The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 7, Part 1

Posted 04-07-20 

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 7, Part 1

Tuesday, December 26, 1871 Continued

At that moment, Nancy Osbourne stood and went up to join Reverend Yingling at the podium. The latter withdrew a space and Miss Osbourne was left facing the crowd. She drew a deep breath.

“I remember Myron Caldwell very well,” she said. “When I came to Eerie, he was an eighth grader. In Myron I saw a boy who was often sad and often angry. I wanted to help, but I scarcely knew what to do. I was only seventeen years old, new to my job and adjusting to a new home. I was both unseasoned and disoriented.

“Even so, my instincts should have been better. Like him, my brother and I had lost our parents a very early age. I should have grasped what Myron was feeling. I knew oh so well what it is like to live each day in a daze, trying to hide my grief and endlessly asking myself why fate had used me so unfairly. Fortunately, little by little, my wounds, and Carl’s wounds, too, closed. That healing, which I believe come from the mercy of God, was the very thing that could have eventually rescued Myron.

“Alas, our young neighbor was not granted time enough to attain peace and reconciliation. When we remember Myron, we should not recall the violent last moments of his life, but the good student and the good friend that he could have been, had only fate dealt him fewer blows. Who of us is so sure that he would have performed better than Myron did under the same circumstances? In the comfort of his home, each of us ought to give thanks to our Creator in so far as we have had an easier path to walk than did young Myron Caldwell.

“Today I join my prayers with the reverend’s, asking mercy for our departed neighbor. We hope with all our hearts that moment before He faced eternity, Myron found time enough to repent at the knees of Christ and ask forgiveness. If such a thing happened, his unexpected death would have been the very last of his sorrows.”

Miss Osbourne concluded her eulogy with a nod to the people.

After Nancy stepped down, the minister resumed his position at the podium. Fixing his glance upon Irene, he said, “Dear Mrs. Fanning, as the nearest and dearest to your nephew, have you any words to offer for the boy whose spirit has so regrettably departed from our veil?”

Myra glanced at Irene's profile. Her aunt hadn't said anything about having to speak. What could she possibly say, the girl wondered, that wouldn’t be a damned lie?

Irene Fanning reacted slowly, as if wrestling with the twin bullies of bashfulness and duty. Then, with an expression of sorrow and resolution, she stood up and went forward.

Upon the teacher’s dais, the widow began with these words: “Dear friends and neighbors. I can hardly express my family’s appreciation for the friendship you all extend through your attendance here today. Your support lends us the strength of our brethren and reminds us that we are never alone. In the warmth of your sympathetic society, we are able to feel that we are a part of a greater whole.

“Myron left us a year ago, determined to plot his own course. I worried about him every day while he was away, and prayed every evening that God should show him the way to a better place. A sad event has happened, but who can say that my wish was not granted, or that it will not be granted soon?”

At her desk, Myra couldn’t help but scowl. Better place? Nothing had been rescued from her disaster except rags and ruins that didn’t add up to any kind of life, at least one that she wanted to live.

“Many people believe that death ends all hope for the unsaved,” Irene continued, “but God is a god of life and nothing happens against His will. And His will, we all believe, is to do His utmost to deliver every soul. Our Methodist faith holds that unrepentant sin leads inevitably into an unhappy eternity. But is that necessarily so? Who of us now gathered here can doubt that whatever God wishes to achieve, He can achieve. But He expects us to do our part. The onus upon us is light; we only need to raise our eyes to Him and take His gifts.”

Myra looked around the room. Yingling’s face had tightened with concern and, perhaps, disapproval. Other parishioners, too, seemed doubtful. But not all of them. There might have been some Catholic well-wishers amongst the crowd, and these would have had no reason to disparage Mrs. Fanning’s optimism. In fact, her words endorsed one of their deeply-held doctrines. But Myra realized that her aunt wasn't challenging the Methodist faith, nor was she endorsing the beliefs of another denomination. She was confessing a secret, maybe because she so disliked telling lies.

“I believe in my heart,” Mrs. Fanning continued, “that the spirit of Myron is still very near. I feel his presence every day. I believe that, by God’s Mercy, Myron's ultimate fate is not yet set in stone. I retain fond hope and I wish, with all my might, that he can accept God’s grace even from the place where he is now and that his repentance shall open the door to another world.”

Myra cringed, hoping that no one around her was smart enough to understand what was really being said.

Mrs. Fanning was not finished yet. “I had no children of my own, but even without parenting skills I came to Eerie with only one purpose in mind -- to help a child who had been left all alone. I nonetheless felt unready. At nineteen I had been widowed, and my loss had come even before I could stop thinking of myself as a new bride.

“In trying to give comfort, I depended very heavily on prayer. Oftentimes, I confessed to our Creator, ‘I cannot do this by myself, Lord; I need your guidance.’ I suppose that I was asking for a miracle because I felt so inadequate for carrying out my responsibilities.

