The Guardian Hills Saga

by James Edwards

  No answer.

  “On that day, bravery melted into cowardice. All fifty boys were slaughtered. When the commander returned stateside, no cheering crowds waited, no medals of honor were awarded or parades welcomed him. No trial even for negligence of duty. Only silence. Only a quick attempt to blend into the masses. If I remember correctly, the commander later found work as a law enforcement officer in the deep woods of Northern Minnesota.”

  “That’s enough!” Cullin screamed, rising to a stand, pounding a fist on his desk, then rushing for the exit. “I told you to sleep it off, and I meant it!” Clumsily grabbing for the knob twice before making contact, he whipped the door open and slammed it behind him—twice, the first not catching the latch.

  Amos chuckled softly. “Not tonight, Sheriff. Not during these times.”

  8. The Calling

  July 19th, 1945, 11:11 p.m.

  Ca-chink!

  At home, Steven pulled on the metal string dangling in the center of the attic, providing a soft glow to illuminate the old leather chest with heavy thick straps. Like before, the boy lifted the lid and peered inside. With melancholy he removed the top hat, cape, and wand, wanting to envision new and wonderful ways to entertain a make-believe audience.

  Maybe both children and adults could take part in a mystical adventure, he thought. Maybe mothers, fathers, and grandparents could join their young in a bigger carnival ride up and around the gazebo, rising and falling to never-before-seen heights and depths. Maybe all could smile brightly.

  Wrapping himself in the black cape, donning the top hat, and weaving the wand through the air while kneeling, the boy imagined an amazing scene. It was clear, colorful, rhythmic, and peaceful. He got lost in the vision, feeling relaxed and happy.

  But then a ruckus interrupted his performance.

  On the roof, just above his head, he heard scampering, like a hundred squirrels running haphazardly. The pitter-patter noises traveled north to south, east to west, and every point in between. And Steven heard voices speaking in unison.

  “Steven,” he thought he heard, “bring your magic to us!”

  A sudden lightning strike outside, near the attic window, drew the boy close. Crawling with reservation, pulling his sluggish right side along, he peered out the glass and saw a willow tree covered in flames. Squinting, he could see a faint figure standing in the glow, wearing what appeared to be a long, thin robe of earthen tones. The figure’s face was unclear; its dimensions were fuzzy. But without question, he or she held a long staff planted firmly into the ground. Steven was captivated.

  “Steven,” the voices called again from above, “bring your magic to us.”

  A chill tickling his spine, the boy pressed his nose against the window and narrowed his eyes, trying—almost desperately—to see the figure’s face and prove a growing suspicion correct.

  Was the crazy Indian right? he wondered. Is my grandfather still alive? Is he coming for me?

  Another bolt of electricity slapped the willow tree, sending a burst of fire outward 360 degrees. Steven cowered, covering his eyes, and felt the heat against the glass. When he turned back, the willow tree still burned, but the figure was gone. No amount of searching could locate the apparent apparition. As suddenly as the figure had materialized, it had vanished.

  But to Steven, the experience provided important evidence.

  Crawling frantically to the ladder, tossing the cape, hat, and wand aside, he descended to the main floor of the house and headed for the front door, not having to worry about waking his mother since she was not home . . . again. He had to be sure it was him. His wooden crutch was left behind—an afterthought. Barely taking time to grab a light gray jacket, Steven hobbled outside and glanced about sporadically.

  Still nobody there.

  He hesitated. Standing halfway down the broken stone sidewalk, he was unsure of his next step. He felt scared as the radiance of the burning willow tree lapped up against his features. Going forward meant chasing, perhaps, a ghost with eerie creature friends. Maybe his intuition was wrong. Maybe his heart was playing tricks on his mind. Maybe going forward meant facing terrible dangers.

  But going back also had risks. Staying at home, spending more long hours in the attic and getting further and further lost in a dream world might mean a deeper emptiness. Reminders of the past, kept in an old chest—though pleasant—conjured up feelings of pain and loss, and no matter how high he felt at any given moment, he was always bound to crash feeling-wise. And then there was the view out the attic window. Through the looking glass, downtown Westcreek was a constant reminder of what was dead or still dying; Steven wanted to live.

