The Rock on the Mountain

A Play in One Act

by

Michael Driver

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THE ROCK ON THE MOUNTAIN ___________________________ A Play in One Act by Michael Driver

Copyright © 2015 by Michael Driver Email: MichaelDriver@mac.com

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In memory of Harry Middleton who observed keenly, felt all that he observed, wrote sublimely, and understood so much so well. “I said good-bye…thinking that time spent in the mountains is indeed well invested and how lucky I have been to have invested so heavily: when I am old and bent and my mind is dim, the dividends of mountain time will nourish me still.” --Harry Middleton, On the Spine of Time

Cast of Characters

Mark: A man, age 35

Scene

A one-room mountain cabin.

Time

Autumn, the present.

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Scene 1 SETTING: A simple wooden table and chair, completely

devoid of ornamentation, is on the stage. Except for objects on the table, there are no other materials on the stage. An old manual typewriter, a stack of papers, a pen and an oil lap are on the table. Stage lighting is general with a spotlight on the table. When MARK moves around the stage, his movements indicate interaction that he has with invisible objects such as a window and a fireplace.

AT RISE: MARK peers out a window at the edge of the stage.

He sighs heavily before moving to the table where be begins writing with the pen. His own voice is broadcast as a VOICEOVER while he writes.

VOICEOVER I buried my grandfather today. At age eighty-five, his death should not have been a great surprise. But it was to me and I’m the only one who knows about it. Looking back, especially over the past several days, I think he knew death was near and I can see with certainty that he knew yesterday that it was his last day. We had such a short time together this visit. Every visit, actually, but this one especially because it was to have been an extended visit, several months, in fact, of a sudden reduced to two. At first, we had a lot of catching up to do. Grandpa being Grandpa, saw to it that we got caught up promptly. And he was ready for me from the get-go. Because it is Fall, the bright, cool season before the snows of winter, he was still able to receive mail, plus all the books and magazines he frequently ordered, and was up-to-date on everything I had written since I saw him last, two years ago. He was well versed in the fallout from the last book I wrote and even knew about the tabloid magnification of a brief fling I had with a kooky but exciting starlet. He was unstinting with advice, some of it sage, some of it hokum. He was adept with both and trusted me to figure it out, knowing full well that I was absorbing wisdom well beyond his words. I was the only one in our family who ever understood Grandpa, going all the way back to when I was five years old, when I first came for a visit. By that time, Grandpa had already been in the mountains, in this very cabin, for a good many years. My grandmother came here once, in the late summer after he built the cabin

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over the preceding months. The air was light and cool, so different from the noxious atmosphere of the city where they lived. The sun was bright, unfiltered through haze, and the night was comforting, healing with total stillness and gentle quiet. But she didn’t stay to experience the night. Grandmother looked at the place and looked at Grandpa, then turned, my mother in tow, and walked back down the path to a woodland trail leading, after three hard, steep miles, to a dirt road. Grandmother never returned. And she never saw Grandpa again. When she was old enough to hike the trail with my uncle, my mother would come for two afternoons every summer, being careful to retreat before dark to spend the night with her mother in a motel in the valley. I have since realized that my mother grasped the utter peacefulness of Grandpa’s life, but kept the observation to herself in deference to her domineering mother. It was only by happenstance that I learned that I had a living grandfather, and when I overheard talk about him being a “mountain man,” I was keen to visit, pestering for relief as only a spoiled child can do. That was the way that I came to know Grandpa and to love him and to cherish a life and a way of life that others in my family could not fathom. It was the way, too, that my life was nourished by means they cannot fathom. It was the way that my mind was fed, my body strengthened and my purpose formed. It’s the reason that I knew when I had strayed and realized that I had to regain my footing. The only way was to return to the rock on the mountain. And so, at first after my arrival, there were days of endless talk, of unrelenting exploration, ceaseless examination, micro and macro, and something well beyond the two, something I can scarcely describe but which I now confront. Grandpa led me to the point of confrontation and dropped me there, alone, knowing that the guide can show the way but then must stop. The last steps must be taken by the wayfarer. Alone. I should have seen all of this coming but I was too caught up in our conversation to notice. The talk made words of unconstructed thoughts, gave temporary structure to observations and fleeting form to feelings passed by in an instant as their impetus rose, then fell, in action. Our talk drained me. We were on the rock one night as I neared empty and sputtered out. That’s when Grandpa dropped me. After days of hearing all about the books and essays and the research with its underlying reasoning, the conflict and praise that had been generated and the people and events surrounding them, Grandpa asked about the starlet. We were on the rock when the question came. At night. The rock, a granite outcropping, was Grandpa’s favorite spot. In the daytime, the rock is a magnificent place to view the valley far below and other mountains far away. At night, the rock is a magnificent place to view infinity, or at least as much of infinity as is capable of being seen by a human being.

