Thursday, November 29, 2018
Don Travis: Brother Bucky
Don Travis: Brother Bucky: dontravis.com blog post #313 Courtesy of FreePhotos Last week’s LOL must have struck a nerve in China. I had twice as many pagevie...
Brother Bucky
dontravis.com
blog post #313
 |
| Courtesy of FreePhotos |
Last week’s LOL must have struck a nerve in China. I had
twice as many pageviews from there than I had in the US.
For this week’s short, short, I ask you to think back to
your youth and let your imagination run away with you as we take a look at “Brother
Bucky.”
*****
BROTHER
BUCKY
Can life get much sweeter? Eighteen.
College frosh. Cool. Handsome and sexy, at least according to my new girlfriend,
Elizabeth Warfield. She’s the best girl I’ve ever had. Had. You know
what I mean? The other girls let me
do it; Elizabeth does it right back. Believe me that’s one hell of a lot
better.
I stood outside the Student Union
Building after last class and watched Elizabeth Elizabeth
“Kilgore,” he opened. My name’s
Ellis Egan Kilgore, but nobody ever calls me anything but Kilgore. “You’re diddling
my sister, and I want you to stop.”
“That’s up to her,” I replied,
meeting the moment with maximum casual.
“No!” Bucky said in a firm voice
with a finger on my chest, his nose virtually touching mine, and those big brown orbs gazing straight into my eyes. “If you’re going to screw a
Warfield, it’s gonna be me!”
“What?” I asked, my voice rising an
octave. I had been braced for a sucker punch, but not that one. “You
mainlining, smoking, or popping, man? You think I’m queer for you?”
“You want a Warfield, it’s gonna be
me. Me or nobody.”
“Fuck you!” I sneered.
“Exactly,” he said with a gentle
smile as he strode away. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Flabbergasted, I wondered if this
was his squirrelly way of saying the romp with Elizabeth
Looking back, that seemed was the moment my
life went all screwy.
*****
Oh
wow! How did it go screwy? Did Bucky manage to mess thing us between Kilgore
and Elizabeth? Or did he get between Kilgore
and Elizabeth. You tell me what you think happened.
Please
get a copy of my latest book, The Lovely
Pines, and provide feedback on
the novel. If you do read the book, please post a review on Amazon. Each one
helps.
As
previously noted, The Bisti Business was
named as a finalist in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards in two categories:
Best Mystery and Best Gay Book. Sadly, the book took no prize in either
category.
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on
writing. You have something to say… so say it.
My
personal links:
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
Buy
links to the Lovely Pines:
Abaddon’s
Locusts is scheduled for release on January 22, 2019, and the first draft of The Voxlightner Scandal is almost
completed.
See
you next week.
Don
New Posts are
published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
Thursday, November 22, 2018
LOL
dontravis.com
blog post #312
 |
| Courtesy of Pinterest.com |
Received a lot of hits on the finale to “Mountain Augury”
last week. Several comments on Facebook and on my email. Guess you liked the
story.
This week is less of a story than a semi-essay exploring a
concept new to me. Let me know how you like it.
*****
LOL
Lyle Oliver Lloyd carried the epithet of LOL with him to
the campus of Winderham University. Only he knew it originally stood for Little
Orphan Lyle. He’d lost both of his parents in a car accident when he was a
youngster. His dark curls and big brown eyes, full pouty lips, and sweet nature
made distant relatives vie to take care of him. Aunt Louise and Uncle Bud took
him first and cared for him the longest. But he reached an age where the curls
and the eyes and the lips remained devastating but were now accompanied by slim
hips and broadening shoulders.
When Cousin Bob, two years his senior and a flat-out
mama’s boy, started hanging around him too much, LOL readily accepted what the
older boy offered as a matter of routine.
Although he wasn’t certain why, Lyle was quickly sent to Cousin Barbara and her husband, Bill. That arrangement lasted until their daughter,
roughly his own age, began fluttering her eyes at him. He sampled her wares,
finding them just as pleasant and fulfilling as what Bob had given him.
After that, he was shuffled to one cousin after another until he
arrived on campus determined to learn who he was. He knew he was a football
star, that’s how he got to Winderham. He also understood he was a good student
and handsome and bled when he was cut… but that’s not who he was. All he knew for certain was that he was different from
most people he knew.
