Upon This Rock

by David Marusek

  POPPY SAT AT the head table eating a belated breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toasted buns, with half a grapefruit on the side, the last of their fresh fruit. Before he had a chance to finish, Hosea heard the whine of approaching sno-gos.

  “I count two of them,” Hosea said. “Coming by way of the airstrip, just like the angel said.”

  “Bunkrooms,” Poppy said, mopping his empty plate with a crust of toasted bun. Sue and Sarai wordlessly herded the children to the girls’ room and shut the door behind them. That left only Mama P with Poppy and the two boys in the common room. “Don’t worry, Mother,” Poppy told her. “I won’t let nothing bad happen.”

  The two machines screamed into the yard and wound down to a rumbling idle but did not shut off. Boots climbed the steps and crunched across the porch. Lord God, lend us the strength to defeat Your enemies. Amen.

  There were three booming thuds on the solid oak door. Adam rose to answer it, but Poppy tugged him by the sleeve and sat him back down.

  More knocking, sharper this time, as though the caller had removed a glove to knock with bare knuckles.

  Finally, at the third knocking, Poppy rose and ambled across the floorboards to the door. “Remember,” he cautioned the boys, “let me do all the talking. Not a word, hear?”

  Adam and Hosea nodded.

  Two men filled the doorway. One was tall and handsome, and the other was about Poppy’s own height and plain-looking. The angel warned of three dicks, and Poppy leaned out the door to see who else was there. The third man was waiting in the yard with the idling sno-gos. It was the chief ranger, Ranger Danger. When he saw Poppy, he gave him a mock salute.

  Of the two men on the porch, the shorter one impressed Poppy as the man in charge, but it was the taller one who spoke. “I am Special Agent Bertolli of the FBI,” he said, “and this is Special Agent Nabor of the FIAS. Mind if we come in?” They flashed their IDs.

  Poppy pondered why every federal dick he’d ever tangled with was a special agent. What was so special if everyone was special?

  “I reckon you’ll come in one way or the other, if I minded or not,” he said, stepping aside. He closed the door behind them.

  The feds didn’t have the common sense or the courtesy to knock the snow off their boots before entering. That and their suntanned faces marked them as Outsiders. When they opened their new-looking outerwear, they revealed body armor beneath. Their vests were emblazoned with the initials of their respective agencies in SWAT-sized capital letters. What was the FIAS anyway? Poppy knew who the FBI were. They were the godless brutes who had murdered his twin brother all those years ago. Ugly machine pistols hung in holsters at the their sides.

  “What do you want?” Poppy said.

  After gazing all around the room, especially at Mama P and the two boys, the tall one said, “Funny. I expected to see a whole lot of goldpan art.” The purposeful remark put Poppy on notice that the agents had already interviewed Ed Sulzer.

  The shorter agent, Nabor, said, “We have a few questions for you. You’re the person known as Mr. Prophecy.”

  “Pastor Prophecy would be closer to the mark.”

  “You are also known as Marvin Johnson.” If these were questions, they sounded more like statements of fact.

  Poppy grunted.

  “Tell you what,” Nabor said. “Just for now we’ll call you Mr. Prophecy. All right. I understand you have a third grown son and another in his teens. Tell us where those two are right now.”

  “Out doing chores.”

  “They’re out of the house.” The agent nodded his chubby chin toward the closed door of the girls’ bunkroom. “Or they might be in one of the other rooms.”

  Poppy stepped between the agent and the door. “I’m not used to strangers I just met calling me a liar,” he said. “My sons are out of the house, like I said. The kid is doing chores, and the older one ran into town on an errand.”

  The taller agent took over the interview. “On a snowmobile?”

  “Of course on a snow-mo-bile. How else?”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Not long ago.”

  “How come we didn’t see him on the trail?”

  “Because you took the back way, and he went by the main trail. There’s more than one trail out here, Mr. Agent Man.”

  “Fair enough. When do you expect him back?”

  “What does fair have to do with it? He’ll be back when he finishes his errands, I reckon.”

