Nandita To Nandini
- 4 years ago
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"No sir, I don't think the Pasayten Pete stories have got much to do with my dreams," Graydon guessed. "I mean, there hasn't been much to the stories that Purdy and Patch have told me, except there seems to be a lot of confusion. Nobody seems to agree on anything, just that there's some stories about somebody or something that they call Pasayten Pete. Seems the only thing in common is it's s'posed to be somethin' bad, scary bad."
Jim Brightman and Graydon sat comfortably in the front room, while Vi busied herself at the kitchen table with baking, mixing and kneading a batch of bread dough.
Jim rested quietly, tendrils of blue smoke rising from his pipe as he idly mouthed the stem. He lifted his hand, moved his pipe away, and a smile flickered across his face as he gazed off at the snow-blanketed field above the house. Graydon wondered what he was thinking; the man seemed gripped in some self-amusement. Maybe he had his own "take" on the legend, something he hadn't yet told Graydon.
"Well, don't let it get too overblown in your mind. People love to take a little bit of nothin' and blow it up to somethin' wild and improbable. But you say these dreams have this one person in common?"
Graydon had unburdened himself with a brief telling of the dreams. He hadn't gone into much detail or explanation. He wanted to share his confusion and worry; at times it seemed he might be going a little crazy. He'd never heard of anyone with dreams like he'd been having: wild, ghostly, full of danger and death and mystery.
"Yes sir. There's this one man ... it's his eyes, his face, and his long hair ... it's strange, like it's in ribbons of black and grey, almost white. First time, he just popped out of a thunderstorm. That is, I was dreaming and this big storm came up, and then I was standin' next to the creek and this person ... old man, I guess, in buckskins and paint ... he kinda came out of thin air and stood there, and held out his hand like a greeting. Then he disappeared.
"Well, I kinda figured, later, that was just some weird dream 'cause we moved here and I been reading about the Indians and history and such. So I just kinda forgot about it."
Jim sat nodding, nursing his pipe, quietly.
"Then I had that long dream, after I got in that fight and the trouble at school. That dream was like something out of a movie, a western. There was this man with his rifle, came up on some bad guys and he was in a gunfight with them. I'm just standin' at one side, like some ghost, watchin' all this happen. It's in the hot desert, there's sand and cactus and this fight's goin' on in a dry wash. He shoots these guys who're shootin' at him, and he get's 'em. Kills 'em. Then I see he's saved these two Indian kids. The boy, he's younger, and he's hurt; and the girl, she must have been the boy's older sister, she's got her clothes half torn off and she's scared near to death. This guy helps 'em, patches 'em up and covers her up, and then these two Indian men ride up. They all ride off, and this man looks at me ... just like he sees me! ... and it's him! The same guy as I saw in the first dream, only young and he doesn't have that long black and grey hair ... but his face ... it's the same face!"
"And you say that last night, you had the worst dream of all ... one that has you really frightened now?" Jim asked, reaching out with his pipe to empty it into the ashtray at his side.
"Yes. I spent the night over at the old lodge, the one I told you about at the base of the mountain across the way."
Graydon had shared that secret with two people; his mother, and Jim Brightman. He'd said nothing about it to Purdy or Patch, or anyone else, most especially not his stepfather, Alex Sr. He knew that his step dad would throw a raving fit about something like that.
Graydon went into considerable detail about the dream, then told him about the strange event of the coyotes circling the lodge and raising such a noisy ruckus, even for coyotes.
After the long telling, Graydon guessed he'd about told it all and he sat back, resting his arms on the soft overstuffed chair, his head laid back against one of Vi's crocheted doilies. He closed his eyes, trying to shut away the visions of that dream brought up by his telling of it. The room was silent except for the rustling of Jim's tobacco pouch as he refilled his pipe, and the scratch of a wooden match as he re-lit it. More moments passed. Jim sucked air through the glowing ember in the pipe bowl, and exhaled small clouds of bluish smoke.
