Under the River

Somewhere out on the mountain, out beyond Zion and Goshen and Eden, you can go for a walk in the forest. Actually, you can go for a walk in a lot of places out there, but the place I am talking about is a special one. You’ll need to take a ride on the dirt roads, out on the McGeorge Road and onto the Caledonia Pike, and then keep going for a while. That’s the top of the mountain out there. You know this because you can hear the mountain wind blowing, and you can see the mountain birds in the trees if you look quick- the Verio and the Indigo Bunting and maybe even a Tanager.

Well, if you go out there far enough and turn off onto the right trail, soon you’ll come to some rocks- two huge rocks set back from the road, bigger than our house. You can walk on top of them, or crawl underneath them, or walk around them, but what’s most interesting is what’s between them. If you find the front of the rocks and look hard, you’ll see a path that runs between them, and then off into the woods. I know this because I found the rocks once, and then found the path. And of course I took it. I walked and walked, all through the morning and into the afternoon.

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Now as I walked along, I started to notice that I was going downhill. I could tell this because the ground on either side of my path started to get ever so slightly higher. At first it was hardly anything at all, but soon there were real hills to my left and right. When I looked behind or in front, I couldn’t tell that I had come downhill at all. But those hills seemed to close me in like a big hug.

So I walked some more, and before I had even gone an hour, I found something new. It was water bubbling up from under a rock, right out of the ground- a spring. And this water turned into a nice little brook that flowed right alongside the path on ahead. Now there was no doubt that I was going downhill. Where the water came out the hills on the side looked taller than ever. And so I kept walking.

Now I don’t know if you’ve ever followed one of these little streams in a mountain valley, but they’re very tricky. One minute you’ll see just a little trickle of water, and before you know it the stream will be a foot deep and ten feet wide. That’s what happened here. I didn’t see any other streams coming in, but before I had walked much further at all, the stream was roaring along beside me. I even saw some trout in the water (when I held still), and once I saw some beaver chewings on the bank. There were boulders laying next to the path, and the little stream fell down over waterfalls and into pools, under logs and over rocks and sandy banks.

Now all these little streams from the mountain flow down into the river. They’ll just flow and flow until they come to the bottom of the mountain, and at the bottom of the mountain is the river. Maybe they’ll meet up with some other streams before, or run into a little lake and out the other side, but sooner or later they all wind up in the river. Now I know the river pretty well because I have looked often at the map, and I know all the streams that come into it from the mountain. In Curwensville there’s Anderson, and then Hartshorn, Montgomery and Moose Creek in Clearfield. Beyond that there’s Lick Run, Trout, Surveyor, Deer Creek, Sandy, Mosquito, Saltlick, Upper and Lower Three Runs, Birch Island, and then the great Sinnemahoning. I guessed that I was on the Mosquito Creek, or maybe Trout Run. So I decided that I’d walk down to the river and figure out in where I was. It’s always good to find the river.

And so I walked on. The little hills to my left and right got taller and taller above me, so that I couldn’t see the sun anymore, although I could see it glowing on the branches on the trees above, and I could see the blue sky above me. Still the little brook chattered on. So I kept to my path, and where a little trickle of water ran off the hillside, I found a bridge. And across the bridge was a little hut.

This was just a tiny thing, not much bigger than your bedroom. It was made of flat stones pasted together with mud. Moss had grown up on its stones in the front and one the sides, and the back was actually covered up with some stones and dirt that had fallen from the cliff. There was one small dark window in the front, and another on the side that had been broken out long ago. It had a big white door with an old black letter "W" painted on it, and an old rusty metal handle to open with. The roof was made with old shingles that mostly had fallen off, and there was a little chimney in the back, made out of stones just like the walls. And from the chimney came some smoke.

Now this was very exciting to me. I had walked a long way, and was a little tired. I hadn’t seen any person, or even a sign of a person, since I left the road and my truck above. So I knocked on the door of the little hut.

"Anybody home? Open up!"

And would you know it, but just as I finished banging I heard a scrape, and a creak, and the door opened. And I saw the littlest and oldest man I ever saw in my life. His face with wrinkled like a newspaper. He had just a few white hairs on the top of his head. He was so bent over that he had to turn his head up just to see my face. And on his face he had a great warm smile.