“Friends and parishioners, is it really necessary for us to believe that any soul is irrecoverably lost at any particular moment? I think that God must see the days of our lives differently from we are able to do. We must not lose hope, even in what seems to be our darkest moments. We should continue to let our prayers fly freely to Heaven. Unforeseen things happen; a lamb may be lost, but a lamb can also be found. It is the very best of shepherds who will leave a hundred sheep in the pen and go out, even into the storm, to find the one lamb that has strayed. Prayer is how we plead for our shepherd to reclaim us. Prayer is very powerful and prayers are often answered.”

After a brief pause, she said, “Thank you.” Then, solemnly, Mrs. Fanning stepped out from behind the podium.

Myra, as if feeling eyes on the back of her neck, looked over her shoulder. In the thick of the Severin family sat George, looking at her intently, but with an indecipherable expression.

#

Thursday, December 28, 1871

At home, two days following, Aunt Irene suddenly told her niece, “It's time that I took some milk and eggs to our customers in town. Would you like to come and do some shopping?”

“No thanks,” the girl had replied. “I've been in town on Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday already.”

“But we weren’t able to shop then.”

“I can’t think of anything I need. Anyhow, I still don't have any money. And it’ld be nice to get back to reading Mark Twain.”

“If you say so, but I have a few things that I could usefully pick up. Come, help me load the milk.”

The milk cans were kept in the cold-cellar, which was accessible through a pair of sloping storm doors. The dugout, located under the house, kept perishables cool in warm weather. Also, it reduced the chance of freezing during winter’s frosts. As a team, they carried each can individually to the buckboard. That being complete, Aunt Irene dressed for town and subsequently set out down Riley Canyon Road.

Myra watched her keeper grow small and distant before setting to work searching the house. While doing so, she tried to not make it look like thieves had rummaged the place. The first places she searched were the most accessible locations. When these didn't yield anything, the girl climbed into the loft and rummaged amid the tangled piles of storage. While she explored, Myra was thinking about what should be her next step in the event of finding nothing. Her best bet, it seemed, would be to confronting her aunt directly concerning the lost days of the past. Obviously, though, that course might end badly for her.

Every trunk, box, and bag that could possibly hide a bundle of letters seemed worth examining. The light was dim in the tightest crawl spaces and she had to move her candle repeatedly from one spot to another. The first letters that she found were unimportant ones going back to Civil War days. In general, it appeared that not many people had been writing to Irene over the past five years. She seemed to have lost all connection with Pennsylvania and New Jersey after she had gone West -- except for a few very reserved cards sent by Uncle Amos’ wife Claudella and her daughter Abigail.

Turning up a letter pack dated from 1866, Myra reacted as if she had found treasure. Down on the kitchen floor, standing by the window, she read each return address quickly. The girl espied one sent by from Irene herself, dated from late July! She eagerly unfolded the single page it contained and read it carefully.

“Dearest Sister,

“This is the worst possible news I could ever have imagined. I can’t stop thinking about that poor man who died so terribly! How could Christian people become involved in a mine robbery? It sounds beyond belief. And what about the neighbor whom you say helped you? Tragedy upon tragedy. Since reading your words has been like hearing the words of an angel. He is saying 'For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'

“Your letter thankfully lends me at least one small morsel of comfort. Your moral senses seem to be intact, though you claim to have done incomprehensible things. I will be brief, because you clearly grasp everything that I could possibly offer as advice. Here I sit, at a loss as to what to say. I want to help you and your family get through what will certainly be a time of anguish. I want to come to Arizona, if you will only permit it. The whole family must take council. Much must be done, but, truly, we dare not act in haste. A great deal may be lost should we act in any ill-considered way. Whatever course we choose to follow, it must directed toward doing the most good and the least harm.

“Please do not argue against my coming. My place is with those whom I most love. My present town and my little rented room holds nothing for me except sad memories.

“Write back immediately, dearest, and afford me the hope, if possible, that you have spoken in exaggeration. I will pray that things are not really so black as they now appear. I will keep praying for your welfare until the very moment that we are reunited.”

With all my love,

Your sister Irene.

#

Myra sat back in her chair, her face yellowed by the light of the kerosene flame. 'They were thieves,' the girl whispered to herself. In fact, Irene’s letter made it sound like they had killed a man. And one of their neighbors had somehow helped them to carry out the crime!

Thoughts buzzed around her mind like large bottle flies. The mention of a mine robbery told everything she needed to know. It all fit in with what Sheriff Talbot had said about the clerk who had robbed his employer and then ridden away. Had he gone to her own parent's farm? Why? Had they all been in on the plot together? Were her folks so greedy that they had murdered their confederate the very moment that he had shown up with the loot? Was there an unmarked grave somewhere on the family property? And what had become of the stolen gold? Had it all been spent before the her parents’ death, or was some of it still hidden close by?