For example, he didn’t classify people as guy friends or
gal friends, just friends. Nor did he look on another student as a handsome guy
or a pretty girl. They were just handsome or pretty, as the case may be.
He felt tingly down the back when he was with Sara from
Freshman English. He thought maybe it was the way her bust struggled against
the tight pullovers she usually wore, but after thinking on it, that wasn’t it.
He just liked Sara. And he went tingly down the front whenever he saw Chuck in
the dorm shower room bent over a sink brushing his teeth, his trim butt swathed
in a cotton towel. It took some hard thinking to come to the conclusion it
wasn’t some part of either one’s anatomy that stirred him. It was Sara—the
entity of Sara that attracted him. The same with Chuck. It was Chuck, not his
manly posterior that called out to him. Friendly pheromones, perhaps?
Then there was his roommate, Robin. It didn’t take long
for word to reach LOL’s ears that Robin was the campus queer. The place where a
guy went when his girl got him all hot and bothered but wouldn’t put out. Lyle
got more than one veiled suggestion that he must be “well taken care of,” but
the insinuations were flat-out untrue. He had no feeling for or reaction to
Robin. It didn’t bother him that his roommate actively sought relationships
with other guys. LOL analyzed Robin’s anatomy, something he was unaccustomed to
doing, and decided the guy was attractive. But not to him, despite Robin’s
obvious interest in him.
By the end of the semester, he’d bedded Sarah and Chuck
and a couple of other students. When he took the time to analyze his
relationships, he realized he’d received an immense amount of pleasure from each
coupling… except for one. Then he considered his confederates in the unions and
was surprised. Chuck was pretty, beautiful really, Sara was handsome in a
feminine way. One of the others was a pudgy guy with a pleasing air, and
another was a butch girl with an aggressive way. He considered each, not only
as a lover, but also as a friend.
The one that hadn’t worked out? He'd allowed Robin to
overcome his better judgment once. His roommate was handsome, capable, and very
skilled, but once the assignation was over, Lyle asked for another roommate.
But by then, he had his answer. He knew who he was… or at
least what he was. He was sexually attracted to people, not gender, not looks,
not personality… but sympathetic people who hit him as genuine individuals.
Like he said. Pheromones calling to pheromones, not body parts calling to body
parts.
He was a pan.
*****
As
I say above, the pansexual concept is something new to me. I know one
individual who so identifies himself and know of a couple of others. The
character study above is my attempt to express my understanding of the idea.
I’m sure readers will point out where I’m wrong.
Please
get a copy of my latest book, The Lovely
Pines, and provide feedback on
the novel. If you do read the book, please post a review on Amazon. Each one
helps.
As
previously noted, The Bisti Business was
named as a finalist in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards in two categories:
Best Mystery and Best Gay Book. Sadly, the book took no prize in either category.
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on
writing. You have something to say… so say it.
If
you would like to drop me a line, my personal links follow:
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
Here
are some buy links to the Lovely Pines,
which (as noted) was released on August 28:
Abaddon’s
Locusts is scheduled for release on January 22, 2019, and the first draft of The Voxlightner Scandal is about 95
percent completed.
See
you next week.
Don
New Posts are
published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
Thursday, November 15, 2018
Don Travis: Mountain Augury, Part 3 of 3 Parts
Don Travis: Mountain Augury, Part 3 of 3 Parts: dontravis.com blog post #311 Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons Ah, here comes the ending. All will be revealed. Time to pick up th...
Mountain Augury, Part 3 of 3 Parts
dontravis.com
blog post #311
 |
| Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons |
Ah, here comes the ending. All will be revealed. Time to
pick up the pace a little. You’ll remember that Teo Oxley, hired to restore two
frescoes in a mountain mission, has been wrestling with a phantom in his dreams
and observing mysterious shadows in the daylight. He’s lost a lot of his fear but is frustrated because he feels the specter is trying to deliver a message…
a message he has not been able to decipher.
*****
MOUNTAIN AUGURY
AUGURY: (o’gye re)
n. – The art or practice of divination
from omens or signs (Random House Webster’s College Dictionary)
Rodrigo went to work moving the
disassembled scaffolding from the nave into the narthex while I considered the
second fresco. If anything, it was more dynamic, more dramatic than the larger
painting. In the foreground, San Pedro, still exhibiting obvious Indian blood,
suffered his martyrdom in the traditional manner. His cross was inverted; his
agony, tangible. Priests and soldiers and Indian shamans and sheep and horses
stood at a respectful distance to suffer with their Saint. Above them all, a
distant, gentle Jesus looked sadly down upon the crucifixion of his Apostle.
