The Guardian Hills Saga

by James Edwards

  The magic show headed for a climax, and as the spirits hit maximum speed, thrusting upward—as raised dirt and dust blocked out the moon and blew fireflies all around—as the drums pounded the earth and lightning stuttered—as every shotgun, rifle, and handgun went off simultaneously, no finger pulling a trigger—and as every spirit simultaneously bit and pulled at the young guardian’s skin, muscle, organs, and bone, Steven closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  With a deafening, dark-producing BOOM of thunder, everything came to a silent and blackening halt.

  For what felt like minutes, no one stirred. But with the help of the rising sun in the east, a few found their legs and wandered about, like somebody had flipped on the houselights in the theatre prematurely without giving directions on what to do or where to go.

  Cullin was the first to assess the situation. Shaking off his hat and slapping his pant legs clean, he pulled Pike firmly to a stand. Then he watched the lumberjacks offer comfort to the women present, the deputies carry on conversations about misfiring guns, and Dex huddle over a shell-shocked Gloria, her face flushed and eyes distant.

  An overly ambitious deputy with red hair and freckles darted to the base of the Great Rock in front of the sheriff, climbed its jagged side, and examined the surface. He could see no sign that a struggle had ever taken place. He held up Steven’s staff and robe in puzzlement.

  “Sheriff, this is all that’s here!” he called down. “He’s gone.”

  “Grab a couple of men and scour the area,” Cullin directed. “Make sure he didn’t escape or that he isn’t lying injured somewhere.”

  Cupping his mouth for volume, he shouted at the lumberjacks. “Get the ladies back to the village! Tell the council what happened!”

  “Yes, sir,” one of them said.

  Then something to the north caught the sheriff’s eye, beyond the dark mine and overturned ore car. His focus was along the upper ridge of the valley. Leaving Pike’s side, he moved closer.

  “Brewster?” a tall Cass County lieutenant said, following closely. “The governor will want a full report on what happened.”

  “He’ll get it,” Cullin said matter-of-factly.

  “He’ll want to know every detail. How this all started, what actions you took, how it could’ve been avoided.”

  “I imagine he will,” Cullin said, a bit snarky.

  “I think it’s best if I take over the murder investigation.”

  “It’s all yours.”

  Glancing back at burning Westcreek, scratching at ants that crawled across his chest beneath his uniform, the lieutenant wore a baffled expression. “Sheriff, just what the hell did happen here?”

  Now beside the ore car, staring up at Elder Stone standing on the ridge and flanked by other members of the tribal council, he sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “Nothing we all shouldn’t’ve seen coming.”

  He spoke directly to Stone. “Elan, the valley is all yours. I’ll give it to ya ahead of schedule.” He, too, glanced back at Westcreek. “Sorry for the damn state I left it in.” His face turned serious. “But I figure you can find it in your heart to forgive me.” Cullin held up his palm, showing a long scar. “After all, we’re blood brothers, right?”

  Saying nothing, Stone slowly hid his right hand from view.

  Cullin walked in front of the ore car, stepped upon the mine’s apron, and headed with boldness to the tip of the Great Rock. “Folks?” he hollered. “It’s time to leave! The last buses out are waiting!”

  Below, Dex carefully helped Gloria to a stand, her legs rubbery.

  “Help me find my Steven,” she begged Dex. “I won’t leave without him.”

  “He’s gone,” Dex said sensitively. “You heard the sheriff. We have to go.”

  “He can’t just vanish. He has to be here. Somewhere.”

  “I know. I don’t understand it either.”

  Before moving west to the forest line, Gloria made eye contact with Cullin. Spiritually from Gloria to Cullin was extended a sense of loss and confusion; from Cullin to Gloria a sense of empathy but duty.

  The young mother left without her son.

  Quickly passing by Dex and Gloria, heading in the opposite direction, two men in black hats and trench coats sought out Mayor Pike. They found him a short distance away, steadied by two deputies.

  “Mayor Pike?” one of them said inquisitively, trying to ensure positive identification.

  “Yes?” Pike answered flatly.

  “We’re from the Minneapolis Telegraph Office. We received an important message from the president of the United States.”

