There are always those freethinkers, those bold investigators journeying at the very edges of discovery, who are following their own visions, their own quests outside the so-called mainstream of science—daring to follow smaller streams and even brooks—daring to dip their toes a little deeper and reach a little further out into Newton’s “great ocean of truth.”
For example, there are those who say—water itself may have a life and consciousness. Such views are of course considered absurd—heresy even—by those who stay safely on the shores of mainstream science, keeping their feet dry and their university tenures intact. But regardless of all the doubts and regardless of the full truth behind the mystery of water—as though human words alone could explain it—it remains an inescapable fact that water and life are eternally intertwined throughout the cosmos.
Like the veins and arteries of the human body, rivers are the living tributaries of the surface of the earth—carrying vital nutrients and minerals downward from the mountains to the plains, and finally to the oceans and seas—where they sink to the bottom. Then, after unimaginably long eons of time, those substances are enfolded back into the very crust of the earth to one day again rise as mountains—as the living skin of the earth is renewed. Central to this grand cycle of life, which sweeps spans of time far beyond the emergence and eventual extinction of any one species, is water. It is the spirit and bearer of life on earth.
Little Bear River runs through some of the most mineral-rich land in the whole of the North American continent. The river begins as melting snow, high in the Colorado Rockies, and as it journeys through the ancient mountains, it picks up traces of virtually every known mineral. The water of the river, combined with the minerals it carries, remarkably and interestingly contains all the elements and ingredients making up the human body.
Rebecca was sitting alone next to Little Bear River at McCann Park. She was not sitting on the bench, but sat instead on the brown fall grass, only a few feet from the bank of the river. She often came to this spot on her days off, staring at the blues, greens, and whites cascading by in the water. She was thinking of all that was said at Matthew’s memorial service the day before, of the appearance of Carl, and of what might now be ahead for her and the child she carried.
“I miss you so terribly,” Rebecca said to the swirling and dancing water. “I hope you know we’ve got a baby coming. I’m getting kind of fat. I wonder if you would still find me beautiful.”
The river only gurgled in response.
Rebecca looked down at her ring and touched it.
“I can raise the baby alone, you know. I’m strong like that—but I’d prefer not to.”
Again, the river only gurgled, and she wiped a small watery tear from the corner of her eye.
“You know me, I’m kind of traditional. I think that children need a mother and a father. I think with only one of us, they somehow get only half of a perspective of the world.”
Rebecca stopped and wiped a few more tears, her fingers now damp.
“You wrote me one time that I was the other half of you. I know now what you meant by that, and now my other half is missing. I wonder how our child will grow up with a mother who has such a hole in her life. I’m trying to heal that hole, to be complete, even without you—for the baby’s sake and mine. I’m wondering how to do that? I could use your advice on this. I wish—”
Rebecca stopped. From behind her, she heard footsteps nearby. She turned and saw Carl standing next to the green bench.
“I hope I didn’t scare you,” Carl said smiling.
Rebecca quickly wiped the few remaining tears from her eyes. “No,” she said, “I was just watching the river.”
Carl stepped up next to her and then sat down very slowly on the ground beside her, his old body initially resistant, but then finally complying with what his brain was telling it to do.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” said Carl, looking at the water. “It’s a hypnotic sort of dance, when you look at it long enough.”
Rebecca looked from Carl to the river.
“It’s funny,” he continued, “but when I was blind, I would come here and only listen. All the wonderful sounds told me certain things. Now that I have my sight and come here to look at it, it tells me many of the same things, only in other ways—a different language.”
“What does the river tell you?” asked Rebecca.
“Many things,” said Carl. “It tells me about rains that have fallen or about how much snow has fallen on the high mountains. It tells me about the seasons and even about the geology around here. There seems to be no end to what it can tell me.”
“So which one is better? I mean, do you like hearing it or now seeing it, better?”
