There are surreal moments from my childhood that resonate as if pure evil still cocooned them, moments that forever changed my perception of evil.
It was the summer of 84, and we were looking for a place to settle for a few months and had headed back towards Northern Washington. While a vast expanse of the area is mountains, the dry parched desert areas provide plenty of spots for Rattlesnakes to hide. People don’t tend to wander through these areas on foot, and if they do, they take plenty of water.
The trees were sparse, and although not the old-growth type, still too big for me to wrap my arms around. The mesmerizing bark on the old Ponderosa Pines replacing jigsaw puzzles, and like watching time unfold, you could see the previous scars that had healed over time.
Roger had found a dirt road and driven until he’d found “the right place.” It seemed this time the right place was one with no water, and no bushes had survived the summer, except a few small dried tufts of sparse desert grass. The sky filled with dark, ominous clouds that blocked the sun, and although they teased with the promise of water for the parched earth, there was none to come.
Roger was scrounging up dried bits of wood to cook dinner on, which would save the precious propane’s cost. I supported this as I wanted to avoid the privilege of walking along the I-5 to collect cans to pay for propane for the stove and preferred spending the time with my bodyguard Conan.
Roger was caught off guard hearing a noise not far behind him. As he turned, he realized an odd individual was nearing us, as he was carrying a pillowcase teeming with something moving. Somehow he had not been detected by Conan, who now stood there with his hackles up emitting a low growl and ready to defend us.
Roger, standing there with one hand on the knife hilt, showed no emotion and simply commanded that I find my way to Conan immediately, then into the bus.
I stood at the window, Conan beside me, his hackles still up and ensuring he stayed within inches of me. I could not hear a word but felt a chill run over me, the kind of chill you get when a person whose soul is teeming with sadist acts brushes against you.
The man’s eyes, empty and devoid of any soul, stood there firmly grasping the pillowcase that kept stirring. His long unwashed dark hair filled with clumps, his hallowed cheekbones matched his emaciated physique. His eyes were pure black, where one could not tell the difference between his iris and pupils. His jeans stained with marks the colour of ochre like damp, dark earth mixed with blood.
He stood there, making eye contact with me from time to time, standing there clenching this pillowcase. The world moved paused, where all sound ceased, as I heard a faint sound carried across the wind, the sound of a rattle.
He then nodded in agreement with my father as he crawled into the passenger seat of the cruiser, and Rogers knife not far from his side. Roger returned a few hours later, and although I remember him confirming it was rattlesnakes, beyond that, I never did remember to ask why.
Years later, I was left to wonder so much about those years, about the transient lifestyle we lived, about patterns that seemed to follow us, but answers will never be had.
Trix's Trax 