Visions (5 page)

* * * * * * *

The sun came up on a clear Monday morning, a day of leisure for Pete because on Monday he kept the bar closed until seven in the evening. It was the only day of the week he had a chance to work on the ranch, and because of this it was also his favorite day of the week. He kissed Bernie goodbye at six in the morning, went down the street to the livery where two horses hitched to a loaded wagon were waiting for him. As he climbed on, there was a shout. “Hey, Pete, one minute!” and Tom Henley came sauntering towards him from where he’d been standing across the street.

“My Gawd, Tom, what you doin’ up so early? This is the quietest day in town.”

“The law never rests, citizen,” drawled Tom, and they both laughed.

Pete liked the big man, as did everyone. You didn’t mess with him, but he was the gentlest human being Pete had ever met. Tom leaned on the wagon, kind of intimate, smelling of coffee and bacon. “Goin’ out to the ranch?”

“All day. Just about finished with everything except painting, and that won’t take long.”

“When they comin’ in?”

“Oh, a couple weeks, yet. Some of them are still waiting for papers.”

“Yeah, well, the whole town’s pretty excited about the big arrival. You be sure to let us know if we can help get ’em settled.”

“Thanks, Tom. Really, the main thing you all can do is relax, be yourselves, and have some patience. Their English is lousy, and this is going to be a whole new world for them. It’ll be tough, at first.”

“No problem. Hell, if you go back far enough we’re all emigrants. Just remember the folks in town
want
to help. Know what I mean?” Tom winked at him.

“Sure. I’ll find some things that need doin’.”

“Oh, another thing. We’ve been havin’ some vandalism problems the last few weeks. Probably kids raisin’ hell, stealing, and property destruction kinds of things, you know. If you see any strange riders, or people on foot, especially kids, let me know so I can check it out quick. Some of our folks are gettin’ pretty riled up about it.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open. Oh, by the way, I put Jake up in the hotel again last night, but it’s the last time, and I told him he gets nothing but coffee or milk in my place from now on.”

“Glad to hear it, Pete. Poor Jake and his critters. I keep tryin’ to get him to see Doc, but he won’t listen, and I guess you can’t run people’s lives for them. You have a happy day, Pete.” Tom banged the wagon sideboard with one hand, and stepped away smiling. He was still standing in the street, a big smile on his face as Pete drove away.

It was the last time Pete saw him alive.

The drive to the ranch was short, less than two miles outside of town to the south fence, then four hundred acres of prime grazing land and stands of corn, and access to thousands more acres of the federal land at the north end of the valley. The place had been abandoned for years, dating back to gold rush days, and falling down when Pete had bought it for back taxes, paying cash on the barrel to a pleased and surprised banker in nearby Quincy. The banker would have been even more curious about Pete if he’d known that the cash, and more like it, had come from the sale of a considerable hoard of solid gold nuggets ranging up to a few ounces in weight. It was a secret Pete kept from everyone, even Bernie. All they needed to know was he was a successful business man with money, who came to town looking for a new and simple life, and a place big enough to settle a town full of relatives now living in Greece, packed and ready to travel. Over the years, he
had
told them some tales about his life with Savas, but at least part of that was true.

He’d rebuilt the big house and barn with Sid’s help. Sid had all the carpentry skills, but Pete learned fast. He learned everything fast. A little shingling and painting left to do, and that was it. All the place needed now was people. His people.

A buck deer was standing by the barn, bolting away in a leap as Pete pulled up in front of the house. A few minutes later he was pounding shingles on the roof, sweating under a hot sun, singing while he worked. Time flashed by. In the afternoon he lacquered the walls in an upstairs bedroom, mood changing, becoming more pensive, somber. His next task was unpleasant, but necessary, and best done quickly. He finished his painting first, then cleaned the brush.

It was less than a mile to the head of the canyon, and so he walked there, crossing his own property first and leaning over to slip between strands of barbed wire along the boundary fence. Soon the cliffs of slate were looming above him, and he was climbing a short ridge to a long shelf of ascending slabs that disappeared around a cornice. Each step was familiar, yet he hesitated, each moment taking him closer to a confrontation he didn’t want, and twice he had a strong urge to turn back. No time to consider feelings, he decided, and pressed on.

