A Faraway Song (Part 10)

Maybe I should have been surprised, or insulted, or mad even at that point but I really was not that put off by this revelation.  Enough odd things had happened that I guess a lie about the mine’s location was not that remarkable.

“So, do you know exactly where it is?”

“I do.  I’m a bit of a hiker and stumbled across it on one of my early walks around here.  Don’t feel too badly about whatever resistance you are getting about collecting information.  I haven’t got a straight, or even a partial answer, about that place from anyone around here either.  I picked up a few details here and there I guess, but mostly all I know is that it is an old mine.”

“That’s about all I know too.  I did a little research on the area before I came up here but not enough to locate it myself.  Would you show me?”

“It’s a bit of a struggle to get back to,” the Reverend replied.  “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Yes.  Can we go now?”

He smiled back at me but shook his head, explaining that he had another appointment to keep in about thirty minutes.  He offered to go with me the next morning, an offer I eagerly accepted.  I had thanked him and was almost out the door when I turned back.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure.  What is it?”

“That old woman told me that no one ever moves here.  That she was the last one.  Is that true?”

He paused before answering, looking past me to the trees that framed the property.  Then he replied.

“This is a bit of a static community.  Not much change, not many new faces.  They seem to like it that way.”

“And children?”  I explained to him about the pictures Eyebrows had let me look at and also that I so far had not seen any children in the area during my explorations.  He was turning away from me, walking back toward his office, as he replied.

“Yes, there certainly aren’t many children.”

That was obviously going to be the end of our conversation for the day, so I called out another thank you in his direction and returned to my truck.  It was later now, too late to do much of anything else, so I parked my truck in a pull-off near Cemetery Road and sat in the bed, eating granola bars and just absorbing the evening.

double crested cormorant

double crested cormorant

It was calm and cool, the sky kind of a dusty blue with a few clouds hanging near the western horizon.  Bird sounds were everywhere and I could pick out the calls of loons, cuckoos and woodpeckers.  A flock of cormorants flew by overhead looking in flight like a formation of futuristic aircraft.  The air was clean and fragrant, full of all kinds of outdoor scents; pine, rosemary, grass, and that musky smell that water gives off when it is jammed up with old wood and debris.  It was peaceful and relaxing to me even as my mind was racing through all of the new information I had collected during the day. It was right then that I heard it, the most unexpected sound.  I heard the shout of a young child.

I stood up in the bed of my truck upon hearing it, turning slightly to face the direction I thought it had come from.  I waited for several long moments and then I heard it again.  This time it was more than a shout, it was a series of sounds, just like you might imagine a child making as it played outside.  The sounds seemed happy, the usual youthful excitement of being outdoors and feeling free.  It stopped and I waited again, two minutes, then five but it seemed to be gone.  I did know though that it had come from somewhere down Cemetery Road and I jumped out of my truck to head in that direction.

I walked rapidly but stopped at every piece of property I passed; waiting for about a minute, listening, trying to peek around buildings, and watching for movement.  At the home of Mr. Shotgun I made sure that I was standing near a tree, just in case I needed it for cover, but even there I managed to get a fairly good inspection done.  At Brown Suit’s house I walked stealthily over to the rabbit enclosure, figuring that might be something a child would be excited about.  Ultimately I found nothing at all, no trace of a child and no more youthful sounds.  I did not even see a toy, a swing set or any other item that would indicate a child was in the area.  I was still very sure of what I had heard though, and I stood at the end of the road, right in front of Brown Suit’s driveway, wondering just what this new piece of strange information meant.

The sun was in my eyes, dropping quickly toward the horizon to set, so I turned and started pacing back and forth, waiting, hoping that I would hear the child again.  Eventually I knelt down at the south edge of the road, back to the sun, looking toward the trees that surrounded Brown Suit’s property.  I was preoccupied but my mind registered something out of place.  It was a flash of color, a faded red, something on the side of a very old building that was buried behind scrub trees and scrawny bushes.  It was difficult to make out any details, but it looked like a sign maybe, or a picture that had been painted on the building.  I was contemplating whether I should walk over to investigate when I heard a vehicle on the road.  Turning around, I saw the Colony Park Wagon coming toward me.

