Abe turned to the fresh grave where he'd buried his mother, then back to the trail. The sky was clear, and the sun already reached tentatively through the upper branches of the trees. He gave himself no time to think. He stepped onto the trail and started down, keeping his eyes on the ground before him and watching carefully for any movement. The snake still lurked in the back of his thoughts, and he didn't relish a second encounter with it, even unencumbered by vines.
The walk was brisk and uninterrupted. He made good time, and soon had the short steeple of the stone church in sight. He was about to break into a quick trot for the last few yards when a glint of light on the trail caught his eye. He stopped, squinted, and leaned down. A round bit of metal lay in the dirt, half covered by mud. It dangled from a chain that was wedged into the 'y' shaped branch of a small sapling. Abe unfastened the chain from the small tree and lifted it into the growing light.
He knew what it was before it broke free of the mud. His mother's pendant dangled from his fingers, and the world spun. His knees weakened, and he staggered. He started toward the nearest tree for support, then stopped cold. He stared at the tree, the vines wound around its base, the shrubs and plants trailing off behind it, and then he turned back to the trail. He gripped the pendant in his hand so tightly its metal edges bit into his flesh. The chain dangled over his fingers.
He descended the last few steps to the yard of the stone chapel and fell on his knees in the dirt. The night before he'd acted numbly, cutting his mother free of the clinging forest and laying her to rest in the rocky soil. He'd done what had to be done, still clutched in the fear and shock of his own ordeal. Now, kneeling before the door of his father's church, the pendant she'd worn since before he was born clutched in one hand, the full impact of what had occurred slammed into him with brutal, undeniable force.
He clasped his hands and bowed his head close to the earth. Tears flowed freely and washed down his cheeks to drip over his hands and the pendant. The sun beat down on his back, but he ignored it. He focused on the image of his mother's face, not the cold, lifeless countenance he'd seen the night before, but the warm, vibrant woman he remembered. He heard her voice as she wandered about her cottage. She was always speaking, chanting, or singing in his memory. He couldn't recall a moment of silence between them.
He shook with sudden fatigue and hunger, and sobs wrenched his stomach into knots of pain. He thought of Katrina, and wished she were with him. He thought of his father, and of his mother, and the years lined up between the memories like dominos. They fell away to the sides, and his universe focused on the shiny metal circle in his hand.
The cross caught sunlight and glowed. He felt it first in his hands, then rolling up his arms in waves. Heat, and strength. His mother's words, vague echoes just moments before, filled his mind. Abe raised his head and saw that the sun shone full on the face of the old church. The white walls gleamed, and for just a moment he thought of the Cathedral of San Marcos, dangling over the ocean above his cottage.
The warmth had reached his knees. Abe rose slowly and walked to the front door of the small church. He pulled it wide and stepped inside. Sunlight filtered in through the windows and striped the floor. Abe walked to the front of the church where the old stone podium stood. It should have been coated in dust and festooned with cobwebs, but it was clean, caught directly in the sunlight from one of the side windows. Abe stepped behind it, looked out over the stone benches, and closed his eyes.
His mother's voice gave way to memories of his father. He remembered the sermons; the words of praise to a power great enough to create the mountain. He remembered the sensation of unity this old, weathered building had brought, the community of spirit. He'd been too young to appreciate it at the time, but the memories were strong and surprisingly clear.
Very carefully, he wiped the last of the mud off of his mother's cross. He cleaned the chain, and then he fastened the clasp. It wasn't damaged, and when he saw this, he frowned. If it hadn't been broken off, then how had it come to be in the path? He knew his mother would never have given it up voluntarily. He'd asked her about it a thousand times.
"It's my protection," she'd told him. After Abe's father died, she gave the matching pendant to Abe, who'd worn it ever since. He hadn't done this out of a need for protection, but in memory of his parents. That, at least, is what he'd told himself. Now he wondered.
He slid the necklace carefully into the pocket of his jeans and stood a moment longer. He'd thought of this many times as a boy and wondered how it would feel to stand at his father's podium. No one returned his gaze, and if he spoke, they would not hear, but it didn't change the sense of something important taking place. The small chapel had grown warm with the morning sunlight. It would be hot soon, and he knew he needed to hurry. He wanted to reach his mother's cottage before noon, and to be back at the other cottage before even a hint of nightfall stained the mountain. The trail was clear enough now, but who knew what might happen in the course of the day? Dust rose from the floor as he headed back down the center aisle and out of the church. There was time to clean up and look at repairs when he returned. Abe turned down the path toward the base of the peak and walked, deep in thought. Behind him the stone chapel glimmered in the sunlight. Somehow it seemed less abandoned.
The trail down from the stone chapel to the lower peaks was less overgrown. The sense of foreboding that emanated from the trees lining the upper trail was present, but lessened as Abe approached inhabited lands. Off to either side of the trail lands claimed by the several families of the mountain stretched on around the peak and down the opposite side. There was no formal ownership, as far as Abe knew, though he was certain that at some point paperwork must have been filed in some government office somewhere. No one had ever come to claim the land as their own—or if they had, they hadn't come back.
