As he walked to the northwest he could see more clearly how the remains of the old concrete structure had broken into fragments, tilted to one side and fallen into the water.
There were square holes in the concrete you could fall through. It looked as though the cracks in the concrete under his feet were ready to break any time. Apparently the breaking up and erosion were being caused by settling and probably by the action of the sea. But he guessed that the real destroyer was not the sea but that great ravager of most military installations, lack of appropriations.
It was sort of wonderful to see this old fort, built to assert man’s domination over the earth, slowly sinking into the Atlantic Ocean. It certainly looked like an auspicious place for the interment of this idol.
He found a gate that led below the concrete to a dark chamber where he could hear water down below gurgling loudly. He entered a door with vertical spiked iron posts and I-beams. It was dark inside like a grotto. The only illumination came from below.
He turned to the right by a pockmarked wall and descended five steps leading down to a small drop-off. He descended the stairs, testing the concrete carefully with his foot, went left, went forward, and then right again, into a dark tunnel. There he saw that the light came through a smashed portion of the concrete under which swept the water of the Atlantic.
There was enough light to show a dark high-water mark of the tide against the wall. He set the idol against the wall in a sitting position facing the entrance to the sea and arranged the shirt around it carefully. Within a few hours the tide should come and lift it out of here.
His mind said to the idol, Well, little friend, you’ve had quite a busy existence.
He stepped back, did a small bow with his hands clasped together in the manner he had once learned in India, and then, feeling that things were right at last, turned and left.
Back to daylight and good old sanity. A few crickets were chirping. He heard a roar in the sky and looked up and saw a Concorde airplane slowly circling to the south then rising and speeding.
Good old technology. All this twentieth-century sanity wasn’t as interesting as the old days of his incarceration but he was getting a lot more accomplished, at a social level at least. Other cultures may talk to idols and animal spirits and fissures in rocks and ghosts of the past but it wasn’t for him. He had other things to do.
He had a feeling of freshness as he walked back to the boat. What a fantastic day this was. How many people are ever lucky enough to clean the slate like this? They’re all stuck with their endless problems.
He stood on a mound of sand beside some juniper bushes and said Ahhhh! He threw out his arms. Free! No idols, no Lila, no Rigel, no New York, no more America even. Just free!
He looked up in the sky and whirled. Ahhh, that felt good! He hadn’t whirled like that for years. Since he was four. He whirled again. The sky, the ocean, the hook, the bay, spun round and round him. He felt like a Whirling Dervish.
He walked back to the boat in a kind of relaxed, nothing-to-do way, thinking of nothing whatsoever. Then he remembered when he had been walking down a dirt road like this one near Lame Deer, Montana, on the Northern Cheyenne reservation. It was with Dusenberry and John Wooden Leg, the tribe’s chief, and a woman named LaVerne Madigan from the Association of American Indians.
So long ago. So many things had happened. He would have to get back to the Indians someday. That was where he had started from and that was where he had to get back to.
He remembered it had been spring then, which is a wonderful time in Montana, and the breeze blowing down from the pine trees carried a fresh smell of melting snow and thawing earth, and they were all walking down the road, four abreast, when one of those raggedy non-descript dogs that call Indian reservations home came onto the road and walked pleasantly in front of them.
They followed the dog silently for a while.
Then LaVerne asked John, What kind of dog is that?
John thought about it and said, That’s a good dog.
LaVerne looked curiously at him for a moment and then looked down at the road. Then the corners of her eyes crinkled and as they walked on Phædrus noticed she was sort of smiling and chuckling to herself.
Later, when John had left, she asked Dusenberry, What did he mean when he said, "That’s a good dog?" Was that just "Indian talk"?
Dusenberry thought for a while and said he supposed it was. Phædrus didn’t have any answer either, but for some reason he had been as amused and puzzled as LaVerne was.
A few months later she was killed in an airplane crash, and a few years after that Dusenberry was gone too and Phædrus' own hospitalization and recovery had clouded over all memory of that time and he’d forgotten all about it, but now suddenly, out of nowhere, here it was again.
For some time now he’d been thinking that if he were looking for proof that substance is a cultural heritage from Ancient Greece rather than an absolute reality, he should simply look at non-Greek-derived cultures. If the reality of substance was missing from those cultures that would prove he was right.
Now the image of the raggedy Indian dog was back, and he realized what it meant.
LaVerne had been asking the question within an Aristotelian framework. She wanted to know what genetic, substantive pigeonhole of canine classification this object walking before them could be placed in. But John Wooden Leg never understood the question. That’s what made it so funny. He wasn’t joking when he said, That’s a good dog. He probably thought she was worried the dog might bite her. The whole idea of a dog as a member of a hierarchical structure of intellectual categories known generically as objects was outside his traditional cultural viewpoint.
What was significant, Phædrus realized, was that John had distinguished the dog according to its Quality, rather than according to its substance. That indicated he considered Quality more important.
Now Phædrus remembered when he had gone to the reservation after Dusenberry’s death and told them he was a friend of Dusenberry’s they had answered Oh, yes, Dusenberry. He was a good man. They always put their emphasis on the good, just as John had with the dog. A white person would have said he was a good man or balanced the emphasis between the two words. The Indians didn’t see man as an object to whom the adjective good may or may not be applied. When the Indians used it they meant that good is the whole center of experience and that Dusenberry, in his nature, was an embodiment or incarnation of this center of life.
Maybe when Phædrus got this metaphysics all put together people would see that the value-centered reality it described wasn’t just a wild thesis off into some new direction but was a connecting link to a part of themselves which had always been suppressed by cultural norms and which needed opening up. He hoped so.
The experience of William James Sidis had shown that you can’t just tell people about Indians and expect them to listen. They already know about Indians. Their cup of tea is full. The cultural immune system will keep them from hearing anything else. Phædrus hoped this Quality metaphysics was something that would get past the immune system and show that American Indian mysticism is not something alien from American culture. It’s a deep submerged hidden root of it.