by Edward Es
She starts to walk away, then turns around to take one last look, starting to say something, then not. She lingers, lowers her head, and walks out. Tom stands wooden, her tears shining on his face.
The Holmes property encompasses a vast landscape, some of it cliff and canyon at the outskirts of the Zion formations. Tributaries feeding the Virgin River have gouged smaller canyons. In one such gorge, two FBI agents make their way downstream, crawling over boulders and through vegetation, dwarfed on both sides by dark, red and black vertical walls.
Though the river that crafted the gorge is not wide, it moves swiftly, making steady work against the crumbling sandstone of its banks. This leaves little area for passage as the men who, having clawed their way up a large rock, slide down the other side, landing knee-deep in water. They splash out and stop for gulps of breath. Both are in their late forties, outfitted for the mission, but not in shape for it. One wears a green and the other a red rafting vest, the most obvious evidence of recently and poorly chosen gear for the mission.
The smaller of them, wearing the green vest, looks up at a blazing Sun that placed itself in the narrow wedge of sky above. The other opens a topographical map. “It should be right around the bend if I’m reading this right.” He points ahead to a sharp change in direction of the gorge to the left, so sharp, in fact, they appear to be facing a wall. As their eyes accustom to the darkness of the narrowing ahead, they realize there’s an unnatural shadow resting against the face of that rock wall. It’s modeled, as if filtered through something, but has linear edges and unlikely to be caused by anything the river made.
They look at each other, then the larger man looks back upriver. “Don’t canyons… widen out when you go downstream?”
“Not this one, I guess,” the other responds, looking downriver. “Well, let’s go. I think we’re onto something.”
They manage their way around a bushy tree, wading waist deep to do so. As they climb back onto the bank and bend over, slapping water off their pants, they’re struck still by a low-pitched and ominous voice.
“Are you boys... lost?”
They straighten up slowly, simultaneously reaching behind their backs. Towering before them is Mr. Bullard, a huge, burled man with a wiry foot-long beard, dressed in a security officer’s uniform three sizes too small. Were he not so foreboding, they’d be tempted to laugh, a temptation seasoned by the double-barreled shotgun he lays dangerously across his belly. The other striking oddity is that there’s not a speck of dirt on him.
“I’d keep my hands out front if I were you.”
They obey slowly. “What the hell are you doing here?” blurts out one agent.
“Now isn’t that a question I should be asking you?”
They’re startled again, this time by movement across the river of another person, also uniformed, but half the size. The gun, though, is identical, and more directly pointed at them.
“We, uh, we’re lost all right, aren’t we?” the other agent says.
“That’s right. We’re lost. You boys wouldn’t mind taking us out of here, would you?” his partner says, pointing downstream toward the bend.
Mr. Bullard points upstream. “First rule of thumb when you’re lost: go back where you came from. I think it’s pretty obvious, with the river and all.”
“Listen, mister, I said we’re lost,” says the agent with the red vest. “What good would it do to go back? We’re trying to make it to... Roundtree.”
“Roundtree?” thunders Bullard. He looks up at the sky and the shriek of a hawk echoes off the canyon walls. “This here river don’t go nowhere near Roundtree.” He glares through one at the other. “I don’t know where you all started, but I can tell you one thing. This river only goes one way. Whatever your story is, I don’t want to hear it. Now, move on back upriver.”
“Hold on a minute. What right have you got to—”
Mr. Bullard cocks his trigger, silencing him. The giant of a man motions his head back without taking his eyes off them. They look over him at a land survey flag. “This here’s private property, and I’m tellin’ you right now, without a doubt, you ain’t crossin’ it.”
Powerless without a warrant, they capitulate, walking backward into the water. “What’s your name? And... who do you work for?” demands the one with the green vest.
“My name’s Bullard. Mr. John Bullard. And who I work for’s none of your friggin’ business.”
They wade away and hear the uncocking of the shotgun as they leave. Bullard watches them disappear, then pulls a walkie-talkie from his belt and calls into it. “Blockhead, Blockhead, this is River Rat, do you copy? Over.”
