Howl of a Thousand Winds
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Howl of a Thousand Winds
Morris Workman
Howl of a Thousand Winds
Copyright © 2012, by Morris Workman.
Cover Copyright © 2012 Sunbury Press.
NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION
Printed in the United States of America
April 2012
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-045-2
Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-047-6
ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-048-3
Published by:
Sunbury Press
Camp Hill, PA
www.sunburypress.com
Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the two women in my life who supported, encouraged, and believed in me, even during those times when I had trouble believing in myself. I'm the luckiest man alive because the two most important women in my world get along and love each other. This book would not have been possible without my amazing mother, Lareine Cowan, and my wonderful wife, Coni Workman.
Acknowledgment
While a lot of writing is done behind closed doors, no book sees the light of day without help from a lot of people beyond the person named on the front cover. Some provide specific assistance with the book itself, while others contribute to the formation of the writer.
When it comes to the former, I would need to begin by thanking my editor, Allyson Gard. Instead of being a soul-squashing endeavor as is reputed in most writing circles, her gentle guidance during the process kept me inspired and looking forward to her missives rather than dreading her name at the top of my inbox. Thanks also go to my publisher Lawrence Knorr, who believed in an unknown first-time author from the other side of the country.
I was also blessed with a lineup of capable proofreaders, people who were supportive and believed in me, but who refused to let me slide on typos and bad craft. That list begins with my sister C.J. Kanash, a tough woman who lives her life on love and brutal honesty, the two traits she brought to this process as well.
Lisa Olson, a college librarian in Delaware, also provided some valuable insights during the proofing process.
I was fortunate to have the supportive hand and eagle eye of Susan Bennett, the best journalism teacher Virgin Valley High School ever had. If she had been my teacher in high school, it might not have taken 50 years (and too many green beans) to finish my first novel.
My aunt Pat Conner gave me the Colorado perspective in her reviews, a welcome combination of hardy pioneer spirit and Christian values that constructively conflicted with the unholy nature of a horror story.
Throughout the early years, my very first literary critic was my mother, Lareine Cowan. Instead of four-star reviews in a daily newspaper, my earliest work got top billing on the Anderson Avenue Frigidaire. She has continued her role as proofer, reviewer, supporter, and fan.
As an RN for the last 30 years, much of it spent in emergency rooms, she also provided a lot of the medical background for the story.
These days, my amazingly supportive wife, partner, and best friend Coni Workman has become my primary proofer, patiently listening to the endless iterations of a particular chapter or story until I get it right. Throughout my newspaper and writing careers, she has been the first person to see nearly every word I've written, always answered with a smile or a laugh or that aghast look I so love, and is the reason I have continued writing even when I wasn't sure I should. And while I'm thanking my wife, I also need to thank those who created and raised her, Virgil and Julia Garrison.
My daughter, Crystal Boyd, offered the youthful perspective to the story. Also, a brilliant stylist in training, she made the most of an appalling dearth of hair in styling my coif for the author's photo.
My other physical shortcomings were miraculously camouflaged by the magic of Cindi Delaney, an extraordinary photographer and my former partner in the newspaper business. Her "positivity" is infectious and inspiring.
Dr. Larry Cain, one of the world's tallest family practitioners, provided insight on the physiology of freezing in between discussions about my ongoing battle with diabetes. The technical errors on death by hypothermia are mine, not his, the product of a newly-issued literary license. Thanks, doc, for both the information and keeping me alive long enough to finish this book.
The idea of the child-shushing talisman was inspired by an Alaskan Billiken given to me by Marie Jordan, a kind lady who has traveled extensively and shared her travels with us through gift and story.
Thanks go to Dr. Orrenzo Snyder, a urologist and gifted Native American dance professional, whose true life story of deciding to become a doctor while living on the reservation was the inspiration for part of Old Joe's explanation of modern medicine's role in today's Native American life.
As I mentioned, some contributed to the book, others to making the man who made the book. Chief among the latter is my father, Morris Workman, Sr., who unfortunately passed before this manuscript was even a gleam in my eye. However, I am the product of his love and leadership, so his influence is indisputable. Besides, I miss him.
I also owe a debt of gratitude to my fifth grade teacher Mrs. Gross (school teachers in the late 1960's weren't allowed to have first names) and her "Magic Pencil," a teaching tool that exposed me to the wonders of creative writing. Thanks also go out to my seventh grade English teacher Mr. Tom Szerensits, who endured my first stumbling attempts at a novel and taught me that writing in a journal wasn't an unmanly endeavor.
A posthumous nod goes to Gladys Allison, my junior year English teacher. She believed in me when other teachers had given up, yet was harder on me than any teacher I've known before or since. She expected great things from me. I can only pray that I've finally delivered.
