In part II of the dark fantasy, In Older Worlds, a mystery connected to a strange stone stretches deep into the past.
Jennie Stewart, a straight-A student, obsesses over the Mahesh cult, searching through old news papers for answers to something she's not even sure of herself.
Under a burning eclipse a group of friends are viciously pursued by bullies into the Flumes, only to find themselves facing darker perils.
Separated from the others, Rachel Varney crosses into another world, and Nancy Nash, having been there herself, comes home.
Jennie Stewart, a straight-A student, obsesses over the Mahesh cult, searching through old news papers for answers to something she's not even sure of herself.
Under a burning eclipse a group of friends are viciously pursued by bullies into the Flumes, only to find themselves facing darker perils.
Separated from the others, Rachel Varney crosses into another world, and Nancy Nash, having been there herself, comes home.
Read the first three chapters here!
Copyright © Robert Goble, 2012
All Rights reserved
Cover photograph © Rick Wallace, 2012
Not
limiting the rights of the copyright reserved above, no part of this
publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, by copying electronically,
printing, Emailing, faxing, photocopying, or stored or transmitted by any other
means, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction.
The characters, names, incidents, and places are creations of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any likeness they may bear to any actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental.
Pony Rides the Sunbeam
Bogie threw his keys on the kitchen table, and his dog,
Barney, enthusiastically greeted him, nuzzling his legs and gently biting his
hand. Bogie took a beer from the fridge and a box of dog biscuits from the
cabinet.
“Miss me?”
Bogie
tossed him a treat, which he made short work of.
Barney followed him to the bathroom with a big, wide doggie
grin, looking up almost worshipfully as Bogie relived himself. Together they
went to the living room, where Bogie fell heavily onto the couch. He took a
folded piece of paper out of the inner pocket of his black motorcycle jacket,
then tossed the jacket on the easy chair his dad used to sit on, when he’d come
home tired from work at Kennecott. Next to it was a framed photo of his dad and
one burned-out candle in a dusty holder.
Bogie turned on the television and stared blankly,
letting the aggravations of the day pass through his mind. Scenes of a defiant
Saddam Hussein mixed with a constant mental replay of his foreman accusing him of
being inept. President H. W. Bush, not the image of a tough guy, announced more
sanctions against Iraq for
invading Kuwait, and that a
massive build up of American and “coalition” forces was taking place in Saudi Arabia in
anticipation for a possible attack to drive Saddam (Sa-damn Insane, as the joke
went) back to where he belonged.
The urge to quit work and join the Marines almost became
overwhelming. Barney hopped onto the couch and snuggled his head onto Bogie’s
lap.
“Who’d take care of you if I went off to hump sand dunes
and get shot at by rag-heads?”
A contented Barney snorted and made himself comfortable.
The television became unbearable as talking heads began to swooningly discuss
Mikhail Gorbachev’s Nobel Peace Prize. Bogie turned off the television.
“Should have given the damn thing to Reagan. Sort of
discredits the whole Nobel thing, doesn’t it, boy?”
Silence filled the room. Outside, evening light made the
October trees glow. A car passed, blasting that stupid new song from the band
Warrant, “Cherry Pie.” From the moment he’d first heard the song, he’d hated
it.
He
used the heels of his leather boots to move a stack of books on unexplained
mysteries and solar phenomenon, accidentally knocking to the floor a couple of
books on Philolaus and his Counter-Earth theory. “Antichthon,” he whispered.
Barney’s
eyes shifted as Bogie reached for a manila folder full of papers, sitting on a
shelf. He opened it. Inside were various notes he’d been collecting since the
day Donnie—
Writing!
Something had been written on the back of the map Donnie’s brother had given
him. He unfolded it and let the afternoon sun that shined through the window
reveal faint images of words that had been erased. He carefully studied it
letter by letter, grabbed a pen and another piece of paper, and slowly
transcribed what he saw.
Pony rides
the sunbeam
Take me far
away
Ere my Eden’s wind doth blow
In paths of
light I stray
Pray my soul
with the eagle’s cry
Will conquer
the burning sky
Let the vines of time cover their eyes
Let the vines of time cover their eyes
In older
worlds I’ll stray
“Shit!” Bogie whispered.
Giving Barney an affectionate nudge
to get him off his lap, Bogie stood, found a couple of No. 12 welding lenses he
kept taped together on the shelf by his notes, and went outside. He put the
lenses to his eyes and stared at the sun, until it fell behind the Oquirrh Mountains.
15
October 11, 1857
Freezing
wind disturbed river grasses. Coyotes kept their distance. Orrin Porter
Rockwell lay still, below a starless sky and misty moon, prematurely awakened
from a needed sleep. His hand slowly moved to his knife. Under orders not to
shed blood save in self-defense, he waited and listened. His own men were
farther away than the enemy bivouac—to which he was close enough to hear their
snores—so the footsteps he heard had to have been a sentry posted to keep watch
over the horses.
Rockwell
and his men had burned several miles of grass (essential to maintain livestock)
ahead of the troops sent by President James Buchanan to wage war against the
“rebellious” Mormons, take control of Great Salt Lake City,
and hang its leaders. That evening he’d had the pleasure of listening to the
campfire grumblings of Colonel Edmund B. Alexander’s infantrymen as news spread
of raids destroying hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of supply wagons.
The poor bluecoats shivered on winter’s doorstep without crucial provisions,
and Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston’s troops, who’d left later from Fort
Leavenworth, wouldn’t be arriving for
days, if not, weeks. The name of Lot Smith, the fellow scout responsible for
the raids, was becoming infamous, and Rockwell quietly chuckled.
Rockwell
had ordered the burning of Fort
Supply. A gristmill, a
sawmill, a thresher, and more than one hundred log houses, had gone up in
flames before his eyes. Stockade and straw disappeared in the billowing
inferno, as property owners begged to be allowed the dignity to burn what
they’d spent years building with their own hands. Fort
Bridger suffered the same fate: two
major outposts that wouldn’t fall into the hands of the U.S. military
invaders.
Echo
Canyon, the same canyon through which the first pioneers had passed to enter
the Great Salt Lake Valley back in ’47, had been turned into a fortified death
trap should the troops try to pass, but it looked, instead, as if Alexander
would attempt to bypass the resistance by following Ham’s Fork to make a turn
through the mountains near Bear Lake, then take the city from the North.
With first-hand memories of the Missouri mobbings; the
cold-blooded murder of the prophet Joseph Smith, Rockwell’s personal friend;
the expulsion of a peaceful people from their beautiful city, Nauvoo, Illinois,
denied their American right to their freedom of religion, their sufferings ignored
by an indifferent government, Rockwell wasn’t about to stand idle during this
last and final outrage. When the call came from Brigham Young for him to saddle
up and help hold back a third of the U.S. army to protect his people, he
rode proud.
A grunt and the sound of urine splattering nearby. His
hand stayed close to his knife, but he relaxed, closed his eyes, and rested
until the sun peeked through the sagebrush on the hillside above the creek.