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It seemed odd, at that moment, that Grandpa should choose such a place, a virtual observatory of infinity, to inquire about a fleeting moment of lust. But that, apparently, was the point. He was specific, too. He asked about the gentleness of her touch and the press of her lips on mine. He asked about the softness of her hair as it brushed my face. Then, he asked me what I saw when I looked into her eyes. I mumbled something about starlight and noticed that he was looking at the stars. I glanced away and fell silent. When I looked at him next, I saw that he had lowered his gaze, that he was staring into emptiness, looking at nothing while seeing everything. It was then that I knew I had been dropped at the point of confrontation and that I would have to make my way alone from there. When he finally rose, I stood, also, and we walked silently to the cabin. We didn’t speak another word that night but I’m sure Grandpa understood where I was at that moment. With certainty, he understood the next morning when he awoke at the earliest glimmer of dawn and found me already on the rock, eager to consume every ray of the sun that penetrated the dark forest behind me. He pressed a cup of steaming coffee into my hands and together we watched in silence as sunlight invaded the sky above the valley where lights twinkled like dying stars until the valley filled with light awakening another day for life. For routine. But things looked different where I stood. My life, not simply my routine, had been irrevocably disrupted in some as yet unfathomable way that left me disoriented, numb of mind that seemed to resent speech it could not initiate. Grandpa seemed to sense this and supplied wisdom in dosage precise for the remedy. The wisdom was action that we began immediately. Some days we fished. Those were deep and silent days but not lonely. To the contrary. Braced in a cold mountain stream rushing above the knees, a person finds attachment, both to place and beyond place, as secure as any bond that exists. The fly, cast from a limber rod whipping the air overhead before kissing the turbulent waters, presents merely a pretense of sanity, a contrived reason to be there. To a neophyte, the rushing water roars; to the ear of experience, it whispers calmly of truths stored within the listener that only want a chance of recognition. Some days, we hiked, making circuits of landmarks important to Grandpa, whether for trivial or significant reasons. Some days we merely ambled. Once, we started early and struck out with determination for a distant lake, returning only as the shadows of evening gathered. We were silent while walking, the perfect companion of thought. But we fell to conversation during frequent rests, pauses at places of profound beauty or simply inviting spots of peace and tranquility. Talk, then, was transcendental. On those occasions, I heard Grandpa say things I had never heard before—at least not from him and not like he had uttered previously. Over the years, we had discussed ideas, lots and lots of concepts, notions, possibilities, but always they had been only constructions of the mind pried from

