Torchlight

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Peter looked from her to Eli, then back to her. “Just make sure you have the right gear and get back well before dark. Okay?” His focus was on Eli again, his intent clear. Alaska could be a dangerous place. She’s your responsibility, Eli. I’m trusting you.

  “No problem, Mr. Bailey,” Eli said respectfully. He turned back toward the canoe, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll see you tomorrow at seven, Bryn.”

  “I’ll be ready.” There was no hesitation, no qualm in her voice. She was brave and gutsy. He liked that.

  “Good night,” he said, already paddling away.

  “ ’Night!” Peter called. Bryn was silent. And because she was silent, Eli knew he would be fantasizing about her whispering “good night” in his ear all evening. What was it about her? He stubbornly refused to look back toward shore.

  For the first time since he’d started daydreaming about Bryn, Eli whispered a prayer heavenward. “Lord God, you have brought me to this place for a reason.” He paddled deep and hard in a J-stroke, powerfully forcing the cedar canoe forward. “Help me to be your servant, to be who Bryn needs me to be, and not so focused on my most base desires.” It was then that her declining his invitation to join them for church that morning came back to him.

  Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Peter Bailey had never been a believer, always telling Jedidiah that he lived a moral, if not a Christian, life. And that was enough. Memories of the two men sitting out by a campfire, debating theological questions, came back to Eli. Like father, like daughter.

  He had assumed she was a believer. Hoped she was a believer. Hadn’t wanted to think anything else, drawn into his attraction for her like … a tomcat to catnip.

  The problem was that Eli was already rolling in the catnip.

  “My dad calls you a bear magnet. Think we’ll see one today?” Bryn asked, keeping up with Eli with some effort. It wasn’t easy, at this altitude, but she was loath to admit it. There was an air of testing about Eli today, something she picked up the moment he collected her in the canoe. She wondered why.

  “It does seem to be true—every time I go out I come across the closest bear. Must be something about my smell.” He turned and grinned at her, handsome with a slight flush to his lower cheeks where the faintest stubble hugged his skin.

  She raised her eyebrows, forcing her thoughts back to bears. “Great. So if we encounter a bear, Mr. Magnet, what are we supposed to do?”

  “Grizzly, stay absolutely still. They perceive anything running away as dinner. If attacked, you play dead. If it’s a black bear, you fight back. Don’t try to climb a tree. They’ll be right behind you, and trust me, they’re better climbers. Grizzlies don’t climb.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “I’ll just do what you do.”

  He smiled over his shoulder at her again. “Don’t worry. I’m the bear magnet. You didn’t put any citronella on, did you?”

  She stopped, and he walked a few paces before stopping too, then turning around.

  “You did?”

  “Well, I had to do something to keep from giving these mosquitoes a unit of blood.” She swatted around her head, suddenly hearing the high-pitched whine of the dreaded insect nearby. “Why? Don’t tell me. Bears love citronella.”

  “Some bears.” He frowned and Bryn frowned too, now truly worried about a bear attack. Yet she was glad for the attention from Eli. There was a protective, loving way about him that made her feel more feminine, aware, alive.

  “We’re, what? Three miles out?” Bryn said, trying to return her focus to the task at hand. “Might as well get to the mining camp and then go home. Maybe the bears are in other territory today.”

  Eli scanned the horizon, suddenly all Eagle Scout. “Maybe. Just stick close to me.”

  No problem, she thought. It was about seventy degrees out, a perfect summer day, and Bryn concentrated on the beauty all about them rather than on her handsome guide or the bears that might want to eat them. Summit Lake lay on the western border of the Denali Wilderness, and from this vantage point, they could see much of Mount McKinley—which Eli preferred to call by the Athabaskan name Denali, “since that president from Ohio never even laid eyes on her”—and the rest of the Alaskan Range.

  It was breathtaking—white peaks descending to dark silver-blue ravines and gullies, above green-brown tundra-covered “hills” that rivaled most of the Rocky Mountains in elevation. Bryn knew that many of the peaks were eleven to thirteen thousand feet high; Mount Foraker was over seventeen thousand; and McKinley, the queen, over twenty.