It’s all wheat, he thought, then gathered his
blankets.
At
camp he sent an express rider with a message to General Daniel H. Wells of the
Nauvoo Legion, detailing the frustration and falling morale among Alexander’s
troops. His stomach cramped with hunger as he cooked up what was left of some
flour and water. His backside ached against the cold rock he sat on to warm
himself by the fire. Several men studied a crude map. Someone mentioned Camp Winfield.
“I
was just there.” He turned to the men. “I need eight more to go in, play ‘em
some music tonight” —music, meaning cowbells, pot lids, and anything else that
would make noise in the dark and echo in the creek bottoms. “Keep ‘em on guard.
Don’t let ‘em sleep.”
“They
been firing artillery,” one of the men said.
“Raids
got ‘em shook up. They’re positioned defensively.”
Hoof
beats drew everyone’s attention to the far side of camp. A large man rode in on
a tired horse. He dismounted, led his horse to the creek, then walked to where
most of the men had gathered around the fire. A couple of them silently parted
to let him though. He lifted the coffee pot from the coals with a gloved hand
then poured some into a tin cup—seemingly uninterested in asking the cup
owner’s permission.
“Orrin,”
he said, lifting the steaming cup in salute.
“Hick,”
Rockwell said, then turned his attention back to the men studying the map.
Bill
Hickman, eyebrows arching over wild eyes, emanated a dangerous humor. He nudged
a fellow and with a voice too loud for the frosty morning, said, pointing to
Rockwell’s long hair, “Hangs like my horse’s tail. It’s what’s behind it you
gotta watch out fir.”
The
conversation died. Several men moved away as if they’d suddenly forgotten
something important. A younger scout, not much older than fourteen, paled, his
eyes widening.
Rockwell
slowly turned, six guns bulging in his coat pockets. A grin grew under his wiry
beard. “What’cha got for me?”
“Sent
my two brothers to watch them soldiers. Ain’t seen ‘em since. I think they took
‘em. But I did get word a massive herd of cattle just moved up Ham’s Fork. Five
hundred head, maybe more.”
The
younger scout let out a sigh of relief and went about his business.
“Tell
me more,” Rockwell said.
“It’s
unguarded.”
Several
men exchanged glances. Rockwell folded his arms and stared thoughtfully at the
ground. “Unguarded…doesn’t sound right to me. Could be a trap. We also gotta
find out ‘bout those boys.” Turning to the others, he yelled, “What do you say
we go have us a look?”
¯
“I
guess we’re not making music tonight,” Henry Brown said. He adjusted the scarf
that wrapped around his hat and chin. Sun-melted frost dripped from sagebrush
and made a light mist in the low places.
Sylvester
Wilson, a fellow Legionnaire, rode as close as he could, singing, “Old
Squaw-killer Johnston’s
on the way, du-da, du-da; he swears the Mormons he will slay, du-da, du-da,
day,” to the tune of “De Camptown Races.” He looked like a furry creature in
his buffalo robe. When he quieted down, he leaned over and said, “That’s ol’
Bill Hickman. I heard he’s one of the men who set fire to the supply trains
over Green River. Lots of wagons gone up in
flames. Didn’t kill nobody.”
Brown
watched the man who rode alongside Rockwell. When Rockwell raised his arm for
the riders to stop, the man beside him turned in his saddle and surveyed the
group. Henry couldn’t look him in the eyes.
Wilson leaned closer. “He
was one of ‘em who stood up in the darkest days in Missouri. Fought the mobs. Protected our
homes and families. Mobs would come take everything we had. They’d go take it
back. Danites.”
“Here
we go again,” Brown said, thinking of his young, pregnant wife and his children
left behind in the parched Tooele Valley west of the Oquirrh Mountains.
Dirty, murderous Goshutes on one side, the U.S. army on the other, and
crickets from above; all he could think of was whether or not they were getting
a harvest without men or horses to do the harvesting. Would they starve? In the
morning cold, burying his face deeper into his scarf, wondering why they were
stopping, his molten anger at the Gentiles and their relentless anti-Mormonism
hardened into something more than determination.
Three
men rode up from a small fork in the creek and joined Rockwell and Hickman.
“I’ll
be darned if that ain’t Lot Smith!” Wilson
said.
“What
are they doin’ up here?”
Rockwell
made the sign to move forward. The Legionnaires followed. Bivouacked below were
the men under Lot’s command, more than enough
to double their forces.
¯
High on a bluff, lazing in the sun, and forgetting the
morning’s stinging cold that harbingered the deadly snows of winter, Brown and
Wilson waited for Rockwell and those he’d taken with him to scout the nearby
hills for bluecoats to return—he hoped with news about the two missing men and
a decision on what to do about the cattle (far more than Hickman had reported)
that peacefully grazed in the low, grassy areas along the creek. When Brown had
lost count at nearly a thousand he turned to Wilson and asked, “Is it true? What they say
about Rockwell?”
“Probably
not. But what is it you’re asking?”
“Did
Brother Joseph really promise him if he never cut his hair no enemy would ever
touch him?”
“I’d
say that story’s true. I can tell you he’s walked away from more tight spots
than you or I ever would. He’s faced armed mobs, bad Indians, horse thieves,
stagecoach robbers, drunken ruffians of every sort, and angry women all the
same.”
Brown
laughed at the last item on the list. “I hear it was him tried to kill ol’
Governor Boggs.”
“That
devil had more enemies than the Mormons. He put out the order for our
extermination, but I think whether any of us had vengeance in mind or not,
someone else beat him to the punch. If Rockwell had fired the shots, ol’
Lilburn wouldn’t have survived.”
“Pst!”
One of Smith’s men waved for Brown and Wilson to follow. “We’re movin’!”
¯
Lot
Smith tugged on the reigns, his horse turned, and he faced the assembling men.
“We take the beef, we take their food, we take their food, they can’t take our
homes!”
Brown’s
fists tightened. He braced himself in the saddle, waiting for the signal to
charge. His body vibrated. When Smith said the word “homes,” Brown saw, in his
mind, women, children, and elderly, once again loading their wagons, handcarts,
wheelbarrows, anything that would take their humble belongings, and heading south
to Spanish Fork, where they would await word to flee to Mexico should the army
break through the rag-tag resistance in the mountains; their vacant homes and
barns, filled with dry straw, with a few men left behind ready to burn what
they’d labored ten years to build, the civilization they’d scraped from the
desert valley floor.
“Now,
hold on!” Rockwell said to Smith. “I don’t like it. We haven’t scouted enough.
This could be a trap. We should wait a little longer.”
Smith,
younger than Rockwell, shook his head and laughed behind his long, black beard.
A few quiet seconds passed. He held out his hands as if nonplussed. “Hardly a
picket guard and one damn wagon master! They couldn’t have handed us an easier
victory!”
Visibly
flustered, Rockwell raised a finger to Smith’s face. “Ol’ Alexander’s
discovered what a damn fool you are! There’s likely an ambush waiting in the
thickets and bottoms!”
