The Rising of Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

  Rather than looking surprised or upset, Paroh just seemed resigned. “It’s not the first time,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re good at moving,” he added, smiling a small smile. “Don’t look so surprised.” He correctly read the look on my face. “I figured it was just a matter of time.

  “The white man’s greed is like a cancer, Eliza. It takes and destroys, and then goes after more. I know your mama’s white, but understand that my hard words are not about her. Your mother’s heart is nothing like the others. She has the heart of a warrior, and I can see that her daughter has one, too. You have the heart of both your mother and your father. You’re strong like the Seminole,” he said. “And just like the Seminole,” Paroh went on, walking over to me. “you’ll survive this time in your life, too.” He lifted my chin with his thumb and index finger, and turned my face toward the right so that he could see the left side more clearly. “You know this, yes?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I do. But, what about you?” I turned my face back to look him in the eye. “Where will you take your people?”

  “Don’t know yet, but as far away from those Earth-eating machines as we can go.”

  A strong wind blew through the chickee, causing the various items hanging from the roof beams to clank and clack against each other as though in protest at being disturbed. There was something different about this wind, though, something wild and foreboding. Turning toward the front of the chickee, I walked over to the edge of it and inhaled deeply. Then again. “Do you smell it?” I asked the chief as he walked up beside me, inhaling deeply, as well. “Oh, my God,” I whispered. “Do you smell that?”

  “Big wind comes. Smells like fish,” Paroh confirmed.

  A massive storm was approaching from the east, off the Atlantic, and it was pushing the smell of the sea ahead of its arrival like some kind of macabre calling card. On such short notice, we had little time to properly prepare, or brace ourselves for the chaos that was about to ensue.

  “Stay here with us, Eliza,” Paroh urged. “It’s far safer than your home by the water.”

  Staying with the Seminoles meant riding out the storm in the mangroves, lashed to one of the trees. It was the Seminoles’ best line of defense because the chickees offered nothing in the way of protection and would be carried off with the first squall. The mangrove trees were rooted deeply, though, so if a person could stay attached to one, and do so without being drowned, then they stood a good chance of surviving the storm. But I just wanted to be home, even if it was on the water.

  “I have to go,” I said, panic starting to edge its way into my voice. “I need to get home.”

  “Stay safe, little warrior,” Paroh said as I jumped from the chickee.

  Running over to Sundae, I quickly mounted her and could feel her quivering beneath me. She knew that a storm was approaching. And we both knew we didn’t have much time.

  Chapter 23

  Landfall

  Sundae and I made our way home along the river, but riding into the wind made the going slower. The sawgrass and smaller vegetation was flattened by the force, making it look as though the plants were bowing down in servitude, while trees all around us thrashed wildly. When a stronger gust would come, the crowns of the palm trees would be pushed over as if by a mighty hand. Warily eyeing the coconuts swinging in the fronds, I knew it was just a matter of time before they became as deadly as cannon balls.

  When I finally rode into my yard, I saw that the windows of the house were wide open, and nothing had been secured or brought inside. There’d been no one home to do it. We passed the shed, which was where I would put Sundae, but it hadn’t been cleaned out to make room for her. I would do that as soon as I secured the house. After tying her to an avocado tree on the west side of the house, out of the wind, I ran up the porch steps and pulled open the screen door, but the wind caught it and ripped it away from me, smashing it against the porch wall. Bracing it open with a doorstop, I dragged the rocking chairs and small table off the porch and into the living room, and then I ran from room to room lowering the windows. As I did, I removed things that were breakable or could become projectiles from the tops of tables, dressers and such, and placed them on the floor against the wall, or in closets or drawers. All the while, I listened to the wind rising outside, and the creaking and breaking of things fighting to resist it. After securing what I could, I ran back outside and began closing the colonial shutters on every window, saying a silent word of thanks that our home was only a single-story, as opposed to Striker’s, which was…Striker! If he was home, I could ride the storm out with him! The last thing I wanted to do was sit by myself through the night, watching the ceiling for the spreading of water stains, or, worse still, watching as the roof peeled back like the top of a sardine can.