A scrabbling in the corner heralded
the puckering of my flesh and the tickling of my nose. The presence was back.
He was always stronger in the narthex. Momentarily unable to confront him, I
fled into the nave and helped Rodrigo carry the last of the scaffolding. By the time we
returned to the narthex, the phantom had retired restlessly to the far
corner. Warily, I helped my young assistant erect the gigantic tinker toy that
would support us as we worked on the fresco.
That night, he appeared the
moment I slipped over the edge of tortured sleep. The dark, amorphous presence
from another dimension took on definition and light. Absent the cloak and cowl,
a white cotton shirt glowed eerily, unnaturally. Rude cotton trousers. Huaraches,
open-toed sandals. His being took on the color of the earth and then lightened
with a tinge of rose. For the first time, the face clearly appeared in all its
manly strength. I gasped as that strange scent without odor tickled my nostrils.
He hovered before one of my photos
of the frescoes I’d pinned to the hut’s rude walls. A ghostly hand moved across
the surface and hovered at the lower right corner of the photograph as a
strange sigh filled the hut.
He gestured again toward the photo
before vanishing as I slowly surfaced from the land of dreams, exposed and
shivering in the cold. I lay awake the remainder of the night fretting over the
meaning of my dream.
***
Given the lessons learned on the
first fresco, work on the second progressed faster than I had hoped. Things
were relatively quiet until the final phase of the work, the retouching. Even
this was expedited because I had existing supplies of the paints created for the
first fresco. As I carefully worked on an agonized St. Peter hanging upside
down on his cross, I sensed a presence on the scaffold with me other than
Rodrigo, who was carefully retouching the background. He was here,
suffering with the Saint, experiencing the pain of the nails, the horror of
approaching death. Could my shade be the Saint, himself?
A spasm seized my right hand,
causing me to drop my brush and cry aloud. Rodrigo rushed to my side, concern
written across his features.
“It’s okay,” I said, rubbing my
hand vigorously. “Had a cramp, that’s all. Let’s call it a day.”
Rodrigo followed as I started for
the ladder, assessing what remained to be done as I went. I paused to examine some
minor figures and noticed a faint blur of color in the extreme right near the
bottom. After adjusting one of the lights, I made out the form of a man. Not
enough of the original paint remained to indicate who, or even what he might
be. A soldier? A religious figure? One of the Indians proliferating the scene?
I could not tell. I’d have to use my imagination on virtually the only part of
the original fresco that could not be accurately interpreted... or paint it out
of the fresco completely.
A stirring in the woods, the
ominous atmosphere in my shack, and a hint of odor warned me of the presence.
After bathing out of a basin and listlessly eating something tasteless, I
studied sketches of the fresco for a few moments before turning off the light
and going to bed.
“Why don’t you stop screwing around
and just tell me what you want?” I said into the darkness. I immediately rued
my words. What if it were the Saint, himself? Impossible! He had died half a
world away.
As usual, it took time for him to
find form and definition while I lay shivering with equal parts of fear and
curiosity. Eventually, he moved to the same photo of the narthex fresco and
turned to me, his shadow luminescent.
“I’ve looked at the photo,” I
wailed. “I don’t understand!”.
A whirlwind shook the
interior of the tiny building. The photo fluttered to the floor. If he sought
to frighten me, he succeeded. My skin puckered from a sudden chill. Chastened, I
crawled from the bed and picked up the fallen picture. On a whim, I snapped on
a flashlight and turned it on the photograph. He shrank from the sudden light
as I examined the lower right corner where the protoplasmic finger often
rested.
“It’s that figure I can’t make out
on the fresco,” I said aloud.
Ignoring the nighttime chill claiming
the hut I rummaged around in my things until I found a magnifying glass. Using
that, I made out several brush strokes in the form of a small, stylized man.
“I’ll take another look tomorrow.”
I didn’t know if I spoke to myself or my phantom.
He knew. That skin-puckering sigh
filled the room as he faded away.
***
I spent the next morning completing
the retouch of the crucifixion of St. Peter, then suffered through an impatient
lunch, earning strange looks from Rodrigo. My meal half-eaten, I rushed up the
scaffold and grabbed a clean brush. I again surprised my young companion by
ignoring other major figures and going directly to the faint outline in the
extreme right corner. Rodrigo held his tongue but was clearly curious. I
ignored him.
