The Guardian Hills Saga

by James Edwards

  The storm responded, producing a strobe light of energy.

  At the mine, Bull stopped the procession of three. He wanted to commemorate their bold initiative. “This marks the beginning of a whole new life. For all of us, Bernie included, and our town. We’ll buy our land back. Treaties will be changed forever.”

  But the celebration would be short lived.

  An unnatural spotlight from above shone upon the clearing as Bernie pulled the trigger of his pistol. BANG! and a bullet ripped through the temple of one of the twins. BANG-BANG! and two more struck the back and leg of the other. Both grabbed frantically for their wounds and collapsed hard.

  “Did you find what you sought, ‘friends?’” Bernie asked, not expecting an answer. “Is the treasure all you hoped it would be?” He ended with a maniacal laugh.

  Bull spun around. Aghast at the sight of the fallen twins, he searched through the rain for the source of gunfire. He was stunned by what he saw. “Bernie? No!”

  Quickly bringing his rifle to eye level, he let off two shots, though the line of fire was unclear: BOOM! BOOM!

  The first bullet missed Bernie. The second hit low and lodged in his right lung.

  Bernie was slow to react.

  But then, BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! and click . . . click . . . click . . . click, the empty cylinder still reacting to Bernie’s wild trigger pulling. Bernie’s shooting made its mark.

  Bull clutched his chest. Dropping his gun, he fell back into the mine wall, careened off the apron, and landed atop the ore car. At least one hunk of lead found a home in a corner of his heart, and the organ gradually became still, bleeding out into the rest of his body.

  The twins also did not move.

  Bernie was near death, and he knew it. Wheezing and spitting up blood, he struggled with wakefulness, his eyelids heavier and heavier, his body once again resting face down on the ground. But before he would take his last breath—before he would let go of this world, he felt one final confrontation was in order. He sensed a wispy sort of entity lurking in the dark. He groaned as he lifted his neck, as if searching for someone nearby, and then sat as upright as possible, clutching his lung in a failed attempt to ease the sharp pain.

  “Have we amused you, old man?” he called out, his voice barely a wheeze. “Are you pleased with what you saw? Your treasure is safe.” He paused to catch his breath and then continued. “No new plans will be made.” Pause. “No . . . modifications of plans . . . or further training.” And then with a final burst of energy, he said, “You’ve won.” Pause. “Knowledge of Indian treasure leaves with us . . .” Worn out, his upper body collapsed.

  Bernie willed himself to pivot like the hand of a clock, his breath now coming in short gasps, stopping when he got to the six o’clock position, facing Westcreek below. “Show yourself . . . devil!” Bernie spit out blood that had accumulated in his throat. “Let me see you before I die! I deserve at least one last meeting.”

  As if cued, the rain ceased, the grumbling skies sniffled to a silence, and the winds calmed. Above the clearing, the dark and menacing clouds parted, giving way to soft moonlight.

  Bernie felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand. He sensed another’s sharp stare, and with what little energy remained, he rotated back to the twelve o’clock position. He was no longer alone.

  A still figure, dressed head to toe in a thin robe of earthen tones, stood on the long arm of the Great Rock. A droopy hood masked its face, except for pursed lips and a pair of dark eyes. Within one of the being’s tan hands, he held a tall wooden staff.

  Bernie was delighted. “Ohhhh . . . ,” he said. “It is you, oh ‘guardian of the hills.’” He attempted to stretch out his arm in mock reverence. “The legend endures. You still exist.” He paused to draw in a few shallow breaths. “Did you like what you saw? Have you seen what greed does to a man? A mortal man? Entertaining, yes?”

  Chuckling, he feebly aimed his weapon. “It is good to see you one last time . . . to battle you one last battle. Before I die, I must rid the valley of you. Only then can our town have a fighting chance at survival. You know what I say is true.”

  “Long . . . live . . . the war!”

  With borrowed strength, he pulled foolheartedly on the trigger again and again.

  Click . . . click . . . click . . . click was the gun’s response.

