by Ed Hurst
each visit, Tom could hardly chase down all the threads. Instead, the threads entangled his awareness, overwhelmed him.
While Thomas continued leading the church music program, something he could have done standing on his head because it was so instinctive, he found himself coming more and more to life. The music had its own meaning, speaking to Tom with a message not always precisely the same as the words.
It ended all too soon.
For Tom the truck company manager, politics had all been regulation and taxes. All the rest he ignored. Suddenly, it would be ignored no longer. Another major terrorist incident struck somewhere in the country, and all Hell broke loose. There were troops everywhere, even in his little hamlet in flyover country. Churches were compelled to offer certain types of information, and were warned to avoid certain other types. By this time Tom had been studying the Bible with a couple of new friends, and it all made sense in light of what the Osage man taught him. It also demanded Thomas not play along with this new program.
The old Indian told him a week ahead of time to pack one bag and prepare to flee. Tom was torn. He knew better than to doubt this warning, but was just getting his life in some semblance of useful order. So he met for two last hurried Bible studies with his friends, and then told them he was ready for a new calling. They agreed this was their last meeting, as they were all sensing the same calling.
That night, as Tom sat staring at his rucksack, now ready to go, his cellphone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but did recognize the voice. It was someone in the church, a retired county deputy. Thomas and his friends were facing arrest warrants. The church building would be seized that very night, and Tom needed to be gone when the police arrived.
It was all so new, so impossible, yet ancient as mankind itself. Almost unconsciously Tom set the cellphone down without closing it. He was already dressed, so it meant only shrugging into the backpack and getting started. He left the door unlocked; no sense in making it more expensive for his cousin than necessary. He hiked over the back roads and into the night.
As the memories faded, Tom found himself now standing before a very old gate, the car which brought him receding in the distance. That rucksack had long given way to a sea bag, and some of the contents had changed. Yet here, another dour old man strolled toward him with an equally old dog following stiffly off to one side.
Thomas smiled peacefully, expecting nothing, everything, and anything.
4
It took two weeks for the soreness to become taught muscles.
Thomas was not a small man, but was glad none of the trees lying on the ground were huge. Indeed, most of it was broken limbs, windfall and such. It was the usual mixture of pines, elm, birch, linden, and so forth. The pines were used for pulp, and he stacked them separately from the rest. He was allowed to keep a few pieces of hardwood for his own stove.
The little cabin was sparse, a summer vacation hut typically rented, but there had been no visitors this year. It was more than sufficient for his needs. There was a small table with two chairs in the near corner. A hotplate on top of the counter, and a small refrigerator under, and a small sink set in the counter next to them. Open shelves under the counter held a few dishes. At the far end of the counter was an odd little washing machine which also dried the clothes, and used no soap or other additives. Above it was a fold out drying rack nonetheless. This was all in the area on the right of the door.
To the left was a small bathroom built into the corner, just a shower and stool with a few shelves on one wall above a towel rack. His hosts had provided a stack of ragged old towels. Because the cabin was on a slope, the bed sat on a sort of loft about a meter higher, at the back of the cabin. There was a short stairway just beyond the bathroom, but everything else was wide open. On either side of the bed was an open hanging rack and shelves built into the wall.
The wood burning stove was more or less in the center, just below the bed loft. Because it was summer now, he seldom had a need to light it, but kept himself a pile of wood against one side of the cabin just in case. If he stayed into winter, that pile would have to be much larger.
Between the ax, several sizes of old saws and a set of splitting tools, he could whittle down and drag out most of the logs and limbs he encountered. He estimated it would take all the way up through autumn to make much of a dent in the first section of forest. That was the immediate goal. Staying longer depended on too many variables.
But Thomas was more curious in the much real task which his non-conscious mind knew was here. So far, the semi-nightmares ending with the Osage wise man’s face always came with a change in direction, and an important job with one or more people. People were the only thing that mattered to Thomas. Or rather, bring truth into their lives in some special way always more obvious as situations moved and morphed around him.