His father's family alone had three separate branches. Abe's uncle Bradford lived up past the Murphys. He had two sons and a daughter. Abe remembered them all vaguely. There was another Uncle, Jacob, who had been with those who came up the mountain the night of "the cleansing."
He'd met them, of course, and he'd seen them on weekends at the church, but Abe's mother had caused a rift in the family that was seldom breached. The families on the mountain were so spread out that it was easy to live day to day and forget how many there were, and how widespread the influence of the two churches, and the single road leading down past Greene's General Store actually were.
Abe's childhood had been spent largely in the company of his mother, and his father, working on the mountain. He was one of those fortunate enough to have educated parents, and the home schooling he'd received had been extensive. When there was time to spend with other children, it was a treat, rare enough to be special. He'd had free run of the mountain for most of his life, but for all of that his exploration and adventures had been oddly confined.
You didn't want to wander onto another family's land without permission, or at least properly announcing yourself, and this limited the "neutral" ground severely. The result was that Abe knew most of the people of the mountain by sight, a lot of them by name, but very few of them well enough for more than a polite hello.
The others on the mountain had always been particularly distant with Abe. His father tended the stone chapel, and the set of beliefs and customs surrounding their faith were intricate and intense. It was assumed from an early age that Abraham would take over when Jonathan passed on, that the family would continue into the future, father-to-son, tending the chapel, the graveyard, and the small cottage above.
Jonathan was the first not to make his home in the small cottage above the church, and the first to marry someone from the outside. He had been educated in the city, sent off by his own father, and then returned as he felt the call of the church, and the draw of the mountain. He had been resented for each of these variations from tradition, but despite this Jonathan Carlson was held in high esteem. He was a holy man with a holy cause, and he bore a weigh
t that none of his followers would have shouldered. He alone stood against the white church, and all it represented, and Abraham was intended as his successor.
Both churches had gone empty for a long time, and there was no way for Abe to predict how the people would react to his presence. His father had gone away to school and returned, but he'd returned out of a sense of purpose, and the church was still in the hands of Abe's Grandfather, Malachi Carlson, at the time. In all the recorded generations of families on the mountain, the church had never been left untended—until now.
He reached the bottom of the trail and turned right toward his mother's home. He walked slowly and made no effort to hide his presence. To reach the church in the woods, or the road below that led down to San Valencez, folks had to pass by the cottage. It was one of the reasons that Jonathan Carlson built his home there. He wanted to be able to keep a close watch on what went on at that other church, and he wanted a high traffic area where he could interact with others as often as possible. Jonathan had believed in being part of the lives of those he served and Sundays alone weren't adequate for this.
Abe swung his gaze from side to side and turned occasionally to scan the trail behind him. He caught site of one old man, standing alone among the trees, and he waved. The man stared at him, but didn't raise a hand in return. A moment later he turned away and disappeared into the trees. Abe shrugged and continued on. He reached the cottage about noon and went inside.
With the curtains open, there was plenty of light inside. Abe moved from room to room carefully. He mentally inventoried his mother's things, separating those he would take back down the mountain when this was all over and done with from those he needed to lug back up to the cottage. His father had come down to be with his family during the week, but Abe had no such ties, and he knew if he wanted the trust and help of others on the mountain it would be a good start if he stayed in the stone cottage, in the old way, rather than living down here.
The white church was too close to this place. Despite the symbol on the door, there was no protection from regular, everyday dangers. The spirit of that place might not be able to enter, or cause harm, but the followers could do as they wanted. A well-placed torch brought to the cottage quietly could catch a man unaware. The cottage was built of wood, and it would burn very well.
He found canned food, coffee, some cooking utensils and other items with no trouble. Some of his father's clothing remained in the one closet, and he picked through this, drawing out extra shirts and a jacket. His mother's books and journals all went into a neat pile, and on top of them he placed the small wooden box with the pouch inside.
The pile was both larger than he really wanted to carry up the trail to the cottage, and smaller than he had wished for. There was so little left of the family he'd left behind that what was important fit into a large canvas bag he found under the bed. His mother's books were the heaviest, but Abe wouldn't leave them behind. They would be among the first things destroyed if anyone decided to vandalize the house, and though he'd paid little enough attention to her when she was alive, Abe wanted these pieces of her preserved.
It took about an hour to finish the packing. He had his own knapsack, emptied the day before at the stone cottage, and he had the blue canvas bag from the closet. It was a good load, but he had plenty of daylight left. Abe closed the door and turned back toward the trail, shouldering the bags easily. He was suddenly glad for the long morning runs on the beach—if he hadn't stayed in shape, this would have ended up being a miserable climb.
Abe had just reached the junction where the trail leading up to the stone church broke off from the main trail when he heard the crunch of footsteps ahead. Taking a break, he lowered the two bags to the ground and waited. A moment later a tall thin young man appeared around the trees. He caught sight of Abe and stopped, staring.
The two stood like that for a few minutes, then Abe, leaving the bags where he'd dropped them, stepped forward and extended his hand. It had taken a moment, but his memory had kicked in. He knew this young man, or had known him when they were both much younger. Just over six feet tall, the man peered out from beneath the brim of a very old Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap. He wore filthy jeans that barely reached the top of his socks, a black t-shirt and worn boots.
