by Troy Hooker
The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was the crackling fire and Bush’s face as he toppled to the ground into a puddle of his own drool …
The next morning, Sam threw a few things into his backpack and headed out the door. He would clean out the barn and finish the other chores his grandfather wanted him to do after he got back. Today, he just needed to get out and get away from everything. Even back in Grand Rapids, he found the woods to be a place where he found peace and tranquility, from his parents and from life in general.
He walked to the edge of town where the sign ORVIL’S COUNTRY STORE dwarfed the tiny wood-sided building. The once-thriving gas depot and grocery stop was now quickly becoming an aging artifact of White Pine. Sam guessed it was because of the newer Iggy’s Grocery down the street, luring town dwellers with its lower prices and promise of better selection.
Often he saw Mrs. Orvil knitting on the front porch of her storefront, peering at townspeople as they passed by. Not wanting to be a target of her gossip, Sam cut off into the woods a little early to catch the trail behind the store. Since many of the trees in the area were mostly made of dense white pines, they were incredibly difficult to walk through. Fortunately, Sam had planned ahead and found a break in the trees earlier in the week that he could use as a shortcut.
He veered off into the shortcut and immediately found the main trail just as the sun was creeping above the clouds that laid like a blanket over the horizon. The wind blew softly, forcing an occasional whisper through the pine branches. It was cool enough to require another layer, and he was glad he brought the flannel that Amos had given him.
He walked for what seemed like an hour before the trail ended in a particularly dense wall of brush. Looking to the sides, the brush wall continued as far as he could see in either direction without a break. He wasn’t going to let it stop him, so Sam cinched up his backpack, took a deep breath, and pushed through the foliage, using his arm to cover his face as he walked. He could feel the brittle leaves poking at his neck and the stiff branches tugging at his clothing as he pushed through. He trudged for what seemed like twenty or so steps before the brush finally began to thin out.
Then it happened. Before he could stop himself, the ground beneath him disappeared and his body pitched forward into nothingness.
The moment his eyes opened was the same moment he felt a tug from his backpack that had suddenly caught his falling body and jerked him backward. The rock below his feet crumbled, and Sam flailed his arm backward in a desperate attempt to grab hold of something solid—and it did. He clung to the branch and pulled himself backward to level ground.
Once sure he was far enough away from the edge, he laid his head back and looked up at the sky, feeling his heart pounding loudly and his lungs racing shallow, quick breaths. His backpack dangled from its strap wedged into a crook in the tree above him.
What the heck just happened? his mind churned, but he already knew the answer. He had just about walked over the side of a cliff. The same strap that had given him so much grief the day before had now saved his life. It was a thought that made him shudder.
When his breathing slowed, he stood to his feet and, whispering a word of thanks to the backpack gods, untangled it from the tree. Then, feeling the unnerving unbalanced feeling of standing too close to an edge, Sam sat once again to look at the scene around him.
The cliff was more like a canyon, or a smaller gorge, with a snake-like stream that flowed through its interior. There were cliffs on both sides, nearly a hundred feet high where he stood. Hawks circled lazily above him, looking for mice or the occasional careless rabbit.
Now that his heart was returning to a normal pace, he could hear the turbulent stream below as it rushed through the middle of the gorge. Downstream, the water gathered into a deeper pool at the end of the rapids where the tips of car-sized boulders poked through the surface, leaving the bulk of the rock submerged like a massive iceberg.
The more Sam looked around, the more he noticed how different the canyon looked from the rest of the forest. Here, the pines looked older and larger, having an almost ancient feel to them, and thick trunks touting branches that curved and twisted into craggy fists, and one in particular looking like an old witch uncurling her hands to release a spell.
Just to the right of him, Sam noticed a ledge about halfway down the rock face where an old-looking pine hung its weeping branches over the water below. He was sure the opening in the cliff was enclosed on all three sides, but he couldn’t see far enough to see how deep it went. Either way, it looked strangely like someone created it, not like a natural force of the elements.
What was that strange indentation on the wall of the opening? Sam squinted through the shaky lenses of his binoculars to try and make out the image. It was rather small, but definitely out of place from the rest of the surrounding stone. Aside from its embossed outline, the colors were slightly different, and it seemed to reflect a bit of gloss in the morning sunlight. He took out a pencil and notebook from his backpack and he drew what he saw without taking his eyes off the curious indentation.
When he looked down, he was shocked at the image he drew. It looked vaguely like the same strange symbol from his dream—the same wing-like symbol he had been drawing since the school year started.
Then suddenly, from somewhere close behind him, a branch snapped, startling him so badly he jerked his hand, which sent his pencil tumbling over the side of the cliff to the rocks below.
“Hello Samuel,” said an instantly familiar voice.
Sam spun around to see Emma, the pretty girl from geography, standing not more than ten feet away from him. He peered open-mouthed at her.
