by Terry Wright
Return Me to Mistwillow
By
Terry Wright
Copyright by Terry Wright 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this story (ebook) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or book reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Terry Wright
ISBN 978-1-936991-56-3
By
Terry Wright
Windblown dust swirled down Main Street, pushing tumbleweeds past hitching posts and wood-plank buildings. Jake Stratton lumbered toward Mistwillow’s trading post. Weary bones ached. His hollow chest panged. Another morning had gone by and still there’d been no word from his son Robert.
Wearing ashen gray clothing, passers-by nodded. Gentlemen tipped dusty hats, and ladies curtseyed, even as the wind tore at their soiled and tattered gowns.
“Good afternoon, Jake.”
He grumped. They were only trying to be nice, to be upbeat and hopeful in spite of the fact that his son was missing. Robert was a fine boy, ten years old and destined to run the family store—until that fateful day: November 7, 1882.
“Telegraph lines still down?” a man asked as they crossed paths.
“Damn storm,” Jake replied. He’d never seen anything like it, day after day, year after year, the wind and dust ever-present, the sun but a smudge in a dirt-brown sky. Mistwillow, Colorado, once bustling with miners and traders and wagons and horses, had become a colorless, odorless scar on the land.
“Maybe the stage will be in today,” the man said and moved off, the tempest swallowing him in a veil of dust.
The stagecoach hadn’t stopped here in years, a hundred and fifteen, to be exact. So why would it come today? And if such a miracle were possible, then Robert would be on that stage, stepping down from the coach, waving to a relieved crowd of Mistwillow citizens. The sky would clear, and marching bands would play.
Tumbleweeds rolled by. Their whish-whish-whishing sound broke Jake’s reverie. Turtling his neck, he strode the boardwalk, fought the sting of tears flooding his dry eye sockets. “Robert,” he prayed aloud, “when are you coming home?” The question went unanswered, as usual, and not knowing what had happened to his son sustained Jake's grief each hour of every day for what seemed like an eternity.
He came to the sign that hung from beams under his storefront porch: Stratton’s Trading Post, Established 1853. With dirt grating his throat raw, he entered the store, bell tinkling behind him. His boots scattered inch-deep dust on the floor, dust that constantly blew in through broken windows. One day he planned to sweep. One day he planned to fix the windows.
One day when Robert comes home.
Marianne, wearing her best Sunday dress, gray with dust and frayed around the hem, greeted him from the stockroom door. “Any word?”
“Nothing.” He walked to the sales counter. “No telegram, no mail.”
She wiped a glass with a dusty rag, but the glass didn’t get any cleaner. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“If tomorrow ever comes.” He’d spoken those words every day since Robert disappeared. And every day Marianne offered the same hope for tomorrow. In fact, every day she wore the same dress, and stranger still, she hadn’t aged a day.
A dizzying sense of déjà vu hit him like a board, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking the same question he asked her every day. “What happened to us, Marianne?”
“Eerie isn’t it, the storm?”
It was more than the storm that was wrong with this town. “Day in, day out, nothing ever changes around here.”
“Don’t fret over it, Jake.” She set down the dirty glass, picked up another and began wiping it, seemingly unconcerned that her efforts were futile. “Things change enough for me.”
“You don't even change your clothes.”
“Why this old dress? It’s my favorite.” Then she scowled. “When’s the last time you wore anything different?”
Looking down at his dusty pants and threadbare shirt, he couldn’t remember owning any other duds. And he hadn’t shaved in more than a century, though his whiskers remained only stubble. A bath would be nice. He sniff-checked his armpits. Didn’t smell bad. In fact, he didn’t smell anything at all, or taste anything, either. “We never drink, we never eat—”
“We never touch,” she put in, “like husband and wife.”
He missed her in that way, more than the taste of a cold beer or a juicy steak. But he wouldn't speak of such personal feelings. “You know how I feel about you.”
