the garden, now a city of spiders and occasionally a rest stop for a haughty heron between ponds. The doghouse, so painstakingly and meticulously built by the son as a form of therapy and concentration and penance and prayer after a sea of troubles; for the last five years it has housed a pair of foxes whose kits annually explore the yard and garden and houses with awe at the wonders of the world. Were there ever fox kits like these, so well housed in carpentered wood? Who found, hidden and wrapped in a blanket in the garage, the very rifle once fired at their great-grandmother, to no avail? Who found, hidden beneath the floorboards in the third house, a small bag filled with a white powder that smelled so much like medicine that no creature would eat it, though the fox kits happily licked the vestiges of salt from the sweat of the boy’s fingers on the bag and left the powder to sift away in the eddying winds of winter in the room.
* * *
Subtly, gently, without obvious sign or signal, it became clear to Martin that his mother and his sister would stay together in the third den, and he would leave and make his own way; so in his wanderings farther and farther afield, he began to look for a den of his own. He explored likely holes in old trees, he investigated windfalls, he poked cautiously into burrows that looked uninhabited and unattended—although this, he discovered, was a chancy business; twice he was challenged by furious residents with flashing teeth, and once he evaded being bitten on the nose by an angry marmot by a hint of an inch.
For some reason, he found himself drawn to possible dens right at the line where the biggest trees gave way to smaller juniper and alpine fir; for one thing, there seemed to be an endless supply of squirrels and chipmunks in the tiny meadows and rockslides there, and for another, he felt a curious security with the open face of the mountain looming behind him. Above timberline he was dangerously exposed to eagles and the bigger hawks, and even to the rare enterprising owl who ventured up this far after Rodentia, but there was an endless supply of good denning possibilities among the rocks, and he was close enough to the canopy to escape easily from any serious threat. Plus he found himself drawn somehow to the lodge; while he had no urge to den anywhere near it, he did find himself passing it regularly in his rambles, and often he would perch lazily far above it on a warm rock in the broad light of the alpine afternoon and watch with interest as people and dogs and cars milled about below him, the people in their jackets and sweaters as bright as birds, the dogs addled by the alluring scents of chipmunks and sandwiches, the cars climbing eagerly up and then wearily retreating back down toward the city. Occasionally Martin would turn his attention to the people who slid down the mountain on pieces of plastic, some of them screaming as they did so, but they were not as interesting as the activity around the lodge. It was the lodge that interested Martin most. He could not have explained, even in a common language, why all this interested him so; it just did. Some things fascinate us and some do not. Some things call alluringly and some do not. Some things sing and some are mute.
21
DAVE RAN AND RAN and ran and ran. He ran in the morning and he ran in the evening. He ran down along the river and back up along the highway. He ran the track at the high school. He ran along the corridors in the woods cut by telephone crews. He ran along game trails. He ran loops around and above and below the lodge. He ran up empty ski runs through grass as high as his waist. He ran around lakes and ponds. He ran mountain bike trails. He ran off-road vehicle trails. He ran around and through golf courses. He ran logging roads. He ran Forest Service roads. He ran up ravines above timberline that were arid and dry in summer and twenty feet under snow in winter and roaring with snowmelt in
* * *
Subtly, gently, without obvious sign or signal, it became clear to Martin that his mother and his sister would stay together in the third den, and he would leave and make his own way; so in his wanderings farther and farther afield, he began to look for a den of his own. He explored likely holes in old trees, he investigated windfalls, he poked cautiously into burrows that looked uninhabited and unattended—although this, he discovered, was a chancy business; twice he was challenged by furious residents with flashing teeth, and once he evaded being bitten on the nose by an angry marmot by a hint of an inch.
For some reason, he found himself drawn to possible dens right at the line where the biggest trees gave way to smaller juniper and alpine fir; for one thing, there seemed to be an endless supply of squirrels and chipmunks in the tiny meadows and rockslides there, and for another, he felt a curious security with the open face of the mountain looming behind him. Above timberline he was dangerously exposed to eagles and the bigger hawks, and even to the rare enterprising owl who ventured up this far after Rodentia, but there was an endless supply of good denning possibilities among the rocks, and he was close enough to the canopy to escape easily from any serious threat. Plus he found himself drawn somehow to the lodge; while he had no urge to den anywhere near it, he did find himself passing it regularly in his rambles, and often he would perch lazily far above it on a warm rock in the broad light of the alpine afternoon and watch with interest as people and dogs and cars milled about below him, the people in their jackets and sweaters as bright as birds, the dogs addled by the alluring scents of chipmunks and sandwiches, the cars climbing eagerly up and then wearily retreating back down toward the city. Occasionally Martin would turn his attention to the people who slid down the mountain on pieces of plastic, some of them screaming as they did so, but they were not as interesting as the activity around the lodge. It was the lodge that interested Martin most. He could not have explained, even in a common language, why all this interested him so; it just did. Some things fascinate us and some do not. Some things call alluringly and some do not. Some things sing and some are mute.
21
DAVE RAN AND RAN and ran and ran. He ran in the morning and he ran in the evening. He ran down along the river and back up along the highway. He ran the track at the high school. He ran along the corridors in the woods cut by telephone crews. He ran along game trails. He ran loops around and above and below the lodge. He ran up empty ski runs through grass as high as his waist. He ran around lakes and ponds. He ran mountain bike trails. He ran off-road vehicle trails. He ran around and through golf courses. He ran logging roads. He ran Forest Service roads. He ran up ravines above timberline that were arid and dry in summer and twenty feet under snow in winter and roaring with snowmelt in
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