Tale of the Taconic Mountains. Mike M.D. Romeling
stepping out with somebody. Sure as hell better not be their husbands. Even now on Christmas Eve, some of them peered accusingly at their men to gauge how interested or guilty they seemed by this strange visitation from the Boudines.
But then all eyes were back on the sisters because they had suddenly begun to sing. The song would never be forgotten by anyone who was there. Long afterwards none could quite agree how long they had sung or even what the song was about or even if it was in English. It was the pure sound of their harmonies that grabbed at the heart. It sounded like more than just two voices, ringing and driving everyone’s attention to the bright stars, the east wind and the blackness of the night. It seemed to wrap the carolers in a blanket of comfort, in the joy of exaltation, and in the thrill of mystery. Everything else that had passed before on this night seemed muted and half forgotten.
Suddenly the song was over and immediately all eyes were no longer on the Boudine sisters but instead were darting around uneasily as the sound of howling and baying dogs came from all directions. Just town dogs everyone tried to assure themselves, but it was an unsettling sound when everyone knew coyotes and wild dogs roamed the mountainside above them. And then everyone almost literally jumped a foot when a yowling cat fight broke out through the boarded windows of the abandoned diner down the street. The fight was quickly over, and the dogs quieted, but no one felt much relief or comfort in the following silence. Some of the children whimpered and begged to go home.
Father Mancuso finally gathered himself together as the uneasy crowd broke up into groups and began moving toward the church or back to their homes. He walked over to the Boudine sisters whose hoods were back up, hiding their faces again. Only Ariel’s greater height revealed now which sister was which in the shadows beneath the tree.
“You are both of course welcome to celebrate Midnight Mass with us now. There will be hot chocolate and cookies afterwards at Mrs. Whipple’s house. I hope you can come. You have both heightened this holy night for us with your beautiful singing.” The priest could feel almost an ache inside for this moment not to fade. But Ariel shook her head.
“We must return home. Our fire will be low and Tara is not altogether well.” Her speaking voice was low and mellow as he had imagined it would be. Tara did not speak.
“I’m so sorry. Perhaps we shall meet again soon, then.”
“Perhaps. But we do not leave our home often I’m afraid.” Beside her Tara seemed to shiver and she wrapped her arms around herself protectively for a moment.
“Then might we walk together as far as the church? It is on your way I believe.”
Ariel agreed to this, and along the way, Father Mancuso tried to draw the sisters out with assorted small talk but was largely unsuccessful. He tried one final ploy.
“If I could change your minds about staying, lodging could easily be arranged for you in town. It is our belief that there is no better time for togetherness than on the birthday of Christ. And your sister could rest before your journey home.”
Ariel smiled, a flash of white teeth through the dark. “There are of course many reasons for gathering together, but it is best we return home tonight. I hope you understand.”
They were gone quickly then, not so much seeming to walk away but rather to melt into the darkness. Behind the priest, the stained glass windows of the church beckoned him inside; yet he hesitated and looked out toward the mountain, imagining he could still see the two hooded figures who would soon now be on its flanks. He heard Oh Holy Night begin on the organ from inside the church and he turned almost reluctantly toward the door. Midnight Mass, always the high point of Christmas Eve, was waiting for him to celebrate. He breathed deeply, trying to toss off the feeling that something—something just as magical as the mysteries of his own faith—had left an empty place in his heart this holiest of nights.
To his disappointment, Father Mancuso had not seen the sisters again and after a while, that strange wonderful evening began to fade and life went on. Sometimes on his solitary walks along the roads above town, prayer book or rosary in hand, the priest would catch a particularly fine view of the mountain or the valley below where the Bluejay river traveled its winding path. But what should have been an inspirational showcase of God’s majesty, instead held gloomy reminders that Spring would bring the inevitable floods; that another dozen or so residents of Cedar Falls would leave their drenched homes in disgust; that there would be more boarded up windows and more howling cats. Meanwhile the mountain would wrap itself in swirling mists and summer rainbows. And as always, folks still said, mostly the mountain broods.
CHAPTER TWO
HIGH PLACES
Where do the Gods live? This is not a question that much concerns so-called modern man. But it certainly captured the interest and speculation of his ancestors. Where after all did these deities go after creating havoc with their lightning bolts, their roaring thunder and their shivery earthquakes? Some of them, it was decided, lived on the great mountains. Mount Olympus springs quickly to mind of course but there have been and still are many others. Egypt has Mount Sinai, Africa has Mount Kenya and Tibet has Kailas. Sacred Machupachare, perhaps the most beautiful peak in the Himalayas, has been closed forever to climbers and still holds the secrets of her summit.
Burial grounds and altars have been found at above twenty thousand feet in the high Andes, evidence that the Incas shared this same reverence and awe for their lofty peaks. Throughout the Alps in Europe are mountain names that tell us of the darker side of legends in high places: The Eiger (ogre) and Teufelberg (devil’s mountain) among many others. The spirits of the damned were said to bring down rock slides and that deadliest of all mountain calamities—avalanche. And if there were skeptics in those long-ago days—and there no doubt were—one good volcano would be enough to forever silence or convert them.
The Mountains of New England
Modest in height, New England’s mountains are sometimes scoffed at by visitors from the west who may write them off as mere bumps or mole hills when compared to their own lofty Rocky Mountains or the Sierra Nevada range. New Englanders are famous for their reticence and may waste little time in fruitless argument. But had they a mind to, there are some things they could say on behalf of their fine mountains. They could point to Mount Washington in tiny New Hampshire where some of the worst weather in the world occurs. The highest wind gust ever recorded—over two hundred miles an hour—tore across the icy slopes of that mountain and savage winds and snows can strike with deadly ferocity any month of the year. A weather station clings to the summit like a beleaguered Antarctic encampment. More lives have been lost on Mount Washington—over one hundred and thirty thus far—than on any mountain in North America. Alaska’s Mount McKinley, the massive and frigid crown of the North American Continent, may some day take over that dubious distinction; hundreds of climbers clamor for permits to climb that dangerous mountain, sometimes with tragic results. The deaths on Mount Washington result primarily from two factors: underestimating the savage weather than can literally come out of nowhere even during the summer months, and avalanches. People unfamiliar with the White Mountains are often surprised to hear the word avalanche connected with eastern mountains and yet there are over one hundred each year in the Whites, many of them in the Tuckerman Ravine area so popular with skiers and rock climbers.
New Englanders might also mention Maine’s Mount Katahdin, the final destination for those brave souls who hike the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. Thoreau was caught in such a violent thunderstorm on this mountain that he confessed to being ever after unable to view nature in the same benevolent way he was accustomed to in his many rambles around the gentle Concord countryside.
And they might mention the Adirondacks of New York State, perhaps falling prey to excessive tourism but still a magnificent wilderness that bred the world famous Adirondack guides who brought mountain and water craft to standards the world won’t see again.
Or they might speak of Mount Greylock in Massachusetts, whose silhouette was reportedly the inspiration for Melville’s great tale, Moby Dick. Thoreau climbed this fine mountain too, sleeping overnight on the summit and keeping warm by