Quick thanks go out to a long line of people who continued to believe in me during my newspaper years, people like Joe Bowler whose unexpected calls of encouragement during tough times meant more than he'll ever know. Similar thanks go out to Bob Everett, the friendliest man with a badge anyone could possibly hope to meet; Bob Stone, whose afternoon discussions I cherish; Carm Piquette, a woman with a Kevlar exterior and sweet marshmallow center; Stephanie Frehner, who continues to be a friend and the soul of the newspaper we founded; Cliff and Ellie Holliday, who dispense hugs and smiles in equal measure to those in need of either; Jean Watkins, whose energy and smile can and has powered a small city; Bill McClure, who gave me my first shot with a newspaper and taught me the business; Barbara Ellestad, who has continued a tradition of investigative journalism while making me still feel relevant; and Don Muse, who continues to encourage me not to "waste my talent" by sitting on the sidelines.
A shout out goes to Tony and Sherri Grebinowski as well, loyal friends who have stuck by me through it all. Ditto to Carol Thatcher and Tom Risinger, who have been supportive rainbows at the end of dark rains. And thank
s go to Cody Walsh, who has helped keep my business going over the years.
Kudos also to fellow author Terri Schlichenmeyer who spent hours on the phone with me providing encouragement and inside information on the business aspects of writing; and author Linda Godfrey, who took time to show me a writer's path and confirm that it really led somewhere beyond the deep, dark forest. My thoughts also go out to local authors Betty Haines, Terry Donnelly, Michael McGreer, and J.L. Myers, who convinced me that writers from little old Mesquite can get published.
Finally, I would like to thank Stephen King. While we have never met and he is blissfully unaware of my existence, his work has changed the course of my life. His memoir On Writing is my literary Bible. Like the King James version, it includes specific technical guidelines, interspersed with homilies that may or may not be true but which teach critical lessons anyway. The difference is that the "King Stephen" version is a lot more fun to read and easier to comprehend, and nobody got smote.
There are dozens of other people I'm sure I've left out who have been an important part of my life and career. To them, I offer my thanks, and hope they'll forgive the unintentional slight.
-Morris Workman
April, 2012
Mesquite, NV
Chapter One
Parley, Nebraska
January 12, 1888
The sorrel mare kicked plumes of snow ahead of it, unfurling one more layer of virginal white on top of the 20 inches that nature had already laid down, with more falling as the beast pushed onward. The man atop the horse tightened his collar with one hand while holding the reins with the other, but it was a useless gesture that wasn't going to stop the snowy cold from continuing to punish his face and body.
Just 10 hours earlier, the weather had been almost spring-like in that part of Nebraska, an unusual event for mid January. The sunshine and warmth had been a deceptive respite in an otherwise brutal winter, a reprieve that had lured farmers and town folk from their homes to soak up the rising temperatures and marvel at the day. Children too young for school played outdoor games they had nearly forgotten since last summer, while those too old for class engaged in their adult pursuits of getting ahead on chores and starting repairs generated by December's merciless passing.
It had also made for a pleasant four-mile walk to school for Martin, Jeb Deigner's 10-year-old son. Martin loved school, and rarely complained in the face of bitter hikes from the family ranch through snow and ice to reach the one room schoolhouse located a mile outside of Parley's town proper. The chance to make the trip with an unbuttoned coat and mittens shoved in unused pockets was nearly as wonderful a gift to the boy as the mittens themselves, which he had received as a Christmas present barely three weeks before.
Then just before noon the wind had kicked up, the snow-pregnant clouds had raced in, and the white stuff had unexpectedly fallen in sheets like an avalanche cascading down an invisible mountain.
Jeb had been on the far edge of his spread when the storm hit, fixing a fence that Old Man Winter had knocked down last month. In the hour it took him to make it back to the ranch, four inches of snow already covered the ground.
By 4 p.m., the time by which Martin usually made it home, the storm's winds had shifted into high gear. Combined with the rapidly falling snow, the conditions made it impossible to see.
Like most ranchers of his time, Jeb was reluctant to show his emotions. Fortunately, his wife Dolly had no such reservations when warranted.
"I don't know which scares me more, that he's trapped at the schoolhouse, or that he got caught in the storm trying to make it home," Dolly told her husband. The two had been married long enough to have their own unspoken language, so she didn't need to come right out and ask her husband to go get her only son.
"Soon as the snow lifts a little, I'll ride out," Jeb offered as an answer to the silent question.
At 6 p.m., with the easing snow and receding daylight competing to bring about darkness the rancher saddled up Josie, the aged and steady mare that Jeb knew could find its way to town with blinkers covering both eyes. He didn't like leaving his wife alone in the middle of a snowstorm, but he liked the idea of his only child alone in a field even less. Besides, he knew that he had built a solid ranch house, with plenty of firewood in the bin and a comforting fire warming the hearth. Also, he understood that Dolly was no wilting flower, and would be able to take care of herself until he returned. Armed only with an oil lantern, a saddle roll made of two blankets, and his sheathed Henry rifle, Jeb kissed Dolly goodbye and set off into the frigid storm.
