The Legend of Safehaven (21 page)

It was said of Galen that his mind was sharp as a tack, even to the day he died. And that was not far from the truth. Indeed, the retired doctor’s proverbial steel-trap memory of things, people, places, dates, and times endured. But what few realized, and only two really understood, was how the old man managed to store those bits of data that clutter the intellect to the point of confusion and distraction.

He awoke earlier than usual that day. He lay in bed, underneath the same quilt that had covered him and Leni their first night together. He stared nearsightedly at the still-night-darkened window.

His joints ached even after his usual four hours of rest. Maybe it was just the events of the previous evening. He quietly shook his head and touched the pillow that Cathy had made for him, when they had moved into their first house.

He reached for his glasses, slid them over his nose, and looked at the calendar on the opposite wall. The numerals stood out bleakly in heavy black, not just in print but in his heart.

He shook his head again and sat up on the edge of the bed.

Another day
.

He stood up, put on the Beacon bathrobe that June had insisted he wear when he turned fifty-five, and headed to the bathroom.

He dressed warmly. His beloved Leni’s sweater, a gift more than a half-century old now and still bright in its variegated fall colors, protected his seven-plus-decades-old chest. The sheepskin-lined leather gloves, Cathy’s reminder that he needed to keep his then late-forty-something hands warm, still fit, even over the arthritic knobs on the ends of his fingers. The gloves matched the woolen scarf he carefully wrapped around his neck before putting on June’s London Fog coat. She had jokingly told him that his late-fifties body needed the extra protection, and that he could be sure of her advice, because she was a doctor, too.

He carefully protected these and a few other, tangible reminders of shattered dreams as holy relics of his bygone youth.

As he tried to slip out of the house, he caught his reflection in the mirror hanging in the foyer.

So, Galen, who would have thought you’d be spending your last days living with friends and shepherding children, wolves, bears, and assorted other creatures on the top of a mountain in Pennsylvania?

He opened the heavy oak door of the house and stared out into the night.

His destination, even at this early hour, was deep into the woods. His two friends were still soundly asleep, and breakfast was several hours away. But old habits die hard. Ever since he had retired, he still managed to take his solitary, predawn walks, barring the inclement weather the altitude frequently would bring.

His walking stick, a whittled down maple branch Edison had run through his router as a surprise for him a few birthdays ago, tapped lightly on the gravel, as he stood outside deciding in which direction to turn.

The bird pond … yes, that should do it.

He headed down the path still covered by last autumn’s dried leaves. He moved past the old blind, where they all had first studied the wolves and other mountain fauna. Soon he reached what he always had considered his own private little beach.

The winter snows and spring rains had filled the pond almost past capacity, and its shoreline became a pit stop for the thirsty denizens of the forest.

Spring had only declared itself by the calendar. The overnight mountain temperatures still dropped to the low thirties. He pulled the knee-length coat—June’s parting gift before that fateful flight to Colombia—close to his neck. His large ears supported the old pith helmet hat he had worn in the past while planting his Virginia gardens—memorials to his past loves.

He came to the seat-high, glacier-strewn boulder not far from the pond edge and sat to catch his breath. It had been a while since he had been able to walk that far without stopping. He liked to think it was because he was more introspective and not in physical disarray.

Dawn was casting its fireplace glow over the horizon.

They watched the large, two-legged one. Definitely a male to their keen senses, he was well known to them, and they accepted his position of dominance. They didn’t fear him. He and the other two-legged ones had never threatened them, and they often left food.

They moved forward, some on four legs, others by wing, and sat in council with him.

His ears, the only sense that had actually improved with age, picked up the leaf rustling and changing air currents. He turned toward the rock outcropping and cave formations that comprised the wolf den and saw emerald-green eyes returning his gaze. They formed the dominance phalanx with the alpha male and its littermate
consiglieres
at the fore.