Cleaning dust from the faint
impression of color, I took up my pigments and began to paint. I had to fight
the impulse to do a two-dimensional portrait, but that would have been horribly
out of character with the rest of the fresco. Instead, I followed the outline
my augury had revealed to create a figure of substance out of what had been
illusion. As I finished, Rodrigo put aside his brush and moved to my side. He gasped
and froze. Holding my breath, I waited him out.
“It’s him!” he whispered.
“You’ve seen him?” I asked.
Rodrigo nodded. “You?”
“Daily. He wouldn’t leave me alone.
I wasn’t certain you knew about him.”
“He scared me, at first. I almost
quit and run away before I figured out he didn’t want to hurt me. You know who
he is?” he asked.
“Not until this morning. He’s the
artist who painted the frescoes. He’s the Indian who created all of this
beauty.”
“He’s dead. Why does he hang around?”
“Haunt us, you mean? Because he
wanted to be remembered for what he did. But I couldn’t understand. Last night,
he found a way to let me know what he wanted.”
“What was that?”
“To be acknowledged. He didn’t want
his image painted out of the fresco.”
Rodrigo gave a shaky laugh. “Will
he vamoose now?”
“I believe we’ve seen the last of
our artist friend.”
“I’m glad… sorta.”
Rodrigo expressed my feelings
perfectly.
*****
Are
we there yet? No, not quite. Teo is still frightened but not terrified. He
seems to be coming to terms with his anxiety. At least he’s glad to have the
placid Rodrigo working with him on the scaffold. Next week, we’ll finish the
story. Then you can email me and tell me what you think.
Please
get a copy of my latest book, The Lovely
Pines, and provide feedback on
the novel. If you do read the book, please post a review on Amazon. Each one
helps.
As
previously noted, The Bisti Business was
named as a finalist in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards in two categories:
Best Mystery and Best Gay Book. Winners will be named in November.
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on
writing. You have something to say… so say it.
If
you would like to drop me a line, my personal links follow:
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
Here
are some buy links to the Lovely Pines,
which (as noted) was released on August 28:
Abaddon’s
Locusts is scheduled for release on January 22, 2019, and the first draft of The Voxlightner Scandal is about 90
percent completed.
See
you next week.
Don
New Posts are
published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
Thursday, November 8, 2018
Don Travis: Mountain Augury, Part 2 of 3 Parts
Don Travis: Mountain Augury, Part 2 of 3 Parts: dontravis.com blog post #310 Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons Time to pick up the pace a little. You’ll remember that Teo Oxley has b...
Mountain Augury, Part 2 of 3 Parts
dontravis.com
blog post #310
|
| Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons |
Time to pick up the pace a little. You’ll remember that Teo
Oxley has been hired to restore two frescoes in a mountain mission. The first
night he’s there, he sees something that isn’t and has his dreams invaded by a
mysterious specter. He hopes the arrival of the young Indian caretaker named
Rodrigo will set things straight.
We’ll see.
*****
MOUNTAIN AUGURY
AUGURY: (o’gye re)
n. – The art or practice of divination
from omens or signs (Random House Webster’s College Dictionary)
It took almost an hour, but we tore
down and reassembled the scaffold so that it was much more secure. It would serve
my purposes nicely. The youth hovered at my side on the scaffold as I set about
examining the mural in detail.
“This is going to take a little
time, Rodrigo. It’s slow, painstaking work. Actually, it’s four jobs. First you
diagnose the situation. Find out what the problems are, like what caused those
cracks, for instance. Do they radiate? What materials were used to create the
work? The paint was ground from natural ingredients and then applied right onto
the wet plaster. That’s the difference between a mural and a fresco. Anyway, I
have to determine things like that.”
I took a breath and continued to
scan the Saint’s face up close. “Then there’s the job of cleaning. Removing
centuries of accumulated dirt and smoke can be tricky. This painting should have
been cleaned every generation or so. That means St Peter should have taken twenty
baths since he was created. Probably hasn’t had one.
“The third step is to repair the
mural. Correct any damage, fill the holes, mend the cracks without losing any
more of the original work than necessary. And then comes the biggie...the
retouching. That’s what takes the longest. We’ll actually recreate the fresco
using paints and colors as close to the original as possible.” I glanced at the
young man at my side. “Do you know anything about painting, Rodrigo?”
