Pasayten PeteChapter 9 Legend and Illumination
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"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 we've had this argument before. So, please, just be still and take the money. If you can't use it here, use it for your reservation work on the eastern side."
Jim handed the banded stack of bills to Fr. Ambrose, smiled at his old friend, and reached out to give the priest a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. He turned and left, smiling to himself. Each time he returned from making a delivery to his trusted precious metals dealer in Wenatchee and handed over the charity share to Fr. Ambrose, he faced this same protest: "It is too much!"
In truth, it was a great deal of money, but the needs were great. Mike Peterson and Jim Brightman knew of no other who could be so trusted to use the money wisely and well. No family in the valley would suffer; no child would go hungry; no deserving student would miss a chance at a good education. Fr. Ambrose and his "spy network" of elderly ladies knew every family and every need in the valley and well beyond.
The fact that the gold came directly from the mountain made sharing a fair and reasonable endeavor: the wealth of the land was meant for the needs of all who lived there. Fr. Ambrose was the Creator's humble servant who tended those needs.
Antonio Augustus Bernard was born in 1883 to an humble peasant family who owned two milk cows, a small band of sheep, a goat, and a two-room cottage high in the Swiss Alps, barely north of the Italian border. From the moment he was able to walk he went each day with the family flock high onto the grazing slopes. When his hands grew larger and stronger, he milked the family cows, dawn and sunset. He walked down the steep slopes to the village school and when he had learned his letters and words, he begged his father for extra candles so he could read stories and scriptures beside the fireplace each evening.
Their village was served by a small chapel, led by an elderly priest whose soul was exceeded in quality only by his rich and varied knowledge, gained from many years of travel and study before he had settled into the remote Swiss village. When he looked into young Antonio's eyes, he saw reflected in that child his own thirst that had led him first to acquire knowledge, then to an accommodation with his spiritual nature, and then to steadfast devotion to service. He knew this child would go far along that path if he was shown the first few steps. From that first moment, the student and the mentor were never far apart.
Antonio grew tall and strong, a son of the mountains. His intelligent mind thrived on the many books and talks given him by his mentor. It was a foregone conclusion that he would go to seminary and into the priesthood.
He chose for himself the singular name of Ambrose and for the remainder of his life he would be known by that simple name. Despite his many physical and mental gifts, he preferred to remain humble in spirit and simple in taste. He lived frugally and worked in service wherever he was sent.
He found himself drawn to the shores of the new world, to the great expanses of the American continent. The motto of the welcoming statue in New York harbor appealed to him: "Send us your poor ... your huddled masses." Europe had become too confining, too rigidly bound in tradition and class. His first glimpse of the towering Rocky Mountains, his first breath of the rich, hot desert air of the vast southwestern desert, gave his spirit wings. Here was room to grow and a hugely isolated population to serve. The native Americans were a deeply spiritual people but had been virtually imprisoned, economically and culturally, in their own land.
Fr. Ambrose begged his superiors to be allowed to live and serve in this great new land, and after a time they relented. He chose the poorest of missions, the most remote, forsaken, poverty-cursed missions in the entire region. He found that the days of hardship strengthened him and his resolve.
A greater need arose with the outbreak of the Great War. Armies marched across Europe and a veil of darkness descended on the world. Fr. Ambrose knew that the youth of his adopted country would encounter an evil such as they had never seen; they would be caught up in unimaginable carnage. He volunteered to become a chaplain in the armed forces and was sent with the first American Expeditionary Force to arrive in Europe.
It was there that he met Colonel James Brightman and Captain Michael Peterson. Lieutenant Antonio "Ambrose" Bernard ministered to the fighting men of their command. Two things emerged from that experience: a friendship forged in fire between the three men that would never dim; and a grief born of death and desolation that would sear the chaplain's heart. This injury would take many years to heal.
Fr. Ambrose was 37 years old when he went off to war, strong of body and absolutely convinced of the correctness of his faith. He was 40 when he returned, sick in body and soul, weakened, his faith shredded. His spirit was wounded. So many men had fallen. Some died in his arms. He tended their souls but dared not be their friends. He ran empty of tears weeping for the agony of his friends; too many friends were maimed, killed, lost.
It seemed that the very best among them were chosen to die: husbands and fathers, artists, teachers, craftsmen, students, all were taken by the scythe of war. They ended their days as cold, mutilated corpses in the bloodied mud of Satan's field. He saw the carnage on both sides of the battle lines and raised his face to curse the very heavens where a heedless God sat with blind eyes. He felt himself impelled to curse creation itself, but he knew this was wrong. The fault lay with man, not with his God. Fr. Ambrose nearly lost his own soul to grief; yet a dim spark of faith remained.
As many had done before, Fr. Ambrose lost himself in travel to distant lands. He found solace in the ancient highlands of the far east. He devoted himself to studies of ancient philosophy and religion with Buddhist and Confucian scholars and priests. He learned that millennia of human travail and pain have created a certain insularity of existence: each soul is singular; each moves through life alone, making choices, questing, seeking acceptance and resolution. A soul might seek to center itself on a chosen path and move steadily toward an ultimate destination, or it might stray and lose itself in lust or anger or grief, ultimately to waste itself, alone and forlorn in the void of dissolution.
