey as an old oar that’s fallen over the side of it all. And so I had at that; I had lost what ways I could call my own.

But there were those along the way who took me in. I could have stayed with a few if I had chosen. I do not know now why I didn’t. One loved me so unconditionally, she let me be myself, and I wandered off to do it. And by so doing, I lost us both. There was no consolation for me amid the emptiness I felt then.

Others gave me sustenance when I needed it; each gave what they could. Some gave without asking; always, their gifts, however humble, were the most precious compensation for the years of pain and hardship.

This is the truth I have found: there is only here, there is only now. The past has dissipated like summer fog, and the future is like the faintest starlight; when it reaches us, it is old and wan already. For now you sit upon your throne and count your victories, own many baubles which you hold proudly before your lover’s eyes, and there is fanfare, flags, and shouted anthems, but it is all an illusion. You will lose yourself within it, grow old and fade, and finally your enfeebled voice will cry out in the darkness, why hast thou forsaken me?

Thou art not forsaken, child, only blind. Nothing is forsaken. Everything is part of everything else, but our eyes see only what they want. We are hungry for that which blinds us, eager to remember that which hurts us, and do not believe in that which ennobles us. But we are noble anyway, despite our blindness and our pain. For every man is a sovereign; his kingdom lies within the borders of his solitude.

This is my oath of fealty to the kingdom within: to give all my energy and my attention to all I do, to climb my mountains with awareness of every step, to write my poems with constant attention to every word, to be strong so that the seeking is pure, to be content to love the task for itself, and to let go of it completely when it passes. And yet what good is it to be the sovereign of all you see if you are alone? Even though solitude is sometimes a healing ritual, I would give up this empty kingdom to share my meager existence with a kindred soul. I tell you, do not be hasty to have your way at the expense of others.

If you are a stranger, you who read this, then it is likely I have already passed through Maya’s veil and am nowhere, if not here among these words. Take them, in remembrance of me. But beware, this energy is now my only blood, and courses through your veins and enters your brain and becomes a part of you, like a seed. For are we so much different? We live and glory, we despair and die. I have gone on before, and now am pushed out of your way like a bow wave. But like any wave I dissipate, become mist, then rain, a trickle, a river, then the sea, and roll around once more. I am ahead of you, and behind you, in front of you, and inside you, and whisper to you even now: we are the same. For no matter how the molecules ebb and flow, it is the energy within which unites us all. I can feel it now; all that ever was, still is, and all that is, is here with me now. And with you, as I am.

But remember, you are going on before someone else. So turn back from your particular quest to find them, the ones you can help, and give them what you can. Love them and heal them even down to the slightest hurt, if for no other reason than to practice. For one day soon you will find yourself on the other side of all the mountain-tops, trophies, and the fanfare, and it will be only these faces which you remember-- the ones who have been kind, the ones who remember kindness from you. These memories weave the only pattern the Universe will digest.

Ah, there is music, if only you could hear. It is the song of the cosmos, as though it were a single voice. It speaks a single word, the last word you hear in this world and the first you will hear in the next. This is the word you have feared all your life, and yet you feel empty without it. You can feel that emptiness now, like a shadow darkening your soul. Shall I tell you what that voice is saying? Hah! Have patience.

But you who have not yet pierced the veil, be not afraid. For if you spend your life listening for this music, hoping for just a hint of such a word, you shall be healed completely in that final moment of your dream. Until then, enjoy the journey, honor the truth, and have compassion for those who suffer. A life spent thusly illuminates one’s path across the great abyss.

Namaste.

His mind drifts like a stick in a great stream along the edge of his existence. There is nothing upstream but the icy currents he can not change. There is nothing ahead but the vast emptiness of the sea. There is no one with him, no one at all to cause his flow to alter in the slightest. There might have been, had he done things differently. What would he say to her now? Nothing is ever personal with you, is it, Vince? Yes, he said. He would have said it then, too, if he had known. Emptiness. Emptiness is personal with me, he would have told her. He feels lost in it, like a waterlogged stick sinking below the surface; he feels the desolation of his spirit like a chill wind upon the sweat of his body…

Voices suddenly rise in a crescendo of anger. There is gunfire. He is running. He is holding a man’s head up; his hands are covered with blood. He is only a double arm’s length away from a girl as she speaks, blood bubbling from her mouth: God…damn…you…she says. I’m sorry, he says, but she has stopped seeing him. Her head falls back into a pool of her own blood, making a little splash. He feels the emptiness of her body, which deepens his own...

There is flickering brightness in front of him. Anger from faces around him ravages his mind like a fever. A multicolored line of people to his left shouts words of hate which hit him like fists; people throw rotten eggs and fruit over his head at others, and sometimes rocks. A bottle filled with gasoline breaks at his feet, spatters his legs. There is a hunger for blood here, a hunger for killing pounds him and spins him around.

In front of him, a police cruiser is upside down; a fire is burning on its underside. Voices are screaming from inside the cab. He rushes to the upside-down car and steps in front of the angry men surrounding it. “Who the hell are you?” the men ask. “I am your conscience,” his voice is saying. “Where is your compassion?” He pulls the door open, grabs the officer’s arm and helps him from the flames. “They are like you!” He says loudly. Two others pull an officer from the other side as the cruiser is engulfed in flames. His own pant-legs catch fire.

He quickly peels off his shoes and pants.

To his right, he sees a line of men in uniforms, vests, and helmets; some have batons, and some have automatic rifles. There is perhaps thirty feet of pavement between the two lines, cement littered with the debris of careless disregard, but an area of no hatred.

He begins to walk into the space between the lines; he sheds his shirt as well, to rid himself of gasoline spots, and to get clean of this world. When he reaches a point midway between the two lines, he is wearing only his undershorts. He holds up his arms, palms outward, as though fending off the blows of a gauntlet. He stops, still holding his hands in the air, as if in supplication. The air holds the stench of tear gas and smoke, gasoline and blood, and the chill of fear.

He faces the uniformed line and presses his palms outward towards them in the air. Your men will be okay, he says. I’ll help clear a path for paramedics to get to them. We are all in this together.

Many voices call to him— Monk! What are you doing? Others cry out too: Monk! Monk! Monk!

He feels a thousand eyes upon him; some are squinted in anger, some filled with desperation, some with diminishing hope. Almost all have questions he cannot answer. He turns toward the multicolored line, his palms pressed together in front of his chest; he is afraid. He feels his own fear like a chill wind upon the sweat of his naked body…He reaches within himself for answers, for something that might help, for whatever there is to say…

Calm down, my children! he hears himself saying. We all want the same thing! Let go of hate, honor your spirits! I tell you what! Let’s sing a gentler song! He fills his lungs and lets his voice come from deep in his belly. It emerges as a single note: “Naaaaaaam…” He makes a waving motion for people to join in, and a few people in the front of the line begin to sound the note with him.

“Naaaaaaam…” he sings again, for a long as his lungs will allow. A few more join in, and now the sound can be heard as more than his own sound. He sits on the pavement facing the crowd.

He raises his voice in the note once again, and holds it just as long. Many voices join into this single note. The note sweeps backward from him; angry shouts are enveloped by the note, voices trail off. People sit down like a slow moving wave rippling away from him in an ever widening circle. A single sound, a circle of minds joined together. A continuous resonance begins, like the breath of a living spirit. It ebbs and flows over him like a soothing massage. Almost everyone is sitting in the street. Voices behind him join in as well.

He raises his voice an octave higher, and sings along with the others, no longer in command of the sound; the moment is pure joy for him, the purest he has ever known. Tears come to his eyes; he closes them.

A shadow passes over him and stops; it rolls up over him and crushes him and squeezes the life out of him. He feels a chill come over his body that he has never felt before. He knows it is his time; the word for it is upon his lips. All that he is in a single word! Everywhere around him, light shifts to darkness, and then to greater light again. The light envelopes him, and becomes him. There is movement within the light, and voices. The voices become distinct:

“No, God damn it! Get away from me!” one of the voices says.