The
smile disappeared from Smith’s face. He sidled away from Rockwell, wiped his
mouth with his coat sleeve, then jammed his spurs into his horse’s belly. “Ha!”
he yelled. “Come on, boys!”
“Damn
you, Smith!” Rockwell hollered. He swung his horse around and made after him
down the bluff. “You shit for brains! You’ll get good men killed!”
As
Lot’s men joined the charge, the rest of the
Legionnaires hesitated, bewildered, waiting for a clear order to follow. Then
Rockwell’s screaming voice echoed through the close hills. “Damn it, boys! What
are you waiting for? Get your granny-arses movin’!”
Brown
and Wilson whipped their horses into a frantic gallop. Far ahead, Smith and
Rockwell led the charging, screaming men. A few infantry guards scrambled in
terror to drive the herd ahead of the charge. Brown raised his rifle and fired
above their heads. Dirt from horse’s hooves flew into the air. Wilson hollered like an Indian and fired his
pistol at the sky.
The
steers started away, a giant, bovine wall of frightened confusion. One line of
men followed Smith alongside the herd to keep them from going farther up the
creek. Several other men kicked up dust and aimed their rifles at the pale
guards (boys barely old enough to grow whiskers), who, surrounded, raised their
hands to the sky and surrendered, pleading for their lives.
Rockwell
whistled and yelled, “Separate the herd!” He pointed at Brown and Wilson. “You
two! Take thirty head and drive ‘em up the bluff!”
They
slowed their charge. Whistling and hollering, they pushed part of the herd into
the creek. As the cattle hit the water, they slowed and headed into the willows.
Some stumbled, splashing over the bank. Brush and small trees, whipped and
crashed. Clear, sparkling water churned to mud.
Though
Rockwell had said thirty, Brown counted forty-six head by the time they had
their bunch separated and grouped at bluff. Many of the men already had theirs
above the creek and into the sage.
Lines
of cattle pushed dust into the afternoon sky. The massive herd moved slowly
from the meadows into the hills. Brown yipped and hollered until his throat
hurt.
Wilson caught up to him
as they slowly moved on tired horses. He gestured with his head toward the
other side of the creek. Soldiers, silhouetted against the sun, crested the
hills. They seemed almost ghostly in the haze. Brown’s stomach hardened. He
touched his rifle.
“They
been watching us for some time,” Wilson
said. “Gotta be a whole company up there.”
“What
the hell are they doing? Why haven’t they attacked?”
Wilson then tipped his
head the other direction. Two Indians on horseback, barely discernable, watched
from a distant hilltop. “Shoshone,” he said. “Gotta be more. I just can’t see
‘em yet.”
“Why
do I get the feeling there’s something else going on here?”
“Because
there is,” Wilson
said.
¯
Tiny,
glowing sparks from the fire floated into the sky as a light snow fell. Brown,
Wilson, and several other men huddled together. Though they bragged from time
to time about their role in the raid, hunger and fatigue subdued them.
“Things
are heating up,” Andrew Allen said. “Soldiers ain’t releasing Hickman’s brothers.
Rockwell knew that wagon master. Called him ‘Rupe.’ Scared him such he blanched
and about lost control in his breeches. Told him to tell Colonel Alexander we’d
kill every man in his command unless he turns our men loose. Then he left the
teamsters twenty head of cattle so they wouldn’t starve.”
“I
still don’t get it. At last count we drove away pert near thirteen, maybe
fourteen hundred head, and the soldiers looked on like we was puttin’ on a
show,” Wilson
said.
Brown,
fighting to stay warm in a wet blanket, said: “I been expecting an Indian coup.
Should have at least tried to stampede the cattle by now. They been poppin’ up
more and more closer we get to Bridger.”
“They’re
interested in our movements, soldiers and Indians alike.” Allen said.
“Halloo!”
The
group stirred and turned to see who’d spoken. A man appeared, barely visible in
the fire light and falling snow. Perkins, who’d united his cattle with Brown
and Wilson shortly after the raid, reached for his rifle. Wilson put a hand over his arm. “Hold it!”
“Who
be you?” Allen asked.
The
man didn’t answer. Wearing rabbit fur pants and coat and wrapped in a buffalo
hide, he motioned with his hand toward the fire.
“Make
him some room,” Wilson
said.
Brown
scooted aside, and the man placed two deerhide sacks before him. When he sat
down, he pulled back his hood, revealing the face of an Indian, perhaps in his
thirties. He untied one of the sacks and lifted out a strip of dried buffalo
meat, then passed the sack.
“Aishen. Thank you,” Wilson said.
The
man grunted, then opened the other sack, which nearly overflowed with pine
nuts. He passed it around. Brown, sick with hunger, relished both the meat and
the nuts in one bite.
“Who
are you,” Wilson
asked.
“Ne Hinni?” Who am I?
Wilson nodded.
“Weahwewa.”
Wilson gave the name a
try, then, pointing to himself said, “Sylvester.”
The
other men introduced themselves, and Weahwewa nodded his head. When the men
looked as if they’d had their fill, he produced a small pouch. Inside were
finely polished stones, crystals and agates. He took one, placed it in Wilson’s hand, then placed
another in Brown’s hand. He stood, leaving the sacks of food by the fire, and,
without another word, left the group and walked into the snowy night.
Brown
held what he thought might be a piece of smoky quartz and admired it in the
firelight.
“So
peculiar,” Allen said. “Don’t know if I’ll ever get them red men.”
“I
think he gets us,” Wilson
said.
16
Tuesday, May 8, 1984
“Sign
here,” BJ said, pointing to a line on a sheet. A smiling lady, holding her
baby, scribbled her name next to her voting information, then took a ballot.
“I
think she’s a Sadler.” Norm said. He shifted in his chair, smoothed down his
tweed jacket, then straightened his tie.
“Good
family. No Rosa Jean minions there, I don’t think.”
“Hope
not.”
“What
are you reading?”
Norm
slid his newspaper to BJ. “Soviets just announced they’ll boycott the
Olympics.”
“No!”
BJ laughed and looked over the article.
“Can’t
come up with anything original, can they?
“Let’s
see…bloody proletariat revolution? No. The French did that first. The bomb?
They had to steal that. Most technological advancements? Nope. Had to steal
those, too. Man on the moon? Nyet.”
“Sputnik.”
“Ah! And I was doing so well.”
"Don’t worry, they got it from the Germans. But you have to admit, we boycotted the last Olympics over their invasion of Afghanistan and the UN’s apparent if not tacit support of it. And so why do they boycott this time? Um….” He read down the article. “The commercialization of the games. Wow! Oh. Here we go: lack of security for Russian athletes. The U.S. is using the games for political purposes, so that violates the Olympic charter. Why doesn’t this reporter state the obvious and say the Ruskies had nothing better than to respond in kind like kids on the playground. Does anyone actually take seriously their moral grandstanding?”
