The Unseen One
By Terse Skirritt
Smashwords addition
Copyright 2011 Terse Skirritt
Published at Smashwords
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Acknowledgements
Writing in this genre forces or permits, I’m not sure which, the author to crawl back into the dark catacombs of the mind and visit the things that have been shoved there by years of denial, hidden fears and personal trauma. It was, for this author, an interesting visit.
I don’t think the people who were either drafted or volunteered to edit this story found it as interesting; it frightened them. It actually bothered them that a seemingly gentle and nice man would let his mind drool out this story. Among the editors were my wonderful wife, two of my great kids, a couple of friends who by the way have, for some reason, stopped calling me. And my parents; Dad has passed but mom is still out there living life to the fullest.
Thanks everyone for your work on this story---I love you all.
Terse
PROLOG
It appears that is the nature of the Universe to keep the books balanced. Mother Nature likes zeros and balanced books. If you add a positive six to a negative six, you get zero. Add ice to a hot liquid and the ice melts. The hot liquid and the ice spontaneously mix in an effort to arrive at a temperature half way between how hot the hot is and how cold the cold is. If you send a tank of high-pressure gas into space and open a valve, the high-pressure gas will expand and try to fill the vacuum of space to achieve a balanced state.
If there is an atmospheric low-pressure area sitting over Kansas; a high-pressure system from Canada will arrive and try to zero out the low pressure to produce a balanced state. If there are too many deer in a particular eco-system, deer will die off for various reasons until the system can support those that remain. Got more money than you need for survival? If so, you will probably start spending the excess funds on discretionary items.
Nature, through the law of entropy, will arrive at a zero state sooner or later and do it without prejudice, hatred or malice. High-pressure areas have no feelings for or against low-pressure areas. Hot and cold liquids do not hunt one another down and have at it because they fear or distrust one another. Nature is a guileless thing innocently going about the business of attaining equilibrium.
Humans, on the other hand, are different: you never know what to expect when humans seek to balance the books.
SLEEP
“The repose of sleep refreshes only the body. It rarely sets the soul
at rest. The repose of the night does not belong to us. It is not the
possession of our being. Sleep opens within us an Inn for phantoms.
In the morning we must sweep out the shadows.”
Gaston Bachelard
Sleep is, for many people, a daily vacation. It’s a place to visit after a day of hard work or after a few hours of worrying about this, that, or the other thing. For those people, sleep comes at the end of something.
Other people drift off after a session of passionate lovemaking, after finishing a chapter of a book or after a few minutes of conversation with the wife, husband, boyfriend or girlfriend. For the most fortunate, sleep is a place of warmth and security they manage to hold on to from childhood; the warm quilt, the soft sheets; the pillow that feels just right. Yeah, sleep can be just the thing to finish off a day in just the right way.
For the least fortunate, sleep may be nothing more than an escape from all the crap the world has conspired to heap upon their aching back. For them, sleep is where they go when they are lucky enough to turn off their worries and forget, for just a few hours, that the world is full of assholes who have climbed the ladder just high enough to get above them and let everything go and land squarely on the slumped and tired shoulders. And finally, there are those for whom sleep is when Hell wakes up and does its best work.
Vest Perry is just such a guy. Every night, as he loses the battle with sleep, the last vision he has is of himself walking down a narrow sidewalk toward a small black building. The sidewalk is just your standard cement walkway; a couple of hundred feet long, a few cracks and uneven areas along the way. An occasional bristle of weeds and grass live in the cracks. Broken chunks of cement lie in odd angles off to the side. And, oh yes, this sidewalk has one special disturbing quality; it groans when you walk on it. Not loudly mind you, just a low, soft groan like you might hear when someone feels pain in their sleep. Not every step causes a groan; just often enough to make you wish it would stop.
Anyone who routinely inflicts pain or misery knows if you give someone too much of something bad, they will eventually get used to it and, though they may still be miserable, they won’t be really, really miserable and it’s that extra measure of misery that makes inflicting misery worthwhile.
The little black house in this dream has been inflicting pain on Vest for a long time and it knows just how to do it for maxim terror and pain. The little black house in Vest’s dream is at the end of the walkway and it’s about the size of a small garage. Kind of like the one your father stored the mower and other implements he never seemed to get around to using. The little house is made of dull black stone of some sort. Rough texture; not cinderblock, not brick, not stucco. More like black marble that never got its final polishing. It looks like who ever quarried it learned something about it that convinced them to leave it alone and forego the finishing touches that make black marble worth having.
The little building has no windows. It has a cracked and dirty slate roof, and a small front door. Two steps lead to the door. The door is smaller than a standard door. In this dark world of bad dreams, Vest cannot stop his movement toward the unpleasant little black house. He is not drawn to the house by anything silly like “some unseen force that compels him ever forward” like in the original movie version of “The Mummy”; No, that would be stupid and there is nothing stupid about this dream.
In this dream, Vest goes forward to see if the same shit will happen that happens every time he has this sick dream. He can’t resist the need to know if it will happen again. Perhaps this time it will be different. Perhaps the years of challenging the dream will finally conclude with his victory over the dream and sleep will become a friend to welcome rather than another stab at his soul.
He takes the two steps up to the door; no need to grab and twist the knob, the house knows he’s there. The door swings open slowly, just like in every “B” movie and he enters: more precisely, the interior pulls Vest in through the tight little door. It’s always a very tight fit. Tight enough to skin Vests elbows, scrape his scalp, and force him into a painful half-walk, half-crawl. He always scrapes his scalp so a little bit of blood mixes with his short blond hair: he is in the house again.