Emma Sterling was the daughter of the president of the White Pine Copper Trust, and granddaughter to the founder of White Pine Copper Mining Company before it went out of business, but not before leaving the Sterling family with a good chunk of the remaining assets—and everyone knew it. She just didn’t flaunt it like most wealthy families did.
Emma sat in front of Sam in class, but never said a word to him until now. Not even “hello” in the hallway. Sam had caught her smiling at him on occasion, and had wondered at first if she had a crush on him, but more likely it was that she was just silently laughing at his awkwardness.
“Nice weather today, isn’t it?” she said, but Sam was looking at her faded jeans with a hole in the right knee.
“How did you come up on me like that?” Sam said suddenly, his voice shaking a bit.
“You looked deep in thought,” she retorted quickly. Then, matching Sam’s threatening tone, she said, “These woods are for anyone who wants to walk through them.”
“How did you find me?” He stared at her, wondering how she got through the dense pines so quietly.
“I followed you,” she mimicked Sam’s expression. “You know, if you are trying to lose the world, you may want to look behind you once in a while to see if someone is following.”
“I just thought—well I just came out here to see where the path—”
“Hold your horses, Samuel. I am not here to take your alone time from you. I only want to talk to you for a minute,” she said, and flopped on the pine floor next to him. “Pretty neat place,” she said, scooting suddenly closer.
“Yeah, I thought so.” Sam felt his heart beating again.
She looked at him suddenly, as if concerned.
“Do you like White Pine?” she said. “We haven’t had someone new in my grade since the mines closed …”
“Uh, yeah, it’s great here,” he lied. “Doesn’t your dad own the Sterling mines?”
She snorted.
“Yeah, I supposed he does, although, much good it does if there isn’t any copper in them…”
He knew that about White Pine. You could see the evidence of the once upcoming town all around—new subdivisions filled with empty houses, a half-built p
harmacy now only a skeleton of steel and masonry, and a brand new elementary school building that lacked general upkeep as chin-high weeds licked its brick exterior.
It was a new ghost town, of sorts, a remnant of its former glory days when the mines produced so much copper that the statue of Julian Lawrence in the town square was eventually plated in it. It didn’t seem to bother the residents much, however, as they always seemed to have a smile on their face as they went about their daily business.
“So what does your family do now?”
Emma looked at him strangely.
“Well, my father does … research for the government … and my mom, well, she is one of the best cooks you will ever meet.”
“Is that an invitation to dinner?” he joked awkwardly.
“Of course it is! You will have the best chicken pot pie and biscuits ever … I promise.”
He glanced at her quickly, her curls falling over part of her face so that it was concealed from him. Was she flirting with him? No. He was too plain for her. She looked like the type that would have a football jock’s arm draped around her shoulders. But why did she follow him here? It seemed a little strange—perhaps even dangerous to show up in the middle of the woods with a new guy from a different town.
“I want you to join our group,” she said suddenly, as if she had just pried open his brain and pulled out his thoughts.
“A group?” Sam said. “Like a club or something?”
She scooted closer to him again, her tan boots scraping on the rock. “Well, sort of. It’s more than that though.” Her voice was low and dramatic. Sam wondered if this was all a big joke and he was the victim.
“You have to tell me more than that,” he rolled his eyes playfully.
“I can’t—that is until you agree to join us. Then you can meet everyone else.”
“Who’s in this club of yours?”
“Can’t tell you that either,” she sighed. “Once you say yes, I can tell you more.”
“Aren’t we a little old to be having secret clubs?” he chided. “I gave that up when I was ten.”
“Suit yourself,” she said quickly, then got to her feet suddenly. “This is an invitation-only secret club, Samuel.”
Sam watched her as she turned away, her red hair swishing with her stride. Instantly, something made him wish he hadn’t been so short.
“Wait, don’t go,” he called out suddenly, surprised with his own words.
She turned on her heels and walked back, a smile on her face.
“I knew you were too curious to ignore it,” she said.
Something told him her dramatic exit was part of her plan.
“So what can you tell me about this secret club?” he pressed.
“You like history, right?” She seemed pleased now that he was paying attention.
“I suppose. What does tha—”
“Let me finish and I will tell you,” she huffed.
“Now … before I was interrupted … the ‘club’ is kind of like an ancient secret organization, just on a somewhat larger scale.” Her eyes glowed like turquoise-colored diamonds in the sun.
“You mean like the Masons?” he asked, rather uninterested.
Emma rolled her eyes playfully.
“No. Not really,” she said. “More like—well … there really is no comparison.”
What kind of group was she talking about? Was it some sort of cult? Either way, curiosity began to well up within him. He had always been one to dive in head first and suffer consequences later. Sometimes it paid off to investigate, and sometimes it got him in trouble. But he would play coy.
“I will sleep on it,” he said mechanically.
She stood to leave once again, but turned and looked squarely at him, all humor gone from her eyes.
“Samuel, you must understand … if you choose to join us, it’s not a small commitment—it’s something that stays with you for life.”
And then she turned and marched into the deepening sun.