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literature and philosophy. Now, Grandpa spoke from within of truth experienced. I listened. I absorbed. On one of these days, he led me to one of his favorite places. I thought it curious that we had not been there before during this visit and noted with interest that we avoided going near the spot as we shambled through the woods nearby. I knew the spot well, having spent many hours there at his side as we talked or bided our thoughts privately, sitting side by side in our accustomed niche. It was a wonderful place, a tiny clearing positioned high above the rock. It was set back too far into the mountain to see the rock below or the cabin. But a tremendous oak spread its branches above, a distinctive canopy visible from both the rock and the cabin. As a boy, I once thought of trying to climb the oak but it was too dignified to countenance my folly and I came to treasure its unsullied presence. Grandpa had a spot beneath it and I had a spot next to Grandpa. I was shocked by what I now saw. My spot remained as before, but Grandpa’s place was covered by a tarp over which four sturdy logs had been placed to secure the canvas against wind and rain. We approached slowly. “Help me,” Grandpa said, finally, indicating that I should move an end of two of the logs as he undertook their other ends. He peeled back canvas enough to reveal the purpose of the hole beneath. “Herman dug it,” he said, “but I want you to finish it.” Then, he added, “it has to be complete before the first snow.” Grandpa looked at me with a surety that was unshakable. Herman was a strapping youth whose family lived on another mountain and who periodically visited Grandpa, staying overnight to perform the heavier chores including, lately, trips to the valley for supplies. Herman had dug well, on instruction, to a depth of four feet. I knew my portion could be of no lesser quality but would be strained by the deepest sadness. For days thereafter, I received a flow of valuable information from Grandpa. He spoke quickly and precisely, quite different from the slow, thoughtful conversation we had previously for thirty years. He talked about the cabin, people on nearby mountains and the resources available. Grandpa instructed me to pay careful attention from the outset and I heeded his advice. Grandpa told me that if I would strictly attend the basics of life on the mountain, maintaining them in detail as their needs arose, I would be rewarded with more untrammeled time than any city dweller ever imagined, and, put to good use, that time would yield endless other rewards according to the deposit that I made of myself. I did not doubt his words and I valued the opportunity to listen. Although I had been an eager visitor during summers when school was not in session, I had never been on the mountain during winter and I had rarely visited even briefly during

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the Fall. Grandpa set out to educate me quickly with cautions and explanations intended to help me avoid accidents, mitigate difficulties and make the most of circumstances. Having planned carefully, Grandpa had installed enough wood to last until summer, helpfully cut and stacked by Herman. But this year, anticipating my arrival for the cold months, he also laid in extra food supplies sufficient for the duration. That Grandpa had never encountered an insurmountable problem was one thing, but I was not Grandpa. I was accustomed to turning switches and having electrical devices respond immediately. Here, there was no electricity, nothing even, that operated with batteries. Given the nearby presence of a creek, lack of running water was not a big deal. But electricity? That would require adjustment. In advance of my visit, I inquired by letter if typing would bother him, fearing that the incessant clatter of an old timey typewriter would disrupt the quiet of a world accented solely by the enchanting sounds of nature. “I recall what the typewriter sounds like,” he replied by mail. “You spent two or three hours a day pounding away every summer for years. I handled it then because I knew you were learning, trying your wings. Now, I see that you will be filling a chink in my bookcase. That’s very important to me, especially knowing that embedded in your words just might be a thought or two we shared.” Reading Grandpa’s letter in response gave me pause. What thoughts had we shared? Specifics, I could list. Impressions, values, attitudes I had absorbed and could describe. But thoughts? Unique ideas? Concepts worthy of exposition? What had I actually perceived and made a part of myself that I could share with others? Little did I know, even a few weeks ago, that I would soon be set to uncover such thoughts. Nay. Thanks to Grandpa dropping me hard on the rock, discoveries have already begun. One of those thoughts concerns energy. In recent days, I became keenly aware that thinking is an energetic act as much as hiking. Each requires patience and persistence to traverse a landscape as studded with opportunities as with obstacles. A nimble mind navigates terrain the same as a strong body, the difference being that the destination is permanent despite never being complete. In these last few days, I saw that clearly through conversation with Grandpa. His eyes sparkled as before but with deeper luminosity. I saw his aging body take on renewed vigor as he spoke with muscular authority on issues that were previously objects of speculation. His energy fooled me into believing that he was stronger than he really was and that his physical animation must then be as agile as his mind. I was wrong. His mental prowess proved much the superior. Yesterday, Grandpa awakened well before dawn and prepared an early breakfast despite it being my day to cook. He had a hearty plate of eggs and venison before I was even out of bed and by the time light began to paint the sky, Grandpa was in place on the rock, cup of coffee in hand and bundled against the early morning cold. I joined him for a long while in silence but eventually retreated to the cabin. I had work to do, a book to write, the presumed reason for my visit.

