Market Theocracy

8. Longwalk

Secrets flee.


The walk was dreary and unrelieved by a single ride for the first fifty or so miles. Then she reached the Highway.

The terrain had changed to slightly hilly scrub forest, somewhat harder going but cooler in climate. Both game and water were more plentiful, and shelter from sun and night’s damp were easier to find.

Hope became aware of her shy following congregation slowly, in stages. First was the actions and attitude of the grey tom. He growled often, looking into the distance, especially when camped and continuously while food was cooking. She at first feared that darker visitors hid amongst the shadows. But every morning she’d find gifts of game and the tell-tale prints of cats. They seemed to ring her campsites at night in a rough circle, just out of sight but close enough to keep an eye on her.

She was amused at first, then curious. Why were they following her? What did they expect to gain from this trek? She supposed that it didn’t matter in the end - as soon as she caught her first ride they’d be left miles behind. A twinge of guilt accompanied that thought. She hoped they’d be able to find their way back to whatever home they’d had before she’d passed through. She’d never meant to be a pied piper, and didn’t appear to have the callous heart to do such work.

This was, of course, before she discovered that cats — in the Borderlands at least — had their own secret paths of travel.

It was late on the third day after leaving Summertime City when she crested that last small hill and caught sight of the Highway. She’d been hearing it for hours before; at first puzzled at the odd sound, then disbelieving when it became familiar enough to recognize. Seeing it washed away the last of the disbelief, but did nothing for the disorientation that the sight brought.

In the old world, she knew, the Highway would have been common. In fact, it would have been less than impressive. It was merely a four lane paved blacktop that ran a true East/West rather than the smaller, barely two lane cracked asphalt trail that had led her northwest from Summertime City. It would have been a road to roll her eyes at in her old life, a stretch where she’d have to drop the Buick down a notch in speed or risk a ticket.

But here, in the Borderlands, it trumped every unusual and weird event since she’d arrived. Not so much for the size of the thing, but for the traffic.

The past fifty miles had seen not a single car or truck or bicycle pass her, either way. The Highway was busy. Not rush hour busy, but a steady stream of vehicles made their hurried way both east and westwards, rushing along to unknown destinations on errands mysterious. The vehicles were — much like the gaudy collection that motored about Summertime City — an eclectic mixture of eras and technologies.

The sight of the Highway, its sudden vitality and speed, both excited her and made her uneasy.

Nevertheless, she made her way onto it, glad to find a wide shoulder suitable for walking. She headed west, thumb out, a single cat by her side and perhaps a dozen more in the overgrown field that flanked the Highway, pretending secrecy.

She caught her first ride less than a half hour later.


"Glad to have the company ma’am, being honest." Glynn Felbeck told her with a smile and only the slightest glance at the gun on her hip. He also smiled at the cat, who regarded him coldly from the dash where he’d stretched in lazy splendor. "It gets lonelier’n hell on the road to Golden."

Hope nodded, mind still on the never seen flock of cats she was rapidly leaving behind. She still felt a little guilty, despite the fact that she hadn’t exactly lured them after her.

Glynn — a bearlike young man with flaming hair, beard and boyish eyes — took care of his truck, that much was certain. Despite its obvious age, the Chevy gleamed with the sparkle only loving maintenance can impart. The bed of the truck was loaded down and tarped snugly. Whatever Glynn was hauling was secure enough. Despite healthy curiosity, Hope didn’t ask and her driver didn’t offer. She figured it was none of her business.

"You headed for Golden?" he asked, voice trying for amiable but his tone giving away that he hoped for company all the way. And his eyes betrayed the fact that he certainly wouldn’t mind getting to know his passenger quite a bit better.

"I’m headed as far West as I can get." she told him, rather charmed by his attention.

He nodded wisely. "West is the way to go. The whole Middle Reach is falling into the shit, you ask me. Damn CRA bastards are getting ridiculous." He spat out the window in disgust. Then looked a bit ashamed. "Pardon the gesture, ma’am."

She laughed. "No worry. And my name is Hope, not ma’am." she reminded him.

His smile grew in size and scope. "That’s a pretty…" he stopped and stiffened as he caught sight of something in the rearview.

"Aww fuck." he muttered, going pale.

"What is it?" Hope asked, craning her head around to look.

On the distant horizon, faint but growing brighter, was a set of flashing lights.

"Fuckitallllltohell!" Glynn whispered fiercely. He instantly slowed his truck to a point, took a deep breath and concentrated on driving as solid and unassuming as possible.

"What’s the problem?" Hope asked again, beginning to get nervous. The cat was eyeing the approaching lights in a way that she didn’t care for.

Glynn glanced at her nervously, but turned his attention back to the road. "CRA Troopers. Smuggler Patrol by the look of ‘em."

"What the hell is this CRA?" she asked, confused.