  The shorter one, Nabor, said, “Let me tell you why we’re here, Mr. Prophecy. We came out with the NTSB team that’s investigating the plane crash. You know about the plane crash.”

  Again with the statement of fact instead of a question.

  “I heard about it.”

  “You didn’t ride out there to look at it yourself.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I’m not really interested in why you should or shouldn’t do anything, Mr. Prophecy. I’m only interested in what you did do. You rode out there.”

  When Poppy made no reply, the agent went on, “You rode out there yourself or with one or more of your sons. Let me inform you that it’s a crime to lie to a federal investigator. You understand what I said.”

  “Lying is a sin against Father God’s law,” Poppy replied simply. Except, of course, when you’re lying to the Devil.

  Nabor nodded and reached into an inner pocket of his parka and handed Poppy a sheet of paper. It was a pencil sketch by a dithering artist, more scratches than lines, that hacked out a semblance of the angel’s trumpet. There were arrows with notations in large, loopy letters that read purple glass, tiny pinwheels of threads, 10 ft. length.

  Nabor said, “Tell me what this looks like to you.”

  Poppy noted, with great and grateful relief, that the untalented artist had not even attempted to depict the mouthpiece end of the trumpet, with its golden key, but had left that end blank. Poppy handed the paper back.

  “It looks to me like a child’s drawing of a herald’s trumpet. Why do you ask?”

  The special agent scrutinized the drawing and said, “A trumpet. I suppose I can see a trumpet in it. It’s long, and it has a bell at the end like a trumpet.” He showed the picture to Prophecy’s sons. “Either of you see this trumpet.” Though they shook their heads no, they had guilty-as-charged written all over their faces.

  “Just to be clear,” Nabor said to Poppy, “you’re telling me you’ve seen a ten-foot-long object that looks like a trumpet.”

  “I’m not telling you nothing except your drawing looks like a trumpet. That’s what you asked me, isn’t it?”

  Nabor showed him the drawing again. “So you’re saying you never saw anything like this around here.”

  “I said all I’m going to say on the matter.”

  “Then you don’t mind if we take a look around.”

  “There you go again, putting words in my mouth. Of course I mind. If you got a warrant in your pocket, now’s the time to show it to me.”

  “I agree,” Nabor said. He took out a satellite phone and punched in a few digits, then looked at his partner.

  Bertolli reached into the large pocket of his parka and pulled out a black plastic tube with knobs on it. And lo and behold, the tube started to hum and whir, and out of it came a shiny, narrow sheet of paper. The printer snipped off a two-page document, and Bertolli handed it to Nabor, who glanced at it, and handed it to Poppy saying, “Marvin Johnson, you are served.”

  Poppy took the document to the window to examine it under daylight. It granted the agents permission to enter and search his “domicile, outbuildings, cellars, and other structures, and the remains of a 1920s-era copper mine situated on the premises” for an “approximately 120-inch-long tubular implement associated with the unlawful downing of a federally registered aircraft used for official U.S.P.S. business.”

  Poppy folded up the warrant and tore it in half. “I have little kids in the house,” he said. “Mess with them or harm them i
n any way and all bets are off. You understand?”

  Special Agent Bertolli said, “Are you threatening us?”

  “Call it the rules of engagement.”

  Special Agent Nabor said, “You don’t have the privilege of dictating any rules of anything, Mr. Prophecy, as far as we’re concerned. But you can relax; we’re not interested in searching the house. At least not yet. We’ll start up in the old mine.”

  “Of course you will.”

  BEFORE LEAVING THE house, the agents disarmed Poppy and the two boys. They searched them and their parkas and boots for additional weapons. When Bertolli discovered the leather holster on Poppy’s belt, he said, “What’s in there? A Claymore mine?”

  “It’s my Bible.”

  “In a holster?”

  “It’s so I can quick-draw a verse if the need arises.” Poppy unsnapped the guard and showed them that indeed it was the Holy Book.

  The agents laughed, and Nabor said, “Funny. You’re a funny old coot. Now do us a favor and remove the book.”