Father Bernard looked up from his sheath of papers to see an elderly man standing before his desk, a man in casual clothing such as a rancher might wear. Such attire was not uncommon for this midwestern region, but it was exceptionally unusual to find one dressed so casually in his private office, especially one who was both uninvited and unannounced. "How ... Who are ... Sir! Who are you, and how did you get into my office? No one is permitted in here without prior appointment! Miss...
It is true a hefty body of folks tend to refrain – guess they inherited the leaning in refraining from voicing many reasons to favor this time of year. The winds born have not infrequently known the darkness of neglect when they were but whips with innocent beginnings but come into the world knowing not the gentle caresses of love but only to sling wicked stingers when they blow and they recruit germs which compose colds that invade homes of good families and heads become stuffy and tissues get...
Dee Johns found her home at the end of a washboard gravel road four miles northwest of Winthrop. "A place to settle down," she said. They were at Wolf Creek where it emerges from a deep canyon that cuts between the north end of Thompson Ridge and the south end of Virginian Ridge, the western wall of the upper valley. It was a sweltering 100-mile drive northeast along the Columbia River, then north along the Methow River, following sharper and narrower bends, climbing and winding, crossing...
Cottonwood trees flanking the rock-rimmed irrigation ditch behind the house moaned in the rising late-night wind. Graydon heard the swaying branches outside and close thunder booming from the north as an early summer storm moved down the valley. They had spent several days cleaning out clutter and moving in. Alex Senior made a trip in the Blue Goose to buy used furniture: a kitchen table and chairs, an iron frame double bed with springs and mattress, two war surplus barrack cots with pads, an...
His Arkansas drawl was thick like rich molasses, slow and easy. Ezekial Patterson seemed ageless; tall, slightly hunch-shouldered, and he shuffled along with a slight limp. "Patch," as folks called him, was as much a part of the 300-acre river-bottoms as the fields, the willows, and the cottonwood trees. His best pal Purdy dressed all in black with a floppy black hat. Patch wore blue denim that went unwashed once he put it on new from the General Store. The jacket and trousers were crusted...
The yellow school bus pulled up to their narrow drive on the gravel road, loaded Graydon and Alex Jr, drove a hundred yards to the "Y" intersection of the Wolf Creek spur and turned around. Their house was the last stop. It was four miles to school. Graydon sat at the window with Alex Jr. beside him. He watched the sagebrush flats roll by, the rock piles and stunted apple trees and lilacs marking where earlier homestead efforts had withered from lack of water. Wolf Creek was a seasonal...
Alex Sr. worked away during the week on a Columbia River dam site. He came home most weekends, making the three-hour drive Friday evening. Often he was quite late, saying he'd gotten "hung up" with friends or late work. Usually his breath smelled of whiskey. He had always been a drinker and enjoyed hanging out in the evenings with his tavern buddies. But now there was a new element: jealousy. There had been jealous rages before. Once in Wyoming at a rented tar-paper shack on the South...
Winters in the Methow Valley were cold, sometimes bitterly so. Temperatures ranged well below zero. The snow would pile up two and three feet deep. It fell to Graydon to keep the driveway into the Wolf Creek homestead shoveled out when the snow got deeper than the sedan his step-father drove, or the panel truck, their faithful Blue Goose, could break through without chains. Graydon would wax the flat-bladed shovel and begin cutting blocks from the deep snow, lifting each, and heaving it to...
Graydon could feel himself evenly balanced on his skis. He could feel his arms bearing down on his ski poles, planted firmly to each side. Otherwise he felt suspended in space, hanging in milk. His feet ended at his boot tops and no trace of snow or shadow or outline or slope or mountainside existed in his vision. There was no horizon and no sky. It was a perfect "whiteout," that rare condition of light in which snow and sky are perfectly blended together and there is no trace of shadow or...
The winter passed quickly for Graydon. School classes, homework, homestead chores, Christmas, the February chinook winds that brought a sudden thaw to the deep snows and turned the fields into lakes and the roadside ditches into torrents, followed by a hard freeze and a snowfall that locked the valley into another six weeks of winter; everything mixed his days into a hurried winter passage. Weekends allowed time for cross-country ski treks, either across Wolf Creek and up to the old lodge,...