"Don’t worry, they got it from the Germans. But you have to admit, we boycotted the last Olympics over their invasion of Afghanistan and the UN’s apparent if not tacit support of it. And so why do they boycott this time? Um….” He read down the article. “The commercialization of the games. Wow! Oh. Here we go: lack of security for Russian athletes. The U.S. is using the games for political purposes, so that violates the Olympic charter. Why doesn’t this reporter state the obvious and say the Ruskies had nothing better than to respond in kind like kids on the playground. Does anyone actually take seriously their moral grandstanding?”
“Maybe
that would be editorializing.”
“The
pinko press editorializes all the time! Just look what they do to Reagan.”
“Yeah,
but the Soviet way of life is the great social hope for humanity. You can’t
criticize it or you’d be anti-intellectual, unwashed.”
BJ
laughed through his teeth, tossed aside the paper, and looked at his watch.
“Time to close the polls.”
“Time
to watch Magna become a city and the Rosa Jean minions get their comeuppance!”
“You
did see this other article, didn’t you?”
“Which
one is that?” Norm picked the paper back up, and BJ pointed to an article
buried in the local news. “No, I didn’t. ‘MAGNA CITIZENS COULD PAY FOR THEIR CHOICE IN HIGHER TAXES.’
Who wrote this smut?
“‘Kennecott
and Hercules would provide the lion’s share of the tax base, up to eighty
percent of the estimated $185 million assessed property valuation…increased to
more than ninety percent when Kennecott completes its 1.2 billion dollar
expansion project….The new city would be heavily dependent on the world copper
market….A downturn in industry…taxpayers could be left holding the bag…massive
increases…curtailing of city services….’ You’ve got to be kidding me!” Norm’s
face turned red. “There’s nothing here about the potential for attracting
massive amounts of business by lowering taxes and making city regulations
business friendly, which is far more realistic. It’s a scare tactic, is all.
Nothing here of substance. Let me guess…who did this reporter talk to?”
BJ
secured the ballot box with a padlock. “It’s not what it says that’s the
problem. We’ve heard it ever since the incorporation question came about. It’s
the timing.”
Creating
a large newspaper ball with several vigorous grips of his hand, Norm threw it
as he would a basketball. It bounced off the side of the garbage can and landed
on the floor.
A
woman spoke from among a small group of Rosa Jean supporters. “Good thing our
councilmen are intent on cleaning up Magna. Littering is such a shame.”
¯
Had
Jennie Stewart gone to observe the vote with Ms. Delfini’s class, she would
have earned enough extra credit to rescue her straight-A report card, but she
couldn’t stomach spending any more time around that woman than she absolutely
had to, even if it meant her good grade. Instead, she happily indulged in her
new obsession (added upon her many other obsessions, dark chocolate being one
of them, Rob Lowe and Mat Dillon being a couple of others), the Mahesh cult.
She asked herself how something so awful could be so interesting, then asked
why she couldn’t take her eyes off the dead woman as she passed in the car?
Why, in the third grade, she’d read every book in the school library on tarantulas?
Why she’d spent the sixth grade reading about burn victims and first aid? The
answer: just because. Underneath, a little voice said, Maybe because they scare you.
“When
Doves Cry,” by Prince, seeped softly from her radio. She didn’t sing along as
she normally would have, but instead engrossed herself in a book about famous
cults of the twentieth century. She found chapters on the Manson Family, the
Symbionese Liberation Army and the Patty Hurst case, Children of God, Hare
Krishna, Scientology, Jim Jones and the Jonestown massacre (sounded to her like
acid rock bands), but nothing on the Mahesh cult. She noticed a pattern with
some of them, how they seemed to have roots in the sixties counter culture and
alternative philosophies. All of them had one thing in common: the sacrifice of
individual freedoms.
She
closed that book and opened another. This had a small article dedicated to the
Mahesh cult, with a badly printed black-and-white photo of a group of hippies
casually standing together by a grossly decorated old bus. One of them in
particular caught her attention. He had a handsome “Jesus” look. A form-fitting
button-down shirt with unfastened sleeves added a slender attractiveness. She
paid attention to the way the shirt opened over his chest.
Everyone
else seemed to radiate from him. A young girl with blond hair looked at him
worshipfully, while another, a gypsy type, bowed her head in his direction but
seemed to look at his sandals. Most of the group was female, with a few males
woven among them, their faces blurred. But one face in particular stood out
among the women, framed in long, straight, dark hair, stabbed with dark
eyebrows, shining, vivid eyes, and a delicate chin. The attitude of superiority
played a low, reactive note in Jennie’s stomach. She’d seen that look
before…somewhere.
The
article read:
Overshadowed by the Manson Family
murders, this communal cult arose in San
Francisco in the late sixties during what later became
known as “The Summer of Love.” Sharing many similar characteristics to the
Manson Family, this group of wayward youth centered itself around a charismatic
leader, George Doyle Lutz, AKA “Mahesh.”
It has been reported that Lutz’ belief in a pseudo-Eastern mysticism and
notions of an imminent collapse of capitalism was the driving force behind his
teachings of apocalyptic environmentalism and race war.
Lutz, known to be an avid reader, had a
fascination with the books On the
Road, by Jack Kerouac and Thoreau’s Walden, and also the philosophy of Friedrich
Nietzche. He dabbled in the occult, encouraging practices that, through the aid
of hallucinogens, would supposedly generate psychic visions.
After a sojourn through Mexico, he and his growing band of followers
retreated to the Rocky Mountains to prepare
for the coming Armageddon. Their goal was to bring on this war by eliminating
organized religion, something he saw as the only way to free humanity from the
oppression that denied its authenticity and true potential. According to
testimony during the trial for the murders of Bruce Royal Bills and Gary “Alabama”
Mott, information came forward that their target was the leadership of the
Mormon Church.
A tip led to the raid on the communal
farm in Henefer, Utah, where a large cache of drugs and guns
and thousands of rounds of ammunition were confiscated. Along with Lutz, two
other cult members were found guilty of aiding in the murders: Deborah “Shining
Star” Louis and Stacey Leah Goodman. Though Goodman has since died in prison,
Louis still serves her sentence of fifteen years to life. It is believed that
others involved in the murders are still at large.
Chills
like thousands of tiny pin pricks raised gooseflesh on Jennie’s arms and neck.
She looked up at her copy of Walden
that sat on the shelf next to Leaves of
Grass, her Jane Austen and L.M. Montgomery collections, the Bible, and the
Book of Mormon. Her eyes narrowed on the picture of the hippie man, and she
thought of “The Last Supper” by Leonardo da Vinci.
“Walden? Mr. Lutz, you can’t have it!”
¯
BJ
slowly placed the last ballot onto the stack, the stack that had been
independently counted by Oliver Weissman. Oliver stepped back, stood tall, put
his hands on his hips, much like the comic book version of Superman BJ had
grown up with, took a deep breath, then said: “That’s it. The count’s in. You
boys sure did put up a good fight.” He extended a hand to Norm, who paused ever
so subtly before taking it.
“All
the precincts are in!” Rosa Jean said as she entered the polling area like
royalty. “What’s our count here?”
