Eyes On The Road
Miss Maude Cringeworthy lives out her days along the Scottish slopes of Cairn Gorm Mountain where roads less traveled or used by man hold fast the ancient dirt; narrow paths winding around tight curves, where corners are a curse, where guard rails had never been invented to save people from themselves or their drinking habits, which might be a reason why imbibing a wee too much might lead to a non repeat of the same actions or such trips again. Roads that have no end in sight but do come to some logical conclusion with the high and lowlands merging with so many boulders giving birth, one on top of the other till they can rise no higher. Such mountains are born to command the landscape and all things being equal on them or in them.
The aged madame lived once so many years ago along the shores of Lorne, where firths and estuaries far away in distance now and memory as well have faded. There where the holding back of bastard seas came frequently on each crabby tide, always angry, ready to slap the land around with mighty waves of fury, crashing large and bold against black boulders smooth and shiny. The loch would enter every crevasse of the land until the ocean owned its soul.
These days the mud narrow passages on mountains are the only way to get around. They consist mostly of fresh rain water, soft dirt and hemp like grasses tread on rarely by people, utilized primarily by sheep as they meander aimlessly about their business, drifting in and out of sight along the land locked perimeter, avoiding oncoming vehicles as they swerve to escape their loss of life and people who get away without a thought or reason.
Maude owns a tiny shack above the higher cliffs which were high enough to cause or inflict instant death if you were so inclined to slip by accident or not. She was not so disposed to danger after storms but preferred walking most days any way come rain or shine for miles as she desired. Chance favors the mind prepared so she wore rubber boots to help her make her climbs up and down and sideways with less struggle to move along.
Mrs. Moog, an ancient woman, was Maude’s only personal contact in this isolated world, which had more to do with logistics than a need for friendship or company of any sort. Moog was a neighbor so it was inevitable they would bump into one another or collide from time to time.
The more elderly woman spoke in a tongue unlike her own, Gaelic or some such nonsense which annoyed Maude to no end. When she would inquire about the simplest of things such as weather, time of day or borrowing some tea and biscuits, Moog would give a shrug of the shoulders, a brief grunt and a memorable frown that seemed to reach the ground when on display.
The old girl could speak perfect English when it was an advantage or edge or for her personal convenience but she preferred to make people unhappy or worse and would simply roll her eyes and walk away to suit her leisure and pleasure which was her way.
Coincidentally, she too once lived by the shores of Lorne and was married once but now she is not. Her husband died at sea some years ago while on a shrimp fishing expedition. His being deceased did not stop people from referring to her as “Mrs. Moog.” Obviously, clearly she is single and clearly she is no longer married. It is all so cumbersome and confusing.
Moog insists that you call her Wanda even though her name is Ann. She has made this demand for many years, even before she met and married Jim Moog, who was a saint of a man, a fisherman down to the marrow of his bones, the salt of the earth. He and his black beard and shrimp boat will be missed. The tiny community still talks about the terrible storm, the splintering of the boat and deaths of the ill fated seven men swallowed up by the sea.
Stories abound with ample speculation as to what happened on board at the time of the incident. There is not much else to do or talk about in the small village so people are inclined to conjure up things and events that may or may not have happened to keep themselves amused.
This tragedy occurred over twenty years ago. There was no question as to how many men perished but there are ongoing debates as to how many deceased bodies were recovered or salvaged from the sea. It is a ridiculous argument because all you have to do is count the headstones and read the names on the tombs to be found at the edge of town in the church cemetery. That should clear things up definitively. Sadly people like to talk so they will keep on talking to hear the sound of their own voices and if for nothing else, to support them in their drinking.
Maude and Ann or Wanda are far removed from such trivial matters these days. They live a distance up in the mountains above it all, where clouds reach up to middle grounds to meet them on certain clear mornings, nearly close enough to pet like fogyish apparitions. Mostly there is rain and the occasional sound of vehicle brakes screeching, horns beeping at obvious mistakes made as someone goes off the ledge. On this one particular sinless day, sunless and innocent, somewhere between the humble residences of Maude and her friend Wanda or whatever; they both jumped, were jolted simultaneously.
Their attention was promptly captured by some loud explosion heard by both girls simultaneously around the vicinity of dead mans curve, which is a narrow, crooked patch of slanted corner of earth, a mere slice of slopping land, a twisted mud patch at best. It was easy to imagine what they were thinking at this less than blessed hour. A sudden distraction surely lead someone and perhaps others off into their oblivion as the mountain itself remains blameless in place but has been known to claim its own with the help and a little push by nature. Rain being its name.
It is not for us to judge if someone took their eyes off the road for just an instance. We are not capable of seeing or hearing such things. Mountains can only do so much. Being large and sharp can be a burden with all those boulders piling up past softened clouds. Maude was equal to the challenge of mystery undertakings and investigations. She remained single her entire life and had more time than others to become investigative.
Feeling brave after equipping the rubber boots and heavy coat, she trudged over to the curve in the road in question. There at the bottom of the crevasse lay a mangled heap of metal consumed by smoke and fire. It was once a new green sedan with living people inside. Maude could see red blood and flesh mingled in the debris. Not exactly a pictorial Christmas scene depicting winter serenity.
Wanda or Ann did not care to understand so she stayed home to make some mutton but she did wonder what it was that she had heard. Perhaps she thought these thoughts in Scottish.
Mountains never speak of rubber on the road or Gaelic and clearly not in English as far as we can figure out or discern. Maude stood their speechless. She and her surroundings understand but do not utter a single word as snow comes down cold and thick without a warning and piles on the surface.
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