The room smells like a mixture of spoiled milk and rotting chicken meat. There is no light, the air is hot and heavy and he feels like he has been enveloped in a very fine spider’s web. This web is always the signal that the worse part of this dream is about to begin; it’s the “Lake Dream”.
Teenagers and lakes take to one another like nothing else in the world. All adolescent boys burn pure testosterone; it’s like rocket fuel. It makes them feel bullet proof. It causes them to see themselves as having Superman’s body even if they have arms like buggy whips and it gives them a libido that would make Caligula blush.
Teenage girls appear to most boys as foreign lands to be conquered and claimed. Girls are for boys to occupy and dominate. It is an unwritten rule; overpower and claim the female to prove the superiority of male over female. Perhaps in an effort to counter this siege, teenage girls cluster in groups. Strength in numbers and all that crap. They giggle, mutter, glance and tease. The two groups gravitate toward one another without fail. Put the two groups at lakeside on a hot summer day and provide them with water deep enough to hide the ‘touch here and grab that’ tactics driven by free flowing hormones and you have summer fun at the lake.
Vest is not here for summer fun at the lake. He is here to dream the “Lake Dream” again. His sleeping mind opens the rotten bag containing the horrific dream. The dream again drools out of the bag like a leaking Red Cross blood bag.
In this dream he is lying on his back on a wooden pontoon island anchored in the middle of the lake. The kind of wooden island kids swim out to, lie on and talk as they catch their breath before swimming back to shore for eats and more flirting.
The wooden planks are wet and cool against Vest’s back and he is covered with a large, wet beach towel. The day is clear; the sky is blue, white billowy clouds drift slowly overhead. There is a fog in the distance. The fog doesn’t hang like the fog in a movie; clinging to the small hills and gently surrounding the lakeshore to welcome early arriving vacationers. This fog hangs straight and harsh. It covers the expanse between the sky and lakeshore like a wall; straight, even and without subtlety.
Vest is trapped on the boat dock, his shoulders occasionally dampened by the wash of lake ripples as they splash between the planks of the dock. The wet beach towel covers him from neck to foot and holds him fast to the boat dock. He can raise his head far enough to see his feet and the curtain of fog hanging several hundred feet from the raft that now imprisons the boy.
As in past episodes of this dream, he wonders how a fog could be so straight, flat and sheer. The wall of fog is trans-illuminated by the sunlight behind it. Occasionally a brighter section of the light behind the fog moves as if someone was shining a flashlight behind a bed sheet. Vest was all too familiar with this part of the dream; when the light stops moving, Hell will pay Vest a visit and bring with it a few moments of terror.
The light stops at the center of the wall of fog. It remains motionless for a few moments and then brightens slightly. The brightened circle bulges as if the light was trying to push its way through the fog. A small, jagged rip in the fog opens at the center of the circle of light and a thin flickering gray forked tongue protrudes a few feet from the rip in the fog. The tongue moves side to side like a snake’s tongue; sensing the air in search of some hapless rodent that chose the wrong place to rest.
The tongue elongates. It waves and whips slowly through the widening rip in the fog wall. It moves toward the boy on the raft, waving side to side and sensing the boy’s presence on the raft. The towel tightens, holding Vest even tighter against the rough, wet planks; the heat rises in Vest’s chest as he strains against the damp towel.
The lapping of the water stops, as does the distant screeching of the gulls that soar above the lake. Everything stops moving. Everything stops but the advancing tongue. Waving and sensing, it drives itself closer to the raft. Periodically it stops and hovers a few feet above the surface of the lake. As it gets closer to Vest, the side to side waving narrows to a few feet on either side of the track that will bring the tongue to its target. Vest knows the tongue is homing in on him and he can’t stop it.
Vest raises his head to the point that his chin touches his chest and he looks down past his chest, stomach and feet. The tongue is fifty feet away, swaying and advancing. It closes in on the raft and, when ten or so feet away, it stops for a moment to make sure it is still on target. Vest, no longer able to hold his head up, drops his head back against the cold wet raft with a dull thud.
He rests a moment and then raises his head again. The tongue is just now snaking over the edge of the raft toward the boy’s spread feet. It stops a few inches from the soles of Vest’s feet and drops to the deck of the raft with a wet plop, its twin tips twitch as though it recognizes the terrified boy’s scent. Terror has a scent and it marks Vest’s location. Vest tries to close his legs but nothing moves. His feet remain several inches apart no matter how hard he tries to close them.
The tongue rises from the raft a few inches and, with a jerk it lunges a few inches closer to Vest’s feet. Vest strains against the towel, tries to close his legs, and tries to scream but nothing works: it is as though he is lying in a glass coffin and the coffin is open at one end and there is something at the end of that glass coffin that wants in.
The tongue moves forward a few inches and the tip of the tongue touches Vest’s right ankle. Terror rips through Vest. The tongue then tastes the boy’s left calf. Vest cannot move, scream or do anything but feel the tongue as it moves up his leg toward his thighs.
He feels the thing lick his thigh and then move forward a few more inches. Dreams have an odd way of adding just the right details to make sleep the worst part of life; no rules, no conscience, no mercy and no escape.