He goggled at her for a second, then managed a weak smile. "That’s right — you’re fresh outta the East. East of Sum City is all Free Territory, ma’am..uh, Hope." He swallowed hard, trying to force himself calm. "Same as the West from Golden on." He kept glancing in the rearview, almost hypnotized by the approaching lights. Hope could also hear the beginnings of a familiar siren wail.

"But we’re smack in the middle of the Middle Reach, and that’s under the control of the Central Reach Authority. They’ve been around forever, based out of Port Louie on the Big River."

"They’re…what? The government?"

Despite his fear, Glynn spat again. "Claim to be. Claim all sorts of shit. Claim everybody gets together ever so often and votes on who runs the Reach. Nevermind that I got no clue how that gives them any right to do anything to those of us don’t bother to indulge in their ritual. Never mind I ain’t never actually met anyone who claims to have done so. They claim it, they levy taxes, and they got the guns to back it up."

Hope sighed. "Yeah. Government." She remembered something. "You said Smuggler Patrol."

Glynn was silent, but nodded.

"And you’re awful nervous." She grinned. "What are we smuggling, Glynn?"

His silence stretched on a bit. Then he shrugged. "Worst thing you can get caught smugglin’."

"Drugs?" she guessed.

He looked surprised. "Naw. Food."

Hope nearly choked. "Food?!"

"Food." he repeated. "Soybeans mostly, and some choice beef in coldboxes. Grown in the Free East, needed in the Free West. Untaxed by the Unfree Central Authority that claims it has the damn right. Food. One of the few things even scared folks won’t suffer without."

Her head swam. But she held onto the practical. "And what’s the penalty? Massive fines? Jail time?"

Glynn’s smile had little humor. "The penalty is on the spot execution."

Hope heard a growl. She glanced at the cat, but discovered that the growl was coming from herself.

Glynn seemed to shrink. "I…I…apologize for getting you mixed up with this…"

She waved him off, pushing the rage that threatened to rise down at the same time.

"Don’t apologize for being a decent man, Glynn." She could hear the siren wailing like a demon now, and make out the bulky armored car that was rushing towards them, red and blue lights strobing in angry flashes. "Can you outrun them?"

He shook his head. "No way in hell."

She sighed. "Any chance at all that they’ll just pass on by? After someone on up the road, maybe?"

"I think they might have been tipped. Last town I was in, I got the feeling that one fella..well…" He looked guilty again. "Like I said, ma’am. I’m sorry I…"

"My name is Hope, dammit!" she snapped at him. "And I told you not to apologize for decency! Don’t apologize for giving a woman on the side of the road a lift. Don’t apologize for trying to make a living hauling food to folks who need it! Don’t apologize for shit brought on because arrogant fuckers think they got the right."

She began to load her gun. The process soothed and steadied her.

"They think they got the damn right. The right to interfere with other people who ain’t doing them a damn bit of harm. The right to harass peaceful people for their own gain. They claim they took a vote or made a vow or got the word from God himself. All bullshit." She slapped the gun closed and laid it in her lap. She stroked the cat, who was as relaxed as warm butter.

"All they got is their own arrogance. Their own greed and lust and desire for power. And guns." The cat purred, a rough rumble against her hand.

"But I got a damn gun, too." She looked him in the eye. "Do you?"

He was looking at her with something like awe. "Yes m…Hope. I got a shotgun under the seat."

She nodded. "Then, before they get any closer, how ’bout you swerve us over into that field? Give us a bit of time to prepare them a proper reception."

Glynn, despite fear and awe and what looked a damn sight like his own approaching death, laughed loud and long. "You sure about this?"

She smiled at him. "Glynn, all they got is arrogance and guns. But we have guns too. If everybody with a gun decided they’d had their fill of arrogance and stood up, they’d be outnumbered. They’d find out quick what their right amounted to."

He smiled back at her. His eyes gleamed with something new.

"Brace yourself." he said.

She grabbed the cat and did so.

The squeal of the brakes on the Highway sounded like a battlecry.




That was where it started she figured later. The legend of The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats. That was where it started, in that moment in a field in the middle of no where, when a CRA Smuggler Patrol with a hot tip got more than it bargained for.

They were expecting a single man and a shotgun and an easy bust.

They weren’t expecting a berserk Viking with flaming hair and beard, laughing joy as he blasted them with a wild assortment of everything from three inch magnums to bird shot.

They weren’t expecting the thin, black eyed wraith with the hell dealing pistol who never seemed to miss. Who walked into their own fire with no fear and sighted with the cold precision of the Devil herself.

And they certainly weren’t expecting the goddamned army of cats that swarmed them from the field, attacking with rabid ferocity, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere. Cats that circled the devil woman like protective demons. Cats that seemed to replace every fallen animal with two. Cats that blinded and tore jugulars and the thick veins in wrists and seemed to know exactly where to go to bleed a man to death.

