"Creation Myth" by Peter Torbay© 2001 ELANDRE
| "A crooked card game sets two star-crossed lovers on an epic cross-country struggle to regain the lost money and set things right. Now fate has handed Nick Paul a wear- worn journal. A journal full of myths, clues, riddles. But time was running out before all would be lost..." Peter Torbay's adventure romance traces the tale of a returning war veteran, caught up in an elaborate con game and a failed drug deal, who's forced by fate to travel to the ends of the earth in search of redemption, and a reunion with his dreams. |
Dedication
The Ancients asked these questions:
Of the mystery of Good and Evil, the succession of Life and Death, the ways of things long forgotten;
For they saw Life as a mere dust mote, in transit between the vast Cosmos, and the bitter Earth below;
So, to those caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea, who look Death in the face, smile...and leap!
Prologue
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The Traveller sat up suddenly in the
darkness. Something was wrong, some sound
out of place. Wait. No, it was the absence of
sound, the absence of some certain sound,
something. Sure, there was that soapy-splash of
the rivulet waterfall tracing down beside his
bivouac, gentle patter of an earlier rain still
dripping from the branches above onto his taut
tent fly, and the distant muffled roar of the
alpine river breaking the felt blackness of night.
It was something else. Maybe it’s the wind, he
thought, the wind blowing high up on the
mountain, endlessly rustling the alder break,
you could just hear it ghosting through the
snow fields if you really listened. That was it, the wind has stopped... He rolled out of his bag, pushing the bugscreen aside, and propped up on one knee. The rain clouds had passed on, clearing the air, and cold stars burned down like blue flames, whole rotating galaxies of stars. Nostrils flared, he breathed in the crisp spring air, his senses electric, thrilling to the mountain’s inky dark, ethereal silence. This is it, this is freedom! Now he had a secure lookout for a camp, a sweet waterfall for his drink, an old homesteader’s farm below to pilfer from. Maybe some sunny spring afternoon he’d catch a steelhead down on the river, really feast. They’ll never find me here, never... The pale yellow glow in the sky behind the jagged mountain peaks told him it was nearly dawn. Still have time to sleep, he yawned, turning to lift the fly, ducking under. Then he heard it, a twig snapping. His head shot up and out, eyes wide open, just in time to be blinded by the hunter’s torch. “‘Son,” the glare reproached, “what’re you doing here on my land?” Holding a pump action rifle looped in the crook of his arm, a gray-bearded heavy-set man moved closer, standing next to the tent now, and for a moment played his flashlight inside. “Sir,” the traveller mumbled, standing frozen, “I’m looking out for myself, is all. Just camping out up here awhile...” Words failed him. He stood, shivering. The homesteader’s flashlight paused it’s sweep for a moment, “That’s a big duffel for a backpacker ‘be carrying,” then tipping his light toward the traveller’s food stash, “and looks like ‘twas you helping yourself to my root cellar, now wasn’t it?” Cold sweat dripped from his armpits, rolling ice water down his ribs, soaking his cotton longjohns. “Sir,” he stammered, “I was just passing through, sir, didn’t mean any harm,” then he bit his tongue. The homesteader lowered his Winchester, half-nodding, “‘Son, in ‘32 so many folks came through here, there wasn’t anything left to eat for any of us,” adding with a soft chuckle, “Maybe that’s why they call this here Lookout Mountain, see, ‘Look out for Flatlanders!’ Ha-ha- ha-ha!” Still chuckling, the old man swung ‘round the way he’d come, playing the flashlight away from the traveller’s face, “You’re welcome to what you found, if you’ll help me with a chore or two down the place.” He felt the throbbing pressure in his head explode with relief, then the old man swung back again, “but after...after you’d better move on, you hear?” He silently assented with a quick nod, not even looking up. “Good,” the man ended, “we’re agreed. Break your camp, I’ll find you a place in the barn.” He rolled his gear up as quickly as he could manage, still shaking from the close call. What if he’d seen the stash! Teeth grinding, he checked the clasp on the duffel bag, his tortured mind tripping, Strange, that much cash should feel so light! A just-dawning sun pierced the peach ‘n pearl clouds clinging low on the mountain face, the roosters down below crowing the fog up off the river bottom. The traveller shouldered up his rucksack and duffel, and clambered down the path toward the homestead below. Emerging from the alder break, and skirting clumps of blackberry bramble that dogged his path, he saw for the first time in broad daylight the far edge of the farm he’d been stealthily poaching from. The old man met him again, his wiry bluetick hound replacing the .22, a pair of work gloves in his gnarled hands. “I’ll put you down in the hay barn,” he repeated tonelessly, “you’ll be warm and dry, and...,” he paused and glared, “the Missus won’t have to know where I found you, understand?!” The traveller riveted the old man’s gaze as he nodded, then nervously began to toe the loam with his boot, head down, his hair coruscated with dew and drizzle, feeling that shiver building in his gut again. The old man led him into the clapboard gable- end structure, and as he had promised, the air inside was temperate. Old horse-drawn implements