“Aw, c’mon. Please!” another voice says.

The white light subsides, becomes the color behind eyelids.

“You gonna keep ‘em all for yourself?” Brockman’s voice said.

Myself, Parker thought, becoming more aware of his body, the feeling flowing into his face and hands.

“You gave them to me. I dried ‘em, and now I’m gonna smoke ‘em one by one, so go to hell,” Willy said.

“I said please, you filthy weasel asshole,” Brockman spat.

“Oh, all right,” Willy grinned. “In the words of our fearless leader, it makes me puke to see a man snivel.”

Parker opened his eyes, coughed, and then sat up. His throat was sore from smoking too many cigarettes and then sleeping, and he had a strong, pulsing headache. He lay back down again. He could hear Willy’s and Brockman’s voices coming from the kitchen. For the moment, he was alone in the living room. The fireplace was crackling with a newly built fire.

“Damn,” Brockman’s voice said. “These are just brittle. Mine broke apart.”

“Well, you got to be gentle, you big ape,” Willy’s voice said.

“Too bad we don’t have a pipe,” Brockman said. Then we could just take the tobacco out and smoke it that way.”

“There ain’t no pipe,” Willy said. “And no papers either. Believe me, I spent half the night looking for Monk’s stash thinking he was so crazy, he had to have one. But there ain’t any. I think he was weird all on his own. So you’ll have to just be careful with those.”

“Gimme another try.”

“Help yourself,” Willy said. “Hey, Bobby, if you’re taking that stuff into the living room, be quiet. Sarge is still asleep.”

Bobby came to a spot directly in front of the fireplace. He was holding a large bowl in one hand, and the fireplace poker in the other. Parker watched him as he reached into the bowl with a spoon, lifted up a big glob of white goo and slathered it onto the end of the poker. Then he stuck that end into the fire and held it there. Parker watched as Bobby slowly turned the poker around and around until the blob on the end of it puffed up and turned black. Then he withdrew it from the fire, pulled it off the poker, and ate it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Parker asked.

Bobby looked over his shoulder at him; he had little flecks of black gummy ash on his chin and under his nose. When he smiled, Parker could see chunks of the black goo stuck to his front teeth.

“Want some toast?” Bobby said. “It’s Bisquick. Mmm, good! I’ll make some for you.”

“No, thanks. You go ahead,” Parker said, and looked away. Parker gazed into the fire, and in the ashes, saw a pattern that he recognized. “Bobby, is that the little Ho-Ti statue that was on the mantle?”

“Yup. Burns good.”

“But that was a piece of art, Bobby. You shouldn’t have burnt it up. It belonged to someone else.”

“Needed kindling. And anyway, it was a graven image. The Bible says not to have those. It’s a bad thing.”

“Bobby, it was just a character from folk-lore, like Peter Pan, or Paul Bunyan. I’ll bet Monk carved it himself. I don’t think he thought it was a bad thing to have on his mantle or he wouldn’t have put it there.”

“Not Christian,” Bobby said as he spooned another white glob onto the poker. “Sure you don’t want some toast?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Parker said.

“Okay,” Bobby shrugged. He held the poker directly over the Ho-Ti statue, which was glowing red and starting to fall apart.

“Say, Bobby, I wanted to ask you about Monk,” Parker wanted to say more, but didn’t want to upset the kid. The thought of having to comfort Bobby like Brock did—with Bobby’s blackened lips on Parker’s lapel—made him shudder inside.

“I don’t like to talk about it much,” Bobby said.

“I know you didn’t run over him on purpose. Brock told me it was Captain Vashon that did it.”

“He pushed my pedal down when I wasn’t ready. He’s really a mean asshole, and I’m mad at him. Everybody thinks I did it.”

“I know. But you didn’t do it. And Brock took care of Vashon. And took care of you too, Bobby.”

“Yeah, Brock looks out for me. He got us out of there.”

“Bobby, what did you and Monk talk about?”

“Well, he was hurt awful bad. I got out and got down on my knees to help him, but there wasn’t anything I could do so I said I was sorry about running him over, and said it wasn’t my fault, that the other guy did it, and that I was awful sorry.”

“Did Monk say anything?”

“Yeah. He asked me to pray for him.”

“Did you?”

“Well, I don’t know a lot of prayers, but I remembered one my mom used to say, so I said that one. Say, you want some toast?” Bobby ate a big blackened glob of burned Bisquick, and licked his fingers.

“No, Bobby. But… thanks.” Parker looked away again, his stomach queasy. “Did Monk say anything else?”

“Not much. He was doin’ real bad by then.” Bobby shrugged. “Brock says I’m not supposed to talk about it. He thinks it’ll make me go all crazy. He can’t handle it. Don’t tell him I said anything at all.”

“I won’t.”

“I got to take care of him.”

“Funny, that’s what he said about you, Bobby.”

Just then, Brockman and Willy came into the living room from the kitchen.

“Well, look who’s awake! Want some coffee?” Brockman held out a steaming cup. “It’s a little strong. Had to boil it in a pan.”

“Good strong coffee. That’s perfect,” Parker took the cup; the coffee was steaming hot, strong and bitter.

“Want a cigarette?” Brockman asked. “Willy’s dried out my old soaked pack. They ain’t too bad. A little fall apart-y though.”

The thought of Bobby’s burned Bisquick, a dank cigarette, and the acid in the coffee made his empty stomach turn. “No thanks,” Parker said. “I’ve got to get something to eat.”

“I got just the thing,” Brockman said. “Cooked up some oatmeal. And I found some powdered milk to make up, too. You want some?”

“Damn, this little cabin is full of surprises,” Parker said. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“There’s enough food for several days. Weeks even, if you’re not too picky,” Willy said.

Parker rose from the couch and headed for the kitchen. “We won’t be here that long,” he said. But that thought kindled an undefined melancholy within him. He was certain that more coffee and a bowl of oatmeal would help shake it off, along with his headache.

It didn’t.

After he ate, he sat back down in front of the fireplace to think. What would they do now? Would they just walk out the door and never look back? Where would they go? The humvee was completely stuck, and it was at least five miles back the way they came to the nearest crossroad. It was unknown where the path led, or how far it would go before coming to any place they might be rescued. Maybe this morning they would be able to raise someone on the radio.

“Well, what now, Sarge?” Brockman asked as he picked his teeth with a wood splinter beside the fireplace.

“I think first, we ought to see if we can raise CentComm on the radio.”

“Well, bad news, Chief,” Willy said. “I must have left the radio on all night. Battery’s dead.”

“Nice going, Runt,” Brockman spat his toothpick into the fire.

“Well, hang on. I’ve got some other ideas,” Willy said. “This house is wired for electricity. I noticed it last night. There’s no service to the house though, so I figure old Monk must have been able to generate his own somehow. I haven’t looked around outside, but I got my eye on that water-wheel out there. This morning I noticed a small housing on the side of it. I’m betting that’s some kind of dynamo generator. I’m going to go out and take a look at it and see if I can’t figure out how to get it working. If I can, we might be able to charge the radio battery.”

“That’s a good idea,” Parker said. “And while you’re doing that, I think I’ll take a hike up that path and see where it goes. It’s a footpath. It can’t go that far.”

Willy reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny emblem with a key attached. “It ain’t a footpath, Vince. This is an ignition key, probably a spare. I found it in the desk. I think it’s to a motorcycle. This is a Harley emblem. That path could go for a long ways.”

Parker frowned; they really were up the proverbial creek without a paddle. “I’m going anyway. The walk and the fresh air will do me good.”