  Bernie’s outstretched hand fell to the earth, followed by his head and body. Instantly he felt a tugging within his gut and a tickling sensation within his brain. Each phenomenon became more marked the slower and slower his heart beat until life faded away completely. Then a final gasp, diminished pain, a feeling of detachment . . . and nothingness.

  A slight breeze played under the figure’s robe and within its hood. Gradually the being moved its gaze away from Bernie’s corpse and to the bottom of the valley, where most of Westcreek still slept. Carefully surveying the area, looking east to west, west to east, its eyes became brighter and a slight grin formed, as if the being anticipated something would happen. Hoped something would happen.

  Wanted something to happen.

  1. Westcreek (A Brief History)

  Westcreek, a small town in North Central Minnesota, is located in Cass County, approximately 230 miles northwest of Minneapolis and 130 miles west of Duluth. The town was incorporated by Scandinavian immigrants in 1849, shortly after rich deposits of nickel and iron ore were discovered in the northern third of the state. In the years that followed, mining expanded, and a revitalized industry—lumber production—emerged after a period of stagnation, taking advantage of the lush pine forests that covered most of the land. Jack, fir, and white pine were the most coveted varieties of trees harvested for construction in a growing national market. Though some of the wood was used to further develop Northern Minnesota, a vast majority of product was shipped to Detroit, St. Louis, New Orleans, and San Francisco, using major waterways and railroads for delivery. From 1910 to 1928, mining and timber accounted for a significant portion of the state’s economy. Jobs were plentiful, and a family could easily carve out a comfortable, peaceful life amid natural beauty.

  But in 1929 everything changed.

  When the stock market crashed, Minnesota, along with the rest of the nation, slipped into a deep depression. The once-roaring twenties went out with a whimper, leaving joblessness and despair in its wake. Demand for natural resources plummeted, and many lumberjacks and miners, along with their families, headed south to the big city, seeking work. Money was scarce, hunger widespread, and suicide high.

  At the height of the depression, Westcreek resembled a ghost town. A population of two thousand dwindled to two hundred, and for those that stayed, living off the land became vital to survival. Folks hunted, fished, stockpiled cords of wood to burn during the long, cold winters, and prayed for a better future.

  Those prayers were answered for some on December 7th, 1941.

  The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, entering America into the Second World War. Though unprovoked and traumatic in terms of lives lost, demand for lumber and metal skyrocketed in an effort to rebuild what was destroyed and to meet military objectives, sending lumberjacks and miners north once again. Everyone prospered—everyone except those in Southern Cass County. A month after the attack on Pearl Harbor, elders from the Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe challenged the land rights of Westcreek and its surrounding communities. They filed a formal petition with the government. Treaties were argued over, negotiated, renegotiated, and argued over again. But due to the war, nothing was ever ratified. The government issued a “cease and desist” order to all non-indigenous people until the matter was resolved. Lumberjacks and miners could not touch a sliver of pine nor a nugget of ore.

  Lives were at a standstill.

  2. Steven

  July 19th, p1945, 1:33 a.m.

  From a bird’s-eye view, Westcreek resembled an Old West town that never grew up and was about to be swallowed by the mouth of a mighty green giant. Sitting at the bottom of a bowl of lush forest, i
ts center consisted mostly of one- and two-story wooden buildings constructed just after the turn of the century. A windy gravel road led out of town to the west. To the east snaked another road that failed to reach the top of the valley; it hadn’t been completed or even worked on since 1939.

  Other projects in Westcreek were also incomplete. Southeast of downtown, where more long-term housing was planned, an overpopulated tent community held out-of-work lumberjacks, some two-man tents holding three or four people. The tents were army-issued, used in the First World War, and torn. In the southwest, adjacent to an idle lumber mill, sat a row of nine metal trailers. Due to rust or crumbling floorboards, only five were livable, and for those that were structurally sound, thin walls often gave way to little gusts of air that seemed determined to make life miserable for the miners trying to relax or sleep—especially when it was ungodly hot. Town-issued electric fans simply spread the misery around. And finally, north and south of downtown, houses dotted the land, most of them skeletal in appearance. Slabs of cement supported half-finished walls or entire lower levels missing doors and windows. For those homes finished, FOR SALE signs often crowded yards or stretched across front entryways in a banner. On the inside, and if one searched with a lantern, dust lines were visible where sofas, favorite chairs, dining room tables, and waist-high Philco radios had once been arranged. The most prominent dirt existed on the perimeter of where family portraits once hung. Faces were gone. Only shadows remained.