"Hello lad! What brings ye out here to my little hut?"

"Well, I found this little path on top of the mountain this very morning, and decided to follow it. First I came down into this valley, and then I found this little creek, and then I found your cabin. I want to keep going and find the river at the bottom. How far is it to the river?"

Now the old man’s big grin got even bigger, and his old eyes twinkled with delight. "This creek doesn’t run to the river, my boy. It doesn’t get into the river, you see, because it runs under the river."

Now this was just silly. "You old fool," I said. "There’s no such thing as under the river. You’re just teasing. I’m going to go on and find the river and figure out which creek this is."

"I’ll tell you which creek this is- it’s called the Lost Run. Don’t look on the map, because it’s not there. But I’m telling you, it runs under the river and on beyond to the other side."

"I don’t believe you. I don’t think you’re telling me the truth."

"Well, don’t believe me. If you don’t believe me about that though, you’ll never believe me about what you find after you pass to the other side."

"You’re right," I said. "I won’t believe you. I’m leaving."

And I left. I stormed right out of there, hotter than a tea kettle. I walked back out to the little trail, and the bridge where I left it and I turned my face down the valley, determined to find that river at any cost. And so I walked.

Now I was a little heated, and had forgotten a good rule about walking in the woods- to remember what time it is and when you must turn around by. And so, before I had got very far, it started to get very dark. I kept going and going though, until I couldn’t see a thin. Bythis time I wasn’t so hot any more from being mad. In fact, I was rather cold. So I stopped where I was, set about to gather up some sticks, and built myself a little fire to keep warm. And before you know it, I was fast asleep.

I must have slept for a very long time, because when I woke up, the sun was up again, and I could see around myself again. There was the little creek, just like I had followed it all day yesterday. It was deep now, so deep that I don’t think I could walk across it. The boulders were bigger than ever, and the cliffs steeper than any I had ever seen. And they towered up so high that it seemed like they were closer at the top than at the bottom. There was just a little crack of blue sky way above me.

So after I had a nice wash in the creek, and a good drink of that creek water (it was very clear and very cool and very refreshing water), I started to walk again. Now I wasn’t very mad at that old man any more, but I hadn’t come this far to turn around with finding the river and figuring out where I was. So down the valley I went.

And this day turned out to be very much like that last one. I kept going all morning, down and down the little valley. The creek turned first to the left, then to the right, and then back again, around big boulders fallen off the cliffs. Here and there little creeks fell off the hillsides in long waterfalls into the Lost Run, making a loud rushing sound that echoed loudly. And all along the way, that little crack of sunlight up above got thinner and thinner as the mountain top got higher and higher above me. I watched it very much as I walked, as it directed me along the path of my creek.

And before long something very strange happened to that little crack of sky- it went away. I could see right up the slopes of the cliffs, past some thin hemlock trees clinging to the sides, where rocks jutted out over me. But all the way up at the top the sides came together to touch, just letting in the light in a few places here and there.

Now this was terribly exciting to me. I immediately realized that the old man had told me the truth- that this little valley must just flow into a sort of cave, and that it could then run right beneath the river! I didn’t know how I would know when I had come beneath the river, but I had to find out. So I rushed on, walking as fast as I could. I don’t know how long I walked, although it must have been for hours. The funny thing down here was, although I could only see blue sky in a few places up above me (these must have been like little caves in the ground above), it was still bright like day time down here. And the little path kept going on and on, with the creek right beside it.

I had lost sight of the sky altogether for a good time when another remarkable thing happened. It started to rain! At first I just felt a few drops, but then it was coming down all around me in big, heavy drops. There was no clouds, no sky, and no wind- it was like the rain was coming right out of the rocks! And as I kept going it rained harder and harder. I don’t know if you’ve ever been out in the rain in March in your boots and coat, but it’s a miserable thing. And I was miserable. So I turned around and headed back as fast as I could, to see if the rain would pass.