  “What does Denali mean?” she asked, panting, following in Eli’s footsteps.

  “High One.”

  “That’s appropriate.”

  “Highest point in North America,” he said with a note of pride.

  She stifled an I know. She wasn’t stupid—she had scored 1490 on her SAT. But she sensed that he hadn’t said it to be a know-it-all. He simply loved this place. What was it about him that at once drew her—as though they had been lifelong friends rather than periodic acquaintances—but also repelled her—as if she were a complete cheechako?

  “So you’re premed,” he said suddenly. “Want to be a generalist or a specialist?”

  “Don’t know. I have a few years to figure it out.”

  “I’d say,” he agreed. “What makes you want to be a doctor?”

  She mulled over his question, and the silence grew between them. Finally she said, “I think it’s because I like to get to the root of a problem and fix it. Problems with the body almost always have a good reason for occurring, and a good solution.”

  He paused, letting her catch up to him, and opened up his canteen, then offered it to her. “You thirst, and you quench it. It’s all very orderly.”

  She looked him in the eye, catching his obvious hint. “You don’t care for the orderly?”

  “I’ve found that my life isn’t all that orderly. I want it to be, but it doesn’t matter. It’s messy and mixed-up and turned around every time I think I’m on the straight and narrow.” He took a sip after her and then with the back of his hand wiped his lips. Bryn found herself staring at them a half-second too long.

  “Isn’t that aggravating?” she asked, taking a deep breath. She wouldn’t let him distract her. “Don’t you just want to make it right, make it straight, less messy again?”

  “To some extent.” He looked around, surveying the land like a one-man search party. “I’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Ben White. There’s a reason my dad has been friends with him all these years. You should get to know him too.”

  She sat down on a nearby rock, her calves suddenly aching. “Why? My dad says he’s just an old coot who’s tucked himself away from the world. A religious fanatic.”

  “That’s not how I’d describe him. Ben’s wise. Smart. Caring. He’s pretty remarkable.”

  “Because he raises bear cubs?”

  “That’s just part of the reason.” Eli shook his head. “It’s hard to explain. I’ll take you to see him. He’ll be back tomorrow. He’s out on a Fish and Game assignment.”

  “What does he have to do with our conversation?”

  Eli sat down on a neighboring boulder. “He writes a lot. He told me the trick to writing in a way that grabs readers is to note what is vivid and vital in life. And if you can take note of it and embrace it, whether you’re writing about it or reading it, you’ll enjoy it all the more.” Eli looked at her steadily. His eyes were the color of the far hills, a hazel green. “When is life most vivid and vital for you, Bryn?”

  Here, now was the first thing that came to her. She thought about sharing it with him but held back. He was right. Her days were not focused, not organized with a huge goal before her as she usually kept them, and yet she felt more … interested and … whole than she had in a long time. “It’s a good question,” she said instead, rising. “Come on. If we’re going to get to that mining camp and back, we had better hurry.”

  Eli watched the thought
s pass through her dark chocolate eyes like a ticker tape through a stockbroker’s hands. There was something moving her, changing her, making her think. She set off ahead of him, assuming their trail was dead ahead rather than veering to the right at the crags, moving on instinct. Was that how she always tackled a problem? Move forward and figure it out on the way?

  “Uh, Bryn? We want to head over to the right. The camp should be about a quarter-mile farther.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She modified her path immediately. “You asked me what makes me want to be a doctor. What makes you want to be a pilot?”

  “You were up with me last week. You saw what fun it is, right?”

  “Yeah. But what about the rest of the world, Eli? What about seeing Europe like our fathers did? Or China? Or New Zealand or Peru …”

  “I’d like to see those places. Someday.”

  “Why not now? Have you ever even been Outside? To the Lower 48?”

  “Twice. We went to see my grandparents in Chicago.”

  “That’s it?” It was her turn to stop and study him. “Don’t you ever wonder what you’re missing? What’s out there?”