The stirring of dried leaves beneath the nearby, still-bare oak tree brought the young owl into view. Its bowling-pin form with folded wings sat on a low limb. The old man’s laughter broke the stillness, and the wind-rippled waves on the small pond provided soft accompaniment.

“Where is my Baloo? Come on, old bear. Come sit with your brother!”

Galen laughed even louder then put his hands to his face to hide the tears.

If they knew how much I still cried, they would’ve dispatched me long ago
.

He didn’t look up until he heard the low-groaning growl and heavy-padding footsteps approach.

Only the Great Horned Owl showed none of the effects of over-wintering, while
Lupus
and
Ursus
displayed the matting and early shedding of their seasonal, thick fur.

“You look as bad as I feel, Baloo. You’re a young bear, not like me.”

The black bear waddled slowly to the pond edge, lapped at the water, then moved to within twenty feet of Galen and sat back comfortably on its haunches. It stretched then let out a loud yawn.

The old doctor looked at each of the forest creatures. He raised himself from his sitting position, turned to the rippling pond water, and returned to his audience.

“If this were a vaudeville routine, I’d start off with a joke, but I don’t feel like making jokes. I know I’m probably crazy for even standing here and talking like this, speaking to a group of wild mammals and birds. But I sense this strange affinity for all of you.”

He felt their keen eyes fixed on him. Okay, he was an old fool, but who else could he talk to? Edison and Nancy would tolerate it, but would they truly understand?

Lem, Ben, Lachlan, the kids? No, he had to remain an image of wisdom and fortitude in their presence. They depended on him.

“My friends, do you know what today is? It’s my birthday.”

The bear rolled over on its back, large tufts of fur falling out as it scratched itself on the ground. The “tchk-tchk” of the owl kept pace.

The alpha wolf moved forward and sniffed the old man’s hand. He looked at its piercing eyes, reached over, and stroked the canine’s head.

He began crying again, but it wasn’t because he was a year older. He sat back down on the boulder, tapped the ground with his stick, and cleared his throat.

“My friends, let me tell you a story. Would you like to hear a story?”

Maybe it was his imagination, or maybe it was just poor eyesight, but the animals seemed to grunt and chirp in agreement.

“Okay, since you asked, I’ll tell you a story about a past time, long before the years when your great, great, great, great grandparents roamed this forest. I was just a boy then … and full of hope.”

The old man stared ahead, his mind leaping over the mountains of memory.

*   *   *

“Edison, are you sure your Mom and Dad won’t mind? I can still catch the bus home.”

He hadn’t even visited another kid’s house in years, much less stay for dinner. But he had told his parents that Edison and he were working on a school science project, so the bases were covered.

Hours had passed, as they worked on the circuit for the muscle stimulator, tweaking the controls to get it just right, when a car horn beeped in the driveway in front of Edison’s father’s garage/workshop.

“It’s my Dad. He had to go into work today. They’re designing some new type of light fixtures, and he’s their top man.”

Robert Edison was proud of his old man, and Ron Edison was just as proud of his son. The sailor boy who had courted Gloria and then gone off to war was still tall and lean, with just a touch of gray toward the back of his russet-brown hair. He walked easily, just a hint of shipboard sailor’s roll left after a fifteen-year hiatus from his navy service.

“What are you two guys up to now?”

He grinned at his son and the big, quiet kid standing next to him.

“It’s a muscle stimulator, Dad. We’ve designed the circuit so the current and the frequency of pulsation can be varied.”

Edison the younger proudly held up the unit that he and Galen had built into a piece of bent-aluminum sheeting.

The older man looked it over, still smiling, and turned to the boys.

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Sure,” they said in unison.

Galen wasn’t certain how to act around Edison’s parents. They were the friendliest people he had ever met, and they lived in a pretty house in the suburbs, not in the drab middle of town.

“Well, if you position the controls this way…”

Ron Edison went on to point out some changes that, as soon as the boys heard them, made perfect sense. Then he wisely added, “But it’s your gadget. Change it only if you think it will help.”

The three turned at the sound of the workshop door opening.