  “Read it.”

  One of the telegraphers fumbled with a stubborn envelope, eventually extracting a small piece of paper. “To Mayor Roland Pike. I have received your request for an order to stop all land appropriation in the Westcreek Valley, located in Cass County, and in the state of Minnesota. I regret to inform you that your request has been denied. Signed, Harry S. Truman.”

  “What does it mean?” the telegrapher asked.

  Pike’s head drooped. “It means I’m screwed.” He pulled the two deputies forward. “You heard the sheriff. Let’s get out of here.”

  In early morning sunlight, from an eagle’s perspective, the scene felt unified and peaceful. Moving away from the clearing and the smoldering wreckage of Westcreek, thirty little dots, at first far apart, all came together in a tight group and moved through the thick forest to either Wasin or to three sets of blinking red lights. In a few short hours the valley would be empty.

  But before the buses would depart—before the loud engines would grumble to life, a young mother in one, slumped against a window and seated next to a doting woodsman, talked to herself.

  “Sleep, my baby,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Sleep through the night. All will be well, all will be right.”

  18. Coda

  October 8th, 1945, 9:15 a.m.

  The sun shimmered. Its long, gentle beams touched the earth and dried the morning dew from pine limbs, falling birch and poplar leaves, and the skeletal remains of Westcreek. The glow of the day even took a chill off cool winds moving in from the northwest, allowing wildlife to continue preparations for what the Farmer’s Almanac promised to be a long, cold winter.

  Across the valley floor, chipmunks and squirrels—all chasing each other at times, in fun, gathered nuts and pinecones to store in little nests, either above or below ground. Ruffled grouse swallowed bits of gravel on Main Street to assist with the digestion of clover. And near the town park and town cemetery, bucks with large racks romped and chased after does who flittered away, though not entirely opposed to their advances.

  With no signs of humans in weeks, forest life flourished in the open.

  But that was about to change.

  The ears of deer, rodents, and even some fowl perked up as the sound of a noisy engine rode the air from the west. Near the valley rim, passing sumac with broad red leaves, a dark blue Chrysler Imperial with large dented fenders navigated the narrow and twisty road that led to town limits. Coming out of each turn, plumes of smoke coughed from the tailpipe. Halfway down, a red-tailed hawk that had just captured a careless shrew was spooked by the commotion and flew up to a high branch. A bit farther, a mother bear and two cubs lumbered away from a thick blueberry patch to places deeper in the forest. And a nearby possum, hanging precariously on a thin tree limb, fell to a weed bed below.

  At the bottom of valley, the car rolled to a squeaky stop in front of a rope strung between two metal posts. The rope supported a small wooden sign that read as follows:

  No Trespassing!

  By order of

  The Leech Lake Band of Ojibwa

  The Chrysler’s driver-side door opened. A pair of tarnished leather boots stepped out and walked to the flimsy barricade. After a moment, a right hand reached for the rope and held it tightly. Former Sheriff Brewster Cullin had come home.

  Dressed in a light bomber jacket, a blue cap with the words “Guadalcanal 27th
Infantry Regiment” embroidered across the front, and silver sunglasses, he peered down Main Street and sighed. Kneading the rope anxiously, he contemplated crossing under and breaking the law. Something brought him back to the valley. Something pulled at his soul from far away. Something in his heart needed resolution.

  Cullin ducked under the rope and meandered in the direction of downtown, his hands deep within his jacket pockets. To the right, the lumberyard, void of lumber, came into view, the southeast corner of the site’s large metal roof driven into the ground as if a thousand insects had eaten away at a single wooden support beam. To the left, riddled with cobwebs, he saw the mostly intact town works building that once housed an ambulance, fire truck, and police cruiser. Everything had long since been sold off, and though thinking about such events gave him pause, a vision down nearby Pleasant Drive quickened his heart. It was the Johnson house.

