Of Salt and Sand
by Michael Barnes
Text copyright © 2016 Michael G. Barnes
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
Chapter 1:
Chapter 2:
Chapter 3:
Chapter 4:
Chapter 5:
Chapter 6:
Chapter 7:
Chapter 8:
Chapter 9:
Chapter 10:
Chapter 11:
Chapter 12:
Chapter 13:
Chapter 14:
Chapter 15:
Chapter 16:
Chapter 17:
Chapter 18:
Chapter 19:
Chapter 20:
Chapter 21:
Chapter 22:
Chapter 23:
Chapter 24:
Chapter 25:
Chapter 26:
Chapter 27:
Chapter 28:
Chapter 29:
Chapter 30:
Chapter 31:
Chapter 32:
Chapter 33:
Chapter 34:
Chapter 35:
Chapter 36:
Chapter 37:
Chapter 38:
Chapter 39:
Chapter 40:
Chapter 41:
Chapter 42:
Chapter 43:
Chapter 44:
Chapter 45:
Chapter 46:
Chapter 47:
Chapter 48:
Chapter 49:
Chapter 50:
Chapter 51:
Chapter 52:
Chapter 53:
Chapter 54:
Chapter 55:
Chapter 56:
Chapter 57:
Chapter 58:
Chapter 59:
Chapter 60:
Chapter 61:
Chapter 62:
Chapter 63:
Epilogue:
PART ONE
Chapter 1:
The night sky was a canopy of brilliance. Not a wisp of cloud dared crest the snowy shoulders of the Oquirrh range. Set off by the frigid January air, the effect was focal wonder, a crisp smear of glitter on black. The moon, in her waning crescent, deferred to the stars for the nocturnal shadows, enhancing the heavenly backdrop tenfold.
The white crystalline sands of Utah’s west desert took in the entire event, mirroring it with exquisite perfection across the smooth glossy surface of endless sand—a panorama as alien in appearance as a fictional rendering of a distant moon. Here, nothing stirred. No creature moved, no sagebrush quivered, not a grain of sand tumbled out of it assigned place. In this lifeless domain, all were spectators.
This was the dead land. A terrain so unprolific and void of character that the very curvature of the earth could be observed for miles in all directions. Where once the great Lake Bonneville thrived and teamed with life, before the severing of her oceanic umbilical, leaving the body of water with no outlet. Over the next tens of thousands of years, she would desiccate and diminish into an immense salt basin, at the center of which is the body of water known today as The Great Salt Lake.
It was near midnight when the sound of a distant motor, foreign and unwelcome, broke the desert’s quiescent slumber, booming from the east and moving west in a fast approach. The ATV zoomed along in a straight steady path. At top speed, the rigid sands created a perfect terrain for maximum velocity—its rider had planned on that. In fact, the single driver knew much about this desert; he had to. He was running dark and stealth, and in this black landscape, it would be suicide otherwise.
The man wore a heavy winter jacket, topped with a fur-laced hood which tied right down against his face-gear. His hands were gloved and well insulated from the sting in the freezing air.
For hours he rode, unabated and undeviating in his course, until finally the ATV slowed and stopped . . . right in the middle of nowhere. The rider turned the motor off and sat in a strange stance of silence, like an animal whose senses had been keyed by the perusing stalker. After a careful scan of the area, he slid slowly from his seat.
Miles to the east, the Salt Lake valley threw up her amber glow of city bustle and street lighting. The distant speckle of inhabitant illumination blanketed the entire east side of the vast basin—as far as the eye could see—and even encroached upward onto the benches and low-lying canyons of the Wasatch mountains. But right now, Brant Stephens was alone where he stood, and there was no human dwelling for at least fifty miles in all directions.
It had been such a long time since he stood upon the sands of this desert. So very long. He reached and removed his face-gear and pulled his hood back. The cold air rushed in, instantly changing the warm moisture around his lips, nose and eyes into freezing splotches of ice crystals.
