A New Eden

by Quent Cordair

  Tonight of all nights, when she was already late for catching a plane – it was Rising Eve. And this year, he had been waiting for her. She was mortified that she had nearly forgotten the date, that she had nearly headed for the airport and left town without remembering. Yes, she had been busy – but that was no excuse. She rifled through the top drawer of her desk, then through the drawers below.

  “Melanie – where are my candles?”

  “Your candles, Sister Skye? What candles? Oh, yes, well, the candles – I suppose I may have taken them down to Rachel and Marsha’s room last week, the night when the power was out. You weren’t here. Marsha had brought popcorn and candy from downtown and we were sitting around telling ghost stories. Have you heard the one about the bloody finger? Oh, my gosh, I nearly came out of my skin when – ”

  “Sister Skye – ” Jonathon was at the door again – “we’re going to be in real trouble if we miss the plane.”

  “I’ll be right down, Jonathon.” She turned to her roommate. “Now – Sister Melanie, you know that I love you, but if you don’t find me a candle – a new, unburned candle – within the next two minutes, I’m going to have to report you for stealing.”

  Melanie blinked, rendered speechless again.

  Skye glanced from Melanie to the clock, and from the clock back to Melanie, who finally blustered –

  “Oh, Sister Skye! Oh, my gracious! Oh . . . Oh, you couldn’t! You wouldn’t – !”

  But the expression on Skye’s face told her otherwise.

  * * *

  From the valley floor, the summit of the Hill appeared relatively flat, but a person making the ascent for the first time would discover row after row of mounded, fist-sized rock along the crenulated crown, the blanched remains of what once had been one of the country’s highest producing silver mines. The dynamited, sledge-hammered ore had been scooped, hauled, hoisted and dumped, shovel by shovel, cart by cart, as the deep shafts and long adits of the mine were hollowed in the quest to find and follow the veins of precious metal. And the hundreds of tons of rock left on the summit represented only a fraction of what had come out of the mine: most of the refuse had been deposited along the foot of the hill, still identifiable in the rows of high hillocks long overgrown with brush and weeds around the foundation of the old mill. Most mountains west of the Mississippi had been worn lower over time by the elements, but Hale’s Hill, as it was once known by all and still known by a few, having been turned partially inside out, was some fifteen feet higher in places than it had been when Thomas Hale had first climbed it as a boy.

  Along the summit’s easterly edge, the thick foundations of the old headframe and hoist house lay bare to the elements like the forgotten remains of an ancient pagan temple. Along the southerly edge, facing the valley, ran the chipped, worn edge of a concrete pad, eighty feet long and four feet high. A second tier, thirty feet in length, was set back six feet and raised another two. Aaron’s grandfather had speculated that a line of water tanks had once been installed there, but the family was no longer certain of the pad’s original purpose.

  It was on the front edge of the second tier that Aaron Hale now stood, overlooking the valley, as his father, his grandfather, and the Hale men before them had stood on Rising Eve. A pillar of split firewood stacked as high as his head stood next to him. The wood had been laid in alternating rows, the hollow center loosely packed with kindling and balled newspaper. Sam and the gardener’s boy had come up and built it earlier in the afternoon, leaving a quarter cord of extra wood stacked to the side – more than enough fuel for the night. The rest of the supplies, for Aaron and whoever might accompany him, were stacked further back: folding chairs, a tarp for shelter in the event of inclement weather, wool blankets, glassware and flatware, plates, cooking and eating utensils, and a cooler with steaks, wine, water, side dishes and ice. A separate, smaller fire, waiting to be lit, had been prepared, a grill suspended over it for cooking.

  The sky was clear. The cupped moon hung high in the east. Orion was materializing through what remained of the twilight. Aaron had waited in Skye’s room an hour longer than he had planned, and now, it was nearly a full hour past sunset. Sam had left a box of matches wedged in the side of the pillar, as customary.

  Aaron looked out over the valley – his valley, his home. His father had chosen not to come up that night. Whether due to work, fatigue, or illness, the honor had been left to the son and the son alone, for the first time, without a word spoken as to the significance. But both men knew that it meant the tradition now belonged to Aaron, to carry on or relinquish as he saw fit.

  The year prior, on Rising Eve, Aaron had counted only eleven answering flames, down from over a hundred he had been able to count through the binoculars when he was a child. His grandfather had told him that there were still a thousand answering flames when he himself was a boy, and that when his father was a young man, there had been as many flames lighting the valley on Rising Eve as there were stars above. It was on his grandfather’s knee, by the fire, that Aaron had first heard the story of how Lafayette Pocatello had sat vigil on the summit, next to the mouth of the original hand-dug shaft of the mine, for three days and three nights, waiting for Thomas Hale to reemerge from below.

  Aaron studied the city, following the main road south to the airport’s lights, and beyond, to the black mirror of the reservoir. How much had been built here since that first Rising Eve, before it was known whether there would be a rising, before it was known whether there would be any civilization here at all. How much had been built, and then destroyed, then rebuilt. . . . How the valley had surged and contracted, grown and evolved. He examined the dark swath between the southerly end of town and the airport, the alkali flats where the Flock camped for Passion Week. Those square miles would soon be filled and lit by the Windsor development. The lines of trucks were there now; the generators and work lights were on as the workers broke down and packed up the tents. Within forty-eight hours, there wouldn’t be a single scrap of trash left on the flats. This would be the last year for the tents.