And they didn’t expect to end their day dead and strapped naked to the Patrol cruiser, a gruesome frame for a message on the windshield in huge letters of their own blood:

A message that was soon on the lips of every smuggler and rebel and anti-authoritarian rabblerouser in the Middle Reach. A message they’d hear again and again, tied to the rambling but seemingly unstoppable path of The Woman as she made her way west through CRA territory.

As the legend grew, and resistance rallied behind her.

As the power of the CRA crumbled and fell to a writhing death:



It was a long walk later, and many rides, and a thousand fights, and weeks and months, but she passed out of the Middle Reach and into the Free West.

The border was marked with a sign that had once read "You are now leaving the Central Reach Authority." It was now defaced by the slogan she’d first left on a windshield a thousand miles east.

She chuckled at it, and kept walking.

The cats were all around her, a secret silent army that formed and reformed like waves against the rock of her self. The tom, far from his growling original attitude, now proudly stood as their king. Only he was allowed the place of honor by her feet, after all. Only he was allowed food from her hand and the touch of affection. His subjects were allies and accepted, but he’d fight any and all that tried to intrude upon those privileges.

Hope left such things to him.

She’d stayed on the trail of The Boss. He fled ever west and she’d followed. He was leaving his own path as he went, it seemed: dark stories told to her after dark by ride after ride, in town after town.

She was philosophical. She’d find him eventually. Then she’d have her answers, and her revenge.

She laid camp her first night in the Free West about a dozen miles from the defaced sign. As she was settling in, sleepy, she was thinking of the approaching fact of The Ends, and wondering if her confrontation with her past would happen before she reached it. She hoped so.

She was getting ready to turn in, when she saw the headlights approach. She waited for them to pass on, but they moved towards her with determination.

She reached for the gun and stood. The cats surrounded her, fearless and loyal. They were ready for a fight.

But something about the headlights and the sound of the engine was familiar. Something about the shape of the truck as it pulled up.

She was still and ready as the motor went silent and a door opened and closed.

The tall, grey man was smiling as he stepped into the light of her fire. His rifle was strung across his back and his hands were out in a gesture of peace.

"Why, Mizz Hope." The Smoke Man said. "Fancy meeting you out here."

Writing went well today. Part 8 of Hitch Hike will be up in a while. Part 2 of The Ballad is still iffy. It’s such a complicated freakin’ story. It takes place in three time frames and what amounts to four versions of reality — and it shuffles back and forth between them all (time frames and realities) continuously throughout its length. And, of course, the hard part is making sure the reader knows where he/she is at each shift. That’s just the technical part! The thematic slight of hand — making a metaphysical love story feel like an action thriller whilst pretending to be a revenge melodrama — is not the easiest job in the world.

Ah well. I love a challenge. All this really means is that it will involve a lot more re-writing than I’m used to. I know what I want and I know what it looks like. I’ll just have to chop and shape until I produce it.

These last three parts of Hitch Hike are rather challenging as well. This is where it all has to come to a point and reveal the meanings that have been hidden until now. And there is a meaning to it: I don’t write artsy ambiguity, at least not on purpose. Everything is not spelled out in logical sequence, of course, but the point of the story, the all important why, should become apparent.

One thing I wanted people who have seen the story’s beginning on other forums to know: I didn’t remove the dedication, I’m just saving it for the end, where I think it will have a bit more impact and make more sense.

 Oh yeah. Ahem.

7. Firefight

Hopes burn.

On the morning of the day The Boss and his boys were due to collect, a message arrived. The rider who brought it slid it beneath the door of the Sheriff’s office and slipped out before the sun showed his face.

The message was simple and direct: in addition to 2000 coins, 500 pounds of flour, 20 bushels of potatoes, a ridiculous amount of ammo, drugs and even small luxuries like candy and shampoo, The Boss demanded three girls. All under the age of 20. A redhead and two blondes. "Purty & Clean" the note insisted.

Jim let Hope read it and scowled along with her. "Figured they’d wait till the last minute. Let folk get used to the idea of giving in and have the loot all gathered before they hit ‘em where it really hurt."

Hope crumpled the note and flicked it toward the trash can. She brooded for a moment. "Before you came along, Jim, did folk really send what amounted to their children out to serve these scum?"

Jim whistled, a low note. She understood this to be a habit when he was collecting his thoughts. "They did, I’m sad to say."

Hope’s voice rose despite her best effort. "How in the hell could they…"

"Settle down, Mizz." Jim insisted, holding his hands out in a peace making gesture. "It wasn’t exactly as simple as all that. Hell, sometimes they had volunteers. Girls itching to get out of town and into what they figured was a more exciting life." He paused. "And not every Sheriff looked at his duty the way I do, hurts to say. More than a few were tinpot dictators just as bad as The Boss."

Hope gave him the look that meant she wasn’t in the mood for excuses.

"True as Tuesday, Mizz. And Summertime City was small and truly weak for a long time."

