Thing With Feathers (9781616634704)

by Sweazy-kulju, Anne

  Sig raised her eyebrows at her son’s wife, as though to inquire if the allegation was true. When she received one of Rebecca’s more determined facial casts for an answer, that was enough for her. Only the briefest of moments passed before she made reply.

  “Forgive me, Preacher Bowman, but if Rebecca does not feel comfortable with your presence here, perhaps that would be best…?” she ended her reply as a question.

  “Well, I have never!” he blustered.

  He looked around, noticing how people were noticing him. He was losing face in front of the better part of his dwindling congregation. He quickly assessed the damages and weighed them against the tantalizing aroma of the Tjaden clam bake. The men were just removing the salmon from their stakes, and his mouth watered. But there seemed little chance for him to maintain any dignity if he chose to stay, unwelcome. Finally, he grabbed the boy’s hand and stormed off without another word. But silently, he promised the Tjaden’s would pay for the embarrassment caused him that day.

  Sig looked after him for a while before she turned to Rebecca. “What on earth, Rebecca?”

  “Oh, Sig, he’s an awful man.”

  “Rebecca!” Then she whispered conspiratorially, “Details, daughter.”

  Rebecca laughed. “Do you know he once pulled a shotgun on Will and Sean? He pointed it right at their chests and threatened to pull the trigger.”

  Sig looked both shocked and amused by this.

  “Lately he’s been telling that boy of Sean’s that Sean is a wicked man and that it was his fault that Blair ran away. I can’t tell you how I know, Mother, but I know there is not a shred of truth to it. And telling a man’s son he’s no good! Mr. Bowman is evil, Sig. More so that he is a man of the church.”

  Signey nodded. Like other women in her family, she had a touch of sixth sense; just a touch, but it made her able to judge a character with indisputable accuracy.

  “Yes, Rebecca, I do believe you’re right about that.” She placed her hand on her daughter-in-law’s forearm. “Do you think Elrod is safe, dear? I’m so worried.”

  “I hope so.” Then she laughed. “Did you see the way those two took off from here, like that fire was a circus come to town?”

  “Well, so long as they don’t start acting like a couple o’ clowns and get themselves hurt.” She pulled Rebecca over to the food to distract her from the real danger the girl’s husband and dear friend were in, but also to keep her own mind busy from conjuring up unwanted images about the impending disaster.

  Chapter 44

  Once started, nothing could stop the outbreak, which shortly became a giant holocaust. Ten days after the first flame licks were sighted by the picnickers on the Nestucca Bay, the fire literally blew up, ravaging 240,000 acres of forest and all of her critters in less than twenty-four frightening hours. The fire’s explosion, likened to an atomic bomb’s effects of a decade later, went on a high-speed rampage and destroyed everything in its path. The mushroom cloud boiled fifty thousand feet into the atmosphere, visible for hundreds of miles at land or sea. Ash and debris were two feet deep on the beaches and at the bay. Ships five hundred miles out could not see daylight through the black smoke. Great clouds of it could be seen from Idaho and Montana.

  Wishes came true for the local boys and men of Cloverdale. They were quickly dispatched as firefighters, along with three thousand arrivals from places unknown. The crews were greenhorns, special volunteers from back East who’d never seen a forest fire, and they were generally helpless when the breathing, fast-moving flames leaped trails and jumped fire lines. It was inevitable that some of them would become trapped.

  “Look out, Sean! She’s changing directions again!” yelled Elrod.

  Sean jumped back, and both men fled their immediate area. They’d been trying to control a crown fire, but the impossibility of it became immediately apparent. With the updraft wind blowing small fires into full flames within seconds, the men in the nearby fire camp began grabbing for all they could safely carry, and the outpost was quickly evacuated, once more, to a more accessible outpost.

  Their small band of ten men, including the fire chief from Forest Grove, Walter Vanderveden, was one of two crew shifts responsible for holding at bay a fifteen-mile front of fire along the forest’s northwesterly edge. To Sean, it was an awesome orange wall of flame that refused to die.