That was it! Matt Grimsley, she now recalled, had kept nagging Irene about selling him the farm, almost from the first day that she had arrived. “You'll sink every penny you have into this place and you won't be able to make things work,” he’d said. “You don't know beans about operating a farm, Missy, and you’ll be needing more help on this land than just a boy.” Irene, Myra remembered, repeatedly had to tell the neighbor that it wasn't up to her to sell out, that the farm belonged to Myron. She’s insisted that whatever happened to his family legacy had to be left to him, but he was still too young make such a faithful decision.

It was now starkly clear as to why Grimsley had poked around the edges of the property so often. He probably had clues about where the gold might be buried.

Myra flared with hot anger. She felt like going out and shooting the schemer dead. But, a moment later, she remembered that it was cholera that had killed her folks, not Grimsley. He was selfish and greedy, yes, but so was everybody else. Worse, this particular person, bad as he was, was Kayley's father. Nothing that happened had been the kids’ fault; they almost certainly didn’t know that their pa had done something wrong. Maybe even his own wife didn't know.

Besides, even if Myra had a gun pointed at his very heart, she wouldn’t have been able to pull the trigger. That damned magic spell wouldn’t have let her.

The girl sat were she was for a while, unsettled, confused. It wasn't that Myra thought that stealing was so bad. She had herself tried to live by the grab. But never in her wildest imaginings had she ever supposed that her own parents were capable of sinking so low. The lessons that they had tried to teach to Myron were just the opposite.

Myra could hardly put her mind around the fact that her parents weren’t good people. They had, in fact, been just like her. Knowing the truth about them was like being stabbed with a Bowie knife.

Feeling weak and sick, Myra rested her head upon her arms and wept.

#

Eventually, Aunt Irene came back. Her tired manner changed abruptly when she saw the expression on Myra’s face.

“What's that funny look you have?” Mrs. Fanning asked.

“I know about it,” Myra said, her voice hardly better than a small rasp.

Irene blinked. “About what?”

“Tell me, and don’t lie. Did my folks kill a man and take his gold?”

“Who told you such a thing?!” the farm woman exclaimed.

“You did. I read the last letter you wrote to my mother.”

Irene felt like a sawed tree trunk ready to fall. “Myra! You shouldn't have done that! Why did you want to dig through those old letters?”

The girl had turned away and was staring off toward the hearth fire. “I was trying to find a reason to think that things weren’t as bad as they seemed to be.”

For a moment, neither of the kinswomen spoke. Myra broke the silence. “You should have told me about it all!”

Irene shook her head. “What good could that have done? Would it have made a grieving boy feel any better? Would it have made him any less angry? Would knowing about something so awful prevent him from running away? Remembering your parents with love and respect made you a better person. I didn’t want to take that away from you. It seemed to be my duty to carry the burden alone, so that you wouldn’t have to carry it, too.”

“I loved them!” the girl shouted.

“Yes, and that love was good and right. It’s your love that will help you remember the very best about your folks and, in time, it will help you to forgive them. I've been trying to do that for the last five years.”

“Did they really commit murder?” the seventeen year old asked tremulously.

Her aunt grimaced. “It was a complex tragedy. I read your mother’s letter only once. I never wanted to read it again. I don't remember all the details of her confession, but I'm sure that she felt that she and your father were responsible for his death.”

“I have to know what they did. I’ll lose my wits not knowing.”

“I understand. You’re hoping that there is something that will make things seem a little less dark. Maybe there is.” Irene took a deep breath. “I still have your mother’s last letter. But are you sure that reading it won’t cause your heart to break?”

“I can’t feel worse. I have to make sense of this.”

Irene was silent for a moment and then, without words, she took the lantern from the table and ascended into the loft. Myra stayed by the table, watching. The moving lamplight could hardly be seen behind the clutter. Then were rummaging sounds.

Only a few minutes later, Irene came down from above. She had left the kerosene lantern hanging from the small iron hook above the ladder, freeing one of her hands to carry a wooden box. She placed this mysterious object on the floor and then went back up to retrieve the lamp. Myra sat staring at the box as if it were the cage of a deadly viper. When Irene returned, she placed both the lantern and the small box on the kitchen table, side by side.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7, Part 2

The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 19

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

THE WOUNDED WORLD:
A Story of Mantra

Originally written 2006

Posted March 21, 2020

CHAPTER 19

ALL OUR YESTERDAYS

Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.
                        William Blake

 

“Blake, are you all right?” asked Wrath.

 "F-Fine,” I said. “I’ve had a rough time of it.”

“What happened?”

I had a spin ready for him.  “After you left Evie and me alone in the van, I suddenly heard Gus's voice calling. He was ordering me to come to him. I think he was using mind-control. I couldn't hold myself back.  I told Evie to stay with the driver, and then I ran off into the dark. I didn’t even know where I was supposed to go. The next thing I knew, I was in a construction site with my ankles and wrists tied. I was gagged, too, and couldn’t attract help from anyone. The bonds must have been magical, because, suddenly, after a while, they dissolved and I could get up. I got out of there as quickly as I could.”

I didn’t like falsely casting blame on Gus, but telling the truth could get me into too much trouble.

