Kem Nunn - Tapping the Source

It was a warm afternoon. Insects sang in the brush. A light breeze whispered in the high grass and the hills seemed to move in the wind, to ripple as if they were alive. Wild mustard cut yellow slashes across great fields of green. He moved along the narrow trail, the ground hot against his bare feet where it was smooth and exposed to the sun, cool and damp where it wound beneath the twisted limbs of the squat dark trees that grew in clumps throughout the hills.

The trail did not go on for long and soon, emerging from a thicket of trees, he found himself in a large clearing at the edge of a cliff. He at first stepped into the clearing but then drew back among the trees. There was something unusual here, a sudden feeling that he had violated some private space. He stood in the shade and looked out at the circular patch of smooth hard-packed dirt. In the center of the clearing there was a stone ring. The smooth dirt, the slight rise of the ground, made it seem as if the earth rose here to cut a great half circle out of the sky. The stone ring was blackened with soot and ash. A series of strange symbols had been scratched into the stone and he was reminded of the fire rings beneath the cliffs, the graffiti of the inland gangs. Those rings, however, were made of concrete. This ring was made from individual stones, and as he inspected it more carefully he saw that the stones were held together with mortar, which in spots still had a rough, almost new look to it, as if the ring was of recent construction. Looking farther around the circle, he saw that along the far edge, closest to the cliff and the sea, there was also evidence of some recent digging—some kind of trench, with mounds of dark earth heaped to the side of it.

He stepped into the clearing once more, intent on examining this work in progress. As he did so, however, he happened to look back over his shoulder and discovered that he could once again see the house he’d glimpsed that first morning from the point. It was a better view from here, and he stood looking back at it, listening to the heat moving in the brush, the sound of the surf drifting up from the beaches below. The house was still very far away, but he could see windows and what appeared to be a balcony. And as he watched he became aware of a tiny speck moving on the balcony. A figure dressed in white? Yes, he was certain of it. There was a person there. He ducked quickly back into the trail, hoping he had not been visible to them as well. He waited for a few moments, listening to the surf below him. It was hard to see much from the trail, but he did not want to risk going back into the clearing now. At last he turned and started down, back toward the camp.

Preston was awake when he returned and Ike told him about the clearing. He told him about the house and the tiny figure in white. Preston listened, a scowl on his face, eyes turned toward the ground as he scratched circular lines with a pointed stick. “It’s been a long time since I was here last,” Preston said. “Things have changed. Maybe there are more people around now.”

Ike wondered how smart it was to stay. They had seen ranch hands both days now. There was someone in the house.

“Swell’s still good,” Preston said. “One more day. We’ll give it one more day.”

By the end of the third day, Ike felt that they had been there forever. His skin was burned dark and his hair was tangled with salt, streaked almost blond at the ends. His back and shoulders ached from the long paddles, but that plugged-in feeling had not deserted him. He felt alive in a new way, and more confident now than at any time he could remember. He still had occasional doubts about why they had come. Perhaps it was as simple as Preston had said: They had come for the waves.

The third day passed without incident. It was agreed that they would spend one more night, leave in the morning. Ike went to sleep quickly after eating; the last he saw of Preston, he was seated by the fire, a joint held to his lips, his dark hair loose, resting on his shoulders, so that he reminded Ike of certain airbrushed drawings he’d seen on the fuel tanks of bikes, the covers of magazines: the dark scowl beneath the long hair, the heavy tattooed shoulders and arms lit by the orange light of the fire. He looked like a figure out of some remote past, a slayer of dragons.

And once again, as had happened on the first night, Ike woke in the blackness to find that he was alone, the fire dead, Preston’s bag unrolled but empty. This time, however, Ike had the feeling that he had been disturbed, that there had been a sound. He strained his ears against the silence, the distant buzz of insects, the far-off crash of waves. Then he heard it again: the barking of a dog. He pulled himself out of his bag and stood in the center of the small clearing. He was uncertain about what to do. He put on sneakers and stepped to the edge of the camp, staring down the trail that led to the beach, that forked off toward the clearing. Could Preston have gone to check out the clearing for himself? Would it be foolish to leave the camp? A half-moon melted down on one side rested far above the trees. He heard the dog again. It would not take him long to reach the clearing. He had just started down the trail when suddenly there was a new sound: a voice. A man’s voice ripping the night. He began to run.

Somehow the trail seemed longer in the night. The branches often blocked what light there was and in one place he collided with a low branch that jutted across the trail. He turned his face at the last second and caught the blow across his jaw, driving the skin of his cheek into his teeth. The taste of blood crept into his mouth. He paused to rest, his hands on his knees, his head ringing. The voice came again. Was it the same voice? Or had this one come from behind him, cutting him off? He was uncertain. His head ached. He heard the dog again, a first voice and then a second, and suddenly the night seemed full of sounds, of violence. A light flashed somewhere among the trees that lay on the inland side of the trail, a single white spot jumping, appearing and disappearing, someone running. Ike put his head down and began to run once more, running now out of panic, afraid to cut back toward camp, his breath like flame. He ran up a steep section of trail he could not remember and suddenly he was back at the edge of the cliff, the clearing, and Preston was there, but he was not alone.

Preston was nearly facing Ike, the cliff edge at his back. And between Ike and Preston there was another man, a big man with a wide back and a huge head of black hair and there was one crazy moment in which Ike stood there, struck dumb, like a rabbit caught in a light, eyes wide and stupid, as he tried to remember where he had seen that back and hair before, then realizing it was the same back he had followed through the streets of Huntington Beach just three nights ago. And even as he stood there, remembering, making the connection, Terry Jacobs and Preston collided near the center of the empty space. There was a great dull thud, a cursing and groaning as the two men fell to one side. And then they were up, Jacobs bent at the waist, Preston holding him in a kind of headlock, one arm under Terry’s chin, trying to cut off air, the other across the back of his neck, Terry making huge efforts to break the hold. In one such effort he brought Preston completely off the ground, driving him against the stone ring. Preston’s back slapped against the stone with a heaviness that made Ike wince. But Preston did not let go and now Ike could see him pulling, arching his back, forcing that forearm up into Jacob’s throat. He could hear Jacobs gasping and spitting, fighting for air, and then he could hear something else as well: voices, on the trail now below him, and though it looked like Preston might win, it was all happening too slowly. There would not be time.