The Myriad Resistance (7 page)

“What the hell?” I whispered in awe.

“Wait,” Burt said. “We aren't in yet.”

He stepped inside the tarp and motioned for me to follow. Once in, he let the corner fall back to its original position. It soon became obvious we were in an enclosed space. Every breath, every step seemed to echo as if we were in close quarters.

“Burt … I'm getting a little freaked out now,” I said. “Where the hell are we?” He might as well have taunted me by singing,
“I know something you don't know.”

“One more tarp!” he whispered. His whisper was almost as bad as a shout in our cramped environment.

He walked a few steps ahead and then bent down and grabbed what appeared to be the corner of another tarp.

“Ready?” he said with almost giddy excitement.

I shrugged; I was as ready as I was going to be.

When Burt switched his flashlight off I experienced a moment of panic. However, the panic did not have time to sink in before another sight froze me in place as he withdrew the tarp. What I saw blinded me.

CHAPTER 6

VIRGINIANS

“Words do not pay for my dead people.”

~Chief Joseph

The brightness was blinding to my light deprived eyes, but that was not what struck me with awe. We were in a subterranean passageway full of hundreds of Impals. Most of them did not notice our presence as they stood, laid or sat about. The ones lying or sitting were doing so on one of the small cots lining each side of the passage. I always pictured a mine tunnel as being a small passage with a single track. Mine cars hauling out the commodity harvest in never-ending succession. This was different.

We were in a large room, twenty to thirty feet wide and about fifteen feet high. The chamber seemed to narrow the further back it went until it was almost a V-shape. At the tip of the ‘V' I could see the beginning of a stereotypical mine tunnel where several more Impals resided.

The few Impals who noticed us gave us a mixed reception. Some smiled and waved, while others ignored us. I felt as if we were in the presence of living history and I guess, in a sense, we were. The Impals inhabiting the mine ranged from dress styles of Colonial times to the present day. I even noticed a few American Indians in the group. Their presence could potentially expand the historical timeline much further. The group was an even mix of men, women and children. I couldn't help thinking of Seth Pendleton when I saw a group of little boys about his age sitting nearby.

“My God, this is incredible!” I stammered.

“I told you, didn't I?” Burt said.

“So, all the Impals are living in the mines?” I asked.

“Yep,” Burt said.

“Why?”

If I could take the time to think it out, the reason would have been obvious. My brain was too tired.

Burt folded his arms and seemed a little disappointed. He sighed and gave me a textbook answer. “Well … the Impals can be a little bright, especially at nighttime, so hiding them in here made the most sense. We put the two layers of tarp in so you could enter and close the first one before entering the second one, thereby not letting light out.”

“How did you pull this together so quickly?” I asked.

“It wasn't that quick. We started prepping this place two weeks ago and started moving the Impals in last week. Before then, they hid out like a bunch of outlaws. The poor folks were scattered all over the countryside. Some took refuge in basements, back rooms, caves and about any hole they could find. This place was easy. We brought a bunch of cots in, a couple of dozen buckets and bulk food items like cheese, crackers and canned meats.”

I was familiar with the Impals' desire to eat. There didn't seem to be any physiological need for it, yet they craved it all the same. I figured the buckets were probably for the end result.

A single little girl, sitting on a cot about twenty feet away, found it very amusing. She could have stepped out of an episode of
Little House on the Prairie.

“My momma calls these squenching buckets!” she giggled, pointing at a stack of buckets in the corner.

I have never heard anyone use the term other than Thomas Pendleton. I wondered if this was someone who crossed paths with him and Seth. Curiosity got the best of me. I walked over to the little girl and knelt down.

“What's your name, honey?” I asked.

She stopped giggling and studied my face for several moments.

“Rebecca … Rebecca Fiddler,” she said in a sweet tinny voice.

“Where's your mom and dad?” I asked.

She pointed to a woman in similar nineteenth-century apparel. The woman held her hand over one of the buckets, dropping something out of her palm resembling breadcrumbs. A moment later, she walked toward us.