“That’s fine,” Brockman said. I’ll clean up a bit here. I got dishes to do. Bobby, you can keep the fire going and turn them clothes around on the line so they dry the other side. Say, Sarge, you gonna wear those crappy wet shoes? See if you can wear those fine boots I seen inside the doorway, why don’t you?”

“Good idea, there, Brock,” Parker said.

“Yeah, fine idea, Harold,” Willy said, then added, “Heard you talking last night.”

“Kee-ryst almighty,” Brockman muttered. “There ain’t nothin’ military left o’ this outfit. Sure you don’t want to take a smoke with you, Vinny?”

Parker shook his head and grinned as he walked to the door in his cinnamon argyles. He tried on the boots, and was almost not surprised that they fit perfectly. He tried on the foul weather coat that Bobby had used as a blanket the night before, and that fit too. He stepped out the door and closed it behind himself. The air was crisp, but not freezing. Little patches of mushy snow dotted the ground, but it was not raining at the moment.

Parker stepped to the part of the porch that had caved in and noticed large oil stains on the broken porch boards. So, it was a heavy motorcycle that had caved in the porch, not a bicycle. And now it was abandoned somewhere in Vancouver. He smiled; Willy had kept that key for a reason. He continued walking off the porch and found the beginning of the trail.

He started at a brisk but maintainable pace. The trail followed the creek bed through bracken and sword ferns as tall as he was, winding around thickets of alder trees and huge cedars, heading steadily up-hill. He did not feel like running. The ground was rocky and uneven, and his ankle was still sore from twisting it the day before. And he still had a bit of his headache left. That was probably the result of polishing off the better part of two bottles of Pinot Noir, although that seemed like a good idea at the time. But the fresh air felt good in his lungs. The clouds were higher, and did not threaten rain. Here and there small strips of blue showed through. A light breeze moved the sparse multicolored leaves on the vine maples, and the cedar branches swayed slightly above them, sending occasional drops down on him. But he did not mind. He was wearing a fine winter coat and fur lined boots, and his steady movement kept him warm.

The trail continued steadily upward and finally left the creek behind. The alder trees thinned out, giving way to firs which towered over them and closed off the sky. After the better part of an hour, Parker came to a split in the path. One side veered off to the right and headed down-slope. He could see sections of that path for a hundred yards ahead. The left-hand path turned directly up the side of the hill and disappeared. Beside the split was a bare spot in the grass. Parker looked closer and spotted several oil spots on the ground. So, he thought. That big Harley must have leaked like a sieve, or else been parked here many times. Why?

The path veering to the right was wide and well worn under the trees. The path that went up the hill was smaller, too steep to be a motorcycle path. Parker thought that Monk must have gotten off his bike here and hiked up that path on foot. Several times, maybe regularly. What was up there? He was curious to find out, and anyway, there might be a better view from higher up. He started up the left-hand path.

The ground steepened, and several times he had to put his hands down to pull himself upward over tree trunks and boulders. After about twenty minutes, the path began to level off and he found himself at the top of the hill. The ground fell away sharply before him into the most sky he had ever seen in his life.

Breathing hard, he gazed around himself in a slow circle. This particular hill was the highest for miles in all directions. To his right, he could see the snowy slope of Mt. St. Helens, its squat top just reaching the underside of the clouds probably less than twenty miles away. To his left, he could see the lower hills receding to the south and west. On the farthest hill to the west, he could see a red farm house and barn, so tiny at that distance he might have not seen them if they hadn’t been red. At his feet, the grassy ridge dropped away shear for several hundred feet. Straight ahead of him across a wide wooded canyon, the fir trees sloped up into a saddle-backed ridge. On top of the saddle-back he could see a radio tower, its red beacon slowly blinking. That would mean there would surely be a road there. He guessed the tower to be at least a mile and a half away, maybe two. He had hiked at least three already. He guessed that the lower right-hand path would have curved around toward that tower. That meant the lower path would be between four and five miles long. And that tower was sure to be on his recon map, which he remembered was in the pocket of his military jacket. He smiled; he would be able to pinpoint their location when he got back to the cabin. He would rest a minute, then start back.

Parker sat on a bare log that had fallen across the crest of the hill and gazed at the magnificent view. This log was far too big for any man to lift, yet here it was, fallen in exactly the right direction for that view. Is that what Monk had come up here for, because it was a perfect viewpoint? He breathed in the fresh air, and watched the wind ripple the fir branches in a wave, undulating across the rolling hills. Sunlight dappled patches of maples among the firs; their reds and yellows shimmered like bright reflections on dark green water. He marveled at the beauty and dream-like silence of this spot.

He leaned back and braced himself on the log to stretch his back; his fingers felt a series of scratches in the top of the log. He looked closer at them and discovered the scratches were words carved into the wood where the bark had been carefully peeled away. He could still make them out. They said,

each moment matters

Parker laughed out loud. Why, Monk, you old trickster! You led me up here to toy with me yet again, didn’t you? I should have known. He laughed again, enjoying the gift of that perfect moment. But the laughter faded, as he was not exactly sure that his situation was a humorous one.

He was sitting on a log in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of an armed conflict, and he had forgotten his M-16. He didn’t dare find a road now. He would have to go to the cabin and get his weapons, and the others. They would all have to hike at least five miles, and if they did manage to find a road, they would all have to be on high alert. Any traffic at all could be armed insurgents who might shoot at them. And if they did manage to get all the way to CentComm, it was certain they would all be sent back out into the middle of danger again.

They ain’t nothin’ but movin’ out into it, the Bisquit had said. Sweet Pi, the neanderthal was right. He would have to keep moving into it until his duty was over and he could leave all the insanity behind and get back to his studies. Another year of graduate level courses, and he would have degrees in both mathematics and business. There was money to be made in applying the calculus of probability to business, especially the ultra high-speed commodities trading markets. A lot of money, from what he’d read. And if he finished his service time and got out with an honorable, the government would even pay for his education. If he kept to his duty, the best the world had to offer would be his.

If you continue on this path, all that you see is yours, a voice said in his head.

This path of killing.

He remembered the eyes of the dying girl again, blood bubbling from her mouth. God…damn…you… she said. She had not been armed. She wasn’t the one he had aimed at. But he’d been wild-eyed frantic, his heart beating in his throat. He had not been thinking clearly; he just reacted as he had been trained to do. But shooting her wasn’t what he had meant to do; it wasn’t supposed to happen. God…damn…you…Her last thought had been to curse him, and he carried that with him. Something inside him felt dirty and false. Each moment matters, Monk had taken the time to carve way up here in the middle of nowhere.

All there is, is now, but now lasts forever. Monk had written that in his journal. He remembered her looking at him, and how her eyes stopped seeing him as her head fell back. Then he would re-live her murder forever, without respite. He closed his eyes and put his forehead in his hands. A sob tightened his throat; it surprised him. Aware of it, there were no more, even though the moment of the girl’s death replayed itself again in his head.

Listen again: be happy. Why the words came to him, he didn’t know; nor were they any help. Monk’s words were a cruel taunt, even here in this beautiful place. He needed something more assuaging, more cleansing, relief from his own dreams.

Honor your spirit, a voice said. Parker heard this voice as though spoken next to his ear, but there was no one near. Parker recognized the voice from his dream. It was Monk, speaking from inside his head. He let out an involuntary sigh, almost a laugh; surely the murders had driven him over the edge. Well, my old friend, have you come to haunt me too?

“What do you want of me?” Parker yelled into the wind. There was no answer. Only silence so profound, a slight wind through the trees was like an echo: Honor your spirit. This was not a voice, and not a memory either. Was it part of his dream? Monk had said that. And now Monk was inside his brain, screwing with his conscience. What the hell did that mean, honor your spirit? What was the answer to that?

Parker sat for a several minutes without thinking, listening for some answer, some voice on the wind, but heard only silence. He distrusted his mind not to trick him in its extremity. Monk’s voice had been like a poltergeist inside his head, but he did not hear it again. His heartbeat slowed, and his breathing too. He began to think of his dream less distinctly, and less often.