“What’s your location?” 

“I don’t know. I need to find a sign, or ask somebody. There aren’t very many people on the street.”

Several seconds of silence followed. "Well, I’m sorry I have to tell you this, Mrs. Blake,” Tunney said at last. “We've intercepted a police call. I’m afraid it’s very bad news."

"It's about Gus?" I asked, bracing myself to hear a bout the boy’s death.

"Yes...it is." Then he told me what I already knew.

"W-Where's Evie?" I stammered.

"She's still with us. I thought she'd be safest if we kept her with the team."

"Y-Yes, thank you," I replied. "Does Evie know yet?"

"No. Telling a little girl something of that kind is no job for a stranger. I'm willing to stand with you -- when you talk to her, I mean.”

“What ultras were with Gus when...it happened?” I asked.

Two of the big-name, Hardcase and Yrial, that Indian girl from the Strangers.”

“Did they attack the boy?” I asked, letting my feelings seep into my tone.

“The report said that they’d pursued the boy from the school, intending to apprehend him. He turned at bay inside Runnymede Park and fought back powerfully. It’s their contention that they used no lethal force, but that the little guy died from some sort of seizure."

"D-Do you think that's how it really was?"

"Damned if I know. For the time being it’s in the hands of the city police.  The body is being taken to the Woodland Hills Medical Center. I’ll notify the Company about what I know. What do you want me to do -- about your little girl, I mean?"

"Would you take her to her grandmother's house? That’s where I intend to go next." I gave him the address.

"You don’t sound good, Mrs. Blake. Should we come pick you up?"

"No,” I said. “I can deal with this. There’s a restaurant close by.  I’ll summon a cab from there."

At that moment,  I found myself listening to a mutter of voices in Wrath’s background. Then Tunney’s voice returned, crisp with excitement:

"Something else has gone down."

"What?"

"There was a sighting of two new Mantra-style babes in an aerial fight over West Hollywood. One of them fits the description of a flying woman that we sighted near the school. The other one is described as having a snake tattoo on her leg."

"Two new Mantras? That doesn't make sense."

"There must be a whole sorority of them. Anyway, the pair of them were going at each other like they were crazy. The snake girl was blasted out of the air by some sort of explosion. Then the one in black followed her down and cut off her head. Oh, I should add that the killer had an accomplice, a heavily-armed male in a mask. One witness thought that it might have been Strike. We'll have to check out that angle. The suits around the office would be damned happy to have an excuse to go after him."

"H-Happy?” the break in my voice was real. “I-I’m sorry; I just can't talk anymore."

"I believe it.  We’ll see you soon.” With a simple farewell of “Out!” he disconnected.

"Any problem?" Strike asked.

I shook my head. "None that I can't handle. I need to contact Yrial?"

"Yeah, do it."

I made good on the telepathic linkup and Yrial brought me up to speed. She and Hardcase were still answering questions at the Canoga Park police department. There wasn’t much more that she could tell me.  I clicked off and passed along to Tark what little I’d learned.

My companion gave back a thoughtful frown before asking, “Do you want a ride over to your mother’s place?”

I shook my head. “No, you should lay low. We might run into Aladdin otherwise. They know that you were near Necromantra when she died and that makes you a suspect. But you’ve got worse problems to think about.” I then reiterated my advice that he should go inactive for the next couple days.

He nodded gravely, but didn’t let on that he would heed my advice. With a mumbled "goodbye," Strike mounted and rode off. I was left alone, there on Hollywood Boulevard, watching his exhaust fade into the night.

Up to this point, my adrenaline had been keeping me functioning. But now that it was leaching from my system, I shivered. My emotional state was going south. That wasn’t like me, not the old me.  I had lost thousands of comrades in battle across a long span of centuries, but I’d always toughed it out. Now I was living a whole new kind of life and dealing with having a whole new emotional structure. That night I learned how much worse it feels for a parent to lose a child than for a another person to lose a mate or a lover.

But letting go would solve nothing. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. Consequently, I mounted into the air currents and soon, flying west, touched down close to Barbara Freeman's home. Thereupon I switched into civilian garb and went inside by the front door. She'd only just returned from her date and the first topic that came to her mind concerned who was watching the kids. The heartbreaking news just poured out of me after that. The flinty old lady, the army wife, was visibly shaken, but I knew that the worst was yet to come. Wrath would be arriving with Evie very soon. Once that happened, it would be up to me to tell a tender little tyke the worst news that she had ever heard -- at least since the death of her real mother.

As Barbara forlornly sat sobbing on the couch, I drifted to the window to watch for oncoming van lights. Part of me hoped that I wouldn’t see them before the next calendar year.

To get my mind off that faithful arrival, I took stock.  My powers were back. Lauren was alive, and so was Evie. Necromantra couldn’t threaten my family any longer.  Heather Parks and her friends were probably all right, though I hadn’t had a chance to confirm that. On the down side, the damage to the school would be a sore loss to the neighborhood. But what really made my heart sink was knowing that I was still stuck in some alternate realty. What was happening at home? Were my own Gus and Evie well?