Thus, lunch time found him sitting on the porch, leaned back against the post. His left leg dangled off with his foot on the ground, his right stretched across the porch deck. Today was a special meal for lunch. He had run across a gypsy wagon in town a few days before, offering, off all things, Mexican food. So far as Tom could tell, it looked and smelled about the same as the stuff from the taco stands back home, only better quality. He had purchased a half-dozen burritos and froze them. Two had been thawing in the sun all morning, and were just about warm.
But there was no hurry. First he poured a cup of coffee from the carafe. The cabin sat facing the old road used by the tractors which came and dragged away the logs Tom hauled out of the forest. It didn’t matter who came to get it, since there was only one old sawmill in the area. It was actually a large saw in a small shed, with a sliding rack. No power equipment could enter the forest, so he pulled the wood out into the open. His host had just finished tying up the load from this morning, and walked over to chat with Tom a minute.
He pointed out on the road coming up from the village. A lone figure approached, rather uncertainly. The first thing Tom noticed was the long, almost white hair tied back and flapping in the breeze. It could have been female, but walked with an androgynous gait.
The old man announced, “Her again. She is crazy, you know. If you feed her, she will never leave. She hangs on like an octopus, acting strange and frightening the children. You would do well to make her leave.” With that, he turned and mounted the tractor and drove off down the hill past the figure. Neither the man nor the girl acknowledged each other’s presence. It was clearly a somewhat small, skinny female. As she drew closer, she stopped, frozen for a few moments. Her eyes stared at the roof of the cabin. Her mouth moved as if talking very quietly to someone next to her.
She was not old — obviously younger than Tom. The skin of her face was pale white and still smooth despite exposure from being homeless. The hair was tangled and slightly matted, and a little dirty. Her clothing was also a bit dirty, though carefully composed. Thomas thought the coat was too heavy, but remembered he had been working six days per week for two weeks already, and his metabolism was very high. So if the old man wore long sleeves, a homeless woman might wear a coat. It had once been a bright orange and red, contrasting with her dark blue sweat pants. Her feet sported battered old hiking shoes with mismatched laces and socks.
She walked up and stopped a couple meters from him. Tom thought to himself she might even be pretty if she didn’t look so anorexic. She paused there for a long moment, and then fixed her eyes directly on him. Her gaze was intense, yet utterly empty, without the slightest emotion.
So this is why he was here.
With precise UK English uncommon for the area, she spoke in rather flat tones. “Could I have some food?” At least the emphasis and tone were correct, but there was no apparent emotion in any part of her facial movements. Without taking his eyes from her face, he reached back with his free hand and picked up one of the foil wrapped burritos. Extending his right arm over the left hand which gripped the coffee mug, he held it out to her with a mild, but unsmiling look on his face. There was no s
ense confusing her with unnecessary inputs.
Instead of simply reaching for it, she first moved and took a seat opposite him on the porch, just a short distance from the foot resting on the deck. She sat rather bolt upright without leaning or curving her back. Once seated with legs crossed, then she reached out and took the offered food. He watched her, but not intently.
She unwrapped the foil covering, holding the burrito in her left while managing to fold the foil neatly with her right. She placed it carefully halfway between them on the deck of the porch. Straightening back up, she held the burrito horizontally and precisely in the fingertips of both hands, a foot or so from her face. She paused, staring at it, and then made a few of the small mouth movements, as if whispering to it. She closed her eyes tight for a few seconds, and then suddenly bit into the center of it, not quite deep enough to sever it in two. Tom unwrapped the other burrito partway and ate from one end, while casually watching her.
She chewed with her eyes closed, making no other movements at all. After swallowing a couple of times, she sat again, motionless. Then she opened her eyes and bit again, this time breaking it in two, each hand spinning it around like a baton. She closed her eyes again while