“Then stop complaining. Change will ruin everything we have left.”
“Make things worse than this? I doubt it.” He leaned against the counter and surveyed his inventory of goods awaiting buyers. Stacked shelves of flour, wheat, beans, and jerky lay in dusty ruin. Wilted dresses hung from wall pegs like gray ghosts. Spider webs adorned the boot rack, and the pickle barrel had rotted out long ago. Not a single customer had come in, not a miner, not a trader, not a Ute or Cheyenne. Not since November 7, 1882.
Jake spit dust, grappled with yet another day of failure. “It’s my fault.” He slumped onto a stool at the counter, dirt puffs flying.
“There you go again,” she said, rubbing the filthy glass. “Blaming yourself for what happened to Mistwillow.”
Elbows on the counter and his head cradled in his hands, he remembered how soldiers had rounded up all the Indians and herded them off to reservations. Some said it was payback for Custer’s defeat at Little Bighorn. Whatever the reason, half his trading business dissolved with a snap of the government’s mighty fingers. “You’re right. I couldn’t fight the army.”
“And it’s not your fault the gold rush ended,” she added. “Miners headed south to Cripple Creek or west to California.”
Another big chunk of his business had moved out of the area.
And then there came the beaver shortage. He recalled the thousands of pelts traded across this dusty counter. Now beavers were so scarce in these parts that the trappers moved north to Wyoming and Montana. There wasn’t even a coon cap left in town to be bought or sold. “Once the fur traders moved on, we were finished.”
“So, we’re in a little pinch right now.” She gave up on the dirty glass, grabbed another and rubbed it with vigor. “None of it’s your fault.”
Jake exhaled a dusty gust. The town of Golden, to the south, flourished, having established the nation’s first commercial gardens, which supplied wheat to three flour mills built along Clear Creek. Boulder to the north became a center for education as the first Colorado schoolhouse opened there. And out on the Eastern Plaines rose the metropolis of Denver, the new hub of Rocky Mountain commerce. All Mistwillow had left were ramshackle buildings and this trading post that had no customers—not a living soul with a silver Morgan to spend. “How much longer can we go on like this?”
“At least we have each other.”
“I wish Robert would come home.”
“Careful what you wish for, Jake.”
Wind screamed in through the broken windows, swaying the sheet almanac suspended from a beam with twine where it hung over the counter for easy reference. The last sheet read: Election Day. November 7, 1882, but there was no mention of the disaster that had fallen on Miswillow that day, an event so devastating that it had stopped time. He wanted to rip off the page, te
ar it up, reveal the next sheet, the next day, and start time ticking again, but he couldn’t destroy his only link to the day his son disappeared.
***
George Stratton drove the rented Ford Expedition north out of Golden. A steady stream of traffic flowed in both directions on Highway 93. November air felt mountain crisp, the sky a cloudless blue, a perfect day for a final farewell to Grandpa Robert.
Riding shotgun, his wife Carol fussed with an unfolded map. “We should have never come to Colorado. I don't see Mistwillow anywhere along this highway.” Her voice hissed with frustration.
George didn't dare glace at the map. He had to keep a watchful eye on the traffic clogged, winding road. “It’s got to be there somewhere.”
An oncoming semi blew past, buffeting the SUV.
Carol tried to refold the map, which wouldn’t cooperate, so instead, she wadded it up like an old newspaper. “This is a damn waste of time.”
“A fortune is at stake here. We’ve got to find that town. It’s what Robert wanted.” George indicated the back seat where he’d propped up Robert’s ceramic urn.
Carol shook her head. “He was just a crazy old man.”
Grandpa Robert had left a final wish in his will: Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Return me to Mistwillow.
George sighed. “Crazy or not, the trust fund is locked up until we do this for him.”
“Just dump his ashes on the side of the road. Who will know?”
“I will know, Carol. He trusted me to be his personal representative. His executor. Besides, Robert said if his final wish was carried out, he’d leave us a sign as proof to the court so we can get the money.”
