stirrings

         Brother Ambrose embraced the caffeine rush. With a krrrick! of his neck he unlatched internal trapdoors. Kundalini serpent energy sprang forth. He espied Maxine sitting with Greendozer at a corner table. She caught his eye and he recognized her with a courtly nod.


                                                                                  *


        Earlier that morning Maxine had risen before dawn. From the octagonal window of the attic bedroom she looked out upon the flinty waters of the fyord. Colors matched those of the humpbacked whale. Sunless, deep and mystical. And climbing into the mist were great slopes of cedar, undulating in the high tubular wind from Japan. Her soul shouted halleluiah, but nary a word escped her lips.
        She slipped on a threadbare calico robe, a favorite since college.
        Then she stole down the beanstalk. Wooden circular stairs.
         Crackling arches, beefsteak slabs for feet.
         Like ivy, remnants of a dream scrambled up the red bricks of her mind.

                                                                                     *

        She found Hank slumbering on the sofa. Snoring like Battleship Potemkin. Toes with curled yellow nails wormed like nematodes from under his olive army blanket. Three empty Anchor Steam bottles lay beside his assembly-in-progress of a Cutty Sark model kit.
         She could see he had sought a high level of detail. Ratlines crafted from brown thread. Minutia painted with patience and care: belaying pins, davits, windlass and chain. The beer gave him a steady hand.
          Greendozer. The mighty.





                                       


                                        

brother ambrose

        Greendozer could barely chew or swallow whenever he dined in public.
        A victim of exaggerated notoriety, he sat with his back to a corner, feeling likeWild Bill Hickock in Deadwood. Aces and eights.
         It was a case of guilt by association. Eco-terrorism in the States had escalated to fire-bombing logging trucks. Earth Liberation had carried the fight to a grim extreme. How quaint Edward Abbey's Monkey-Wrench Gang now seemed. No more merry pranks. A new ethic had arisen. Agents of destruction let everybody know they weren't fooling around.
         And who was the best known eco-terrorist here-abouts?
         "You have only yourself to thank," Maxine chortled. He bristled, so she added,  "I'm proud of you, Hank."
         They were sitting for brunch at the Totem Pole Lodge diner, a bustling venue fondly called Frenchy's Moosecall.  It was Sunday and the place was packed tighter than canned salmon.
          Word was out that a Yank eco-terrorist on the lam from the FBI was hiding out in British Columbia. He had been a Green Party candidate for United States president before changing his name to Tre Arrow. Naturally the media descended upon Greendozer's corner of the woods and began pestering him with stupid questions. Hoping they could bait him into saying something he would regret.
         His celebrity was tarnished.
         He fell into bitter retreat.
        


                                                                                   *


         Two flap-doodles barged in. They demanded an American-style meal, beginning with the coffee. Henri DuBois perked a splendid French Roast. Robust and fragrant, it would jolt you awake like a clap of thunder. Fifty cents, refill included. If that wasn't American enough, you could damn well go to Starbucks and pay three dollars!
         The first Yank had a weak chin hidden by a sandy ZZ Top beard. He wore a greasy deer-stalker cap. One gulp of coffee and he bleated, "Shit fuck! This stuff is bitter!"
         "Ad cream, Bo," the second Yank advised. Snap-button shirt with cowboy piping. Beer belly. Male pattern baldness accented by an obscene ponytail.
         DuBoise broke a house rule. He sidled up to Greendozer, now nibbling at a cheddar-and-chives omelet. "Those pigeons need their wings clipped. Eh?"
         "I'm no expert on ornithology, Henri."
         "Eh?"
         "I mean, don't involve me."
         DuBoise went away.
         Rapping a knuckle on the Formica counter, the first Yank called, "Hey, Frenchy, we're ready to order!"
         DuBois under his breath: "Merde."
         "What's in the sausage?" quizzed the second Yank. "I'm particular when it comes to homemade."
         From the doorway: "Minced oxen balls. Low sodium, of course."
         The Yanks dropped their jaws in disbelief. That 60's poster of Laughing Jesus came to Greendozer's mind. Yet the man standing there was more of an apparation of Abe Lincoln, rail-splitter from Illinois, with kindness of mien, scourged by troubled eyes.
         Maxine was thinking of Tab Hunter.
         He wore a rose paisey tunic  with droopy fluted sleaves and corduroy bellbottoms the color of cedar bark. In one hand he held a sheep-crook and in the other a leather-bound Bible.
         "Who the fuck are you?" asked Deer-stalker.
         "My name is Brother Ambrose, friend."
         "Eh?" DuBois.
         With two giant steps the preacher took the vacant stool-seat next to Deer-stalker. "Mind if I join you?"
         Aghast. Shaken even. "Uh no. I guess Canada's a free country too."
         Beaming like a lighthouse. "Yes, it is."
         Greendozer whispered to Maxine. "Natural-born peacemaker."