“Hello … Mrs. Fiddler?” I asked, extending my hand.

My hand felt like ice as she grasped my fingers. I did a good job suppressing my discomfort. Touching an Impal has always been akin to jumping in a cold lake. You know the water is cold, you know the moment is coming, but nothing ever prepares you for the shock of the initial plunge.

“Yes I am … and you are?” she said with gracious Southern charm in her voice. She reminded me of Scarlett O'Hara speaking into a tin can.

“My name is Cecil Garrison, ma'am. I would like to ask you a question if I may.”

She shrugged and then sat down next to Rebecca on the cot.

“Did you come up with the term, squenching?” I asked. I felt a flush of embarrassment for asking.

Even though Impals can't blush like flesh-and-blood people, a sheepish smile washed over her face. Her eyes fell to her lap. As she began to speak, I believe I saw a noticeable bloom in her glowing features.

“I don't know … maybe,” she said.

“Did you ever run across a man named Thomas Pendleton and his son, Seth?” I asked.

She blinked with surprise. “Why, yes … a little over a month ago we enjoyed a picnic with them … back in Arkansas,” she said, and then her eyes widened with fear. “Are they okay?” she gasped.

I glanced at Rebecca who was watching us with great interest. Therefore, I decided to lie.

“Well, yes … I believe so,” I stammered. I was never very good at lying, especially doing it on the spot. “Saw them not too long ago.”

Rebecca seemed to buy my bogus story as she rolled over on her stomach on top of the cot and began to sing a soft lullaby as she clutched her pillow like a doll. I'm sure it was a beautiful and innocuous song in her day. It sent a chill up my spine. I guess my affinity for horror movies coupled with the reality of my present company got the best of me for a moment. I jumped as I felt cold encircle my hand; I looked down to see Mrs. Fiddler grasping my hand and beckoning me to follow. She was not as gullible as her daughter. When we walked a few feet away, she stopped and regarded me with stubborn resolve and terror swimming in her luminous eyes.

“What happened?” she asked.

I glanced at Rebecca and then back to Mrs. Fiddler. I knew I needed to answer her, however I needed to ask a question of my own first.

“Where is the rest of your family?” I asked.

I immediately wished I hadn't asked. The balance in her eyes of stubborn resolve and terror shifted. My throat tightened into a knot as large silvery tears began to stream down her cheeks.

“We … my husband and my son … we got separated this side of Memphis. I think the Army took them away. We were trying to find my oldest son, Nathan. We wanted to see if he stayed behind like we did … that's all we were doing,” she sniffed then quickly turned her head away. I noticed Rebecca was watching us again.

“I'm sorry,” I said, patting her upper arm. “I'm sure they are fine.”

I saw the balance in her eyes shift back to stubborn resolve. “I heard about the Shredder, Mr. Garrison,” she said. “I don't think any of us who get captured will be all right, do you?”

I didn't want to lie to her and I didn't want to tell her the truth of my opinion. The truth was, her son and husband had probably already entered the Tesla Gate, just like Thomas and Seth. I said nothing and stared at the floor.

“Is that what happened to Thomas and Seth?” she asked.

I didn't answer for a long time. Finally, I told her the truth.

She turned and walked away through the crowd of Impals, leaving me with a curious little girl. She stared up at me with growing suspicion. “What's wrong with my mother?” she snapped.

“Nothing sweetheart, she is okay. Give her a minute,” I said with as much assurance as I could muster. It wasn't enough.

I don't think she believed me because she got up with a scowl and ran after her mother. Turning, I saw Burt standing a few feet away smiling and shaking his head.

“We are doing the right thing helping these folks,” he said. “You can't get emotionally involved on a personal level. Every single one of them has got a sad story to tell and it will eat you up if you stop to listen to all of them.” He pulled me closer and whispered. “We are their rescuers, not their shrinks.”