“That’s really just a matter of taste,” said Carl. “I suppose it’s like asking, ‘which is better—the English or French language?’ They both transmit meanings, and for certain meanings, one may be better at times. But to be honest, now that I’ve had a taste of both seeing and hearing, I think combining the two senses is the most exquisite of all. To both listen and watch deeply, absorbing the richness of it all—it’s extraordinary. That ability was the gift that Matthew gave me, right at this spot, in fact.”
Rebecca looked back toward the river. The two sat in silence for a moment, with Rebecca wiping several tears away. “I’m so happy for you…your eyes were healed…I’m trying so hard to find a healing of my own…every day, I have to wake up and find the strength and…” Her voice trailed off.
Carl put his arm around her shoulder. “Faith?” he said softly.
She looked into his brown eyes. “Yes…faith,” she answered.
Carl smiled. “I’ll be right back,” he said, standing up slowly and then walking a few feet away to the base of a large cottonwood tree. Rebecca watched as he bent over and picked up what appeared to be a small cottonwood twig. He returned and sat back down.
Carl held the cottonwood twig in his hands, staring at it. “I heard a story from a young friend of mine, many years ago. He’d been to Mount Rainier on vacation with his parents, and while he was there, a ranger told him this story. When he came back to Cottonwood, he was so excited to tell me this story, because it had to do with cottonwood trees.” Carl paused and looked at Rebecca. “Have you heard about the secret of cottonwood trees?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Well, it’s not too long of a story, but I think it’s a good story. The ranger that told my young friend this story said it originally came from a Native American legend, so there could be many versions of it, but here’s the story my young friend told me:
“To some native peoples, the stars in the heavens above represented the lights from the spirits who lived there. The brighter stars were the older or greater spirits, and the dimmer stars were the younger or lesser spirits. There was one particular little star, a mere child, in fact, that was most curious about the human world below. He watched them from afar, going about their daily lives, but most interesting to him was at night when they would sit around their fires, singing and telling stories. He knew they must be telling wonderful stories and saying such kind and fascinating things to each other. The only problem was that the little star was too far away to hear those stories. He knew, however, if he were to move closer to them, staying in the form he was in, his brightness could blind them or at least frighten them terribly.
“So the little star developed a plan. He would sneak down to the earth by hiding himself inside of an object that is always near humans but is hidden in such a way that they could not see him. For his hiding place, he chose the simple cottonwood tree. And so the little star hid secretly away in the tiny branches of all cottonwood trees, where he took great delight in being near humans—listening to their music, their laughter, and the kind and thoughtful things they would say to each other.
“Over time, however, the little star grew lonely for his many starry spirit brethren in the heavens, and so he spoke to those humans who could hear the
spirits, imploring them to open up a branch of the cottonwood—releasing the little star to ride upon the wind, so that it could join once more with the stars above. The kind and wise ones, who could hear the little star’s voice, did exactly as he asked, and so, over time, he had the best of both worlds—being near humans, but also occasionally being released to the heavens.”
Carl stopped and looked at Rebecca. “And so I’ve been told, if you break apart a cottonwood branch, like this one here, and turn it on end and look at it, in the center you’ll find the tiny star, which, if you believe the legend, has been listening even now as I’ve told you its story.”
He paused, looked down at the twig, and then back to her. “Rebecca, faith is the assurance in the existence of things unseen. I’ve never had the chance to check into the truth of the story my young friend told me so many years ago. I’ve never seen the inside of a cottonwood branch, but I know what was in the heart of the young man who told me that story, and when he went on to become a forest ranger himself, I knew that something about that story must have touched him. I have faith the tiny star is inside this branch.”
Carl handed the twig to Rebecca. She looked at it for a moment, quickly snapped the twig in half, and then turned it to look at the end. In the center of the twig was a tiny, perfectly formed star.
Rebecca handed one of the halves to Carl, who glanced at it and smiled. “I never doubted it,” he said.