  Cullin felt nauseous. Though two-thirds of the structure still stood, one-third seemed as if a giant with black teeth had taken a massive bite out of the front entrance, kitchen, part of the living room, and attic. He surmised that the fire must have jumped across the road, burned the small home, but then rapidly died out. Stepping closer, he noticed a leather chest with thick leather straps in the kitchen that must have fallen from the attic. His focus remained on the chest until a small red fox scurried out the front entrance, a rabbit in its mouth. Watching the critter prance across Pleasant Drive and then zigzag over the sooty boardwalk on the north side of Main Street, he decided to follow.

  Along the way, Cullin got lost in the destruction. The more he wandered, the more devastating the damage. Glass crunched beneath his boots, the pungent smell of wet ash filled his nose, and unstable roofing creaked in the wind. On his left, the scant remains of town hall barely stood. Outside the entrance, untouched by flame, a cedar-encased chalkboard message read:

  April 15th, 1942

  Taconite Mining Expands to Westcreek Valley

  New Job Opportunities

  The World War II vet continued his step back in time.

  To the south, behind a soaped-up window, the town bank looked like it had been robbed. Two small desks were overturned, charred papers littered the floor along with squished rolls of pennies and nickels, and in the back a large empty vault sat crooked, its big metal door open. With a sarcastic humph!, Cullin remarked silently on how the lack of money hadn’t changed over the years.

  In contrast, the hardware store had much to offer. From nails and screws to hammers and pliers; from ladders and fencing to paint and plumbing materials; from metal saws and electric drills to chainsaws and miner’s helmets—it was all ready for purchase. But over time fewer and fewer buyers came. It had been a year since the twins had ordered new products.

  Not everything in Westcreek was broken, though.

  Kicking large chunks of gravel down Main Street, he reached the Westcreek Café. The long mahogany bar, pine tables, and pine chairs were reduced to splinters, and the only thing whole were dozens of undrunk whiskey, vodka, and schnapps bottles littering the floor. The site of the booze stung the former sheriff. Mindfully he felt instant internal regret.

  He mentally questioned a host of “what ifs:” What if I had patrolled the bar more regularly? What if I had issued more citations for drunk and disorderly conduct? What if I’d had a greater presence in Westcreek?

  Pivoting, head down, he moved farther east and peered into the General Store. His face wrinkled, not because of the skewed, Erector set–like appearance of the metal shelves, the toppled coolers in back, or even how the remnants of the building looked like the jagged remains of a separated eggshell. Rather, deep scratch marks in the floor seemed to chase after large chunks of what resembled dog feces. Curiosity getting the better of him, Cullin picked up a nearby stick and poked at one of the turds. It split, exposing an orange, mushy center.

  Yams? he mouthed. What the hell kind of animal eats yams?

  Cullin continued to walk, purposely avoiding his office. He couldn’t stomach peeking inside. Instead, he headed for the old white church and town cemetery, the winds becoming more hassling. The church, barely touched by fire and no bigger than a double-wide trailer home, felt warm to the touch. Rubbing soot from a window with his coat sleeve, he stared inside. His heart ached. Trying to recall the last service he had attended—that anyone had attended—he floated his sight over toppled pews, butterflied hymnals on the floor, a marble altar, and a tall, still-upright cross, finally concentrating on a folding chair near the altar. He had sat there during Sunday services, helping the traveling pastor with hymns to sing, locating Bible verses, and giving Communion.

  As if someone whispered in his ear, the vet suddenly recalled the subject of the last sermon he had attended: Love thy neighbor. Key lines repeated in his head:

  From Matthew chapter 22, verses 37–39: Jesus said unto him, “Thou shalt love the Lord God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Though shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”

  Returning to the now, Cullin caught himself making the sign of the cross, and then out of the corner of his eye, he spied the black-and-white stone marking a small grave in back. Stepping to the white cemetery fence, he leaned against a post and stared at the marker. And stared some more. And stared yet some more. Internally, he felt a need to make amends to Steven’s father for being buried so simply in a Caucasian grave.

  Maybe the body could be exhumed and reburied in Wasin, he thought. Maybe tribal leaders could provide a spiritual ceremony. Maybe then the souls in the Westcreek valley will finally be at rest.