…to be continued

A Faraway Song (Part 9)

The animal was a fairly large one, at least from my experience with rabbits.  It was light brown in color and of the kind I would call floppy-eared, although I am certain they actually have a much more official, scientific name.  He was holding it by the neck and its elongated hind legs were kicking feebly against the air.  Brown Suit crouched down with it, stroking its head and muttering something which I could not make out.  Finally he placed the rabbit onto the ground and let go of the neck.  I thought it would bolt away, happy to be free, but instead it just hopped two times and then looked back at the old man.  They stared at each other, the rabbit with its nose-twitching, Brown Suit shooing it away, until finally the animal turned and disappeared into the brush and leaves.  I waited, tucked under the branches and shadows of that white pine, until he had walked past me toward his car.  I then went over and examined the spot where he had released the rabbit.

I do not know what I had expected to find there, or really why I walked over there, except for my own increasing curiosity over everything having to do with this strange place.  I of course did not find anything and had started walking back toward my truck when a sudden rustle in the bushes caught my attention.  I looked over toward a small group of saplings and caught a glimpse of a light brown, floppy-eared rabbit peeking out at me.  Shaking my head, and trying to convince myself that it was a different rabbit then the one released by the old man, I started walking again.  It was about four minutes later, just as I was breaking out of the last part of the forest, that a thought occurred to me.  Could the old abandoned mine be around here?  I was not completely certain of where I was but did know I had come a fair distance from Brown Suit’s house.  He had told me I was off by thirty miles, although no direction was ever mentioned.  I decided to pull the atlas out from behind the seat of my truck and see if I could get a better idea of my location.

Knowing I had passed through Mississippi Mills a short time before we stopped gave me a fairly good idea of where I was, and it did in fact turn out to be a little over thirty miles from Clyde Forks.  Considering myself a super-sleuth for having connected this information together I set off back into the woods to explore for the mine.  Four hours later, and after having stumbled several times into the backyards of a neighboring group of houses on a cul-de-sac, I sat down exhausted on the tailgate of my truck.  At this point, having come completely unprepared for such a prolonged adventure, I was extremely hungry and thirsty.  Two hours later, and after a very good meal at a place called Kettle’s Cafe, I was back in Clyde Forks and searching for a local church.

I found it, tucked rather surprisingly behind a thick row of trees directly across the road from Eyebrows’ bungalow.  Somehow I had driven right past it twice, although it was rather hard to see from the road which gave my detective ego some small relief.  The church was simple and small, sided in white wood and with a roof in need of repair.  I walked in through an unlocked back door and was met promptly by a man of medium height and build, soft-spoken but with an earnest face.  He asked if he could help me.

“Hello Father.”

“Reverend, I’m Reverend Currie” he interrupted me but then waved me to continue.

“Sorry, Reverend, I am trying to find out some information about this place and was hoping someone here could help me.”

He smiled a little at my question but did not explain why, responding instead with, “Of course, what did you want to know?”

That seemed like the perfect opening, especially considering how full of questions my head was, so I unloaded my story on him.  He listened to the whole thing very patiently, his eyes twinkling a little in amusement as I described my interactions with the locals.  When I was done, having ended with the rabbit looking at me from the bushes, he reached over and gently grabbed my shoulder.

“You do indeed seem to have picked up quite a few observations about Clyde Forks.  It’s an interesting place as you already figured out.  I might be able to give you a few answers but think I may not be exactly the person you were looking for.”

I gave him a questioning look and he continued.

“Something tells me that you went looking for a church because you were hoping to find an old priest who had been around for decades and could tell you his own history of this area.”

“Yes, I guess I was but I knew when you met me at that door, well you weren’t exactly going to be that guy.  You’re way too young.”

“Yes, that too, but more importantly I’ve only been here for a few months.”

I did not respond immediately as something was struggling to make itself known from my subconscious.  It finally came through.

“So you just moved here a few months ago?  That’s weird because that old lady I spoke to this morning said that no one had moved here in forty years or so.  She said her and her husband were the last ones.”

“Ah yes, well I think she was basically telling you the truth.  The people around here do not exactly count the church ministers as among their population.”

“Really?  Is this not a very religious place?”

“It’s not that.  It’s just that they have been rotating ministers in and out of this place for almost sixty years, not one of them spending much more than a year here.  I guess the locals think of us like some kind of interchangeable knick-knack.  It makes it a challenge to minister to them but I guess the church brought that struggle on itself.  I just keep smiling and trying to do my best.”

“So, I guess you don’t know much then, huh?”

He paused before answering, considering me I guess, or whether he wanted to share things with me.  Then he spoke.

“Well, maybe not everything you want to know, but I do know a few things.”

“Like?”

“Well, for one thing, that mine is not thirty miles from here.  It’s just a couple of miles west.”

