Syria

Syria

On the 7th of May 2035, the Secretary General of the Coalition reportedly died from unknown causes. Two weeks after the North Atlantic Treaty Organization received word of his demise, mixed contingents of Canadian, American, Spanish, British and Italian soldiers invaded France in order to further damage the Coalition's chain of command.

These news prompted most of the member countries of the Coalition to become active participants in the war as opposed to mere suppliers of weapons and fuel. France's infrastructure was severely damaged by a fierce war waged within its borders, but the French ultimately managed to defend themselves admirably with the assistance of foreign troops. These troops had been provided by countries who used to belong to the defunct Warsaw Pact, such as Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Georgia and Kazakhstan.

The deceased Secretary General of the Coalition was quickly replaced by a young military genius, Dr. Marie Goddard. A graduate from the Doctor of Philosophy in War Studies program at the Royal Military College of Canada, her strategic insights were invaluable in the defense of the French Republic. While Allied troops remain in France to this day, Paris has not yet fallen to its enemies.

NATO recognized that the assistance of former Warsaw Pact signatories was a crucial factor in the failure to seize the French capital and subsequently enlarged its theater of operations eastward. On the 3rd of June 2035, Polish, Hungarian, Slovakian, Romanian and Bulgarian troops marched on Belarus and Ukraine with the intention of encircling Russia.

While the Coalition defended France, Ukraine and Belarus from NATO's attacks, the organization also expanded its area of operations into the Middle East, as per Dr. Goddard's orders. The Coalition intended to cripple NATO's capabilities by dominating a resource needed to fuel aircraft, tanks and other vehicles: oil. Economic warfare and the monopoly of scarce resources became a legitimate way of winning the conflict.

To this end, the Coalition used a mixture of diplomacy and force. Some governments, such as those of Iran and Iraq, agreed to provide the Coalition with cheap fuel while increasing world prices for oil. While Dr. Goddard wished to capitalize on latent anti-American sentiment in the region, she also recognized that certain countries would be unwilling to collaborate with her scheme. On the 20th of June 2035, Coalition troops launched military operations against countries that were traditionally seen as American allies in the region, such as Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates.

Middle-eastern countries that were unaligned in the war were infiltrated by Coalition soldiers with the intent of eventually seizing their natural resources by force if the need arose. In the beginning of July 2035, two respected soldiers of the Coalition were ordered to infiltrate Syria, one of these unaligned nations, in order to gauge the country's military capabilities. These two officers were also given another special task to accomplish...

* * *
City of Quneitra, Syria, Friday July 6th, 2035

Derrick Schröder stood atop a medical facility within the Syrian city of Quneitra, accompanied by Vanyusha Belyakov, his Russian partner. Before long, he walked to the edge of the roof and sat, fatigued from the dryness and heat of the middle-eastern country's warm summer days. He had scanned the ruined city from the top of this building since the early hours of the morning, but the location he chose to do so offered him no refuge from the sun's rays. Panting and sweating, he removed his sleeveless jersey and laid it on the ground besides him.

"It's so hot out here...", he complained to his partner as he looked up to small birds roaming free in Syria's cloudless blue sky.

Vanyusha, the Russian man who accompanied the German soldier on this mission, seemed oblivious to the heat and felt no need to remove the long trench coat covering his body. He simply grinned and playfully fiddled with his handguns as he looked at his German comrade with eyes concealed behind brown locks of hair.

"How can you wear that?", Derrick asked as he glanced over his shoulder to his partner, wondering how the gunman's long coat did not yet sentence him to hyperthermia. "And it's so dry... If I don't drink water soon, I'm going to die!"

After the Russian man approached his partner, both soldiers looked down to the streets below and saw a group of children dancing and prancing around a young lady. The Syrian woman created water out of thin air and sprayed the young boys and girls around her with it. As the azure liquid gushed to the sky and fell down on them like rain, the young ones sang and praised the benevolent woman who made it all possible. The comely wizardess simply responded with a wide grin drawn on her tender lips.

"So she's the one?", Derrick asked his partner, looking at the scene the children were making.

"Yes", Vanyusha replied. "That woman possesses the Elemental Organic, that's why she's able to create water in such a dry environment. We have to either capture or eliminate her."

Derrick watched the children some more as they celebrated the miracle of water, then stared at the lovely figure of the woman they were assigned to eliminate. An innocent smile brightened her alluring face as it basked in the light of the sun.

"Splendid", the soldier simply said, his heart flinching for the elegant goddess. The Russian man produced an inquisitive sound with his throat as he wondered what his partner had meant by that comment. "I just can't bring myself to harm someone like that", Derrick explained. "Let me try to talk to her, maybe she'll come with us without a fight."

"You just want her for yourself", the Muscovite soldier replied with his usual smile while he continued to play with his guns.

"Maybe", Derrick admitted, still enthralled by the beauty of the person who had captured his interest moments before.

* * *

The night finally fell on the city of Quneitra, covering everything under the clouds with its shadowy cloak. Derrick sat on rubble at the exact location where children had celebrated hours ago and looked skyward, to the bright stars above. Before long, a captivating Syrian woman with long brown hair approached him. It was the goddess who had stolen his heart long before the coming of dusk.

"It's nice out, isn't it?", the blond man asked the girl in an attempt to spur a conversation.

"Who are you?", the woman asked with a frown, wary of a person who was evidently not from these parts. His hair color, skin tone and accent indicated he was a foreigner.

"I'm shocked!", the young man exclaimed in jest as he looked at his comely interlocutor. "And I know all about you! You're the goddess who gives water to the children of this city."

The woman did not seem to lend her trust easily to any stranger, and so the German soldier endeavoured to make up a story to ease her worries. "I'm just a European traveller who wanted to know more about the Middle East. When I heard people were living in Quneitra, I just had to come here and see how that was possible. I mean, how can you live in a city the Syrian government refuses to rebuild?"