And wouldn’t you know it, just up around the bend where the rain had started, it stopped again. I sat down on a log by a little rock ledge to rest for a moment and get dry. I could hear the rain coming down below me, and I thought a rock ledge would do me good. But it didn’t come up, but just kept raining down below.

And then I knew what that rain was. I looked up at the rocks way above my head, and I could see big flat brown rocks in the roof of my little cave. Now I don’t know if you’ve looked flat brown rocks like these, but there’s only one place you find them, and that’s in the river. They’re flat and smooth and sort of muddy, and they have little cracks that run through them, ever so thin. And that’s the sort of rocks that were up there above me. So I turned back into the rain, and looked up, and would you believe it? The rain coming down was not rain at all, but water from the river, slipping down between the cracks in the brown river stone. I was beneath the river!

This was more than I could take. I couldn’t wait to go beyond it and see what there was to see. So I ran down into the river rain, sprinting along the little path as I got wetter and wetter. This was the greatest adventure of my life! I ran past where I had stopped and around a new bend to the left. The rain came down so hard that I could hardly see ahead of me. I had to keep with the path and the stream on my right. I was running I was so excited.

And just around that bend I saw some bright lights. They were hanging on the sides of the hillsides above me, lined up like streetlights. I could not make out what they came from though, because of how thick the rain was. And there was a noise like music that I could just barely hear above the roar of the creek and the rain.

But I had to pull up and stop, because the rain came down so hard here that it flooded my path, and a deep pool of water backed up behind a log that was laying across the path. I only hesitated a moment before I jumped right into that pool, boots and coat and all. And it was deeper than I thought. My feet didn’t touch the bottom, and the current caught me up and took me right towards that log.

And all I could do was struggle with all my might to swim. I kicked and kicked, and just before it seemed like my head would go over, I got hold of the rocks from where I had jumped in and pulled myself back out onto the ground, rain coming down all around.

Now I hadn’t thought of it for all the adventures, but I had been walking for two days now without any stops, and most importantly without anything to eat. I was very hungry and very tired, and I knew that I couldn’t get across that pool to the other side to keep going. I sat and looked at those lights up above me, and strained to hear those sounds coming from them, and I felt very sad. But I knew that this was the end. I had to turn around and go back.

So I turned back, headed back up the path towards the little hut, the little old man, and my car. For the first time that little stream was on my left, and it was running away to where I had not been. I trudged up that hill, back past where the river rain started, and before long I could see patches of sunshine up above me, and then the thin strip of sky, and then the old man’s little hut. I banged on the door, and there he was.

"You again? Did ye find your river?"

I just slumped my shoulders and looked him. I didn’t know what to say to him. Besides, I was all wore out.

"Well, you better get in here and get out of your wet clothes and have a bite to eat." And that’s what I did. He had a nice fire going that was keeping the place warm, and had some stale bread and apples there that he gave me. It could have been steak and chocolate cake for all I knew, I was so hungry. I gobbled it all up and felt so much better. I told the old man about how I found the river, and tried to get through, and had to turn around.

"Well, that’s just the way it goes. You best be better prepared next time you try such a long walk," he said.

"I sure know it now. And better to listen to good advice when you get it!" I exclaimed. But then I had to ask. "Just one thing though. You said that there was something beyond the river, underneath it. And I saw the lights and heard that music. What is down there? What was that?"

The old man just grinned. "Ah, that’s the secret now, isn’t it? And I’m not going to tell ye. If I told you about simple things like where to find the river, and you wouldn’t believe me, how would you believe me if I told you about something so mysterious as what’s beyond under the river?"

And try as I could, I couldn’t get him to tell me what it was. So I left him. I thought for a moment about turning down the valley again, but I got the feeling that he wouldn’t be so accomodating a second time around. And he was right- I needed to be better prepared. So I set out up the valley, on the way back to my truck. The blue sky above started to change colors, like it does when the sun sets. The mountain cliffs turned dark and the path got hard to find. Yet it seemed to get brighter as I walked. And that was because, as I came out of the valley, the moon came up higher and higher and lighted up my path ahead of me. And it seemed like just an hour or so when I saw the moon herself, shining at me over a hillside that wasn’t very high at all. It lit up the trees around me, and the little creek, and the hillsides beside me. And before long those hillsides were gone, and there were those two big rocks, and there was my truck, just where I had left it.