Man, when did Utah Januarys get so cold! he thought. It was well below freezing, especially with no cloud cover to help hold in the heat of the short winter days. Brant craned his head back and glanced up at the stars, then shivered. It was a beautiful night. The specs of distant light were brilliantly distinct against an ebony backdrop. But as perfect as the presentation was, he was not there to star-gaze. He reached and pushed his hood back over his head, then pulled out his GPS and checked his location. The display lit up, confirming what he already knew: he was at the right spot.
Brant had known exactly where he was heading from the moment he turned off the dirt road and unloaded his ATV. Even in the dark of night, with nothing but stars to illuminate his surroundings, he’d have found his way. “Sandcastle,” he muttered. The word spilled out on frozen breath; and when it did, he felt a tang of nostalgia, and the warmth of a forgotten sensation . . . and even in the bitter cold, he had to smile.
Brant peered down at his watch. It was nearly 3:00 A.M. now. He sighed, and as the darkness of the silent desert closed in around him, he had to question his reasoning . . . yet again: it was dangerous coming out here, even after so many years. But the strange text message he had received the night before—it had come at exactly 12:00 A.M., and not a second of sleep had followed since—was just too disturbing, too personal to be coincidence.
Brant pulled off his gloves, reached in his pocket, and yanked out his cellphone. He pushed the button for message history. There it was. That strange message. Again, he read the mysterious text:
There will be an extraordinary meteor shower this night. The prime viewing time will be at 3:00 A.M. Go to the white sands of the west desert and set up your equipment there. HOPE for the best.
It was the word HOPE—written more like an acronym than a word—that had sent his heart pounding and his mind spinning. Was it possible after all these years, or was he grasping for probabilities that simply weren’t there? Sure, there were many old acquaintances and colleagues who knew that Brant was a retired meteorologist; an avid star gazer. Perhaps the message had come from one of them? But then why was the sender tagged as unknown? And besides, Brant knew the meteor activity forecast for the rest of the year—there was nothing of interest posted for this night.
It was all so odd. Yet, there he was standing right on the spot where it had all happened.
Brant began to feel the pang of guilt, and wondered if perhaps he should have told his wife, Teresa, about the message, and where he was really going tonight. But no, he reconsidered. She would have flipped out, flattened his ATV tires, poured water in the gas tank, then cut the wires to the battery. That much was certain. The mere mention of HOPE would have pushed her right over the edge, especially after all these years. He couldn’t risk opening such a painful wound, especially one which had never truly healed.
As Brant wrestled with both conscience and soul, he closed his eyes and leaned against his ATV as if to be absorbed;
engulfed in the very nebulous which now surrounded him—he nearly wished it so. It was right about here, he reflected. He could almost envision what it had been like . . . almost. He smelled the sage, felt the sand and nearly tasted the salt on the icy air. What is it about the sense of smell that triggers, so completely, memories from the past? “Sage,” he mumbled, and opened his eyes.
It was as if spotlights above a darkened stage had just been turned on, and Brant remembered. The silhouettes of the past sprang up from desert shadows like moonlight through broken clouds, and there it was: Sandcastle, in all her avid splendor! The lush grounds with their elaborate cactus and flowering gardens, blossoms as large as dinner-plates scattered across a spectrum of colors to pale even the most radiant of rainbows; grass as green as emerald; the cloistered walkways and arcades, each punctuated by sculpted statues of white marble and granite; the outdoor fountains with their elaborate ballet of water and mist, spraying high into the breeze to cool and moisten the parched air; the lazy stream that ran along the perimeter wall; Gracie’s fantastic glass solarium, filled with her own genetically crafted flora; and of course the magnificent estate: her Sandcastle.
Brant let his head droop as if to turn away from the painful apparitions. He found himself staring down at his boots. They looked like two dark islands in a white sea. He bent and scooped up a handful of the tiny granules of sand. They were cold to the touch, yet perfectly round and coated with a minute crystalline casing of salt—the only place in the world with such sand. He pulled his hand to his face and let the mixture spill against his cheek in a glittering cascade to the ground.