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Late in the morning, I brought him a mug of hot soup and a thick slice of bread. Grandpa seemed the happiest at that moment that I had ever seen him. We said little and I soon returned to the cabin. In the early afternoon, I went back briefly to the rock, this time with a cup of coffee and found Grandpa no less ready to abandon his spot. The air was turning cool on an incipient breeze but the sun remained strong and fought for domination with a patient warmth. When I returned in late afternoon, the sun was giving up its struggle. The air was decidedly cooler on a stronger wind and clouds had begun to form low in the valley, trailing thin wisps above them. Grandpa pointed. “There will be snow in the valley tonight,” he said, explaining that he had only seen that type of cloud twice before, each time presaging an early winter storm of unusual proportions. “Snow will come to the mountain tomorrow,” he said. The glimmer was gone from his eyes when he turned to look squarely at me. “It’s late now,” he said. “Get rest for an early start tomorrow. I want to see the sunset.” While Grandpa’s words were calmly spoken, dismissing me gracefully to the cabin, their meaning pounded inside my head and reverberated through my consciousness. Fidgeting and unable to write, I checked the window repeatedly and watched apprehensively as brilliant color faded to an ashen gray. Finally, summoning the courage I knew to be required, I approached the rock. The day was done, and with it, the life most meaningfully attached to my own. This morning I was outside before dawn and located two likely saplings. Together with a scrap of canvas and some rope, they served to from a litter bearing Grandpa’s body, carefully wrapped in the ancient blanket he preferred. Bending the supple ends together and tying them with a loop of rope to serve as a means of pulling his body further up the mountain, I set out at first light, trailing a shovel secured at the bottom of the litter. In one hand I carried the pick, that, when run through the looped rope, served as a handle for tugging across tough terrain. Mostly, though, the dry fallen leaves served to hasten my march up the mountain, providing slipperiness to the process of progress toward the appointed destination. But was it progress? Was arriving at a gravesite truly progress or was it merely a point along a continuum? Thus was my mind occupied while digging, except that it lapsed more and more frequently to the task at hand as that task increasingly taxed my body. Before my two feet were finished, my thirty-five year old body struggled for sufficient vigor to complete its mission, being tempted to regret the softness incurred through a pursuit of words, then realizing that those words could yet prove the means of expressing thoughts to make the process one of progress. When the required depth had been reached, I climbed out and momentarily rested on the mound of soft earth I had laboriously heaped. But its very softness reminded me that Herman’s work lay firm below and would require greater effort to dislodge. Then a chilled wind stirred the great oak above, rent my thoughts and spurred me again to action.

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Moving rapidly, I repurposed the litter with an extra length of rope. And the sure grasp of nearby trees helped me lower Grandpa’s body into place. I paused then, a moment, before committing the next last act bearing a finality I was loathe to offer. But a sharp blast of cold wind slapped my face as if in indignation and brought sustained assurance of lasting change. After proffering the first shovel, others quickly followed until the fresh earth was exhausted. I was forced to dig the remaining cover from Herman’s reluctant mound but pursued the task tenaciously, warning off fatigue with greater effort even as sweat rose in the plunging chill. At last, depleted, I stopped only with the last shovel and noticed that flecks of snow had begun to mingle with the wind. My energy reawakened, I made a hasty retreat down the trail, lighter then, but heavier, too, arriving at the cabin as the snow thickened into a steadily descending curtain of unknown, imponderable dimensions. As life will force itself upon itself, my thoughts turned uncontrollably to warmth, then to food, to the fire that needed tending before ham and cheese and bread left me able to consider washing. Warming pitchers of water on the hearth to the point of just right warm, not cold, not hot, can be a tricky proposition. Easier, if more awkward, is standing in a shallow wooden tub before the fire, over-pouring oneself with water, lathering, then rinsing in a series of motions designed to banish the residue of past and bring oneself renewed into the present moment. (MARK stops writing. He stares at the paper, immobile, his pen upright in his fingers as if frozen.) MARK But is the past merely residue or has it become muscle and sinew, even the skeleton itself upon which the fleshy present hangs, grotesquely disproportionate to its framework? Would we want to be cleansed to the point of annihilation even if we could, scrubbing through the outer scum and applying an abrasive so strong as to grit through the bone itself and violate its marrow, fouling and draining away the substance of life, and with it, any hope of true renewal? (MARK pauses, lays down the pen and trims the oil lamp as the spotlight correspondingly lowers but does not extinguish. He rises and moves to the fireplace where he silently tends the fire before turning and warming his back.) MARK And so, I have not yet advanced a single step beyond the point at which Grandpa dropped me, just days ago, on the rock, except to know with absolute certainty what I already knew then, that the remainder of the way is for me to find myself. (pausing)