The stables are a half-mile from the main house at the edge of a plateau that overlooks a meadow through which the Virgin winds in broad bends, disappearing occasionally beneath groves of winter-barren cottonwoods and Bigtooth Maples. Tom built the stable with the horses in mind, a thatched hut with the walls hinged up, leaving the structure supported by timbers on four corners. In this mode it’s a peaceful shelter from the Sun during the day, allowing the canyon breeze to sweep through in the evening. The horses are happy, living outdoors, yet pampered by those who care for them.
Tom saddles his horse, Cirrus, with the help of his stableboy Billy. Cirrus is a Medicine Hat Paint. Primarily white, he has a few dark spots about him, the most distinctive a brown cap covering the top of his head and ears. So striking is this marking, that venerable tribes of ages past named it a Medicine Hat, and considered it a talisman, bringing good fortune to its master and driving away evil spirits. Cirrus has the other characteristic of many Medicine Hats: nearly human blue eyes.
Billy is Rosalee’s grandson and last living male descendant of her brother, Sunman Whitewater. Sunman was the reigning chief of the local Paiutes, a noble and long-standing tribe that flourished for generations, this particular band claiming mixed blood with the ancient Anasasi. Though Billy is the chief now by right, his tribe has been scattered, and thus his reign. All those who know say he has the spirit of a chief, and love and respect him, and therefore their ancestors through him. Billy is only fourteen, Tom’s only brush with childhood since Noah.
The Sun has set, bringing the afternoon outflow from the canyon. Flurries of red dust whip up, rousing the horses against their reins, and canyon colors approach misty gray, preparing for the darkening sky. Tom strokes Cirrus’s neck. “I don’t know how you do it, Billy. Nobody makes a coat come out like this.”
“My people believe that a man and his horse share a soul. This horse looks for you when you’re not here, and his eyes shine when you ride him. It’s no wonder his coat is so bright.”
Tom stops to look at Billy. He’s always felt a sense of awe toward the boy. No manner of lavish gifts would he accept from Tom, saying that his journey would be long and he must travel light. He did accept, at Rosalee’s insistence, a trust for his education. She has always kept Billy’s searching spirit in line with his keen intellect, as brilliant in school as he is wise. Tom takes a handful of oats and feeds them to his horse. “If only I had the blood of your people. Your strength and courage.”
“Chief Sunman thought of you like a son, Mr. Holmes. Blood flows from the heart, and he said yours was a Paiute heart.”
“No matter what came upon him, he stood tall. Even when he rode away for the last time.” Tom looks at the oats in his hand and takes out one grain. “I’m like a seed. There’s nothing smaller than I am.”
Billy helps Tom throw a saddlebag over the horse, then fastens a hand-woven basket to the back of the saddle as Tom fills the bag with supplies. “Many times in a man’s life he must ride into the wind, times when he is overcome by all around him. The sky weighs heavy and the Earth pushes up. He finds his pony and rides into the wind, and the Father of Winds speaks to him. The taller he stands, the harder the ride. But he always returns wiser, until he rides for the last time. And then the w
ind is the strongest, but he rides through it and comes out to the other side where there is only calmness and peace.”
Tom looks out across the folds of red land. “That time the Chief rode off, the last time, he knew. He knew it was his last ride.” Tom mounts Cirrus as Billy picks up Zion and puts him in the basket.
“I can see in your eyes, Mr. Holmes, that you are standing against the wind. You should know our beliefs say before a warrior does this, he must face one enemy and make peace with him. The enemy may be a great warrior, or it may be an enemy within himself. And with that enemy, he must trade something, something hardest for each to give away. Only then will the wind speak.” Tom grabs the reins, making Cirrus prance in place, then gazes into Billy’s awaiting stare.
“You say you feel small,” Billy says, leading Cirrus away from the shelter toward the edge of the plateau. Stars begin to glitter in the canyon breeze as he looks toward the north and, using his hand spread wide at arm’s length, measures across constellations. “Look up here, Mr. Holmes. You see, just above the top star in that triangle?”