Burt was right. Nevertheless, it was hard not to listen and care, not for anybody with half a heart. It made it even more difficult when an Impal was as compelling as the one I was about to encounter. I felt a cold tap on my shoulder and turned to see a tall, imposing Native American man watching at me expectantly. His raven hair cascaded over his shoulders, framing his wise and aged face. He was bare chested and wore a garment around his waist resembling a buckskin kilt. An unusual beaded necklace hung around his neck.

“Have you seen my daughter?” he asked.

I was overcome by a sudden feeling of déjà vu. Strangely, it was much more bizarre than experiencing something I have already seen. The man spoke with a commanding tone in spite of his Impal timbre. He also spoke in his native tongue. The crazy thing was, I could understand him. I never heard this language before, yet I could understand it as clearly as if he were speaking English. When I recovered from the shock, I answered.

“No, I don't think so. What's her name?”

“Matoaka,” he answered, his eyes sad and distant.

I shook my head.

“No. I'll let you know if I do. What is your name?”

“Wahunsunacawh,” he said with deep appreciation.

I was not going to try to pronounce it, at least not on front of him. I felt it might be insulting if I screwed it up. Instead, I patted him on his cold and shimmering arm.

“I'll let you know, I promise,” I said.

He bowed his head with deep appreciation then turned and walked back to a group of Native American Impals nearby. They all seemed to regard him with a great deal of reverence. I turned to see Burt smiling at me and winked.

“Did you have a good talk?” he asked.

“I guess, why … who was that?” I asked.

“You don't know?” Burt chided.

“Should I?” I asked, a little annoyed.

Burt shrugged.

“I met him a couple of days ago, took me a while to figure it out myself.”

“He was wandering around the Mattaponi Reservation near King William County since the storm started,” Burt said. “The government does a much better job of keeping their hands off of reservations than anything else. The people there knew it was only a matter of time before that trust was broken. The living residents of the reservation helped sneak him and a few other Indian Impals here.”

“Okay …” I said. “It still doesn't tell me anything.”

Burt motioned for me to follow and we headed back towards the entrance of the mine. I suddenly realized how tired I felt. In any case, my fatigue didn't dampen my curiosity to know the man's identity.

“It's weird how you can understand him even though you shouldn't be able to, isn't it?” Burt said.

“It sure is.”

“I think it's the same with all Impals, they kind of have some sort of universal translator I guess. There's a French guy in here.” He said motioning back over his shoulder as we walked. “I talked to him the other day and completely understood everything he said, even though I knew he was speaking French.” Burt chuckled to himself. “I made a D in French when I was in high school.”

“Okay … so who was he?” I asked as we approached the tarp.

Burt stopped and turned as he pulled up the corner of the tarp. He motioned me through and I stepped inside. As the corner of the tarp fell, total darkness descended on us.

“You ever heard of Chief Powhatan?” Burt asked in the dark as he flicked his flashlight on.

I scanned my brain for recall on my basic American history, a moment later it clicked.

“Jamestown?” I said.

“Yep,” Burt replied.

“Well, that would make his daughter …” I said, trailing off in amazement.

Burt finished my sentence for me.

“Pocahontas.”

CHAPTER 7

THE EUROPEAN INITIATIVE

“Do not let spacious plans for a new world divert your energies from saving what is left of the old.”

~Winston Churchill

“He called her Matoaka … and he said his name was Wahunsunacawh,” I said, probably bungling the pronunciations.

“Right,” Burt said as we stepped under the outer tarp and back into the dark, humid air of the woods. “Those were their real names, not what the English called them.”

I wore a stupid expression in the ambient glow of the flashlight; history was not my forte in school.

“He was chief of the Powhatan people, hence the name Chief Powhatan,” Burt explained.

I laughed.

“Isn't it like calling the president … President America?”

Burt shrugged as we continued our slow march through the woods. “There's a lot of things I would like to call that cowardly idiot,” he muttered. “He's the whole reason we are out here.”