  “Steven, bring your magic to us,” came the voices now from the northern forest.

  He made a decision. As the sky boisterously cheered with apparent approval, Steven limped to the north end of Pleasant Drive. He headed away from the dull flickering streetlights of Westcreek proper and the burning tree, which was now curiously extinguished—as if someone had turned off a gas line the closer he approached the woods. By the time Steven started to ascend the valley, the willow just smoked, its many droopy limbs black and steamy.

  A journey had begun.

  /////

  The half-Indian boy encountered grave difficulties. Only fifty feet into the thick pines, following the sounds of gibberish as an auditory compass, stumbling over the dense brush and the many little hills and rocks, he struggled to get anywhere. His heavy breathing irritated his throat, causing a cough. His heart raced. His long, wavy black hair was drenched with sweat. Near an especially thick Norway pine, he stopped, leaned against the trunk, and scanned the dark environment.

  The weather worsened. Staring up, bright flickers of light revealed branches harassed by wind that clashed with neighboring trees in a stiff-armed boxing match. The storm rumbled the ground, causing Steven’s feet to vibrate. The air felt humid and heavy. And rain spurts, moving sideways, harassed his cheeks and eyes.

  “Grandfather!” he shouted with concern. “Where are you?”

  Hearing nothing, he moved onward, hoping his course was accurate.

  With now tornado-like gusts of air teasing him and suddenly little glow from the sky to light his path, Steven teetered from side to side like a metal sphere in a wilderness game of pinball. Tossed roughly to the right and left, the spongy forest floor hampered more than helped. Near a chokecherry bush, his good leg became tangled, and he fell.

  “Grandfather!” he cried out again. “Grandfather, help me!”

  Steven became more and more aware that he was being watched. Flat on his back, he stared upward and saw animal-like creatures descending from the treetops, as if to get a better view of him. The twenty or so creatures settled in the middle of pine shrubs, just out of view.

  “You go, you go,” Steven thought he heard, “too slow, too slow.”

  The movement and words of the creatures frightened him. Sensing he had made a mistake, Steven hurried to stand up and head back to Westcreek. Thanks to the valley slope, the terrain was simpler to traverse. At one point, though, he ricocheted off a cedar tree into a scotch pine, snagging his jacket on little sticks jutting out from the trunk. Literally running in place, his fear turned to rage, tugging violently away from the snag; it worked. But the physical momentum carried him recklessly down an especially steep hill and face-first into a mossy puddle. Lifting his head slowly, he got his first real glimpse of his companions. One was on a nearby log.

  Struggling with the darkness and assisted only by weak flashes of light, Steven thought he saw a small humanoid about three feet tall. The creature had long, hairless skinny legs, long hairless skinny arms, and elephant-like ears. The longer Steven stared, the more the ears raised, as if intrigued by the young boy’s presence. The rest of the body, including the face, was hard to discern.

  But the creature could talk.

  “Got yams?” it said.

  Horrified—his eyes bulging and mouth agape—Steven fumbled to his knees, then to
one leg, then finally to both and straight up, only to conk his head on the underside of a broad birch limb. He was immediately knocked unconscious.

  Journey ended.

  9. The Seduction

  July 20th, 1945, 5:01 a.m.

  Steven awoke with a startle.

  Sucking in loudly for breath and sitting up rigidly, he discovered that he was out of the woods. With no treacherous ground to navigate, storms to battle, or trees to knock into, his body and eyes became aware of a new, much warmer environment. Steven was atop an old brown couch in the center of a small cabin. A small fireplace to the east crackled warmly. The scent of herbal tea filled the air. And a tan, handwoven shawl covered his chest. Someone or some things had rescued him.

  Rubbing his aching head, the boy scanned the area. His eyes were met with wiggling lights. Almost in equal spacings, twenty small candles flickered with exuberance, illuminating, with the help of the fireplace, the perimeter of the home and what appeared to be a sort of shrine. The candles were on nearby tables, windowsills, on the floor, and anywhere not occupied by memorabilia of an age long past. His anxieties lessening, Steven examined his surroundings in more detail.