Tom takes a moment to locate the star. “OK, I see it. The star, I mean.”
Go up one hand, and if you look hard, you’ll see a small blur, like a feather.”
“I think I see it.”
“There’s a galaxy next to it, MCG 6-30-15. It’s a hundred thirty million light years away, too faint to see. Not a big one, really. Nothing special about it... except there’s a black hole in the center. So far they think it’s swallowed about a hundred million stars.” Tom looks at Billy, not sure why he’s ever amazed by what the boy says.
Billy continues. “There’s a theory that in the end, a black hole collapses all that matter to the size of a subatomic particle. The force of gravity approaches infinity. In fact, it’s said that all the matter in the universe,” he picks up a rock, “was smaller than this. Before the light.”
“I don’t get it,” Tom says as he takes the rock and looks at it, overcome with a flooding sensation.
Billy lays his hand on Tom’s leg and cinches the saddle tighter. “Small is not what it appears to be, Mr. Holmes. Each great elm was once a seed, and all other living things, too. Before a man’s spirit can grow, he must break away all that he has become in this world, down to the seed of his soul, and be watered with the Tears of God. Stand tall and ride. You will either return stronger, or you will ride through it.” Tom stills as the young man’s words filter through him. He pulls Billy to him, stroking his head with affection and gratitude, then rides away.
Fading pink and orange contrails fan across the darkening blue-black sky above a pair of headlights barreling down a deserted stretch of highway, not far from Rockville. The truck is a double tanker, apparently in a hurry. Crudely stenciled on the side of the truck is: MOO JUICE- GRADE A MILK, FRESH FROM THE FARM. Two more headlights drift into the passing lane as a hand reaches out and places a spinning red light on the roof above them.
Inside the truck cab, the driver and his partner, modern day cowboys of the road riding diesel rigs as if they were on the open range, look at the red light flashing on each other’s faces. The driver, Jake, tightens on the steering wheel. “Where the hell did he come from?”
“I told you you was goin’ too fast,” says his partner, Henry.
“Sonofa... He must’ve had his lights off.”
The unmarked car pulls ahead and forces them to a shuddering stop. Two plainclothes officers exit the car and walk toward the cab, each reaching into his jacket. Henry gnashes, “God dang. We’re in trouble now. I get a bad feeling about this. You know damn well we were s’posed to do this in two rigs. Five miles apart, that’s what they told us.”
“Look, when Tom Holmes’ people say jump, we don’t even ask how high. Your rig was down and besides, we’re gettin’ paid for two. What’re you bitchin’ about?” They watch the men approach. “They don’t even look like cops. How do we know they’re not hijackers?”
“Now who in the world is going to hijack a truckload of milk? Only I wish it really was milk. No, they’re not cops. They’s worse.” One of the officers pounds on the driver’s door while wagging a badge, motioning them to come out. Jake and Henry climb down from the cab.
“Special Agent Bodine. This is Agent Watson. We’re federal marshals. Can we see your load manifest, please?”
Jake plays dumb. “Marshals? What in tarnation is the problem? I didn’t think we was goin’ that fast. Do you have a warrant or something?”
Watson chimes in. “We don’t need a warrant, now give us the manifest.”
Henry reluctantly retrieves a clipboard from the cab, handing it to Bodine who looks it over quickly, then hands it to Watson. “Taking this ‘milk’ to Holmes Breads are you?”
Henry camouflages his fear with unconvincing anger. “That’s right. What’s the problem?”
The marshals alternate responses, like raptors circling. “We’d like to see this ‘milk’. You boys come on back here and spill some on the road for us.”
Jake’s voice vibrates with a frequency of panic. “Now look here, you can’t make us—”
“Listen to me, cowboy. Can you spell, ‘national security’? Can you use it in a sentence?” Watson snaps.
Jake clenches his fists and puffs his chest. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snarls through gritted teeth, spitting in the agent’s face.
“It means I got a license in my pocket with a picture of your ass on it. Now move!”