  He mulled over her question. “Guess not. Wasn’t wild about Chicago. This is home, and I’m pretty sure it always will be.”

  She nodded but was clearly not assured.

  “And flying … There’s nothing else like it. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a hawk, circling, riding the wind. If I could spend all day in a glider, I’d be a happy man. The de Havilland and flying for a living is the next best thing.”

  He took the lead. “I might not have seen China yet, but I see something new every day. Isn’t that what most people want from their work? Something new, to keep things fresh, interesting?”

  “I suppose.”

  They crested the next hill and spotted the remains of a small mining operation—decomposing traces on the ground, a black, cavernous hole in the hillside, barely covered with metal fencing in a meager Forest Service effort to keep hikers and daring spelunkers out. There wasn’t a whole lot to it. But beyond it, miles of treeless, green-gold tundra extended all the way to the base of the white mountains in the distance.

  “This is it?” Bryn asked, staring down the gully to the sad remains.

  “No,” he said. He took her hand before thinking about it and waved to the horizon. “That’s it.” He stared outward, but his attention was on the connection between them. It felt so good, so right, that Eli suddenly didn’t want the gesture to be casual; he wanted to hold her hand forever. He looked over to her.

  She was gazing up with such a look of rapture that it seemed to Eli that she saw, really saw Alaska—the land he loved—for the first time. “Oh,” she whispered, and her fingers tightened around his.

  Bryn began to look forward to Eli’s visits, his shy smiles and warm glances. So when he came over a week after their hike and invited her to go with him to meet Ben White, she agreed. Together they paddled up to Ben’s cabin. His home was a bit more expansive than the other two Summit cabins, with a wraparound porch and wide windows on three sides. There were tidy wooden and stone steps that came down the hillside to the beach. Ben emerged as they neared and gave them a small wave, moving slowly, stiffly, to the stairs, to come and meet them.

  “You all right, Ben?” Eli asked.

  “Ah, fine. Just that darned arthritis acting up.” He came closer and smiled tentatively at Bryn. “Must be Pete Bailey’s girl. Spittin’ image.”

  “I am.” She reached out her hand. “Bryn. Bryn Bailey.”

  “Ben White,” he said with a friendly nod. He was a short man, perhaps four inches shorter than Bryn, but compact and strong. About seventy years old. He was dressed in an old plaid shirt that had probably seen a decade of wear and jeans that had holes at the knees. But they were clean.

  It was his eyes, kind and sagelike, that drew Bryn’s gaze. “Come on up and share a cup of tea with me,” he invited.

  “That would be great, Ben,” Eli said. He and Bryn moved forward, and Eli’s hand moved to the small of her back, a polite gesture of pure masculinity. Women didn’t go around touching each other there. She found herself wishing he wouldn’t let it drop away. It was warm and comforting somehow. Oddly intimate.

  “Have any bear cubs?” Eli asked Ben as they entered the house. The walls were plastered, making it lighter and brighter than the Baileys’ cabin, and the floors were of wide, clear pine planks. She and her father had been debating the possibility of flooring their own cabin.

  “Don’t have any bears now. Those I went to see were dead before we could reach them. The guys down at Fish and Game tell me they’re hoping to bring a couple by next week. Guess I’ll be back to nursing a new set along.”

  “How many have you ‘fathered’?” Bryn asked.

  “Couple of twins. Several lone cubs.” He set the pot on the stove, lit a match, and cranked the dial. A propane tank must be nearby, she surmised. He turned and reached for a few mugs from hooks and several boxes of tea, then set them on the table before her and Eli. “It’s a crazy thing to do, but I enjoy it. Without me, those little critters would die. And there’s a place on God’s green earth for every one of them.”

  Bryn bristled at his mention of God. She remembered her dad’s warning about Ben White, and she wondered if she would get the religious fanatic spiel now.

  “Had a couple of problems with one young male,” he continued. “He’s wandered on over to Talkeetna and is liking the garbage smorgasbord rather than hunting. I have to figure out a way to get them used to hunting younger, so it’s not such a shock. My females have done well, but this male—”

  “How do you know he’s yours?”