The tongue moves closer to Vest’s privates. “Privates?” They don’t seem so private now. Now they feel as if the whole of everything evil is about to make a playground out of his so-called privates. The tongue advances, the tip touching Vest’s scrotum. Vest flinches so hard it hurts. The tongue snakes up and along Vest’s penis gently touching the underside of the shaft and then it stops briefly. Vests heart pounds hard, his eyes water and his mouth goes dry. The tongue moves again, now entwining itself in Vest’s pubic hair.
Vest looks down past his chest and can see the bulge of the tongue moving under the towel toward his belly. Suddenly warmth floods Vests groin as the vastness of his fear grabs his bladder and squeezes it.
Vest jerks awake, wrapped in his sweaty, urine soaked bed sheet. His bedroom has replaced the lake. There are no horney adolescent boys and girls playing touchy-touchy in the water, no screeching gulls, no raft, just a wet sheet and a heart pounding for all it was worth.
Vest goes through the routine as he had so many times before; get up and get a clean sheet, towel up the urine on the mattress liner he always puts between the sheet and mattress before getting in bed. Climb back in bed and fight against sleep again.
The alarm clock rings and Vest slaps at the off button and rolls onto his back. The dreams were coming more often now, something like once or twice a month. He gets up, pulls the mattress liner from under the sheet, rolls it up and stores it in the fishing pole case he keeps at the back of his closet. Wet sheet in the laundry and off to breakfast.
Mattie, as she had for the last 17 years, was cooking breakfast while her husband Mump sat at the table reading the morning paper.
“Good morning kid.” Mump said with a slight hint of civility.
“Morning Dad.”
“Good Morning sweetie, have a good sleep?”
“Yeah Ma, good as usual. Don’t have time to eat this morning, I have to get to school early today. Coach wants us to have the team picture taken today. You know, the Yearbook team pictures of all the Belle’s Landings super-athletes. See you tonight.” Vest said softly.
Vest kissed his mother on the cheek and gave Mump a vague glance over his shoulder as he stepped out the backdoor and headed for his car. As his father heard the car drive off, Mump slammed his hand on the table, rattling the dishes and barked at Mattie.
“How come that fuckin’ kid never treats me with any goddamn respect? I feed his ass, listen to his shit about that faggy swim team and put up with his crap about needing this and wanting that. What’s his goddamn problem?”
Mattie put the spatula down on the edge of the stove, turned toward Mump, and, as she wiped her hands on the dishtowel hanging from her apron, she let him have it: “Listen to me Mump Perry. For that kid’s entire life you have given him every kind of Hell there is to give a kid and then you ask the same stupid question every morning.”
Mump glared at Mattie.
“What do you expect the kid to think of you after all the years of garbage you’ve heaped on him? He’s a good kid and you treat him like shit.”
Mump cut his eyes at Mattie and poked his finger at her. “Watch your mouth woman. I’m not in the mood for you runnin’ your mouth at me!”
Mump shot his chair back and jumped to his feet.
“I’m sick of his shit and I’m not far from throwing his lazy ass out of this house. He’d better change his attitude or he’ll find himself looking at life from the hard side.”
Mump stomped to the front door, grabbed his coat and hat and turned toward Mattie;“You tell that little shit that he’d better mow that yard before I get home tonight or I’ll beat him so hard his friends will feel it.” Mump slammed the door and, as he climbed into his truck, he yelled back at Mattie; “I’m not shitin’ about that lawn, he’d better get it done or I’ll bust him up real good!”
Mattie closed the door and went back into the kitchen and finished cleaning up the breakfast mess; “Damn him and his demons.” She said as she pounded her fists on the counter.
=
At Belle’s Landing High School, the boys filed into the pool area and the coach gave them their instructions; “O.K. gang! Varsity line up in the back, “B” team kneel in front of Varsity and “C” team sit on the deck in front of the “B”s. Coach was in no mood to put up with much today.
The photographer went thought the usual instructions to get everyone in the best position for the shot. The first few shots were of the entire team together. Then a few of the Varsity team alone, “B” team and “C” team individually. A few shots of what the coach called his “Nuggets” (The guys with exceptional ability). As the “Nuggets” had their pictures taken, the rest of the guys hooted and jeered. “Hey Vest! Gonna make it onto the Wheaties box?”
Vest gave the “Finger” in response to the good-natured ribbing just as the photographer fired his shutter.
“Hey kid! Cut the crap. Let’s do it again, this time don’t show us your I.Q. number.”
Every one laughed and the final set of shots was completed.
“Okay, guys, practice at the usual time. No excuses, we’re too close to prelims for any one to miss practice. We’re peaked and ready to go so no screwing off. Vest, I want you in my office before you take off for class.”
The coach headed for his office with Vest in tow.
“Kid, is there something wrong at home? You look like hell and you’re losing weight. Got girl trouble or what?”
“I’m fine coach. I just don’t sleep well. I think the division finals are kinda getting to me. If I don’t make All-American there goes my scholarship and I might as well kiss college good-bye. My old man sure as Hell won’t cough up the money to send me to college and I’ll end up going nowhere just like him and spend the rest of my life here in Belle’s Landing doing little more than putting food on the table for me and who ever I marry. I want more out of life than just raising a couple of kids and watching them go nowhere too.”
“Well, you keep losing weight and slipping up on your sprint trials in practice and you won’t make the times you need to qualify. Can I do anything to help?”
“No thanks, Coach. I’ll get it figured out.”
“Okay, kid. Get to class and I’ll see you at practice and remember, I’m here if you need me for anything.”