  Though still seated, he started with the south wall. Four paintings in old wooden frames caught most of his attention. In brushstrokes of rich colors, the paintings depicted the somber faces of four Indian chiefs. Their heads were covered with lavish feathered dress, and each had deep red skin, a strong jaw, and almost far-seeking brown eyes, as if staring down some coming storm. On or near each portrait was a treasure trove of artifacts. The boy could see feathers of eagles and hawks stitched into small leather headbands draped around the upper corners of the paintings. Fox and wolf hides were set between each chief, as if showcasing some ancient hunt. Ornate spears, bows, and small hatchets leaned against the wall or small pine tables. Steven began to wonder about the many scuffles or wars the weapons might’ve been used in. His heart felt overwhelmed.

  Steven sat still on the couch, studying the east wall covered with mementos around and above the fireplace. Near a sandstone mantle and river rock siding, two hide-covered drums sat on the floor. Each was large and meticulously painted in colorful triangle or circle patterns. Moose fur mallets rested against the anterior of the drums. Both clubs seemed to be waiting for someone to grab ‘em and pound out a war beat upon the stretched skin. Flanking each drum and leaning toward the fire, Steven spied four tall spears in perfect order and height. Each was sharp and tipped by a muddy quartz stone. All pointed to a portrait of a warrior centered above the mantle. The boy beamed with pride.

  Atop a jet-black steed, a man in simple loincloth, muscles rippling, held a long knife up high in defiance while being encircled by a rifle-brandishing army of soldiers. The Indian seemed to possess not an ounce of fear, like he outnumbered the enemy, like he were in control, and with one slash of the weapon he could change the tide of the war. Steven felt inspired, mellowing his initial concerns about the events of the last few hours following a terrible thump atop the head.

  He wanted to explore the rest of the cabin. Rising slowly, seduced by this sudden wonderland, he moved to the west side and to a small oak door and little window peeking out into the first morning light.

  Where is the curator of such treasures? he wondered. Where is the magician I’ve so longed to see? Is my grandfather truly alive?

  Starting near the door, the boy moved sideways, left to right, with uncoordinated steps. He felt like an antique aficionado, moving past ceramic vases of varying sizes and bright-colored patterns, wool weavings stretched across Y-shaped tree branches, and tobacco pipes of many shapes and lengths. Allowing his eyes to wash across the many items, some on the floor, some on tables, and some on a pine windowsill, the boy could envision the daily life of an early nineteenth-century Indian village and almost smell the rich tobacco smoke. The experience transported him spiritually. His blood pressure fell, his breaths became longer, and he never felt more relaxed.

  But the greatest relic of the past was yet to be discovered.

  Steven’s eyes trembled as he saw something familiar. Leaning carefully forward, as if scared the cabin full of history might fade if he didn’t tread carefully, he drew closer to the windowsill and a small, unassuming silver frame that held a faded black-and-white picture. On it, a middle-aged Indian with top hat, cape, and wand held a wee boy, a crutch leaning against a nearby tree. Colors were absent. Clothing looked old and dingy. But smiles were bright and eyes very alive. There could be no mistake: it was him.

  “Grandfather . . . ,” Steven murmured aloud.

  “Dear me, dear me,” a gentle elderly voice said from behind, “it is truly you.”

  Gasping, Steven spun around to see an old man not ten feet away leaning on a large wooden staff. A rocking chair near the north wall rocked slowly to a stop. The man wore a thin robe of earthen tones and had brown skin and long white hair pulled back into a ponytail. He stared at Steven with caring interest. His smile matched the photograph.

  “After all these years,” his grandfather continued, “we meet again. And it is not a mere boy that stands before me. Instead . . . a man. Welcome, Steven.”

  Steven stared at the old Indian’s face. He saw many deep wrinkles, expansive crow’s feet, tired eyes, and a lower lip that tended to shake. Still, it was the most beautiful face he had ever seen.

