the skell van

        Before sunrise it took five minutes before hot water reached the shower nozzle. Cherry Blossom parked her butt on the shaggy commode lid cover and lit a dub. She looked like a fallow brown wood nymph. Lithe and tall.
A purple-blue bruise had begun to show on her inner thigh where she had struck the bannister. At last the water was good enough. First thing she did was to let it sluice between her legs. Ecstacy.
        Mister Zig-Zag could detect maryjane like a bloodhound. He slid the shower curtain aside and invaded her sanctuary.
        "Goddammit, Ziggy!"
        She felt his long bulbous treefrog fingers playing her slick haunches. Softly persistant.
        She turned and scowled in his face. For that she recieved a frontal grope.
        "Arrrrgh!"
        "Knew I could make you giggle."


                                                                            *


        The van that once was dedicated to R. Crumb had a new look. Its mural showed a coppertone Native American with a Dick Tracy nose, wearing a Sioux warbonnet, and descending from the clouds like Commando Cody, toward the summit of  the Karuc's "White Mountain." Cherry Blossom's votive to Mount Shasta and Spirit Chief Skell was an original concept. It took all summer. She browned. Grew crowsfeet and a swath of gray hair.
        This morning she loaded the Skell Van for the trip into California.
        Mister Zig-Zag lugged a small butane cooker out and set it down beside her. She asked, "Are we going to need that?"
        "Maybe."
        "Too much extra weight. Take it back inside."
        "OK."
        

                                                                                  *


        As they tumbled along, into the Black Forest of Siskiyou, Artie picked up a scent. He sniffed, "What IS that?"
        "Probably some incense cedar," Cherry Blossom joked.
        He was enjoying riding shotgun with this marvelous woman. He imagined her driving a stagecoach. And he would be beside her, on the lookout for highwaymen. With the Grateful Dead playing in the background.
       They were planning to camp that night at Tule Lake and he was excited about that. Soon after he met Leah Artie had plunged into Zane Grey, reading about evil Mormons. Then he discovered a minor novel. "Forlorn River." Its description of Tule Lake and the Siskiyou wilderness haunted his imagination. The plot was standard western fare. It did, however, feature one of Zane Grey's most enduring creations. The man called Nevada.


                                                                                           *



        Meanwhile, Leah and Mister Zig-Zag were sitting in the rear and dicussing Guy Ballard and Saint Germaine.
        "I would never argue the validity of your story," Leah said. "My story is pretty colorful too. Being a follower of the Prophet Joseph Smith."
        Her brilliant eyes and smile had won the hippie"s heart.
        He was thinking, Artie Hoffman is a very fortunate man.
        She was unlike any Mormon woman he had ever seen. Sitting sideways to face him, she had crossed her legs like Tiger Lily in Neverland. The summer dress gave her a voluminous lap, wherein lay an unfolded roadmap. Her shoulders were bare, like an Alpine milkmaid. Her golden innocence was breathtaking.
        Mister Zig-Zag loved telling the story of Guy Ballard's meeting with Saint Germaine. In 1930 the two were hiking up Mount Shasta, a stratovolcano whose fumarolies indicated that it was still active.
        The avatar dispensed to the theosophical mining engineer knowledge of the Ascended Masters. Thereupon, Ballard became Saint Germaine's messenger, writing a series of books under the name Godfre Ray King. Mister Zig-Zag owned the complete collection in green-covered paperbacks.
        "We should visit the Energy Vortex," he suggested.
        "By all means."
        "Far out. I tell you the mountain calls me."
        "I believe you."
        "Now let me warn you. The Energy Vortex presents you with your worst traits. I'm sure you will face them down with no problem."
        Upon hearing that, Leah felt mortal fear. Not noticed by Mister Zig-Zag, her brilliant eyes and smile dimmed a little.

       


       
       
        .
       
       











       


     

mount shasta

        Vagabonds, delighting in campfires, bedrolls, whiskey and honey, Artie and Leah journeyed westward, getting married along the way. Passing Elko, Artie turned toward his old abode in Oregon. Memories of true friends and joyful solitude were strong.
         Squatters had ransacked all that was of value and then migrated into darker timberland. Vietnam Vets, LURPS, at home in no place but the bush. Their scent reminded Artie of the skunk-ape.
        "No problem. I expected this."
        "Well, the woods are nice. I'll set up camp."
        "Fine. I'm going to hunt up some old friends. Be back soon."