Halfway up the canyon he came to the entrance of a small cavern leading nowhere, but it was cool—private. He bent over double to step inside, and sat down on a rock, facing the entrance, sunlight warming him for the moment as a blinding sun neared the top of the canyon wall opposite him. He closed his eyes, focusing inward for a moment, then sent out a vision of himself sitting there, arms outstretched, palms up. Instantly a wave of happiness passed through him. He opened his eyes, feeling guilty since he had not revealed his reason for contact. He waited patiently until the orb of the sun reached the canyon wall rim, then heard the shuffling steps coming along the shelf, the heavy, labored breathing of the one he regarded as older than time, one who had been like a father to him after the brother had died and left a grief-stricken mother to raise a tiny baby. Devastated by her grief, and weakened by a difficult birth, the mother had died within a year. The child was now a man.

The large, square and familiar face appeared in the cave entrance. Amber eyes twinkled, though the big shoulders sagged from the weariness of many years gone by. “Pegre, it is good to see you again. Come to me.” Anka held out his arms, Pete stepping up to him eye to eye, and they embraced stiffly like acquainted emissaries from different planets, the true depth and warmth of their greeting sensed only in their minds.

“I think of you often, but the preparations have taken all of my time, and my woman is now heavy with child.”

“Ah, you still speak the old language well, though you now cut your words off short.” Anka smiled, and sat down on a rock. “I try to speak the new speech, but it only makes the children laugh. My tongue is forever in the wrong place.”

“I’m sure you do well,” said Pete, sitting down beside the chief elder of the Tenanken. “It will be quite soon, now, and those you have taught will be well prepared as was I.”

“Yes, but with you I needed only to mold the genius your father gave you through our mother. Our dear father, your grandfather, was a great hunter, but a genius, no.” Anka chuckled at the memory from long ago, and then there was a long silence between them. Finally, Anka leaned over and put a hand on Pete’s knee. “I’m thinking, Pegre, that your visit here has a serious reason behind it. We are not here to exchange pleasantries.”

“No,” said Pete. “I fear my reason for coming here may seem threatening to you. I hesitate to talk about it, but I must do so.”

“Since when could you not talk to me about
any
problem? You are like my own son.”

I’m afraid not, dear Teacher.
Pete paused, then looked directly into Anka’s amber eyes. “Very well, then. In the past few weeks there is suddenly trouble in the valley.” There, the plug was now out, and the words could flow.

“Trouble?”

“Acts of violence, theft, destruction of property, reports of strange creatures attacking people and their animals, mischief of many kinds.”

Lines appeared in Anka’s forehead. “Strange creatures, you say? You think of someone from our group here?”

“Not necessarily in all instances. There is no doubt in my mind that at least in one case a townsperson was physically attacked by three Tenanken, and in another I personally witnessed, the minds of the thieves were filled with visions of flight to these caverns. I heard a Tenanken scream when the man I was with fired at him with a shotgun.
Long-range pointing missile thrower.
He may, in fact, be injured, and that’s easy to check.
And include your son.
We have troublemakers to deal with, very likely Tenanken who oppose The Plan, and work to disrupt it as the time for resettlement approaches. The townspeople are irritated, and crazy rumors are circulating about monsters or even their own children causing the damage. We do not need search parties with weapons coming into the canyon, and suspicions against every new person who comes to town. Especially not now.” Pete felt his voice rising in pitch, struggling to control his anger and frustration.

Anka put a hand on his shoulder. “I understand. You’ve worked long and hard, and now all is ready. The Tenanken have agreed to it, and work with you. Those who disagree must follow the group will.”

“You might have to remind the dissenters of that in harsh terms they will respond to. We could also have detractors from other bands across the hills, or to the south. I’ve had no contact with them in years, and Hidaig in particular I’ve never trusted since his expulsion. Beware of alliances against you, Anka. There are those close to you who have ambitions.”

“Do you not have ambitions, Pegre? The Plan has been your life for several years. Your ambition. You are as close to me as any, but I don’t fear you, and we both know who has opposed The Plan most vigorously. Why don’t you say his name? Why don’t you tell me Maki is the one I should fear?”