There was no respite; only duty.

He arose from the log, took one more deep breath of Monk’s perfect viewpoint, and turned back toward the narrow trail.

The trek back went faster; it was all downhill. He took it slowly though, favoring his ankle. When he reached the fork in the path, he realized how comparatively wide and smooth the main trail really was. Of course it was a motorcycle trail. How could he not have seen that? There were even tread-marks that he had not noticed before. He smiled; so much is learned after the fact.

His legs were warm and loosened up from his climb, his ankle felt solid, his thigh without pain for the first time in three weeks. He began to run down the path toward the cabin. The alpine air had warmed considerably. The fir trees towering above his head revealed little sky, but what there was held white cumulus clouds and several patches of blue. When he came to the creek, he stopped for a drink, and to stretch out his legs and back.

A raven scolded at him from the top of a vine-maple. He remembered the mess on his shoulder and raised his arms instinctively. “Scat,” he said. The big bird jumped into flight, cawing repeatedly as it disappeared. He was instantly sorry he had scared it away. After all, it was his forest. Treat others well; that creates a lightness of spirit, Monk had written. Did that apply to birds, too? A large black wing-feather arced down and landed at his feet. He smiled. Willy had said that Monk told him everybody gets a magic feather. Maybe this was his. He chuckled to himself; that was just mumbo-jumbo bullshit. He splashed cold creek water onto his face and shook it off. He’d been hoping his head would have cleared itself of poltergeists by now. But then again, it was a nice feather. Maybe Willy would like it. He picked it up, put it into his coat pocket and returned to the trail at a brisk but comfortable walk.

By the time he reached the cabin, it was past noon.

Parker could see Willy by the waterwheel, and the waterwheel was turning slowly. He walked off the path down to where Willy was digging into the mud upstream of the wheel. “How’s it going?” he said.

Willy pulled himself up straight. He had mud on his arm up to the elbow. “Hey, Vinny! Things are great,” Willy said, grinning. “This is an amazing set-up here.”

“What have you found out? Anything useful?”

“Cabin’s wired for both twelve volt and one-ten volt power. I found a generator underneath the kitchen porch, along with two car batteries hooked in a parallel circuit. The generator runs on gas, but the tank is empty, and there’s no gas can anywhere that I could find. I’ll bet it’s in a saddlebag on Monk’s Harley.”

“What about the batteries?”

“Well, those are wired into the waterwheel, and also into a circuit through the house. That little fridge is on it. Must be a twelve-volt unit out of an R.V. Anyway, I found a big branch had drifted down-stream and jammed the waterwheel. The batteries weren’t getting any charge and the fridge ran them down.”

“So there’s no power to charge your radio?”

“Well, hang on there, Chief. I filled the battery cells and got the waterwheel turning. I had to dig out the silt build-up upstream of the wheel. Monk had the water turn the bottom of the wheel instead of over the top with a flume. He must have had to dig out the silt on a regular basis. This is my second time today.”

“Willy.”

“Yeah, Chief.”

“Radio.”

“Oh. Well, here’s the deal. The cabin batteries have to charge first. And then we have to figure out how to connect the radio to the system. I found a charging port by the desk, but it doesn’t fit our radio. Looks like a lap-top charger. But I can take the back off the radio and connect it to the twelve volt grid through that port. It might work, and it might not. Haven’t got to it yet.”

“What have you been doing then?”

“Well, don’t get your shorts all in a bunch. I found a radio in the bedroom. It’s a car radio, already hooked into the twelve volt system. I brought it into the living room and re-connected it. Vinny, we have radio. We have news.”

“What, have you heard anything?”

“Well, no, I haven’t had time to listen. I just tuned in some music for Brock, though, while he cooks.”

“Cooks what?”

Willy grinned. “Go see.”

“Think I will. Where’s Bobby?”

“Don’t know. Brock will, though.”

“Good work, Willy. See if you can hook up our radio next.” Parker turned to head to the house, but stopped. “Hey, I brought you something.” He handed Willy the raven feather from his pocket.

“What the hell is this for?”

“It’s a magic damn feather,” Parker smiled, and started walking toward the cabin again.

“Well, I’m sure as hell all safe now,” Willy muttered. But he stuck it into the bandanna he had tied around his head.

When Parker reached the cabin, he found the front door wide open.

He entered and took off his winter coat. Somehow it felt right to take off his fur-lined boots too. Monk would have. After all, that’s where Parker had found them. He walked in his argyle socks into the living room past the rocking chair, and noticed it had been repaired; Brock must have fixed it. He went on to the kitchen, but said a loud “Hello!” before entering; he remembered Brock’s affinity for knives and didn’t want to startle him in a kitchen full of them.

“Well, hello, Sarge! Have a nice walk?” Brockman was actually smiling.

“Yeah, about six miles worth,” Parker said. “You look like you’re in a good mood. Say, what’s cooking? Something smells good.”

I’m tryin’ to bake a apple pie,” Brock said. “Turns out there’s a apple tree behind the house. Weasel the bean picker says it looks to be about fifteen years old, and he oughta know. Not many apples left this time a’ year, but half a’ this’n and a quarter of that’n, an’ I got enough. There was a recipe on the Bisquick box for pie crust, and I found lots of sugar. The trick is keepin’ the oven on the wood stove a even temperature. Almost done though, I think.”

“Damn, you really are Mama Brock,” Parker said. “Say, where’s Bobby?”

“Oh, he’s huntin’ out back. I gave him his bullet back. And Weasel’s got me some country western on the radio, so I decided not to kill him.”

“Mighty fine of you, Harold. I might get to like this new you.”

You sayin’ I’m soft?”

“No. I’m saying you make apple pies.”

“Well, hmm. Call me Brock, though.”

“Sure thing, Brock. You say Bobby’s out back hunting? With a loaded rifle? That can’t be good.”

“Well, go check on him then. But I’d make a lot of noise if I were you. If you don’t, he’ll think you’re sneaking up on him, and he’s liable to shoot you. We found a’ old coon-skin cap in the closet, and now he thinks he’s Davy friggin’ Crockett.”

Parker laughed. “I’ll be sure to shout his name out,” he said.

“Come back in half a’ hour, and we’ll have a hell of a lunch before we leave. Say, when are we gonna do that? You find anything out on your walk?”

“Maybe. I found a good viewpoint, and I could see a radio tower about five miles north of here. That should be on the recon map. I’m going to go look now.”

“Take your time,” Brock said, peeking in the oven door at his pie.

Parker went to the clothesline above the fireplace and took the recon map out of his Guard jacket, which was muddy, but almost dry. He sat on the couch and opened up the map to his last estimate as to roughly where they were. He had found the road where the humvee had wrecked, but the creek ran alongside the road for miles, and he wasn’t sure where along that road the wreck had happened. He opened the map further and looked for a radio tower symbol. He found it within a few seconds. Working back from the tower, he found the heavy contours of the viewpoint ridge, and extrapolated three miles back from there toward the road. The waterwheel creek was not on the map, but the dip where it had to be alongside the hill marked L-7 was there. He pinpointed where the cabin had to be and made a note of the latitude and longitude. If they could get the radio working, maybe they could call in for help, and a ride. Couldn’t hurt to try, now that he knew where they were. He refolded the map and retrieved his guard boots. They were caked in mud and still wet. He returned to the front door and put on Monk’s boots.

Parker found Willy behind the cabin working over the duel batteries, checking his wiring, his feather in his headband. He waved and walked past, then headed up the hill. He started calling Bobby’s name once he got out of sight of the cabin.

In a clearing at the top of a rise, he saw Bobby through the trees. He was still wearing his maroon bathrobe, but also wearing a coonskin cap. Bobby was sitting on a tree stump with his M-16 on his lap. In front of him sat the bag of dry cat-food from the kitchen.