“Yea
two hundred and eighty-eight. Nay four hundred twelve in this one!” Oliver
said.
“We
carried every precinct!” she said.
Norm
quietly shut the books containing voter information and signatures, books that
would go to the county offices. “Well….” He loosened his tie then let out a
long breath. “Supper’s getting cold.” He lightly rapped the table with his
knuckles, adjusted the lapels of his jacket, then walked to the doors without
another word.
“It’s
an historic day!” Rosa Jean said.
Gordie
worked in the background, securing a distant hall. He became a wan shadow that
reflected on the tile under security lights.
Stacking
chairs, BJ watched Delfini enter, followed by several students, probably
working to get hands-on civic experience for her class. She gave Rosa Jean a
cooing hug, kisses on both cheeks, then she turned her attention back to the
kids. Gordie stayed in the background, probably waiting for everyone to leave
so he could finish locking up. BJ sent him a subtle salute, which he returned with
a wave of his hand.
On
the way out the door, BJ saw Chap walking slowly to his car. His cane clicked
on the concrete. In the mild night air, he closed the distance between them,
his feet scraping in a way that made him feel not so young anymore.
“Like
a bite to eat?” BJ asked.
Chap
hooked his cane over his arm, then fingered through his keys under the street
light.
“Feel
like I’ve been bitten, rather,” he said, then opened his car door. “Think I’ll
go home and have some herbal tea to settle my stomach.”
“Yeah,”
was all BJ could say.
“You
know, Magna will always be what it is. People get scared, never take the leap
of faith that’ll carry them to their better potential. This place will dwindle,
forget its heritage, and West
Valley will grow to
become an economic powerhouse. I can’t take the apathy anymore, BJ.”
“There’s
always next year.”
“Nah.
This might not come up again for a generation—if it ever will. We squandered
our chance, gave up self-determination for a sense of security, security that
will crush economic growth with its benevolence. The council will cry to the
county for money. They’ll get their crumbs, the people will get fireworks and
parades, but Main Street
will never revitalize, because no business will be profitable being crushed
between the weak economy and the indifferent county bureaucracy. They worship
big government, my friend.”
BJ
nodded his head.
Chap
struggled into his seat and set his cane on the floor on the passenger side. He
sat quietly for a moment, then said: “Our immediate problem now will be the
unions. They’re too stubborn to renegotiate. Kennecott won’t have any other
choice but to lay off a lot of workers. This will be an even worse disaster for
our community. You watch. The same people who supported this anti-incorporation
campaign will support the unions in their quixotic crusade. They’re hurting us,
BJ.”
“They
have a political monopoly here. How do we break its back?”
Chap
thought for a moment, then said: “Create a new town council and force the West
Oquirrh Council to dissolve. Make it so we’ll all have to answer to the voters, instead of half of us being
appointed by unions and local industry. Let the people of Magna decide. Haven’t
you noticed lately a lot more of an independent conservative base has been
moving into the newer neighborhoods? We have to tap into that.”
“How
do we do it?”
Chap
smiled. “It’s late. We’ll talk.” He turned on the engine and shut the door.
BJ
watched him drive away. Listening to the crickets and feeling the loneliness of
the parking lot next to the ball field, he felt tempted to leave his car and
walk home. He kicked a small pebble, and it clicked, echoing into the darkness.
17
Thursday, May 10, 1984
A
workman, hands in dirty leather gloves, deftly twisted wires holding the new,
gleaming chain-ink fence to its posts. Two others unrolled the heavy fencing as
they went. Watching their progress, Dwight Donaldson, company president and
major shareholder, probed, with his foot, deep ruts in the playground lawn left
over from a cement truck that had filled the post holes.
An
upper management suit, acting as an official escort, promptly began to explain:
“We addressed the damage with the school district. We’re bringing in
landscapers to—”
“I’ll
personally see to the expenses,” Donaldson said. “We’ll keep this on my books.”
“Yes,
sir.”
After
a quiet moment, Donaldson pointed at a slope north of the flumes. “I was born
in the shadow of that hill.”
“I
beg your pardon?”
“Ragtown.
My father worked the mill.”
“Ah!
Yes. Ragtown. I’ve heard stories.”
“What
have you heard?” Donaldson asked, rearranging a small bundle of books and
papers.
“The
early copper company had first built it to house workers. It eventually had to
be moved because of heavy smoke from the mill and the old power house. There
were also flooding and disease problems.”
“You
could taste the sulfur in the air. Could hardly grow so much as a potted
flower, let alone a garden.”
Donaldson opened a manila folder that held several
old black-and-white photos. Handing one to the manager, he said, “Tell me what
you see.”
After
studying it, he pointed toward the hill. “I see the row houses, the old power
house, several buildings that no longer stand.”
Donaldson
smiled. “Is that all?”
“I’m
not sure what you want me to see.”
“That’s
all right.” He took the photo and placed it back in the folder. Several people
approached from the parking lot, and he turned his attention to them. “Our
guests have arrived. Please see to it they get the very best treatment.
Wherever I go, they can go.”
“Yes,
sir.”
The
manager stepped aside.
“Chap,
you old rascal!” Donaldson said, vigorously embracing his friend. “Ruth!” He
took her hand and kissed it.
“None
of that silliness!” Ruth said. “Come get a hug!”
“Save
some for us,” Sheryl said.
A
cool breeze harmonized with early summer sun.
Judith
stepped forward, her eyes met Donaldson’s, and something inside, undimmed by
old age, recognized the young woman he’d once worshiped—and for whom he’d spent
his life secretly grieving. It should have been me, he thought. He brought her
close, slender and frail in her soft sweater, letting her gray hair touch his
face. He remembered sego lilies, a picnic at the base of Wild Cat Rock, and the
touch of her youthful fingers against his.
Unwilling
to let the moment end, he offered her his elbow, and she took it.
“New
developments,” Chap said. “You’ve read the news. We lost the incorporation
vote, or I should say Magna lost. And then there’s the girl….”
Donaldson
subtly raised the hand that held the books and papers. Turning to his escort,
“It looks as though our party has increased in number. Would it be possible to
find a vehicle that could accommodate us comfortably? I’d like to give them a
tour to explain the new concentrator and modernizations. We’ll also be going to
the smelter and then to the mine.”
“Certainly,
sir.” The manager turned to leave.
“Oh!
And by the way, please have a lunch prepared for when we reach the mine
offices.” Waiting until the manager was out of ear shot, Donaldson passed his
books and papers to Chap. “He’s green, but he’s a good kid. Hasn’t had the
chance to truly piss anyone off yet. I don’t envy him.”
Chap
held up the same photo Donaldson had shown to his escort. He squinted his eyes,
laughed, shook his head, then put it back in the folder.
“You
know I had to stay neutral in that campaign,” Donaldson said.
“The
opposition has tremendous influence in the local press. We could have used more
help there at least.”
Donaldson
sighed. “I have to be careful. I can’t show my hand.”
Chap
leaned on his cane and stared at Donaldson. “What would it have mattered at
this time in our lives?”