  Below him on the hillside, the burned-out remains of Thomas Hale’s mansion lay blue in the moonlight. What a fine vista a man would have from there, morning and evening – the unimpeded view of the sunrise over the easterly hills, the sunset behind the Garnets, and through the days and nights, the city below as it would continue to expand and rise, as Aaron and the other owners and developers would continue to build it. Thomas Hale’s new Eden would continue growing, blossoming, and flourishing.

  Standing on the summit of Hale’s Hill, Aaron Hale retrieved the matchbox from the pillar, drew a match and, shielding it with a cupped hand, lit it. He tucked the flame into the pillar’s base, holding it to an exposed edge of paper. The fire took hold quickly. It grew and spread, dividing and climbing through the kindling. Soon, it was flicking from the pillar’s mouth, licking the sky with hot tongues.

  The valley below remained unchanged for a few moments.

  The first answer was from the torch atop the flagpole in the plaza. Aaron smiled. The ever-dependable Max. Aaron hoped Eileen was with him, that she was feeling better. He would check on her again in the morning, before going home.

  The second answer wasn’t from the valley proper, but from high on the side of the Garnets. The location of the rogue flame was puzzling, as there was certainly no structure that far up, but Aaron nodded in appreciation nonetheless.

  Usually there would be a torch on the roof of the Elbow Room, but with Ian having to work at the ranch that night, the bar’s rooftop was dark. Ian had sent his regrets.

  Aaron retrieved the binoculars from the supply bin and scanned the valley. A third flame, no larger than that from a lantern, shone mysteriously and for the second year in a row from high on the cathedral’s steeple. The who or how of the flame, Aaron couldn’t imagine. But it was there, and he smiled in response.

  Scanning further through the town, there were the street lights, the store lights, the traffic lights,
the lights of the airport. There were the residential lights of Old Town, the homes on the east side and the Flock side. But there were no additional flames visible in windows, or on rooftops, or on lawns or in fields. This year, there were only the three. So far.

  He shifted the binoculars to the Flock campus. He found the cluster of Bible College buildings on the campus’s westerly rise, and then the women’s dormitory, then the dormitory’s top floor. Then the second room from the left end.

  The window was dark.

  He lowered the binoculars and looked away, a sudden hollow in his heart, a hollow as deep as the deepest shaft of the mine beneath his feet.

  He raised the binoculars again and readjusted the focus. There was an uncertain movement at the window, shadows shifting behind the curtain. Then the curtain was pulled aside, and on the window sill – a flame. A tiny, delicate flame, a candle flame, a constant flame. Her flame. And for a few moments, there was a face too, a hand pressed to the glass. Then she was gone. But the candle, he knew, would burn there until dawn.

  He lowered the binoculars. He would have no difficulty staying awake through the night. There was much thinking to do – much considering, weighing, judging, planning. He looked around the summit again, studying the layout and the dimensions anew. There was potential here. There was potential for the entire hill, potential that would be a shame to let go to waste any longer. He looked below, to the remains of the site on which the valley’s founder had built a grand mansion. It was a good location, with excellent views.

  That which had once been, could be again. Aaron could think of no reason why it couldn’t be, why it shouldn’t be. He could think of no better place to call home.

  And the fifth-great grandson of Thomas Hale, like the Hale men before him, wasn’t one to let go of a thing once he decided to make it so.

  * * *

  Paige had left early for the airport, fortunately, as it had taken close to an hour to get through the long security line. The airport was packed with polite, orderly Obadites – strange to her, but preferable, she mused, to the jostling, rude crowds at LaGuardia or JFK. It was a veritable afternoon tea at The Pierre compared to some of the Asian airports she’d been through.

  She was sitting near her gate with time to spare, catching up on a month’s worth of emails and texts when she felt as much as heard an undercurrent of excitement and expectation rising around her. She looked up. The crowd in the concourse was parting like the Red Sea for two passengers hurrying through.

  It was Skye Emberly, in a cornflower-blue summer dress, accompanied by the large young man who had stayed protectively at her side through the Passion Procession. In a dark suit and tie this evening, he was following her closely, carrying both of their bags.

  Some in the crowd called out to Skye by name, to which she responded with warm smiles and small waves. Others stared in quiet admiration and wonder. Many seated at the gates were rising to their feet. Children dashed up to tug Skye’s skirt, blushing and beaming when graced with her recognition. They followed her, some of them not hearing their parents call them back.

  All of the valley knew Skye Emberly, it seemed, and they looked on her with a protective reverence – and something more, Paige thought. She glanced around, studying the faces, the expressions. There was a pride in their connection with this young woman. They seemed deeply honored that someone as remarkable as Skye Emberly could be one of them; or perhaps more accurately, that they could count themselves as being among her followers. She was their princess, their royalty, and they, her adoring subjects.

