Around 1940, Jethro and Mary Lou had given Willis clear title to the Perch and about five acres surrounding it. A year later, they'd given John Crow title to his one acre. Their reason given for both deeds of title had been services already rendered.
John could see most of the valley from here. Willis could see the whole valley from the Perch.
In those early days, John had never felt the fear described by his great-grandfather, not once in all the seasons that had flowed, not even after realizing where he lived, not until that night ten years ago. Now, that fear fell over the valley with each coming of the full moon.
Never forget.
John stepped down and walked out from under the overlapping roof planes of his teepee shaped house, looking west over the top of the sheer cliff into which Willis had set long redwood logs supporting the high point of his steeply pitched roof.
Looks like a tepee.
Well, half a tepee.
He'd been angry with Willis at the time, thinking Willis was mocking John's Indian heritage.
Not Willis.
He swelled with pride, looking at it now. John's fine house fit this natural terrain perfectly.
Home.
The sun had already dropped behind the mountain.
Time to prepare.
The family of groundhogs downhill from John's house were saying goodbye to the day, their heads poking out of their holes, chirping at one another, at the twilight, at John.
They all ducked into hiding, a hawk swooping down.
The hawk rose with the breeze, floated over the tall trees near the house, and pulled its wings back, plunging into the forest. The shrill scream of a squirrel announced the hawk's success; supper.
The way of nature.
He inhaled deeply the pungent odor of wolf bane, those night-blooming red flowers Willis had scattered about, thicker near the house. They looked native to the terrain, same as the house.
Five miles up the valley, white smoke hovered above the village, rising from the big wood-burning stove in Jacobsen's Emporium, getting ready for the night. The village had already fallen under the shadow of the mountain.
Time to prepare.
John climbed back onto his porch, forever amazed by the craftsmanship, the tightly fitted stone and timber that defined his house. Heavy stone buttresses at the bottom welcomed the tightly fitted windows, rising to embrace redwood timbers.
Willis had a God-given talent appreciated by everyone but Kidro Potter. Kidro cared only for Kidro.
Getting late.
The full moon rising over the eastern rim stood in stark contrast to the darkening sky; a clear night.
Early moonlight on his three inch thick, solid oak door highlighted the pattern Willis had chiseled into it. The geometric, interconnecting lines resembled a bird in flight; a crow, perhaps, or one of Willis's beloved meadowlarks.
A chill crossed his shoulders, the humbling admiration for such fine craftsmanship. He crossed the threshold, closed his door and dropped the heavy oak bar into place; a solid barrier against whatever might come. He moved across the upper stone floor and secured the narrow, thick oak shutters over the windows.
Nothing could get inside now.
His fortress secure, he grabbed a match from over his wood burning stove and lit an oil lamp. He trimmed and carried the lamp down stone steps into the living space where he'd spread a large Navajo rug over the clean, white sand floor.
He set the lamp on a table Willis had carved from a fat tree trunk and knelt to light the kindling in his already prepared fireplace. Dry slivers ignited quickly and spread to twigs. Flame leapt and crawled up the sides of heavier logs until the heat forced him to step back.
He fingered the well worn Bible on the mantle and wondered if this night was from God or from something else? His Bible had no answers.
Through all these years he'd never been able to understand the nature of a night like the one now at hand. His great-grandfather's stories lacked explanation.
It hadn't come with each full moon. Even after they discovered it would take a young bull calf and leave people alone, it hadn't always come. Maybe it hunted in different places.
Who knows?
Why the residents in this valley hadn't all left mystified to John, only a little, was a bit of a mystery. This valley had proven to be an unnaturally healthy place to live.
John pulled his medicine bag from around his neck, opened it and emptied it onto the rug. He dropped to his knees and studied the pile of small sticks, smooth stones and tiny pieces of bone. After seeing how they lay, he swept up the pile and tossed it into the air. He watched the bits and pieces fall again, studying the pattern.
Tonight, it will come.
The hair on his neck stood up, a spiritual force. He threw his head back and lifted his voice in the ancient, melodic chant of his forefathers. Maybe it would help protect him and his lifelong neighbors.
Yes, even Kidro.
KIDRO POTTER SAT AT the dining table Willis Donner had built into the wide bay window that jutted from the side of the Potter kitchen. The wood framed kitchen had been built over the top of the stone-walled carriage house, now used as a garage. Being so high up, the kitchen didn't need iron bars or protective shutters.
From here, Kidro could see up River Road to the village and all the way around to his lower meadow where fine, sleek, Black Angus cattle grazed near the brook that wound its way into the tall timber forest at the lower end of his valley.
Down in that forest, the brook took the run off from the lower hot spring and emptied into the river. Just beyond, the river flowed strong over the falls and down into Pickle Meadow, Leavitt Meadow Recreation Area and the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center. The