What’s
the word on the missing girl?” Donaldson asked, changing the subject.
“I’ve
asked my grandson.” Judith said. “He shrugs and walks away. Something’s eating
at him. I’ve approached him delicately. I might have to be more direct, but I
suspect he’s passed through to the other world. If he hasn’t….”
“I’ve
taken small journeys.” Sheryl said. “I don’t have the strength to go for very
long. There’s no telling how far she’s gone. I’ve left it up to Gordie. He
hopes circumstances will be better than they seem.”
Donaldson
followed the trail on the other side of the fence with his eyes. Blocked. The
grass might grow back until someone cuts the fence open again—always the same
spot. Pointing to a worn, leather-bound journal, Donaldson said: “Find the map
inside. I believe I’ve pinpointed the source of all our trouble.”
Ruth
took what Chap held except for the journal. He carefully turned handwritten
pages, with the brown ink fading, and found a map showing sites of important
actions that had taken place during President Buchanan’s “Blunder,” or what
others called his “bloodless” war against the Mormons. “What did you see that I
didn’t?”
Pointing
at thin lines indicating creeks and rivers, Donaldson traced a route from Big
Sandy to Green River. “That dot is Camp Winfield.
Just north of there is Ham’s Fork, which today is in southwestern Wyoming, formerly and briefly Utah territory.” He took a topographical map
from Ruth and unfolded it. “Here’s the route Porter Rockwell took when he led
the Legionnaires with about fourteen hundred head of cattle seized from the
invading US
army.” He cleared his throat. “Here’s where we lost track of the story, until I
found this—Ruth, if you don’t mind…” Donaldson drew another manila folder from
the bundle. “It’s a letter written by Sylvester Wilson, a legionnaire who rode
in the charge with Rockwell and Smith to rustle the cattle. He describes being
one of the few chosen to stay with the herd, while the others were sent to act
as decoys for the troops who were following them, or at least to slow them
down.”
Chap
took the folder and carefully studied the pages inside. “They rested at the Fort Bridger
site, which had recently been burned, but then took a more southwesterly
direction, crossed the Bear River, then passed through Echo Canyon.
That makes sense.”
“Let
me see that,” Judith said. The others waited in silence as she read. She let
her finger hover over a line. As if not wanting to lose her place, she seemed
to try to keep an eye on one page and at the same time lift another page to
take a second look. Then she read:
“…we moved the herd north, toward Fort Buenaventura.
The Shoshone joined us as we followed the river to good pastures and little
snow. It was then Rockwell and the good Chief Washakie arrived. And who would
be with them but that fool boy Nicholas. I was angry with him. He should have
been helping with the harvest and the evacuation. He said he could do both, but
his brother needed him for a short time. I told him I’m his brother, but
Washakie looked at me such I couldn’t look him back in the eyes. He asked for
our tokens. What followed, I’m not to speak of, but, Oh! The glorious sights
mine eyes have beheld….”
Judith
raised her head. Her hand subtly trembled. Whether it was old age or
excitement, Donaldson couldn’t tell.
“Uncle
Nick!” Judith said. “I remember sitting under the table at my grandparent’s
home in Coonville when Uncle Nick would come by for a visit. He’s related to my
mother’s side of the family through marriage. He always wore a hat because of
the scar from the arrow that had pierced his skull. He was a very old man then.
I was such a little girl. I would listen spellbound to his stories of when he ran
away from the Grantsville settlement to go live with the Shoshone and his
adventures as a Pony Express rider. Did you know the Shoshone really call
themselves Newe? It simply means
‘people.’”
“I
thought you’d like to see that letter,” Donaldson said.
“Where
did you find it?”
“I
have my connections.”
“Oh!”
Judith slapped his arm. “You always do!”
Chap
raised a finger to catch the other’s attention, then folded his hands
thoughtfully behind his back, took a few paces away from the new fence, then
said: “So what was Buchanan’s blunder really all about? Was it to quell a
nonexistent Mormon rebellion? He ran as a Democrat and beat Kit Carson, who ran
for the newly formed Republican Party. The big issue of the day was whether Kansas would enter the union as a slave state or a free state. I often
wonder how history might have changed had Kit Carson won the election. Would
there have been a civil war? Perhaps. But Kit knew something about the West,
unlike the soft Pennsylvanian who’d beaten him.
“I’ve
read many first-hand accounts of that war, from both the soldier’s side and the
resistance, and I can’t help but make a few connections and draw a few
conclusions. Individual soldiers footing across the plains under the summer sun
often complained about their superiors’ inaction. Many of them had signed on,
aching for a fight and a chance to shoot a Mormon. When they met resistance in
the high country at the edge of the Utah
territory, they often stood bewildered when the officers ordered them not to
shoot. By golly! They’d been ordered to take control of something, but it sure
as hell wasn’t old Brigham Young and his house full of wives!”
Donaldson
smiled. “Then you’ll enjoy this!” He withdrew another folder containing a
letter incased in clear, plastic leaves. With it was a special permission slip
from the National Archives in Washington,
D.C.
Chap
smiled, shook his head, and held it so the others could see.
“I’ve
had copies made for each of us,” Donaldson said. “But I wanted you to see the
original before I took it back. It pays to be a close friend of the president.”
Ruth’s
voice took on a sharp quality. “Does he
know? The president?”
“To
him I’m just an eccentric Old West history enthusiast. We used to ride horses
together at his ranch in California
when he was governor.”
Sheryl
spoke, adding pomp to her tone of voice. “It’s a letter from…drum roll,
please…Associate Justice William W. Drummond, the old scoundrel himself!”
“It
was in his not-so-graceful letters to the press and to Buchanan when he charged
that Mormons recognized no law but the leaders of their church, ignored the
laws of congress and the constitution. Charged that they were in open rebellion
to the federal government,” Donaldson said.
“So…let’s
see….” Sheryl said. “The pioneers entered the valley July 24, 1847. In their
hardship they’d sent a battalion of husbands and fathers to aid the U.S.
government in the Mexican-American war, which during that time is won, and the
Guadalupe-Hidalgo treaty is signed. So suddenly finding themselves in federal
territory once again, what’s the first thing they do?” She gasped then
whispered: “They petition the U.S. Congress for territorial status, then
statehood! Very rebellious! No recognition of Congress or the Constitution! For
their first Independence Day celebration, they unfurled a large American flag at Black Rock. But wait!
This hadn’t long before been Mexican territory when they unfurled the flag.
Very unpatriotic—should have unfurled a Mexican flag, maybe?
Donaldson
added: “Instead of letting the Mormons govern themselves and elect their own
leaders, the feds send a bunch of federal officers openly hostile to the
Mormons and are then surprised when the good Governor Young—legally governor
according to federal law—starts using his authority to reverse bad decisions
and circumvent actions that ran against the rights of the free people. To top
it off, they send Drummond, who abandons his wife and children and brings with
him a prostitute as his consort. Then he turns around and attacks the Mormon’s
practice of plural marriage—that, right or not, good or bad, wasn’t against any
federal laws at the time, mind you!”