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Ah! “Find myself.” In these circumstances that’s an admonition almost as vulgar in philosophy as a double entendre in speech. “Find myself.” Humph. Well, I suppose that’s what it amounts to. A task I hadn’t reckoned on. (lurching forward and pacing about in the middle of the cabin) And what an inconvenient time, having come here with the intention of writing a book that my publisher believes is ripe to sell. If it was just any old book, it might not matter. Of course, if it were a textbook, I would be in a university now. If it were a complicated treatise, I would be on a beach now. If it were a cookbook, I suppose I would be somewhere in the throes of gluttony. (pausing) If it were some sort of great literary novel, I might be here. But it’s not. So why am I here? I’m writing a memoir, for God’s sake. And any damned thirty-five year old who has done enough to write a memoir must be in a hell of a situation for it to be appropriate for him to go off to some remote mountain alone with his grandfather in the dead of winter to write it. But that’s what happened. This is where I am. It’s just that…that if I had not been picked up and dropped… (shudders as if suddenly chilled) …if I had not been picked up and dropped I could simply carry on. (recovering with energetic, rapid speech) As it is, I can’t just carry on because I went as far as it was possible to go without repeating what I had already done, thinking what I had already thought, over and over again to no useful avail. (pausing, continuing thoughtfully, slowly) Grandpa made me realize that. He made me stop just long enough to discover the treadmill I was on, to catch a glimpse of the revolving belt beneath my feet, the endless cycle that would carry me in place forevermore unless…unless something stopped it. (pause) No. That’s not exactly it. More precisely, he knew the cycle would continue until something stopped me. (thoughtfully but enthusiastically) Grandpa obviously understood that the treadmill would continue without regard to me or anything external to itself. He knew that I had to be the one to stop because the machine of life—which is to say illusion—would continue without me as easily as with me, without regard for me, in fact, supplying only itself through mere habit of perpetuation. He clearly knew me to be the point of vulnerability but also the point of ascendancy. Of course! Why else the mountain? Why else the mountain man? Grandpa knew this all along. He discovered it here, on this very mountain, near this very spot. And he knew it when Grandmother visited. He knew it before she turned and retraced her steps back down the mountain. Ha! Grandpa! He knew this all through the years we were together every summer but never gave an indication. He knew I had to mess things up for myself just as he knew I must take the final steps toward perception and renewal alone. (more enthusiastically) But not quite alone. Now, not quite alone. Because, Grandpa, having found that vital strand of knowledge you so wisely retained until the proper moment, I have someone to share the knowledge with. Or, rather, you have someone to share the knowledge with. It

