Max and Rufus, in Four Parts

                 The Quarry Trail

     

 

  Max could see the quarry from Route 88, its’ rock face shone in the brilliant October sun.

  “So that’s where Rufus lives,” he said to himself, anxious to find the giant.

 The quarry trail was steep and narrow, but Max climbed skillfully and quickly.

  It was shortly after noon when Max arrived at his destination.

  He stopped for a second to catch his breath and then made his way out onto the quarry cliff; the pitch made his stomach tingle.

  “Wow,” he exclaimed. “What a place.”

  For the next three hours, Max sat watch but he did not see Rufus.

  The sun began to sink. 

  Max grew sad.

  “Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow,” he wondered, and then began to inch his way back across the quarry face to the trail.

  He took one last look down at the quarry and started down the trail toward home.

  “To go so far for nothing,” his thought ending there.

  His mother was waiting at the door when Max got home.

“Where have you been?” she asked, in a harsh tone.  “It’s almost dark.”

  “I went to the quarry,” Max began, stopped short when his mother bellowed,

  “You what?”

  Max stuck his hands in his pocket.

  He summoned up his best hound-dog face, sad-eyes and all, and repeated,

  “I went to the quarry,” adding quickly, “to find Rufus.”

  “Why you little fool,” his mother chastised. “No supper for you, little boy. You go straight to bed.

  “Jeez, no supper, no Rufus, what a day!”

  Max lay his head on his pillow and in his mind’s eye he could see the quarry trail, its’ dark green nature, the white rocks of the sun-splashed quarry face and the forever blue of the boundless sky above Dingee.

  “It sure was nice up there,” he thought.

  He was asleep when his mother woke him suddenly.

  “Did you see him?” she asked.

  “What?” Max asked groggily.

  “Did you see him?”

  “Who?” Max replied.

  “Rufus,” she said.

  “No,” came the sad reply.

  She brushed his hair from his forehead, and kissed his cheek.

  “Go back to sleep,” she then whispered.

  Max went back to sleep.

Two Crosses

 

 The cross was painted white and someone had stuck it at an angle into the ground at the entrance to the quarry trail.

  Max felt a slight tingle in his stomach when he saw it.

  “That’s weird,” he thought, and hurried past, slipping into the cool dark green overhang of the quarry trail.

  He suddenly was taken by an urge to look back and was surprised to see the backside of the cross was painted black.

  This bothered him, but soon enough he was lost in his journey up the trail; blackberry bushes were in flower and lush green ferns grew wild everywhere; the bittersweet smell of hemlock hung heavy in the crisp morning air.

  He knew the trail well enough from last fall before but today it seemed a little longer, a little darker and lonelier.

  As he climbed, he suddenly remembered the cross. He climbed faster.

  The sun was strong when Max reached the quarry and he broke out in a sweat.

  As he inched his way out to the quarry face, he became frightened.    

  There, at the edge of the quarry cliff, was a cross. It looked exactly like the one he’d seen at the entrance to the trail; white on one side, black on the other.

  Max felt shame.

  He did not know why.

  But his throat went dry and his stomach burned.

  He kept a vigil, that afternoon, looking for Rufus, but Max thought mostly about the crosses and had become very quiet.

  When Max got home, he told his Mother about the crosses, in hopes she might take away this new pain he suddenly felt.

  “That’s very strange,” she said, adding the motherly advice, to “stay away from there for a while.”

  Max had planned to climb the mountain everyday until “I see Rufus.” But, now, he didn’t know what to do.

  He laid his head down on his pillow.

  In the blue dust above Dingee, Rufus, looking down on Max, smiled.

  “I’ve got him thinking now,” he thought to himself.

 

Max in the Moonlight

 

  One night, Max had a dream. He was running down a warmly lit street, trying to fly but there was a cross around each ankle tied with gold string and he could not get off the ground.  One cross was white, the other black. When he stopped to cut the gold string, his knife broke against it.

  In a fit of anger, he threw his knife into the street and began to pound his fists on the pavement.

  It started to rain; it was a warm, gentle rain that soon, he discovered, had turned to blood.  

  Max woke up.

  He remembered the crosses on the quarry trail and he began to itch all over.