“I believe you close your eyes to many things your son does that are not in the best interests of the Tenanken, and I’ve heard Tel comment on his attitude problems in your presence.”

“Your rivalry with Maki has extended to adulthood. I hoped someday you’d get along.”

This has nothing to do with childhood rivalries. You treated both of us with love and understanding, yet spoiled neither of us. But Maki and I have diverged on all matters concerning the future of the Tenanken. I accept The Plan as the only way to survival. Maki plans war, stupidly believing he can destroy the Hinchai, and return us to dominance in the outside world. It is a childhood fantasy he has never given up, seeing himself as a great warrior king. I see it as a nightmare, with much blood, most of it Tenanken. I have lived with the Hinchai for fifteen years, and they are as tough as us in every way. They outnumber our bands a thousand to one, and their weapons can destroy us in a day if they choose to do it. War will destroy Tenanken, not Hinchai, and The Memories will be gone forever!”

The light on Anka’s face vanished as the sun dropped below the rim of the canyon. Pete breathed heavily from his passionate outburst, his mind a blank as Anka shielded himself. They sat in darkness for a moment.

“I will talk to Maki, and remind him of the group will to support The Plan.”

“And the trouble in the valley must stop. Tell him—”

“You have no evidence my son is involved with any raids on Hinchai property or persons! Didn’t I raise
both
of you to respect others? Your suspicions are not founded on evidence, but speculation.”

“I will not argue,” said Pete firmly. “I ask you to tell him the trouble must stop, or I will deal personally with it.” He stood up, and started to leave the little cave.

“Pegre. We must not depart angrily. Not now.”

“I’m not angry. I’m frightened. Of war—of death. I want the Tenanken to live—and I’ll destroy anything that gets in the way of that.”

“I’ll talk to Maki; you’ve nothing to fear from him. When do we see you again?” Anka’s voice was soft, soothing, a model of control so that Pete felt himself calming, yet in his mind was a dark shadow, foreboding, a warning about the future.

“In two weeks I will come to lead our settlement south, then north again to the town. Please do not tell anyone this, even Tel. I want no planned interference or anxiety.”

“So soon. It seems only yesterday when The Plan was approved. The years race by when you’re old.” Anka stood up and once again embraced Pete, but his eyes were sad. “The Tenanken will soon be in your hands, Pegre. Be gentle with them; they trust you without really knowing you. I fear for them as much as I fear for those of us who are left behind, even though I know it is the only way to our survival. I fear also for my son.”

“I wouldn’t expect otherwise,” said Pete, hugging Anka tightly, and then stepping to the cave entrance. “We all do what we must do.” He stooped over and left the cave, Anka still standing with his back towards the entrance, concentrating on his shielding of a mind screaming in pain.

* * * * * * *

From a cornice near the main entrance to the caverns, Maki watched his Hinchai clothed, adopted older brother descend the slabs of rock towards the valley below. Han was at Maki’s side, Dorald fast asleep inside the rock. “There goes a Tenanken traitor who will make us all Hinchai slaves,” said Maki. “I tell you that the day is coming soon when I will meet Pegre on the field of battle and kill him.”

Han growled assent as they saw Anka emerge from the little cave, and begin to shuffle tiredly up the slabs towards where they waited. “Let’s see what plot they’ve been hatching this time,” said Maki, He arose, and walked jauntily downwards to meet his father.

When Anka saw his son coming towards him, he smiled.

SAVAS

Savas Parkos was an enigma, a man who’d come to the California hills north of Quincy in 1870 when he was not yet forty, buying good land with cabin and well ten miles south of the three building town called Crosley. How he arrived, or from where, forever remained a mystery. He brought furniture with him, and a dozen boxes of books which he kept on shelves surrounding the one room, neat interior of the cabin. There was a mahogany table, and three matching chairs near a wood-stove used for cooking and heating, and a mattress for a bed. The few clothes he had were hung on nails around the walls, and were always clean.