"You're wrong", the woman with a tanned skin told the German soldier as she sat next to him, on the pile of debris. "The Syrian government did eventually agree to rebuild this place after being pressured by the families living here."

While she looked up to the golden celestial bodies illuminating the night sky, the man's attention shifted to the brightest star in his sight, the woman he had come to know by the name of Ishtar.

"It's been so long", the woman reminisced history lessons she learned as a child. "The city was captured by Israel during the Six-Day War of 1967. Syria retook control of it during the Yom Kippur War of 1973, but when Israel counterattacked, they completely destroyed the city."

"And the Syrian government has refused to rebuild it ever since", the German soldier completed her thoughts.

"But that's stupid, don't you think?", the woman asked the man who had successfully passed himself as a mere traveller. "For many years, they used our city to damage Israel's reputation, but there are real families living here, including women and children", she explained to Derrick while intently staring into his blue eyes.

"When I was about 10 years old they came around and agreed to rebuild", she continued. "It's not as modern as other Syrian cities, but it's better than it used to be. Eventually peacekeepers from the United Nations left as well and we finally obtained a semblance of a normal life."

They both continued to stare into each other's eyes. While Derrick had already lost his heart to her charms, he was surprised to find out she did not hate his appearance either. "It's rare to see blue eyes like these around here", the woman said with a warm smile.

"So that's a yes to my unasked question, then?", the soldier asked her playfully.

The young woman rose to her feet and laughed heartily before giving him one final glance. "You're funny, I'll give you that!" On those words, she walked away and disappeared into the darkness of the night.

Derrick simply sat there and thought about the conversation they just had. There was no reason for this woman to be a victim of this war. If he could manage to earn her trust, he would protect her from the violence and pain his superiors held in store for her.

* * *

City of Quneitra, Syria, Saturday July 7th, 2035

"So how did your date go yesterday?", Vanyusha asked his German partner as he drove a black car across the city's streets.

"I don't understand why they ordered us to capture or kill her, Vanyusha", Derrick said after taking a few sips of his water bottle. His forehead was covered with sweat. "I'm pretty sure this woman would follow me back to Germany if I asked her. Then scientists could study her Organic while she continues to live peacefully, don't you think?"

The Russian man did not answer; he simply grinned and kept on driving the car. Derrick looked outside the vehicle's open windows at a city that had been rebuilt into a peaceful haven. As the car drove by, he looked at the town's children while they danced around the angel who brought them an infinite supply of cold water. Knowing her fate was in his hands, he considered his options. Could he not do something to avoid unnecessary bloodshed? Could he not save her?

Hours later, Derrick sat next to Ishtar on the same pile of rubble where they rested their weary bodies the day before and reveled upon seeing the glittering stars embellishing the night sky. The brown-haired woman laughed heartily upon hearing a story from the German soldier. She enjoyed his company and finally seemed to trust him.

"And then what happened?", the girl asked, wishing to know more about the traveller's exciting adventures.

"Well, what do you think happened?", he was about to finish his tale. "I passed out! The human body can only go so far without water..."

She laughed again at the misfortune he endured while journeying across her home country. The story he told her about his adaptation to middle-eastern culture when he first landed in the city of Damascus had been particularly entertaining. Her laughter concealed the sincere compassion she felt for him as she learned how he suffered from her country's dryness and heat. After she gently brought one hand closer to his mouth, water appeared on the surface of her palm and flowed endlessly thereafter.

"How did you learn to do that?", he asked after drinking from the water she offered him until he was satiated.

"Oh I'm not the one doing it", she explained while staring into the man's mysterious blue eyes. "When I was little, my parents gave me this jewel, you see", she said as she showed to the man a gem held within a small wooden box attached to her bracelet. The gem hung from her wrist like an ornament. "Ever since I got this, I've been able to create water just by thinking about it!"

"The gem also gave me the ability to control the weather at times, although I'm not that good with it yet", she went on. "It's been a great help for the people of this town!"

Her eyes wandered away from his for a moment, as if a sudden melancholy swept through her heart. "The power came with a steep price, however..."

"A price?", the German soldier repeated.

The woman did not speak a word and kept staring away from him. He could not bear to see her this sorrowful and endeavoured to cheer her up. Caressing the intricate tattoo drawn on her left arm, he incited her to look at him once more. He stared at her with the blue eyes she found so captivating, then brought his lips closer to hers and kissed her. She tenderly stroked the man's nape with her hand and passionately returned the kiss, her eyes sparkling with the same shining light as the stars above them.

* * *

City of Quneitra, Syria, Sunday July 8th, 2035

Derrick Schröder walked across the streets of Quneitra, delighted by the night of romance he had spent with the Syrian woman he now valued as his dulcinea. Tonight, he would ask her to come with him to Germany. Surely she would agree to see a world outside of the one she has seen since her childhood.

She did not seem to be around today, but the children did not mind. They played with one another in the empty streets of a hometown they had grown to love.

He waited for her to arrive, but she did not come. He waited for hours and observed the area until night covered his surroundings with blackness. Looking to the stars above, he wondered why she did not appear at the same time they had met for the past two days. Was it something he said?

He also wondered why he had not seen his Russian partner today.

The blond soldier recalled the woman once said she spent time at the mosque when she was not playing with the children. Perhaps she had decided to stay there today instead of enduring the torrid weather outside. He decided to pay her a visit and walked to the mosque.

As he opened the gate to the place of worship, an unfortunate surprise awaited him.

His ladylove was lying unconscious on the ground, in the middle of the mosque's prayer hall. Fearing for the worst, he rapidly ran to her side and knelt next to her. He first caressed the tattoo drawn on her arm as he did the night before, but his touch did not wake her from her slumber.