  “Part of my deal with Fish and Game. I radio-collar them all. University tracks them for me. My job is to raise them up as a bear mother would. Wrestle with them. Take them out on walks. Show them how to dig for a spring covered with foliage or grub under a log, that sort of thing.”

  “How’d you get into it in the first place?” Bryn asked.

  “Father was a vet and always fostering wounded or abandoned wildlife in New Hampshire. An owl with a wounded wing. A falcon. Ferrets. Anything you can name. We had a couple of bears when I was growing up. People brought him animals from all over the Lower 48. It became the family business.” The teapot whistled, and he turned to take it from the stove and pour each a steaming mug. “Enough about me. How do you find Summit this year, Bryn? I wasn’t around the last two times you visited. But I well remember the year you two were ten or eleven. Inseparable, you were.”

  She could feel the heat of Eli’s embarrassment, but she concentrated on Ben. “It’s pretty here. But a little … far away from everything for my taste.”

  Ben sat down and looked at her from over the rim of his mug. “Takes awhile. You’ll see it eventually—what brings your father here.”

  “Besides a break from my mother?” It was out before she realized what she was saying, but there was something about Ben that invited confidences. His open kindness, lack of judgment.

  He smiled and nodded, seeming to sense that now was not the right time for eye contact. “Alaska calls a body home. Your father’s got it in his blood. I’d wager you’ll soon have it in yours as well. Once it’s in there, there isn’t a way to get it out. No way to remedy the ache when you’re away other than to visit. Or move here permanent.”

  Bryn smiled in confusion. “You make it sound like a disease.”

  “Some might call it that, yes.”

  He was puzzling, this wizened old man. She wondered what it was about Ben that her father had disliked, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure it out. He was a genuine, sweet gentleman. Maybe Peter was afraid Ben would see into his soul as he was seeing into Bryn’s. Afraid that he’d open up to the old guy when he wasn’t ready to open up to anyone. Her thoughts floated until Ben brought another cup of tea.

  They talked of Eli’s blossoming business plans and his parents, about Bryn’s studies, her mother
in Newport, her grampa in Boston—it hit her then that Ben reminded her of her beloved grandfather. How she missed Grampa Bruce’s smiling eyes and the way he would trace his old finger down her jaw tenderly when he was telling her something he wanted her to remember forever …

  When their mugs were empty, Eli and Bryn said good-bye, promising to come back the following week to meet his “babies.”

  Eli followed Bryn down to the canoe, allowed her to get to the front, and then pushed off of a large rock without ever getting his boots wet. As they paddled away, he asked quietly, “What did you think?”

  “About?”

  “About Ben.”

  “I think he’s a very nice old man. I don’t know why my father doesn’t like him.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I might.”

  “Want to go fishing?” Eli changed subjects. “I can teach you an old Tlingit tribe method and catch you a passel of trout for dinner.”

  “Yes. I’d like that,” she said. “But let’s stop and get my dad’s flyfishing rod too. I want to try my hand at it.”

  “You got it.”

  Chosen

  PROLOGUE

  THE COAST OF ISRAEL

  LATE JANUARY

  Samuel Roarke Jr. gazed out at the Mediterranean, thinking about the incredibly preserved sunken ship he had seen an hour ago. In his mind’s eye, he could just begin to see what the ancient harbor must have looked like in its glory. He wished for the thousandth time that he could travel through time to stand beside Herod, observing his ways, his work, his wonders. Thirty years before Christ was born.

  Sam glanced back at his partner, forcing his mind back to the subject of the ship. “It’s gotta be Greek,” he said.

  Robert Hoekstra, head of the Center for Maritime Studies back in the States and current supervisor of Israel’s Caesarea Maritima dig, nodded in agreement. “It’s at least as old as the one they found off the coast of Athens. We need to fly in a consultant to advise us on how to pursue this part of the project. It’s a thousand years older than anything I’ve had hands-on experience with.”