"Did they ever resist?"

Jim nodded, thoughtful. "Yes ma’am. This town has burned twice in the past two decades. The first time damn near wiped her off the map and she had to be resettled. The second time was near as bad but most folks lived. Just had to rebuild." He sighed. "But they haven’t resisted since then."

A sick look passed her face.

Jim smiled, a ghastly thing she had grown used to and now admired for its sincerity. "But the Riders took their losses as well. It’s also true they haven’t asked for girlfolk near as often since that last Burn. Summertime City killed half those that came for ‘em, and put ‘em to route eventually."

Hope smiled. "We gonna have any trouble with those that might prefer to appease?"

Jim shook his head, dismissive. "Naw. They know my mind is set. Those sort cleared out the minute you agreed to fight."

"Good enough. And the rest can be counted on?"

Jim stared at her for a moment. "My folk are decent and somewhat simple, Mizz. They don’t itch for trouble. But they ain’t cowards and they know the way the world works. Never doubt that."

Hope just nodded. Instead of an apology, she said "Then I think you need to drop that Mizz shit."

Jim was truly puzzled. "Ma’am?"

She laughed. "And that ma’am shit while you’re at it." She stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. "If we’re going to fight this scum back to back I think you should call me Hope."

Once again, Ugly Jim Harris proved he could blush.

"Now." she said, turning to the door. "Let’s go get us some volunteers."


Hope and the cat and Ugly Jim sat staring at the citizens of Summertime City arrayed before them. Hope was near tears, causing the smile she couldn’t repress to wobble slightly.

Three hundred and six men, women and children had shown up, from the ages of 6 years to 86. They were armed with everything from pitchforks and hay scythes to the one old codger who’d lugged a dusty but functioning hand cranked Gatling from some ancient shed. They stood there, scared but with spines straight, and gave their word to fight to defend their homes and families and neighbors.

It may have been the finest moment of her life so far, and she caught the Sheriff wiping a tear himself here and there.

It took most of the afternoon to sort the best prospects into some sort of fighting force. They had nothing spectacular planned — just a direct ambush when the Riders got close enough to take fire. The real trick was letting them get close enough with trust intact. Hope and Jim agreed that half The Boss’s boys wasn’t good enough this time. They had in mind a complete victory — and maybe an end to the whole damn cycle.

The girls were the key to that little trick. Hope ended up with 16 volunteers under the age of 20, willing to play reverse Trojan Horse. They ended up being more trouble than the young men and boys when it came to their desire to serve - to the point of several brawls breaking out.

But eventually she had her three. Two pretty, clean blondes and a pretty clean redhead. The two blondes were twins — Gina and Georgia Montrose. They won their place because they’d inherited beautifully made and highly concealable little derringers. Hope would no more have these girls play bait unarmed than she’d send them swimming with anchors attached.

The third had to borrow a gun but won her place because she was the only redhead in town. She looked familiar to Hope. The resemblance lingered until she caught a glimpse of her from the corner of her eye and realization crashed down.

"Are you…?"

The redhead grinned pure sunshine and her blush was hard to catch under all those freckles. "I’m Betty Castleberry, Mizz Hope. Carina’s grandgirl." She stuck out her hand all formal like. Hope hugged her instead.

"I been meaning to come by Gran’s and meet you. She talks a mile a minute on you. All good o’ course. But Mam’s been sick for a while and I got six brothers and two sisters to look after, and…"

She was interrupted by the Gran herself, shotgun at the ready. Pride and fear warred in her expressive face with no clear victor.

"You be careful." was all she finally said. "Gran’ll be up on the bank roof."

"Now you follow directions, Gran." Betty warned her. "Don’t you be lookin’ after me. We all got our parts to play."

Hope was torn from the tragic little scene by Jim’s voice.

"Places folks! We got dust sighted and on the way! Half an’ hour tops."

Faith felt the cat at her feet, responding to her own fear and pride. She took deep breaths and counted heartbeats. She forced her mind to relax. She willed the cold heart of the gun to invade hers.

It was time.

The fight was on them.


It would be years later and small details of that fight would still come to her, often in dreams, surprising her with their ability to move and effect her. Little glimpses, small sounds, stabs of remembered fear and vicious joy.

The Last Firefight Of Summertime City, as it would come to be called, was not the worst piece of action she’d see in her life. In many ways, it was the most successful and clean. But it happened at the very beginning of her transformation from one thing to another. It was the fire that burned the last of her old self away so that the newer, stronger, harder self could grow in its place.

And, like all fires — no matter the need for their renewal — it hurt as it burned.

It was not a battle of individual heroes. It was not a set piece of heroic stands. It was, like most serious warfare, a brutal and pragmatic thing.

They set their blonde and amber bait amongst the loot of food and coin and luxury. There on the main street, alone and lonely. One force of gunmen(led by Jim) occupied the roof of the bank. Hope’s gang laid low on the roof of the saloon.

