House of Gold (34 page)

He felt beautiful. The same as the views from this lazy, winding road. Strong like these mountains.
His soul sacramentally purified, like the bubbling water in the wide river which paralleled the road.

There was civil peace here. The locals were making a go of it, taking the worst and spitting it right back. The rest of the world, the world he had walked through, and the world to the south, where there were wars and rumors of wars, seemed like a universe away.

He remembered the car ride back
from the airport after he and Sam had returned from Montana. The U-Haul and the Durango with New Hampshire license plates.

They had chosen well.

The Lord has chosen,
he reminded himself.

He tried to pace himself, but found it difficult to avoid hurrying. He reached the dam on the western side of the First Connecticut Lake and abandoned Route 3 by early afternoon, heading east into the wilderness,
which quickly closed in around him like a living green blanket.

The dirt road became a trail. A few miles into the woods, the trail slipped through a boggy marshland as it curved around the southern end of the large lake (which he was careful to keep in sight). Buzz hiked north for another mile before making camp off the road.

It was a warm evening. He decided to forego starting a fire. He ate
his last slice of jerky and the remainder of his corn, except for a mouthful, which he set in his trap.

He checked the load in his Ruger (this was bear country), then climbed into his well-worn sleeping bag.

One more day.

+  +  +

There was no game in his trap when he awoke. He stretched, rolled his sleeping bag, then set off. When he reached what he guessed was Magalloway Road (there were no street
signs this far into the bush), he pulled off his backpack. He reached to the bottom to get the Man's compass.

It was not there.

He always kept the compass on the bottom of the pack to make double sure it would not accidentally fall out.

Probably in a side pocket.

He checked the three side pockets. Nothing.

He staved off a temptation to panic.

Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, please come around, the
Man's compass is lost, and cannot be found.

He checked his pants pockets. No luck. He emptied the backpack completely onto the trail, then searched through the contents. No compass.

He tried to remember where he had seen it last. Yes, at the hotel in Pittsburg. He had held it in his hand before packing it into the bag, all the other items laid out on the bed. He had held it in his hand.

But he
could not remember packing it into his bag. He had not needed to take it out yesterday.

He searched through everything again. It was gone.

Had he left it in the hotel?

Dropped it on the trail?

If on the trail, should he go back and look for it?

It would be a great waste of time to double back to look for it
(It's in the hotel!).
He could lose a whole day, maybe two. Probably not even find it.

Mel.

He looked up.

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. If I use the sun, I'm sure to run into the Dead Diamond River eventually, probably before nightfall,
he reasoned.

He was standing on a crest. The trail was open here, with a natural field leading almost all the way to the lake, which he could clearly see to the west.

The lake is west, isn't it? Sure it is. It has to be.

He checked
for the sun overhead. It was still rising, opposite to the lake.

East. Mel is east.

I'll go with Buzz to Bagpipe,
the Man had said.

He didn't need the compass. He had the Man.

Buzz started walking again, following a trail he thought was Magalloway Road, but in reality, was not.

+  +  +

By nightfall, he accepted the fact that he was lost. After an hour, the trail he mistook for Magalloway Road
had narrowed into a path, and then, later, into a deer path. Moving away from the setting sun, now at his back, he plowed forward, thinking he would eventually run into the river. Then he tried to double back in the dusk, but lost the trail, or perhaps the little deer path had divided, and he had taken the wrong turn without realizing it.

Getting lost did not come as a surprise. Twice last year,
he and Sam became disoriented and had gotten lost on the homestead simply trying to find the river on their property. It had been an occasion for laughter or mild aggravation.

A lost hour.

But they both learned a lesson as men which little boys who grow up in rural areas learn early on–it's easy to get lost in the bush. The trees all look the same. The bends and the hills and the swells become
indistinguishable. Without a compass, navigation is difficult, sometimes impossible, as the leaves in the trees overhead hide the sun. Or the sun itself, never truly west or east, shifting in the sky depending on the season, plays its tricks on the inexperienced hiker.

He decided to make camp and wait for morning. He would follow the sun east again in the morning.

He was thirsty. His canteen was
empty. He had not run into a creek or stream since morning.

He prayed a very, very heartfelt Rosary, but had trouble falling asleep. He tried not to listen to the sounds of the night-forest, but heard them anyway. Instead of bogie monsters, he looked into the shadows and saw phantom bears.

He would follow the sun tomorrow. Yes, that was what he would do.

One more day to Bagpipe,
he told himself.
And Mel.

+  +  +

He dreamed one of those dreams without things. He was floating, floating in a mist that was watery and cool, but it was not a pool or real water, or an ocean, or a lake or a pond. It was a mist.

Where am I?
he asked.

He did not know. He tried to cry out, to call for help, but could not find his voice. He tried to swim in the mist, to find its borders, but did not know if he was
moving forward or moving further into the cloud.

He felt...others.

Angels, souls. Others. Millions of them. Souls and angels. People, living and dead. They were there–beyond the mist. The elect. Just beyond his reach.

My God!
he bellowed in his dream-mind.
Rescue me!

Buzz listened for the Lord's reply. And the Lord replied. Familiar-sounding words in an authoritative voice:

"Look and you shall
see a white cloud, and seated on the cloud is one like the son of man, with a crown of gold on His head, and a sharp sickle in His hand."

Buzz knew it was something from the Bible.

"A sharp sickle, Lord? What does this mean?"

"I shall test them in the furnace, like gold, as I tested Maximilian. By their sufferings you shall know them."

Gold? Furnace?

"Lord, I do not understand," he cried aloud.

