Once inside, he started looking around, trying to find an older man who might fit his mental image of someone named Old Joe. Since the room wasn't particularly large, he figured it wouldn't take more than a few minutes. His eyes scanned and dismissed a mother and her two fair-haired children looking at a regal Native American headdress contained inside a glass case, past a teenager with long, black hair, then came upon a middle aged man wearing a leather vest. A plastic name badge was pinned to the vest that identified him as a worker at the center.
Micah walked up to the man, ready to ask if he knew where Old Joe might be. Before he could open his mouth, a hand fell upon his shoulder from behind.
The reporter turned, prepared to offer a smile and a warm, professional greeting to a man seen as a legend among his people. Instead, the teenager he had passed over just a moment earlier stood before him.
"You the newspaper guy?" the teen asked, his eyes showing neither excitement nor indifference, instead offering an intrigued and engaging stare.
"That's me," Micah said, offering his hand. The young man hesitated, unsure of the gesture, then grasped the offered palm and shook once before letting go.
"I'm Joseph Bluestone. I was sent to get you and bring you to Old Joe's house," the teenager said. "Follow me."
Joseph led Micah back out the same entrance door he had just come in, a blast of cold air racing into the opening and taking the opportunity to spread some unhappiness inside.
"You'll want to leave your camera in your car. I'll meet you there," Joseph said.
"I was hoping to take a few pictures," Micah replied.
The young man continued into the parking lot.
"When you came inside, you were looking around like you were lost," Joseph said, his pace slowing. "You had no idea who you were looking for. You've never seen a picture of Old Joe?"
Micah shook his head.
"Now you know why," Joseph said, a small grin teasing the corners of his mouth. "Meet you at your car."
With that, the teen headed left. Micah continued to his vehicle. As he reached the rear passenger door, he heard what sounded like a motorcycle engine firing up around the side of the building. By the time he had put away his camera and shut the door, Joseph was heading his way on an ATV.
"We could just take my car," Micah said. "There's plenty of room."
"A car would never make it to where we're going," Joseph said, patting the seat behind him. "Hop on. Or, if you don't like riding bitch on a four-wheeler, I can always go get us a horse."
Micah climbed aboard. He wrapped one arm around the young man while holding his hat on with the other. Joseph expertly throttled forward, taking the asphalt road for about a mile. At an unmarked junction, he turned left onto a dirt road. Micah could feel every dip and hole in the road, despite the fact Joseph was driving slower than he had while on pavement. The good news was that the lowered speed made the frigid wind a little more tolerable.
The men traveled nearly five miles along the dirt road, which offered a tapestry on each side of small square houses on large plots of land. As they went further, the houses gave way to single-wide mobile homes with a variety of add-ons like carports made of wood poles and plywood or small metal storage sheds. On one lot, a long mobile home facing the road was attached at the corner to another single-wide heading perpendicular to and away from the road, creating an "L" shape.
Curious by nature, Micah wanted to ask about the uniquely shaped mobile home, along with questions about the road they were on and where they were heading, conversation that would have been easy in the front seat of car or pickup. But on the back of the ATV at 40 miles per hour, discussion was impossible.
They continued another three or four miles along a barren stretch that had no houses or buildings, the dirt road narrowing and becoming more rugged. Then, at a stretch of open meadow, Joseph slowed and took a right onto the brown grass. Not following any sort of path, he headed toward a line of trees about a half-mile from the dirt road. Once he reached the trees, Joseph slowed the vehicle further as he maneuvered around trees and bushes, winding along a path that seemed to exist only in his head. Micah tried to figure out what hints or markings were determining which way they would turn next, but could only see more trees with thick trunks that looked like they had been there since God had called it a day on that particular slice of the countryside.
After another 15 minutes, they came upon a small clearing. In the center of the opening stood what looked like a bastardized log cabin, but not the kind you could pluck from the pages of a pre-fab builder's catalog. The logs weren't uniform in size, and some of the logs higher up on the facing wall actually tapered, with the resultant gaps filled in with a grey mud. Jutting out of both ends of the cabin were additions that appeared to be made of plywood and wooden planks. While the logs in the main part of the cabin were a natural brown, the plywood had been carefully and recently painted in dark colors accented by eye-catching designs in white and yellow. Some of the designs looked like stick figure horses and animals, but with human faces that bore meticulous detail.
Unlike the rustic appearance of the cabin and its additions, the roof appeared to have been recently replaced, and was covered with modern asphalt tiles in neat rows. Poking above the ridgeline was a hint of a chimney that currently belched forth a small but steady stream of grey smoke.
Joseph pulled up in front of the door, which was painted dark green and highlighted with round and spiral designs. The doorway was kept company to the left and right by double hung windows of a style that heralded back to another era, but with frames that sparkled with a fresh coat of green trim paint that matched the door.
"I was told to come back in three hours," Joseph said over the sound of the idling engine. "Don't knock, just go in. He already knows you're here."
"Thanks," Micah said. The teenager nodded, then turned the machine left, taking a different heading through the woods than the way he came in.