  The agents made Poppy flip through the pages in case they were hollowed out to conceal a weapon. Poppy did as instructed and couldn’t help but say, “Take a good look, Mr. Agent. It’s probably the only time you ever seen the insides of one of these.”

  Nabor said, “You’re barking up the wrong tree, preacher. We’re not here to talk religion. All we want is the implement you found. If you tell us where it is, everything would be so much simpler and more pleasant for everyone. Now why don’t we take this little get-together up to the mine.” He went to the door and held it open.

  Still on his snowmobile, LE Ranger Masterson watched them come out to the porch. Agent Nabor made a throat-slashing gesture, and Masterson turned off both snowmobile engines and pocketed the keys. He pulled his pump-action shotgun from its scabbard before joining them on the porch. None of the Prophecys acknowledged his presence.

  “Mr. Prophecy declines to show us where the mine is located,” Nabor said.

  “No worries,” Masterson replied. “Follow me.”

  The two federal agents, despite their training, were winded by the time they reached the top of the slide. They studied the fortified adit a longish while and unholstered their machine pistols before approaching the gate.

  All of the sniper slots on both sides were shut, but the agents watched them closely as they herded their detainees to the sally door.

  There was an iron D-ring fastened to the door to use as a handle, but when Bertolli tried to pull the door open, it was locked from within. “Someone must be inside,” he said.

  A moment later there was a scraping sound from the port-side gallery above them. The nearest sniper slot opened, and a teen-aged boy peered down at them.

  Bertolli covered him with his pistol, and the ranger said, “That there’s the seventeen-year-old. He’s got a temper on him, but nothing like his brother. His name is First Corinthians.”

  “Hey, First,” Bertolli called up to the boy. “Close the window. Do it now.”

  Corny looked at them stupidly, or defiantly. From below it was hard to tell which.

  Nabor said to Poppy in a measured voice, “Tell your son to obey us. If we see a weapon, we will shoot to kill. And that’s no lie.”

  Poppy craned his neck and shouted, “Shut the port, son. Come open the sally door. No guns, y’hear? Stow your guns away before you open the door.”

  The sniper slot shut with a bang.

  A minute or so later, the sally door iron bolt slid in its track, and the heavy door creaked ponderously outward. Corny stood in the doorway, hands over his head, looking more defiant than stupid, it now seemed.

  FD6 1.0

  DEUT COULD SMELL the ashes before they reached the burned-out ruin. The cabin was gone, and in its place lay a rubble pile of charred logs. Only the sheet metal Yukon stove and stovepipe remained.

  “Maybe it was an accident,” Deut said to her brother. She stood next to him on a little rise next to the ruins. “Maybe it was some careless tourist.”

  Proverbs rocked back and forth on his heels and jogged in place in the snow to stay warm, but he said nothing.

  It was no accident. The rangers had warned them to stay away from the cabin. And in defiance, Proverbs had used it for a picnic.

  “What do we do now?” Deut said. “Poppy wants us to stay out here till dinnertime. How we gonna do that?”

  Proverbs didn’t reply to that question either, so after a few more minutes Deut left him and went, first to check on Ginger, who was still asleep in the sled, and then to the woodpile. There was less than half a rick of spruce and birch stacked far enough away from the cabin to have been spared the inferno. She levered the ax out of the stump and began to split a round of spruce into kindling. It was far too cold to simply stand around. At least they could have a camp fire. Or wade into the ashes and fish out the Yukon stove and a length of stovepipe and put it somewhere out of the breeze to huddle around. This could be an adventure, if it weren’t for the demons.

  But before Deut could split much wood, she noticed Ginger sitting up in the sled. She waved at her and yelled, “Over here.” Deut didn’t want Ginger to wake up thinking she was alone. Ginger heard her and looked over at her, but instead of being reassured, she seemed to panic. She jumped from the sled to the sno-go in front of it and fiddled desperately with the controls.

  It dawned on Deut that this was an escape attempt. “Look out!” she called to her brother. “She’s getting away!”