  After working my way around the house, I hurried back to Sundae, and as I did, the first real rain squall hit. The poor horse was very agitated and when I mounted her, she instinctively took off toward the west, away from the storm, which also happened to be in the direction of Striker’s house. We ran through the backyards of several homes, and once we got to his, I saw that the shutters on the windows had already been closed. Pulling the reins to the left, I guided Sundae over to his shed, lifted the heavy wooden latch that kept the doors firmly shut, and then led her inside. When I closed the door behind me, I heard another horse whinny. Peering into the darkness, I was thankful to see Striker’s horse, Odie, standing in the back. He’d be company for Sundae, and was quite a bit calmer than she was. The solidly constructed slash pine and cement building greatly muffled the noise outside, and I hoped that would help calm Sundae as well. Pulling carrots from my pocket that I’d grabbed on my way out of the house, I fed them to both horses and said a quick prayer asking God to take care of them.

  Pushing the shed door open took some effort. The wind was determined to keep me contained in the building. Once outside, I made my way to Striker’s kitchen door, but it was locked. Pounding and shouting as loudly as I could to be heard above the wind, I got no answer, so I started to move around to the front of the house. Suddenly, the kitchen door was pulled open and Striker was standing there.

  “Eliza? What the hell…?” I saw his mouth form the words, but the wind swept the sound away. Grabbing me by my forearm, he quickly pulled me inside and then locked the door securely behind me.

  The sudden quiet of the kitchen was in stark contrast to the roar outside, and it was a safe and welcoming oasis. Oil lamps had been lit, casting a warm golden glow over the room, and the smell of coffee on the stove was a comfort and a reminder of calmer times in a calmer world. It felt good to be with someone.

  “Thank God you’re home,” I said as I sat down at the kitchen table and accepted a dish towel Striker handed me so that I could dry my face. He poured us each a cup of coffee, then grabbed a lamp and joined me at the table.

  “Where are your folks? I saw the trawler was gone, but I figured they’d be back and you’d be with ’em, so I—”

  He stopped mid-sentence, softly grabbed my chin and turned my face so that he could see the left side of it. Holding the lamp up, he inspected my bruises.

  “Who did it?” he asked in a flat voice, setting the lamp down on the table. “Who?” he repeated a little more forcefully.

  “Owen,” I whispered.

  “When?”

  “This morning. I found out he’s involved in a company that’s dredging the land out there. And so is Adam Wilson, and that wrecker, Ezra Asher. Did you know they were involved in a company acquiring land?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Striker replied tightly. It was obvious he was trying to keep his anger under control. “Adam and Owen never talked to me about any business that didn’t involve the lighthouse. And as far as this Ezra guy is concerned, I don’t know him. I’ve heard that he’s done some salvaging around here, but other than that, I don’t know anything about him. W
ho is he?”

  “I don’t know much about him either,” I said, looking down at the damp dish towel I held in my hands. Without realizing it, I’d been wringing it. Folding it, I set it aside and looked up at Striker. “I don’t want to talk about this right now, okay? I just need to be quiet for a little while, so would it be all right if we dropped the subject for the time being?”

  “Just for now,” he replied.

  As we sat there looking at each other, I heard something bang sharply against the front of the house. It startled me, making me jump slightly. Even though we were as closed off from the storm as we could possibly be, I could hear the hurricane building in intensity outside. At times, the shrieking wind sounded like a group of wailing women as all manner of things were hurled around, slamming against the house’s walls and roof as though demanding entry.

  “How hard you figure it’s blowin’?” I asked, looking up at the ceiling, willing it to stay intact. Fortunately, there was another floor above us, offering that much more protection between us and the deadly force outside.

  “I’d guess about ninety or so. This thing really came in fast.” A bang against the side of the house was followed by a tremendous burst of rain that pounded out a cadence on the tin roof.