                                                                                                *


         Cherry Blossom heard the Indian and looked up from her washboard and tub.
          "Landsakes! Artie!" She hollered, and began dancing a jig.
          Artie parked the motorcycle and strode up to his dear friend. He gave her a powerful hug. "Oh, Wise Mama! I've missed you. Where's Mister Zig-Zag?"
          "Down by Otter Creek. Lazy-dayzing."
          "Nothing's changed."
          "Oh, I wouldn't say that. Some evil men moved onto your land. Ruined it all."
          "S'OK. My wife is there now. Setting up camp. We'll rebuild. Make it our little Eden."
          "Wife? Artie!" Cherry Blossom  squealed.
          Together they laughed high as a Lodgepole Pine.
          "Tonight I'll bring her bye. Dinner at eight?"
          "Oh, Honey. You've grown into a true man."
          "Shucks, Cherry--"
          "You haven't told me her name."
          "Leah."
          "Leah. Biblical name. Jewish?"
          "Mormon."
         


                                                                                               *


        Mister Zig-Zag and Cherry Blossom spread a blue-and-white checkered cloth over the redwood picnic table, graced it with sprigs of mountain laurel in a fluted vase. They wore their best duds. Blue denim and buckskin, bellbottoms and fringed vests. Covered dishes included scalloped potatoes, greenbeans, sweetcorn, honeybread and white butter.
         "Wonder what she'll look like."
         "Knowing Artie, very nice."
         They heard the Indian climbing the trail. It emerged from the blue twilight mist like silver mercury.
          "Good God!" Mister Zig-Zag in a stentorian huzza-huzza. "Hon, you didn't tell me he rode a machine."
          "You were expecting a ten-speed?"
          "No. A Volvo."
          "Hmm. I see him in a Volvo too. I like that bandana around his head."
          "My old bro has become a Nomad."
          "Oh, my God. Look at her!" Cherry Blossom warbled, "A Rhine maiden!"



                                                                                      *



        "We were married by a Shoshone Medicine Man," Artie smiled. "All perfectly legal. He was Justice of the Peace."
        "He only charged five dollars for the Honeymoon Tee-pee," Leah added.
        They were seated around a campfire with Mister Zig-Zag and Cherry Blossom. Listening to the wind-walkers above the treetops.
        "Wow, far out," Cherry Blossom purred. "That is so romantic."
        Mister Zig-Zag opened another bottle of Boone's Farm. "Say, Bro, you 'member being invited to visit Mount Shasta?"
        "Sure do, Ziggie."
        "Well, then. I propose a foursome."
        "When?"
        "Any time. Tomorrow?"
        Leah patted Mister Zig-Zag's knee. "That sounds wonderful."





        
    

engagement stone 3

        The smell of beerfart and whiskeybreath squatted like a bullfrog on the floor. Uncle Nathan sat at his desk pecking away on his ancient Royal typewriter. A gooseneck lamp bent like Kokopelli shed forty watts of illumination upon the chaos of manuscripts and the crushed empty can of Olympia.
Leah walked straight to the window and pushed up the smudged panes.
        "What gives, Niece?"
        "Place stinks."
        "Didn't notice. Hey, Artie. How's it going?"
        "We're on the lam."
        "Aw, Christ. What happened?"
        "It was awful, Uncle Nathan," Leah groaned. "They think I'm a witch."
        "Who thinks you're a witch?"
        "The Church."
        "That's fool's talk. Who specifically thinks you're a witch?"
        "Bishop Carter, for one."
        "Shit."



                                                                                         *



        While Leah and Uncle Nathan convened in pow-wow Artie searched the pantry. Typical of a longtime batchelor, he was master of the one-skillet dinner. He fried up some roast beef hash with eggs and picante sauce. He served it on a large oval plate. Then he fried up some potato pancakes as a side dish. Too much food. Just like his Momma.
         "Ok, folks, let's eat!"
         Uncle Nathan appraised the meal, winked, and said, "Leah, you've roped yourself a good lad."
         Leah blushed. Nodded. Handed Artie his leather jacket and stepped behind a dresser screen. She donned a clean denim shirt and shimmied into starched blue jeans. She could wear anything Uncle Nathan owned.
         That rascal was first to belch. "Damned good, Artie."
          "So what's the plan?"
          "You guys get hitched down in Nevada."
          "Then what?"
          "Stay out of crime."