  Dust flew into the former sheriff’s eyes from Main Street, and after briefly removing his shades and roughly rubbing his eyes, he turned squarely into the wind in hopes of avoiding the same problem. That’s when he noticed—or imagined, he couldn’t rightly tell—something incredible happening downtown. The combination of fast-moving, changing winds, loose gravel, and dust conjured physical images of the past, like a 3-D movie playing out. Rising from the middle of the road, a long line of people, horses, and wagons took shape, some formations clearer than others. Hurrying back to Main Street, Cullin investigated, unsure of what he saw.

  As he did, the boardwalk on the north and south came alive. People, some short, some tall, crowded the charcoal railings and clapped at a coming parade. At the same time, two long ribbons of leftover butcher’s wrap from a nearby alley flew to both ends of the road, secured themselves to the corners of buildings, and hung like banners. To the former sheriff, the scene was unmistakable: Taking place almost twenty years ago and dubbed “Westcreek Days,” it was one of the last public celebrations to ever take place in the valley.

  Cullin approached the procession. Allowing his mind to connect the particles and add color, he could visualize a much younger Mayor Pike in a red suit with long red coattails in front of the parade, waving to the crowd. Back then, he didn’t wear a bolo. He didn’t smoke a cigar. He didn’t carry a gun, and he smiled much more. When Cullin attempted to touch Pike, he burst into dusty confetti. The former sheriff jumped.

  A small marching band came next. Six members in all, each sported a tall shako hat, a gold-buttoned, white jacket, and pin-striped pants. Two played the trombone, two played the trumpet, and two played a single, necklace-style drum. Lifting their legs up high in cadence, the musicians belted out a jazzy rendition of “Lady, Be Good,” by George and Ira Gershwin. The music ceased when the sextet marched through Cullin.

  Two groups of workers followed. First, four miners in lighted hard hats, thick cotton shirts smudged with dirt, and heavy tan pants carried pickaxes and shovels and marched to their own beat, occasionally twirling in circles with a collective laugh. Close on their heels, wearing stocking caps, fake red beards, and puffy checkered shirts, four lumberjacks struggled to haul one large axe they claimed belonged to Paul Bunyan. Children often asked where Babe the Blue Ox was, and with wider than wide grin
s, the men said she was tied to the largest Norway pine in the world, waiting for Paul Bunyan to finish his bath in nearby Leech Lake—a “tub” he barely fit into.

  The next part of the parade belonged to the Ojibwa Indians.

  To the gentle thumping of a small drum, eight young men, two replete in eagle’s feathers from shoulder to wrist, danced in perfect rhythm—sometimes in tight and furious circles. Adorned in either deer hide pants or loincloths, the men rarely left the balls of their feet.

  ONE, two, three, four, ONE, two, three, four, they moved. ONE, two, three, four, ONE, two, three, four.

  The Indian dancers led to Indian women bearing gifts. Deep black hair shining in the sun, six women—some young, some old, and all wearing long deer hide dresses and intricate necklaces and earrings—bounced to the beat of the men but with much less vigor. In their hands, homemade maple candy in wax twists, little brown dream catchers, and quartz arrowheads. Frequently, the women would break from the parade and cheerfully present their gifts to the white children.

  The miners, lumberjacks, Native dancers, and women of Wasin disappeared like ghosts the nearer they got to Cullin.

  Taking three careful steps back, shaking his head and opening his mouth in disbelief, the next sort of hologram seemed unbelievable. Two high-clopping, large black horses fitted with mosaic blankets supported stone-faced warriors carrying long spears. Sitting up high, their toned, naked biceps and pectoral muscles jiggled with each horse movement. Closer and closer, they approached Cullin. Closer and closer, and as they passed through him, he could feel the heavy breaths of each animal.

  A hay wagon pulled by a bright red Model T pickup drew the most attention and the heartiest cheers from those gathered. Atop the wagon, a tubby town butcher in a bloody apron, along with two tribal elders, watched over crates and crates of dry ice. Each crate contained fillets of moose, deer, salmon, and walleye, and at the urging of the crowd, the caretakers held up samples to visually tempt palates. A community picnic was planned, and before both cultures would share a Thanksgiving-sized meal, entertainment would be provided in the town park.