Like a ritual, the riders came. They gathered indolently in a wide arc flanking the face of the town. There were close to a hundred all told, all armed with rifle and pistol and plenty of ammo. All on horseback save The Boss, who travelled in a caravan wagon pulled by a mule team. The Boss hung back several hundred yards, waiting for his treasure.

A dozen men entered the town to escort that treasure out. They were less than a hundred feet from their goal when Hope gave the order.

Rifle fire rained down on the would be kidnappers from the saloon. Of the twenty under her command, she had set ten to concentrate on death from above. She led the other ten down the back of the saloon and around for another angle of fire.

At the edge of town, from the stonewalled safety of the bank roof, Jim’s fifty volunteers opened up on the rest of the riders, gathered so thoughtfully in such a nice group.

Hope screamed at the three girls to take cover. They ignored her, preferring to instead add to the lead headed towards their kidnappers.

That was the moment when the world, and time, and sense broke apart. What followed was a shattered twenty minutes that would only come to her over the course of the rest of her life. A bit here, a piece there.

Of the gory sprawl of a dozen dead men and horses. Of the escort not a single creature made it out alive.

Of a pretty blonde girl weeping, with a once blonde head in her lap now stained red with blood.

Of the roar of men and women fighting for their lives, and the roar of men dying for their mistakes.

Of those who fell before her own gun, so like trick pins as the sharks teeth caught them again and again.

Of the deep red calm of reloading, as if she’d performed these motions a million times.

And of the cat, moving through out it all, between bullets and blood and bodies, seemingly indifferent. Graceful. Leading her.

And that moment when the broken army outside their town turned to flee, and the folk who only had pitchfork and scythe set on their trail like hounds, the bedeviled turned to devils. She was in front, urging them on. To the caravan of The Boss, frightened mules swinging it dangerously around in flight.

And the image that stopped her in shock, that caused her to drop to her knees in horror. The angry, scared and hateful face in the window of that caravan.

The face of The Boss.

The face of her husband.

A face filled with recognition.



Moments, broken and shattered. Some moments never last long enough.

Some moments take the rest of a life to deal with.




"…and to thy care and mercy we commend them O Lord, these our beloved."

"Amen."

Hope stared at the face of Ugly Jim Harris in his casket, a ruined face that had gained something approaching beauty in a proud death. A slug had caught him in the leg just before the Riders broke, and he’d tumbled off the bank and broke his neck. Went painlessly the doctor said.

Went proud, Hope knew. With principles and duty intact.

She lingered a moment by the casket of Gina Montrose, and spoke silly comforting words to poor Georgia. The abandoned twin cycled from fierce pride in her sister to crushing despair, but seemed basically all right to Hope.

The rest of the dead, 11 in all, she knew only fleetingly or not at all. Still, she paid her respects and spoke to the families. They had all died for the same cause, had all died facing one of life’s bad days. They deserved what she could give them.

And, outside town, 64 unmarked graves marked their triumph.

She made her way back to the rooming house with a heavy heart, the cat trailing beside her as usual. He had escaped the battle without a scratch despite being in the thick of it. Much like herself.

The respectful nods and greetings added to the heaviness she felt. She was treated as a hero in town. Perhaps she was being given the reverence that Ugly Jim could not accept. No matter — it just made her decision harder.

She cried as she packed, knowing that she was going to miss this place. It was an awful moment. She had come this long way, walked this hard path, and found the closest thing to a home since the death of her father. And now she had to leave.

How awful that love for a place can push you away as surely as hate.

Carina and Betty and Albert were waiting for her when she came downstairs, back from the services. Carina in the wheelchair, healing from the slug that had grazed her spine. She began to weep when she saw the packed bag and the travelling clothes Hope wore.

"Please, Mizz Hope…" Betty spoke for her. "We need you. This town. Gran. Me."

Oh, she was tempted. But it wouldn’t be right. Instead she just hugged them and said goodbye.

The tears dried as she moved away from Summertime City, onwards into the West once again. The direction the caravan wagon had fled.

The old feeling returned, the bone deep song of the road. And in place of sadness came anger and the steady pulse of desire.

A desire for answers.

A desire for revenge.

And the immense desire to see them come to the same point on the horizon, even if she had to travel to The Ends to do so.

The cat resumed his travel pattern as if they’d never paused. He scouted and wandered and circled her.

Behind her, unknown as yet, other cats followed, shyly for now. Some from Carina’s house, some from the streets of the town. Cats suddenly possessed of a desire to follow this strange woman and the brutal grey tom who shared her aura and her fate.

From the center of this tangle of woman and cats and their mingled desire, Hope extended her arm, and waved a thumb at the random.

They walked until a ride came.

Part 7 of Hitch Hike tomorrow, and — if all goes smoothly — Part 8 and Part 2 of The Ballad on Friday.

