Bastards
Chapter One
Nestled in a quiet cove, the house lies just east of Mt. LeConte, an ancient edifice of granite and sandstone towering 6500 feet above sea level. Towering over the valley, the mountain dominates the landscape with magnificent walls brilliantly adorned in a palette of fall color.
The house is quiet and the mountain lies still.
Decorating the countryside with its most lavish design, nature’s fall show signals the arrival of a grand death. Butternut Hickory, Mountain Ash and Red oak shower the soil with their offering, as the splashes of color slowly give way to the subdued hues of winter.
The Appalachian sun rises gently, its sparkling tentacles gradually making their way over the Anakeesta ridge, reaching outward to the valley, illuminating dew that’s settled on the trees and fields surrounding the house.
It’s a fall morning in the Smokies, and he doesn’t believe there’s a prettier place on the planet.
Morning is his favorite time of day. He embraces its peace, its stillness and the subtle sounds developing into a broader, more perfectly orchestrated symphony. The wind stirring the leaves, calls from his avian friends and the primal buzz of the cicada.
Stepping outside, he finds the air is pleasantly cool and moist. Unzipping his fly, he exercises his right as a free featherless biped and participates in the time-honored tradition of peeing off the front porch.
The urine flows freely and spills over the side onto the grass below, causing a beetle to scurry for cover beneath the porch.
Safely tucked away in a tangled patch of rhododendron not far from the house, a Ruby-crowned kinglet serenades him with continuous celebratory song. Lightly hopping from branch to branch, he thinks it must lead a perfect existence. No mortgage, no taxes and no worries, other than the noble quest for the necessities of life.
Food, shelter and sex.
He imagines the kinglet to say “I’m a kinglet! Look at me! I’m a kinglet, and I’m happy!”
As his imagination wonders, he ponders life in these mountains and valleys hundreds of years earlier, before whites established property lines, capitalism, governments and prisons. He concludes that humans in North America more or less lived much like the kinglet, where the primary tasks of each day were mostly focused on food, shelter, sex, celebration and song.
Oh, there was hardship. There was war and conflict. Life could certainly be brutal and short, but it seemed more honorable.
He feels modern society carries a lingering stench. It’s too frantic, and there are billions of people looking for peace and quiet that never find it. Hardly a place remains where you can’t see the effects of man. There’s no open frontier. Only constant vigilance to protect what remains.
And then, as if on queue, an airplane passes overhead, ripping through the serenity of this hallowed place like a hot knife through butter. Filling the valley, the sound is harsh and dissonant like fingers scraping a blackboard.
He reaches out and forms his hand and fingers into an imaginary pistol. Using his middle finger as trigger, he aims and fires into the endless sky.
“Bastards”
I know the feeling all too well. It haunts me in my dreams. The beauty of the Smokies and then the cars and planes. For some reason when I’m in the Smokies I always find myself thinking back to past times. It’s an ancient place with ancient hopes and memories. I hope that the moss will grow over everything again. I hope that the engines will turn off.