But the Lord did not explain, and Buzz did not reach the others, the elect, or understand anything before falling into another dream–

+  +  +

Buzz woke hungry, as he had woken up many times during the long walk. Again, there was no rabbit or squirrel in his trap. He used a rag from his pack to wipe the dew off the stock and barrel of the Ruger. He checked the load, and held it as he began to head
east–or what he thought was east.

Maybe I can bag a rabbit?

Every so often, remembering a trick he had read in
Last of the Mohicans,
he marked his trail by scraping bark off trees with his hunting knife.

He was starting to worry. Praying in that way a worker prays–short prayers. Aspirations.

Oh Mary, help me find a road.

At this point, he was in the thick of the pines. Any road would do. If he
found a road he could follow it until he found–somebody.

A local.

A local could give him directions.

Wilderness everywhere.

He hiked all day, up hills and down hills. Along little glens. He found a stream once, drank deeply, filling his canteen. In his haste, he was making too much noise, and knew that any game was fleeing before him, long before he came near, sending out unseen signals to the
other animals. Perhaps the smell of fear emanating from his pores was warning them away.

He could not accept the fact that was closing in all around him. That he was lost in a different kind of way, in a different kind of world. There would be no search parties sent to look for him. No one really knew he was here.

And he barely knew where
here
was. He could be north, east, west, or south of Magalloway
Mountain. He could hike west for days, searching for one of the big lakes.

Or he could continue east, mistaking the Dead Diamond River for just another stream
(Is it running dry this year?),
cross it and shoot north past Bagpipe altogether, going east into the vast, empty wilderness of central Maine.

He could starve to death.

He was already hungry.

Lord, no, not that. Not after coming this far.

Who are you to question me?
the Almighty, or his own conscience, or perhaps just a voice in his head rebuked.

You who took the life of Benjamin Marks? Who are you to judge My ways?

As the dusk came, he spotted a tree with his own marking on it, and realized that he had gone nowhere.

Mel!
his soul cried, as he crawled into his sleeping bag, his ankle sore, his stomach empty, to begin another Rosary.

+  +  +

He came to a steep hill the next morning, saw the sun to the east, and started to climb down backwards on all fours to keep his balance. Weakened from lack of sustenance, a bit nervous about being lost, mentally fatigued, not
making sure
to be careful for a split second, he reached for a branch, failed to test it–it came loose, and he lost his balance...

...and fell, rolling down the hill,
the Ruger flying out of his hand, over pine needles and small brush, tumbling thirty or forty yards before a large oak tree broke his fall with a dull thud and a waffling of leaves.

Pain, shot like a bullet from his ankle, streaked up his leg to his brain. He wanted to reach for the ankle, but it was even more steep here, and he was afraid he might roll or slide down the rest of the hill, which
cut downward beyond his sight...

..the pain. The hunger. Being lost. Having come so far since riding the Waverunner across Lake Erie...being so close to Bagpipe...and Mel...

Mel. Markie. Packy.

Buzz broke. He began to cry–tears of frustration, not despair.

"No!" he hollered at the top of his lungs, revealing his anger to the forest. "I will not give up. I will not give
up!"

His voice did not echo,
it sponged up into the pines and the leaves and the soft bed of brown needles all around him.

Lord, help me!

Buzz flopped back, resting for a long time, simply enduring the pain in his ankle until it subsided. He remembered the game of dirty croquet, and how he had realized that he could not win. The deck was stacked against him.

I'll go with Buzz to Bagpipe,
the Man's dying words. A promise.

God alone suffices,
he had told the people of Blackstone.

In a matter of seconds, you will be dead,
Buzz had told Rheumy.

Utter regret welled up in Buzz's soul.

He was confused.

But he did not despair.

I'm still strong.
He encouraged himself.

I still have God. I'll crawl out of these damned mountains if I have to.

Overwhelmed, he waited for the pain in his ankle to shift down to a throb. He dropped
the back of his head onto the pine needles, and the world spun. His brain did him a favor, and crashed. Blacking out allowed him to sleep for a time he could not measure.

When he woke up, the light was fading. He climbed and crawled and clawed back up to the Ruger, shouldered it, and took another hour to continue on, resting often, until he reached the top of the ridge.

He had not eaten in over
two days. Before he fell asleep that night, he accepted the reality of the situation.

No food. No Mel.

+  +  +

He woke up before sunrise. He had a bit of water in his canteen. With much effort, he pulled himself up and leaned back on a pine tree. He drank the water, trying not to spill a drop.

He knew his body was growing weaker. There was no fat left on his frame to burn for fuel. His system
would soon start breaking down muscle as a last resort.

+  +  +

Morning came. Little Miss Hunger was a much more insistent companion today, sharper now, a carrion bird picking at the walls of his stomach. He ignored this; he crawled until he found a branch of fallen maple, and made himself a crude crutch.

Find water.

He climbed to his feet. He willed himself forward, dragging his foot, time passing,
the skin under his arm rubbing raw from the makeshift crutch, unshaved, smelly, and...tired, oh so tired, of the long walk.

Voices started chattering in his head, offering advice. Telling him what to do. He recognized the voices, the demons. Buzz had gone insane before–the jetty on the beach–and he knew how to deal with them.

Ignore the bastards. Pray Hail Marys.

His energy was waning.

He needed
to find water.

The town of Bagpipe might just as well be as far away as Cleveland...

You'll never find water,
a voice teased.

That wasn't the issue.
Mel.

So he ignored the voice, summoning from his soul all he had left: his will.

Each limping step required the full act of his will now. Instead of this draining his will, he discovered that his will grew stronger, even as his body grew weaker, even
as each righteous forward movement of muscle screamed for mercy against his goal to...

...reach Mel.

...until he collapsed on the floor of the empty forest, and felt his head spinning, beginning to black out again, even as his will raged against the...
the reality of the situation...