Spring merged into early summer; it was June and Graydon found himself working, putting up hay bales for a rancher from whom his step-father had borrowed money. Graydon was working off the debt. He was able to handle the bales, averaging 60 to 75 lbs each, walking beside a tractor-drawn wagon and grabbing each bale by its wire bindings and swinging it up to another teenager with hay hooks, who would swing the bale into place on the growing load. Even for June it was damned hot and sweaty...
The trail into upper Wolf Creek canyon was open; the last snows had melted out of the north-slope shaded areas and the spring floods had subsided. Graydon was restless. He gathered together his packsack gear, some staple foodstuffs, his fishing pole, and told his mother that he'd be hiking up the canyon, perhaps as far as Gardner Meadows, at the base of the mountain. He planned to be gone three days for some early season trout fishing on the way up, and two nights of sleeping out. Actually,...
There was little that Graydon could do for Mike beyond what he'd already done. He refilled his water bottle and left that within easy reach, with some dried fruit, nuts, and chocolate snacks. He put a rolled jacket under Mike's head, and carefully lifted his right side to lay a folded wool blanket under him, and another blanket over him to ease the cold and reduce the shock from his injuries. He'd built a tiny fire, just enough to make a pot of camp coffee and to boil panels of t-shirt...
The simple fact that Dr. Hardy and nurse June were able to knit Mike's arm, mend his shattered leg, and hold infection at bay was a true testament to their skilled and dedicated care. It was also unlikely that the leg would have healed at all, in any form that would let Mike walk on it again, if it hadn't been for the inner focus he'd used during that agonizing night in the rock slide. Anyone else would have died from massive infection, or barring that, would have required reconstructive...
Fall arrived in a series of storms, each more intense than the last, until just after Halloween a cold air mass from the north mixed with a wet air mass from the west. The valley lay blanketed under its first heavy snowfall. Time had passed rapidly for Graydon and Mike; Graydon was unusually busy for a teenager: school had started, homestead chores and homework took much of his time, and he spent nearly every weekend at the Brightman ranch. Mike had strengthened his leg and walked with only...
"She's come to stay with us, at least for a while," Ken explained as he worked, fluffing a pelt that he was getting ready for a mount. "She" was a shy, almost fearful girl about a year younger than Graydon who was now living with Ken Granger and his wife at their home with the rolling lawns and huge tree-lined pond. "She's so frightened. I tried to introduce myself and she ran into the house, crying." "She's not much better with Helen and me. It's hard for her right now. She's...
"I saw it. A darkness. It dims her spirit, clouds it, weighs it down and she is lost in grief and sadness. I've never seen anything like it before." Graydon sat in the warmth of the small fire outside Mike's cabin; they shared the flickering firelight. Fleeting shadows outlined worried frowns on their faces. "I've seen it before. Not often, but often enough. It weighs so heavily on a person's soul they can become lost, lost to themselves and everyone around them. This is a terrible...
Graydon was exhausted. His eyes had sunk into their sockets, dark circles lay sagging above his gaunt cheekbones, and his face bore signs of strain and a weariness beyond his years. For a week he had spent his nights alone in the hayloft, isolated and immersed in his connections, seeing the harm that had befallen the Jacobs family. His days were filled with work, sweating to clear ditches, cut brush, weed the garden and repair fences around the old homestead. He drove himself hard, stopping...
The suicide of the priest was front page news on all of the city and regional newspapers. It was even featured on both national wire services. Frank and Madeline Jacobs, who had known Father Bernard and attended his church for most of their adult lives, were stunned. Frank struggled with conflicting emotions. He wanted Father Bernard punished. He wanted him jailed and defrocked for his crimes against Marilee. But suicide? God forbid that Frank should feel any satisfaction at such an end....
