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DEATH
VALLEY INCIDENT
We went rollicking over the
desert floor. It was three-thirty in the morning and a half moon was
up. We were cold and shivering. someone was singing, and we shivered
back the chorus.
Alouette,
Alouette,
Alouette,
Alouette.
Big fat blonde
Big fat blonde
O Alouette, Alouette,
Alouette,
Jug o' wine
Jug o' wine
Big fat blonde . .
.
O Alouette, O Alouette .
. .
Someone decided to overtake us. They were all fraternity guys and their
car was plastered with Greek hieroglyphs. They hailed a brother of
theirs who had tumbled in with us in the confusion of the darkness. He
yelled back triumphantly, then returned to singing the calls:
Hotel
room
Hotel room
Big fat blonde
O Alouette, Alouette . . .
The moon kept on silver shining on the fantastic undulations of rock
and sand. We'd pass huge tanks of water which glowed with red paint in
the car lights. In my head went the words of some poem . . .
The
World
is
charged with the grandeur of God
It will flame out like
shining from shook foil.
The car lights ahead began winding up the mountain side. As they came
round the hairpin bends they'd shine at us and blind our eyes. The
quiet stars overhead seemed to be watching our alien caravan.
It
gathers
to
a greatness, like the ooze of oil crushed
O Alouette, O Alouette,
Alouette, Alouette,
Big fat blonde
Hotel room
. . . nor can foot feel,
being shod.
Up, up and around we climbed. Someday it seemed we'd get to the stars.
Finally we reached the top, ground to a stop and all jumped out with
our cameras. We looked over the ledge and watched the other cars come,
a slow line out with our cameras. We looked over the ledge and watched
the other cars coming, a slow line of twin glaring stars. One of them
stalled and progress was halted. People looked at their watches and
cursed and offered vain suggestions. From far above we watched the car
being pulled to the side. "Oh, what a joke - it's that crazy little
Nash". . . . "Hurry, the bomb will be going off soon".
The procession continued. We looked down, watching, stamping our feet
and blowing our hands. Someone suggested climbing a little higher. We
followed like sheep, clutching flashlamps and cameras in our cold,
insensible fingers. We could see those in front of us silhouetted
against the sky. There is something about seeing a line of people,
single file, walking along the skyline, that makes a person pause.
I slipped and clutched a creosote bush and gasped. Sprawling on the
ground with my feet dangling over the edge, I looked down. There was no
bottom . . . just sheer cliff. And then huge silver undulations below
me streching on and over the horizion. I felt nauseated. Someone trod
on my hand. I yelped like a dog. They helped me to my feet and,
shivering, I went on. We reached the peak. They called it Dante's View
Point.
I started like one who is
awakened by force; and, having risen erect, I moved my rested eyes
around, and looked steadfastly to know this place in which I was. True
is it, that I found myself upon the brink of the dolorous Valley of the
Abyss, which gathers thunder of endless wailings. It was so dark,
profound, and cloudy, that fixing my look upon the bottom, I there
discerned nothing.
Some science professor stood up on a rock and raised his voice. "Can
anyone tell me why Dante's View Point
got its name? Nobody here an
English major?" There was no answer.
"Now let
us descend into the blind world here below", began the poet all pale;
"I will be first, and thou shalt be second". And I, who had remarked his colour,
said, "How shall I come, when thou fearest, who art wont to be my
strength in doubt?"
And he
to me: "The anguish of the people who are here below on my face
bepaints that pity, which thou takest for fear. Let us go; for the
length of the way impels us."
Finally we settled ourselves on the
rocks, like some vast
covey of birds alighting to rest. They talked in whispers and looked at
watches. I looked out above the precipice and saw the sky and the
outlined shapes of heads. The mon was hung before me and the stars, her
children, ran round her.
With how sad steps, O
moon,
though climbst the skies
How silently, and with how wan a face . . .
And
Do they call virtue there
ungratefulness?
There was a faint flush of dawn in the sky. The flashlights were turned
off one by one but it was still dark and lonely.
We waited some time.
When it happened, I stood stunned. For suddenly there was light. Surely
it had illuminated the whole world? For I felt it even behind me. It
was a thousand times brighter than the light of day. We could see
mountain ranges, hundreds of miles away.
A sigh went up. People got to their feet, cameras clicked, they shouted.
A red glow grew up, over there across the vast desert. Above it hung
the moon, silver with diamond stars. The thing mushroomed and
mushroomed. I though of Hiroshima, Nagasaki. Cameras clicked and people
laughted in excitement. It was horrible. I got out my camera and took a
shot but someone joggled when I got it into focus. The film didn't come
out. We ran back along the ledge to the cars and made for camp and
breakfast. The Nash was unstuck.
We watched from the car. The wind blew the atomic cloud sideways and it
streaked across the desert like some monstrous pennant. The dawn light
was coming speedily now and the moon faded and became a dull, lifeless
ball in the sky. The sound of the explosion came then . . . travelling
the forty miles from some spot in the Nevada desert and the birds rose
into the air with fright. Everything was grey and ugly and cold. I
thought it was horrible but nobody else seemed to . . . so I didn't say
anything.
Alouette, Alouette, O
Alouette, Alouette
Alouette,
Alouette,
Alouette, fan
fan faron.
Written
when
I
was 17; awarded Phelan Literary Prize; published
in Reed, San Jose State College, May
1956.
See
also
Family
and Convent
Albums:
Mosaic;
Gandhi; BBC http://catskill.gcal.ac.uk/repository/repos-fs/gcu/a0/a1/gcu-a0a1k7-b.mov
recording of many voices 'Talking of Gandhiji', my father's voice being
one of these; Death
Valley Incident; Family
Album; Halbert
Harold Holloway, The Woman, the Sun, the
Flowers and the Courage; Sir James
Roberts; My England (in progress); Morris Dances of England; Nigel Foxell, Amberley Village; The Joy of the Bicycle; Richard Ben Holloway, Together Let Us Sweetly Live;
Jonathan Luke
Holloway, Home Birth Can Be An Option; Holmhurst St Mary; Mother
Agnes
Mason,
C.H.F.; Rose Lloyds, Rose's Story;
Deaf/Death; David and
Solomon; How to
Make Cradles and Libraries; Hazel Oddy, Martha's
Supplication; Tangled Tale; Oliveleaf
Chronicle; Vita
UMILTA
WEBSITE || OLIVELEAF
WEBSITE || JULIAN
OF NORWICH, TEXT AND CONTEXTS, WEBSITE || BIRGITTA
OF
SWEDEN,
REVELATIONES, WEBSITE || CATALOGUE
AND PORTFOLIO (HANDCRAFTS, BOOKS ) ||
BOOK
REVIEWS
|| BIBLIOGRAPHY
|| FLORIN
WEBSITE ©1997-2010 JULIA
BOLTON
HOLLOWAY