Jake starts to lean toward him, but Henry intervenes. “It’s no use.” He leads them to the center of the truck, between tanks, where there’s a large valve through which milk would be pumped. He opens the valve and nothing comes out.
“You see, we’re plum out of any milk. This is an empty run.”
The marshals look at each other, then focus back. “I don’t think so. We could tell by the way this truck was riding it’s full of something,” says Watson. They walk up and down the length of the truck until one notices two other valves, one on each tank, each a shade of red. “Now what might these be for?” Henry and Jake look at each other, backing up.
“I really don’t know. Now can’t we just be on our way?” Henry asks, backing up faster.
“How about if we find out?”
As the marshals each reach for a valve, Jake and Henry yell while running from the truck, “Don’t! Don’t open those!” The marshals move away from the valves.
Tom and Cirrus plod across a dry riverbed just outside Springdale. Streetlights burn orange in the distance and the faint sound of activity rises and falls with the breeze. Above, a thickening sky of stars glitters behind swiftly moving clouds and Tom looks up, sensing the approach of weather. He turns and surveys his surroundings while he pulls a silver flask from his coat, takes a slug, and shudders as it goes down. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, his attention focusing on the lights ahead. Billy’s words float through. He must face an enemy... must make peace with one enemy. Tom puts the flask back in his pocket and starts Cirrus trotting with a whip of the reins.
Highway 9, also Springdale’s main street, sits quietly on the outskirts of town until Tom and his horse clatter up from the dry bed below. He rides ahead, then stops, taking the flask out again. After looking at it, he changes his mind, puts it back, and continues down the street.
Cirrus stops in front of the Noah House and Tom dismounts. The building is in darkness but for a faint, moving glow through the front glass doors and a floodlight shining on the statue in front. He walks with leaden feet toward the statue and stops. Before him stands the bronze figure of a boy with his hand outstretched toward the sky, and balanced on top of his pointing finger is a chrome butterfly. Above, as if the pointing boy knew, the cloud cover has broken, revealing a bright patch of stars. Tom stares, swallows the lump in his throat, and walks toward the front door. Before pulling the door open, he reads the
arched gold-leaf lettering over the top: It’s a Beautiful Day. Tom built the House in memory of his son, but has never set foot inside.
He enters through the glass doors and stops. There’s no activity, though children’s voices drift down the hallway. To the right he sees a small girl standing solemnly in front of a glass case recessed into the wall, before it a cherry-wood table. And in front of her, through the glass, is a painted scene of an ocean with moonlight reflecting across the water. On the table in front of the painting is a forest of candles, flickering as if in rhythm to some silent hymn. Tom breathes in the melancholy odor of scented flames and braces as the hallway walls shift with the candlelight.
Behind the candle forest is a photograph of a boy and a glossy brass plaque near it bearing the name “Bobby Wolford”. Bobby smiles as he holds a shiny red fire engine, a gift for his fourth birthday, his last birthday, a loving parent’s hand on his shoulder. This was a creation of the children themselves, who, when the first of them died, wanted to burn a candle in memory, and so it became a tradition. These children, facing death so courageously, had shown that through the loss of one of them, there was hope for the rest. To them, this little shrine was a statement that they could face anything. Bobby Wolford had been the last to pass, and his candles were lit.
The girl stares into the flames, then continues down the hall. Tom approaches the glass case and, searching for strength, looks into the case. Pinned around the ocean picture are many smiling little faces.
A nurse appears, walking briskly around a corner. She stops when she sees Tom, at first surprised by the mere presence of a stranger in the hall, then laying a hand over her heart when she realizes who he is. Following close behind is Roberta, a Guatemalan girl all of seventeen. Though practically a child herself, she raised her many brothers and sisters with little help from her father after her mother died. That caring spirit and affiliation with hardship drew her to this work.
“Oh, my goodness. Mr. Holmes. I... I’m shocked to see you here.” She extends her hand. “Nurse Crumb. And this is Roberta. She takes care of the children.”