She smiled and looked back out to the river. They were both quiet for a few moments, until Rebecca finally said, “So you’ve listened to the river, and you’ve watched the river, but what about smelling it while you were standing in it, and then maybe even tasting it—wouldn’t that give you more of a complete experience?”
Carl watched the river for a moment. “It would be pretty cold today,” he finally said, “but I think my old heart could take it.”
“Are you going to take off your socks and shoes?” she asked.
“I think I will this time,” said Carl. “The last time I was in this river, I had squishy shoes all the way to Louisiana. That wasn’t much fun.”
The two slipped off their shoes and socks, stood up, and stepped into the cold waters of Little Bear River. As they edged further from shore, they held each other’s hand, each holding half of the broken cottonwood twig in the other. When the water was up to their thighs, they stopped. The water was colder than Rebecca imagined it would be, but once she was over the initial shock, she could feel the smooth rocks and squishy mud wrapping around her toes on the river bottom. She and Carl continued holding hands, and then without speaking, but with a knowing between friends beyond words, they simultaneously lowered each half of the star-laden twig down to the river—and released them.
One Hundred Eight
Touching Cottonwood
The months passed by in Cottonwood. Fall completed her change of colors, eventually stripping the cottonwood trees of their leaves, many of which floated gently down to land in Little Bear River to continue their journey, eventually being dissolved into the other minerals of the river. The replenishing winter snows came, renewing the high mountain snowpack and guaranteeing the cycle of water and of life for the next spring. Finally, spring came, releasing the snows so they could once more journey down the rugged mountains, picking up their multitude of minerals and joining together to become the river.
Like the seasons, the town of Cottonwood had changed as well. Nearly ten months had passed since the small Colorado town had been immersed in the mystery of the Dead Zone. Gwendolyn Mercer had hired many of the most respected scientists from around the country to research the phenomenon. After visiting the town and taking thousands of measurements with the most sophisticated of equipment, they all failed to peel back any layers or expose the source of the mysterious phenomenon. And so it remained that the basic details surrounding the Dead Zone as first established by Akash Mudali were still the most relevant and had not changed one bit since he’d first mapped out the anomaly.
The Dead Zone remained an exact circle, with a radius of exactly four-point-eight-eight-two miles. The center of that circle was a spot on the sidewalk on Main Street in Cottonwood, approximately twenty-five feet south of the intersection of Second Street. Inside that zone, no internal-combustion vehicles of any type would operate. These were the basic, unchanging, and perplexing facts of the Dead Zone.
Despite the initial inconvenience of the phenomenon, the town of Cottonwood had not suffered in the least. In fact, some would say miraculously, quite the opposite was true—Cottonwood was thriving as a direct result of being at the center of the Dead Zone. Tourists from all over the world were coming by the thousands to the area, eager to experience the unique phenomenon for themselves. Dozens of newspaper and magazine articles had been written on the Dead Zone, and there had been numerous television, radio, and Internet programs as well. A quick search on-line showed that it remained one of the hottest topics on the Internet. The Internet blogger Deadzonemechanic had become famous, at least virtually, as the leading expert on the topic. His blog was read by thousands each day, all hoping for some tidbit of information that might cast some light into some deeper truth. Though they all hoped to be miners digging for diamonds, most were, in fact, flies.
Every day, electric buses and vans filled with tourists from Grand Junction, Durango, and as far away as Denver and Salt Lake City were arriving in Cottonwood. A six-foot-tall brass pole had been installed in the sidewalk, right at the center of the zone. It was a favorite place for tourists to get their pictures taken—often while holding ice cream cones they’d purchased from the new Rhonda’s Old Fashioned Ice Cream Shoppe—formerly Rhonda’s Bridal & Floral. The store did a booming business and was now primarily run by Rhonda’s children and grandchildren, who had recently returned from much larger cities to live in Cottonwood.
