Blossom (The Blossom Trilogy Book 1)

by Christopher Lentz

  The unleashed and writhing electrical-power lines pushed the horse’s limits. Ebony reared up and whinnied in a way that sounded more like a scream of fear, nearly bucking Brock to the ground. He held on to Ebony, but unintentionally released the reins of Blossom’s horse. Not even an experienced horseman like Brock could summon the dominance needed to bring Ebony back under control. Overwhelmed and sensing more freedom to its movements, Ebony bolted down the street with Brock on his back at a speed that made the horse’s mane fly.

  As the two raced down the street, nearly avoiding the obstacle course of rubble, Brock realized they were about to pass the house Clarissa’s family was building for them. It was in flames. The crackling was loud enough to be heard over the noise of Ebony’s hooves on the street’s bricks.

  “Brock! Come back!” he heard Blossom scream in desperation. “Don’t leave me! DON’T LEAVE ME!”

  He turned to look back and as he did an ear-piercing explosion caused Ebony to rear again, neigh wildly and dash farther down the street and away from Blossom. They turned the corner and Blossom was out of sight.

  ***

  For the first time, Blossom’s mind focused on the wailing and cries for help coming from every direction. It was incomprehensible. “Help me!” she squeezed out of her throat as it sealed shut and her heart raced in scared-rabbit beats.

  Nearby, a clean-cut man witnessed what happened and helped Blossom off of her horse.

  “He’ll be back for you,” the stranger said.

  “Thank you. I’m not very good with horses. I guess that’s pretty obvious,” replied Blossom, though not making much eye contact with the man as she scanned the area in all directions in hopes of spotting Brock.

  “Look behind you, I think I see him coming for you,” he said as Blossom heard her horse shuffle. Within a matter of seconds, the man climbed up on the horse and was on his way.

  “That’s my horse. Come back here. You can’t take my horse. What’s wrong with you?” she yelled pointlessly at the thief who was quickly traveling down the street.

  “Thank you, ma’am. There’s nothing wrong with me, everything’s wrooooong,” she heard him say as his silhouette faded, making him a hazy shadow man.

  “Now what?” she asked herself out loud. Blossom stood there, horseless and with a growing sense of hopelessness. Burning-hot tears slid down her cheeks as smoky dry breezes swirled around her.

  As she desperately looked around for Brock, she began to take in sights that no one should have to witness.

  People were moving in all directions. Many had physical injuries, but more looked like they’d been emotionally damaged to Blossom, as if a trusted friend had suddenly and severely wronged them. The earth was not supposed to move under their feet. They were to move over it.

  Somehow, though, Blossom had never felt so alone and isolated. A deafening explosion tore the air and a writhing fireball shot skyward like the dragons she’d long seen in Chinese picture books.

  Blossom continued to assess her surroundings, but now in an almost detached way. Currents of breezes came and went. A rain of cinders began to cloak every tree, fence railing and cobblestone in a wispy garment of ash. It was as if she was observing it all but not part of it.

  Everything was moving unnaturally slow before her eyes, and the clamor of noises was muffled. Her mouth opened as her jaw slackened involuntarily.

  Another loud explosion pulled her back into the horrors of the moment.

  She spied a young woman, fully dressed with her hat properly pinned in place. She was sitting on the street curb. Next to her was a carpet bag of rich velvet brocade in gold and wine tones. Her hand firmly grasped the leather and brass handle.

  But instead of looking prepared for a cable car or a carriage coming to whisk her away to an appointment, she looked frozen. Her face was emotionless. Her body was motionless. Blossom studied her to see if her eyes were blinking. They were. However, that was the only sign of life in the young woman.

  Blossom moved in her direction. “Miss, is there anything I can do for you?” There was no response. A riot of barking dogs passed by, adding to the chaos along the street.

  A teenage boy carelessly ran into Blossom and dropped two of the overstuffed pillow cases he was carrying. In a racing thought, she hoped those were his belongings and not loot that belonged to someone else.