Under the young man's guidance, the woman lay on her back; it was then the blond soldier saw bloodstains on her jacket. Touching the flesh underneath her soiled clothes, he noticed she had been wounded by a bullet.

"Glad you could finally make it, Derrick", a voice came from the shadows and echoed throughout the prayer hall. The German soldier looked in front of him and recognized the silhouette of his Russian partner amidst the darkness of the room.

"Vanyusha, what is the meaning of this?", Derrick yelled angrily. "Why did you attack her, I said I was taking care of it!"

"So you did, but I could not agree with your methods", the Russian soldier replied. "We are normal human beings, Derrick, and she is a magic user. We are not meant to coexist. She is a menace to mankind. She's able to control the weather with her sheer will, and you would just have her walk around freely?"

"She's a good person, Vanyusha!", Derrick's enraged voice thundered across the room.

"We are Organic Slayers, Derrick!", Vanyusha tried to persuade his fellow soldier. "We are supposed to exterminate Organic holders, not fall in love with them! Did you think I was just going to let this happen, comrade?"

"So that's... what it is...", Ishtar's trembling voice surprised both soldiers. She regained consciousness and overheard their conversation. She now knew the truth about the man who had gained her trust and felt betrayed. "You lied to me..."

Derrick was overjoyed to see her alive, but knew he would have to work diligently to earn her favors once more. He immediately tried to appease her anger by lending her his assistance. "Ishtar, listen to me! We have to get you to a medical facility right now!"

"You were a soldier all this time", the woman told him with a scowl as she pushed his hand away from her arm. "My jewel was the only thing you ever wanted from me!"

"Ishtar, that's not true!", Derrick shouted frantically. "You're not being fair! You must believe me, I love you!"

"I despise you", the woman replied while staring intently into blue eyes she now hated with a passion.

The German soldier soon felt the room's temperature increase drastically. Looking in front of him, he noticed his Russian partner had set the entire room on fire. Oil had been spilled on the floor prior to Derrick's arrival; Vanyusha merely ignited the flames with a lighter. Derrick knew the Syrian woman had no chance of surviving her bullet wounds. The Russian soldier intended to burn her body and dispose of all evidence surrounding the circumstances of her death, a necessary precaution to avoid the prying eyes of the Syrian government.

The brown-haired Muscovite officer turned around and disappeared into the shadows, leaving only words of warning behind. "Get out of this place now if you value your life. She can stay behind, she's already dead."

Dumbfounded, the German soldier paused to consider the difficult situation he was embroiled in before hearing Ishtar's last words.

"You want this gem so badly", the woman said with bitter hatred flaring in her eyes. "Well here it is, and don't you ever let go!"

She clasped the man's ankle with her hand before drawing her last breath. As her lifeless arm fell to the ground, the gem housed within the small wooden box attached to her wristlet vanished. Suddenly, a circlet appeared around the neck of the German soldier with the mysterious gem encrusted in the ornament.

Derrick now understood what Ishtar meant the day before by a steep price. In a single instant, he felt the pain and suffering of the entire planet as it endured the fires of war. Every loss of life, every scar caused by the quarrels of man, every injury suffered by the victims of the conflict, it all became a heavy burden to be carried on his fragile shoulders. Overwhelmed, the blond man fell to his knees. Truly Ishtar had bestowed upon him the ultimate curse...

His hands lying on the ground, his back arched, the soldier panted and sweated. With a single thought, the flames around him disappeared. He looked at the peaceful face of the woman he once loved, knowing he was now the one to carry her legacy.

* * *

City of Quneitra, Syria, Monday July 9th, 2035

Derrick stood in the midst of a group of children. They danced and sang his praises as he created crystalline water for them to drink. They celebrated the miracles he made with the help of the jewel that now encircled his neck. After burying the corpse of his ladylove the night before, he felt those children depended on him for their well-being.

But it was more than that. Looking up to the clear blue sky, he wondered what was going to happen to him... He had become one of them, the people Vanyusha clearly said could not coexist with normal humans. It was only a matter of time before he too would be hunted by the very individuals he used to call his friends.

--
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Gary Germeil, M. Sc. Publisher, www.organics-eternal-love-story.com

I was born and raised in Montreal, Canada. I wrote a first series of short stories entitled Organics: Eternal Love Story while an art student at Marie-Victorin College.

That degree was later complemented with a Bachelor of Commerce at Concordia University and a Master of Science in electronic commerce at HEC Montreal, earning me membership into Beta Gamma Sigma International Honor Society, Golden Key International and Le Réseau HEC.

I have written over a hundred short stories since 1992. The main concepts behind the world of Organics: Eternal Love Story were created in 1998 and have inspired my work ever since then.

I now feel the world of Organics: Eternal Love Story should be shared through this electronic publication. I invite other authors to contribute to this shared setting in their own way.

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Karin Slaughter Blog Tour and Audio Book Giveaway!

Interested in learning more about Karin's newest book, Fallen?  Go to the Review Page of the Dew and check it out!

_________________________

Fallen Giveaway!!!

Interested in winning a copy of of Karin's latest in audiobook format?  I have FIVE to give away!

Simply go to the Dew's FB page and leave a comment on the post re: this contest.  I will put all names into a nifty tupperware bowl and pull 5 of them on July 8th.  I'll notify you via FB, so make sure you "like" the Page while you're at it!  

http://www.facebook.com/dewonthekudzu

Letters From The Barn - Forget-me-nots

Letters From The Barn

Forget-me-nots

The other day I followed the creek quite a-ways-away to where it gets much deeper, wide enough to swim, even. I should confess that I followed it down the highway in my pickup truck. I did not, as the teenagers are want to do, merely walk its anklebreaking rocks til I found a nice swimming hole.