        
         
        
    

happy trails

         Slow as a millepede the Skell Van crept down Chewbacca's main street, Ziggy mindful of the newly erected monument to Redbone. Same location. Each time he passed a person, in car or on a bicycle, on foot, jogging or shambling, he honked and waved goodbye. The Potlatch was still closed, but its front porch was rife with loafers. Card playing kartenspielers looked up and saluted. A smile on each face so far. It pleased him greatly that he had made so many friends in this wilderness hamlet named after a Wooky.
          His passenger appeared to be sleeping beneath a vast sombrero.
          He parked outside the CONA radio station. Spoke to his passenger. "Stay here. I won't be a minute."
          Inside he found Tyson Gawain speaking to her radio audience.
          "This just in by word of mouth, folks. From reliable sources at the truckstop. A fellow from Portland is rumoured to be interested in opening a spiffy cafe in the old Potlatch. Gonna have fancy coffees and teas. Free newspapers. Yes, you heard me. Too good to be true, if you ask me."
          The chock-a-block woman resembled The Golem. Right down to Paul Weggener's hair style. She swivelled around and greeted Ziggy.
           "Hey man. What's up?"
           "Got some fresh gossip. Interested?"
           "You betcha."
           "Well, me and Cherry Blossom are moving on."
           "Bust me!"
           "Yup. We're on the way. She was up all night, so now she's catching some zees in the van."
           "Lemmee go say goodbye."
           "Naw naw. C'mere. Look outside. Under the big hat."
           Tyson bellowed: "YOU HAVE A SAFE JOURNEY, CHERRY MY LOVE!"
           The woman beneath the vast sombrero stirred, waved her hand.
           "Well, sir, Mister Zig-Zag," Tyson Gawain said, pumping Ziggy's lubricated hand. "It has been a true pleasure knowing you both. Happy trails."


                                                                                      *


            Five miles outside Chewbacca on a lonely two-rut nature trail, Leah climbed down from the van and walked around to Ziggy's window. She kissed him deeply, a sacrement blessed.
            "Bye bye now." Ziggy croaked. He broke into sloppy tears. And drove away. Leah waved until the Skell Van was no more.
            Then she heard the Indian crank up. Artie's thundering steed. She mounted behind her man and they rode to who-knows-where.

 

requiem

        Mister Zig-Zag inspected the damage to his van. Not too bad. The front bumper had absorbed most of the shock. It dangled precariously. Fucking morons erecting a tombstone facsimile to a dog in the middle of the fucking street! Artie had rapped his head pretty hard, but the local medic said he was OK.
         Glad to be home, he was thinking. He noticed a solemn silence, so he tread lightly. Up the front steps and into the cabin.
         The parlor was lit by candles, on the floor, on the mantle, in the windows. Red ones, gold ones, black ones, every candle they owned. Then he saw Leah sitting with Cherry Blossom in wake.
          His soul mate was garbed in her favorite gingam granny dress. Scarf around her head and mocs on her feet. A bit of rouge had been applied to her dead cheeks.
          "Oh my God. What happened?"
          Leah wept.


                                                                                       *


         "The man who attacked Sid at the Potlatch did this."
         "Your man in black. The Mormon dude."
         "I'm so sorry. Oh, Ziggy."
         He was standing beside her chair, she wrapped arms about his hips and hugged him.  "I brought the evil into your lives. Oh Heavenly Father, why did you allow this to happen?"
          Ziggy gazed beyond the ceiling, seeing nothing. Then, strangely, he pressed the palms of his ever-engaging hands upon her head and blessed her.
          "I love you, Leah."
          "Oh, Ziggy, Ziggy."
          "Let us pray."
    