Ernie’s Diner was another favorite tourist spot in town. Not only was it always packed with tourists hungry for delicious food, but Ernie Martinelli had also started a profitable side business selling videos of the “Cottonwood Miracle Fridge,” which he insisted was directly related to the mysterious Dead Zone and proof positive of the existence of miracles. The videos themselves had been examined by so-called experts, who could neither confirm nor deny the strange and remarkable footage shown on the video. Ernie remained unmoved by any skepticism, and it was difficult to find one single Cottonwood citizen who would cast doubts on Ernie’s character or the veracity of his claims.
When approaching the Dead Zone from the north or south, the Colorado State Patrol no longer maintained their roadblocks, but there were now frequent warning signs along the highway leading up to the boundaries of the zone. The signs read:
WARNING:
COTTONWOOD DEAD ZONE AHEAD
ALL INTERNAL-COMBUSTION VEHICLES
(BOTH GASOLINE AND DIESEL)
INCLUDING CARS, TRUCKS, BUSES, AND MOTORCYCLES WILL FAIL TO OPERATE. ONLY NON-COMBUSTION ELECTRIC VEHICLES WILL OPERATE.
STALLED VEHICLES WILL BE REMOVED FROM THE HIGHWAY AND TOWED AT THE OWNER’S EXPENSE.
THE STATE OF COLORADO AND THE TOWN OF COTTONWOOD WILL ASSUME NO RESPONSIBILITIES FOR DAMAGES OR INJURIES THAT MAY RESULT FROM FAILURE TO PROPERLY OBSERVE THIS WARNING.
Though this warning seemed stern and was meant to be taken seriously, in reality, not one injury was known to have occurred as a result of someone accidentally or intentionally driving into the Dead Zone with an internal-combustion vehicle. Every week, however, several skeptics, or simply adventuresome types, tested the truth of the warning and added to the local economy by needing to be towed.
The signs themselves became another favorite spot for tourists to have their pictures taken. Thousands of delighted international travelers returned to their homes in Japan, China, Australia, Europe, and other far- away places, with photographs taken of them standing next to the Cottonwood Dead Zone warning signs or the brass pole in front of Rhonda’s Old Fashioned Ice Cream Shoppe.
One booming busine
ss for the area was that of a so-called highway ferryboat. Many travelers not having electric cars still needed to commute along Highway 550 through Cottonwood to destinations north or south. Several enterprising businesses had begun offering a unique ferrying service. Large electric trucks were brought in and, for a fee, would be loaded up with internal-combustion vehicles needing to traverse across the nearly ten-mile-wide diameter of the Dead Zone. It was not unlike the ferry services used in many cities to transport vehicles across large bodies of water, such as in Seattle, only rather than water—it was the invisible and mysterious Dead Zone.
Directly at the boundary of the zone, an entirely different type of tourist company was doing brisk business by offering a way for tourists to actually experience the effects of the Dead Zone—without needing to pay the hefty towing charge for a car stalling out on the highway. Hundreds of tourists per week would get into small internal-combustion cars and be allowed to drive on a dirt track paralleling the highway near the boundary area. They would start outside the boundary, and then as they crossed the four-point-eight-eight-two-mile boundary point, the cars would suddenly stall. An electric tow truck would then haul the cars back to the starting point, ready for the next group of tourists. After their experience, many of the tourists would then stop in the gift shop and purchase T-shirts that read I Survived the Cottonwood Dead Zone!
The “experiential” Dead Zone tourist attractions did such brisk business that a new Tim’s World Famous Tasty Burger opened up nearby and quickly became the busiest of the three—so busy that the restaurant owner moved back to Cottonwood from Montrose to personally oversee the booming business, serving up thousands of burgers per month to hungry tourists from all over the world—each going home knowing they had finally experienced what a burger was truly meant to taste like. The allure of the Dead Zone had at last allowed Tim Burnham to fulfill his dream of operating a “world famous” hamburger stand.
Touching Cottonwood Page 85