stacked in one corner, a pile of cedar bolts crowding the door, and the rear of the barn piled with an end-of-winter jumble of dry pea straw and alfalfa hay. “Up there...,” the homesteader pointed, “there’s a window. Roof don’t leak much. You don’t smoke?!” He shook his head. “Good!” the old man sized him up. “Here, you’ll want these,” handing him the gloves, “get settled. I’ll bring you some hot coffee and a roll.” He stood in the pale straw sunlight shafting down through the dusty loft window, then moving the duffel to his left arm, climbed up the ladder. Above, he found some old trunks full of ‘50’s-style clothes, dishes in a small hand-made cupboard, some rusted barrel hoops, ropes, tack, and, after re-arranging, enough space to roll out his gear. The barn door swung open and the old man called him down. “Here’s your joe,” he said, handing him a steaming cup of black coffee and a fresh Danish, “the Missus made these.” Then the homesteader fell silent, tinkering at his work bench while the traveller gulped down the hot liquid and savored the warm honey-butter sweetness of the cinnamon roll. He’d worked him hard all that morning, the old farmer did, bucking hay bales, splitting up kindling, cleaning out the stalls, laying down new straw. Even replaced a termite-infested roof post in the barn. At midday, the old man’s wife, a handsome woman with curly chestnut hair traced in gray, brought a pitcher of cold goat milk, slices of farmer’s cheese, crusty bread sliced thick, and for each man, a large warm slice of cinnamon-apple pie. The man stood at his bench, the traveller grabbed a straw bale, and they ate in silence. “You can leave your things here, strike out for work hereabouts,” the man said, “take the afternoon, see what you can find over ‘t Rockton, across the river, they might be bolt-cutting the clearcut about now.” He stood up and brushed the dust from his jeans. “Much appreciate it,” holding out his hand. The old man looked away until he’d let his hand drop, then repeated, “Soon as you’ve finished with the chores...,” he paused, “you’d best be moving on.” The traveller threw on a jacket in case he was out past sundown, and to carry a few things in, pencil, paper and a penknife, his wallet in the inside pocket. Then he strolled on down the drive to the road, and stuck out his thumb at the end of the fencerow. A middle-aged woman picked him up, farmer’s wife, and she cut right to it. “You staying up at the Paul’s place?” throwing him a sideglance as they ran the road on downriver in her Plymouth. “Well, sort of, he’s got some chores for me until I can find work,” he bantered, looking over at her. But she didn’t speak again until they reached Rockton. “I’ll let you off at Myrna’s, that’s where I turn off,” she suggested, pulling into the little corner store overlooking the river bridge. “You might could ask if there’s any work ‘be had around here, and they’re still looking for tree planter’s down in Woolsey.” He rolled out the door and then leaned back in the open window with a smile, “Thanks.” She waved at her hair, then added, “I’d watch yourself, the County Sheriff was up here today,” her eyes piercing, then fluttering, wanting to know and not wanting to. Then the woman drove off. His knees wobbled a bit, standing there in plain view, the locals coming and going from in the store, looking hi m over. Waves of paranoia bit his neck, crosshairs settling on the base of his skull. Sheriff’s back up here again!? The afternoon sun was too bright, like a searchlight. The traveller ended up in the Rockton Tavern, hiding out more than anything, sharing a pool game and a few beers with a local Native Indian. “My cousin rents out his land to them hippies,” the man had laughed, “maybe you can find a place over to Illabot, get you one of them skinny women and make babies.” He laughed again, a dark Indian smile. It was a good idea. Find the hippies’ place, hang out, build his own shelter, and lay low off the beaten path until May. He kept talking about women with the Native, and soon they were both laughing loud at each other’s stories, you know, the ones you can’t help laughing about? The Indian bought him beers as they played, maybe to flirt with the gals at the bar and punch up his own songs on the juke. Said he’d been a trucker, now he just worked on diesel engines. The traveller boasted of his stint in Viet Nam, work as a machinist, a season spent commercial fishing. “Hey, man, you ever been in the service?” he asked, but the Native just jigged around the pool table like a gandydancer, studying the shots. He figured him a local roustabout, short-hauler, a parts-change mechanic, probably bummed around here his whole life. Later, pool table forgotten and talk about run out, the Indian looked at the traveller, speaking with a half-drunk voice from a dead-sober face, “You pretty well got things figured out, don’t you, man?” And the traveller allowed as he did. Then sitting there at the bar, the Native reached down and began to wrinkle up his pants legs, rolling them to his knees to expose gray, ashen wooden pegs. “Got these at Koto-ri,” he intoned, “holding off the Reds in the pullback to Hungnam. You know? Korea?” In so doing, he pretty much ended their talk-story. “C’mon,” the Native offered, “Give you a ride up that way. Walk over Marblehill bridge, there’s a boarding house ‘can stay at. Get you over to Illabot.” Yeah, give me something to do until it’s dark. So he climbed into the older man’s pickup and they motored off on upriver, the narrow headlights dusting the fading gray day with gold. Then barely half-mile before the Paul place, he