In August, I had been in a similar fix, having appeared in an alternate world where no one had ever heard of Mantra. After a period of reorientation, I had made a dimensional portal that led home, but I didn’t know if the same enchantment would work now. Even giving the best case scenario, I’d be be leaving the Evie of this world alone at the moment of her worst despair.
 
I suddenly had an idea!

If I could find my way home, I might be able to take the local Evie with me! Once on my world, she would have a brother again -- one without the curse that had brought her family such woe. She could have a whole new life. 
 
Come off it, Lukasz! It won’t work.

I wasn’t thinking logically. How could I explain to my neighbors, the school, and the social services that Evie had suddenly acquired a twin? The sensation-loving media would pile on and my secretive life might not be able to stand up to their feeding frenzy. Worse, how would either of my daughters react to suddenly becoming part of a pair? How would Gus deal with such a thing? And by taking her away, wouldn’t I be doing injury to other innocent people -- her father, her uncles, her cousins, and her grandparents? They surely cherished the Evie they knew and would never allow me to remove her to another diminsion, especially if I were honest enough to admit that I wasn’t her real mother. Spiriting her away without their consent was out of the question. The child's mysterious disappearance might blight the lives of the entire family, and there could be no expiration date for that type of emotional torture.

And besides that, what kind of reality would I be going back to?  If this present version of myself was composed of my spirit in the body of this world’s Mantra, what was the state of alter ego back home? Was the Eden Blake of that world comatose? Was it walking around, oblivious to the ghastly adventures that I had been having? If I arrived there, would my world suddenly have two Mantras? Which of us would be the more justified in laying claim to the life that we both wished to have?  Would we have to fight it out, or would one of us need to gracefully bow out and go away?  Any way I looked at it, returning could mean trouble and sorrow -- and this world’s Evie would be mixed up in all the anguish and confusion. I didn’t want that.

Feeling bummed, I took another glance outside. The street seemed so empty. The moon above was masked behind a blanket of green vapors. The locals were probably shocked by the destruction of the school. How very dark the Night of Terror loomed. The neighbors were probably anxiouis and staying indoors. Had the night’s stock of abominable things finally run out, or were other strange magicks still going on nearby? Should I head out on patrol after I told Evie the bad news? I couldn’t leave her when she needed comforting the most. I was tired of fighting and planning. I wanted some peace and quiet, so I could sit alone nd weep. One of the worst things about being a woman is having womanish emotions.
 
Then, at just that moment, I saw myself backing away from myself.

I was time-shifting again! But why? I'd only been in this time frame for a few hours. Was my condition getting worse? Was I completely losing my anchorage in time? Was I about to become a leaf in a hurricane, blown randomly – until something – maybe even my own hand – would end my misery in an unnatural way?

#

Then, in what seemed like seconds, I was sitting elsewhere, surrounded by different people -- all sorts of people. I moved my left arm in startlement and was barely aware of having struck something. It was like I was half in a dream or half out of it. I fought to focus.

There was the sound of a chair being shoved away and I heard a complaint: "Hey, Mom, be careful!"

Astonished, I turned toward what was a familiar voice.

What I saw froze me in place.
 
Gus was alive again.

And, also great, Gus was Gus!

He was sitting across a table from me. He wasn't disfigured. I was seeing the same Gus that I had known before.

And he was scowling at me.

"You're looking spacey, Mom," the boy remarked. "People are going to think you're creepy."

I glanced around. Evie was seated to my right. Then it dawned on me that we were back in The Mall in Canoga Park. I looked down at myself and found that I was wearing the same shirt and jeans that I’d worn on Thursday night.

Did I dare to hope that, by some providence, I’d come home?

I touched my little girl's arm, wanting tactile proof that she was really there. Her flesh felt soft and warm. My voice sounded very shaky asking her, "Button, what d-day is this?"

"Ahh... it's Thursday, Mommy."

"Thursday the fourteen?"

She looked to her brother. "It's the fourteenth, isn't it, Gus?"

"Yeah, it is."

But then I felt something cold and clammy. Coca Cola was dribbling off the table and into my lap. I pushed my chair back, stood up, and attacked the wetness with a napkin.

Sitting down again, I glanced at the child. She seemed calm and bright, so unlike the woebegone tyke of that other world, the one so full of fear and sorrow.

Was I home?  Was I really home?

"Mommy, why are you looking that way? Are you mad about something?" Evie asked.

Shaking the cobwebs from my mind, I said, "No, Pumpkin. How could I be mad? Here I am with the little girl that I love the most."

She smiled again, but with uncertainty.

"Kids," I began slowly. "I think I must have blacked out for a few seconds. I'm still a little mixed up. We shopped for school supplies tonight, didn’t we?"

"Yeah," said Gus, who was looking at me as if I were an odd amphibian specimen from his nature-studies class.

"And then we got into line to eat at this restaurant -- the Kids' Club?"