Parker stepped onto several sticks on purpose as he walked, to signal his arrival. When he neared Bobby’s stump, he said “Hey, Bobby, what are you doing?”

“I’m hunting,” Bobby said, frowning. “You ain’t much of a woodsman, are you, pilgrim?”

“Guess not.” Parker suppressed a grin.

“All the damn game’s prob’ly all the way to Vancouver by now.”

“What’s with the cat-food?”

“Bait,” Bobby said.

“You hunting Monk’s cat?”

“No, damn it.” Bobby said, and spat exactly like Brockman. “Raccoons ‘ll eat that shit. Porky-pines, too. I’ll shoot anything that comes near it.”

“Why?”

“For the meat. I gotta pull my weight around here.”

“That’s a good thought there, Bobby. But first of all, we’re not staying anywhere near long enough to need raccoon meat. And second of all, have you ever shot a raccoon before?”

“No.”

“You ever shoot anything before?”

“Sure I have. And I’m a good shot, too. Ol’ Betsy here and I can hit anything.”

“What have you shot?”

“Well, targets, mostly.”

“You ever shoot anything alive? Have you ever seen anything die?” He was immediately sorry he had said that. Bobby gave him a hard look, but didn’t say anything. “Anyway, these woods belong to the creatures in it, not us. I think Monk used to put out bowls of food for them. I think we should let them be, don’t you? And Brock baked us an apple pie. You want some of that while it’s warm, don’t you? Come on back, and let’s save your bullet.”

Bobby shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “But I coulda at least killed a squirrel.”

“What for?”

“For practice,” Bobby said. “I gotta get used to killing.”

“Why?”

“Duh? Because I’m in the Guard. That’s what we do. I already done it, and I didn’t like it much. I gotta get way better at it.”

Parker saw the dying girl again in his head. He sighed. “Well, Bobby, I hope you don’t get real good at it. Killing is a bad thing. We ought to avoid it if we can.”

“Sometimes we can’t,” Bobby said so softly Parker barely heard it.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that with Monk, Bobby.” Parker put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder. Bobby looked up at him with puzzled eyes.

“But Monk died doing what he liked best, trying to bring people together. I’m glad you got to pray for him, Bobby.”

“He didn’t like it. He didn’t like my prayer.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, he asked me to pray for him, so I said the only one I could remember. The Now I lay me down to sleep one. And Monk could barely breathe by then, but he said he didn’t like it. Well, I told him I didn’t know any others, and he said, never mind.”

“Was that it? Was that all Monk said?”

“That’s all that made sense to me. And anyways the captain pulled me away right after that.”

“Did you hear him say anything else at all?”

“Why the hell are you pestering me about him? It ain’t a good memory for me. I don’t want to talk about Monk no more.” Bobby swept Parker’s hand from his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said, and stood up. He walked right past Parker without looking at him.

“Well, okay,” Parker said, and followed the coonskin cap bobbing down the slope.

When they reached the cabin, Brockman was seated on the un-collapsed end of the porch in Monk’s wooden rocking chair, smoking a cigarette. “Well, hellooo,” he said to them from about thirty feet away. “I was just on the edge of callin’ you in for lunch. Bobby, get dressed up. No bathrobes at the table.”

“Okay,” Bobby said. “But I’m wearin’ my cap.”

Brockman laughed, and turned his head toward Parker. “Willy’s got the Guard radio hooked up chargin’. He says it’ll be an hour or so before we can turn it on. He’s in there now searchin’ for some news.”

“Sounds like everything is under control,” Parker said. “What’s for lunch? I’m starving.”

“Tuna ah-lah Brockman,”

“What the hell is that?”

“Don’t be rude, now. You had your turn last night, and we ate it all up. I put together what I could find, and you can eat it or not, Chief. And even if you don’t like it, we got apple pie. It’s a little burnt around the edges, but the middle came out good.”

“Sounds wonderful. Can’t wait. Nice chair, by the way.”

“Yeah. I found some carpenter’s glue this morning. This little house is a right fine unit, everything a man could need. That Monk made a fine place, here. You guys go on back. I think I’ll just stay.” Brockman chuckled, rose out of his rocker and made a sweeping arm motion for Parker to be his guest inside.

“Can’t stay,” Parker said as he entered.

“Yeah, I know,” Brockman said. “We’re runnin’out of cigarettes.”

Parker smiled and imagined an unlimited supply of Pinot Noir, Camels, and apple pie, sitting by this particular hearth. It was a sweet but unrealistic thought.

Willy was at the desk turning the knobs of a car radio with wires coiling out the back, still wearing the feather in his bandanna. Bobby was at the table wearing his coon-skin cap, with his M-16 in his lap. Brock slipped past Parker and went to the kitchen. Parker sat at the head of the table closest to Willy. “Any Luck?” he said.

“Well, hold on to your skivvies, Chief. It’s coming up on one o’clock right now. Should be lots of news then. The station I’m on had news at twelve thirty, but I only caught the sports. You a Blazers fan?”

“No.”

“They beat the Lakers, ninety-eight to ninety two,” Willy said. “I’d have made some money on that one.”

“Blazers won, you say? Well, the universe is safe, now,” Parker said.

“Don’t be all pissy, Vinnie. We’re doin’ our best.”

“Sorry. I’ve had a rough patch.”

“Oh, you have? All by yourself?”

Parker laughed just as Brockman came back from the kitchen carrying a big steaming platter.

“Well, this is it, like it or not,” Brockman said. “There’s white rice underneath, and tuna-fish on top. And I melted what cheese I could save over that. Eat it, or don’t, but no complainin’.”

“I thought you said we had apple pie,” Bobby said in Parker’s direction.

“That’s for dessert, kid. We don’t start with dessert,” Brockman said.

“Don’t call me a kid. My name is Private First Class Robert Edward Soloman the Third.”

“Damn,” Brockman said. “With a top-heavy title like that, you’re just gonna fall over!”

Parker laughed, but Willy shushed him. “Listen up,” Willy said, and turned the radio volume up.

This is the KPOJ One O’clock News. The Vancouver Rebellion continues to wind down after a pitched battle at the approaches to Fort Vancouver. After some temporary communication problems yesterday, the National Guard continued their push into the city by securing and re- opening Interstate-5. Civilian traffic can now travel I-5 in caravan grouping accompanied by National Guard escorts.

The Vancouver Police, backed by a full battalion of National Guardsmen, surrounded the downtown core area of the city yesterday evening and continuously tightened their blockade line throughout the night. The last remaining rebel forces are concentrated in the greater Fort Vancouver area, but sporadic gunfire is still occurring in all areas of the city. The Vancouver Rebellion appears to be nearing a resolution. However, the VPD public information office has released a city-wide advisory for the citizens of Vancouver to still remain inside their homes until further notice. The rebel forces inside the police lines have begun negotiations for surrender, but the insurgency is not completely limited to combatants inside those lines. There still remains great danger to the public throughout the city due to hidden enclaves of insurgent forces.

However, within the police lines surrounding the original site of the uprising at Fort Vancouver, an exodus of women and children has already begun through official checkpoints, where people are being identified and either detained for questioning or arrested. The Vancouver Police report that they will have the situation under control in less than twenty-four hours.

The Vancouver Rebellion began as a peaceful demonstration on November first, but quickly escalated into an armed insurgence when the founder and inspirational leader of the isolationist movement, John J. Monk, was accidentally killed by a runaway motor vehicle in plain view of the demonstrators…”

“Accident, my ass,” Brockman muttered.

“Shh,” Willy said.

“The casualty tally so far is said to be twenty-seven people killed. Five of those were women; three were children, two were police officers, and one was a National Guardsman. Two additional police officers were hospitalized with moderate to serious burns. No other casualties have been reported today. Again, the Vancouver Rebellion appears to be winding down, and limited civilian traffic has begun on the I-5 corridor through the city. More news in a moment.”