Saturday and Sunday will finish off Hitch Hike and leave me free and clear to concentrate on The Ballad and get back into the grind of novel 2nd drafting. I’ll be happy when this 2nd Draft is over. Then I can let my editorial types do what they do and just polish. I’m more than a little proud of The Crumbler but I really don’t like novel writing. I’m going to concentrate on short fiction until or unless the novel sells. If it does sell, I’ll probably start another because that’s where the money is, in all honesty. Hopefully, novel #2 will be a bit easier. Knowing me, though, I’ll tackle some ridiculously ambitious insanity and tie myself in knots for years.

We’ll see.

When Hitch Hike is done and polished, I’m going to publish an illustrated edition on lulu.com. My brother is going to do the artwork. Each chapter will have one black and white pen n’ ink illo, and the book will have painted front and back covers. I’m still investigating formats. Including the illustrations, at a standard 350 words per page, the book would only run about 55 pages which is on the way shortish side for what lulu would cost with binding fee and etc. tossed in. Their comic book format might be cheaper. I’ll keep ya’ll posted. 

Years ago I was channel surfing late at night, and came across a black and white film playing on the local PBS station. I had missed the credits so I had no idea what the film was named or who made it. The actors were very familiar and — as I watched — their names came to me. The film was a comedy — a sort of elegant farce. Very witty and underplayed, beautifully so.

But there was something else. Despite not knowing who had directed this film there was no doubt in my mind that it was a master. The framing of every shot, the liquid grace of the cutting, the perfect balance of music and dialogue. The inventive sound work that was neither distracting nor artificial.

The film quite simply dripped quality. It glowed with the skill of whoever called the shots during its creation.

I finally fired up the ‘net and used what info I had to track it down. After a bit of effort, I succeeded.

The film was Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

The director was Alfred Hitchcock.

A couple of weeks ago I chanced across Strangers On A Train during an insomnia night. I settled back for what I knew would be a lovely way to waste two hours. I’d seen it before, of course, but — with a Hitchcock film — that merely meant that I could watch it a bit closer for the subtler goodies on display.

My favorite part of Strangers has always been the party scene where Bruno very nearly strangles an elderly matron when he catches sight of Anne’s younger sister. This scene displays Hitch’s genius quite handily: with a few shots, inventive sound work, music and pure sorcery of cutting and framing, he creates an emotional crescendo that is quite hard to describe in words. It’s something that has to be experienced.

Hitchcock, to my mind, is the rarest of the rare: a celebrity artist who not only deserves his immense critical reputation but who almost cannot be overrated. His impact and effect on modern cinema is incredible. Not only did he damn near invent sound film technique, he continually improved it over his career and took it to a level near perfection. He never allowed himself to rely on a few trademark tools. In every film he pushed that fabled envelope, challenging himself and an entire industry to grow and improve. When you watch a Hitchcock film you are drawn in. Not only do you experience a masterfully designed story, you find yourself admiring the sheer quality of the piece. His films are as aesthetically pleasing as the works of Monet or Rembrandt, but function first and foremost as incredibly entertaining narratives.

After seeing Strangers, I decided to look for a book on Hitchcock. I had a biography in mind, but the library failed to have one. Instead, I found something even better. Hitchcock’s Notebooks: An Authorized and Illustrated Look Inside The Creative Mind Of Alfred Hitchcock by Dan Aulier. Though it does contain quite a bit of biographical detail, the bulk of the book concerns Hitchcock’s art and style. It delves into how he made his movies — the system he used, the way he organized the production, how he chose his material and his collaborators.

Despite finishing the book in a single linear reading, I’ve been going back to certain sections and studying them in greater detail. Most fascinating are the reproductions of storyboards. One set is Hitchcock’s own from The 39 Steps. They reveal a talented draftsman and prove that the classic Hitchcock ‘look’ — the framing and use of light — was indeed his own from the start.

Almost as revealing are side by side comparisons of screenplay drafts and personal letters to and from Hitchcock and his collaborators.

The picture of the man that emerges from the book is of an extremely polite, dedicated, intellectual and passionate artist. He made film for the sake of the film, desiring above all a quality product. He did not hesitate to accept ideas when they were better than his own and he never failed to give credit where credit was due. He made many lasting friendships and was held in high regard by nearly every professional he worked with. He was a kind and loving husband and father. He valued the opinion and instincts of his wife Alma. He treated the extraordinarily beautiful women who starred in his films as favored nieces and proteges. He was — by all accounts — an entertaining man to be around who ran his set more like a wise father than a dictator.

I highly recommend this book to any fan of movies — and Hitchcock fans in particular. The tone of the book is friendly and casual. The writing is clear, direct and detailed.

By the way, my personal favorite Hitchcock film is The Birds. Not only is it one of the very few movies to actually terrify me when I first saw it, I also consider it to be perhaps the most darkly beautiful movie ever shot.