His toilet was a privy ten yards from the cabin, nestled among fir trees, and beside it a metal pan on a stand facing a book-sized mirror hanging from a tree. Lamps were scattered inside and outside the cabin, the outside lights remaining on each night without exception, often the inside lights as well, for it seemed that Savas Parkos slept little, and lightly. Even when deer came quietly to lick the salt slabs he left out for them, he would be there watching through a mica-covered window.

There were no visitors to his cabin until the boy came. He spent his days drinking, and reading in several languages: French, German, Greek, Dutch and English. His origin was Greek. The few who knew him remotely said he was from Rhodes, a businessman searching for a simple life and finding it near Crosley. He bought a horse, and each Saturday rode it to Quincy for groceries and whiskey. There, he would check into the hotel, then dine at Delnico’s Basque Restaurant and spend an evening approaching quiet oblivion at the bar. Late Sunday morning he would arise refreshed for the trip home. This he did with complete regularity for nine years, until the boy came.

Savas was also a mystery in Crosley, where he did his banking, and refused all social invitations from the town residents until the offers finally stopped. The local interest in him, he well understood, related to his initial deposit of over half a million cash dollars in a bank struggling to stay afloat after the end of the mining boom. There was more money than that, some three hundred pounds of gold dust and nuggets he had wrapped in burlap and lightly covered with earth beneath the floor of his cabin. He seemed a wealthy eccentric who lived simply and spent modestly, a man who wanted little to do with people. After a while the townspeople ignored him, and Savas Parkos lived a quiet life alone, until the boy came.

It was a Thursday evening, and he was washing dishes, daydreaming about something in his past. A sound, like something striking the cabin wall, and he turned with a plate in one hand to see a face pressed against his mica window. When the plate shattered on the floor, the face disappeared. Savas rushed to the door in time to see a figure crash into the brush by the privy.

“Hey! You want see me, you come back and we talk!” he yelled.

No answer. Nothing moved.

“Nothing here to steal, but I have coffee and bread. You want to eat?”

Nothing. He waited several minutes, then went inside, shut the door and watched at the window until his eyes were too tired to focus, and so he went to bed with all the lamps burning.

The next day he watched from the window, and saw nothing.

Three days after that he put some food on a plate and left it on the washing stand by the privy. The food soured, and dried.

He baked bread, leaving the cabin door slightly ajar, putting one loaf to cool on the washing stand, and forcing himself to stay away from the window all day. When he went outside late in the evening, the loaf was gone.

The next day he baked bread again, leaving the door wide open and singing every Greek song he could remember. When the bread had cooled, he took a loaf outside along with butter and a small wheel of cheese, and sat by a packing crate which served as table, putting the food on top of it. He broke bread, spread chunks of it thick with butter and cheese, and ate noisily.

Near dusk, the boy suddenly appeared.

Savas was first aware of a watchful presence, and then there was movement to his left. He turned his head slowly, eyes moving back and forth. The boy, not much more than a child, was crouched in bushes near the privy, eyes dark and wide like those of a doe, mouth closed tightly in a grim line. Savas picked up the other half of the bread loaf, beckoned to the boy with it, then broke off another piece, stuffed it into his mouth and chewed noisily with obvious pleasure. The boy swallowed hard, but remained where he was. Savas smiled at him, ate some cheese and beckoned again. This went on for half an hour before Savas leaned back in his chair, pointed to the food and said, “Why don’t you join me, before I get sick from eating all of this?”

The boy seemed to understand. He stood up, short, but big-boned, heavy features and thick, black hair. No injun for sure, a kid who could pass for Greek. How old? Fourteen? Husky kid. His eyes never left Savas as he walked slowly forward, clothes hanging from him in tatters, feet bare. When he came close, Savas could see the clothing was animal skins and cloth remnants carelessly sewn together. The end of the gold boom has been tough on some folks, he thought.

“You from around here?”

No sound. The boy picked up a slab of cheese, tasted it, and popped the whole thing into his mouth. Pleasure showed in his eyes, but he didn’t smile.

“Maybe you don’t understand my English. Greek still easier for me, but I get better at it. Don’t have much practice, though. You live in these hills?” He gestured at the surrounding mountains, and the boy’s eyes followed his hand silently.

“I’m Savas,” he said, thumping his chest with two fingers, and pointed. “You?”