  But he felt standoffish, trying to understand the near past. “I saw you out my window. By the willow tree. I searched for you . . . but you were gone.”

  “A man as reviled in Westcreek as I,” his grandfather responded, “must be careful where to step. I couldn’t chance anyone but you seeing me. I could only start you on your journey and watch. For safety, both yours and mine. I am sorry.”

  Steven tried to reassemble the sequence of events leading up to the present. “The forest was dark . . . there were animals everywhere . . . the storm got bad . . . and then . . .”

  “With a shiner like that,” the old Indian remarked, pushing the top of his staff forward and gesturing to Steven’s lumpy scalp, “I can understand the fog you struggle to see through. Good thing you stumbled to my home when you did.” He ended with a nervous chuckle, as if the whole truth could not easily be revealed.

  For a lengthy moment, the two simply stared at each other. Quietly. Each had a multitude of things to say, but nothing urgent percolated to the tongue. Via their souls, Steven talked about sadness, loss, and hopelessness; from grandfather to grandson, guilt, shame, and regret. Steven seemed the most reserved in this nonverbal sharing, and though he loved his grandfather and was pleased about the reunion, ten years apart called for new trust building and getting reacquainted.

  Steven finally broke the silence. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

  “I couldn’t risk the potential harm,” his grandfather said sadly. “To you, your father, or your mother. For to be associated with ‘the devil,’ as the townspeople call me, a man who partakes in black magic is a terrible thing. It could have brought you years of scorn and pain. It was better you thought me far away or even dead.”

  Remembering Amos’s words, Steven tried to understand. “Then why now?”

  “I . . . am dying,” his grandfather said with a frown. “The winds have whispered as much. My steps are becoming slower and my body aches. When I look in the mirror, I no longer see a young man. Rather, an old being fading like a sunset on a great plain. I suppose it is selfish, but I had to see my grandson one last time, the boy who showered me with so much love many, many years ago. I suppose it’s a last request.”

  Silence returned. Their souls spoke again, and this time, from Steven to his grandfather was expressed reserved understanding, comfort, and hope; from grandfather to grandson, catharsis, warmth, and kinship.

  Then the old Indian spoke again. “Dear me, dear me,” he said with embarrassment. “Where are my manners? Here we stand. You’ve had a long journey and must be parched. Come. Sit. I’ll fetch some hot tea.” With his hands he
encouraged Steven to follow as he shuffled, patted the couch, and proceeded to the fireplace, bending down with difficulty to a metal pot placed near some fiery coals. Grabbing a nearby brown cloth with the image of a white deer stitched in the center, humming a cheery tune, he carefully lifted the pot and poured steaming liquid into two small cups on an end table near the couch. “You’ll have to forgive me. Living deep within the woods has provided me little opportunity to receive company. I’m a bit rusty.”

  Steven hobbled back to the sofa, watching his grandfather with interest. Amos’s cautionary warning sounded silly, and his grandfather’s talk of dying seemed even sillier, for the being he observed appeared so animated and vibrant. Thus, he ignored the messages, even seeing the man’s dark, wrinkled skin as a badge of honor. Steven believed that each crevice, each blemish documented an honorable experience or reservoir of wisdom. The curator of the shrine was a treasure himself. Steven couldn’t help but ask more about his life. “Do you live here by yourself?”

  “Yes,” the old Indian said, “but the forest has been known to offer a companion or two, now and then. Mostly of the four-legged kind. I’m rarely kept lonely.” He shuffled to his grandson with almost impishness, offering one of the two cups. Then he sat with an overly long moan.

  Steven embraced the tea with both hands and took a long sip. “What do you do with your days?”

  “I tend to a flock, you might say. A duty handed down to me by your great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather. It’s a job very dear to me but one that does not take a lot of time. Therefore, I spend much of my days in the hills of the valley, searching for mushrooms, herbs, and things from our past. But I always take a moment or two each day to watch over my family in Westcreek. From a distance.” Slurping loudly on his tea, he twisted slightly on the couch to better see his grandson, lightly giggling in the process. “I’ve seen you grow, my child,” he said. “I’ve seen your life unfold.”