“What kind of sign?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Lightning? Thunder? Angels singing? A pink monkey?”
“His directions were specific. We have to spread his ashes down Main Street in Mistwillow on November 7th.”
“But the town doesn’t exist. He made it up.”
George had to admit something wasn’t right about Grandpa Robert. He was a kooky old goat.
Actually he wasn’t just a grandpa. He was more like a great-great-great grandpa, but no one could be sure exactly because his place on the family tree couldn’t be confirmed. He’d just showed up on the porch one day, claiming he was family. Their last names matched, so they couldn’t tell him to get lost.
He’d lived to be a hundred and nine, his mind sharp as a pin when his heart gave out. All those stories about being raised by Ute renegades, robbing trains, taking a squaw at fifteen, nobody believed any of his wild tales.
And now this...a town called Mistwillow that didn’t exist on any map. All they had to go on was his word that they’d find the town along this highway between Golden and Boulder. George was hard-pressed to believe Robert would put a lie in his last will and testament. The place where he’d spend eternity was at stake, so George had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Mistwillow was real. “There’s got to be a signpost along here somewhere. A historical marker. A point of interest. Something.”
A red sports car passed him doing ninety.
Carol crossed her arms. “We’re not going to see a dime of that money, I tell you.”
“If not, we’ll lose the house and have to live on the streets. The kids won’t like that much.” Times were tough in California, especially after the market crash. His career field became as extinct as the dinosaurs. “Just keep your eyes peeled.”
Rounding a curve, George saw a dust storm blowing across the highway up ahead. He tapped the brakes. Speeding southbound traffic emerged from the dirty gray cloud as if it wasn't there. Clenching his molars, he gripped the steering wheel as he watched the red sports car that just passed him disappear into the storm without even slowing down. The driver had to be blind to the danger or just plain crazy. California drivers had a bad rap, no doubt, but Colorado drivers wrote the book...
The dust storm swallowed the Expedition in a blinding gray fury. Just as suddenly, the paved highway became a bone-jarring dirt road. George braked harder.
“What the hell is this?” George didn’t dare stop. The thought of being rammed from behind forced his foot off the brake. Blowing dirt must've covered the pavement like drifting snow.
Carol snapped her fingers. “Colorado weather sure changes quickly.”
“We’ll be back on clean pavement in a few seconds.” He held his breath, but there seemed to be no end to the blinding storm and the rough road. Odder yet, he hadn’t seen a single vehicle traveling in the opposite direction, like he and Carol were suddenly alone in a tunnel of churning dust.
His throat felt suddenly dry.
“There,” Carol shouted, pointing ahead. “A signpost.”
Nearly obscured by whirling dust, a lone wooden post held up a crooked, jagged-edged board with the word Mistwillow scrawled on its face as if it were written by a trembling hand.
“How about that.” He swallowed. “Grandpa wasn’t crazy after all.”
“It’s not on the map, George. It can’t be real.”
“What’s the matter with you? Seeing is believing.” He cocked his head to the back seat. “We found it, Grandpa.”
“Turn around, George. I’m not kidding. Go back. This is too weird.”
“Robert’s going to get his final wish, honey, his ashes scattered in the wind of Mistwillow. And we are going to be rich.”
The Expedition sped past the sign. It teetered and fell over.
***
“The stage is comin’ in,” someone shouted down Main Street. “The stage!”
Jake shot up from his stool at the counter. “Hear that, Marianne? The stage. It’s coming. Robert’s home!” He made a dash for the door.
She dropped the glass she’d been wiping. “No, Jake. Don’t go out there.” With the speed of the wind, she reached the open doorway first and blocked his exit. “It’ll be the end of Mistwillow, the end of you and me...”
Citizens gathered in the street, their gray and dusty faces wrenched with concern as they stared into the storm, waiting for the miracle to appear.