“Thanks Coach, see you later.”
THE FOUNDING OF BELLE’S LANDING
“Progress lies not in enhancing what is,
but in advancing toward what will be.”
Kahlil Gibran
In the mid-1800’s Vernon Collett decided to escape the pressure his family was putting on him to take over his father’s Philadelphia based accounting firm. Vernon was far more interested in seeing other parts of the world than keeping the books for a group of companies he had nothing to do with. He wanted to make his own way and his own fortune, rather than riding on his father’s coattails like Harry Kotman had done. Harry Kotman was one of Vernon’s classmates and one of Vernon’s best friends. They had been close friends until Harry was given a very juicy position in his father’s law firm. It seemed to Vernon and others in their social circle that Harry changed and not for the better after he took up the duties associated with the job he father had given him.
Harry was helping his father run the family law firm but only because his father created a position for Harry and presented it to Harry a graduation “gift”. Harry didn’t have the drive to earn his law degree and become a productive member of the law team. Rather, he accepted the gift position with the firm as a manager of the large volume of accounts the firm managed. Without this gift position Harry would have ended up as a common laborer rather than a young and inexperienced so-called executive. Harry, owing to the position he was given by his father became a little too impressed with himself and threw his weight around both within the company and in the social stratosphere his station in life made available to him. He had, over the first several years of his tenure as a junior partner, ruined a few co-workers careers, dodged a couple of lawsuits, produced one child out of wedlock, and put the company in jeopardy with his lavish life style which included among things a serious gambling problem.
It was a well-known fact that Harry had associated with various less-that-honest members of the community. Harry and his father constantly struggled to keep Harry on the straight and narrow path but Harry frequently found himself mired in controversy. His involvement in his father’s firm landed him in the social spotlight and one result of this illumination was to, on more than one occasion, bring questions concerning his true linage in the Kotman family.
From early on in Harry’s life there had been questions concerning Harry’s birth. There were people in Belle’s Landing who found the circumstances surrounding Harry’s birth and early childhood to be suspicious. Harry’s mother died during Harry’s birth and she and several people involved in his birth such as the attending physician and hospital staff met odd and gruesome deaths. Harry’s father was very aggressive in denying any and all rumors concerning Harry’s birth.
While most of the unsavory associations Harry had were of little consequence other than to sully the Kotman name, one event would prove to have dire consequences for Harry and prove to be highly motivating for Vernon Collett.
As part of a post-high school graduation summer activity several of the recently graduated young men and women including Harry and Vernon attended a city-sponsored gathering in the countryside just outside the city limits. The students and several teachers participated in a series of meetings and activities that were designed to collect the views of the younger generation as regards the future of the rapidly growing city.
On the 2nd. day of a scheduled four-day retreat, Harry and a young woman, Vivian Greene, whom he had met during the round table meeting decided to enjoy the evening together away from the rest of the group.
The next morning neither Harry nor the young woman attended the first round of meetings. Several attendees expressed concern for the whereabouts of the missing pair. One of the city managers who had helped sponsor the event volunteered to look for the missing pair as the planned activities proceeded. The manager, Vince Furster, enlisted the help of several police officers and they set out to search for the missing duo. Shortly before noon, one of the officers informed Furster that he had found something behind the railroad station on the west side of the city.
Furster accompanied the officer to the railroad station and prior to entering the alley behind the station, the officer cautioned Furster that what they found in the alley was very disturbing. Furster acknowledged the officers admonition, rounded the corner and entered the alley.
Harry Kotman was seated on a large wooden packing crate. He did not greet or even seem to notice the approaching men. Kotman was covered in blood and in his right hand was a very heavy maul like one might use to break rocks or drive large posts in to the ground. In his left hand was what was left of Vivian Greene’s head. Kotman rocked back and forth, murmuring “I am marked and did my work.”
The officer approached Kotman and asked Harry what had gone on.
Harry gave the officer a vague glance and then starred at the shattered head in his hand.
Kotman continued his strange delusional monologue: “She was the work and I did it. I have done all of my work. There is no more work to be done. I did my work.”
The officer took the maul from Kotman’s hand and laid it on the dusty ground in front of the crate. He then held his hands out toward Kotman as if to offer him a hand in getting down from the crate. Kotman grabbed the officer’s hand and slowly lowered himself from the crate to ground and stood looking at the dead woman’s body. He cast a quick glance at the skull in his hand and tossed it toward the lifeless body as though he thought it belonged with the remains of Miss Greene.
“She was the work and I did my work.”
The officer took Kotman by the arm and began walking from the alley toward the street in front of the rail station.
Kotman looked back toward the dead woman a few times as the two of them walked from the bloody scene. As they walked, Kotman continued to murmur ‘I did my work” over and over again. Each time he uttered the phrase he became more and more agitated.
As they neared the street, Kotman suddenly tore himself from the officers grasp and in the same motion grabbed the officer’s service revolver from his holster. Kotman ran a few steps from the officer and howled a blood curdling noise as he jammed the barrel into his left eye socket, dislodging the eyeball from the socket and then he pulled the trigger.
Amid a rainbow spray of blood and gun smoke, Kotman crumbled to the ground in a blood covered dusty mass. His body jerked a few times and, as the mud of blood and dirt collected on the ground around his head, Harry Kotman was no more. His work was indeed finished.
The news of the murder-suicide spread quickly through the city and the deaths were largely regarded as just another mess young Kotman had been involved in. The nonsensical phrase Kotman had murmured regarding the mark and the work being done was written off as just more of Kotman’s erratic behavior.