6. Showdown

Idyll’s end.

The cat woke her up on that last peaceful morning. Hope attempted to ignore him, and that resulted in the first and only time that he laid the claws to her. Despite her cursing and empty threats, it really wasn’t all that bad. No blood drawn at least.

After she’d wiped the sleep from her eyes and splashed cold water on her face to aid the wake-up, she was thinking of coffee when she saw the cat staring out the window, tail swishing in agitation.

And she heard that laugh.

That goddamn familiar, awful laugh.

She looked out the window and there stood Ugly Jim in the center of town, facing down three bulky men on horseback.

Riders.

She moved quickly, tossing on her clothes and the gunbelt, then racing down the stairs to the porch of the rooming house. Despite her non-committal tone when Jim had pressed her on signing up for temporary deputy duty, she had no intention of allowing assholes to harass and harry her friends and neighbors. In fact, the main force behind her refusal was a gut feeling that getting paid to stand up to such assholes was on the less than honorable side of the ledger. And Hope had no desire to live on that side of the ledger anymore.

Later, she’d wish she’d stayed at the window. Had taken advantage of the height and the surprise to shoot those bastards down where they stood. Spilt milk being what it was; she may have had the instincts of a gunfighter, but the hard lessons of experience only get learned the one way.

She was coming off the stairs when she stopped. Carina Castleberry stood at the ready by the door, grimly holding a huge and ancient shotgun. The sight struck Hope as both comical and moving. The idea of this sweet and indulgent woman instantly ready to defend herself and her own caused tears and a laugh to war inside her heart. And steeled her resolution to end this situation in the town’s favor.

Mizz Castleberry saw her and moved away from the door in a manner that functioned as a vote of confidence.

Hope stepped into the sun of the morning, heart racing but will steady and strong.

Ugly Jim didn’t take his eyes from the Riders, but all three of them turned to look at the new arrival.

Hope’s heart sank when she saw those faces. Rage and fear and an old and secret shame she’d hoped to never feel again welled up inside her.

All three of the riders wore the faces of her husbands friends. His particularly close friends. The ones he’d shared with.

Rapists. Scum. What they’d done to her was horrible enough — but that was the past and a world away. What truly angered her — what caused the rage to drown out the fear and shame — was that they dared to follow her into this world.

The middle rider laughed that hateful laugh again."Looks like Ugly Jim done found him a purty Deputy."

Her skin crawled. She felt her stomach knot in revulsion.

Then she felt the soft brush at her leg. Felt the rumbling purr vibrate through denim and skin and bone and into her soul.

The cat was with her. No matter what she faced she did not face it alone. That purr settled her stomach and calmed her nerves.

She smiled. It was a vicious smile. And she was rewarded with the smile leaving the face of the rider. And a gleam of fear in his eyes.

"Mizz Hope" Jim said, quietly, eyes not leaving his enemy, hand hovering at the ready above his holster.

"Jim." she replied. "We got trouble? Seems a shame to bloody up such a pretty morning."

As she spoke she moved to stand beside him. Casually, as if she were just ambling to the General store. The cat followed in his usual way, weaving around and about her feet in a feline dance.

The riders — those hated, familiar faces — stared at her in contempt and dislike, but there was no recognition that she could see. Unlike her, it seemed that they had not made it into the Borderlands with memory intact.

Or, another part of her opined, perhaps she no longer resembled the timid and frightened woman she had been.

"Well, I guess that depends on the boys here." Jim drawled. He was as casual as her, but Hope could sense the fierce appreciation radiating from him. "How about it boys? You on a mission to ruin a perfectly good morning?"

The middle rider sneered. Then he shook his head. "Just bringing in the word, Ugly. The boss is coming. He’ll be here in three days. He wants the usual. You see that he gets it."

"Or what?" Hope said. She almost spat the words.

All three riders laughed, as if she’d said the dumbest thing in the world.

"Pretty but stupid, I see. Listen well girly: the boss gets what he wants or Summertime City burns. To the ground. And we piss on the ashes."

For a moment the rage threatened to boil over. An image of the gun in her hand and falling trick pins bloomed in her mind’s eye, and it was an image of almost impossibly seductive beauty.

"Is that the way of it?" she asked.

"That’s the way it’s always been."

"Things change."

The rider raised an eyebrow. "That so? You think you got the steel to change the way of the world?"

The words of the boneman came to her, clear as a bell and as sweetly chiming. Find a world to challenge.

"And then some, boy." She emphasized that last.

The look on the rider’s face was deadly. He spat on the ground before looking away, addressing Jim.

"You see we got the usual waiting, Ugly. You know what’s good for you. Best not let addle headed girls with big ideas go turning your head from sense."

And he spurred his horse, wheeled and rode out. His companions followed suit.