What am I doing here? he whispered in a long vapored breath. This was just another wasted caprice. He knew that, didn’t he? It was time to head back. As it was he wouldn’t get home until dawn, and he still hadn’t come up with a reasonable explanation to give his wife (he’d mulled over a few outlandish ideas but Teresa wouldn’t buy any of them).
Brant put on his gloves, zipped up his coat and grabbed for his fleece face cover. But then he made the mistake of hesitating. Oh why did he pause to make one final gaze? Perhaps it was a last notion to his conscience, a conviction to his soul that he would never again return to these sands. But whatever the reason, the definitive conclusion which Brant had intended, in that instant of time when his eyes swept across the sea of glittering sands for the last time, did not take place. No. Instead, a very different thing happened: the faint illumination of starlight and a waning moon brought a final, dreaded memory. For just an instant, Brant thought he saw her face . . . their faces from across the ghostly landscape. He saw the smiles, heard the laughter and felt the love.
A subtle crease forced its way upon his frigid lips.
But then the recollection changed again. And now Brant saw tears, heard sobs and felt the anguish of those final days. Oh how he wished he could have done more to help her . . . to help them.
Brant shuttered and tried to expelled the images. But they had burned deep and profound.
Gracie’s kind, sweet face was the most difficult to bring to memory. Difficult because she had been the anchor in rough waters; the sanctuary in the storm; the light in the darkness. She was the hope in HOPE. The old girl had a persistent manner about her—no doubt about that. When her caring eyes fell upon your own, she would toss a knowing wink. Then with a smile, she’d push right on through and into your soul. She had that gift. The ability to see beyond mere physical features—the pigment of the eyes; the style of the hair; the quality of the teeth; the color of the skin . . . she saw none of these insignificant characteristics, but drew quickly past, landing herself right into the depth of who a person really was. That’s where Gracie conversed. And it was useless trying to second guess her in that realm.
“I’ve come back Gracie . . . back to Sandcastle. But none of you are here, and all that once was has gone to sand.” Brant breathed in deep, somehow hoping that the intake of frigid air might cool his aching heart. It didn’t. It just stung his nose and turned it momentarily numb. He slumped down on one knee and felt his eyes flood. I can’t do this again, he pleaded. Not again. But there was no compassion to his appeal, nor restraint. So many years ago now, but Brant recalled the event with perfect recollection.
He had fallen, quite by accident, into the middle of a clandestine project called HOPE. It was to save humankind. In so doing, he had risked his life in this brief service. He had proven himself, and had been trusted with the untouchable: the Five’s knowledge—their documents and journals—and thereby the unimaginable . . . the essence of dreams.
Brant shook himself. He was beginning to feel chilled. He craned his head and gazed upward. “The essence of dreams,” he whispered, looking into the heavens and trying so hard to remember that it hurt his head. “Well, she was right about that.”
Indeed, for how many times in that brief incredible spans had he said to himself: I must be dreaming. But like all wonderful dreams—especially those that transport the mind to enchanted places and launch the soul into whimsical adventures; those to which the subconscious clings and the spirit soars—there comes a finale, an end of all good things as they say. And for Brant, it had been an end he had fought desperately to prevent.
Gracie had known that someone she loved loomed in the shadows of betrayal, and feared for the exposure of HOPE. It was in this avenue of trepidation that she made her unusual request: Make a record in your own hand, Brant, as the Five have done. Write all that your eyes have seen; all that you have come to know, she had instructed with those kind eyes, deep and longing. Leave nothing to supposition. Then she had smiled. And Brant. Let the words come from your heart. For it will be by this record that all people will come to know what was done in their behalf.
How was it that he had never forgotten her words? Her face? The account had burned into his memory forever. He had been nothing more than an accidental whirlwind; a brief menacing flurry which had blown through and stirred up just enough dust to momentarily blind treacherous eyes. Yet, it had evidently been enough. Enough to change the direction of history—or so Gracie had adamantly declared.