Vernon Collett was convinced that being a recipient of undeserved wealth and status would certainly doom anyone to a future of failure and regret. Harry was, in Vernon’s mind, a vivid example of the evils of coattail wealth and he was determined to avoid the same future or lack thereof that had plagued Harry Kotman.
This determination and the fear that he might end up like Harry was proving to be a rough point of contention for Vernon and his family. Over the next few months, Vernon and his father would, despite an otherwise strong relationship, have a clash wills over Vernon’s future and his involvement in the family business.
After several heated discussions between he and his father, Vernon called the family together in the Collett mansion to announce his intentions to leave for what he called “a chance to see the country and make his own way.” There were very heated words and threats of being disowned and banished from the family but Vernon was not to be persuaded otherwise. He was not going to turn out like Harry.
The die was now cast and it was time for Vernon to set about building his future.
Vernon had rented a small apartment in town and over the past few weeks he had been storing things he would need for his solo trip toward his future. Following the heated meeting with his family Vernon went to his small apartment to reflect on the move he had just made. This would be the first time in his life that he didn’t have the safety net of the Collett family to fall back on if life started to rub him the wrong way. He had thought long and hard about making this move but now that the decision had been made, he was having second thoughts. His dilemma was only just now catching up to him and the severe case of stomach monkeys he was experiencing made the road ahead seem less inviting but as his father was fond of saying “The only problem with being knee-deep in shit is the shit.”
Vernon busied himself with the task at hand. There were supplies to pack, check the riverboat schedule for the nth time, clear up the several debts he had and other somewhat mundane tasks. Tomorrow morning would be the beginning of his great adventure and hopefully the beginning of a life of independence and success.
The next morning Vernon collected his things, bid farewell to the operator of the boarding house where Vernon had spent so many hours developing his plans of independence and fortune, and called a carriage to take him to the riverboat mooring at Fitche’s Place.
The riverboat mooring was, for a newly emancipated young man, a site of combined fear and excitement. There were travelers of varied sorts; gamblers, women who one might refer to as practicing the ways of easy notions, traders of every type of commerce and a few men that looked as though they might be on the run from the law.
The boat had a double deck; passengers and freight on the main deck, gambling and food on the upper deck. Vernon made sure his possessions were in the control of the Master and then made his way to the upper deck where he thought he might immerse himself in the ways of the river traveler. He hoped no one would discover he was as green as a twig but one hand of Jack’s Up served well to make it clear he was not only green but easy to separate $20.00 from.
Vernon spent the rest of the journey sitting on a stack of lumber being shipped south and daydreaming of his new life.
The trip down the Mindocian River trip took 16 hours from the departure point at Fitche’s Place to Jorgenson, the next place to put in for food, drink and rest. As the boat neared the wharf, the Master announced “all off for pier business” which Vernon was to learn meant everyone was to leave the boat for a few hours as cargo and passengers unloaded or loaded as the case might be.
Vernon made his way to the Golden Loon, a combination saloon, restaurant and boarding house. He secured a room for the night, returned to the riverboat to collect his belongings and, while there, asked the Master if this was an honest place to stay for the night. The Master looked Vernon right in the eye and said; “Kid, if you can stay here all night, keep your property from being stolen, keep your throat from being slit and manage to resist the temptations of them ladies in the saloon, then you’ll not only survive this night but probably succeed in your quest for a long life.” The Master pounded Vernon on the back, gave him a shove toward his belongings and told him to keep his eyes open.
Vernon picked up his stuff and walked toward the Golden Loon. The sounds emanating from the saloon were largely new to Vernon. His past had been somewhat devoid of exposure to sin and deprivation. As he entered the saloon/boarding house he kept his eyes on the floor in front of him with only an occasional glance toward the folks that were enjoying what his father would call “the ways of the flesh.”
As Vernon climbed the stairs to his room, he considered how best to keep himself and his property safe for the night. He had no weapon, knew nothing of the ways and means of self-defense and was certain that if he found himself in a confrontation he would most certainly not best any foe. Vernon entered his room and upon a quick examination figured the best defense would be to shove as many of the meager furnishings in front of the door as he could. This, he thought, would block the way for anybody looking to ease themselves in and help themselves to his earthly possessions.
The night was long; the sound of drunks, loose women and the occasional loud cursing was a bit unnerving for Vernon and the time between catnaps and wakefulness mostly favored the wakefulness.
While enduring his bouts with sleepless, Vernon thought about the trip he had just endured. He recalled a bend in the river at about the 8-hour point. This bend and the associated shore line featured a high bluff and a naturally sloping access from the river to the bluff. This location seemed to Vernon to be a natural place to begin his new life. He had no reason to conclude this place had anything that would bring him worries.
The next day, Vernon bought a horse and made his way back to the spot he had identified. It was just as he recalled it: a wide, flat shoreline with a gently sloping trail that led to the top of the bluff. The bluff was wide, flat, and went for miles in all directions.
It seemed like a perfect location to establish a place for river traffic to put ashore for food, rest and recreation. He returned to Jorgenson and over the next week met with various local bankers, businessmen and others who might be interested in establishing branches of their existing businesses or begin new ventures in the place Vernon had discovered.