When I got there, I found a nice spot after walking a bit through some horsetail. I let the dogs lose and set down to read a bit. I had brought The Country Diary Of An Edwardian Lady. Edith Holden was born in the late 1800's. She kept a vivid journal each day for a year, intending to use it to teach her students more about nature. In amazing detail, she writes about what she saw from birds to plants and creates the most beautiful images of each. You really must see this yourself. It's a complete reproduction of her journal, complete with her own handwriting and notes.

She died at a young age, but her family passed it down through the generations. Finally, one took it to a publisher who brought it to the rest of us. Really, do buy it. I get no kickback if you do. Because if I did, I'd have you reading something in a long series, to keep my residuals coming.

While I was enjoying it, I  found some forget-me-nots along the banks. I impulsively picked a few and pressed them in the pages for the appropriate season. I thought perhaps my pressed flowers and tiny notes here and there about my own exploration could be a dialogue between me and this long passed away English lady.

When I got home, I noticed that I had amazingly stuck the flowers on the same page as she had drawn her own forget-me-nots back in 1906. More than a hundred years later, I had literally pressed my own wee, little blue flowers on the exact same page. I know this was an unlikely accident. But, please, whoever is in charge of such things, do fill my life with more accidents like that. The congruence of two souls, long apart, united in pressed flowers in an old book. Forget-me-nots, indeed.

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Meriwether O'Connor is a columnist and short story writer. She works one on one with folks trying to get their writing where they would like it to be. Please contact her through this ungodly contraption called the internet if you'd like your own writing to be quicker and less painful. She'll sit down with you weekly over tea, the telephone or the godforsaken email and surprise you with how much a small chat can help you when you need it most. meriwetheroconnor@hotmail.com.

The Helicon

An Excerpt from The Helicon
Chapter 6:
June 1964

            Ptol and I are laying on our backs on the big flat rock that overlooks Devil's Shoal of the Hiwassee River.  A clear night.  Plenty of stars.  In the middle of nowhere.

            Ptol knows all the constellations.  He names them for me.

            “See those three.  Sometimes they're called the Three Kings.  Sometimes Orion.  The Hunter.”

            Ptol gets the pot from Bernard, one of the cooks.  I can't tell if I'm high or not.  I start coughing and pass the joint back to him.

            “Don't cough, don't get off,” he laughs.

            I stop coughing, though I'm still not sure about getting off. 

            I say, “Those guys must have been smoking something to see a hunter in those three stars.”

            “It's his belt.”

            “Three kings makes more sense.”

            “The bright one up high, to the right, is Aldebaran.” 

            “Al who?” I joke.

            “It's Arabic.  The Persians were famous astronomers mapping the heavens while Europeans were still squatting in ditches.”

            “You saying that Western Civ is overrated?”

            I laugh.  He laughs.

            “What do you expect when the teacher is the Wrestling Coach?” he says.

            “C'mon,” I say, “Hammerlock's hip.  He's listens to Bob Dylan.”

            “Think he gets stoned?”

            “Has to, to listen to Dylan.” 

            We both laugh.

            Ptolemy defends: “He's a poet, not a singer.”

            “At least he's not British.”

            “You don't like being invaded?” he says.

            “All the girls want guys who grow their hair out.  Just so they can look like John Paul George and Pugno.”

            “The Beatles are okay,” Ptol decides.  “They're not Buddy Holly but they're okay.”

            “Nobody's Buddy Holly.  Not even Bobby Dye-lan.”  I sing, “Though his pants, they are a-changing.” 

            That's our inside joke.  Substitute pants for random words in songs.

            “I want to hold your pants,” I sing.  Maybe I am a little high.

            Ptol say, “You just wanna get in Susie Moore's!”

            Usually he'd play along, but pot makes him moodier than usual.

            It get still.  Crickets chirping quiet.  I say, “Think things will change?”

            “No, things will go on like they always have.  Just like the stars.  After they killed Kennedy . . . .”

            I don't want to hear another conspiracy theory.  “The Warren Commission will find out the truth.”

            He's incensed: “You believe that?!  The government doesn't want the truth.  They want blind obedience.  Good Christian soldiers marching on to war.”

            He's getting hyper and paranoid.  The pot does that too, I guess.  It makes me want to sleep.  I could fall asleep on this rock and not wake up until the breakfast bell.

            But Ptol's not finished.  “The Warren Commission's a giant setup.  Lone gunman theory!  What a crock!”

            Intersession is the best.  No campers for a whole week, but they have to pay us anyway.  A group of us are going to hike into the Cherokee National Forest and climb Chilhowee.

            I think, some things do change--this is our last year as counselors.

            Everything's changing.  At least down here.  Maybe not in the stars.

            Three shots in six seconds.  That's what they say Oswald did.  And he missed one.  Course it  was a moving target but moving slow. 

            I want to tell Ptolemy that he shoots better than that.  He's six for six in the kill zone in less than six seconds.  But I don't want to get him riled. 

            “So whatta you think about Bunning?” he asks, still moody.

            He means Jim Bunning, pitcher for Phillies.  We'd listened to the Phillies-Mets game on the radio that Sunday afternoon.  The first of a double-header.  He pitched a perfect game.

            “He's a pretty good pitcher, I guess.”

            “Oh, he's nothing but a bean-baller,” Ptol argues.  “He couldn't win a game if he pitched clean.”

            “The Mets are the worst team in baseball.  Even Casey Stengel says that.”

            “It's not much of an accomplishment,” Ptol decides.

            “No,” I agree.

            “Not like Larsen.  I can't believe they were comparing him to Larsen!”

            Larsen was the last guy to pitch a perfect game.  For the Yankees against the Dodgers in '56 World Series.  I don't want to get into that either.

