Soon the house and the night outside were perfectly still—a vast silence that was almost like a mass of undifferentiated noises. Lying in the darkness, Calvin listened, unable to fall asleep, and after a time it seemed to him that he could hear a faint pounding in the far distance, from up in the mountains, perhaps, or up in the sky somewhere—Thor with his hammer, maybe, knocking together another thunderstorm. The noise wasn’t regular, but would start up and then fade away and then start up again, and there was a ringing quality to it, like a hammer against an anvil. When he finally drifted into sleep, the hammering became more pronounced. Not louder, but as if the ringing blows had multiplied—dwarfs in a mine, perhaps, knocking jewels out of rock walls with pickaxes, the sounds echoing backward through time …
He awakened later to the sound of his uncle coming in. He heard the tread of his uncle’s feet moving down the hallway, and then heard the soft click of the doorknob turning. Calvin lay still, feigning sleep, the entire thing reminding him unpleasantly of his childhood. It was past two—strangely late for the old man still to be up and about. Calvin lay awake for a time thinking curious and troubled thoughts before finally descending again into sleep.
TIME AND THE RIVER
In the morning he awoke to the smell of coffee, with none of the confusion of finding himself in a strange place. On the contrary, he knew exactly where he was. All night long he had dreamed of earthquakes and of ring-shaped decanters tumbling to the floor in slow motion and breaking, and of walking through a stone cavern deep beneath the river, with the sound of rock hammers keeping time with his heartbeat. But as soon as he became aware of the morning sun through the window, the dream images fled and the waking memory of last night’s activity replaced them like the same size shoe. It had seemed uncannily mysterious out there in the darkness on the Temple Bar, but now in the light of day it was perfectly clear to him that what he had witnessed had been a small Communion service and a coincidental earthquake. Interesting, but nothing to lose his mind over.
Then it came into his head once again that the six Knights in the bar had seemed to expect the earthquake, that they had been ready for it. But there was nothing he could do with that thought other than to file it away in his mind with all the rest of yesterday’s unfathomables.
It was early, and through the bedroom window he could see past the cottonwoods to an empty stretch of river that glowed in the morning sunshine. The Dead Mountains were golden with it. Yesterday had been never-ending, what with the long drive out into the desert and all the rest of the tomfoolery. Today he owed it to himself to do nothing, and perhaps tomorrow, too. His aunt had absolutely the right idea, sitting in a lawn chair and watching the river tumble past. Maybe he would go out onto the bridge and play Poohsticks. Maybe he’d take a nap.
He pulled on his pants and shirt, ran his hands through his hair, and went out to greet the day. In the kitchen there was hot coffee in the pot next to a note that read “Help yourself.”
“I will,” he said out loud, and poured coffee into a mug. Then he found his aunt, already sitting outside in her chair, looking at the water. She had a mug of coffee in a cup holder cut into the plastic arm of the chair.
“Good morning,” he said, stepping out into the daylight.
She turned and smiled at him, looking sharper and fresher than she had yesterday evening, which was a relief. He opened a chair that was leaning against the side of the house and sat down next to her. “Need a refill?” he asked.
“I’m all right,” she said, and they remained for a time in silence, sipping coffee and letting the river eddy over their feet. The low morning sun, looking right at them from over the hills in the east, was already heating up, and Calvin was grateful for the shade. “I’m wondering about joining the Knights,” he said without thinking about it first. It was only about 10 percent true, but the day had a what-the-heck quality about it that made it perfect for speculation.
His aunt nodded. “I had a suspicion you’d come around,” she said. His aunt seemed perfectly sane to him now—sharp, even. If she was bothered by some variety of dementia, it had taken the morning off.
“What do the Knights do, mainly? They’re a service organization?”
“Well, the Knights serve a higher power,” she said. “They do good works whenever they can, like the Bible recommends. And I mean good work, too—up and walking good. That’s the main part of the equation, you see. When Jesus turned water into wine out at the wedding, it was good wine; so the Bible says. The Knights don’t bother with halfway measures.”
“I seem to recall that most New Cyprus folks are members.”
“Pretty nearly all of them are, or have been. Some fall away, lose interest, take a breather, but they’re still on the list until they take themselves off, which doesn’t happen too often. It was a rule from the first, back after they brought the Cornerstone in from the East and set it up beneath the Bar. In those days it was just a rocky hill in the desert. That was before the earthquake changed the river’s course and revealed what lay beneath the island. Hugh Blankfort was Grand Master then. He figured that the land where he planted New Cyprus was neither here nor there once the river swerved out of its bed, but was in between, perfect homestead land. He goes way back, Blankfort does.”
“Further back than you and Uncle Lymon?”
“Oh my, yes. Way back, his family. Traces his roots back to France in the earliest days. Family had the French spelling, with a q, but no one could pronounce it, so they simplified it some when they came out West. Blankfort and the Knights brought the stone out on a flatcar, overland from New Rochelle, right after the turn of the century. That’s when the waters parted, and the river turned out of its bed. That’s how they knew this was the place. If you ask me, God made the river turn aside, just like in the time of Moses, although you can believe what you want about that. They found a holy place waiting for them right out there beneath the Temple Bar, and they built over the top of it. That’s the Fourth Secret. I tell you that because that’s why you came out here, at least partly. You’ll learn the particulars soon enough when you’re a Knight.”