Willy turned the volume down. “Damn,” he said.

“Yeah, damn,” Bobby said, but looked back and forth at the others’ faces for some clue as to why he had said that.

“Our mission ain’t much of a mission no more,” Brockman said. “No sense bein’ in a hurry to leave now. Might as well eat.”

“Who’s gonna say grace?” Bobby said.

“Grace,” Brockman said, and hefted a big spoonful of his own concoction onto his plate.

“That ain’t a proper prayer,” Bobby said.

“It’s good enough for who it’s for. Now shut up and eat. And be thankful you got anything at all. I am.”

“And I’m thankful it isn’t raccoon,” Parker said.

“Say what?” Brockman said.

“Never mind.”

Willy came to the table and sat. “There wasn’t any mention of anyone missing, Vinnie. They tallied up everything else.”

Parker helped himself to a big scoop of Brockman’s dish. “What are you getting at, Willy?”

“No one knows we’re missing. No one knows we’re here.” Willy’s troubled look quickly changed to a grin. “Let’s just stay!”

Brockman salted and peppered his plate heavily. “We’re in the Guard. They’ll find us sooner or later. It’d look better if we’re at least tryin’ to get found.”

“You want to get found?”

“I didn’t say that,” Brockman said around a mouthful of food. “I said when I am found, I wanna look like I was tryin’ to get found.”

Parker took a bite of Brockman’s entrée. It was salty, and the cheese was a little old, but it was good. “Willy, how long before that Guard radio will work?”

“Four hours.”

“Damn, that long?”

“Well, it might work sooner if I leave it connected to the house batteries. In that case, it might even work right now.”

“We ought to give it a try,” Parker said.

“In the middle of lunch?” Bobby said.

“Now there’s a proper question!” Willy patted Bobby on the back.

“Leave me alone, asshole,” Bobby said.

“All’s I’m saying is, Brock is right,” Willy said around a bite of food. “Our mission has no point now. We were supposed to connect with CentComm, but CentComm ‘s already connected with everyone else. They don’t need us any more. Hell, they don’t even know we’re missing. And for our part, we’ve done all we can. We’re charging the radio, we’re drying our uniforms, we’re resting up and preparing to go. But why be in a hurry about it? What’s another four hours?”

“You know the Weasel’s makin’ good sense there for once,” Brockman said, spewing food out as he talked.

“Can you not talk with you mouth full? You’re getting spit all over the table. And quit calling me Weasel. The name is Radioman Third Class William Quixote Moon, the First.”

“Damn, now there’s a plenty big mouthful,” Brockman said.

“Quixote?” Parker’s eyebrows went up.

“Well, I made that part up,” Willy grinned. But it does just roll off the tongue, doesn’t it? Keee… hooo… tay. Think I’ll keep it. I know a guy who changes people’s names for them.”

“Damn, Moon,” Brockman quickly swallowed before he began to speak again. “Is there any part of you that ain’t made up?”

“I won’t be making a career out of the military like you. That ain’t made up.”

“If you don’t like it, what are you doin’ in uniform?” Brockman said.

“Well I ain’t in uniform right now, am I?”

“We’re all out of uniform. That ain’t what I meant.”

“I know. Truth is, I needed a place to be. And the technical training ain’t gonna hurt. But I don’t much like people shooting at me. Seems like too many people are taking politics way too seriously.”

“Now that’s the truest thing I’ve heard you say,” Parker said.

“For two cents, I’d just quit the Guard and stay here,” Willy said.

“First off,” Brockman said around another bite, “they don’t let you just quit. Second off, we’re almost out of cigarettes, and the Chief here drank up all the wine. And there ain’t no beer at all. What kind a’ life is that?

“Nobody’s shootin’ at us,” Bobby said.

“Well, will you listen to Robert Edward here!” Parker said. “That’s the best argument for staying I’ve heard so far. Well then, I say we relax and forget about the rest of the world long enough to finish that apple pie!”

“Damn straight, Chief,” Willy grinned. “Good leadership at work there.”

Brockman got up and went into the kitchen. A moment later, he was back with the pie, which was black around the edges and dark brown in the center. “Now, no bitchin’s allowed. I ain’t never baked one a’ these before.”

“It’ll be fine, Mama Brock,” Parker said.

Brock set the pie in the center of the table and cut it into quarters with his big knife. He used its wide edge to scoop a quarter of the pie onto each plate.

“I usually have my pie with ice cream,” Willy said.

“Ain’t no f… ice cream. Ha! Almost said my favorite word, but I didn’t,” Brockman said, spewing tiny apple pieces as he spoke.

“Hey! You still got no manners at all,” Willy said.

“Sorry. I ain’t used to such persnickety dinner companions,” Brockman said with his hand in front of his mouth.

“Damn good pie, for a beginner,” Parker said.

“Yeah, I got to give it to the Brock. It is damn good pie.” Willy said.

Brockman waited until just after Bobby had taken a huge bite. “How’s about you, Bobby? You like my pie?”

Both of Bobby’s cheeks were bulged out so big he couldn’t keep his mouth closed all the way. “Mmm, gooh,” he said, sending a shower of crust pieces across the table.

“Nice job there, Robert Edward,” Willy said. “You look just like your mama.”

Brockman was already done clearing his plate. He belched loudly, and then lit a cigarette. “Hell’s bells, when we get back to civilization, I don’t know if I’ll be able to appreciate real cigarettes that ain’t soaked in mud and then dried over a smoky wood stove.”

“I’m getting used to them myself,” Willy said. “You want one, Vince?”

Parker shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m enjoying this fresh mountain air. I’m trying to clear my head today.”

“More for me.” Willy shrugged, lighting up. “You know, what with the Guard action winding down, our unit will likely be de-activated soon.”

Brockman exhaled with another loud belch. “Ain’t likely to be real soon, what with a couple thousand detainees.”

“Couple of weeks. A month, maybe,” Parker said.

“Could be longer,” Brockman said.

“I’ll be ready to walk away without looking back,” Parker said.

“You got big plans, Vince?”

“No, not really. It’s been a tough couple of days. I don’t know if I’m even the same person I was yesterday. So I can’t guess what tomorrow holds either. Does that make any sense?

“Yeah, Vince, actually it does. We’re lucky to be here talking about it,” Willy said.

‘So anyway, the future, well, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go back to school. Who knows? How about you, Brock?”

“Oh, I got a plumbing business.”

“You’re a plumber?”

“Well, not exactly,” Brockman said. “I got a drain cleaning business.”

“You’re a Roto-Rooter man?” Willy said.

“Yeah, only I can’t call it that. That’s a trademark name.”

“So what do you call your business, Harold?”

“AA Drain Screw,” Brock grinned.

Willy laughed. “So, you’re a drain screwer?”

“Hey, don’t laugh. It’s dirty work, but there’s good money in it. I was gonna ask Bobby if he wants to work for me. We’re like family now.”

“We’re all like family now,” Parker said. He didn’t know why he said it, but it sounded true. “What about you, Willy? What are you going to do after the Guard lets you out?

“First I’m gonna finish off a whole case of beer. Then maybe I’ll look around for something in electronics, maybe work at a Radio Shack or something. I got a clean record now, and I’m a vet. The world’s my

oyster.”

“What?” said Bobby with a blank face.

“That means I can have anything I want, Bobby.”

“Like, the world’s my apple pie?” Bobby said.

“Exactly,” Willy said. “The world’s my apple pie.” He blew a smoke ring the size of a dinner plate, followed by one the size of a tea-cup which went through its center. Then he blew a tiny fast moving smoke ring through the center of that.

“You’re a man of many talents, Willy Quixote Moon,” Parker said.

There was a loud pounding on the front door. A voice shouted out, “Hello! National Guard! Anybody in the house!” It did not sound like a question.