            “It's nothing like a Series game,” I say.

            “There'll never be another perfect game,” Ptol insists.

            “No, there won't.”

            We pause and the crickets chirp and I think he's finished.  But he won't let it die: “They shouldn't even put it in the record book.”

            “They have to,” I say.

            “No they don't.  They can do whatever they want to.  Remember Maris and the asterisk.”

            “He broke Ruth's record,” I say.

            “No he didn't—he had more games.  And those expansion teams.  It's not the same!  It's like playing against minor leagues.”

            “You're telling me the Mets belong in the Minor Leagues?” I ask, mock-innocent.

            “Hell, I don't know if they're good enough for the minor leagues,” he laughs.

            Laughter, a good sign.  The water laps in the Devil's Shoals.

            I ask, “We gonna climb Chilhowee?”

            “I don't know.” he says. 

            “This pot makes you lazy.”

            “Once you been to the top,” he says, “what's the point of climbing up there again?”

            “It may not be Everest, but it is the highest mountain around here.”

            “Mount Mitchell's way higher.”

            “No,” I say, “you're higher than Mount Mitchell.”

            We laugh.  Even Devil's Shoals is laughing.

            “This is our last year,” I remind him.

            “Okay,” he says, “maybe.”

            “You really think I could get into Susie Moore's pants?”

            “Maybe if you got her stoned,” he suggests.

            “Oh, I'm sure that will happen,” I laugh.  She's straighter than a new pair of Levis.

            I guess I'm feeling pretty high after all.  Devil's Shoals seems to be speaking Cherokee: “Wukka, wukka, wukka, wukka.”

            “Maybe if you were Paul McLennon O'Harrison,” Ptol says, “she'd let you touch her boobies.  But I don't know about the goods.”

            “Homo,” I say, laughing.

            “Homo yourself,” he says, laughing back.

            He'll climb Chilhowee.

            “You know,” I say, “The Raven climbed Chilhowee.”

            He doesn't answer.  He's lost in the stars.  Maybe found a new constellation.

            Sam Houston was “The Raven.”  He left civilization to join the Hiwassee Cherokees after a girl broke his heart.  Ptolemy knows way more about him than I do.

            “He even married a Cherokee girl,” I say.

            “That wasn't until later,” Ptol corrects me, “when the Cherokee were removed.  Oklahoma.  You know what they called him, don't ya?”

            “Raven?”

            “No, Big Drunk,” he says with some bitterness.  Even though he's high, he's still wound up.
            “Doesn't sound too bad to me.  Fishing, drinking, Cherokee women.  Living like the Good Lord intended.”

            “The Good Lord?” he mocks me.  Lately he's become an atheist.  Or agnostic.  I'm not sure which and I don't think he is either.

            “The Good Lord has nothing to do with it.  They lived as Nature intended.  Western Civilization is just a blot, a cancer.  It'll kill itself eventually.”

            “We still have time to change our ways,” I say.  Ptol's seriously killing my buzz.

            The Devil's Shoals go wukka-wukka-wukka.

            “Know that Buddhist priest who set himself on fire?” he says.

            “Everybody's seen that picture.”

            “That's true belief.  He's willing to die for a cause.  To put an end to War.  He' s not dressing up in fancy clothes and sitting his fat rump in a church pew looking around to see who's there and who's not.” 

            “Like the Pharisees?”

            “Hell, yes!  If Jesus were around today, he'd go straight into First Pres', walk up the aisle and kick the minister right in the nuts!”

            I hate to see him get like this.  Like his intestines are being twisted into knots.

            “You really think Jesus would kick a guy in the nuts?” I ask.

            “It won't work.  People will never wake up.  Things won't change.”

            “You're making me tired,” I say.  “C'mon, I'm going back to the cabin.”

            I get up but he doesn't move. 

            “You coming?” I ask. 

            “Later,” he says.

            “Don't fall asleep out here.  You might fall in the river and drown—wake up dead.”

            Devil's Shoal.  Wukka-wukka-wukka.

*                      *                      *

            We meet in refectory after breakfast.  6:30 am.  Enough to time to get us up and down Chilhowee before nightfall. 

            That's important.

            Not because Chilhowee is haunted by the ghost of the Cherokee.  It is. 

            But mainly because you can kill yourself on those trails in plain day.  They twist up the South face, narrowing in places to half-a-foot wide. With a drop of over two hundred feet. 

            They call it “the Cherokee's Revenge.”

            Trouble starts immediately.  There's Jackson, Sam Barker, Ptolemy, me . . . and Bernard.  Personally I've got nothing against Bernard.  He wants to come it's fine by me.  He's a great guy, a good cook, sells decent weed and is pretty funny.

            He also happens to be a Negro.

            Which is a problem for Sam Barker.  And if it's a problem for Sam then it's a problem for his butt-buddy Jackson.

            It doesn't help that Bernard has never climbed Chilhowee.  (Or any other mountain, for that matter).  He's never even left camp since he showed up on the first day.  He's mainly hung out with the other cooks and staff.  But Mr. Mills, Camp Director, has sent them all home for inter-session.  Bernard is low man on the totem pole so he has to stay.

            Ptol, God love him, bears right in on Sam and Jackson: “I guess you guys don't mind that Bernard's not a counselor.  That he's a cook.  I guess the color of his skin makes him less capable of walking up a path than either of you two seasoned mountaineers.”

            Bernard says, “Hey guys, I got plenty of stuff here to keep me busy.”

            Sam backpedals, “Bernard, it's nothing about you personally.  But Chilhowee isn't some cakewalk.”  He glares at Ptolemy: “You have to know what you're doing!”

            Ptol glares back: “I been up and down that mountain twice as many times as you!  I've led twelve-year-olds up that mountain!”