“What was it they brought out on the flatcar?” he asked.
“The Cornerstone. There was no way to transport a stone that size except by rail, all the way out from New Rochelle. Forty-mule team couldn’t do it. They still ran mule teams in those days.”
“Sounds as difficult as wheeling West Virginia,” he said, repeating one of his father’s old jokes, and he was happy to see that his aunt smiled at it.
“There wasn’t anything around here back then—just a few shacks over across the river, prospectors, mainly. And the land was worthless unless there was gold or silver under it, which there wasn’t much of, leastways not over on the Arizona side. A lot of Okies came in through Needles during the Depression, and some of them stayed to quarry more stone out of the Dead Mountains, mainly for the funeral industry and to build New Cyprus houses. The stonecutting was a going concern in the thirties. They put it on flatcars running out of Barstow and sent it all over the country. That’s why they call them the Dead Mountains. Lots of headstones and urns and crypts cut out of those hills.”
“Is that right? I was wondering about that old quarry and rail line. No profit in stonecutting anymore, I guess.”
“Once the homes were built, quarry work slacked off, and then during the war most of the men went off to fight and the stonecutting was about over. It’s a lost art now, what Hugh Blankfort used to do.” She lapsed into silence now and watched the river.
“It’s interesting how the Temple is built right into the rocks like it is,” he said after a time, and she turned to look at him again.
“That’s Blankfort’s work. Some of the old-timers called that island the Temple Mount; some of them called it the Temple Bar. All of it’s tied right into the Cornerstone.”
“ ‘The stone that the builder refused,’ eh?”
“ ‘… Shall become the cornerstone,’ “ she said, finis
hing the verse for him and looking straight into his face.
For a moment he was afraid that she thought he was trying to mock her—hauling out a Bible quotation himself before she could get a crack at it. But evidently she didn’t. “So the Knights must have a fairly big membership,” he said finally. “Probably they don’t need an absentee member like me.”
“They’re not all of them active,” she said. “Lots of them are standing by. ‘Blessed is he that waits, and cometh to the days.’ So says the Old Book.”
Calvin nodded. It was a good sentiment—being blessed for waiting.
“Yes, sir. Blessed are those who wait,” she said again, maybe to make sure that he was listening. “But you can’t wait forever,” she said. “Sooner or later you’ve got to do what it is you were called out to do.”
He found he was unsettled by his aunt’s easy way of quoting Bible verse. She could find something useful in it without a moment’s thought. She had always been naturally religious, ever since he could remember, which had sometimes been an embarrassment to him. Her early efforts to interest him in things of the spirit hadn’t exactly taken hold when he was younger, and even now it was a reminder that he had shirked another duty. “What if you weren’t called out to do anything at all?” he asked. “It’s kind of restful that way.”
“A person thinks so, but then comes a day when you come face-to-face with it.”
“With what?” he asked, vaguely surprised that he was actually interested in an answer.
“Well, with whatever it might be. With the dragon, I guess you could say.” She nodded her head. “We’re all sent out to do it battle, you see, only some of us pretend otherwise, and then we start to believe our pretending, and then when it comes for us, we’re no match for it.”
“Maybe it’s best to avoid it. Just don’t open the door when it knocks.”
“Oh, it’s already inside,” she said. “That I can guarantee. You get to be my age and you can’t fool yourself about that. It’ll look right out of the mirror at you. And anyway, what’re you doing out here in New Cyprus if you weren’t called out?”
“Well, sure,” he said, trying to deal with this. “I didn’t think you were talking about that kind of calling. I mean, on the telephone, or a letter in the mailbox.” He shifted in his chair, looking for something more to say, and uncomfortable with the notion that she seemed to be talking to him for a reason now, and not just shooting the breeze. He glanced sideways at her. Her eyes were illuminated by the rising sun. “You look good this morning,” he said. “Rested or something.”
“I feel rested,” she said. “Like a desert tortoise waking up to spring weather.”
“Tell me about Aunt Iris,” he said.
“I don’t know the woman. Whose aunt is she?”
He found himself at a complete loss. “I seem to remember stories about an aunt Iris. Apparently she was a spiritualist …?”
“A spiritualist? Not our branch of the family. We don’t hold with that.”
“Of course not,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply …” He let the thought trail away. “Did you feel that quake last night?” he asked. “Round about ten?”
“No,” she said. She looked at him curiously, and he had the uncanny notion that she had figured him out somehow—perceived the gears going around inside his soul. “Were you out to the Temple last night?” she asked.
“On the island? Why do you ask?”
“No reason. The ground gets shaky out there is all. Maybe it’s the river pushing on it all the time. We all get shaky with the river pushing on us.” She went back to watching the water now, and Calvin kept his mouth shut, having avoided the outright lie.
