August Ansel - The Attic

There was one final spot where they needed to squeeze through an especially dense phalanx of underbrush, and then they came to his place quite unexpectedly. It took Arie a moment to realize they’d arrived. She’d expected some sort of tent or cabin, perhaps a weather-eaten shed or even an abandoned vehicle. What she didn’t expect was an enormous redwood stump, probably twenty-five feet around at the base, made into a house. The body of the tree had broken away some unknowable time ago and lay nearby, a huge, disintegrating log completely covered with ferns and lichen. From inside the stump came a short, plaintive whine. Curran smiled and drew the post on a neatly made wooden hasp attached to an even more neatly made door, and pulled it open. The first thing Arie saw when she looked into that little square doorway was the smiling doggy face of Talus.

“Hey there,” said Curran. He had to duck slightly to step inside. A length of twisted wire, relic of the early computer age, tethered the dog to a U-shaped nail pounded into the wall of the enclosure. Talus licked at Curran’s face when he bent to untie the cord from her collar, then she bolted out of the stump to squat and pee a few feet away. She ran back to Curran, ears back, tail thumping.

“How’s my best girl?” Curran said. He squatted next to the dog and rubbed her roughly from head to rump. She grinned at him, panting, long tongue out. He put his arms around her and put his face into her neck. “I was worried about you,” he murmured. She stopped panting and began to sniff vigorously at the bandage on his head, especially in the place where Arie had sewn his scalp back together. “No worries,” he said. “Just a little trouble I got myself into.” He got to his feet, still a bit wobbly in the transition from down to up. “Say hello to this lady, Talus.”

The dog’s ears perked forward. She immediately got still and attentive, her brown eyes looking directly into Arie’s. “She’s a wonder,” Arie said. For the second time that day she felt the sting of close tears. It had been decades since she’d been in the company of a good dog. “Hello, Talus,” she said, bending slightly toward her. The dog’s ears relaxed again, and she lifted an enormous front paw, swiping lightly at the air between them in an unmistakable gesture of accord. Arie took the proffered paw without a moment’s hesitation. The pads of that warm foot were rough, the nails long. “What a great good thing you are,” Arie whispered. Talus’s tongue-wagging, tail-wagging smile returned.

Curran had a pleasantly bemused expression. “I’ve never actually seen her with anyone but me,” he said. “I was a little worried—she’s protective.”

“She’s smarter than we are,” said Arie. “I trust her endorsement of you more than anything you’ve told me so far.” She looked into the massive hollow stump. “Let’s take what we can and get gone before it’s black night out here.”

“I’ll get a light,” he said. He ducked through the door, and Arie waited, not wanting to block what little light the open port provided. There was the small clink and rasp of a lighter, then Curran was putting flame to mantle on a fat-bellied old lantern. It blazed up orange and quickly intensified into a hissing yellow-white. The little round room jumped into being around him, and Arie stepped inside. Talus, who had taken the moment to make a zigzagging circuit of the clearing around the stump, nose to the ground, returned and positioned herself at the door. She stood, tail wagging slowly, carefully watching Curran for a moment and then having a look outside.

Arie stood in the middle of the space and turned a full circle. What he’d created was remarkable. The inside walls had been planed so that the velvety surface shone burgundy in the lantern light. There were shelves built directly into the walls, where he’d stowed his usables—a couple of dishes and utensils, a ridiculously ornate beer stein, and a smattering of canned food. But there were also many small items that could only have been arranged for his interest and amusement—a glass jar filled with tiny redwood seed cones, a bird’s nest with the remnants of little brown and white eggs still in it.

Under the shelves was a small table attached to the wall with hinges so that it sat on two legs and could be folded up out of the way. A stone fire ring, the rocks blackened on their inside edges from much use, was positioned near the far wall. There, the open top of the stump rose and narrowed into a natural chimney to draw smoke up and out. It was a crude fix; the ceiling was sooty, and the stump retained a heavy smell of fire. He had created a sort of carpet with a patchwork of canvas tarps and what looked like a nylon shower curtain that sported bright geometric blocks of color.

Most incongruous of all, and therefore wonderful, was a rocking chair. It was Windsor-styled, wide through the seat and solid despite the many slender rungs adorning the back and arms. On the backrest at head height was the embossed image of a tree, and beneath it Stanford University, painted in delicate red script. A book lay open, face down on the table, and several more sat in piles around the chair, their pages and paper covers plump-looking in the damp air. Arie crossed to the table and turned the book to see its cover, careful not to lose his page. She looked at Curran, who was watching her inspect his home.

“I’ll be damned,” she said, and then she laughed delightedly. “I thought for sure it would be a Jack London tale, but shame on me for assuming. The Great Gatsby, Curran. It boggles the mind.”

He smiled, a little sheepish. He was gathering cans and various small tools onto the table. “I was never a reader before,” he said. He added a short stack of clothing to the pile, moving methodically around the room, picking up some things, rejecting others. “But when there’s nothing else to do but worry and wait for some new crap to go down, books start looking like the best idea anyone ever had.”

Arie slipped out of the straps of her carry basket and began layering in articles of clothing with cans of food and tools—a hatchet, eating utensils, a heavy copper saucepot. “I was always a fool for a book,” she said. “I reckon you’ll want all of these?” She tucked all six books into the basket without waiting for his response.

“Remember I said that my old house used to make me nuts before the die-off?” He stopped gathering and put his hands on his hips, looking around the stump. “I’ve never felt like that in here. Not once. I wish—”

“You don’t,” said Arie. She tested the weight of the carry basket and added a folded towel—garish with a cartoon starfish, still thick and unfrayed—as a cover over all. “This is full,” she said. “Put the rest in these.” She tossed him two sacks she’d brought along. “Wishing is dabbling in what-if, that fool’s errand. What-if will lead you by the nose into suffering. If you follow it, Curran my friend, you are not paying any attention to your life.”

“Yes,” he said. He tied the second bag closed.

“Steady this for me,” she said, balancing the basket on his table.

“Let me carry it.”

“Better if I do it. Lift it, is all.” He did, and she put her arms through the straps. She made some minor adjustments of balance. “I want us both as mobile as we can be on the return trip. I want my hands free, and yours, too.” She took the two bags from him. “Get that wire you had Talus rigged up to.” Hearing her name, Talus poked her head inside. Arie smiled at her affable expression, but when Curran started working out the knot at the nail, the dog ducked her head and took several steps backward. “Putting distance between you,” said Arie. “She’s not going to let you batten her again.”