"Yeah! Mom, are you putting us on?"

"Was I with you the whole time, or did I go off somewhere?"

"You were with us, Mommy," replied Evie. "You said, 'Let's eat at this one,' and we all sat down. Then you looked around and spilled your drink."

What did it all mean? What did anything mean?

Whatever you do, Lukasz, keep calm. Don't scare the kids.

"Umm, did I act funny at this table, or say funny things?”

"Not until now," Gus opined.

It seemed like I had lost about ten minutes, but during those ten minutes I had lived for days in the future. But it actually hadn’t been the future of this world.

What, exactly, had happened?
 

TO BE CONCLUDED IN CHAPTER 20.

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 6, Part 2

Posted 03-07-20 

Revised 04-07-20 

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 6, Part 2

Monday, December 25, 1871

“Myra!” Aunt Irene called up into the loft from the kitchen.  “It snowed last night!”

The girl took the news with interest. She hurriedly threw on a robe and then clambered down the ladder to take a look outside.

Myra, standing at the threshold, a cold wind blowing in her face, could see that the farm had been buried under a white blanket. She noticed no break in the cottony covering, except where there were tallish stands of dry, brown weeds. The farm girl bent down, poked an index finger into the snow and estimated that its depth had to be about four inches. While she had seen heavier winter covering in Pennsylvania, she had never witnessed more than a dusting here and there in Arizona. She supposed that the newspaper was going to sell very well this week, with people buying copies so that they could clip and save the news story describing the big snow.  

In contrast to the excitement provided by the weather, Christmas morning’s breakfast tasted bland. Irene had left all the fancy party food at the schoolhouse. The hostesses there would see that the leftovers would be kept in a cold room and delivered to the church in time for the Sunday Christmas service. What was left over would be distributed to the poor of the town, including the men living in the squatter shacks. Thinking about that kind of charity made Myra frown. Giveaways always seemed to be taken advantage of. The ne’er-do-wells, like Lydon Kelsey to name one, would no doubt have lingered after the party to be able to go home with a bag of eatables tucked under each arm.  

Abruptly, Irene left the table and stepped into the walk-in pantry. When she emerged, she was carrying a wrapped box. The sight of what she guessed to be her Christmas gift made Myra feel awkward. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think about getting you anything.”

“Sweetheart,” Irene responded, “that's all right. I know you don't have any money.”

That was bitterly true. “Is that my fault?” Myra asked distastefully.

Mrs. Fanning shook her head. “Christmas is not the time for fault finding. Don't worry about presents. This has been a season of miracles, and I'd be ashamed to ask the Lord for more blessings than He has already seen fit to send us. Until last week, I thought I would have to pass a Christmas without you, but that didn’t happen.”

Myra pursed her lips. The “blessings” that the Man Upstairs she had been dealing her seemed like raw deals.

Instead of venting her feelings, the girl opened the parcel and found a book inside. When Myra started tearing at the paper, she was assuming that the tome might be Le Morte d’Arthur, but that wasn’t so. “Innocents Abroad? What's this about?” she asked.

Irene replied with a smile. “It's the story of Mark Twain's trip to Europe and the Holy Land a couple of years ago.  I know how much you like to read about far away places.  And Mr. Twain is a very good writer.”

“I've heard of him.”  She hefted the book.  “This one is one big sucker, anyway.”

“I hope it will give you some good reading. By the way, there'll be no unnecessary work done today. Just help me keep the animals well tended, the eggs gathered, and the cows milked. Oh, and we're both going to have to take a bath right away, since the Severins will be expecting us for dinner.”

Socializing wasn't something that the girl looked forward to, but she didn’t think that she could wheedle out of it.

Myra set her new book aside and dressed warmly for outdoor work. It would be a morning to remember, since she had to walk through ankle-deep snow while leaving distinct footprints behind. Later on, when the chores were done, the girl went back inside and found that her aunt had been heating water to fill the tub. As was the custom, the older person bathed first. It startled Myra to realize that that Irene was no longer shy about undressing in front of her. That, more than anything else, let her know that her aunt was thinking of her as another female!  

A while later, soaking in her own bath, Miss Myra couldn't help but wonder whether there were any more letters hidden around the farmstead. She was much more interested in that subject than in visiting the neighbors. To make a search, however, she would need to be alone on the grounds. But that wasn’t going to happen until after Christmas. 

The girl was resigned to act like nothing was going on.  After bathing and donning presentable clothing, they put on their coats and went out together to hitch up the buckboard. Upon setting out, they could see that the snow wasn’t deep enough to impede their short trip.

The Serverins met them in their front yard. Escorted indoors, they found the air fragrant with fresh baking. Myra had known from childhood that Mrs. Severin was a good cook. The meal that she and Rosedale served up just a short while later was a strong reminder that this really was Christmas Day. 