  Proverbs didn’t so much as turn around to look, and Ginger quickly gave up trying to start the Bearcat. The new machine had a functioning ignition key, and he must have taken it. It was more convenient than removing spark plugs all the time.

  Ginger, the person they were supposed to be protecting from the mischief of evil spirits, abandoned the sno-go altogether and bolted up the trail.

  “She’s getting away!” Deut shouted again. “On foot!”

  This time her brother did respond. He glanced at Deut and gave her the stink eye. His expression said, Really, sister, and how far is she going to get on foot?

  So Deut shrugged him a whatever and went back to swinging the old, rusty, double-bitted ax over her head. As chores went, the boys had it pretty easy with wood splitting. There was a fun element to it that, say, mopping a wood plank floor never achieved.

  Deut couldn’t tell what her brother was doing with all his communing with the ruins. Praying? That would be good. More likely he was soaking up the fire’s residual heat to stoke his anger. There was no way Ranger Rick was involved in this. She was sure of it, and she prayed that it be true.

  “Brother,” she called. “Pray with me.”

  Slowly, he turned from the ashes to look at her again. This time his good eye was dismissive.

  “Elder Brother Jesus,” she intoned in her father’s cadence, “we pray that our hearts are not consumed in the same fire as consumed this innocent little cabin. Amen.”

  It took a moment, but he said, “Amen.” Then he turned abruptly and headed back to the sno-go.

  “Wait for me” she called. She buried the ax in the stump and ran to join him.

  Deut sat behind her brother on the seat and held on to him around his waist. She aimed little prayer bombs at the back of his beaver-trimmed hat. It’s not her fault. She’s a good person inside. And Ranger Rick had nothing to do with this.

  They went slowly, tracking Ginger’s bootprints. Her tracks stayed on the corrugated sno-go trail, which were firm enough to support her weight. But only after fifty yards (46 m), her footprints leaped off the trail into the loose snow of the woods, and Proverbs braked to a halt.

  Ginger was too weak to run and had fled into the trees. But none of the trees were giants here, and there she was, comically trying to hide behind one that was skinnier than her bright red parka.

  “Don’t blame her,” Deut said, out loud this time.

  Her brother did not reply. Neither did he go after the girl. He simply idled the machin
e and waited. They all waited in the freaking cold. After a few minutes, Deut dismounted and brought a sleeping bag from the sled. She used it to cover her brother and herself as best she could. She shivered to get warm and stamped her feet on the running boards.

  Ginger held out for as long as she was able. When she returned to the trail, stiff, lethargic, no one said a word. She simply climbed into the sled and covered up, and Proverbs put the machine into drive.

  He drove fast, faster than the path was wide, and several times they had to swerve hard to avoid hitting a tree. The sled got knocked around a bit behind them. Deut leaned into the turns with her brother and kept her mouth shut. At the fork, Proverbs turned toward home without even slowing down.

  FD7 1.0

  A HISSING OLD pressure lantern, hanging from a nail, dimly illuminated the cavernous entrance area. The agents shut and bolted the sally door and lined the Prophecys up along the inner gate. Masterson covered them with his shotgun while the agents searched the entrance and gallery wings. They found a handgun and two rifles, but no “tubular instrument.”

  Nabor returned to Poppy and said, “You know, we can get a whole army of techs in here to search every nook and cranny of this place.”

  Poppy shrugged. “I guess you do what you have to.”

  “If we have to find it on our own, we’ll charge you and these three nice young men with obstruction of justice.”

  “Nobody’s obstructing your so-called justice because there’s no trumpet, not here, not anywhere, except maybe in the throne room of Heaven. And that’s Father God’s own truth.”

  “Then you do know what I’m talking about.”

  “All I know is I seen your child’s drawing of a trumpet. I know you come all this way to roust me and my family from our table, to threaten and abuse us over something that don’t exist. That’s what I know. That’s the Obama government for you. Tell me, Mr. Agent, what does a glass trumpet have to do with an airplane crash? Was Nellis blowing it out his window when he went down?”

  “So you do know something about the crash.”