            Bernard says, “Look, boys, you have your climb.”  He starts to walk back to the kitchen.  “I'll catch you on the flipside.”

            “Hell no!” Ptolemy roars.  “Bernard, tell them who your grandmother was.”

            “Man, come on,” he says.  He needs this job—he doesn't need Ptolemy screwing it up for him.

            “Tell them!” Ptol shouts.

            “Alright,” he says, “she was full-blooded Cherokee.  Baker Roll.”

            You can see the Indian in his nose and cheekbones.

            Ptolemy's on fire.  “He's got more business on that mountain than any of us—especially you two!  I wouldn't trust either of you in front or behind me!”

            “Go to hell, nigger-lover!” Sam Barker spits at Ptol.  He turns to Bernard, “I'm not saying that to you, you're a good guy.  Just be careful climbing with these two.”

            Sam and Jackson march off as if they've somehow saved the Confederacy.

            Jackson looks back, “You can't climb with three.  Mr. Mills won't like it.”  He mimics Mr. Mills' drawl: “It reflects poorly on the judgment of a camp counselor.”

            The rule is four to a climb.  In case one gets hurt, two can carry and a third goes for help. 

            I'm not sure about the climb myself.  But now that Ptolemy has made it a bona fide Civil Rights issue, I've got no choice.

*                      *                      *

            It takes us half the morning to reach the base of Chilhowee.  

            Bernard keeps us entertained with camp scoop. 

            “Mr. Mills is right with me so I don't have a problem.  But some of the ladies sure do.”

            “How?” I ask.

            “They call him Freaky Hands.”

            Ptol laughs, “Freaky hands?”

            “Yeah, he's got his hands down his pants all the time.  Playing with himself.”

            We all break out laughing.

            “And he's got this thing of walking down the serving line behind the women and feeling their butts.”

            “The cafeteria women?”

            “Yeah, nobody wants to work that line, they'd rather be back in the kitchen.  It's hot as Hades but Freaky Hands don't come back there.  Betty'd whip his ass if he messed in her kitchen.”

            Betty is the head cook and probably could whip Mr. Mills' ass, or any man's, for that matter.  She looks like a cross between Mammy from Gone with the Wind and a Green Bay Packer.

            “Yeah, he's a freak, alright,” Bernard says. “Wife too.  One of the cleaning girls says she caught 'em at it in the middle of the afternoon.”

            “Doing what?” I ask.

            “What you think?” Ptol says sarcastically.

            “Well, it wasn't what you think,” Bernard corrects Ptol.  I feel vindicated.  “His old lady had one of his leather belts.  A thick black one.  And was beating hell out of his naked ass!  Raising red welts!”

            “What a total perv!” Ptolemy laughs.  “Big Mr. Mills!”

            I mimic his drawl: “The duty of a camp counselor is one of the highest duties you will ever have the privilege of upholding.  These children are in your hands . . . .”

            Ptolemy butts in, “your freaky hands!”

            We all bust a gut and have to sit down.

            I blurt out to Bernard, “God, you guys know everything.”

            It comes out all wrong, but Bernard does his best not to take it that way.  “Yeah, we see things you guys never see.”

            He says it more sorrowful than spiteful.  I start to say I'm sorry but figure that will only make things more awkward.

            Luckily Chilhowee is in sight.  I stands like a clumb of sugar before us.

            Ptol says, “That's it, Bernard.”

            Bernard looks up, “That's the highest mountain I've ever seen.  I thought the Mountain was tall.”

            “Mountain's a hill,” Ptolemy says in disgust.

            Bernard is incredulous, “We gonna climb that?  In a day?”

            “If you still want to,” Ptol says, though turning back is not an option.

            “I guess you boys know what you're doing,” Bernard says.

            “That's right,” Ptolemy laughs, “we got the Freaky Hands!” 

            We all bust up one more time.  But the mountain looms.

*                      *                      *

            The first half of Chilhowee is easy.  Up and down slow ridges.  Trail follows a gulley.  Switchbacks on a low grade.

            Ptol yells, “Let's race!” and takes off.

            Bernard looks at me.  I shrug my shoulders and we head after him.

            Ptol's a miler and wearing weejuns.  Bernard is wearing black work boots.  I'm a wrestler.

            But Bernard's in pretty good shape, and not from cooking.  He darts off like the Flash, catches Ptol and passes him.

            “Wait up!” I yell, but the two of them are in a duel now. 

            They disappear over a ridge.  All I can do is trot along and hope the insanity passes before somebody twists an ankle or worse.      

            I catch up a mile or so up the trail.  They're both out of breath, panting.  Taking a canteen break. 

            “He kicked . . . my . . . ass,” Ptol huffs, turning to Bernard.  “But I'll still . . . beat you . . . to the top.”

            “Shit you will,” Bernard replies, smiling, his face running with sweat.

            “You guys nuts?” I say.  “No more running, Ptol, you know how dangerous the trail gets!”

            “Chicken,” he says.

            “He's running in work boots!” I say.

            Ptol looks to Bernard, “Barefoot?”

            Bernard says, “These shoes are killing me.”

            Ptol eggs him on, “You're Cherokee, aren't you!”

            So they both pull off their shoes.

            “Why don't I just wait here for the screams?” I say.

            “Sounds good to me,” Ptol says.  “Just say I went out in a blaze of glory.”

            “Bernard,” I ask, “how old are you?”

            “Nineteen.”

            That surprises me.  He's only a year older than us.  He looks like a man in his twenties.  Must grow up faster, I think.

            “I'll make sure,” I say, “they get your age right on your tombstone.”

 

*                      *                      *

            I climb alone.  It doesn't thrill me.  Near the top a long stretch of the trail scales the rock face.  The Cherokee carved a walkway out of the bluff just wide enough for single file. 