“So
what did he have to say that we haven’t already heard?” Chap asked.
“This
little goodie was written in a simple diary code that became common during the civil
war,” Donaldson said. “I believe it was the letter that started it all, though
its accompanying map is missing. From the descriptions, it’s easy to guess what
he was writing about.”
“Very
sophisticated,” Sheryl said.
“I
actually broke the code myself, but I recruited some trusted help at Langley to add a second
opinion in case I’d overlooked something.”
Judith
poked him with her elbow. “Oh! Get on with it!”
He
put his arm around her and brought her closer. “You do the honors.”
Judith
took the paper and read:
“Numbered on map:
1 Sacred Indian site confirmed near
settlements west of Great SL City, north end of western mountains. Base of
foothills near Hastings’s
Cutoff.
2 Thirty miles east of city along river
just north of Echo
Canyon mouth.
3 Shoshone territory near Teton Mountains,
land of volcanic curiosities. Pocatello
and Crow in competition for site.
4 Cave forty miles southeast of city and
west of Utah Lake, Tin Tick Indians hostile.
Discovery of Silver deposits near site. Mormon criminals might already have
control.”
“So
they knew….” Ruth said, looking over the flumes.
“Let
me see that topo map again!” Chap said. “‘Along the river just north of Echo Canyon
mouth, he says! How did we not know about this one?”
“That’s
what I wanted you all to see,” Donaldson said. “Rockwell was last seen here.”
He pointed to a spot between Echo Canyon and Fort
Buenaventura. “Today we
know Fort Buenaventura
as Ogden, Utah.
This spot is where the town of Henefer runs
along the Weber River. There’s Devil’s Slide
rock formation. There’s Morgan. Rockwell must have disappeared in the river
bottoms where Henefer sits today and reappeared several days later here in the
far western side of the Salt
Lake Valley.
That’s a long way to go without anyone in the settlements along the Wasatch Mountains seeing him and fourteen
hundred head of cattle.”
“So
what happened there that makes you think this site is the source of all our
problems?” Sheryl asked.
“It’s
just a hunch, but for some reason Johnston’s
army didn’t stop there. They never occupied that area. Instead, they went
straight on to Salt Lake, passed through the vacant city, then traveled to the
place west of Utah Lake they would name Camp Floyd after the secretary of
defense at the time.”
“That’s
still close to what would become the Tintic mining district,” Chap said. “They
bypassed one to go to the other.”
“My
great-grandfather often spoke of a cave near Tintic. He said he thought it had
long ago been under water. Its walls were lined with tufa. It was special. The
very same day Brigham Young received word the army was on the way,
great-grandpa was ordered to take several men into what was hostile Indian
country and dynamite the cave entrance. Funny thing….Tin-tic and his people let
them do it,” Ruth said. “The soldiers must have searched those mountains till
their boots wore out, but they did make plenty of mineral claims.”
“I
think,” Sheryl said, “it’s safe to assume someone unguided and unprotected
managed to slip through at Henefer.”
“Or
unworthy and uninvited,” Ruth said.
“Could
it have been Rockwell?” Judith asked.
Continuing
her thought, Sheryl said, “I assume Washakie and his people were the guardians.
But Rockwell was also a guardian. I doubt it was he or any of his men. Going by
the evidence in that letter, the spoiling event had to have taken place before
the army arrived.”
“And
after Rockwell and his men had been there,” Chap said.
Donaldson
warmly smiled at his friends. “It’s special! It might help us answer this
question after all!” He opened a wood briefcase that held a display case framed
in aluminum. Inside it was a map, tattooed on what the guardians had originally
hoped was rawhide (a test of a few flakes determined human skin), of what at
first glance looked like the terrain around the Great Salt
Lake. East of a body of water stood two large trees side by side,
creating a sort of passage. Just like old times! Who’s up to another
adventure?”
Chap
tapped Donaldson’s knee with his cane. “I’ve stood guardian here for well more
than half a century. We all have. My strength has left me. Of the younger
generation, we only have Gordie. But only one man? Judith’s grandson shows
promise, but I think we’re being too cautious. Folks are beginning to get hurt
again. That poor young lady, the Nash girl…she’d had no warning, yet none of us
can find her. Our numbers have diminished too far. Remember Rag Town!”
Donaldson’s
smile disappeared. His eyes softened with deep memories. He put his hands on
Chap’s shoulders. “Have faith. The right people seem to come along at the right
time when they’re needed. You should
know that.”
“And
the wrong people, too,” Sheryl said. She gestured with a nod of her head toward
the parking lot.
A
door to a dark, wine-colored Lincoln Continental reflected a dagger of sunlight
as it closed. Demint, net scarf over her hair, large, tinted glasses hiding her
high, arrogant brow, waited for Weissman to take her elbow before she stepped
onto the curb. Seagulls strutting on the warm grass in her path suddenly took
flight.
Donaldson
growled. “How the hell did she know I
was here? And where’s our transportation? It should have been here by now.”
“She
always looks so out of place,” Ruth said. “So garishly Hollywood.”
“Keep
calm. Don’t make any sudden moves,” Judith said.
“You
girls are terrible,” Sheryl said. “Well…maybe not.”
Donaldson
cleared his throat. “Time to play the impartial executive donor and local sugar
daddy.”
“That’s
the problem.” Chap whispered. “The more you give to her little causes, the
worse she gets.”
“It
keeps her distracted.”
“Dwight!
What on earth brings you to our humble little town? It’s such a pleasant
surprise!”
“Why,
Rosa! You always look so glisteningly
Hollywood!”
“Oh!
You’re too much!” Demint said.
Ruth’s
eyes shined as she traded a subtle glance with Judith.
“Oliver!”
Donaldson said, vigorously shaking his hand. “What trouble are you causing
today?”
Looking
as if he wasn’t sure how to answer, Weissman laughed and patted Donaldson’s
shoulder. “I came to discuss some union concerns—and don’t bring up the mumbo
jumbo about copper prices. People are going to lose jobs.”
“You’re
more than welcome to come to the next meeting. We’ll hash it out then.”
“Now,
wait a minute!”
“Oliver,
how’s your father? Our old men worked together for many years. Shared a lot of
beers. Did a lot of fishing.”
“This has nothing to do with pappy.”
“This has nothing to do with pappy.”
Putting
her hand on Oliver’s shoulder, Rosa
interrupted. “How is your father? I’d
like to know, too.”
“I
finally get him cornered, and you want to talk family?”
Donaldson
held up his hand. “Oliver! You’re personally invited to the meeting coming up.
In fact, we can go together. I’ll buy you dinner after.”
Oliver
acquiesced. “Oh, hell!”
“He
means yes,” Demint said. Then she turned to the fence. “Very nice. I wasn’t
privy to any news that the company would be doing work near Webster.”
“Just
a little service to the community,” Donaldson said. “I heard about the young
lady’s disappearance. I wanted to personally supervise the repairs.”