  “Time for a spell, Elrod. It’s five hours now. If I don’t hit a chow line and water myself down, I’m gonna die in this here mad canyon.”

  Elrod swiped at sweat-dripping locks before he swung his dig axe a final time. “I can’t hardly heft that axe again ‘til I get me some grub,” he panted. “Tell me again why we’re doing this?”

  “We’re doin’ this ‘cause…”—he labored between huge swallows of fresher air as they backed away from the fire line—“these monster fireworks is feeding on our land’s beauty.” He stepped over the charcoal remains of a five-point buck and shook his head dismally. “An’ if this thing don’t stop soon, we’re gonna have a new American desert.”

  “Just makes me sick to see it, Sean.” Elrod referred to the dead stag. “I’ve crossed bear, cougar, and a million birds in that same state just today. You know,”—he hesitated and then said more quietly, “I hear tell it this whole thing happened because the Lyda crew wanted to pull out one more log after Johannesen told ‘em to shut it down.”

  “ I think that’s a lot of loose talk. This fire was underway when he got here to shut down logging activity. Heck, conditions are such that I think a deer could have rubbed two branches together just passing by and we’d have fire.” Sean muttered.

  “Maybe so. They’re gonna investigate just the same.” Elrod said.

  “Well, they got to find something or someone to place blame on, I suppose.” Sean grabbed for a platter and a cup. They were the last of their ten-man crew to break loose from their combat for some food and rest. They would be needed again in five hours’ time, so Elrod and Sean wasted no more time talking.

  Distance communications were wiped out. But thanks to Sean, a few of the camps had shortwave radio contact with each other and could coordinate their efforts. They had only been able to sleep about two hours when Sean was shaken roughly awake. He was so groggy he could only move his sore, stiff body in slow motion, and something in his head kept buzzing between his ears. It was a fighter from the other crew who was poking him awake. Sean groaned. It couldn’t have been five hours yet. He felt as though he’d only been asleep for ten minutes.

  “I’m real sorry, pal, but we need your help.” When Sean was slow to raise himself, the man shook him roughly. “Hey, wake up! This is serious, Marshall. We got a major problem.”

  “What? Yeah. Huh?” He shook his head recklessly, trying to clear it.

  “Another fire has been started.”

  “Started. What do you mean started?”

  “Someone could have started it intentionally. It’s just northwest of our camp, and it is starting to shift toward us. We need you to work your magic with that radio of yours and get us some help or we ain’t getting out of here alive.”

  That woke him up. He turned to shake Elrod awake. “C’mon, man. Get up. We’ve got big trouble.”

  “What’s going on?” Elrod was feeling equally silly from sleep deprivation.

  “We got another fire jumping right up our backsides. We gotta go!”

  The other crew man yelled at Elrod as he helped pack up gear, “If the two meet and become one, she’ll gallop in every direction. She’ll eat us up along with everything else!”

  Elrod blinked himself awake and turned wide-eyed to Sean.

  He was already jamming personals into a canvas bag. “El, finish this up for me, okay? I gotta get on the radio and get us some help.”

  Help could not be found on the shortwaves. Every single outpost must have been on the
move. Sean packed up the radio last of all, and the spur-of-the-moment camp was evacuated in great haste. They’d been on the northeast fringe of the fire. A new fire was brewing just north and west of their current position. The men discussed it quickly and decided that heading toward the coast for Blaine, via Hell’s Canyon and the Devil’s Playground, was their only good option.

  They trailed through some old burn territory, deciding that bleached-out snags and burned soil was the safest place from new fire. Camp was again set up. It was almost night by then, and the men worked steadily in the humid heat. Several times before getting to the new spot, they had actually seen the fast-traveling fire and felt its heat. They had crossed the Nestucca River five or six times for that temporary refuge. Sean thought that they should keep going until they reached the safety of the coast, but so many of the twenty or so men were too tired and battered to make the trek. Sean and Elrod decided to perform some reconnaissance of the immediate area, checking the blackened timbers for signs of heat. The loss of wildlife they happened across was unimaginable. All that the forest provided shelter to, from deer to the smaller squirrels and rabbits, lay charred and strewn about. Some of the trees not too far from the camp were still smoldering.