Now that’s mostly the end of this story. I got in my car and drove it home and slept for a whole day. And then when I got up I ate everything in my house and some from the restaurant, I was so hungry. And then I slept some more. And before long I had to go back to work and I didn’t have a chance to go back out and try that path again. And when I finally did, I drove and looked for those rocks and that path, but I couldn’t find it. I looked on the map and never saw Lost Run on it at all. I thought I found the rocks once, but there was no trail there at all. And then I couldn’t even find that place any more, and I gave up looking.

And now to this day I think about what good things must be beyond that river, things so good that the old man couldn’t tell a foolish boy like myself. I wondered what those mysterious lights were and what made that music that came from beyond the flood, and hope that someday I might get back to see. And I hope that someday you’ll go out on the mountain and look, and perhaps you’ll find those two big rocks and the little path, and you’ll be better prepared to follow it than I was.

Orion

Orion has come out tonight, after the snow finished, dodging clouds that seemed to want to get home faster than I. He is a memorable man, perhaps the most well known man in the world. He is the only honest-to-God hunter that most people know. Everyone knows that he is a hunter, and everyone knows him, and that makes him very proud. There is nothing like being known by everyone for being what you most love to be. He is very glad that they point to him and say “There is the great hunter Orion, a mighty hunter before the Lord”, rather than “There is the Great Home Appliance Repair Man”, or “There is the Great Pee-wee League Soccer Game Spectator”, two things that he seemed to do quite much more than he would have wished. He is very glad that those things have faded from everyone else's minds and that it is only his hunting that anyone can remember.

But he is not a hunter. He has not been one for many, many years. Every year he brings out his belt and his sword and his dogs, and marches about as if he could finally bring down that bear and her cub, or that bull that he has always seemed to be one step ahead of. He is certain that this may be the year, although he is not sure what would happen if it finally was. His grandchildren love it- they love to look at his sword and hear about his chariot and play with his dogs. Major and Miner they call them, not at all certain what mining has to do with hunting or even being a dog. This does not trouble them. These children love these dogs, and they love their grandfather, and they love his pride. It hurts him and his dogs to think that they do not care for hunting or bows or chariots, and that they have no fear of him or his once mighty dogs. They are always being scolded for trying to touch his sword and bow. They cannot keep their hands of the dogs: trying to ride them like horses or pull their ears or dress them up in boots and coat. These children have manhandled the vigor and viciousness right out of those two old hounds. And they have done the same to the old hunter. They climb on him and wrestle him and love him. They cannot sit still, even when he tells them about his hunts.

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“You see, my children, that I was once a mighty hunter before the Lord. That is why I have this sword on my belt that you may not touch. For it is a dangerous hunting weapon.”

They giggle. “But grampa, nobody goes hunting with a sword! Where is your gun?”

The oldest child, a pretty girl of nine who feels that she must know so much more than anyone else precisely because she is nine, loves to roll her eyes and ask him why he never caught anything, just to hear his protests that it is not easy, and besides when you go hunting you do not “catch” anything. You may bag a bird, or harvest a deer, (or even kill one), but never “catch”. This is not fishing, this is hunting, he explains. The children laugh.

But these children do enjoy hearing his stories. Their innocent and childish love for the old man helps them to feel the beauty of the thing, and to make a connection in their simple sentimentality that the more analytical and competitive mind of their parents has lost some years ago already. There is not much wonder in his stories (because after all he never did catch anything), but there is the hearty childhood joy of hearing about a thing you've heard about a thousand times before. When you are a child, you can love a thing just for that reason- that it is familiar and is the way things always have been and always will be. That man will get his sword out and his dogs and go marching about every February forever, and they know it and they love it.