While he had little experience with things such as he had discovered at the Golden Loon, he was a skilled speaker and had a way with both the art of communication and the ability to describe the likelihood of making a business venture successful. He explained to the various businessmen that the area he had visited was known to the riverboat men as “The Devil’s Smokestack.” It had been given this name because of a constant but slight plume of smoke that rose from a fissure in the face of the bluff. He took great pains to point out that sometimes nature puts things in places that serve to Man’s advantage and clearly it had done so in this case. He emphasized that the bluff that overlooked the river had a natural sloping grade that worked its way from the water way to the bluff; a natural road making transportation from the river to the top of the bluff and back an easy venture for just about any form of land transportation from foot traffic to wagon.
Several men expressed interest in the venture and, after what seemed like an eternity of meetings and discussions about the likelihood of success for new business, a caravan of men and material set out for “The Devil’s Smokestack”.
The men who accompanied Vernon to the area found it to be just as Vernon described it. Once it was confirmed that the riverboat did indeed pass this area three times in a week, the group of men sent south for additional manpower, materials and other necessities needed to set up the beginning of what everyone hoped would be a profitable experience.
It didn’t take long before the “Stack” evolved into a profitable stopover for liquor, a bath and a place for momentary love affairs of the passing kind. The men who had initially taken the challenge on developing the “Stack” were realizing a profit and, as is the case with new ventures that make money, additional business were gravitating to The Devils Smokestack.
As time passed, the small stopover became a small town populated by more legitimate concerns. A dry goods store, a couple of churches, a blacksmith, and other establishments grew and prospered as the river traffic increased. Soon a mayor and a group of the town’s leading citizens formed a governing body to bring order to the developing community through an ever increasing number of laws, ordinances and codes.
As the years passed, the Devil’s Smokestack prospered. The locals, spurred on by civic minded religious and secular leaders, suggested the town’s name was, let’s say, not fitting for a place of God fearing and decent people. Vernon Collett, now approaching his mid-forties, was generally regarded as the founding father of the “Stack”. Accordingly, it was natural that the committee of civic watchdogs approached him for a solution to the dilemma of the sobriquet.
Vernon was a man of little conversation and even less patience for things he felt held little consequence. A town meeting was held in what once had been a brothel and now served as an all-purpose meeting place. General issues such as civic improvement, new ordinances and other such mundane issues were dealt with quickly so as to get on with the business of bestowing a proper name for the community.
The mayor asked that a motion be made to consider the much-needed change in the town’s name. As with any civic assembly, all hell broke loose as one person and then another called out suggestions for a new town moniker. The religious zealots sought biblical names, the old timers resisted any change, some members of the Collett family and business leaders preferred such names as Collettville in honor of Vernon Collett, and the smattering of immigrants from foreign soil added their ethnic contributions.
The mayor gaveled the din to quiet and suggested a poll be taken and the top three names would be put to a vote with the majority name being adopted. Everyone in attendance wrote or, in the case of illiteracy, had someone else write their preferred name on their ballot. All ballots were collected and a tally taken. The name selected by a substantial margin was Collettville.
As the mayor was about to drop the gavel to officially change the name of the town from Devil’s Smokestack to Collettville, Vernon Collett stood up and spoke: “I have lived and prospered here for some years now. I can’t say that all I have done to make my way in this town has been, as one might say, Godly, but I have nonetheless done well here.”
Vernon had a way of commanding attention by just being in the room so the quiet was profound as Vernon continued; “Most of you know me and mine. We are good people who, despite a few slight bends in the Lord’s rules, have tried to make ‘Stack’ a good place to live. I cannot, in any sense of proper humility however, accept the naming of this community after me. It would be improper.”
Vernon paused and collected his thoughts.
“However, I do hold several things as most valuable: the memories of my dearly departed wife Laural, my young daughter Belle, and my son Vernon Jr. Vernon Jr. as many of you know, has left for what he calls the “Big city” to make his way in the publishing business and, as far as I can tell, he’s doing pretty well. Laural is in God’s House and awaits my arrival so she can once again rule my every move.”
The crowd laughed quietly at this quip.
“This leaves Belle, my young and beloved daughter. She’s a girl of constant will, impressive intellect and grit. It would honor my family and me if you might consider renaming the ‘Stack’ “Belle’s Landing”. The river landing is still a vital part of the community and such a name preserves both the landing’s contribution to the community’s existence and gives our humble family a place in this town’s history.”
The mayor thanked Vernon and suggested a vote by proclamation. The motion was passed and from that day forth, The Devils Smokestack has been known as Belle’s Landing.
And yet, despite the name change, the smoke continued to drift from the fissure on the face of the bluff.
THE GEOLOGIST BREAK THE SEAL
“There are two sorts of curiosity – the momentary
and the permanent. The momentary is concerned with
the odd appearance on the surface of things. The
permanent is attracted by the amazing and consecutive
life that flows on beneath the surface of all things in All His Glory”
Robert Lund
It had long been Stern Perry’s dream to become a geologist. His grandfather, Earl Perry, had been a friend and business partner of the town’s founder, Vernon Collett. The two men, along with several other men had chanced that the area long known as the Devil’s Smokestack might serve as a profitable place for water traffic to put in and rest for a few days before continuing their journey south on the river.
Earl had been a gold and silver miner for years and had been willing to dig just about anything out of the ground that someone might be willing to buy. He had no formal training as a geologist other than reading the odd book here and there. His involvement in the establishment of The Devil’s Smokestack and later Belle’s Landing had been to generally establish where various buildings and other manmade features could be placed such that the geology beneath them could support such structures.