He shrugged. “I do some pictures.
You know, draw them. Paint them.”
“You ever painted old St. Peter?” I
made it a jocular question, but he took it seriously.
“Once or twice. But I’m not a real painter
like you are. They say you painted for the Holy Father in Rome.”
“I helped restore St Francis of
Assisi and did some work on the Zucarri frescoes at the Duomo in Florence.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that
he was impressed before he turned stolid again.
***
The threat of rain hung over the
mountains that night as I nervously prepared to go to bed. Would my specter return
tonight to disturb my rest with that curious mixture of fear and excitement?
Had I met him today in the church? The mysterious shade in the gloom of the
sanctuary? But I slept alone that night.
Rodrigo proved to be a great deal
of help in the coming days. But frankly, his mere presence was comforting. The
gloomy old mission church spooked me. Countless sightings of shadows that
should not be. A presence in remote corners. Occasional assaults on my
olfactory senses even though there was no discernible odor. The impression of
being observed. A few times, even the placid Rodrigo exhibited an uneasiness.
Assured by my assistant that the leak
in the ceiling over the fresco in the narthex had been repaired, I set up floodlights
to dry the damp plaster. Sensing Rodrigo behind me, I turned to explain I had
to be careful not to dry the spot too quickly, as that would cause the plaster
to flake and peel.
There was no one there!
Yet there was. I sensed him in the
far corner. A darkness too deep to be natural stirred as I grew aware of it.
The hair on my neck and arms rose. My flesh pimpled like a goose’s. Fear dried
up my throat.
“Who are you?” I croaked.
My answer was a sigh.
My voice took on timbre, strength. “What
do you want?”
The shadow undulated, as though in
agitation. Angered by my interference or my mere presence in his church?
“I won’t be here long. I’m just
repairing the ravages of time. Then I’ll be gone, okay?”
A gust whipped through the closed
narthex. My nose itched fearfully. My body chilled before heating feverishly. What was happening?
Even as I reacted, the presence
retreated. The shadow weakened, but before it faded away completely, I glimpsed
a handsome face twisted in anguished frustration.
Giving way to my own fear, I
scrambled down the scaffold and rushed out the heavy, carved doors into a weak
sunlight, crashing into Rodrigo on the steps.
“What’s the matter?” he cried.
“I’m…I’m going to the house for a
few minutes,” I gasped, pulling from his grasp and staggering across the muddy
distance to the little adobe.
***
As August passed into September,
the monsoon season weakened, bringing only intermittent thundershowers. My
diagnosis completed, I undertook cleaning the main fresco. Rodrigo worked at my
side, an unknowing bulwark against my unreasonable and unreasoning fears.
Other than checking on the drying
plaster, I ignored the fresco in the narthex. I first wanted to finish the
restoration of the major work in the nave. Normally, I tackle the minor piece first
to learn the peculiarities of a job, but for some reason I was reluctant to
take on that one. Perhaps it was because it was in greater disrepair. The large
one in the nave was less of a challenge.
The cleaning went surprisingly
well. Rodrigo set me to chuckling with his astonishment at kneading the plaster
with sourdough bread to clean it. “It’s the best way, believe me. But we have
to be sure to remove all of the bread or we’ll attract insects.
Rodrigo’s plodding patience paid
off in spades. The tedious care demanded by the work did not bother the youth
as much as it did me. But the presence, as I came to regard him, still lurked
at a distance, remaining in the shadows as labor on the main fresco progressed
quickly. I had lost my fear of him now, although on occasion his appearance
would raise the hair on my neck. It was apparent he wanted something from me,
not to harm me. But he was unable to communicate what that was.
Upon completion of the work on the
fresco in the nave, the mural looked much as it had when the unknown painter
first applied pigments to the fresh plaster almost four hundred years ago. I
contemplated that long-departed artist for a few minutes, trying to see St.
Peter through his eyes. A high, keening sigh filled the sanctuary and caused me
to whirl around… to find no apparent source.
*****
Are
we there yet? No, not quite. Teo is still frightened but not terrified. He
seems to be coming to terms with his anxiety. At least he’s glad to have the
placid Rodrigo working with him on the scaffold. Next week, we’ll finish the
story. Then you can email me and tell me what you think.