had a change of heart, suddenly skittish of his new-found friend. What if someone recognizes me upriver!? He told the Native he wanted off, walking up a sideroad until he was sure the man had driven on. By the time he reached the Paul’s again, the light of their kerosene lamps and the pale moon rising over the mountains were all he had to guide by. The bluetick found him in the dark, snuffling at his hand, then trotted back toward the house, satisfied. The traveller followed, using his ears and feet to stay on the path. The old man came to the screen door and stood inside, expectantly. The traveller’d been rehearsing a cover story, “Think I found work down in Wool’ey,” he boasted, imitating the local Tarheel slang, then lied, “Get me a job on green chain,” figuring that with the sawmill line, he’d throw off the old man’s distrust. Instead the homesteader laughed, “On green chain!? Ha-hee! Best you be bundling up shingles, boy, might get you a shawyer job, there, someone cuts off his thumb,” and still laughing, turned away from the door. “Green chain..., good night, boy. Ha-ha-ha-ha.” The traveller stumbled his way to the barn, ears burning from the lie apprehended, his path just a lighter shade of pale blue alongside the dark moonlit garden. In the stillness, the river hissed and roared, and staring down like a specter, the rugged glacier-capped peaks stood silent sentinel high above him. Should I hang out here? The Sheriff’s back again, maybe they know I’m still around!? Once in the barn, he lit the kerosene lamp and climbed slowly up into the dark loft. He folded his shirt for a pillow and slipped quickly into his down bag, exhausted, his mind scrabbling an agitation of unending streams of thoughts, words and images, of this day, and of others long past, there under the steady glow of that kerosene lamp. Much later he dozed, tossing and turning in the cold drafts, dreams of friends and lovers haunting his sleep. Then, in the stillness of predawn, an owl hooted deep in the woods, sitting him bolt upright. “Huh?...,” he started up, sensation returning to his cramped limbs, and memory. He sat there in the dark loft, sweat-soaked, shivering. Alone. But not yet awake. There’s a place in half-sleep, that drowsy stage of eye-lidded semi-consciousness, when our dream-state overlays our normal reality, as though life’s common bounds have been pushed back in space and time, and ecce, our spirit soars weightless through brilliant skies, high over the mundane terrain of the life granted unto us. For just a little while the traveller meditated that way, his eyes smiling at the edge of sleep, free of care, his body swaying left and right like some slender reed, until a scurrying creature scrabbled past his hand and he awoke fully, dream fading. The hours before dawn can sure be an evil time, when our illusions obscure reality, and fears replace bravery. Now, a hopeful man can wipe his callused hand across his face, brush back his hair, and slap his knees down hard to propel himself up into his day. Whatever comes. But driven from sleep with nothing to hope for, the traveller felt moved only by dark stifling panic as he dressed. Packing up his gear, he slid from the loft and stood, impaled by cold fear, his only thought, the only plan his mind could forge, I’ll hide the stash under the hay until I can come back for it! Working in silence, with fear’s strength girding his arms, he carved a path between the stacked bales until he’d reached the back wall. Wedging the duffel deep between the rows, he paused. There! All the evidence is hidden here! Even if they stop me, they can’t hold me. Even so, deep nameless fear took hold of him again. Go on! Get the hell out of here!! He eased out into the night. Frigid cold still gripped the air. The bluetick stayed curled up on the porch, head raised in the moonlight. The traveller made off down the drive, shuffling in the dark, then he began to trot, frost gripping his cuffs, his sleeves, his collar, as he reached the potholed pavement. Can make Marblehill by dawn, spend a time with those hippies at Illabot, grab the stash, then catch a ride to Everett. Hop a freight over the Cascades, an’ I’m gone! In a few minutes he’d reached where the river runs in up close to the roadway, the immense glacial rush of it filling his ears. Suddenly, around the bend up ahead, a pair of headlights shot through the river bottom mist. Can’t let them see me! The traveller stumbled over the steel guardrail, feeling out for the shoulder, just heavy-sloped rip-rap protecting the bank. Clambering down, the headlights nearing, his rucksack snagged a tree branch tangled in the rocks, and he mis-stepped, slamming down hard. Numb and shaken, he wobbled back upright then, as the headlights blazed in the darkness, blinding him. He stepped backward, dazed, but felt only void. His hand reached for the branch, and missed. With a last groan, the traveller pitched back into the deep eddies and fierce current of the bone-cold black water. The passing car hummed on out of sight as velvet night closed back in on windless silence, only the swirling river, rushing toward the sea, some first glimmers of yellow dawn softly rippling its surface. |
"Creation Myth" by Peter Torbay
is an adventure romance at its best,
based
on the fire-side tales of real-life drifters, con men and thieves, thick and rich in plot twists and
detailed characterization, with a storyline as valid on today's streets as it was then.
Author Direct - You can purchase and download "Creation Myth" right now for only $5.95:
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