  But in the northwest corner of Westcreek, alone in the unfinished attic of a one-story house with a high-pitched roof, the heart of a half-Indian boy—almost a man—beat warmly.

  /////

  Steven knelt respectfully before a closed chest with thick leather straps. Reaching for the straps, he undid the corresponding metal buckles and carefully lifted a heavy lid, re-creating a behavior done many times before and many times before that. Light from a single, swaying bulb on a chain washed lightly over Steven’s wavy black hair and long skinny frame as he scanned the contents of the chest and smiled. He felt a growing peace. He was about to relive a special memory.

  Steven removed three items from the chest. First, and with great care, he pulled out a black top hat, placing it on his head. The fit was imperfect, so he tugged slightly on the rim—first in front and then in back—before he was satisfied. Second, he removed a black silk cape and twirled it Parisian style over his shoulders, snickering as he tied the small laces around his neck. Finally, he added a black wand with a white tip to the ensemble, eagerly grasping the smooth middle with his right hand. The look complete, he closed his eyes.

  In his mind, the boy was transported back in time to a birthday party ten years earlier. In a park northeast of downtown, on a sunny spring day, parents witnessed their children running onto and off of a wooden gazebo with eight sides. Steven saw, heard, and smelled the festivities. He relived the memory of children playing games of tag and Simon says; he heard sounds of laughter and the off-key singing of “Happy Birthday!”; he smelled hamburgers and hot dogs on a large grill and the aroma of hibiscus, tulips, and roses in full bloom, planted near four sets of stairs leading up to the gazebo center stage. Most of all, he remembered the many faces: some young, some old; some giggling, some all-out laughing; some red in color, some white.

  Everyone enjoyed the gathering.

  Breathing deeply in the attic, his eyes still closed, Steven moved the wand back and forth in front of his sternum to an inner rhythm. Back and forth, he moved the wand. Back and forth and with discipline, like a great symphony of instruments waited for his beat, intonation, and mood before playing.

  The movie in his mind fast-forwarded to the party’s finale. As if a school bell had just rung, townspeople sprinted to the gazebo edge and took a seat on soft green grass, the littlest folk straddling the necks and shoulders of older ones for a better view. Soon, everyone hushed and was still, eagerly awaiting a magic show.

  Bowing his head in the present and now rubbing the wand across the brim of his hat in sorrowful reflection, Steven pictured the illusionist. Skin red as the earth, adorned in a black hat, cape, and wand, a sixty-something man with deep wrinkles surrounding his big smile played, at first, a buffoon, tripping up the stairs and somersaulting into the middle. Then, with a serious expression to the sound of giggling, he danced around like a crazed bumblebee, buzzing and flapping his arms. Occasionally he’d sting little cheeks that crowded the gazebo railings with the tip of his finger, igniting blue sparks and eliciting minor tickling. Around and around he danced. Around and around. Becoming tired, he eventually leaned against a thin trellis covered in vines and appeared to catch a cold. Sneezing, big bubbles poured out of his nose, mouth, and ears, dropping to the floor, bouncing into the crowd, or sailing high into the sky. He apologized to the crowd with forced dramatics. It was just the first act of many to follow.

  Another dance ensued. The magician rushed to the center of the gazebo and painted the air with his wrinkled hands and wand. He stroked back and forth across a canvas of nothing until streamers of silver dropped from the ceiling and hopped across the floor like frogs. Dozens and dozens of streamers filled the stage, and like little shoppers at a firehouse sale—from toddler to teen—the children of Westcreek poured onto the stage, trying to catch as many shards of light as possible. And it wasn’t easy. The streamers zigged and zagged, trying to avoid capture, disappearing once a young hand maintained a firm grasp. Meanwhile, the magician pranced in circles while humming a silly song. Each rotation brought at first small gusts of air, then larger ones, then even larger gusts, eventually extinguishing all remaining fireworks and pushing each child over like pins in a mystical game of bowling. Giggling became infectious all-out laughter.