  

rosewater

            Leah awoke in a strange bed. An indigo sky dusted with starlight peeped through the cabin window. Someone was shuffling about in the parlor. She heard a melody, folksong or canticle, sung by a man with sweet qualities.            
            In the parlor he had arranged a "cooling board" and was now washing Cherry Blossom.
            "Excuse me?"
            "Howdy, ma'am. How're you feeling?"
            "Who are you?"
            "Ernst Mueller from Comfort, Texas."
            "What are you doing?"
            "I am washing this poor woman's body."
            "Are you crazy?"
            "Yes, ma'am."
            He had found rosewater and some salts. Lovingly he was giving Cherry Blossom her final bath. All the blood was gone. The wound next to her brown aureole had been cleansed with peroxide solution. All urine and feces wiped away.
            "Where did you learn such things?" Leah asked, beginning to appreciate Ernie the Lurp's beautiful skills.
            "On the farm back home. In Nam."
            "I must tell you, her man will be returning any moment."
            "I know that."
            "That monster you killed, what of him?"
            "Already gone. Took care of him like I took care of Charly."
            He stroked Cherry Blossom's pubic mound as a goodbye. "Done here. Advise you folks to bury her as quietly as you've lived. No law, no preacher."


                                                                            *


              Close to midnight the Skell Van returned home.

long-range recon patrol

        The Avenging Angel let the arrow fly. Its three-bladed tip gave it the spin of a drill, sending it almost as accurately as a Winchester slug. It stabbed Cherry Blossom in the left breast and stopped her heart. She slumped to the earth with a silent gush. Leah screamed a gross complaint to her Heavenly Father. Without a thought to flee, she knelt beside her dear friend.
        "Blasphemous whore!" He unsheathed his Bowie knife.
        Eyes red as Satan's sores, he advanced upon his prey.
        Observing all of this was Ernie the Lurp, invisible to all mankind. Trained for long-range recon patrol in Vietnam, he was now a Force of Nature. A deadly elemental. Existing in the arboral purgatory of Oregon's primordal rainforest. His heart turned to stone the moment he saw Cherry Blossom die. Two years of unrequitted love, negated.
         He unsheathed his freshly oiled K-bar knife and clamped it in his teeth. And before the Avenging Angel had breathed a dozen times, the Lurp was nigh.
         Leah stood up, issuing blood from her vagina. Like an Amazon, she held her ground.
         "I'm gonna gut you!"
         She hissed, "God will not allow it. GOD WILL NOT ALLOW IT!"
         And it came to pass. As scripture would say.
        
        

                                                                             *


         Ernie had never seen so much blood come from a woman.
         He entered Leah's world from his green dimension. The K-bar glinted in the foliage. Ernie pounced, the skin of his arm the color of a toad. She was not certain of what had suddenly appeared. An apelike man in jungle cammos seemed to arise like a cobra and strike without hesitation, cutting off the devil's head.
          Leah swooned, ashen-faced and frothy of drool.
          "Peace, little sister."
    

elder futhark

        The hubub in the street had gone viral. Chewbacca had about thirty residents and half of them were converging around the Skell Van. Artie was given a soft place on the grass. He smiled like a space cadet. Kept telling everybody he felt no pain. He looked ghastly.
         Tyson Gowain lumbered up, knelt with cracking kneecaps, and touched Artie's arm. "How're you doing, Mormon?"
          "OK. No pain."
          "I should say not." Smirking. "Your breath smells like a bud stud farm."
         

                                                                                    *


           Cherry Blossom squeezed Leah's hand. "Let's go for a walk."
           "Yes." Her cheeks were all aglow.
           From the front steps, Ziggy and Cherry Blossom had created a kilnstone path down to the dirt road leading into thick cedar. The women walked arm-in-arm, which caused them to stumble. Bluebell laughter.
           Into the gloom of the wood they went. A flutter of quick wings overhead. Then a hush.
           "Cherry!"
           "I see him!"
           Dressed in black denim, the archer emerged, from one shade zone to the next.
           "This isn't happening," Cherry Blossom moaned.