“Ron, dinner will be ready soon. Bobby, would your friend like to stay?”

Gloria Edison, floral aproned, smiled from the doorway at her husband and son—and Galen.

The senior Edison saw the confused look in the young man’s face. His son spoke up to fill the silence.

“That’s great, Mom. You can stay for dinner, can’t you, Galen? I haven’t showed you that old radio I fixed up yet.”

*   *   *

Oh, yes, Edison, I do remember that old, cathedral-shaped radio. You still keep it squirreled away somewhere, more than sixty years later, don’t you?

His forest audience kept watching, as if waiting for him to continue.

“You know, after high school, I didn’t see Edison or his father for over forty years. That’s a long time, isn’t it?”

The bear stretched and yawned again.

“Well, it wasn’t too long after Edison and I got back together that I became a medical sounding board for him and his wife Nancy. It certainly gave my ego a boost to realize that two very bright people respected my medical opinion and advice.

“But let me tell you something. There is always another edge to the sword of pride. The Greeks would call it ‘hubris.’”

He stopped to catch his breath. The wolves were sitting down on all fours now. Had the owl fallen asleep?

“Edison phoned me one evening shortly after my trip to Florida. I had gone there to give the eulogy at my friend Dave’s funeral.”

“‘Galen, the World War II Memorial is having a special celebration for the surviving vets,’ he said, ‘and Mom and Dad have been invited. Mind if we stop by your place?’

“It startled me to hear those words, ‘Mom and Dad.’ I hadn’t even asked Edison about them. I had assumed that they were long gone, just like my own parents. After all, Edison was almost sixty, but still younger than I.

“I heard his old Subaru pull into my parking lot the next day. It was covered with mountain and highway dust. As I watched, an elderly couple got out, and in slow shuffling gait they followed their son and Nancy up the walk to my office entrance.

“I was staring at them, noting the various infirmities each displayed. And yet … and yet … I could still see the bright, smiling faces shining behind the decay of time, overcoming the inevitability of physical entropy. Ron and Gloria Edison were still there.

“The old man was no longer straight. His shoulders were stooped by the weight of years. The slightly wide stance and minor tremors of Parkinsonism had replaced the sailor-boy’s confidant walk. The facial creases magnified his grin of welcome remembrance, and his still-firm grip encompassed my hand in greeting.

“Gloria, shorter than I had remembered her, stood by her partner of over sixty years, her once-linear features now softened by creased cheeks. She, too, was less steady in motion, but her effusive personality and easy way of speaking had not diminished.

“It was one of those rare, quiet weekend afternoons for me. Soon the five of us were in the throes of reminiscence. It continued during a drive down the George Washington Memorial Parkway past the District of Columbia and into Old Town Alexandria to a restaurant I had recommended.

“Over dinner, the W-W-Two vet and his wife told of how they first met, and how his young Gloria had braved the wartime travel restrictions to be with her sailor, before he left for distant shores.

“Memories of my schooldays overwhelmed me…”

Galen noticed he had begun to shake. Was it from the moist chill breeze of the early mountain morning?

“It’s almost daylight, my friends. I’d better get back to the house pretty soon. Let me just end my story at this point. Maybe I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

He stood up from his rock chair and steadied himself with his walking stick. He hadn’t meant to ramble in front of the forest denizens like this, but they didn’t seem to mind.

Who’d have thought it?

As he turned to leave, they seemed to object with a cacophony of grunts, chirps, and moaning barks. Was it his imagination, or was Baloo the bear shaking his head no?

Was the whimpering of the wolf pack and the sound of multiple tails striking the floor of the forest grotto a protest against his leaving?

Even the owl added its cherhoots to the feral chorus.

“Okay, okay, I must be crazy after all. I’d swear you want me to finish my story. Am I right?”

Maybe he had finally lost touch with reality, but the animal contingent gave guttural approval.

“Well, you might ask, why am I talking about these people? You never knew them, and I had only that one limited adult contact since the four decades after high school.