  “My folks took the trawler to the Keys day before yesterday,” I said, taking my eyes off the ceiling and glancing over at Striker. I was hoping he’d make me feel better by assuring me they were fine.

  “Damn,” Striker whispered.

  “What?” I cried. “What?”

  “They’re getting the brunt of the storm down there. We’re just gettin’ a glancing blow. The barometer kept falling this morning so I went over to the trading post to get any news that was coming in. They’d gotten wires saying that warnings had gone up in Miami, as well as in the Keys. I called Lincoln Nodd, down at the Key West light, and he said they’re going to get hit hard.”

  Seeing how panic-stricken I must have looked, he added, “But your parents aren’t stupid, and they’ll get in before this thing hits.”

  “You know as well as I do that there’s hardly any place to ‘get in’ to down there, Striker! There’s nothin’ but mangroves, low islands, and open water. They couldn’t be in a worse place! And then there’s Dylan at Alligator Reef light, and Uncle James is in Key Largo.”

  “Listen, Eliza—they’ll all know what to do. As far as your parents go, they’re probably in Key West, or at the light with Dylan. They know how to survive these storms.”

  “And I’m supposed to sit here and hold the fort down ’til I see which ones are lucky enough to make it home?” I cried.

  “That’s about all you—”

  I cut him off. “Now you listen to me, Striker! When this storm is all said ’n done, we’re gonna get that fine motorboat of yours out of that shed and into the water, and we’re gonna go find ’em!”

  Striker looked as though I’d slapped him. Then his face became angry and fixed. “I’m not takin’ you out on that boat,” he flatly stated.

  I leaned in slightly, meeting his eyes, daring him to defy me. “Oh, yes, you are. Now you listen to me; come tomorrow, I’m gonna go down to the Keys to find out what’s what—to see if they’re dead or alive, and you’re gonna be the one takin’ me!”

  He suddenly got up from the table and went to stand at the sink. Placing his hands on the edge of it, he leaned forward slightly, looking down into the enamel basin as if it held the answers he sought. Then he lifted his face and stared at the shuttered window. I knew that certain terrible scenes were playing out in his mind’s eye, ones that he had created for himself, and I knew exactly what those scenes were.

  Striker finally turned around but couldn’t meet my eyes. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep,” he said, putting an end to our conversation. “It’s safer down here on the first floor, so take the small bedroom back there,” he said, nodding toward a tiny bedroom off the kitchen. “I’ll be on the couch in the living room. I want to keep an eye on things.” Striker had completely shut down. He walked out of the kitchen, and back into his haunted world.

  Chapter 24

  Anger vs. Fear

  “Eliza.” I woke up to someone calling my name in an unfamiliar room, softly lit by an oil lamp on a strange dresser. Striker was gently shaking my shoulder, and I was disoriented and drenched in sweat. “Eliza,” he repeated softly. “It’s time to go.”

  He’d awakened me from a restless, nightmare-filled sleep, and at first I was confused as to where I was and why I was there. Unlike my own bedroom at home, with its large open windows allowing even the smallest breeze into the room, this boarded up bedroom was like an oven; my hair and clothing were soaked.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “Where’re we goin’?” I asked, in a thick, sleepy voice.

  “To the Keys,” he said. “To get your family. We gotta go.”

  Everything came rushing back to me. Jumping up, I immediately started looking for my shoes before Striker amusedly pointed out that they were still on my feet. Then I remembered that I’d slept in them in case the roof went and we had to make a run for it in the middle of the night.

  “Is it over?” I asked, straining to hear the angry wind or the banging of flying debris.

  “Yeah,” Striker confirmed. “The wind died down a couple of hours ago, but I had to give the water a chance to calm down a little before we tried to get out there.” He picked up the lamp from the table and led the way into the kitchen, with me right on his heels. “It’s still gonna be plenty rough, but with the motorboat, we ought to be able to get through. Here,” he said, pouring me a cup of badly burned coffee. “There’s a plate of not-so-fresh biscuits on the table. Sorry, but it’s the best I can do in a hurry. As soon as you’re ready, we’ll get goin’. I’m gonna go stick a few more things in the boat.”