Please
get a copy of my latest book, The Lovely
Pines, and provide feedback on
the novel. If you do read the book, please post a review on Amazon. Each one
helps.
As
previously noted, The Bisti Business was
named as a finalist in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards in two categories:
Best Mystery and Best Gay Book. Winners will be named in November.
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on
writing. You have something to say… so say it.
If
you would like to drop me a line, my personal links follow:
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
Here
are some buy links to the Lovely Pines,
which (as noted) was released on August 28:
Abaddon’s
Locusts is scheduled for release on January 22, 2019, and the first draft of The Voxlightner Scandal is about 90
percent completed.
See
you next week.
Don
New Posts are
published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
Thursday, November 1, 2018
Don Travis: Mountain Augury, Part 1 of 3 Parts
Don Travis: Mountain Augury, Part 1 of 3 Parts: dontravis.com blog post #309 Courtesy of Wikimedia. Common Things have stabilized this week. The friend I mentioned last wee...
Mountain Augury, Part 1 of 3 Parts
dontravis.com
blog post #309
 |
| Courtesy of Wikimedia. Common |
Things have stabilized this week. The friend I mentioned
last week was apparently the victim of a small silent stroke. It will take
time, but he will recover.
This week, I would like to post the start of s short story.
Unfortunately, it’s not a short, short, so it will take a series of segments.
Sorry, but it’s one I really want to present to my readers. The readings are
longer than usual but bear with me. I hope the payoff will be worth the effort.
*****
MOUNTAIN AUGURY
AUGURY: (o’gye re)
n. – The art or practice of divination
from omens or signs (Random House Webster’s College Dictionary)
I herded the Toyota Rav4 up a
narrow mountain track as quickly as the weather and road conditions permitted
in order to arrive at the Misíon del San Pedro de las Lomas before
darkness fell. The little church called St. Peter of the Hills sat isolated in
a small valley smack dab in the middle of mountains. The rain that had pestered
me virtually all the way, ceased as I entered the glen. My first view of the
mission containing two frescoes I’d been hired to restore came through a wispy fog
in rapidly failing light.
Although this House of God was
small, reminding me of a Penitente morada, it loomed large above the Toyota as I sloshed to a halt nearby. The
color of mother earth with two stubby campaniles that had never seen bells, the
building could have been a monolithic, cross-crowned boulder hurled from a
long-forgotten volcano.
The only other structure in the dell
was a small adobe shack just west of the church, my home for the next few
months. Ignoring the damp chill of the rain-soaked mountains, I set to work
making my quarters habitable. Firing up the gasoline generator left for me to
provide heat and power, I quelled the urge to enter the mission and swept and
dusted the shack, instead. When I finally went to the Toyota for my personal
luggage, I froze with the car door half open. The rain started again, gently
plastering my hair against my skull. My flesh puckered. A chill swept my back.
My eyes frantically roved back
and forth. Someone, something was there. There by the church. In the
deep recess sheltering dark, crudely-carved doors. A shadow.
“Who’s there?” My shout echoed
hollowly through the sodden twilight. “I’m Teo Oxley. I’m here to do the
restoration,” I called, my voice falling away at the end.
The thing stood mute.
Motionless. Could it be a shadow? Grabbing a flashlight out of the glove box, I
started forward. Fifty yards from the church, my nerve failed. I stood in the
rain, water rolling off my shoulders, trembling from cold and fear. As I
watched, the shadow edged out of the recessed doorway and slipped around the
corner of the building. Its flight released me from my paralysis.
I knew before reaching the corner he would be gone. I was
right. There was nothing there. No one
and no thing. Spinning awkwardly in the mud, I splashed back to the
adobe, my soaked back tingling with an apprehension that refused to leave even
after I closed the thick wooden door to the shack behind me.
I lost the desire to visit the mission church that night,
telling myself it would be better to wait until morning when there would be
natural light. What a load of baloney. The building had small clerestory windows
that admitted little sunlight. The interior would be dark and gloomy, no matter
the time of day or night. I fixed something to eat and retired.