  Paige could hardly blame them. She had been in the presence of some bonafide blue-blooded royals in her travels and work, but frankly, none carried themselves better, taller, or with more unassuming grace, dignity, and presence than did Skye Emberly. The Church of the Flock of the Prophet Obadiah really had something in this one, she thought, this young woman who was barely more than a girl. She shook her head as she watched the spectacle. What was it about Skye . . . ? It was more than the singing, more than the acting, more than the physical beauty. The glory came from an inner passion, a radiant energy, a singular spirit –

  As though Skye had sensed the intensity of the examination, she turned her head and found its source, catching and returning Paige’s gaze in passing. In her eyes, as if in answer, was a playful curiosity, an untouchable innocence, an almost haughty, daring benevolence. The look coursed through Paige, tingling the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. Her breath caught. It was just as she had felt when she saw the sculpture in the window of the gallery the first time.

  And then Skye was past, being acknowledged with relief by an agent at an otherwise empty gate at the end of the terminal. Skye and her companion continued with barely a pause through the open gangway door, the last to board their flight. The door was shut behind them. What would have seemed, to Paige, quite unlikely for anyone else in the airport that night seemed perfectly reasonable for Skye – that the flight had been held for her.

  Paige found herself fighting off a feeling. There were vines growing up and entangling her heart again, and she hacked at them with savagery. A good reporter, a really good reporter, one aspiring to be the best reporter, simply couldn’t allow herself to form unquestioning attachments or favorites, bonds which could threaten her hard-won, detached objectivity, her honed ability to distance herself from anything and anyone. There were two sides to everything – and to everyone. Always. No one was completely good. No one. Not that good. There had to be something wrong with Skye.

  The thought, the moment she thought it, left her feeling dirty and small and venomous. She hated the thought and hated herself for having had the thought. She hated the precious, cultivated cynicism she’d armored herself in, hated it as much as she hated the savages who had violated her in Tahrir Square.

  As she was thinking the thought, she was following Skye. She followed her all the way to the now-empty gate. But even the gate agent was gone now. The gangway door remained closed.

  Paige went to the window. The plane was being pushed back from the gate, the strobe flashing atop its fuselage. From a window in a row over the wing, a face turned and looked towards her. Paige knew she was being seen in silhouette, dark and still against the concourse’s interior lights.

  Skye didn’t smile. Paige didn’t wave.

  When the plane turned towards the runway, Paige allowed herself the momentary indulgence of accepting that, for at least a moment, she too had become one of Skye’s subjects. Perhaps the feeling could be indulged a few moments more.

  The plane made its turn onto the runway’s end, where it paused before beginning the slow roll forward. As the craft accelerated past the terminal, the pulse from the engines vibrated Paige’s core. The wings gathered, the nose lifted, and the craft separated from the earth, rising towards the stars.

  “Godspeed, Skye Emberly. . . .”

  Later, she knew, she would cut and tear and pull the vine away from around her heart – along with the remaining tendrils of that other vine – Ian’s. It would happen somewhere in the blackness above the Midwestern plains. By the time she touched down in New York the next morning, she would be free of Aurum Valley.

  For now, she was still standing at the window.

  * * *

  The flame on the summit couldn’t be seen from Eileen’s house, or from anywhere on the ranch, given the convexity of the near slope above. From the end of the driveway, however, through a gap in the trees, the tip of the flagpole in the plaza was just visible. Eileen was standing at the mailbox at sunset, waiting, the dogs at her side. She checked through her mail, glancing occasionally in the direction of the plaza, exchanging waves with neighbors driving by.

  She was still there, an hour later, when the torch on the flagpole was finally lit.

  She made her way slowly back up the drive to the house. She might have made use of a cane, or even a walker, but she was still resisting the use of the former. The latter was unthinkable. Back in the hou
se, she left the electric bill and the property-tax notice on the table. The letter from the law firm representing the Concerned Citizens for the Environment of Aurum Valley, along with the junk mail, she dropped unopened into the wastebasket.

  On the hearth over the fireplace were four candles, each in a sterling-silver holder. On this Rising Eve, as on every Rising Eve, she lit each candle, right to left – the one for her mother, the one for her grandmother, the one for her great-grandmother. The last to be lit, on the end, illuminated the face of the woman in the portrait hanging once again in its place of honor, across from the portrait of Thomas Hale. In the candlelight, the subject’s dark eyes came alive with passion and intelligence, a hint of pride in the half-raised eyebrow, a touch of mischief in the upturned corner of the mouth. The woman certainly was not Thomas Hale’s wife.

  Eileen touched her fingers lovingly, sadly to the portrait’s frame. “But what else can be done, Amuma? How could we have known that things would turn out as they have? What more can I do?”

  Eileen didn’t know how to fail. She had been frustrated and slowed at times, over her lifetime, but she had always persisted. She had never failed. Perhaps this was to be the last lesson, the hardest of life’s many hard lessons, that of letting go, of giving up. Everyone and everything had to cease to be eventually, did they not? She couldn’t live forever. . . .