And so he had done as requested. On blank pages in a section of the journal allocated just for him, Brant Stephens had meticulously scripted every word of his encounter with Gracie and her Five. He had transcribed each event exactly as he had witnessed it: the magnificent Sandcastle Estate, a mysterious desert flower in a salty wasteland; Avalon, home of the original Five: a secret underground utopia constructed below the estate by a league of mechanical denizens; the HOPE Complex: a web of ultramodern workshops, laboratories, bunkers and manufacturing facilities, also concealed underground and housed within an immense labyrinth of elusive salt caverns; and finally, there was the Five: the orchestrators for all that had been done, all that had been built, and the foundational resolve for Project HOPE. These incredible prodigies were all that remained of a dark chapter in human history—a horrific and unthinkable period. Altered and biologically changed as children—at the command of a Fuehrer and Fatherland that despised them—the five adolescents survived to find themselves forever alien in a country they simply longed to be part of. As anachronisms in a modern time, the unique group would eventually vanish from history, leaving those who sought them for their Nazi engendered abilities, in endless pursuit.
Yes, Brant had written much in that record, proudly inked from extraordinary experience to enduring words. And although perhaps it was just ink on paper, every character had felt like part of his soul and could have been inscribed in his very blood.
Brant shook his head, surprised by this forgotten emotion. He realized in that endless moment that he still felt an unyielding conviction. After all those years, he hadn’t wavered. His devotion to them and their cause would never diminish. He was forever consigned in body and soul and would never secede.
Brant’s cough ended his strange reminiscing. He was cold. He was tired. And worse of all, he had let his ridiculous assumptions run wild . . . yet again. He let o
ut a reproving grunt and mounted his ATV. It was time to get out of there. Time to ride with his back to those forbidden sands, and never return. Never! He grabbed at the key, now cold and biting. He turned it. The motor popped and whined but did not engage. He tried again. Nothing but a pitiful sputter. “I’m so screwed,” he growled, feeling quite small, suddenly, in that dark wasteland. And then it hit him: this was the second time he had been desperate to leave those sands, and could not. But that first time, he had not been alone.
Take the records, Brant! Take them from Sandcastle while there is still time! Gracie’s voice came to him like the haunting cry of an owl’s shriek. He felt a chill run through him, and it wasn’t the cold. He closed his eyes, willing the memory to fade back into the abyss of the past. But her words only seemed to pierce deeper into his soul.
It was that night that he had first laid eyes upon the alloy case. Gracie had placed the unique sheath in his hands, and in short broken sentences—sentences which should have come in volumes—explained its vital purpose. He had tried to repel her gesture; tried to turn and run away, fast and far. Yes, run from Sandcastle, even then. But her eyes . . . how could he forget those eyes? He could not, ever.
Crafted by the Five, the case’s protective exterior was not only impenetrable, but an intelligent alloy, capable of identifying the hand that touched it. Brant’s touch had been sanctioned.
The days that followed, while the case had been in his care, were days whose hours had ticked by in tormenting seconds—one after another—each as fearful as the next. How many times had he asked himself, when? When would Gracie contact him and lift this burden? How long would she expect him to harbor such a dangerous, sought-after treasure?
When the case was finally retrieved, it was not Gracie’s hand to whom Brant returned the venerated records, but to one of the remaining Five: the boy, Jacob.
Well done, Brant, the adolescent had simply spoke with grateful eyes, profound and piercing. Then, in that sobering moment so many years ago, Jacob had taken back the sheath; taken back the priceless compendium of documents, journals and records; taken back all that Sandcastle had been. And with his youthful expression fouled in sadness, he had simply muttered, Goodbye, my friend, and vanished into history forever. But not before fusing the unforgettable experience with Gracie and her Five, irrefutably, in Brant’s mind . . . and his heart. He had known then that Gracie was gone, and that he would never see her, or any of the group, again. And he had been right.
Of Salt and Sand Page 1