***
Stealing in on the night, the specter crossed unknown
dimensions to advantage my slumber and claim my unconscious. The Stygian
presence roiled the swirling mists of my dream. Cold, prickling fear drew me
halfway out of sleep, but my tormentor remained… subliminal, insubstantial,
permitting only swift, fragmentary glimpses of himself. Dark, sharply planed
features. Midnight hair leaking from a rough, brown cowl. Eyes as dark as the
pit. I cowed before him, my nose stinging with the hint of something in the
air. My ethereal visitor took on substance as he sought to commune, but the
dream Theodore Oxley lay uncomprehending. The shadow that was not a shadow
threw back the cowl covering his head, revealing shimmering features that
steadied and took on form, drawing my breath from me. As he faded from the
dream, his disappearance rekindled a vague sense of fear. He had failed to make
known the reason for his presence. He would return.
Sunlight filtering through thick, fast-moving clouds
dispelled little of the old mission’s mysterious atmosphere. The damp morning
virtually cried out for an Alba, that sweet, haunting Spanish paean to
the Virgin raised by chanting voices of padres and Indian neophytes. But the
hulking church remained silent, its adobe exterior slightly out of true, walls
sloping inward as they rose. The only adornments were a simple cross at its
apex and a rude cinquefoil above the flat, segmented arch of the entryway. The rude
door carvings portrayed events in the life of the Saint. The world was totally
silent when I turned the key in the old lock, but as I moved into the narthex,
a nearby squirrel set up a noisy chatter.
The first fresco, a busy one, spanned the wall above the
entry to the nave. Faded colors I had expected, but a leak in the ceiling allowed
water to stain the plaster and bleed the paint. Even in the gloom, I spotted a crack
running diagonally across the piece.
Passing through the narthex, I entered the sanctuary, a
large, open chamber bare of pews or furnishings of any sort. Low-ceilinged
aisles on either side held the Twelve Stations of the Cross in carved
sandstone. The large mural behind the altar above the open chancel was
arresting even in the dim, musty light despite its state of decay.
Catholicism’s first Pope surveyed his New World converts through the large,
liquid eyes of an Indian. This was not Italian Renaissance, but the flat style
we now term Primitive, an art that relies on the clever use of color to bring
the painting to life. Zia sun rays haloed the Sainted One, who was surrounded
by the cloud and rain and rainbow symbols of his Native faithful. Even faded
and in need of help, the fresco was awesome.
I examined the disassembled, stacked scaffolding left for my
benefit and built a skeleton framework before the main fresco. As I teetered at
ceiling height to take the last in a series of photographs, a noise
below startled me, almost causing me to fall. Clutching an unsteady upright for support, I
glanced down upon a child gazing up at me.
“Hi!” I said as brightly as my lurching heart would permit.
“I’m finished with my picture taking. Be right down.” Why explain this to a boy?
Nervousness, probably. When I reached the stone floor, I discovered no child,
but rather a young Indian man standing there. I held out a hand. “You must be
Rodrigo, the caretaker they told me about.” I said. “I’m Teo Oxley, the
restorer.”
The youth extended a slender, muscled arm and accepted my
hand, allowing me to do all the gripping. “Meet you,” he whispered in a throaty
voice. I gathered there had been a “Glad to” in there somewhere.
“I’m told you’ll help me from time to time?” It came out as
a question more than a statement.
The dark head bobbed, and he dropped his brown eyes before
my curious examination. Had he haunted
my dream last night? No, my impression of the mysterious watcher was of a
taller, more mature man. Rodrigo must have been around twenty, yet he radiated
the aura of a charming adolescent.
“Would you like to learn a little about frescoes?” I asked
to break the silence.
The youth’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I would like to be able to
take care of El Señor.” It
surprised me that he spoke of the Saint as he would the Lord Jesus.
“Well, you can start by helping me take down this scaffold
and reassemble it. I don’t think I did it right the first time. Too rickety.”
Are
you spooked? I am, and so is Teo Oxley. Maybe Rodrigo can steady him a bit.
More next week. Maybe we’ll find out who the specter is and what he wants.
Please
get a copy of my latest book, The Lovely
Pines, and provide feedback on
the novel. If you do read the book, please post a review on Amazon. Each one
helps.
As
noted last week, The Bisti Business was
named as a finalist in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards in two categories:
Best Mystery and Best Gay Book. Winners will be named in November.
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on
writing. You have something to say… so say it.
If
you would like to drop me a line, my personal links follow:
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
Here
are some buy links to the Lovely Pines,
which (as noted) was released on August 28:
Abaddon’s
Locusts is scheduled for release on January 22, 2019, and the first draft of The Voxlightner Scandal is about 90
percent completed.
See
you next week.
Don
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