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works both ways in that regard, I suppose. In any event, it’s worth a celebration. Yes! A celebration despite the uniquely sad occasion. Maybe the best celebrations entwine with sad occasions. It would surely make them both more memorable. Like funerals and weddings. Ha! Weddings. Given the current circumstances, not to mention the background that led to the question on the rock, weddings are an awfully pointed example. (retrieves bottle and glass from cabinet, pouring one portion) Your very best Wild Turkey. (lifts glass and examines) Fitting, if anything is for this particular day. And to think: you taught me how to shoot a rifle before you taught me how to shoot a Wild Turkey—once before, saving the best for later. In careful moderation, of course. But moderation for two is needed this once. (pours second portion) Once for me and once for you. After all, we’re celebrating together. (lifts glass, examines, takes slow, lingering sip) Except that there’s a flip side for me. (turning very serious) I know the reason that I was dropped and I know where I have been but I don’t know where I am or where I’m to go from here. (moves to window) I can’t see anything now. (briefly cups eyes with his hands held to the window) Absolutely nothing. I know I’m looking toward the rock and that beyond the rock is the open valley and I know that between here and the rock is a path now covered with snow so that I can’t see the path but I can’t see the snow, either. Country dark is one thing. Country dark is a peaceful embrace of stillness that beckons with the promise of rest and prepares the weary with renewed energy to resume the course at dawn, fully aware of the path before them. But mountain snowstorm dark appears to be something else again. Mountain snowstorm dark freezes sight in utter blindness even to itself. Then blinded, nothing can be seen, nothing can be done, no movement can be risked. (turns away from the window, pauses) But once the storm has lifted…once the storm has lifted… (turns suddenly back to the window) …once the storm has lifted, a new, pure world will be visible whether by the light of day or crisp, clear moonlight reflecting newly abundant purity. And any step taken will create its own fresh path. That, I suppose, is the promise and intrigue of mountain snowstorm dark: allure enough to bait the disaffected to wait out the storm in anticipation of a whole new chance at life in a completely new direction. (turning away from the window) That, apparently, is where I am, leaving only where to go from here unanswered. (moves to the fireplace and tends the fire) So, where to go from here? Well, for the moment, to know where I am is enough. (muses with back to fire)

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Funny, though. Only a handful of people know where I am, that I’m parked on a mountain out of sight and out of range of every electronic device known to man. And this for an extended period of time. I’ll bet that my publisher’s publicist will invent sightings of me from time to time, supposed glimpses of me at some lavish resort in the company of a young woman who just happens to look like the starlet. Who knows what inventions her publicist will dispense? (speaking rhythmically) All in the name of name contorted into fame and processed into cash. With currency of future more, the same as hash. (musing) Ah! Who knew I was also a poet? Wouldn’t it be a hoot if I came off the mountain in the spring with a book of poetry? I can’t imagine the look on everyone’s face. Even more so when they realized how bad it was. (turning serious) But mocking is not my purpose. My immediate purpose must be where, in the newly fallen snow, I will make footprints and where they will lead. Grandpa must have had similar consideration. He had to have known that erecting this cabin was the same as making a permanent mark, not merely upon the earth but within his consciousness, a point from which to wander to depths and heights he clearly mastered. Am I to do likewise? Once again, I must remember that Grandpa was the guide. He brought me forward and he dropped me squarely before a new, untrodden landscape. But he left steps for me to make alone. (pausing) Well, two things are clear. Whatever steps I make will be consistent with the guidance Grandpa gave me. And I must start with who I am and the skills I already possess. That means I will write. (sighs) But planning, even determination, is not a written book. (pausing, then proceeding slowly as if troubled) All this brings something else to mind. Something… (pausing) …something I guess I pushed aside trying not to think about. Earlier today, it was easier to ignore, given the urgency of tasks against the pressure of the coming storm. But it’s a shocking omission. I’m afraid it could haunt me the remainder of my life. (speaking faster) What am I to do? Its deletion affronts the very expectation of culture. Everyone who has ever seen a bad movie knows that the least that can be done is to say something over the grave of whoever dies and when that person is revered, the words need to be both sincere and eloquent. I didn’t intend disrespect. Not at all. Leaving the gravesite so quickly was merely a matter of reaction to the coming storm, not disregard for the life I held in the highest esteem. Over the course of time, Grandpa and I shared such moments of silence as would fill a library and words, too, when they were most appropriate and useful to us both. Perhaps irony laughs in the breach but my unintended error leaves me greatly troubled. How can I make amends? (After pausing reflectively, MARK suddenly

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moves to the table and increases the lamplight with the spotlight brightening correspondingly as stage lights dim. He threads the typewriter with a sheet of paper and begins typing, pausing repeatedly to read after typing a few words. Stage lights gradually reduce completely as MARK reads.) MARK The Rock on the Mountain….Chapter One: Eulogy….Life itself is its best commendation….A life lived robustly to the fullest…need not have resulted in visible magnificence…because the truest activity…acts within….And the most sincere tribute…is another life…defiant of illusion. (The spotlight goes out.) END

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