The Appointment

To follow the story, first read "The Ridge" and "The Descent."

Twenty minutes pass as I work my way to the floor of the hollow. The last third of the slope is thick with mountain laurel and wild azalea, and I am forced to move through the hedge slowly. The ground is slick from the water that seeps out of the hillside here, and the laurel branches are tangled and stiff. The waxy evergreen leaves block my view of the ground, and I fight to keep my balance as I grab and push through the living wall. This place is an explosion of beauty in the Spring--white flowers in stark contrast to the lush green of the leaves. It is one of God's little paintings that nobody sees.

I hear the water from the creek as I reach the bottom. I take a few minutes to work my way along the base of the cliff to see the source. I have three hours until sunset, and I'm in no hurry. I want to see this place again. Something in me needs to see it, or at least that's what I tell myself. A lifetime has gone by since we discovered it as teenagers.

I guess I'm looking for the comfort of an old memory here. Maybe I'm trying to summon up some sort of courage. One thing's for sure--I know that this will be the last time I ever lay eyes on this spot, so I want to linger here a moment.

The creek that originates here and flows through the hollow comes out of the base of cliff. Water drips down the slope around it, but there is a definite point of origin, a cleft in solid rock where the water pours out into a kind of hollowed-out rock basin before it forms the channel that will enlarge and become the creek. The water is cold and crystal clear, so cold that it hurts my teeth as I take a drink from the pool. I sit for a moment, calming my mind to the hypnotic sound of the water poring into the pool.

If you were to find this place on a topographic map, the creek wouldn't be drawn in. Not even a thin blue line to mark its entry from the subterranean depths to sunlight. Even further down the hollow, down where he is waiting, the creek is wide enough that you can't jump cross without getting your feet wet, but the cartographers didn't even bother to give it a name.

We call it Meribah.

Actually John named it Meribah the day we found it. Even at seventeen, the boy knew his Bible. He had to explain it to me, take a moment to tell the old story from Exodus.

Seems that Moses and the children of Israel had wandered the desert for nearly 40 years. All that time, they moved from waterhole to waterhole, eating what God provided, living from day-to-day. The waterholes had gotten few and far between towards the end of the journey, and they complained to Moses. They were always complaining.

"We're hungry Moses."

"We're thirsty Moses."

"Do something, Moses--we're dying here."

Old Moses asked God for help, and God told him what to do. Go over there and hit that rock with your staff, and I'll send water straight out of it. It will be another miracle you can show the people. Another proof of how great I AM.

And that's what Moses did.

But he didn't do it exactly the way God commanded. God said to to hit the rock once, but Moses swung his magic stick twice. I reckon he was probably just sick and tired of all that constant moaning and complaining. I would have been--probably about 39 years before he was.

The water gushed out of solid rock, and the complainers drank and were momentarily satisfied.

But old Moses, old faithful Moses who had put up with all that crap for so long, who had dotted all his i's and crossed all his t's and done ever little thing God had asked him to do for all those sunrises and sunsets--old Moses messed up by not doing exactly what God said. Because he hit the rock twice instead of once, God told him that he wouldn't be allowed to enter the land they'd been promised for so long.

The moaners and complainers get to go, but you're out, old faithful servant. Sorry.

When John told me the story, I remember thinking that Moses got a bum deal. I still think that today.

John didn't think so. He thought that Moses should have done what God told him to do. He said that God is not in the compromise business. No variance allowed.

I wonder if he feels that way now.

I don't think it matters much what either of us think. God is God. He runs his business like He wants, and as far as I know, He ain't asked for my opinion.

I move on down the creek, past one hundred-foot tall yellow poplars that guard the banks.

I pass the rusted-out remains of a moonshine whiskey still, the ax marks still visible in the curled-in cuts where metal met metal of old 55 gallon drums. Scattered metal tubing and half-broken glass gallon jugs remain along the creek bank, a testimony to a man trying to make a living in a destitute era. Some old-timer recognized that you could hide for a long time in this hollow. The smoke from his cook fire would blend in with the morning mist rising into the mountain air, just like it hides John's small camp fire when he chooses to have one.

The man had to work hard to cook in this spot, carrying in his supplies and hauling out his finished product. I suspect someone ratted him out. Maybe a jealous customer or a competitor. No lawman could find this place on his own. He would need help. Probably need help finding his way back to town when his job was finished.

I hope the whiskey-maker got away and found a new location, suffering nothing more than the loss of his cook pot.

But I doubt it.

Ten minutes later I reach the camp, such as it is--a one man tent, a stack of wood gathered for infrequent fires, food wrappers and tin cans scattered about.

John is sitting on a camp stool leaned back against a big white oak, his rifle across his lap. He is red-eyed and dirty, and he looks as if he hasn't slept since I was last here four days ago. He looks right at me, but it is almost as if he doesn't see me.

"Hey John," I say.

"Were you followed?"

"No man. You know I wouldn't let anyone follow me. I circled around and watched my back trail five times on the way in. No body's following me."

"They're after me man. I saw a helicopter fly over yesterday. I'm pretty sure he didn't see me, though."

"No John, they ain't after you. That helicopter was just a coincidence."

I lie. No need to make things worse.

"Why don't you get in the tent and sleep a while. I'll keep watch. Give me the rifle. I'll just tidy up your camp. I'll build a little fire and fix us some supper after sunset. I brought some steaks. We'll eat like kings--just like the old days."

"OK," John says, but the answer is half-hearted and without a hint of emotion. "You watch that ridge line, now. I though I saw a sniper moving around up there last night, but I could never find him in my scope."

"Sure, man," I say. "You rest easy now. I'm here. I got your back"

I take the rifle and sit down in John's camp chair. It is a changing of the guard, like an old war movie. "You go on to sleep now."

I watch him crawl into the tent. I hope he sleeps a couple of hours. I've got lots to do.