  “Hello,” Blossom tried again. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Still, there was no response from the stranger on the curb. Blossom turned to move on.

  “Wait,” she heard the woman say. She coughed on a stream of smoke as it traveled by. “Wait. Is that you? Mother, is that you?”

  Blossom stopped and turned around. The woman’s blank stare had turned to a wild-eyed expression and she grinned like a lunatic. Blossom instinctively knew she needed to move on, so she did. She didn’t look back.

  “Mother? Mother, is that you?” now could be heard over and over again.

  Within a few moments, Blossom’s determination to get home overrode her feelings of fear and helplessness. Something inside her grew stronger. She needed to find her own way home.

  With or without Brock, I’m going home.

  Chapter 53

  Saddled To A Tornado

  Wednesday, April 18, 1906, 6:22 a.m.

  The day of the earthquake and firestorm

  Ebony was in full control. Brock never rode a trained horse that was behaving in such an unbroken way. He figured it was understandable since the streets were in complete disarray. As Brock processed the blurry and jerky glimpses he was taking in, he sensed the familiarity of the neighborhood.

  He tried every trick in his book to regain control of Ebony. But Brock was riding a tornado. The horse’s energy and force were not to be reckoned with, but respected.

  However, in front of the Flood estate, Ebony decided to stop, rear up and then gallop in a tight circle. The street was nearly clear of debris.

  “Finally! Now let’s get you turned around so we can get back to Blossom,” he said forcefully to Ebony.

  “Mr. St. Clair,” he heard called out in his direction. “MISTER St. Clair,” he heard again, but with more emphasis and clarity this time.

  “Is there not enough chaos in our fair city without your cowboy antics adding to it? Why just last night I was at the opera taking in the most uplifting performance by Enrico Caruso and mingling with the likes of that new actor John Barrymore. He paid me quite a compliment about my pearls. And now, here we are…you and me! Who could have imagined?”

  Mrs. Flood was out in her generous yard, fully dressed, with her hair styled from the night before and her usual conspicuous amount of jewelry on display. The enormous pearls she’d just referred to were impossible for Brock to miss, even at a time like this.

  “You seem to have a problem confusing my street with Lover’s Lane and now a rodeo arena.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Flood. Pleasure to see you again,” Brock replied as he held the reins tightly with both hands.

  “By the way, how is that pretty young thing who I saw you kissing the other day…the girl who I believe was not Miss Donohue, your fiancée?” she asked as she shooed away flying embers as if they were pesky insects.

  In the middle of this disaster, she’s talking about the opera, actors, pearls and what she witnessed the other day with Blossom. God help me, thought Brock. And, Blossom is all alone right now and I’m here!

  Ebony was finally beginning to settle down, allowing Brock to continue to speak with Mrs. Flood.

  “How kind of you to remember our meeting the other day. I was up at my stable when the first quake hit and I’m doing my best to get back into town to help any way I can. Are you being well cared for?”

  “Oh, yes, my staff sees to my needs whether the earth is moving or not. I expect no less and I pay for no less. But, I must say, I’m not entirely sure that I wish to live here in the future,” she announced with an air of measured politeness and concern.

  “
Yes, I understand fully. Your home looks fine, but there are fires all around. I’ve seen row houses and estates that are total losses.”

  “Nothing in life is a total loss, Mr. St. Clair. My husband saw opportunity in everything, even in life’s worst experiences. I trust you will learn to do the same.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll do my best to—” Brock’s reply was violently interrupted by an immense explosion a street or two away that triggered Mrs. Flood to cover her ears with the palms of her bejeweled hands and for Ebony to instantly return to his erratic, energized bolt-of-lightening speed. Brock was unable to say a proper farewell to Mrs. Flood, as he focused his energy and attention on gaining control of Ebony once again.