As the dust cloud they stirred up drifted and settled, people began to emerge. They tossed looks at Jim and Hope as they did. Quick looks for the most part, with a mix of emotions. Mostly fear. But there was a measure of respect there, as well. And more than a hint of some dark amusement.

Jim chuckled. When she looked at him, he was shaking his head. Those blue eyes in that ruined face gleamed with the same mix of emotions as the townsfolk — but the respect dominated with him.

"Mizz Hope, I must say — you don’t do nothing by half." The chuckle became a full laugh and he put a hand on her shoulder with real affection. "I’d say those riders haven’t heard a challenge like that in all their days with the Boss."

Hope considered telling him of her personal connection with these particular riders, but thought better of it. Instead, she gestured to the shade of the porch. As they made their way to a more comfortable spot, she asked some questions.

"Who is this Boss?"

Jim just shrugged. "Bandit. Old and smart and mean. Plays about three towns for this yearly tribute business. Lives well on it I suppose."

"And what is this usual they mentioned."

Jim sighed. "Coin and lots of it. Food and plenty. Dope. ‘Botics, painkillers, that sorta. And sometimes…" He paused.

Hopes chest tightened. "Sometimes what?"

"Sometimes they want a couple women. Girls. You know." Hope hadn’t known that the scarred flesh of Jim’s face could blush until then.

The tightness in her chest turned to ice. "And you think this year is one of those sometimes?"

He just nodded.

"So. What do we do?"

Jim was silent for a moment, eyes closed. Then he took a deep breath and looked her right in the eye.

"I been Sheriff for three years, Mizz Hope. All three of those years I knuckled under when the riders came. I figured that coin and food and drugs — no matter how precious — were a better price than a load of dead townsfolk, than fighting off dozens of hardasses. And they’ll come in dozens, ma’am — count on it. The Boss has an army at his disposal."

His face grew still but his eyes danced with passion and conviction.

"But I swore that when they asked for my folk…when they went beyond things into demanding I co-operate with slavery….I swore I’d be buried first."

Hope smiled at him, relieved.

"And I didn’t swear that lightly." His hand went to the gun on his hip, an instinct. "And I swear it still."

"You’re a damn fine man, Jim."

He just nodded. Then his eyes met hers again.

"And what about you? You with me? You gonna back that challenge up?"

Faith stood. She thought about who and what those men had been in the old world. She thought about the words of the boneman. She thought about the welcome the people of Summertime City had given a peaceful stranger. About Carina Castleberry at the door with a shotgun. She looked down at the cat. He was staring right back, inscrutable face radiating the only answer she could make.

She gave Jim the same scary smile she’d offered the riders. Her hand dropped to the cold and ready steel of her gun.

"You’re damned right I’ll back it up, Jim."

She looked around the street. Saw that all eyes were on her and the Sheriff. So she raised her voice to take in all who watched.

"We fight."

I’m currently going through one of my infrequent bouts of depression. Whilst performing therapy that generally works well — beating the holy hell out of an acoustic guitar and singing weirdly arranged cover versions of the songs of my decadent youth — I realized that these lyrics sum up my current state of mind quite well:



Sitting here like uninvited company
Wallowing in my own obscenities
I share a cigarette with negativity
Sitting here like wet ashes
With xs in my eyes and drawing flies
Bathed in perspiration drowned my enemies
Used my inspiration for a guillotine
I fire a loaded mental cannon to the page
Leaning on the pedestal that holds my self denial
Firing the pistol that shoots my holy pride
Sitting here like wet ashes with xs in
My eyes, and drawing flies…

— Soundgarden, Drawing Flies

…and it’s such a (I think intentionally on Mr. Cornell’s part) ridiculously mopey and pretentious series of images that I had to laugh at myself, interrupting my gloomy caterwauling. In fact, I laughed quite uncontrollably for a few minutes.

Seems I’m climbing out.

Part 6 of Hitch Hike tomorrow.

Been a shitty day, folks. Shitty week, honestly.

But…this dude abides.

Peace.

Mr. Chris Cornell. A full moon blanket is better than none.

"Seasons"

Summer nights and long warm days
Are stolen as the old moon falls
My mirror shows another face
Another place to hide it all
Another place to hide it all
And Im lost, behind
The words Ill never find
And Im left behind
As seasons roll on by

Sleeping with a full moon blanket
Sand and feathers for my head
Dreams have never been the answer
And dreams have never made my bed
Dreams have never made my bed

And Im lost, behind
The words Ill never find
And Im left behind
As seasons roll on by

Now I wanna fly above the storm
But you cant grow feathers in the rain
And the naked floor is cold as hell
This naked floor reminds me
Oh the naked floor reminds me

And Im lost, behind
Words Ill never find
And Im left behind
As seasons roll on by

If I should be short on words
And long on things to say
Could you crawl into my world
And take me worlds away
Should I be beside myself
And not even stay

And Im lost, behind
Words Ill never find
And Im left behind
As seasons roll on by