There is one thing that they know, that they feel in their hearts, that makes them remember and love these stories and their old grandfather. They know that when the old man gets out his sword and his belt and his chariot and his tired old dogs and goes marching across the sky, that it is the end of the winter. It is the end of darkness and the cold and the stars, a love for which these young children, so delicate and fragile as they are, have not yet replaced with the adult hunger for perpetual comfort. They cannot go out in the winter without a piece of knit clothing on every part of their body (by maternal decree), but this does not keep them in, especially not now in March. They know that, even if it has only happened to them three or four or nine times, that very soon the stars will be removed from sight and mind and give way to perpetual light. When they arise in the morning, even very early, the sun will be up. When they are forced by Mother to come in and bathe up and go to bed, he will still be awake. And it will be this way until they have long forgotten that there is even such a thing as a star. It will be this way for years, for lifetimes, for ever. When the summer has arrived, winter and night is not even a thing you can imagine, or would want to. Endless weeks are soon to arrive of playing in the dirt and throwing the baseball and staying up later than they should (and never seeing it get dark!). The children love the summer, and are deeply pleased to realize that it is here. But each one of them has just the slightest sadness in their souls to think that they will not see their proud grandfather out for a long time, and nor will they see any other stars, or feel the cold, or watch the sun rise. These are things that they love, and although the Lord is about to give them the greatest joy of their little lives, they do love what they have now, and are very content with the winter as it has been. Winter has been around for time out of mind, it is familiar, and they love it because of that.

But it is never the same in the fall. When the leaves take the first tinge of color, and the dark finally seems to creep back into the sky come October, these children will feel a different emotion than the one they feel now. They will not love the winter in October, not at all, at least at first. It will bring that feeling that they hate- that sad loneliness in your stomach that makes you want to stay out just a little bit later each night, because tomorrow there might not be any light, and you might not see the sun again for another lifetime. Your mother may tell you that you cannot go out to play after dinner any more, or that you may have go to school. This is a thing which dulls the love of beauty in a child, the ability to love everything and anything just because it is and there must be some way to make a game out of it. This process will happen every year, and before long, perhaps by the time they are eleven, they will no longer love the winter, even in March. They will complain about the snow and the cold and talk about Florida as if Ponce de Leon really was on to something, and they will act like their jaded parents do, they who have seen too many falls to love winter.

The old man knows this. Old Orion, he knows that his many grandchildren will soon be like this- that they will grow old and bored and tired and will complain bitterly about how late the spring is right when he is out doing the thing that he loves the most- marching across the sky in his proud hunting outfit with his happy tired dogs bounding at this feet. This hurts him, although he has come to expect it because he has seen it many times before. But he is glad that they are still too young to be like this, and that they love him and his stories and his dogs and his domain, the winter, at least for now.

The Dollhouse

Once upon a time, there was a man. He was very old, and very poor, and consequently very dirty. Dirty because he was poor, not because he was old, that is. His hair was mostly gray, and somewhat thin, and he had many wrinkles. He had these wrinkles not because he was poor and full of worries, but because he was old, and he had smiled and laughed very often in his many years.

The reason for his many smiles was that he had a daughter. She was very little, and very dirty, both because she was young and because she too was poor. She did not mind. She had a bright and curly yellow hair and a face that beamed like the sun on the first golden day of April. She did not have many toys, because she was poor, but her old father gave her everything she could want, and she was very thankful. She had a mopey old dog who did not mind when she rode on his back like the Lord riding into Jerusalem, or when she dressed him in her Sunday best. She had a bicycle that she was rather afraid of, and many books, full of pictures of ponies and princesses and castles and other delightful things.

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But her favorite toy was the one thing that she owned that no other little girl anywhere in the world owned. It was a dollhouse. The reason that no one else in the world had one was because no other little girl had a father like hers. He had made this dollhouse with his own hands, just for her. It stood as tall as she did, with three stories and eight rooms and a kitchen and a yard with real grass. It was a log cabin, like their own house, except this one didn't look like any poor people lived there. This dollhouse was the home of a successful and happy family, with many doll children and animals, and a great oaken table where they all sat and dined (including the animals). It was full of the most delightful decorations, like a grandfather clock that really worked (it didn't even need winding, and made a real chime!) and little candles that burned with a tiny flame when supper was on, and a full set of fancy silverware, made of real silver. If any other little girl would have had this dollhouse, she would have said that it was a magic dollhouse, but this little girl did not know about magic, but only about her father. She was very happy. The baby dolls and animals must have been very happy as well, for they were served many abundant feasts at the hand of their beaming mistress, who imagined her grown up life providing such splendor for her own children.