Demint
took off her glasses, walked to the fence, stopped where the trail began, and
gently placed her hand on one of the chain-links. A quiet moment passed as she
looked out toward the flumes.
Nature,
vibrant in the sun, momentarily darkened under cloud shadow. A breeze arose in
the distance then came in waves of grass and whirling dust. Ruth took Chap’s
hand and gripped it tightly. Sheryl gasped. Judith stepped forward and raised a
hand that held a small stone.
Chap
whispered: Has Rosa any idea what stares back
at her from the other side of the fence?”
Oliver
seemed to become aware of a subtle change among the group. He looked around as
if not quite sure what it was.
Demint
closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Then, turning to Donaldson, she said, “Our
organization is willing to double our original offer for this insignificant
slice of land.”
A
gray van arrived in the parking lot, and at that moment the recess bell rang.
Kids poured from the building, flooding the playground. The workers tightened
the last section of fence and cleaned the area, loading their tools and extra
pieces onto a truck.
“Finally!”
Donaldson said, clapping his hands together. “We can finish our little tour.”
Rosa
touched Donaldson’s arm; he fought to hide his revulsion.
, “You’re
not even going to consider my new offer?” she asked.
“There’s
nothing to consider. This property is not on the market.”
“But
imagine it being accessible to the community. A park! An open wetland
preserve!”
“Yes.
Imagine that,” Chap growled under his breath. He followed Ruth to Judith’s side
as she moved to the spot where Rosa had stood by
the fence. The cloud shadow passed. The breeze reversed direction.
“There’s
so much history here!” Rosa said.
“Who
has the old photo?” Donaldson asked.
Sheryl
handed him the papers and folders. He quickly flipped through them, shifted a
manila folder to the top, then opened it and held it out to Rosa.
The look in his eye had changed from friendly diplomacy to something else.
“Tell me what you see.”
As
if surprised at Donaldson’s tone of voice, Rosa
narrowed her eyes, paused, then took the photo. She studied it for a moment,
then handed it back. “Here! Magna—I mean Rag Town,
what was left of it after it had been abandoned.”
“It’s
the oldest known aerial photo of this side of the valley.” Donaldson said.
“What else do you see?”
“The
old power house. The flumes.”
“Is
that it?”
“I
don’t know. What else do you want? I’ve seen it all before.”
“So
you see nothing?”
“I’m
not sure what you’re asking.”
Donaldson’s
face became pleasant once more. He took the photo and slipped it back into the
folder. “That’s all right. It wasn’t important anyway. Just being nostalgic.”
“I’m
sure,” Rosa said, offering her elbow to
Oliver.
“If
you’ll excuse me,” Donaldson said. “I have a tight schedule today.” He
exchanged glances with Chap, and they left Rosa
where she stood with Oliver.
She
watched them go, then turned her attention once again to the flumes.
Relieved
at having put a little distance between himself and Demint, Donaldson felt
Judith gently rest her hand on his arm. Always like a sunrise, her touch, he
thought.
“You
don’t mind if I take a gander at that photo, do you?” she asked.
“Be
my guest.”
The
moment she had it in her hands she smiled. “Oh!” she said quietly. She seemed
to fight the urge to touch the old black and white surface.
“The
pilot might never have noticed, but for a brief shutter snap…the camera….
“Yes…of
course.” She shook her head and put away the photo.
18
Friday, May 11, 1984
The
atmosphere in the lunchroom felt subdued as rain washed against large glass
windows. It was a strange feeling, almost sadness. Lightning lit up the
courtyard in bright purple and orange reflections, then thunder followed, and
the kids responded, for the most part, with collective, oohs, aahs, nervous
laughs, and sighs. For nearly a second most of the conversation had died down,
but then re-grew to rival the rain.
Chad and
friends, including Tina, mingled near the pop machines. As far as Donnie was
concerned, life would be happy as long as they stayed there. Rachel sipped on a
Shasta and ate Doritos. Jeff sat on the table, resting his elbows on his knees
and supporting his chin with his fists. Donnie scribbled the word FITAN on a
note pad, then erased it. No one in their little trio said much.
Rachel
occasionally looked around the room. Donnie assumed she was looking for Bogie
(though they weren’t talking), but he tended to avoid the lunchroom, even on
rainy days.
“This
sucks,” she said.
When
neither Donnie nor Jeff said anything, she sank back into her quiet mood.
“Have
you guys ever heard of the word fighting
or fitan?” Donnie asked.
“It’s
what you do when you ain’t lovin’,” Jeff said as a matter of fact.
“No,
really. It’s a word like a name: fiton.”
Jennie
Stewart, who sat at the next table with her friend, Kendra Farnsworth, perked
up. “You mean Phaeton?”
Surprised,
Donnie turned and said: “Yeah! That’s it!”
“The
son of the god Helios—Helios means sun. He tried to ride his father’s sun
chariot, went out of control, and Zeus shot him down with a bolt of lightning
to keep him from destroying the earth. You know, another depressing Greek
mythology story.”
“Cool!”
Donnie said.
“No,
hot. He burned up Africa.”
Donnie
laughed. Then as she and her friends stood to leave and picked up their trays,
Donnie stopped her and asked: “How do you spell it?”
She
thought for a moment, then carefully dictated the letters while he wrote them
down.
“Thanks!”
he said.
“Don’t
mention it.”
As
they walked away, Rachel said, “I like her.”
Jeff
threw her a weird smile.
“No,
really!” Rachel said. “I think she’s nice, both her and Kendra, even if Bogie
used to make mooing sounds when Kendra walked past—the jerk.”
The
bell rang. Donnie picked up his tray, and Jeff took the empty Coke can that was
sitting next to him and crushed it on the table with the palm of his hand. As
they walked to the door, he threw it like a Frisbee into a garbage can.
At
that moment the janitor approached. Jeff, probably thinking he was in trouble,
changed direction and moved into the crowd leaving the lunchroom.
“Come
here,” Gordie said, waving Donnie over.
Donnie’s
mother’s words came to his mind: Not my
son! He looked at Rachel. She shrugged and slowed down.
“Yes,
sir?” Donnie said.
“Polite.
I like that,” Gordie said. “It’ll get you far in life.”
Stopping,
Donnie hooked a thumb in one pocket and looked around nervously.
“How’s
Dennis?” Gordie held out his hand for Donnie, who, trying not to be rude,
automatically shook it.
“You
mean my dad?”
“He’s
the only Dennis Fish I know.”
“Okay,
I guess. Why?”
“He’s
a good man. I’d like to talk with you. Why don’t you stop by my office after
school? Can you do that?”
“What
did I do?”
“I
don’t know. Unless there’s something giving you a guilty conscience, I’d say
it’s good news.”
“About
what?”
“See
you after school.” Gordie smiled, winked, walked over to where his broom leaned
against the wall, raised his hand in a small salute, then went to work sweeping
up the mess left behind from all the kids.
“What
did he want?” Rachel asked.
Donnie
shrugged and joined the crowd moving through the doors.
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