  Everything raced by like airborne leaves in a harsh wind: the spikes that topped wrought-iron fences, the swaying trees, the yet-to-be-used fire hydrants and the unlit street lamps. He and Ebony burst through foggy-thick bands of smoke that spanned the street, while the glow of raging fires added eeriness to the billowing smoke.

  Air currents pushed the smoke, sparks and ashes in all directions. Just as the city’s people were moving chaotically, it appeared to Brock that Mother Nature had lost control of her own destructive forces.

  He hastily created a mental checklist. Get back to Blossom. Get Blossom home. Check on Mother and Austin. Make sure Clarissa and the Donohues are alright. Get back to Twin Peaks.

  Ebony tired eventually and voluntarily stopped in his tracks, as if to mourn the lifeless team of horses alongside the street they were now on. Beautiful, productive work animals lay wasted in the rubble, observed Brock. There was no sign of the driver, and no one seemed to care enough to stop and offer assistance or clear the carnage out of the way.

  People of all walks of life were out and about, moving with no clear direction or conviction. The screeching of casters on the legs of beds and settees being dragged and pushed over the broken streets was ear piercing. They were piled high with what refugees could salvage, using the wheeled pieces of furniture like lifeboats in an ocean of destruction and loss. Brock knew he would never forget this moment, though he knew he would do his best not to retrieve it from his memory in the future.

  Brock considered dismounting and walking alongside Ebony, but he realized the horse’s brute strength would easily separate the two when the next explosion or other terror triggered Ebony to bolt. He decided it was better to stay in the saddle and ride out the storm.

  The earth suddenly lifted and dropped, like a possessed elevator car. Ebony bucked and was off and galloping again. For the first time that day, Brock noticed the sound of Ebony’s horseshoes colliding with the street’s surface. The usual rhythm did not exist, but a random and unsynchronized clamor rose from the horse’s fast-moving hooves.

  Brock could not believe his eyes as a ribbon of cobblestones ahead of him surged up like popcorn kernels in hot oil. The street literally separated, with stones violently jumping out of their previously cemented positions.

  Ebony would have none of it and on his own decided a severe left turn at the next intersection was the best escape route. His choice was not a good one, as the side street was completely blocked by the remains of a building that had lurched off of its foundation. Its many pieces not only littered, but blocked Ebony’s passage.

  “Someone have mercy and help me.”

  Brock looked down and spotted a middle-aged man who looked fine from the waist up, but the lower half of his body was hidden by debris.

  Brock calmed Ebony down enough to dismount, and tie a rope around the saddle’s horn and a jagged piece of decorative rooftop cornice that was crushing the man.

  “I’ll do my best to get you out, sir,” yelled Brock.

  “Bless you. Hurry, I can’t feel a thing down there,” he responded in unmasked agony.

  Brock pulled Ebony by the reins to drag away the large chunk of cornice that appeared to be the culprit. As he did, the man shrieked. The movement not only revealed his crushed legs, but it released the pressure on his severed arteries. Blood explosively sprayed in crimson geysers like an unimaginable scene from Yellowstone National Park.

  “God, what have I done?” asked Brock as he tied Ebony to a nearby fire hydrant. A trickle of water escaped the base of the hydrant and meandered down along the street’s edge. He hurried over to the fading man.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “I can see there’s no hope for me. You best move on and help someone else who’s got a chance.” Brock was splattered with an explosive stream of blood as the dying man began to cough uncontrollably as smoke engulfed the small street. It was clear to Brock that pain was coursing through the man’s entire body. With each cough, a rush of blood was forced from his body. Brock watched the blood and water mixing and flowing as one down the street.

  “Thank you…thank youuuuu—”

  Brock felt the man’s neck for a pulse. There was none. Brock was ambushed by a rush of feelings and emotions that he did his best to keep in check. The world and everything on its surface seemed to be upended. He grabbed a nearby curtain that not long ago gracefully hung near one of the building’s windows. He draped it over the man’s face.