So it went with this dirty little girl, all the years of her little life. Her father gave her chores to do, but they were not toilsome, and many of them were useful and beautiful things that she loved to do, like setting the table or folding the laundry. She had very few rules to obey- obey adults, feed the dog, and put the dolls away at bedtime. These things took up very little time, and so she was free to play at dolls as much as any little girl would want.

But before long, her old father took ill. This is to be expected in our world, especially with very old men. The little girl did not understand this, because he had never been ill before, and she had never been ill, and neither had any of the dolls in her house. He did not get up for many days, but instead called to his daughter for his meager supper, until he stopped eating altogether. Then one day he called her to his side and told her that he loved her and wished her the very best and may her sunbeams never go out, and that he was being gathered to his people. Then he smiled at her and put his hand on her head and he died. She cried for many days.

Now because that old man was very poor, and because the friends and brothers of the very poor abandon them, there was no relative to take care of his little daughter. So, one day a strange man came and took the little girl, with all her things (the mopey dog and the books, and of course the dollhouse), and took her to a new house. He said that it was his job to make sure that orphans were looked after, and that he was going to be her new daddy. Things were going to change he said, because she had wasted so much time. She was going to have new rules and chores (there were very many of these, more than she could remember) and she was now going to go to school instead of playing with dolls. This was for her good, he explained, so that she could go to a good college. Of course, she did not like the rules or the chores very much, and she did not like school at all. But she did as she was told, because she was a good little girl.

One day she came home and ran to her room, as she was wont to do. It was not nice to be around her new daddy, for he did not smile often (he had no wrinkles, and his hair was not gray), but he talked very often and very loudly and his talk made very little sense. Well, on this particular day she ran to her room, threw off her coat and knelt down to serve supper to her dolls.

To her absolute horror, her dollhouse was gone. Rather, it was not gone, but changed, reconfigured, destroyed! The beautiful logs were replaced with a blank white on the inside and a shiny gray on the outside. Where there used to be walls decorated with happy pictures and windows there were now awful white partitions that were low enough to look over, with papers tacked to them covered with words like “annuity” and “strategy” and “policy” which terrified her. Gone was the grandfather clock, and in its place a horrible black thing with bright red blinking digits that made a buzz on the hour. Gone was the silverware, replaced with little calculators pencils and more papers. And gone too was the giant oaken table. Her dolls were seated in desks, heads bent over.

This was too awful. She buried her face in her hands and turned away, just to find her new daddy sitting behind her.

“Now honey, do not cry. Why do you not like what I have done with your dollhouse?”

“Because it's so awful! Where did my house go?” she cried.

“Oh, do be sensible. Your dollhouse is right here. Are not all your dolls here? I have simply made your dollhouse a little more realistic, so that you may learn more about what the real world is like.”

“But it is awful!”, she said. “I want my things back!”

“Look here, my girl. I have taken away your table and the grandfather clock and your old walls because I love you and I want you to grow up proper. You see, we do not sit at an oaken table in our family, because I do not always get home from work in time for supper. We do not have babies or animals, because it would put a strain on our careers and finances. You see, once upon a time little girls had nothing more to look forward to than endless cooking and cleaning and slaving away in the house. But now you have so many possibilities that you must learn to dream big. This is the modern world, where dreams that you have never even thought of dreaming will come true. That is why I have turned your dollhouse into an office- because this is your future, the glorious life that you have to look forward to. Now go do your homework.”

Now because the little girl had been taught (by her poor dead father, not by her teacher) to always do what she was told, she went and did her homework and did not play with her dolls any more that day. In fact, she never played with them again. And she went back to school the next day, and for the years to come. And soon she grew up, and when she turned fourteen she suddenly stopped being a little girl and turned into a big girl. And she promptly got pregnant by her boyfriend and was sent away, never to be heard from again.