He had also discovered a small amount of gold and other valuable minerals etc. that were turned into working capital to help establish the “Stack” as a place worthy of stopping. Earl had always lamented that he didn’t have enough book learnin’ as he put, it to really understand the subtleties of geology.
As Stern grew up,” Grandpa Earl” was constantly teaching him the ways of the dirt. The older man was relentless in harping to young Stern that a “real geologist” was one who used book learnin’ and practice, rather than ‘guessin’ and hopin’ at what might result in a rich strike.
As Stern went through school he more or less tolerated the subjects that didn’t pertain to geology. General science and math were topics he tolerated. The earth sciences were topics of near obsession for Stern. He lived for the all-too-infrequent trips to the “dirt” as he liked to call the trips where a guy could get his hands dirty.
When Stern graduated from High School in 1938 he decided that finishing high school was good enough for the time being. War was consuming half the world and no one really understood the consequences of what was going on in Europe. Hitler and his goons were sweeping many countries into his realm and it looked as though this might continue. There was talk of America becoming involved in the European situation but none of this talk seemed all that serious yet . College was very expensive and, if he started college and the situation in Europe became more serious, it might interrupt his going to college so he might as well work now and bring in some income.
Stern and his long time girlfriend Linda decided to get married after a 2-year courtship. Linda was the only girl Stern had gone with for any length of time. She seemed to understand his shyness and understood his love of “working the dirt”. Stern’s social awkwardness meant they would not be a very social couple and she was fine with that. They had a simple ceremony; just family and a few friends. Stern’s shyness made a large wedding an unlikely affair.
Linda was frequently in awe of Stern’s ability to describe geological structures and theory in a manner that made it seem alive. He was animated and filled with an almost childlike sense of excitement when he discussed the “dirt.”
Stern first worked with Grandpa Earl on odd jobs; testing soil, looking for various mineral deposits and other odd jobs. Earl continued his harping on the need for formal education in geology. He often times pointed out his shortcomings and explained how Stern needed to take formal classes to better his knowledge of geology and earth sciences. Stern took classes at the High School Extension program when they came available and continued his voracious reading of all things geological.
Then a big break came in an evil form; World War II. The ever-increasing conflict was creating an enormous need for various minerals and ores necessary to support the war effort. A representative from a major conglomerate that supplied the War Department with a wide variety of materials discovered a large deposit of Zinc in and around the bluff upon which Belle’s Landing was situated. The newspaper reported that several large companies would be visiting Belle’s Landing to determine whether or not the zinc in the bluff was of a quality to make setting up mining operations profitable.
Zinc is a mineral with many uses including galvanizing iron and steel, making brass, preserving wood, making paint and other “war valuable” uses and Stern’s vast knowledge of the area made him a valuable source of information for any mining concern that happened along. Several mining companies visited Belle’s Landing and found the zinc was indeed of a very high quality.
One such company, Arwell and Sons, decided to set up a branch operation called System Line in Belle’s Landing. This was a boon to the small town as people from all over the area moved to Belle’s Landing to take jobs working at the mine and factory in support of the war effort.
The old axiom that “War is good for the economy” was proving to be true for Belle’s Landing. Houses were being built to accommodate the influx of workers who moved to the area and took employment with Arwell. This meant that additional grocery stores, churches, clothing stores and the like would open and likely prosper as the Zinc was mined and transported down river for sale.
Since Stern had no college degree but did have a remarkable knowledge of the science of geology, he was given a job as an apprentice geologist with supervisory authority. The mining operation grew very rapidly because, as one company manager put it; “The whole damn bluff is one giant chunk of Zinc.”
Stern and other supervisors were formed into teams to explore for rich veins of the brittle metal and establish mining plans for extracting the Zinc and either storing it or arranging for it to be transported down river.
System Line grew rapidly and proved to be a rich source of employment for the folks living in Belle’s Landing. Management types with education and experience moved to the area and employed locals as miners, low-level managers and operations supervisors. As with all companies, System Line had its pecking order of the inevitable self-serving individuals rising to positions of authority within the company. Stern and other locals were not well-versed in dealing with corporate personnel so those transplanted corporate officers had a tendency to take advantage of the locals and lined their own pockets with the results of hard working but naive townspeople. To the longtime residents of Belles Landing these self-serving corporate guys looked and acted like honest and helpful folks when in reality they were self-serving and clearly members of the “Do unto others and get out of the way” club. These guys would stab their own mother in the back to make a buck.
Stern and two other long time residence of Belles Landing, Erik Forester, and Tom Dunst were put together to form one of the many exploratory teams who, just as luck would have it, had Jerry Marsh, one of the most talented backstabbing self-servicing jerks as a supervisor.
Stern, Erik and Tom worked well together and for the most part, stayed out of the way of their bottom feeding boss. It was clear that Jerry was profiting from their hard work and did little to share the benefits of their labors. Stern and his teammates just kept their heads down and considered themselves fortunate to have a job.
One morning, Jerry called Stern on the phone and set up one of his famous “you work hard and I’ll benefit” scenarios.
“Stern? Jerry here. You know that cave on the wall of the bluff that has spewed smoke for all these years? Well, a couple of the teams have reported that for the last few days no smoke has been seen there and this might be a good time to get in that cave and see what’s what. Get your guys and a load of gear down there and check it out. We might have a vertical vein we can mine without boring. It’s far enough from town that we could blast and excavate without damage to the town. Could save a fortune in boring and hauling.”