  He wiped his bloody hands on his shirt, untied Ebony and headed back to where he had been separated from Blossom. For the time being, Ebony was complying with Brock’s every command. Brock thought about what just happened and how the very same scene must be playing itself out all over the city: people helping people as best they could. At least, in his heart, he hoped that was happening.

  Chapter 54

  Church Bells Are Ringing

  Wednesday, April 18, 1906, 6:47 a.m.

  The day of the earthquake and firestorm

  Ting Ting heard—with each thunderous movement of the earth—church bells across the city ringing like an unholy choir. They rang loudly and hauntingly long after the shaking stopped. The ruckus of dogs barking preceded and overlapped the clanging bells, making it impossible for Ting Ting to question whether or not the ground had moved again. There was unavoidable proof all around.

  While some buildings looked unharmed to the young girl, others were destroyed in tragic chain reactions. Rows of toppled structures looked like knocked-over dominos after a child had his destructive fun. But the stores and apartments above them were not domino game pieces, and this was not fun. Ting Ting was having anything but fun.

  She watched as orange, yellow and scarlet flames chewed on the bottom of vertical Chinese-language banners. In a flash, burning words took flight and escaped the confines of their paper prisons.

  Ting Ting, Little Sunflower and their parents were able to get out of their building after the first quake. It was the subsequent ones that were doing the most damage. They clustered and commiserated with their Chinatown neighbors. Rumors about people who lived, and those who did not, spread like the wildfires that were incinerating the city.

  “Have you seen Blossom? How about you? Or you?” With Little Sunflower as a shadow, Ting Ting asked anyone who would listen to her if they’d encountered Blossom. She became more frantic as time went on and no one could account for Blossom, or Blossom’s father and grandmother.

  Ting Ting cranked her hurdy-gurdy music box so wildly that her father reached over to grab it from her, but he stopped himself. He looked at her with caring eyes. She looked down, clutching the one thing that brought her close to Blossom.

  “Please Ba Ba. I beg you. Come with me,” pleaded Ting Ting as she pulled her father by the hand toward the smashed building that had been The Golden Palace. “Blossom must be in there. She needs us!”

  “No, no,” yelled Little Sunflower. “We shouldn’t go near there. Fire and smoke will—”

  “Blossom! Blossom! Are you in there? Let us help you!” she desperately asked. Two of the unstable floors collapsed onto one another. “Ba Ba, you’re hurting me,” said Ting Ting as her father briskly pulled her away to a different section of the alley to join Little Sunflower and their mother.

  “Our business is ruine
d. And fireworks will begin to explode soon. We must gather what we can and get out of Chinatown,” said Ting Ting’s father. “Now!”

  They scooped up what valuables were in sight and started the process of saying their goodbyes to cherished neighbors with the hope they would meet once again.

  “We’ll head to the Ferry Building and the docks along the bay, secure passage and be with relatives in Oakland in no time at all,” assured Ting Ting’s father.

  Her world was being destroyed before her eyes. Her dearest friend was missing. And above it all, Ting Ting dreaded the next time she might hear church bells ringing.

  Chapter 55

  The Most Precious Thing This World Holds

  Wednesday, April 18, 1906, 6:59 a.m.

  The day of the earthquake and firestorm

  The morning was unfolding like a fever dream, everyone not quite sure if what they were seeing was real.

  “Blossom!” she thought she heard Brock yell.

  “Blossom!” she heard his voice plead again. It came from behind her. She stopped running in the direction of Chinatown and turned around to see Ebony delivering Brock to her. He guided Ebony slowly and closely to Blossom. He dismounted and embraced her so tightly that all of the air escaped her lungs.

  “I thought I’d lost you!” he said with relief.

  She pushed him away in order to take a breath and then pulled him back in tightly.

  “I thought I’d lost you!”

  “I’ll always find you, no matter what,” he replied. “Always.”

  Then she quickly sensed something was wrong with Brock.