After the holiday dining was finished, Aunt Irene remained with Mr. and Mrs. Severin in the kitchen, while Rosedale coaxed Myra to come along into the “family room.” This was an add-on that had made the small original house more comfortable for a growing family. Besides George and Dale, the neighbors had two younger sons and another daughter. The smaller kids became as noisy as ferrets as they played with their Christmas gifts. The new whistle that one of the boys kept blowing made Myra want to throw a piece of firewood in his direction. 

Rosedale and George were full of questions, wanting to know about Myra’s impressions of Eerie so far. They also wished to learn more about her New Jersey home. Spinning a yarn about an imaginary home taxed her imagination, forcing her to make up everything on the fly. She stitched together a plausible story based on her male boyhood, while holding back as much detail as possible. Myra described a farm girl’s life vaguely based on Myron’s experiences, but made it sound better and less impoverished than it had really been. 

Rosedale, inspired by the local weather, wanted to know about the snowy winters back East. Myra claimed that she had liked them and then threw in a few flourishes, mostly taken from incidents from past reading, such as playing fox and the goose with friends and making snow angels. Then Dale coaxed their young visitor away to the little room which the Severin girl shared with her smaller sister. 

She proceeded to show off her favorite girlish do-dads. Myra had a hard time pretending that she was even remotely interested, but by calculation kept her demeanor friendly. The ginger took care not to ask too many questions about the display, so as to not show off her ignorance regarding the daily lives of girls of Dale’s age.

The visiting continued until the mid-afternoon, when the elder Severins sent Dale and George outdoors to begin their end-of-day chores. Myra was left alone with the three younger children while the adults carried on their conversation for a while longer. After another hour, the Nettie and Walter Severin left the table and started dressing for their own accustomed chores. At the same time, Myra and Irene got ready to leave, having a couple hours of work waiting for them back home also. The light, after all, would not last forever. 

#

On the return buckboard trip, Myra could see that the snow had mostly melted. To the girl, snow was like a piece of art; it was pretty but useless. Even so, she liked seeing it once in a while because it gave the drab landscape a fresh look. Miss Olcott actually felt sorry that everything was going to be left bare again so soon. The melting too obviously served as a metaphor for the shutting down of the holiday mood, such as it was. 

Once home, they changed again and set to their chores. The drudgery that followed drained away all the lingering magic of Christmas Day. While at work, Myra thought ahead to Monday, when there would be a church service held for Thorn Caldwell, as if he were really dead. The author of the hoax wished that she could avoid the agony of it all, especially since staying home would have given her a needed opportunity to search the house. But women like Irene Fanning put great stock in keeping up appearances. In her aunt’s mind, their attendance at the memorial was an absolutely necessary. 

With the sun down and the lanterns turned off for the night, Myra lay quietly in the dark loft, still wondering where Irene might have concealed a box containing keepsake letters. She clung to the possibility that the important missives had, in fact, been preserved, if only because of her aunt’s hopeless sentimentality. 

The cluttered pantry, with shelving climbing so high that they required a stepladder to look at, would be a logical place to start a search, or so Myra reasoned. Myron hadn’t been a snoopy child and had not explored every corner of the home nor opened every box in it. There was, to be honest, a lot that he could have missed. And it also occurred to Myra that her guardian might very well have moved things into new places over the last year, maybe even making use of the loft for storage. After all, her nephew had gone away without any promise to return. It was therefore conceivable that a box containing what she sought might lay only a few feet away from her bed. That would make things easier. 

The mystery concerning her family nagged at the girl fiercely, but she knew she needed to brake her impatience. Sometime, soon, there would come an opportunity to search the house thoroughly. In fact, during the upcoming week, Irene would have take their fresh milk and eggs into town to resupply their customers, which now included the Eerie Saloon.

Myra gritted her teeth at the mere thought of that den of witchery. The very sound of its name made her angry.

The wind had picked up outside, blowing noisily through the farmstead. With so much on Myra’s mind, sleep didn't come swiftly. She couldn’t help but think about the old days, back when she had been living in a normal way, a way that would never come again. 

Some memories made her wonder. Why had her parents suddenly started mentioning the Grimsley name more often at a certain point? And why did they usually do it in such a sneaky way, oftentimes looking around to make sure that they couldn't be overheard? It didn’t fit in logically. They had been cordial with the Grimsley family, true, but had always kept stronger ties with the Severins. 

Personally, Myra had not liked Matt Grimsley. It had been the Grimsleys who had taken Myron in after his folks had died. He had gone there because the family had the larger house, especially since the Severins had not as yet constructed their expansion. Mrs. Grimsley had been gracious and welcoming, and so was Kayley, but the head of the house had treated Myron like an indentured servant. He was always being reminding that the chores he did would pay for his bed and board. And, later on, Mr. Grimsley had offended him even more severely. He'd been caught trespassing upon the Caldwell land a number of times, mostly prowling about the margins of the property. Whenever Myron had encountered him in the act and asked what he was doing, the man would avoid a straight answer and instead ask to know what the big fuss was all about. 