…to be continued

A Faraway Song (Part 2)

 

Out on the road again I assessed my situation.  Although I had been a little spooked by the man in the window,  I also was determined to not let that be my sole attempt at getting some directions.  How bad could this place really be?

I did a quick check of the surroundings as I rubbed my arms against a slight chill I was feeling.  As far as I could tell, the entire area that comprised Clyde Forks stretched out before me down the short distance of Cemetery Road.  That thought matched up with the rather old map I had brought with me for the trip, which basically had two roads on it and nothing else for quite a distance.  Just a lot of trees and water.  There were some more houses further down the road though and I started to slowly walk that way, taking in the place as I went.

The first thing I noticed was that the properties in the area basically fit into two categories.  Neat and tidy was the least prevalent, although there were some very well-kept yards.  The one I was nearest to was the best example of this, looking like it belonged in a photo shoot for some kind of lifestyle magazine for senior citizens.  It was a split-level brick home with accented corners, a wrap-around white porch complete with rocking chairs, neat planters full of petunias and perfectly manicured grass.  It even had this magnificent maple tree that shaded the porch and one perfectly bent limb that arched over the sidewalk, tendrils of maple leaves slightly obscuring a clear view of the home’s front door.  After my previous experience, you might think I would have run up to such an inviting place; however, it had a strange aura about it also.  It was set back quite a way from the road, and although the yard looked nice, it also had several rows of off-set cedar bushes that wrapped it in a protective embrace.  While I was contemplating that contradiction, I assessed the other, far more prevalent category of property in the area.

Still to this day I call these kinds of yards a small-town special.  I’m not sure if it is the lack of local ordinances on blight, a natural inclination of locals in these areas to collect things, or just a lethargy that infects people in these places.  Whatever it is, it always results in the same scene: scattered rusty cars, old pieces of farm equipment, broken pottery, overgrown yards and out-buildings bursting at the seams with clutter and junk.  There were several of these in Clyde Forks, and somehow, almost impossibly, they seemed more inviting than the nice brick house with the pretty porch.  I decided to walk on down the road toward one of these less attractive places and see what I could find.

 

old cars

old cars

I passed on the first one, which also had an open garage full of automotive parts, because there were no vehicles in the driveway.  The property almost directly across the street though had two pick-up trucks parked right in front of the door to a double-wide trailer.   The north edge of the driveway had two moss-covered old cars standing guard.   Everything seemed quiet as I walked up, a slight breeze making the seed pods at the top of the foot-high grass dance back and forth.  As I neared the trailer I could hear the television playing inside.  With a deep breath I knocked on the door. And waited.  The sound from the television went away and then a true silence settled on the place.  I could hear someone inside grunt and the low squeak of protesting sofa springs.  A few shuffled footsteps and then a click, but not of the door, it was something else inside the trailer.  About thirty seconds later the door did open and I was greeted by a very large man with a double-barreled shotgun.  He was both tall and overweight, dirty blue t-shirt hanging out sloppily at the sides of his overalls.  He was unshaven, with small dark eyes and long dirty-blonde hair, and his breathing was raspy and loud.  I raised my hand in greeting, which he returned by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a shotgun shell.  I took a step back, after which he flipped the lever that broke open the breach on the gun.  That was enough for me, and I took off running for the road, which I managed to reach without a shot being fired.  I looked back at the trailer then and saw that the man still stood there at his door, the gun now raised up and pointed not in my exact direction but definitely out toward the road.  My mind thought “He wouldn’t,” just as he fired, causing me to instinctively duck down.  The shots were well wide of me, rustling up some bushes across the road and kicking up gravel.  Then he calmly walked back into his trailer and I got up, shaking with fear and adrenaline.

Dusting myself off, I kept my eye on the door to the trailer as I also considered what to do next.  This was obviously not the friendliest place in the world.  I think that if I had been older I would have taken the hint, but twenty-something is not an age known for that kind of good judgement.  Instead, I looked around and was a bit startled to see a man, tall and dressed in a faded brown suit, standing at the end of his driveway.  The house behind him was old and tattered, the sides covered with what appeared to be roofing shingles, and the yard overgrown but otherwise clean.  His house was the last one I could see, and the road seemed to end by meeting up with his driveway.  It was maybe two hundred feet away and the man was beckoning me with a small wave of his hand.  I glanced back over at the trailer door and then heard a voice, which I took to be the brown-suited man, although it sounded like it was a person talking right into my ear.

“He’s done with you.  Get on down here before you get hurt.”

 

…to be continued