"Henry?" Abe asked.
The man stared a moment longer, then broke into a sly grin that slid sideways across his face and never quite reached amusement. He took Abe's hand in his own and shook.
"Abe Carlson," he said softly. "We figured you'd never be back this way."
"I figured the same thing," Abe replied. "Things change."
"They do," Henry agreed. "They surely do. You back to see your ma?"
Abe considered his answer carefully. As far as he knew he was the only one who knew his mother was dead. He wasn't sure how much he wanted to share, or with whom, but this didn't seem a good time to start lying or holding back. Henry George was old Harry George's son. Old Harry had been Jonathan Carlson's friend.
"I hoped to see her," he replied. "But I was too late. She's dead, Henry. I found her up by the old stone cottage above the church."
Henry averted his gaze, stared into the trees and tugged down on his hat brim. Abe watched him. Then, slowly, Henry lifted his face and met Abe's gaze.
"I'm sorry to hear that. I saw her not more than a week ago.
How …" The question hung in the air, unfinished. "She was hanging from a tree, Henry," Abe said. He kept the tone of his voice even and steady, stomping on the flood of emotion dredged up by his words. "She was dead, hanging from a tree by a bunch of vines. I don't think it was a heart attack."
Henry shook his head. It was impossible to tell if this was in agreement with Abe's assessment or over some inner turmoil. He muttered something under his breath.
"Did you say something?" Abe asked. Henry shook his head again. Then he cleared his throat. "I'm really sorry, Abe," he said. "I didn't know. We haven't been up to the old church since…" Henry hesitated, and then continued, "Well, not since your pa died. "
Abe's turn to nod. "I figured as much," he said. "It didn't look like anyone else had been up there in a long time. I don't know what happened to her, Henry, but she called me back. She said things were happening here, and that I was needed. You know anything about that?"
Henry pulled at his hat brim again, dragging it a little lower over his forehead, and Abe frowned. There was something about this gesture that was odd.
Henry shifted his gaze to the trees again and bit his lip. He was on the verge of saying something, and then shook his head again. "Not sure what you mean," he said. "Nothing much ever changes here, Abe. You know that."
"Well, I guess I'll find out," Abe replied softly. "How's your dad?"
Henry glanced up again. "He's fine. He'll be glad to hear you're back."
Abe smiled. "Tell him I'll be at the church on Sunday, if he wants to drop in."
Henry stared at him. Again, the young man seemed poised to say something, but he held his silence and nodded. "I'll tell him," he said.
"I better get going," Abe said, turning back for his bags and slinging them over his shoulders. "I still have a climb ahead, and the place is a mess."
"See you around, then," Henry replied.
He started off down the trail and disappeared into the trees. Abe watched until the man was out of sight, then turned back to the trail and started up. It was nearly two o'clock, and he wanted to be up the last bit of trail before dark. He thought maybe the trail would be clear now, but he didn't want to take any chances by night. He also wanted to be able to watch the trail for snakes.
Harry George sat out front of his cabin in a hand-made rocker. In one hand he held an old pipe. He rocked slowly and let the warmth of the sun soak in through wrinkled skin and brittle bones. His hair was white and flowed back over his shoulders, and he wore a full beard as white as his hair except for a stripe down the left side where the dark black of his youth ran through it like a vein. He squi
nted as something moved near the edge of his yard and nearly reached for his shotgun.
A moment later his son, Henry, slipped out of the trees and Harry leaned back with a sigh. He wasn't sure if he was glad to see the boy, or if he wished it was a bear instead. Something he could be afraid of without wondering why, and that he wouldn't mind shooting.
The boy was wearing his hat down low on his forehead, and Harry knew why. He'd seen that mark, not just on his son, but on several of their neighbors. He'd seen it before, as well.
Henry stepped onto the porch and hesitated at the door. He looked nervous, like someone was watching him. When he spoke, the words were terse and hurried.
"I saw Reverend Carlson's boy Abe on the trail," he said. "He was headed back up to the stone church. He said his ma was dead."
Before Harry could respond, Henry turned and slipped through the door into the cabin. Harry thought about rising to follow, then settled back and frowned. Abe Carlson was on the mountain? Sarah Carlson was dead?
Harry turned and stared pointedly through the trees toward the white wooden church. He stared, and he remembered. The last time he'd seen Abraham Carlson, the boy had been young, and Harry had never expected to see him again.
He rocked slowly and closed his eyes.
Henry's voice floated out from somewhere deep in the cabin.
"He said he'd be at the church come Sunday. He said he'd like to see you."
Harry stopped rocking and stood. He stepped off the porch and turned to stare up at the peaks far above. He couldn't see the church from where he stood, but he could see the peak above the cottage.
He turned back to the doorway and started to reply, then stopped himself. The boy inside wore Henry's face, but Harry didn't know him. He sat back down and closed his eyes. A flock of birds burst from the trees to his left and flew off in a rush.
Ancient Eyes Page 14