Micah wasn't particularly nervous until just now, when his ride left. He realized that, if an emergency arose, he had no idea how to find his way back to the dirt road. He also realized that those at the office who knew where he was headed, the cultural center, didn't know where he was now.
Before going in, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket to at least give someone a heads-up as to his location. As he feared, no bars appeared in the upper left corner of his iPhone, the dreaded "No Service" message telling him he was all but cut off from civilization.
Returning his phone to his pocket, Micah walked in.
The cabin was actually one large room. To the left and the right, neatly trimmed doorways led to what he assumed were separate bedrooms. A light sprinkling of dust covered the wood floor, with a single set of footprints leading toward a fireplace at the back of the room. There was no furniture save for a handmade dining room table in the far left corner with a lidded jar made of dark clay, and a pair of dark bentwood rocking chairs bracketing the fireplace where a comfortable fire talked to itself, providing a warmth that actually filled the space and gave the room life that Micah sensed was ordinarily absent.
Old Joe stood up from the rocker to the left. He was taller than Micah expected, standing nearly six and a half feet. His braided silver hair reached to between his shoulder blades, tied in three places by leather strips.
Micah reached out his hand, which was met by the powerful grip of the man who was reportedly in his 80's, but who had the strength, posture, and presence of a man little more than half that age.
"I am known as Old Joe," the man said, indicating the rocker to the right of the fireplace before returning to his own spot on the left. "Please, sit."
"My name is Micah Roaz," Micah said as he sat, surreptitiously pulling the rocker a few inches away from the ungrated flames. "I am humbled at the honor of meeting you."
"I see in your face that we share the blood of our ancestors," Old Joe said, studying Micah.
"Yes," Micah replied, surprised that the old man
could pick up on the commonality so quickly when most of his friends and colleagues didn't. "My father was Blackfoot."
"Yet you know little of our ways," Old Joe observed.
"I know some. My mother left the reservation when I was a child," Micah said, as if offering an explanation.
"Matters little where you were raised," Old Joe said, turning now to peer into the fire. "You are of the new wind. Many today fail to learn the old ways, even those who have known no other home than here. Those ways, like the old wind, will soon be gone forever. It's neither good nor bad. One day, I too will be gone. It is the way of all things."
"It was my hope that you would share your words of those ways, that I might keep them alive a little longer," Micah said.
"Neither you nor I can breathe life into that which is destined to die," the medicine man said. "Yet, it seems to be strong within men to believe otherwise, to seek ways to make life continue. The herbs and rituals of my father and his father before were part of that endeavor, a quest handed down to me. And it is so among men of all colors, convictions, and vocations. Some seek to prolong the journey by creating safer ways, stronger abodes, more order. Others, in times of danger, try to stare down the beast to confound death. In truth, every breath taken is a defiance against that which is ultimately inescapable. But the end must always come. Even the rocks and rivers my eyes see are not the same as those witnessed by the first of our people. The gods of wind and rain change them to suit their purposes. As for our ways, they too will end, will become something else, just as the rivers change paths after a great storm. My words will not stop it. Neither will your pen."
"Then, with great respect, if it is not your intent that I try to preserve the words and the ways, why am I here? Why did you agree to see me?" Micah asked.
The question hung in the air before being swallowed by the crackle of the fire, the noise of wood grown by years of sunshine transforming into the heat that made it possible for the two men to sit in the room under a cold sky. Old Joe peered into the flames while leaning back in the chair, starting a slow and gentle rock.
"I cannot save the ways of our people," Old Joe said after allowing the popping fire to have its say in an otherwise silent room. "Yet the desire to save life remains strong. One day it will not, and it will be my time to go. You are here as a medicine, a tool to save life. Just as the land and the plants and the trees provided me a means to prolong the lives of those in my circle, I believe you can help prolong lives beyond that which I can touch. But just like the roots and berries and traditions used to heal, they are useless without belief. Before you can save lives, I must help you find a way to believe that which is beyond belief. Just as I have failed to always preserve life when the gods have made their own decisions in the fate of those I tried to heal, I may fail in this. But I must try."
Micah absorbed the medicine man's words, weighed them like cantaloupes in a grocer's scale, trying to find just the right words to avoid giving offense.
"I am humbled you would consider me for such a task," Micah began. "But I must be honest with you. I don't believe in the gods of which you speak, nor of the gods of the white world. I'm sure you would be better served choosing someone from your own family, or from the village, someone who already believes in some of these things."
Old Joe didn't seem to be bothered by Micah's disclosure, continuing to stare placidly at the glowing fireplace.
"I didn't choose you," Old Joe said. "It wasn't my place to choose. Your name was revealed to me."
Micah continued to maintain his respectful attitude, but was now curious about who might have made such a suggestion based solely on a phone call he had made a few months before.
"They must have been mistaken, Old Joe. Who would think a non-believer like me could possibly help?" Micah asked.
Old Joe turned to face the reporter and looked him in the eyes with an unflinching, knowing gaze.
"The fire spoke to me," the medicine man said.