  He started out the back door but I stopped him. “Striker, what changed your mind?”

  “About what?” he asked.

  “About taking your boat out.”

  “Anger conquered fear,” he cryptically stated.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Finish up and let’s get out of here,” he replied, and said no more.

  Ten minutes later, after letting the horses out of the shed so that they could freely graze, we walked down to the river, and, there, tied to his dock’s pilings, was Striker’s newly built motorboat. I waited on the dock to untie the lines as Striker jumped into the bow, walked over to the inboard motor positioned in the center of the vessel, and gave the rope that was attached to the engine several hard tugs. Suddenly, the motor roared to life as the smell of gasoline filled the air. Striker revved the engine by turning the end of a handle that extended out from the motor, and the power of it amazed me. I had seen motorboats before, but they had belonged to a couple of very wealthy visitors from the north. Striker’s boat was an amazing feat of talent and skill, and a testament to the fact that he was a true master of his craft.

  I untied the lines and boarded the boat, and we headed east on the river, towards the trading post to get the latest information on the storm. As we moved down the river, I sat on the bow, guiding Striker around debris in the water and looking out at the damage inflicted on the homes and vegetation along the banks.

  I held my breath as my home came into view, then let out a sigh of relief when I saw that it looked as though it had survived the storm unscathed. The roof was still intact, the windows remained boarded up, and the veranda seemed to be in one piece. Our sailboat, the Eve of Salvation, was a different story, however. It had been smashed to smithereens against the seawall. Parts of it were submerged, while those still above the water were impossibly twisted or broken. It looked as though some giant sea monster had taken the vessel in its mouth, chomped down on it for a while, and, finding it inedible, spit it out. And ours wasn’t the only boat destroyed. There were sev
eral more that had been mangled, including the small sailboat Gus Mueller had loaned me just the day before.

  Suddenly, it dawned on me that we could be gone for a while. Searching the Keys after a major storm wasn’t going to be easy, but I wasn’t going to leave until I knew where everyone in my family was, and the condition they were in.

  “Let me grab a few things from the house, Striker.”

  Carefully, he navigated his boat up to the dock, away from our shattered sailboat.

  “I’m not gonna tie up,” he said. “I’ll sit here in idle while you get what you need, but try to hurry. There’s a lot of debris floatin’ in the river. If we get banged up, we’re not goin’ anywhere.”

  “I’ll hurry,” I said as I stepped off the boat and onto the dock. Other than the corner where our boat had violently slammed into it, the dock was intact. I hurried up to the house and found that it had fared all right, too. Other than a couple of leaks in the roof, everything else was just as I’d left it. Relieved, I hurried to my room and quickly changed into a fresh pair of canvas pants and shirt. I stuffed a few more clothes into a burlap bag, grabbed some money from my desk drawer, and then moved on to the kitchen where I bagged up some food. Finally, I had all that I needed and hurried back to the boat.

  As we continued down the river, we came upon the home of the Parkers, a newly transplanted young family from Lexington, Kentucky. Though the house was still standing, the entire roof was gone. Looking around, I saw that it had landed in a vacant plot of land on the other side of the river! As we drove right in front of the house, I could see that the windows had been blown out and the inside was a chaotic mess. Standing in the yard were the Parkers, all six of them, including Mrs. Parker’s elderly mother. Striker pulled the boat closer to their seawall and asked if everyone was accounted for and all right. Grim-faced, Mr. Parker confirmed that everyone was, so we moved on, but not before I saw Mrs. Parker holding her youngest child, who was perhaps two, and trying to calm her cries, while Mrs. Parker’s mother stood next to them sobbing into her cupped hands. Everyone was traumatized.