He never saw her again.
After an hour on the trail and the light almost gone, Jeb came across a neighbor on horseback, headed in the same direction.
"Lookin' for Edward?" Jeb yelled once within earshot, which with the continuing wind, meant he was less than four lengths away.
The man under the Stetson with his face wrapped nearly to the eyes nodded once, the only acknowledgment by John Laskin that he now had company. Laskin owned the land south of Jeb's place, a ranch that was almost the mirror image of the Deigner spread. Once Josie caught up, the two men continued together toward the schoolhouse through the unmarked snow.
"Seen any footprints since you've been out?" Jeb asked. Laskin shook his head.
A few minutes later, Laskin spoke for the first time.
"I can see the outline of the school," the man said. "Don't see any lights. No smoke coming from the chimney, either."
Jeb, whose nose was keener than his eyes, agreed that there was no wood burning nearby.
As the two men on horseback drew closer, Jeb could finally see the building standing like a lonely sentinel against a wide stretch of flat, unremarkable land that was made even more featureless by the blanketing snow. He grabbed the lantern from the place where the wire handle clung to the saddle, lit a match with one strike across the top of the saddle horn, and brought the wick inside the lamp to life. The weak light revealed the hitching post located on the near side of the school. In the shadow, something dangled from the rail down to a snow-covered mound at its base.
A few steps more, and Jeb's riding partner again broke the silence.
"Damn," Laskin said. "That's a rein drooping down from the rail. Means there's a horse under that lump of snow."
Jeb strained his eyes toward the still mound, adjusting to the contrast of white in the darkness. A lifetime of working around horses quickly confirmed that the outline at the base of the hitching post was roughly the size of a large pony. A child's ride, most likely treated like a beloved pet, was dead underneath.
Looking up from the mound, Jeb saw something that panicked him even more than the frozen carcass of a school kid's four-legged friend. The steam that had steadily been erupting into the frozen air from his nose and mouth for the last hour stopped as he missed a breath, then two.
Along the side of the small schoolhouse were three windows. All three of them were broken and empty. Jeb jumped from his horse and raced through the snow around the corner of the building, leaping three wooden stairs in one step while clinging to the lantern.
Like the windows, the door had been blown in.
Inside the doorway, Jeb stopped and raised the lantern above his head.
The room was colder than outside, the frigid temperature made even worse by the mournful sound of the wind whistling through the windows that were broken on both sides of the building. Snow had poured in through the destroyed panes on the west side, forming miniature white mountains on the floor beneath each sill. The three rows of desks were empty and in disarray, the tiny chalkboards that usually sat atop each one smashed and scattered around the room.
With Laskin still outside tying up his horse, Jeb took two more steps into the school. Each step was answered by the squeal of wood protesting against wood, as if the building itself felt violated and desperate to give up. At the front of the classroom, he could see a pile on the floor, a light dusting of snow covering it, but the dim light wouldn't allow him
to discern the contents.
While taking another step, Jeb's boot came down on something in the aisle that felt like a small, brittle branch from an unseen tree. Looking down, he discovered that he was standing on a tiny arm. Immediately lifting his foot, he followed the light and shadow coursing along the arm until it connected with a shoulder. That shoulder was covered by blonde hair, much of which had escaped from a forlorn looking ribbon of yarn that had come untied. The hair belonged to a little girl, her still body laying face down. Judging from her petite size, Jeb guessed she could be no older than eight or nine. Maybe even someone in Martin's grade.
Martin.
With bile rising in his throat, Jeb felt the first tingling of an emotion he barely recognized as terror. Where was his son? Where was his only child?
He became almost frantic, swinging the lamp from side to side as his eyes scoured the frozen floor in search of his boy.
A reflection off to the left caught his attention. He hurried past the desks to what appeared to be an ice-encrusted pile of clothes - a child's clothes. Redirecting the light, he found the source of the reflection.
It was a boy in bib overalls, 12 to 13 years old. The light glittered from his eyes, which were open and glazed with a film of ice. Below those orbs, the boy's mouth was locked wide in an interrupted scream, tiny streams of glistening ice coursing down his cheek and chin.
Jeb rocked onto his heels as if clubbed in the chest with the broad side of a heavy axe. While it didn't belong to his son, he recognized the face. It was Edward Laskin.
"John!" Jeb shouted, his voice teetering on the abyssal edge of hysteria. "John! Get in here!"
He could hear his neighbor's boots shuffling through the snow outside in a hurried cadence, but he couldn't wait. Jeb turned and hurried to the pile at the front of the room, the building shaking with each heavy step as rafters squealed above.