                                                                                            *


         Out on the highway Artie chose the spot. The sun was blood orange above the mesa.
         He led Leah by the hand to a bluff. Painted rock. He placed the engagement stone in her hand and gently squeezed that hand. Bonding him with her and the stone.
         "Leah Cartwright, will you marry me?"

engagement stone 2

        Parked along the curb beneath the street lamp was a black Crown Vic. Artie recognized Bishop Carter's family chariot. And in the driveway behind the landlady's blue Toyota was that Relief Society lady's red Volvo.
He wheeled between them, cut his engine and kicked the stand down. There was Leah's old Schwinn.
       Upstairs, the apartment was ablaze with electric light and loud with excited voices.
       He took the stairs two at a time.
       Her door was ajar. Through the slit he could see the amber room. It was a scene from the Pentacost. Eyes glistened, wild talk, a sonic force. Rushing wind.
        "Leah!"
        "Artie, save me!"


                                                                                        *


        A tumult on the stairs. Artie carried Leah to the Indian. Through her nightgown her belly mashed warmly in
his embrace.  Artie cloaked her in his leather jacket, and they rocketed into the night. She glanced backward and saw the Mormon gang clotted in the driveway, looking on in resignation.
        "Where do we go now?" she shrieked in Artie's ear.
        "First stop, Uncle Nathan's place."
        She began to sob. Hugged him tightly, smelled the detergent in his flannel shirt.
         "I'm so sorry--"
         "Nonsense," he replied, gathering iron from somewhere. "We'll be fine."
         The Indian became a magical monster. Climbing toward heaven.

        
   

engagement stone 1

        Swaddled in humid air, Leah abided her moist bed, up in the studio apartment above the landlady's garage. An aspen branch scraped the shingles like a crone whittling scrimshaw. The glow worm in her belly turned and turned again. She bled. With a lightness of being she drifted toward the window. She saw the driveway below and the street lamp. Beyond and far away the Wasach Mountains stood mute beneath the cold moon. Somehow she felt able to fly.
        A knock on her door.
        "Leah, are you all right?" It was Aine McCready of the Relief Society.
        "Yes, Ma'am. I'm fine. Come in, please."
        The door opened and a Black Irish woman wearing a pleated saffron gown stepped inside. She surveyed the room, with its cream-painted tongue-and-groove walls, all in one green eyeblink.
         Leah turned from the window and motioned with her hand. "Come."
         "Oh, my young dear! Look at your bed!"
         The sheet Leah had been lying on resembled the Shroud of Turin.
   

                                                                              *


         The Indian pounded its way to Bountiful. The lake stink troubled Artie. Marsh bacteria smelled like eggs gone bad. He sped like a ghost rider in the gypsum moonlight. Picturing Leah in his mind.
         Reading the writings of Parley P. Pratt, I'll bet.
         Ever so devoted to the Prophet Joseph Smith, Parley P. Pratt introduced to the colliers of industrial England the Book of Mormon. Artie loved the Book of Mormon. Ever since she showed him Alma 52:9 and explained why her hometown was named Bountiful.


                                                                                      *


        Artie motored on. Heart full of grace.
        In his leather pocket was the engagement stone.
        Tonight! Tonight! Tonight!


                                                                                



         

salt in the wound 2

        Strolling across the immaculate campus at BYU on any given day Leah could spot four score or more fair-skinned golden-haired young women, like herself. Men folk included a few darker hued individuals with course crow-black hair, possibly Utes on scholarship. Once she joked about the inclusion of Lamanites, following the Civil Rights Movement. Word got back to the bishop of her ward and she was roundly scolded. Never make light of scripture, he fumed.
         Pooh! 


        Leah skipped going to the Aces And Eights this day. She dropped by the Pigs Flying bike shop where Artie spent his nine-to-five. Dirty Bob paid him fifteen dollars a day to straighten out the attic parts storage. No tax forms, No going to OSHA for anything. Just money from fist to fist. The beer-bellied treetrunk-chested old Renegade had a soft spot for bikers down on their luck. He sold parts to Artie wholesale and allowed Artie use of the machine shop.
        "Hi," Leah greeted Dirty Bob, sitting at a greasy desk next to the Pepsi vendor.
        "Well hello, Sunshine."
        "Where's my Man?"
        "Upstairs sweating his balls off."
        "Oh, my."