  “Sean, them smolderin’ stumps are awful close to the camp, eh?”

  “Yeah.” He kept walking, stopping to inspect some boot prints in the freshly denigrated soil. On one knee, he touched the forest floor. “Still hot.” They walked on in silence. Elrod walked north-northeast a few yards to inspect some odd markings he’d spotted in the soil, perhaps made by a fireman’s ax. Sean took a southeasterly track toward more boot prints. Both men could see that they were heading into the fire.

  “What does that mean, Sean? Footprints out here. No other camp nearby. That’s a mystery to me.”

  “To me too. El, I think someone has been following us.”

  “Who? Why?”

  “It’d be real helpful if we knew, wouldn’t it? You know, that lineman, when he woke me, said Vandervelden was suspicious of the second fire. He thinks someone might have started it purposefully.”

  “Hell, why would someone do that? I mean, starting a fire deliberately on the other side of a camp of men? A man wouldn’t do that just to perpetuate his job. That’d be like attempting murder.”

  “What if it wasn’t about a job, El?” he hollered over his shoulder. “What if it is attempted murder? Do you know any of those men? I don’t, and I don’t know who their enemies are either. I know I have myself an enemy who would like to see me dead, and a fire would be a convenient means.”

  Elrod whistled low. “That’s a troubling notion.” He could not make heads or tails out of those marks he’d spotted. He stood again and looked Sean’s way. “Say, Sean, I can see blaze over beyond that creek bed. Too close for my comfort.”

  Sean ventured ahead a little bit further, and again he stooped to examine the forest loam, both for heat and for evidence that they were not alone. Hmm, I need to talk to Vandervelden. To Elrod, he yelled over his shoulder, “I agree. This area ain’t too stable. We should go back and let the crew know.” He knew that Elrod was still a good ten feet to his rear so he’d hollered loudly. Their reconnaissance had proved to Sean that the camp they’d chosen was still very much in danger. Sean was thinking that if the crew refused to move on, perhaps he could convince El that the two of them should head home. He did not relish the idea of seeing another Tjaden, this one his best friend, die among surrounding flame and falling timber. Falling timber? He registered the dangerous crack too late, his senses dulled by ten days of intense labor and little sleep. He turned while still in his crouch and could see the huge, blackened pine coming straight for them.

  “Elrod!” he screamed.

  The heat woke him, very hot weather and extremely hot fire. He realized that he was nauseous and his head was aching something frightful. When he tried to move, pain radiated through his torso. He was on fire. He looked down. No, he was not on fire, but he was in dire trouble just the same.

  “El? El, can you hear me? El?”

  There was no answer. Sean tried to push the heavy tree off his chest. He came to the cloudy realization that he was only alive because he’d been ten feet farther out from the falling timber than Elrod had been. Sean had been caught and slapped down by the very tip of the burned snag.

  Oh my God! Elrod!

  Now adrenaline was pumping through Sean, and he pushed mightily at the dead tree, pushing the excruciating pain it was causing him to the back of his mind at the same time. He wiggled and rolled beneath the weight until he was finally free. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. Something was wrong with his back. He had a hard time taking breaths as well, and he knew that a couple of ribs must be busted. He tried to pay them no attention. He crawled down the length of the tree a few more feet and found his friend. Sean had no idea how long he had blacked out for, but his friend had been dead a while. There was nothing Sean could do for Elrod Tjaden.

  Sean howled up to the treetops, “No!”

  He’d tried to roll the tree off Elrod, but with all his serious injuries, he lacked the strength. The camp was too far for him to crawl, and the fire was raging too close. It was doubling back, the heat preceding it, which was why Sean came to when he did. He worked his way to the creek bed and rolled his beaten body down into it, spent. It might just be deep enough for the fire to pass over without incinerating him. It was the only hope Sean had of surviving. He used his arms to sweep the immediate vicinity of anything flammable and then pushed his face toward the creek’s floor, coming face to face with a scorched chipmunk. He shoved it away and instantly succumbed to the inky blackness that had been creeping in from the edges of his consciousness.