Parker went to the door and opened it. Four National Guard troops stood in a semi-circle a few feet from the porch with their M-16s aimed in his direction. In the middle of them stood the Biscuit.

“Well, look who’s here! If it ain’t the braniac forward observer, and out of uniform, too! Lounging on company time, Parker?”

“The driver you assigned me wrecked the humvee. How’d you find us?”

“The humvee’s got a GPS beacon. Most Guard vehicles do. And we just trailed you up the hill from there.”

“Our radio is dead. Radioman Moon has found a way to charge it up on a battery system inside this cabin we found, but it isn’t fully charged yet.”

“Damned peculiar place for a cabin, way out here in the middle of nowhere. Any civilians in there, Corporal ?”

“Negative, Sergeant.”

“Your men okay?”

“Affirmative. But we would have frozen to death if it weren’t for this place.”

Biscuit turned to his men. “Baker and Smith. Secure the perimeter. Fleming and Vaughn, search and clear the interior.” Two of the men split off and circled around each side of the cabin. The other two swept past Parker on their way inside. “You’re lookin’ mighty relaxed, Parker. You sure you ain’t just a fuckin’ shirker?”

“We were in a wreck, it was freezing rain, and our radio didn’t work. We had to make do. We survived, Biscuit. I’d say that’s a combination of hard work and good luck, not shirking.”

“Well, that’s good, ‘cause I got no tolerance for shirkers. Get your uniforms on and let’s get ready to move out.”

One of the guardsmen came to the front door. “All clear, Sergeant. Three Guardsmen inside, no one else. But I think you better come in and take a look.”

“Why?”

“Fleming found documents that identify the home-owner. Sergeant, this looks to be John Monk’s cabin.”

Biscuit’s eyes opened a little wider for an instant, then narrowed down. “Monk’s place, you say?” He rubbed his chin. “Let’s have a look.” He walked past Parker as though he were invisible.

Inside the cabin, Willy and Bobby were still seated at the table. Brock was showing the other two Guardsmen around the interior, pointing out the woodstove in which he’d baked a pie, the waterwheel turning outside the window, and bumming an actual dry cigarette.

Biscuit looked around for a couple of minutes, and then lifted a cell-phone out of his belt-pack. “Yeah, this is Sergeant Sloane,” he said. Put me on with the captain.” After a pause, he added, “I don’t care what he’s doing. Put me on with the fucking captain right now!” Biscuit put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Fleming! Get those G.I’s off that clothesline, and get these soldiers into them!” He quickly removed his hand. “Yes sir, this is Sergeant Sloane. We’ve got the four missing men. They holed up in what looks like an abandoned cabin. Sir, all indications are that the place is John Monk’s cabin…Yes sir…I know that sir…Yes sir…I understand, sir…Roger that, sir. I’ll call you when we’re ready to depart, sir.” Biscuit folded the cell phone and put it back into his belt pack.

Parker could see that Biscuit’s jaws were grinding, his cheekbones moving up and down. “Is there a problem, Biscuit?”

“Yeah, Corporal, there’s a problem. Don’t call me Biscuit. I know some people do, but they’re all officers. Corporals don’t get to do that. Now get out of those civvies and into your G.I.’s. Fleming! Vaughn! Set this place on fire! We’re gonna burn it to the ground! I see kerosene lamps. Use those to help start it. Move it!”

Sergeant!” Parker stepped in front of Biscuit. “You can’t burn this place down, it’s a great cabin! And it may be of historical interest!”

“The rebels are lookin’ for this place, and they want it real bad. Vashon’s ordered me to burn it to the ground. Get out of the way, Parker!”

Parker looked around the room, his eyes settling on the desk. “At least let me save Monk’s journal. You can’t burn that!”

Biscuit leaned into Parker’s face. We’re gonna especially burn that, every page. Maybe you didn’t hear me, Parker. The rebels are lookin’ at that lunatic Monk like he was some kind a’ fuckin’ martyr. They want to use this place as some kind of fuckin’ shrine to their way of thinkin’. Well, that ain’t gonna happen. They ain’t gonna find a fuckin’ thing left.”

Biscuit started to walk around Parker, but Parker stepped into his path again. “But Monk was a preacher, not a rebel!” Parker said, putting out his hands to Biscuit’s chest.

“Listen up, you shirker asshole. You found Monk’s place. That could be good for you, if you don’t get in the way. You could be a hero, get a medal. But you get in my way, you’re just gonna be another martyr. I can make you either one, Parker. What’s it gonna be?”

Brockman came up behind Parker. “Is there a problem?” he said.

“Brock, Biscuit wants to burn down the cabin!”

“No way!” Brockman said.

Biscuit swept Parker’s hands aside with his M-16 struck him in the chest with the butt. “Get out of the fuckin’ way!”

Brockman caught Parker and kept him from falling over the top of the wicker couch, then turned on Biscuit with a right cross to the face. But Biscuit ducked and swung his M-16 butt into Brockman’s gut. “Vashon warned me about you!” he said. He raised up his rifle and brought the butt down on Brockman’s head.

There was a loud M-16 discharge, and Biscuit’s rifle arm jerked. Bobby was still sitting at the table, but his M-16 was pointed at the Biscuit with smoke wisping from the barrel. The bullet had just torn Biscuit’s coat sleeve and didn’t even draw blood.

Biscuit instantly swung his M-16 end for end and sprayed the table with a quick burst of automatic fire. Fleming and Vaughn had dropped their lanterns and paper, and now had their rifles on Bobby, who had been knocked from his chair.

“Stop!” Parker yelled out to the other guardsmen. “He only had one bullet!” He said with his hands up, palms open, walking in front of the two rifles trained on Bobby. “Let me take care of him.” Parker walked past Willy, who was holding his raven feather in his hand and staring at it.

Bullets had gouged furrows in the table on either side of him and punched holes in the wall behind him, but he had not been hit.

Bobby was on the floor, sprawled up against the wall, bleeding from both shoulders. Bullets had hit him above the collarbone on one side, and shattered his collarbone on the other. Blood was streaming down his front. Parker grabbed a nearby towel and pressed it into the wounds on both sides.

“We’ll take good care of you, Bobby. You’ll be okay.”

Biscuit came over to them both. “What the hell was you thinkin’, soldier?”

“You were hurtin’ my friend,” Bobby said. Then, “Oww.”

“He was resistin’ orders and tried to cold-cock me. He had to go down, “Biscuit said. “Fleming! Continue to set fire sites, but don’t start them ‘til we get this casualty out. Vaughn! Find something to make a stretcher. Parker! Take care of him. Moon! You and Private Brockman get out of those civvies and get your G.I.’s back on! Then come back here. You’re gonna carry this jackass down the hill to the clearing. Now, everybody! Move it!” Biscuit took out his cell phone and walked outside.

Parker got another towel, and ripped a t-shirt into strips to use as bandages for Bobby, then knelt down by him. “How you doing, Bobby?” he asked.

Bobby moaned, and then said, “Pray for me, Vinnie.”

“You’re not going to die,” Parker said.

“Please,” Bobby said. “The Now I lay me down to sleep one I said for that guy Monk.”

“All right,” Parker sighed as he worked on securing the towels over the wounds with the t-shirt strips. “Now I lay me down to sleep… How’s it go?”

“I pray the Lord my soul to keep,” Bobby said.

“I pray the Lord my soul to keep,” Parker repeated.

“And if I die before I wake,”

“And if I die before I wake,”

“I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

“I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

“Thanks,” Bobby said.

“Is that it?” Parker said.

“That’s what Monk said!”

“What?”