Jerry didn’t wait for a reply from Stern and said, “thanks, Stern and get back to me ASAP.”
Stern turned to the two guys sitting at the desks in the Team Three room and told them what Jerry had just ordered. “Ah shit,” said Tom, as he interrupted his game of Solitaire, “here we go again looking for some earth shattering find just to line that asshole’s pocket with bonus cash while we risk our necks and crawl around in nothing but useless boulders and crap.”
“Shut up Tom. You and Erik check out a truck and the usual gear and I’ll meet you at the gate after I file the exploration notice with the War Department Rep,” said Stern.
Stern went to the War Reps office and filed the required notice.
The Rep looked at the notice form and, as he pulled the notice file folder from the shelf, he shook his head and with a look of sympathy spoke quietly to Stern; “looks like Jerry has another get rich scheme for you to work for him. I swear that guy has no sense of fair play. He’d drop his own mother down a shaft if he thought she would give him a report on the richness of the shaft. What an asshole.”
Stern took the carbon copy of the notice and while folding it to fit his notebook agreed with the Rep.
“Yeah, I wonder how he sleeps at night.”
“Stern, blood sucking vampires do their best work at night.” The rep stated with a slight smile.
“ You guys be careful out there, o.k.?
“Will do.” Said Stern with a quick head nod and smile.
The drive to the cave took about 20 minutes and as they drove, the conversation turned to the possible source of smoke that had for years slowly but steadily drifted from the cave opening.
“What could burn slowly for that long and have no smell or debris falling to the ground?” asked Erik.
Tom shook his head as Stern spoke, “could a narrow vein of coal do that? I mean if something had ignited a narrow vein of coal, could it stay on a slow smolder and give off the smoke that drifted out of the cave? I don’t remember ever hearing of bellows of smoke pouring out of the cave and none of the old timers has ever said anything about a mine explosion that ignited a coal strike or any other catastrophe.”
Tom again shook his head; “we’ve never found any coal around here. The rocks aren’t what you’d generally find coal associated with.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’ll know in a little while what it is. When we get there let’s not just go running around acting goofy. I don’t know what’s in there and I don’t want any accidents, so let’s all follow procedures and get out with our necks intact,” said Stern.
Erik started bitching about his boss again, “every time Jerry sees a vertical opening in the face of anything, he figures he’s going to save the company a zillion bucks in drilling costs by blowing the shit out of things with TNT and just scooping up the Zinc or whatever and hauling it back to the factory. This must be the 50th time we have come down here to look at these openings.”
Tom looked in the truck’s rear view mirror and countered Erik’s complaint, “Erik, we’ve never gotten this close to this cave before, maybe there will be something here. Besides, this is the first time that any one can remember that the smoke stopped for more than a few days. Maybe we’ll find out what had been causing the smoke.”
“Big fuckin’ deal, so we find a pile of coal cinders or some other shit like that. Who cares? We’re going to find a whole lot of nothing and waste a day digging around in junk rocks and crap just to find out it’s just a goddamn cave.”
“Jesus Erik, don’t you ever get tired of bitching? Everyday you find something else to rag on. You know Jerry, he’s just that way and no amount of bitching will change it. He’s hit a few times on these hunches and saved the company big bucks, so he keeps doing what has worked for him in the past. I think he sees this like a big slot machine. Every time it pays off, he gets a few more ‘Atta Boys’ and sooner or later, he’s gonna wind up in the big office counting the bucks.”
Stern told both of them to shut up, “I’m sick of listening to you two crybabies constantly complaining. At least we ain’t lugging a gun around in France or screwing with the Japs in the south pacific yet. Those guys really have it tough and you babies bitch about having to crawl around in a few caves! Jesus, just shut up and be glad you even have a job.”
The dirty station wagon drew closer to the huge crack in the face of the canyon wall. The three men peered out, first with little interest but as they got closer, what appeared to be a crack in the face of the wall began to look like the opening to a large cave.
“Jesus!” Erik exclaimed, “Look at that! That sombitch must be thirty feet high. How far back do you think it goes?” Tom looked up past the half-open window of the vehicle and said he’d never seen a cave like that before.
“I don’t know,” continued Tom. “I’ve seen these things go back twenty feet and I’ve seen them go back so far you’d need a goddamn Sherpa to find the end. All I know is if it’s deep, God has done saved us a hell a lot of blasting and that damn kiss-ass Jerry will have another notch in his post toward a Vice Presidency.”
Tom wasn’t finished ripping at his supervisor; “He makes these guesses, we work our asses off and he gets the glory.”
The station wagon stopped 50 feet or so from the entry to the cave. Erik threw open the door and jumped out, spewing false praise for their boss; “Oh, Great Master, you’ve done it again. The dirt gods have split themselves asunder for your career. Cash it out, you dumb shit!”
Tom exited the truck and took control.
“That’s enough! We’re here to check out the find not start another bitch session. Get the gear and let’s get this done. I want to get home at a reasonable time. Momma’s got a plate of hot love waiting for me. We’re married twenty-two years today and we’re going to celebrate with a little old fashioned “get it on.”
Tom and Stern walked toward the cave as Erik lowered the tailgate of the brown station wagon. From under the heavy tan tarp, Erik pulled a large wooden box containing a variety of mineral test kits, tools, hand held lights and hard hats. Straining against the leather straps, he pulled the box from the tail of the car and dropped it to the ground.