"My name is Michael Peterson. My friends call me Mike. I've lived in the valley for many years, but it's a remote area and other than a few close friends I pretty much stay to myself." Mike sipped his second cup of coffee, leaning back and thinking to himself that Madeline Jacobs baked a fine pie. He'd savored that slice. Good home cooking never escaped his appreciation. Like most elderly bachelors, Mike cooked to survive but he didn't often take time to turn out a gourmet meal....
"You are absolutely certain, then? The coroner's report shows no drugs, no hallucinogens, no substances of any kind?" "No, sir. Father Bernard's body showed no evidence of any substance that might have caused hallucinations or insanity. There are no drug traces or other physiological evidence pointing to a trigger for his breakdown." "Yet he virtually tore himself to pieces. His face was a mask of utter terror. This is not the act of a rational man, obviously. The simple conclusion...
The leather was beautiful. Ken Granger sat at his workbench, running the soft strips through his hands, admiring its suppleness, its golden amber color, the fine texture of the grain. Goatskin! Who would have imagined such a common animal could produce such beautiful leather! Actually, the more he considered it, the less he was amazed. Goats and deer and antelope are closely related, and each produce a fine grade of leather, soft and supple, when properly tanned. He had been reluctant to...
"James, I was chatting with Eleanor Whittaker at our card club yesterday, and she mentioned something to me that you might want to pass on to Ken Granger. She and her husband own the insurance agency in Twisp. They've been tied down to it for over 25 years, ever since Randall took it over from his father." Vi Brightman was bustling around the kitchen, getting the rest of their morning breakfast on the table. Jim was enjoying his first morning coffee and eyeing a growing stack of potato...
"This is entirely too much! This generosity exceeds our demands; I've provided for every needy family in the valley! Where can I possibly use all this money?" Jim Brightman smiled to himself; such a complaint could come only from Fr. Ambrose, the elderly priest who had devoted so many years of his life to his small parish. "You know as well as I, this money comes from our friend in the mountains. He was led to it, that it might serve those whom the spirits would aid. That means you, and...
Marilee came through the front door with Graydon right behind her. They stopped in the kitchen doorway. Her parents sat at the table with Fr. Ambrose, his back to the two young people. When he saw Frank's eyes lift toward the doorway, Fr. Ambrose rose from his chair and strode forward, extending his hand. "Good evening, Marilee. It is good to see you again. Who is this young man with you?" Marilee blushed shyly. She turned to bring Graydon alongside. "This is Graydon Williams, our...
M. Vitelli froze in mid-step and stared, unbelieving, at the two figures holding hands, standing side by side on the altar of the small chapel. There were only the three of them there in the gloom. Vitelli spun around when the front door he had arrogantly left standing ajar slammed shut. The room reverberated with the sound. The interior gloom intensified. He could barely make out the walls of the small chapel, scarcely three strides to either side. The darkness seemed to close in around him,...
Jim Brightman, Mike Peterson and Father Ambrose sat around Vi's kitchen table, delighted to be reunited after so many years apart. They sat sipping coffee after one of Vi's delicious meals. She decided to leave the three old friends alone and slipped off to the other room. It was a time for catching up, for reliving old memories as older men often do. Time slipped away as they talked. Vi came in, put another pot of coffee on the stove and served up dishes of fresh apple pie with homemade...
"As I see it, we have a number of problems to deal with. Some are moral and spiritual, and some are practical." Mike and Father Ambrose rested in their hotel room after a light meal. Both were troubled. They were confronting a massive problem, head on, and neither was sure how to proceed. Following the first rule of consultation, "two heads are better than one," they were engaging in some sincere discussion of their goals and how best to achieve them. "Our biggest problem is the good...
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It all started in 2008 when I hired my favorite #Pornstar when she visited atl..I'll just say her name started with a R she was retired She was retired by now but was in Atlanta escorting I had my street money up so I called her and set everything up for the following night Her fee was $500 a hour which was not a problem for me I had spent more on my fantasies before....so i spent the whole entire day watching Films I took the day off smoking and I stroked out to her several times this was...