Trying to remember bygone times was like stepping into a dark room and lighting a lantern. With effort, she recalled bits and pieces, but oftentimes Myra could make no sense of the random details. Like, there was that spring day when Myron had walked home from school and discovered a strange horse feeding in the corral. He had asked his pa about it and was told that it belonged to a traveler. According to him, the man had fallen sick as he was riding by and was unable to continue. Ma had led him to a mound of hay in the barn where he could rest warmly, covered by a spare horse blanket.  Then the girl remembered something else, that her dad, right off, had ordered Myron not to go into the barn to get a look at the stranger, explaining that he might have something catching. “We don't want to be taking any risk, not until we're sure we know what's ailing him.”

“Won't Ma be catching what he got?” young Myron had asked.

“She knows how to be careful,” was his pa’s only answer.

What happened then? When happened then? Myra demanded of herself.

Still gripped by sleeplessness, Myra dredged up another kernel of memory. The folks had not let Myron go into the barn for the next couple nights after that, for safety’s sake, they said.  Finally, on the third day, he had come back from school to find that the stranger’s horse was gone. The boy asked his ma about it and she said that the man had ridden away on it. 

“Is he all right now?” Myron had asked. 

“He just had a flu. Don't worry about it anymore,” she told him.

Slowly, bit by bit, other memories floated to the surface, odd recollections from Myron's school days. But they all added up to a very incomplete puzzle. Even so, among all the ragged memories, one thing stood out. It was at about the same time that the man had gone away that Ma and Pa had started to act sad all the time.

With a sigh, the tired girl snuggled deeper into the meager comfort of the straw-stuffed tick under her, one ear pressed to the goose-down pillow for warmth. Because the other side of her face felt cold, she covered it with the woolen blankets, leaving only a gap for breathing. The snow, obviously, had summoned in colder weather and a howling wind. She supposed that there was going to be a good share of frosty nights coming, now that winter was settling in. 

#

Tuesday, December 26, 1871

Though Christmas had regrettably come and gone for another year, the next morning was a busy one. She and her aunt worked hard to finish the chores in time to attend the memorial. Dinner had to be taken a little earlier than usual, to give them time to wash and scrub. Irene didn't insist that the two of them take another bath, since they’d had one the day before. By the time they had dressed for church, it was time to leave.

Despite it being Tuesday, school would not be resuming until after New Year’s Day. Myra noticed that the neighbors were all in attendance. The Grimsleys had brought the kids along, but Tully Singer and his wife were alone. All the Severins had come, even the youngest. When George tried to catch her eye, she glanced away. 

Not far from the Severins was a cowboy that Myra recognized, Carl Osbourne. Sitting beside him was his sister, the schoolteacher Nancy Osbourne. Myra had always thought that Nancy was pleasantly pretty and only now did she recall that the young schoolmistress hadn’t been at the Christmas dance. 

Mrs. Cullings, who had taught in the school before her, had always gone to festivals and parties. The difference was that she had been married and could decently avoid gossip by dancing with her husband. A single school teacher, folks always said, shouldn’t be socializing, lest she set a poor example for the children. While conducting class, Miss Nancy had come across as being smart and firm, but not mean; she smiled a lot and regularly gave good answers to the children’s questions. But away from the schoolhouse, she was hardly to be seen at all.

Still, at the moment, Myra Olcott was more concerned with her own problems. What riled her most keenly was the fact that none of the people around the room had ever cared so much as a dog's hair for Thorn Caldwell. Almost everyone had considered him a bad kid. So why were they piling into his memorial service now? There wasn't any food being served, after all. It frustrated her that no one, not even the Severins, were apt to miss the person whom she had been. Maybe coming to a funeral was just something that people did to make themselves look compassionate.  Did any of them really care that the entire Caldwell family had been erased from the earth with the supposed death of Thorn?

She shook her head. It seemed like the family name was doomed to be forgotten. Some families were large and extended, but her pa had not talked much about having any relatives other than his parents. The Caldwell line had, as far as she knew, ended, really ended. What was most galling of all was that it had ended in a way that was so insane.

Who was this new person that she was supposed to be? What was she anyway? A ghost?

What a depressing thought! Myra felt like the last of the Mohicans. Why was she still on the earth? What did she have to live for any longer? What part of her life had, in fact, ever been worth living? Aunt Irene, on the other hand, seemed to think that every life had some God-given purpose. Well, Myra wished that someone could spell out to her, in understandable language, exactly what that purpose happened to be.

When the service got underway, Reverend Thaddeus Yingling went to the podium and offered up a prayer for the soul of the departed. Previously, Thorn had kept as far away from the Eerie preacher as he possibly could. What Yingling was saying now made it sound like he didn’t know much about the man he was memorializing. His recollections about Myron Caldwell were so sketchy and unspecific that they could have been spoken about any saddle tramp who had lately wandered in, or about some nameless transient found in the dirt, dead of snakebite.

The whole experience came across for her as something awful. Myra wished it would just get done with, so she could go home and feel bad all by herself.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7, Part 1