“...And them,” Marianne said. “What about them?”
From the swirling dust cloud, the roar of hooves pounding earth drew nearer.
“Who cares about them? My son is on that stage.”
“Our son.” She grabbed the front of his tattered shirt. “He’s the only reason we’re still here. We exist only in your grief, Jake.” She shook him. “Without that grief, we’re nothing.”
“But I want him back.”
“And sacrifice us all?”
“What’s to lose, Marianne, this eternal dust and wind, thirst that can’t be quenched, hunger that can’t be satisfied, our passions unfulfilled?”
“It’s better than nothing, Jake. Let the stage pass by.”
His sunken eyes hardened to granite. “I can’t.” He pushed her aside and stepped out on the boardwalk. This was the moment he’d been waiting for, the homecoming, and no amount of gloom and doom nagging would keep him away from that stagecoach.
Marianne slipped around him, put a hand on his chest. “At least let the people of Mistwillow have a say. You owe them that much.”
“Their fate is already sealed. Has been since November 7th.” He turned to address the crowd. “My son is home. Our day of rejoicing has come.”
“Your day,” a man shouted from the dusty street. “Your day, Jake Stratton.”
“We made our peace with the Lord a long time ago,” a woman put in, holding her bonnet in place with the palms of her hands. “Now you make your peace, Jake.”
Pounding hooves, snorting nostrils, and creaking leather approached at a heart-throbbing pace. After all these years, he was about to see Robert again. He could hold his hand. Hug him. They could toss a ball and go fishing under clear blue skies.
“Meet the stage, Jake,” someone else shouted. “Go to your son.”
Marianne jumped in, “But Mistwillow will be destroy
ed.”
“A little late to worry about that, don't you think?”
The dust cloud parted. Six black stallions in silver harness broke through, knees rising with mechanical precision, hooves coming down like pistons striking the ground. The driverless coach thundered up to Stratton’s Trading Post and groaned to a stop.
“Go on, Jake,” someone said. “Open the door.”
He looked over the gray faces of his fellow citizens, saw relief in their windswept eyes. “Thank you,” was all he could say, but he said it from the bottom of his tormented soul. He turned to Marianne and hugged her. “And thanks for helping out with the store.”
“Don't open that door, Jake Stratton.”
He kissed her cheek and stepped off the boardwalk. At the coach door, he grabbed the smooth handle and felt a tremor in the ground directly under his feet.
***
“It’s a ghost town.” George parked the Expedition in front of a broken-down building with a boardwalk, its wood planks rotted with age. A canted sign under the porch swung in the wind: Stratton’s Trading Post.
His stomach knotted at the sight. Mistwillow, dusty and eerie, its street lined with leaning and toppled buildings, was obviously part of his past, his heritage perhaps, something Grandpa Robert had wanted him to see. But why? What was the old coot thinking?
“Creepy,” Carol whispered. “No wonder it’s not on the map.”
“Something happened to Robert’s hometown, and I don’t think he was happy about it.”
“You’re freaking me out, George.”
“Think about it. Why didn’t he ever come back here while he was alive?”
Carol huffed as if the answer was obvious. “Because it’s a ghost town.”
“Precisely the reason he waited to come back until after he was dead.”
“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”
Tumbleweeds rolled across the deserted street. George watched out the windshield and felt disjointed from reality, somehow transplanted into a realm of the surreal. Dust collected on the hood. Already the Expedition’s black finish looked powder brown.
“Let’s get this funeral over with.” Carol shoved open the door. “I want to go home.”
A gust of wind swirled in.
Turning to the back seat, George saw the urn had tipped-over. The lid had fallen off. Grandpa’s ashes were spilled on the seat. What remained in the urn was still salvageable. He could set it upright, take time to say a few words before spreading Grandpa’s ashes on Main Street. But before he reached back to grab the urn, he saw Carol fighting the wind as she took hold of the back door handle. The ashes...the wind...bad combination...