  Chapter 45

  He’d done this once already this week. He knew it was dangerous. He wasn’t rattlebrained; he might be reckless… But he’d weighed the chance he’d be recognized against the incredible number of firefighting men who came from all over the south, west and further, and swarmed the town of Tillamook. He then considered the propitious number of whores who had descended upon the town in response to all those men. Finally, the squalid room he’d rented was on the opposite side of town, about as far as one could be from the downtown strip, and Bowman was satisfied he would remain unnoticed. Not even Welby knew where he was at the moment. Get a radio so I can contact you whenever I need to. Let the boy keep his pa’s gifts, or plan to replace ‘em yourself. Don’t go celebratin’ without my permission…(chug) you ain’t respectable, you ain’t worth a box a’ hair to me…” he wagged his head from side to side as he silently mimicked Otis Welby in a most unflattering way. A slow smile stretched feline-like across his narrow-lipped maw. He took a good long pull on his brown jug, looked sideways and saw the whore was watching him. Then he took another long chug, that time splashing a little on his mushrooming midsection. He hated Otis Welby. The man had been ordering him around—intimidating him—ever since the Tjaden wedding. Four years of extortion, that’s what it was.

  He looked her way again and the whore quickly averted her eyes. But he’d seen enough to know the woman was a little fearful of him. Bowman liked that. It made everything so much more exciting. Tied with her hands to the iron headboard, face down, Bowman had promised her she would not be hurt, but he could see she did not entirely believe him. Yes, there was that fear, that trepidation…my God, how he’d missed that… “Have you ever heard of the Marquis de Sade, my dear?” he asked.

  Chapter 46

  August 1933

  Cloverdale, Oregon

  The small cabin was modest at best. At worst, it was a haven for every kind of bug. Places where wallboard gaped from the floor boards, and the spots were numerous, provided access to the roly-poly’s, spiders, carpenter ants and beetles. Fleas were so prevalent they could be seen jumping around the dirty floor. They were more in number on that night because
the heat was driving them inside. Young Victor slapped at his ankles and scratched bites until they bled. He couldn’t sleep.

  The preacher had left a single light burning before he departed in the morning, and there were a hundred moths flitting around it. The living room area was shrouded in an eerie, nicotine-yellow cast. Save for the insects, the room was too quiet. His grandpa had not come back all day. Maybe he would never come back. It had been dark for a long time, and Victor had missed dinner. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared. Then his ears picked up the sound of his grandpa’s jalopy pulling in the long drive. When Mavis Marshall donated the family’s old car to the church in Tillamook, she should have stipulated that neither the auto nor any funds derived from the sale of it were to wind up as property of Preacher Bowman, but she didn’t, much to Sean’s chagrin. Victor jumped up and raced to the window. A sticky strand of web stuck to his face, and he wiped at it, but his hands were no good at finding it. He peered through the black glass and saw his grandpa wrestling himself from his car. Something close to a smile formed on the little boy’s face.

  The old man stomped the dirt off his feet just before the threshold, like it mattered, hung his hat and a pair of binoculars on the peg behind the door. Victor was a bundle of questions. “Where did you go, Grandpa? Did you go fight the fire? Did you see that man who’s my father?”

  “What was that foul thing you said there, boy?” The preacher paused before putting his coat on the only other peg.

  “W-w-w-what, Grandpa?”

  “That obscenity about some other man being your father?”

  The boy realized his error too late. Grandpa got furious when such things about Victor’s ma or pa were mentioned. Gone was the little boy’s tentative smile. His chubby face was suddenly frozen in fear.

  “Your imagination has got the best of you, boy. You need to reflect on the truths as I have given them to you. You know what needs doin’ now, don’t you, boy?”