  Rufus, watching from afar, smiled.

  Max was scared.  His heart was beating fast and he could not catch his breath. The image of the crosses flashed before his eyes.

  He was terribly confused.

  He got out of bed and went downstairs to the bathroom.  He drew himself a glass of water and quickly drank it. 

  His head hurt and he was dizzy.

  Shaking, he climbed the stairs and crept back into his room.

  Moonlight poured through his bedroom window, and splashed its’ light on his frightened face, and followed him as he slowly got into bed and covered up his head with his pillow.

 

 The Vigil

 

  When he awoke, the smell of bacon filled the air and he could hear the mixed sounds of many voices.  Folk were in the kitchen, good folk, family folk, brothers, sisters, his father, his mother, his grandfather, his grandmother, maybe even Susie and Vera.

  He hurried out of bed and got dressed.  He arrived in the kitchen.  His grandfather sat eating cereal.

  There was no one else now.

  He was free and it felt just awful.

  “I will find Rufus today,” he said to himself, “I will, cross or no cross, day or night.”

  He sat down at the table across from his grandfather.  He poured himself a bowl of cereal .  He covered the cereal with sugar and drowned it all in “cow milk.”  He ate quickly and hurried out the door.

  There was no cross at the trail mouth.  He moved swiftly and reached the quarry before noon,  He crawled to the ledge as he had done before and moved his body to gain a measure of comfort.  It was impossible.  Uncomfortable, he begin his vigil.

  After an hour, he noticed two birds circling overhead, vultures and he wondered what they were eyeing -- perhaps the boy on the ledge.

He felt nervous and he remembered his mother;s advice -- “stay away from there for a while.”

  But, there was no ill design to his plan -- he wanted only to see Rufus.  How could one be punished when one’s motive was pure?

  After another hour, Max grew restless.  He could not stop thinking about the crosses.  He was dejected when he heard the stomping of feet above on the mountain trail.  When he turned he saw a man, a huge man emerge from the trail into the quarry clearing.

  It was the biggest man Max had ever seen.

  “Could it be?”

  The man approached Max.

  The man pulled at his long brown beard and looked Max in the eye.

  “You Emma’s boy?”

  Max nodded.

  “She know you’re up here.”

  “No sir.”

  The man stroked his beard again.

  “Do you know me?”

  Max shook his head.

  “I’m Mr. Barrows and I’m thinking you should be getting on home.  It’s gonna be dark soon and I know your mother wouldn’t want you here in the dark.”

  The big man paused.

  “I’m heading down.  Just follow along.”

  Max nodded again and stood up.

  “What you doing up here,” the man asked.

  “Looking for Rufus.  I thought you were Rufus.”

  Mr. Barrows laughed.

  “Come alomg boy.  Let’s get you home.

  “Rufus, ha.  I guess your old man must told you the old stories, hey?

  Max struggled to keep up with Mr. Barrows long strides.

  “Uh huh,” Max admitted.

  “Good stories,” Mr Barrows added.

  “Good stories.  My  father told them to me, too.”

  “Sir,” an out-of-breathe Max said, “why do people tell stories that are not true?”

  “That’s a good question boy.  But they do and they always have.  I susppect, too, they always will.

  It was near dark when the two reached the trail mouth.

  Mr Barrows told Max to get in his car.

  “I’m gonna take you home.”

  Max was worried.

  When they pulled up in front of Max’s home, Emma was on the front steps, crying.

  When she saw Max she ran out to the car.

  “He was up the mountain,” Mr. Barrows told her.  “Looking for Rufus.”

  Emma hugged Max and thanked the man for brining her son down from the mountain.

  “You’re welcome Emma,” he said.

 

 

 

Before he died, his father told Max stories of Rufus. Max liked to think they were real, and his mother, who didn’t want to bring him any more hurt than he had already seen, didn’t have the heart to tell him they were just stories -- there was no Rufus, no tree god, no hero of the woods, no conquering saviour -- it was all just make believe -- who could tell a child -- even though Max, deep down, knew it to be a story, all of it, it was all he had to hold onto from his father and he would pretend, just to have that connection.

 

  Stories, hey?  And Rufus chuckled.