            Above, pine trees hang from the bluff like broken fingers.  Below, the tallest white pines look like mini-Christmas trees.  Their tops wave slowly in the hazy breeze.

            At one point a good yard of trail drops out altogether.  A washout.  It would make sense to turn around, but my “climbing partners” seem to have made it so I soldier on.

            I press my back to the cliffside, thinking, it'd be nice to have a hand. 

            I stretch my left foot over the gap, an inch at a time, until I'm ready to make my leap of faith. 

Kierkegaard would be proud of me.  I land perfectly on the other side.  The adrenalin kicks in and now I start running after Ptol and Bernard.  I wonder if this is going to be my last time on the mountain.  Even if nothing really changes, things change. 

            But I'm a wrestler not a runner.  I drop to a trot, then walk.  I hike the rest of the way, taking careful steps—wondering what that worn ancient rock feels like against bare feet.

            But screw it!  I'm not taking off my shoes.

*                      *                      *

 

            At the summit Ptol is laying on his back in the middle of a poplar grove.  Bernard is entranced by the blue haze floating cross the foothills of the Smokies. 

            If Ptol's condition is any indication, they've already burnt one joint.  I'm not in the mood.

            “You made it,” he says, looking up dreamily.

            “I could have used you back there on that washout.”

            “Oh, dude,” he says, “I'm sorry.”

            “You look sorry,” I say, heavy on the irony.

            “You want to blow some weed?” he asks by way of apology.  “Hey, Bernie,” he calls.  “You got that joint?”

              Bernard is shielding his eyes, lost in the distance.

            “Bernie?” I ask.

            “That's his real name.  Nobody calls him Bernard except for his grandmother.  And Mr. and Mrs. Mills . . . .”

            “Freaky Hands?” I laugh.

            “And asswhipping Jan,” he laughs. 

            “God, how we gonna look at them with a straight face?” I ask.

            Bernard, or Bernie, wanders back over.  He looks a little too high.  I'm worried he might fall off the mountain.

            He offers me the joint, but I shake my head no.

            “Suit yourself,” he slurs.

            I figure one of us needs to stay sharp.  This ain't a picnic.

            Well, maybe it is. 

            Ptol says he's starving and I am too.  Bernie unloads a feast from his skilfully packed rucksack.  A dozen individually wrapped ham and cheese sandwiches.  A box of rye-crisps.  Sardines.  Even a jar of dill pickles.

            We devour it.  Like three bears, tearing through the wrappers, peeling back tins with our fingers.

            Laughter is the only thing that makes us human.  Once we finish off the food, we have a burping contest.  Ptol wins.

            Ptol has to hear asswhipping story again.

            “Bernie,” he asks, “which girl saw him?”

            “Her name's Omie.  Short for Naomi.”

            “Which one is she?” Ptol asks.

            “You wouldn't know her,” he says. 

            “Why not?”

            “She got sent back.  Soon as it happened.”

            “Mills is a dick,” Ptol mutters in disgust.

            “No, Mr. Mills paid her whole summer.  Gave her an extra hundred to keep it on the low down.”

            “How'd you find out?” I ask.

            “Grapevine,” Bernie says, adding with a laugh, “I guess he should have give Omie more than a hundred.”

            We all laugh.

            “Think he'll give us each a hundred bucks, if we let tell him we know?” Ptol laughs.

            Bernie grabs him by the arm.  Not hard, but serious.

            “You can't tell nobody what I told you.  I need this job!”

            Ptol tries to shake it off, “Bernie, I'm just kidding.”

            “Yeah, he's stupid but he's kidding,” I chime in.

            Bernie calms down.  Tosses an empty can of sardines.  “I'll be living on these this winter without my pay-check.”

            “Don't you have a job back in town?” I ask innocently.

            “Hell, no,” he says like Ptol and I are fools.  “I'm in school.”

            I'm thinking trade school, but it turns out he's enrolled in the State College for Negroes in Nashville.  And he runs track, a miler. 

            “Coach Herbert,” he says with pride, “has coached more Olympic medalists than any coach in the United States.  A black man.”

            “Wilma Rudolph,” I say.

            Not to be outdone, Ptol adds, “Ralph Boston won the long jump.  Didn't he go to State?”

            “Yeah,” Bernie says.  “There's lots of them.”

            “How about you,” Ptol asks, “you going to the Olympics?”

            “I'm ain't that good.  But we'll send a girl to Tokyo.  You watch for her.  Wyomia Tyus.  A sprinter.  She's as good as Wilma.”

            “Will she break a world record?” I ask.

            “Good chance in the 100.  Tracks getting faster every year.”

            “So what are you studying?” I ask.

            “Engineering.  If Calculus don't kill me.”

            “Ptol's a wiz at Calculus,” I say, “he won the Math Medal at MacArthur.”

            “Goddamnit,” Ptol says, his quick mood changing like a sudden thunderstorm.  “I mean, just, goddamnit.”

            “What's the matter?” Bernie asks.

            “Goddamn this country.  I mean, you're working here as a goddamn cook . . .”

            “Gotta make the bread somehow,” Bernie laughs.  It's the first time I've ever heard the word bread used that way.  “Coach Herbert talked to Mr. Mills, who gave me this job.  I'm happy to have it.  I'll make more in a summer than I'd make all year bagging groceries or working a filling station.”

            He licks the sardine juice off his fingers.

            “Mr. Mills hired me even though I never cooked before.  Told Coach I'd learn.  And I have.”

            “I can't believe Freaky Hands pays you that well,” Ptol says.

            “Mr. Mills pays good money.  That's why these older ladies are willing to come out here and sleep in the woods.   Shoot, Betty cooks at one of the biggest houses up on the Mountain.  The family's away for the summer, so she works here.”

            “At least somebody's making money,” I say, “because we ain't making shit.”