Fr. Ambrose lived as a solitary pilgrim throughout the greater breadth of the Asian wildernesses, serving, studying, fasting and praying. As his consciousness and wisdom expanded, his heart healed. His lungs, scarred by poison gas, regained much of their function; his body, wasted by trench diseases, thrived on the simple diet and rigorous discipline of the mountain retreats.
He returned to America and found himself drawn to a remote mountain valley in the high Cascade Mountains of the Pacific northwest, a landscape that he recognized as similar to the alpine peaks and meadows of his birthplace. He had, in a sense, returned home.
His modest chapel served a small rural population. Eastward, over a high range of foothills, there lived a neglected and impoverished reserve of native people. The chapel, the valley, and the natives challenged his resolve to settle and serve. Fr. Ambrose not only returned home, he rediscovered his life's work. He decided that he would remain in the valley and serve its people during the years remaining to him.
He was stunned when he found his two lost friends, veterans of the war that nearly consumed them all. Never again would the three friends be separated.
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...
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...
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...
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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Shannon sidled across her bedroom, undoing the buttons on her blouse, thinking about what the night ahead had in store for her. She'd sucked her grandfather's huge cock a couple of times now, and tonight, he'd promised to fuck her with it. She couldn't wait. She stepped across to the bed and saw two large boxes lying on top of the covers, each one done up with a big colorful ribbon tied into a bow. One had a tag attached that said: "FOR DINNER TONIGHT" and the other said: "FOR...
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Mystic Godfather----------------Chapter 1---------His arrival was memorable in itself but that was the night I went to myfirst high school dance. Mom tried to console me she would neverunderstand. I buried my head in my pillow so I didn't notice the flashof light or hear the opening of the closet door. The music was on tomask my tears so I didn't hear him approach.I only knew someone was in my room when I felt something bump against mybed. A man was standing there when I looked up. He had...
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“Wanda, I have a surprise for you come down here.” “I’m coming Michael, what is it?” “We're going to a hotel today. I have a surprise for you there. I have a business meeting tomorrow, so we have all day today and then you can go back home. But, today and tonight we'll have lots of fun." “Your mother will be home tonight so we have to go to the hotel. Dean, will be here also. I have to have your sweet pussy or I’ll go crazy.” “You’re unbelievable. I suppose you really like me, don’t you?” ...
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Bless Me Father Part 1: Confession By Deane Christopher As much as Daniel Parker hated having to go to confession growing up as a young lad, he, as the priest he had become, hated hearing confessions even more. Like Jesus at the Garden of Gethsemane, every Saturday, during the celebration of the morning mass, Father Dan would beseech the Almighty to let this cup pass. However, though he did so grudgingly, each and every Saturday afternoon, Father Dan, following in the footsteps of the...
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“Wanda, get your sweet ass down here and suck my cock. You know how you drive me absolutely wild with your slutty mouth.” “I’m coming Michael. You’re really enjoying this aren’t you?” “I don’t want you fucking my son, so I have to keep you busy.” I ran down the stairs to give Michael a blow job. We've been getting together a lot since our first meeting. My mother has been traveling a lot now. She's a Vice President in an Electronics firm and has been doing her weekly visits at some of their...
TabooI am 25 years old, married and I have a son of 5 years old. My husband’s name is Pradeep and he is a businessman. He is involved in export and import business. He has to travel out of the country occasionally. He rarely takes me with him. We live with our laws that are my father in law, mother in law, my husband, my son and me. My mother in law was strict. So I had to live being a good daughter in law . I had to obey her, dress up in traditional way. She had maintained a strict environment in...
IncestIt was a Friday. I had gone to my friend’s house to exchange an adult DVD. It was around 11:00 AM. My friend, Anirban’s house is away from the road, and access to the house is through a small three feet wide by-lane, which was almost 50 feet long. The house was pretty isolated from the surroundings. Just I had reached almost to his house, I saw Anirban coming out of the house. When he saw the DVD kept covered in my hand, he was very happy. I saw that he is about to go somewhere. When I asked,...
IncestThere is much to be said about one’s origins, that’s for sure. My name is Solomon Rashid Joseph. I was born in the City of Detroit, Michigan, to a Haitian-American mother and Lebanese immigrant father. My father, Rashid Ahmed, met my mother, Nicolette Joseph, while attending Wayne State University in the 1980s. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, he died while visiting his parents in Beirut, three months before my birth. My mother married a guy named Harold Jacobson three years later, and...
Store Room With Father In Law My name is Suganya, a house-wife aged 30. I reside with my husband and our four c***dren, at Chennai in India. We are a middle class South Indian family. My husband is a nice man and takes good care of my c***dren and myself. Though I have four c***dren with him, yet somehow, my private relations with my husband is not so fulfilling. That is because, unfortunately, my husband is a physically weak man. He is short, thin and very timid in nature. Though at least once...