Despite the heat from the fireplace, Micah the non-believer suddenly felt a chill pass through his body. He didn't believe in such things, but his heart began pounding harder nonetheless. Unsure what to say or ask next, he blurted out the only one word question he could muster, even though he wasn't sure it was the most important question he should be asking at this point.
"When?" he asked.
"It was a year ago yesterday," Old Joe said, returning his gaze to the noisy fireplace.
Chapter Ten
You’re listening to WSDR 1240 in Sterling. It’s five minutes past the hour. In our top story, a powerful snow and ice storm whipped through Whiteside County overnight, causing extensive wind damage and power outages in Sterling and Morrison. A Dixon man was tragically electrocuted when a power line weighted down by ice became detached from his home. Spencer Martin, who lived with his two dogs on Anchor road, died when the live line apparently touched his torso while he was walking the dogs outside his home. Martin was found several hours after the accident when a snowplow nearly hit one of the dogs near the scene of the downed line.
* * *
Ridley, Pennsylvania
Tuesday
November 20, 2012
Brad made his way through the office parking lot and found his pickup truck bathed in the warming light of an autumn afternoon sun. The pickup was an expression of the internal struggle that had plagued him for most of his adult life, trying to reconcile his rural upbringing with his chosen urban profession in the insurance industry. To his mind, there was nothing more incongruous than wearing a tie while driving a four wheel drive Ford F-250, which was his lot in life 5 days a week.
Brad despised the term “insurance salesman”, and never referred to himself as such. In his opinion, insurance salesmen were slimy snake-oil hucksters who strong-armed people into buying policies, using fear of God and His acts as their cattle prod. Brad considered himself a professional, an adviser, similar to an attorney or accountant. He gave people advice about their homes and businesses, laid out the options that were available to them, and then sat back to let them decide. He refused to resort to fear mongering, preying on the human insecurities regarding the unknown. When people said “yes,” he never “sold them insurance.” He had written a policy. He didn’t have “customers,” he always referred to his insureds as “clients."
Within a year of joining Atkins and Cowher Risk Management, Brad’s book of business had grown to over $1,000,000 in written premium, meaning he took home nearly $70,000 a year in commissions.
His pickup truck found its way to the rented house on Vicar Road, as it had every day for the last three months.
It was a tidy little two-bedroom concrete block rancher with a small, neatly landscaped yard that made the most of gravel landscaping in order to minimize time behind a mower. Unlike most of the homes in town, which were built on half-acre lots with plenty of trees and space, Brad’s current address was a study in 21st century residential architecture, meaning the homes were built about an elbow length apart. Based on conversations with some of his contractor clients, the homes were crammed practically on top of each other to maximize the number of houses a builder could squeeze onto a lot. The more houses per acre, the higher the profits.
Most of the residences in the tract home subdivision were two-bedroom jobs, which appealed to retirees. Not only were the homes smaller and easier to maintain, they silently discouraged families with children, since most families today with more than one offspring wouldn’t bother moving into a house without room for all the munchkins.
Inside, he was welcomed by nothing. To him, the building was merely a residential warehouse, a place where Brad stored his clothes, a double bed, a dresser, a recliner, and a 32” plasma TV. He couldn’t bring himself to refer to it as a “home.”
Brad bypassed the side-by-side refrigerator, the stove, and the empty kitchen cabinets, making his way to a narrow closet next to the sink. Inside, he reduced the number of Jim Beam bottles by one, leaving only 3 from the c
ase of 12 he had purchased last week.
Settling into the recliner parked in front of the TV, Brad clicked the zapper to the Weather Channel, a monotonous lullaby that had been singing him to sleep every night this week. He broke the seal on the fine Kentucky bourbon and filled a drinking glass. Unlike the previous night's Goldschlager, with its initial burst of fire followed by a sugary sweet aftertaste, the bourbon burned all the way down. Three hours later, the bottle empty, he was slipping down the tunnel into unconsciousness, his free left hand grabbing at the sides of the recliner as if to slow his descent. The last words bidding him farewell were “snow on Thanksgiving,” then darkness.
Chapter Eleven
Browning, Montana
Tuesday
November 20, 2012
"It was revealed to me that a time would come when two curiosities awoke within you," Old Joe said, looking at the fireplace as if the flames were speaking to him now. "The first would be a curiosity about who you are, your people. The second would be a curiosity about the spirits of wind and rain and thunder, what you call myths."
Micah briefly considered the notion that he was watching a very old fortune-teller's scam unfold, where the mark is given vague observations based on easily-accessible information. Obviously the medicine man knew about the superstitions feature, and probably saw the straight news story he had done about Stevie Reever's weather related death. It would be easy to cobble together some mystic "insight" based on those two hints.
"I've done stories recently about both topics," Micah agreed.
"I was told you are a newspaper reporter," Old Joe said. "Regrettably, I've never read your work."
Without knowing why, Micah believed him, and didn't even feel the momentary pang of ego deflation he usually experienced whenever encountering someone who was unfamiliar with his writing.
"What you haven't realized is that the two curiosities are about the same thing," Joe said with a solemn frown.
Howl of a Thousand Winds Page 6