The boy nodded, recognition in his eyes. He picked up another slab of cheese, then pointed to himself and said something unintelligible.

“Well, have some bread, whatever your name be.” Savas pushed food across the makeshift table as the boy sat down beside him. Later, Savas couldn’t quite remember what he talked about that early evening, but was certain a bitter, desperate loneliness had crept up on him, and the boy was the first visitor he’d had, eating and listening quietly while the host babbled on and on in both English and Greek. But at sunset, the boy suddenly arose, nodded at him, and curled his lips into a vague hint of a smile before turning and walking into the deep shadows of the trees and brush without looking back.

“Come back,” called Savas, “anytime you want to. I’m always here!”

The beginning was that simple, the beginning of an association that would last nine years and alter the course of a culture older than history. Savas had no way of knowing that, of course. To him the boy was a relief from the loneliness and boredom of his chosen life, and after that first day the visits became regular, usually in late afternoon and rarely on weekends, for his trips to Quincy continued as usual until the day he died.

At first they simply broke bread together, Savas talking in Greek, the boy listening, eyes alert. It was soon obvious the boy didn’t understand English or Greek, and would not respond to questions about himself. Savas became his teacher, pointing to things, naming them, using simple phrases for each of his actions. The boy made no attempt to repeat anything at first, but there was intelligence in those dark eyes, and occasionally a faint smile, like when Savas dropped an egg splat on the floor and cursed. Mostly, the boy was somber, as if life had been hard and he would not entrust a show of emotion to anyone outside himself. He learned with extraordinary speed, at first helping with the making of bread, then doing it without aid, measuring flour, milk and salt with precision. Then, one memorable day, he walked over to the newly arrived gramophone now playing a forlorn song, pointed to it, and said in perfect Greek pronunciation, “Where music come?”

Savas laughed. “New York, I think. Doubt if I’ll ever see it again.”

“Music come from far?” asked the boy.

“Yes, very far. This is a big world, with many, many people. I guess around here is the only place you know.”

The boy looked at him sadly. “We—few.”

“We?”

The boy didn’t answer, and turned away. Savas didn’t press, figuring eventually the boy would tell him who his people were, and where he came from.

He was still waiting for an answer the day he died.

At first they made bread, ate it and listened to the gramophone. Conversations lengthened, in both English and Greek, and when Savas finally coaxed the boy onto his horse for a ride, that also became a part of their routine. They bounced along rough trails, never going on the town road, the boy sitting rigidly erect, a faint smile the only sign of youthful excitement. So controlled, a near dignified bearing for someone far from being a man, thought Savas, a contrast to his own volatile nature now safely hidden in the hills where it couldn’t hurt anyone. When he was around the boy, the violent part of him seemed to shrivel, leaving him peaceful and content with a life that hadn’t turned out the way he’d planned. It didn’t seem important the gold was beneath a cabin floor, still waiting to be spent in some distant, exotic place free of rattlesnakes and biting flies, or on a woman who could relieve the ache he still felt when the moon was out and he was lying on his hard mattress alone, sweating. Nothing was important except the boy, and what he might become. As the days, and then the years, went by, the boy was like a son, replacing the one he had left far behind, perhaps dead now, the son he could not go back to ever, because others would be waiting for him and then he, Savas Parkos, would be a dead man.

The boy’s name remained impossible for him to pronounce. It was something like egg, only drawn out with a complex, guttural thing at the end, and the best way to get a smile from the boy was to try and pronounce it. After one abortive attempt that came close to producing an actual laugh from the boy, Savas had had enough. “I’m going to give you a name I can say,” he said. “It will just be between us, if you don’t mind.”

“Is good,” said the boy, in English.

“Something simple, and Greek, because you look Greek. We will pretend you are, and this is your christening. Stand still, now.” He put a hand softly on the boy’s black hair, and closed his eyes, thinking. The name of a cousin came to mind, a cousin who had been a drinking companion when they were young, and not yet scarred by money or politics, a man who had loved to sing and dance and drink and screw, before the world had destroyed him. Savas pressed firmly on the boy’s head.

“I will call you Peter,” he said.