“Monk! When I prayed for him, he said, is that it? And I said well, that was the only one I knew right offhand, and he said, never mind, they’re here. And I said, who’s here? There’s nobody here but me, but he didn’t answer, and I asked him if he saw somebody else comin’ and he just laid back and was starin’ straight up and not sayin’ anything, and I could tell he was dyin’ right then and there, and I said I was real sorry, and I wished he’d forgive me before he died, only maybe it was too late, but you know what? He said yes. He said it real slow like with his last breath, but I don’t know if he meant it, because I don’t think he was talking to me, Vinnie. Do you think he was talkin’ to me? Do you think he forgave me?”

“Yeah, Bobby, that was it,” Parker said as he finished tying the knots on Bobby’s bandages.

Vaughn came to Parker’s side carrying two long curved boards. They were the arched rockers from Monk’s chair. “These were all I could find,” Vaughn said. “We’ll wrap a blanket around them, and they’ll make an okay stretcher. He’ll be kind of sitting up, though.”

Biscuit re-entered the front door. “Life-flight’s gonna land in the clearing down by the creek in half an hour for the private. I sent Smith down to set up an LZ. Fleming! How are the fire-starts? You ready to burn?”

“Ready.”

“Parker! Help load Private Soloman onto that stretcher and get him out of here. And get those civvies off. Your G.I.’s are outside. Get a move on! Fleming! Torch this place! Now!”

Parker helped carry Bobby outside on the makeshift stretcher, and had to step over the remains of Monk’s rocking chair that Brock had so expertly repaired, now just an unrecognizable pile of boards and slats. Brock relieved him on his end of the stretcher; he was dressed in his G.I.’s but still bleeding from his head.

“You all right, Brock?”

“That goddamn lifer nailed me pretty good. Used to be a lifer sergeant myself, though. Can’t hurt sergeants by hittin’ ‘em in the head.” Brock smiled briefly. “Take care of yourself, Vince.”

“You too, Harold.”

Parker found his uniform at the end of the porch. He peeled off Monk’s grey woolen pants, and the shirt he had borrowed too. In nothing but his skivvies, standing over his own uniform clothes, he hesitated. He couldn’t bring himself to put them on.

He stood there at the edge of the porch, looking down at his camouflaged clothes, until the house started billowing smoke. He left the clothes where they lay and walked up towards the waterwheel. He stood above the still water of the pond and tried to calm himself. There was a soft crack behind him, followed by the tinkling of glass. The fire had broken out the cabin’s windows. There was no saving Monk’s place now. The Guard had destroyed a wonderful refuge, maybe even a valuable historical site, and for what? To keep it from being revered? How would he be able to reconcile his being a part of such an organization?

He had never seen death before he had joined the Guard. And he wouldn’t have seen it at all, if he hadn’t been in the wrong spot at the wrong time, wearing a uniform and carrying an M-16. Those were all variables in a thought equation he could not solve. He had made a series of decisions that had led to the girl’s dying curse. None of it had been an accident. And now this beautiful place was a tornado of black smoke, with flames reaching out all the windows and curling up over the roof. The lower limbs of the cedar trees had caught fire and the flames were jumping limb to limb. The trees were a grove of giant growing torches. The Guard had done this. It was the inevitable result of the military mind, he thought. Everything people like the Biscuit touched turned to shit.

Parker walked across the stone causeway that dammed up the pond to get further out of view of the cabin and the soldiers in the front yard. As he stood on the opposite side of the pond, he could see the burning house reflected in the water, a bright flickering of orange, yellow, and red flashes of light. It reminded him of the dream-like panorama at Monk’s viewpoint, and the words Monk had taken so much care to carve. each moment matters. How did this moment matter?

It mattered that he was a part of a group that caused great destruction without remorse. It mattered that this had been the home of an intelligent and gentle soul who asked important questions, whether or not the answers were forthcoming. It mattered that Monk had lived, and he should not have had to die. But the Guard had killed him. On purpose, although the news had erased that part. Someone needed to continue asking Monk’s questions, even if there were no answers.

Or were there?

Bobby had finally told him about Monk’s last few seconds. Monk had said something. What was it? He had said Yes. Was Monk forgiving Bobby? Parker doubted it. Monk had been beyond mere conversation at that point. He had said yes in reference to something else. Monk had seen something, experienced something in that final moment of his dream, something—or someone-- he had said yes to. What did he see? It didn’t matter. He had seen something at that moment between life and death that he approved of, that he welcomed. That was the most profound piece of information Parker had ever learned. It changed him inside.

Standing by this little pond rippling with reflected stabs of brightness, he no longer felt quite so empty inside. There was a knowledge he must honor, and he knew that each moment of his life would be a choice to do so.

And he knew that in order to honor the spirit of this knowledge that Monk had given him, he could no longer tolerate being a part of the destructive energy of the Guard.

“Where’s that shirker corporal at?” Biscuit yelled from the top of the rise on the other side of the cabin. “Up by the pond? Parker! Get down here and get your G.I.’s on! What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Biscuit was walking toward him at an angry pace.

When Biscuit came to within a few feet, Parker said quietly, “You didn’t have to burn the cabin.”

“Course we did. What the hell you talkin’ about?”

“Why?”

Biscuit continued on past the closeness that would have been polite, and came up directly to within a few inches of Parker’s face. “Because we’re at war, Parker! These fuckheads want to tear down our great country!

They’s only patriots and enemies. They ain’t nothin’ in between. They’s always gonna be enemies, and so they’s always gonna be war! They ain’t no end to it ever, Parker! Now you got to decide what side you’re on. You on my side, Parker? Or am I gonna have to kill you?” Inches from Parker’s nose, Biscuit’s eyes reflected the burning cabin in the still water; his face glowed red with it.

“No Sir.”

“Then get your fuckin’ G.I.’s on right now! Get your head in the game, Parker!” Biscuit gave him a hard look up and down, a quick inspection that Parker undoubtedly flunked, and then decided he was done dealing with this man. “Moon! Bring up Parker’s G.I.’s and get him into ‘em before I shoot him!”

Willy brought Parker’s uniform pieces up to the pond and laid them at Parker’s feet. “Come on, Vinnie,” he said.

“I can’t get into them. I can’t be a Guardsman anymore, not after what they did here.”

“Why?”

“Because the only way to atone for wrong-doing is to choose to stop doing it,” Parker said. He felt as if those words had come to him from somewhere deep inside him, from a conscience that was not entirely his own.

“What are you gonna do, Vinnie?”

“I’ll find the right moment, and slip away.”

Willy guffawed with a snort. “What, you’re gonna go running through the woods in your skivvies? Maybe Monk would do that, but you got to be smarter than that.”

“I can’t be a part of this anymore.”

Look, I know what you’re feeling,” Willy said. “This was a magic place, and now it’s gone. The Guard burned it up. You don’t like the Guard, and I don’t much either. But put on your G.I.’s and let’s catch a ride back to civilization at least. You can say yes sir and no sir for a few more hours. You don’t have to mean it. Shit, I never do.”

“And then what?”

Willy shrugged. “Then make your break if you have to. But the Guard kicks ass and takes names for people who go AWOL, Vince.”

“You said you knew a guy who changes names. That true?”

Will laughed. “Pick a name and we’ll make it happen. Who you wanna be?”

Parker thought about that a moment. He felt his whole life in Pi’s capricious grip, changing beyond his control. He had always known who he was, until now. But now who was he going to be? He shrugged and pursed his lips. “How does Vincent Quixote Monk sound?”

Willy laughed again. “Has a nice ring to it, Vinnie,” he said. “Come on, get dressed. I got a Harley to find.”

“I got a book to read, and a girl to see,” Parker said.

He slipped on his guard pants and coat, and walked down the hill past the cabin side by side with Willy. As the two of them were abreast of it, the old cabin’s roof caved in with a muffled crash. The flames flared up into the burned and blackened cedar branches. In this cool weather, the fire would not spread from the little copse of trees, but would still burn brightly in its glowing heap through the night until there was nothing left.

Parker smiled; but he would remember, and that changed him forever.

* * * * * * *