A pontoon boat appeared on the river, and he watched it sweep past, several people sitting on board. One of them waved, and Calvin waved back. “Another cup of coffee?” he asked her.
“I’m already afloat,” she said.
He smiled at the idea. “I’m going to grab a second cup,” he said. He went inside and was halfway through the den, heading back into the kitchen, when the telephone rang. He looked back to see if his aunt was going to get up, but she sat there placidly, either not hearing it or not caring, and after the third ring he shouted, “I’ve got it!” and picked up the wall phone receiver over the counter. “Lymon residence,” he said.
There was a silence long enough to become slightly ominous, and then a familiar but flat-sounding voice said, “Identify yourself,” which struck him as a strange sort of greeting.
“Warren?” he asked, realizing it was Cousin Hosmer. “It’s Cal. Cal Bryson.”
“Where’s Lymon?”
“Out. I don’t know where. He made coffee and …”
“Coffee? What are you talking about?”
“About … coffee. He brewed some up before he left, so I guess he wasn’t in any kind of hurry. Maybe he wanted to make the first ferry into town.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“I don’t have any idea. Let me ask Nettie what she knows. Hold on.”
He went out through the den again. “Warren Hosmer’s on the phone,” Calvin said to her through the screen door. “He wants to know when Uncle Lymon’s getting back.”
“He’ll be back,” she said. “He always is.”
“Do we have an ETA? Warren seems anxious to talk to him.”
“Tell him it’ll happen in the fullness of time. Hosmer’s always in a tearing hurry. We were out in Grand Junction once, up on the Monument, and there was a thunderstorm coming up. Well, Hosmer was there with the Hyink crowd from Iowa and the Streffs and their tribe. We were setting out a picnic, and I said to Hosmer—”
“Hold on one second. I’ll be right back.” He returned to the kitchen and picked up the phone. “She doesn’t know either. Should I have him call you?”
“Not on this phone. Did you get the item out there safe? No incidents?”
“Yes to the safe part. Or at least I think so. But no to the no-incidents part. There was a little trouble at the store when I stopped to buy grape soda.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Well, there was this character who told me his name was Woolsworth, although apparently he’s actually a local named Bob Postum who used to go by the name King Baldwin, so I guess it doesn’t really matter what his name is now. He drives a green pickup truck with a bad muffler, and—”
“Get to the point. I don’t give a damn about the man’s muffler.”
“The point is this Postum character apparently stole the box out of the trunk when I was inside buying the soda. Then Shirley—”
“Not over the telephone.”
“Pardon me?”
“Name no names, my friend. Telephone’s too public, especially those New Cyprus phones. There’s something for you to think about before you start yapping. They can tap right into the junction box across the river and get an earful. I’ve been telling Lymon that for years.”
“They can? Who are they?”
“Ask Lymon. I’ve got to get a move on. Did Postum see your face?”
“My face? Yeah, we had a long chat. He said he knew my dad back in—”
“Then watch out for him. Everything he says is a lie. If you see him a second time, it’s not by chance. First time wasn’t either. Do you understand what I’m saying? Not … by … chance.”
“Sure. I guess so. Are you telling me he’s dangerous?”
“Everybody’s dangerous if there’s something they want bad enough. I’m telling you that when he finds out that you foxed him with the fake article, he won’t be happy. They’re going to wonder who you are exactly, and why we called you in.”
“Called me in?” Here it was again.
“Many are called,” Hosmer said heavily, “but few are chosen. And the ones who are, pretty much choose themselves. Remember that. Whatever you might think to the contrary, you set out walking like a duck yesterday, and now you’re starting to quack like one. To their minds you’re either a by-God duck or el
se you’re a decoy. Right now even you don’t know which one you are, but before this is through you’re going to have to quit mincing around like a parlor monkey and make up your mind one way or the other or else someone will make it up for you. Chances are they won’t waste a bullet on a decoy. And you can take the heat as long as you’re not stupid. Either that or stay out of the kitchen. Mind your p’s and q’s. Don’t ruffle your feathers. You’re family, like I said, and Lymon tells me you’re a good man. So was your father. He was one of the best. They got to him finally, but they had to work hard to do it.”
“Got to him… ? Dad died of liver cancer in the hospital. I was there. What do you mean, a bullet… ?”
“I didn’t say they shot him.”
“No, I mean will they shoot me? You said they won’t waste a bullet on a decoy.”
“Figure of speech. Or at least we hope so. Did you see the autopsy report?”
“On Dad? He was seventy-eight years old. They don’t do an autopsy on a seventy-eight-year-old man with liver cancer. It stands to reason what he died of.”
“Nothing in this world stands to reason, son. Human beings aren’t reasonable creatures. If they were, this whole shebang would be a Utopian carnival with a champagne reception. You start believing in the champagne and a man like Postum will sweep you straight under the rug, lay it back down over your corpse, and dance you flat as a pancake. They won’t find you to do the autopsy on, not out there in the desert they won’t.”
Calvin almost laughed out loud with relief. This nonsense about his father’s death put the rest of Hosmer’s talk into perspective—ridiculous perspective.
The Knights of the Cornerstone Page 6