He squinted into the light, certain he had just dreamed the whole conversation with Emma Sterling. She had popped into one of his daydreams and flipped her auburn red hair into his face so that he could smell strawberries. Then she had disappeared. He had been in White Pine too long without civilized contact. He would likely start talking to himself any day now.
Did she really say “for life”? What kind of a club—or whatever it was—didn’t allow its members to leave? Cults, maybe. Maybe a drug operation, or the mob. No wait, maybe a resurrected sect of the Knights of Camelot … and they were going to dub him Sir Samuel of White Pine.
The strange thing, however, was that they wanted him. What was it that they wanted? His good looks? Nope, that was a stretch. His love for legend and fantasy? Maybe, but there were dozens more like him. His grades were mediocre at best, although he knew he was personally capable of much higher. Perhaps the club had had trouble keeping participants in the past from sheer boredom. Maybe they chose him out of a lack of options.
He looked around at his place of solitude, away from prying eyes or judgmental voices. It wasn’t the City, but it had its own sort of hidden peace and beauty about it, minus the double-chocolate lattes from Kava House, that is.
He was still unsure how Emma had followed him so easily, and it gave him an uneasy feeling. She must have been waiting pretty early in the morning to catch him leaving. It wasn’t so out of place, however, because ever since arriving in White Pine, he had felt as though he was being watched everywhere he went. He understood being the newest one in town, but even now, prying eyes would make the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
Just last week it had been at Iggy’s. He couldn’t see who since they ducked out of the store before he could catch a glance, but they had followed him from aisle to aisle as he shopped for some necessities Amos had asked him to pick up. Either way, there were weird people in this strange town, and he wanted no part of it. It was the main reason he had rushed through his grandfather’s chores every Saturday and disappeared into the woods—to leave people behind. This spot in the woods was the most serene he had found yet … and the most dangerous. The gorge was indeed very beautiful, that is, when it wasn’t luring its admirers off the edge of a cliff.
Chapter Three
Timothy Becker
The following day was Sunday, and Sam knew that Amos was going to make him go to church again. It wasn’t that he disliked going, it was just that this church did not seem to understand the meaning of time, hunger, and boredom. That, and the only other time he had been to church was Easter Sunday with Phillip’s mother, Wanita Forrester, who, just before she died, thought it best to see him converted immediately.
She had showed up in her boat-like Lincoln when he was seven, pushed her son Phillip out of the way and barged up to Sam’s room, forcing him out of bed and into one of his nicer sport jackets.
The service went for hours, it seemed, and the whole time Wanita pinched the underside of his arm whenever he moved just the slightest.
The thing that bothered him the most, however, was that on the way out of the sanctuary, Wanita whispered something to one of the deacons, who promptly whisked Sam to a little room where he told him how God was going to punish him for his sins by putting him in a giant lake of fire filled with screaming people wishing they could have chosen more wisely. Sam couldn’t lie, it did scare him, but more from the church’s wrath than God’s. For nearly a year following, he had nightmares that resembled a Botticelli painting he had studied in Medieval Art at his old school. Since that day, he hadn’t been back to church until moving to White Pine.
Walking out on the front porch, Sam saw his grandfather’s old red truck backing out of the barn, a cloud of dust chugging along with it. It was quite the antique, no doubt from the early sixties, except for the amateur paint job, which stopped at the rust-colored hood. He
wondered if Amos only took Big Red out on Sundays, with the possible exception of especially large snowstorms, for which he typically dug out an old snowmobile buried in the dusty barn.
Since the church building was on the other side of town, they had to drive instead of walk. The only other time Amos used a vehicle was when he needed groceries or supplies from town, and that wasn’t but once every other week or so.
The church was a large converted brick mansion that, when entering, looked like you were going into a haunted house. He knew little of the place—that it had been passed down through multiple generations by a wealthy lord from somewhere in Europe to the first mayor of White Pine, who eventually passed it on to the church.
When they pulled up to the large brick home-converted-church, Sam immediately spotted Emma talking with a thick boy with spiky blond hair. He peered at the two talking intensely, guessing the boy was the geeky kid from his sixth period English class named Gus.
Sam didn’t know him personally, but he knew that he was only nicknamed ‘Gus,’ by everyone except for the black-haired girl who called him ‘Grimace,’ but his real name was Constantine, named after his Great Grandfather Harper Constantine Ablesworth, one of the founders of White Pine. Gus’s father, Colonel James Ablesworth, was now the City Council Chair.
Sam had seen on numerous occasions the Colonel stop by the cabin and talk politics with his grandfather out on the porch. It was an odd friendship even for the small town residents of White Pine—but Sam could tell they enjoyed each other’s company.
As Sam climbed the enormous steps to the church, he looked over to where Gus and Emma had been, but they were nowhere to be seen. It was then that he felt someone slip something into his back pocket and thought he saw a flash of red disappear into the crowd of churchgoers as they milled about in the lobby.