                                                                                         *


        The Indian gleamed, it rumbled like a jungle cat.
        "When are you going to take me for a ride."
        Artie grinned with pride. "How about tomorrow?"
        They were drinking Pepsis.
        "How are you doing here?" Leah asked.
        "Great.  I'm fixed pretty good. A bunk, hot-plate. Crapper. Dirty Bob is a swell dude."
        "It's so hot up there."
        "Not at night. Got me a lttle fan."
        Leah gushed into tears and hugged him. Artie squeezed her hand and said, "You best be shoving off. I'll come by your place tonight."
        "I love you, Artie."
        "Oh gosh--"


        The sky above Monument Valley was a sheer dome of ice crystals the color of turnpike bluebonnets. High on a windy mesa, Leah smoked her first joint. Medicinal, of course. There was a little pain. She used Uncle Nathan's Vietnam Zippo. He watched her inhale. She made a comical cross-eyed face and he erupted with his cleanest laughter in years. Like Chinese rockets and gongs.
       "You are such a sport." He grinned supremely.
       "Not a Bozo?"
       "Not a Bozo."
        This costly goldbud, air-freighted from Durango, took her jumbled thoughts and, like God's rolling-pin, it flattened them into a crazy quilt cookie dough.
        "Oh, Uncle Nathan. What am I going to do?"
  

salt in the wound 1

        On the morning of her twenty-first Summer Solstice Leah Cartwright commenced an untimely issue of blood. She was out on Antelope Island, sitting crosslegged some distance from the others, when the floodgate opened. Instinctively she strode fully clothed (bluejeans, calico blouse, canvas shoes) into the Great Salt Lake. Waders from the nearby state park frolicked in patty-splash coveys. She smiled hello to an elder from her Church stake in Bountiful and progressed into deeper waters.
        With each step she retreated into a pleasant compartment of her mind. A false memory of blissful childhood. She could hear herself singing from far away: "The Spirit of God Like a Fire Is Burning."
        Salt seeped into her and she felt a divine cleansing.
        Jesus met her half way. His hair was snow white.


        She understood stigmata. This was not stigmata. Nor was it an aberration of menses. No doctor was needed to confirm what she already knew. And whenever the blood frightened her, Jesus would place His hand into her core.


                                                                                          *


        Her Uncle Nathan was holding court at the Aces And Eights bar downtown.
        A spiritual nomad, he gloried in apostacy.
        Friends called him Azul because his eyes glittered like gemstones. Gaunt, with all flesh burnt away, his body resembled desert greasewood.
        Today he was wearing his "boony-rat" floppy hat as a badge of something. Blithely spending his VA disability check on Slim Jims, Vienna Sausages and Olympia beer, he was a certified barfly.
        Rays of the three o'clock sun were streaming like gold sluice down the concrete canyon outside. Office windows blank as Little Orphan Annie's eyeballs radiated the heat of a blast furnace. The sidewalk in front of the bar could vulcanize the rubber from a pair of gym shoes.
        Yet the barroom was dark as a planetarium. Velvety coolness kept a man alive.
        Uncle Nathan had been pontificating to a buzzcut punk, pierced  and tatted like a South Seas cannibal: "I know where you're coming from, lad. This is a divided city. With a place for Saints and a place for Dark Ones."
        "Yup." The youth nodded and departed. "S'long, dude."
        That left Uncle Nathan with no one of substance to talk to. A biscuit-eared geezer sat three stools away, absorbed in a Las Vegas gaming tabloid.
        "Reminds me of the Second International," Uncle Nathan said loudly. "The Moscow Trials."
        The barman rolled his eyes and uncapped a Coors.
        Uncle Nathan droned on. "The way those BYU professors are being purged. Yessir. It's a darkness at noon, if ya get me. The bright boys are escorted from their classrooms by Church goons in suits and taken to a secret basement and shot in the head."
         "Thas turrible," said the geezer. Eyes not leaving his page.


                                                                                             *


        A glare intruded upon the barroom. It's transit told time as accurately as a sundial.
        Leah would be coming by soon. This he dearly anticipated. She read and interpreted scripture for herself. Yet she never testified, never confided personal truths, for these were treasures of the soul.
        To only one person would she confess her sins of prophesy.
         Uncle Nathan. Free thinker.