            “Hell, you guys don't have nothing to do but chase around little kids.  That ain't work!”

            Through some roundabout discussion we learn that Bernie's making triple what we are. 

            “Goddamnit!” Ptol says.  “I want to cook.  You can be the counselor.”

            Bernie smiles, “No thanks.  I'll leave the kiddies to you two.”

            “It's not that easy,” I say.

            “The kitchen folks wonder why you guys work for nothing,” Bernie says, “Old Betty says it's because you guys are just big kids.  Parents pay for everything.”   

            I feel like a twelve-year-old.  For once Ptol doesn't have a thing to say.

            Bernie asks Ptol, “You good at Calculus?”

            “You good at track?” Ptol replies.

            “I would have beat you in the City Meet if I could have run in it.” 

            Ptol had won the mile in a city record time: 4:25.  Bernie's best that year a 4:18.

            “That's why Coach Herbert recruited me.” 

            “Goddamnit,” Ptol says, “Goddamn this country . . . it's runs a big bunch of bastards.  That's why they killed Kennedy.  They're afraid a Negro might beat some precious white kid in something as stupid as the mile run!”

            Bernie ignores his rant, “My problem is my time ain't coming down.  I can't break 4:15.” 

            I say, “Smoking this shit can't help.”

            Bernie smiles, “The preacher says there's vice and advice.  Vice usually wins.”

            “I always wanted to break four minutes,” Ptol admits.  His hero is Roger Banister.  He started running because Banister broke the four-minute mile.  “But I don't think it'll happen.”

            “There's a boy out Kansas,” Bernie says, “In high school.  Broke four-minutes.”

            “Ryan,” I say.  I've seen him in “Faces in the Crowd” in Sports Illustrated.

            “James Ry-un,” Ptol corrects me. 

            “These tracks are getting faster, just not me,” Bernie says, “I need a four-minute mile in Calculus.”

            “I'll help you,” Ptol offers.  “Integral, differential.  It's not that hard.  Just like learning a foreign language.  Gotta learn what the words mean.”

            “I don't want you to do it for free,” Bernie insists.  “Seeing as you guys aren't making much.”

            “I'm sure we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement,” Ptol smiles.  Pot for Calculus.

            “Deal,” Bernie smiles.

            For some reason the mountain feels higher, the Smokies bluer and the sky wider than they ever have before.  Times may not change, I think, but maybe people can.

*                      *                      *

            Dad has been appointed Federal Judge for the Eastern District of Tennessee.  Mr. Mills lets me leave camp a week early so that I can attend the ceremony.

            Dad's friend Judge Millsaps swears him in.  They take pictures for the newspapers. 

            The reporters ask stupid questions like how it feels to be a judge, was he surprised, has he spoken to President Johnson, stuff about his background, and of course the family. 

            He answers all the questions patiently and seriously.  Lawyerly.  He finishes by saying proudly that I have been accepted to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill for the Fall semester. 

            One needle-nosed reporter breaks the good mood by asking dad how he is prepared to handle Civil Rights cases. 

            Dad stares the guy eye-to-eye and vows to vigorously uphold the rule of law. 

            Judge Millsaps pat him on the back and the interview is over.

*                      *                      *

            In the car on the way home I ask dad if the reporter is a jerk.

            “He was just doing his job,” dad insists.

            “It's his job to be a jerk!” mom says, adding, “I thought you handled it well.  Thank the Lord this isn't Mississippi.”

            Three Civil Rights workers have gone missing there.  It's on the news every night.

            Dad fumes, “I'd round up every single one of those damned Klan men and give them a public whipping.  We'd find out what happened quick!”

            “John!” mom scolds him, “you're a judge now!”

            Dad says, “They got folks, capable black folks, who are fighting for their rights down there.  These white northern college kids go down there and are just muddying the water!”

            “Young people are idealistic,” mom says.

            “I know,” he says, a little ashamed.

            “You're going to be a great judge,” mom says.

            The car is quiet for most of the drive up the Mountain.  The farther we get away from the Valley, the more the tension eases.

            Dad turns around to say something to me and for a second I'm back on the MacArthur bus with Arly. 

            Mom cries, “John!  Keep your eye on the road.”

            He turns back around but continues.  “You know, your people fought for the Union.  This 'states rights' bullshit was settled a hundred years ago.  With good men's blood.  You know, more men died in the Civil War than World War II?” 

            I know this, because he's told me a hundred times before and I know exactly where this is going.

            “And your great-great-grandfather fought for the 7^th Tennessee in the Union Army.  He was captured in Union City, Tennessee, and sent to Andersonville Prison.  He died of dysentery in that prison camp!  Can you imagine?”  It's been three generations and it still upsets him.

            I can imagine.  I've seen photographs of survivors of Andersonville.  They don't look much different than those from Auschwitz.  Naked living skeletons.  Mouths hanging open in mute accusation.  The eyes black holes but not blind.  Not blind.  

            “You know, I reopen Andersonville,” dad says as we pull in the driveway, “if I could send every one of those KKK sons of bitches there!  Let 'em learn some real history.”

            “John!” mom says, more at his language than the sentiment.

______________________________________

Author:  Luke Powers

My bio: I teach English at Tennessee State University, an historically black college in Nashville, TN. I received a Ph.D. in English from Vanderbilt University where I hoped to be the last of the fugitives, but found out they had already fled. I have an M.A. in Folklore from UNC-Chapel Hill, which I attended as a Morehead Scholar. I am a songwriter who has worked with a range of artists including Mark Collie, Garth Hudson (The Band) and Richard Lloyd (Television). I once got to sing with Johnny Cash. Downloads of my music are available at www.phoebeclaire.net and jango.com.

The entire book is currently available for free download at http://www.phoebeclaire.net.