  At this point, the magician ran to comfort the prone. His top hat falling off, he touched amused faces with care and sensitivity. He’d scamper to one, then another, and still yet another, his embrace producing shiny quarters that spilled from ears long after he rendered aid. The youngsters batted and pulled at their lobes in glee, collecting each coin, stuffing pockets to overflowing.

  The bubbles, the lights, and the magical coins captivated young and old. The birthday party seemed a tremendous success.

  Suddenly, a young Indian girl gasped. The show interrupted, she pointed to a corner of the gazebo. The magician’s hat seemed to have a mind of its own. Brim side down, it waddled across the floor like a penguin, the children creeping backward in wide-eyed curiosity. The magician frantically tried recovering the hat. Expressing exasperation while his audience watched in awe, he chased after the incantation, getting only so close before it would spring to the left, the right, or forward. Around and around the two went, like a Laurel and Hardy skit. Around and around until the magician became winded. Planting his stout behind in the middle of the stage, he apologized profusely, stating this wasn’t part of the act. That’s when the hat magically hopped atop his black hair in perfect form.

  The audience heartily guffawed and applauded. The magician stood, smirked, and took a shy bow, briefly removing his hat, and in that wee time ten doves flew out from within, flying in circles, their feathers floating to the floor like snow on a fall day. The children scrambled for one more souvenir—one more keepsake to remember the day by, and the feathers felt soft against their skin.

  “More, more!” the adults cried, watching.

  The magician would not disappoint. His final act would leave many soaring.

  Adjusting his hat for the perfect fit, he stood ghostly still. As the air changed direction, the magician closed his eyes, recited a mantra, and then poked at the air with one hand. But nothing happened. No trick. No illusion. No awe-inspiring mysticism, like a firecracker had been lit but no explosion followed. Everyone stood in silence. A few children even exchanged bewildered looks.

  Had the magician tried a feat untested? some wondered. Was the old Indian too tired? Or had the magic simply faded away?

  That’s when stomachs became sensitive.


  The children sensed a pinpoint feeling in the middle, then a swirling, breathless, overwhelming sensation shooting outward, and before long all the partygoers on stage began to rise. One at a time, depending on weight, bodies lifted and feet kicked as if on a bicycle, trying somehow to reconnect with gravity. Most children appeared white with fright, and the parents looking on frowned. But still the magic continued.

  As if in the claws of an octopus-like crane, the twelve or so children levitated outside of the gazebo and then up, many tumbling end-over-end in the process but still hovering, nonetheless, between earth and sky. Adults frantically grabbed for the children’s shoes, some falling off. But no one could dislodge the youngsters. The magic was in control.

  The magician closed his eyes even tighter.

  Slowly—ever so slowly—the children were positioned at equal distances from each other and about three feet above the roof. Squalls of wind came from above, below, and even from the sides, until each youngster was upright, one behind the other in a circle and “sitting” in a sort of seat. Attached to nothing, they all hung elevated, waiting. Each child wiggled with a little less fear and much anticipation.

  Pulling a magical lever that only he could see, the magician started an imaginary merry-go-round. The kids moved around the gazebo, as if straddling horses on poles, rising and falling opposite each other and with increasing speed. The magician hummed a pipe organ–style melody in 4/4 time. And though still daylight, heat lightning flashed on beats one and three, thunder joining in and booming on beats two and four. Any reservations the children had ceased as each one screeched with pleasure.

  The same was not true for the adults, who watched in shock. Unable to free their kids, some ran toward a nearby home to retrieve a ladder that had been left outside, thinking they might be able to climb up and rescue their boy or girl; others, mostly moms, shrieked and cried, jumping in an attempt to reach their child’s body; and still others, mostly dads, pointed at the old Indian with contempt, calling him the devil or a blasphemer, and screamed at him to let their children down.