Twisted Heart (7 page)

‘It was ten years ago. They met while Antony was filming in Greece – an epic horror, lots of dark mazes, snakes, minotaurs. Our family owns a holiday villa on Crete. Aurelie and I were eight years old.’

‘And where—’ Holly began.

Jean-Luc read her mind. ‘Unfortunately my mother died earlier this year.’

I straight away felt bad for him and Aurelie – for their loss, and I thought of my own mom in her hospital bed.

‘Wow, I’m sorry,’ Holly said, by now totally under Jean-Luc’s charming spell.

‘She helped Antony to set up the community. She was a psychotherapist in Paris and it was her idea to give New Dawn an experiential basis. Our programme stresses assertiveness and group work, it consists of a series of tasks to challenge Explorers and bring them into harmony with the wildernesses of the world.’

The text-book speech fell fluently from his tongue – again no hint of cynicism. I bet he gave this same spiel ten times a day. And believed it, it seemed.

‘Excuse me – duty calls,’ he said next, smoothly sliding away when he saw more people coming down the track from the cabins on the hill.

He left Holly, me and Grace practically open-mouthed on the lake shore.

‘Not behaviour modification but experiential,’ Grace echoed softly. This was her field and she sounded interested.

‘A series of challenges in the wilderness,’ Holly murmured. She had that bring-it-on look in her bright-blue eyes and before we could comment she went right over to Aurelie Laurent to ask her whether New Dawn ever took volunteer helpers.

Grace threw me a puzzled glance. ‘Wow – she changed her mind!’

‘Yeah, what happened to the homicide theory?’

‘One talk with a good-looking guy and she drops it, just like that,’ Grace frowned. ‘Suddenly she loves this place enough to volunteer.’

‘Typical, huh?’ I followed the back view of Jean-Luc as he walked halfway up the hill to meet his stepfather, Antony Amos, accompanied by three more of the Explorer kids including Holly’s ex-chief suspect, Jarrold.

Blond and muscled, smooth-skinned and strong. Did he look like a guy with a guilty secret as he strode down through the trees?

I glanced up amongst the pines and experienced a stomach-wrenching flip into the past, vivid and powerful as a lightning strike.

I see Red Cloud, Red Dog, Little Wound wearing crows’ feathers in their black, braided hair. There will be no surrender. They stand at the edge of a forest with blankets around their shoulders, arms crossed. The Ogala Lakotas send war pipes to their friends, the Arapaho. Together the tribes swoop down to the South Platte in a thunder of hooves, the whole valley lights up with burning cabins and stage stations, pine trees twist and explode into flame.

‘Do not trust the enemy. In one hand they hold a peace pipe, in the other is a rifle.’

Red Cloud with his long black hair falling to his shoulders. His eyes are hooded, his mouth is a wide, thin slash across his broad face, his shoulders are strong. He says, ‘The white men have pushed the Indians back season by season until we are forced to live in a small country north of the river. And now our last hunting ground, home of the people, is to be taken from us. Our women and children will starve, but we will die fighting.’

White Ghost, Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse. Names like sighs, like wind blowing across the plains. Braids and beads, headdresses made of fluttering eagle feathers, faces built out of rock, out of earth.

‘A bird, when it is on its nest, spreads its wings to cover the eggs and protect them. We will protect our wives and children.’ Sitting Bull rides bareback by the river, amongst the tipis.
‘Make a brave fight!’ he cries.

Snow comes and falls deep. Soldiers appear on the hill. A black rattle of rifles, a swoop of a thousand horses. They shoot and burn. Nothing remains but smoke and ash, smoke and ash.

Sitting Bull, Rain in the Face, Crazy Horse live on. Thousands are slain in the valley, by the river. Their blood stains the snow.

‘When I was a boy we owned the world. The sun rose and set on our land. Where are the warriors today? Where are our lands? Am I wicked because I am Lakota, because I was born where my father lived, because I would die for my people and country?’

A bearded man with a wolf-skin headdress walks with Amos out of the moonlit forest. He is half man, half wolf with a hairy jaw. Is this past, present or future?

Wolf man beckons me and leads me into thorns, I crawl after him, my clothes are ripped to shreds. His amber eyes draw me in, he breathes soft words into my ear. The grey-haired wolf howls his song
.

‘Tania?’ Grace said. She tugged at my sleeve. ‘Are you OK?’

I was on the edge of a fantasy forest peopled by ghosts and nightmares, sensing danger. ‘I’m cool,’ I told her, getting a grip, shrugging the wolf man off.

Through the whole ceremony Amos kept Jarrold by his side. He stood by the water’s edge, his back to the lake, facing us. And his quiet dignity claimed our attention. Like Red Cloud talking to his warriors before battle, he made us listen.

‘Our brother, Conner, walked with us in the wilderness,’ Amos began. ‘We saw greatness in him, we saw peace.’

New Dawn kids and staff raised their arms above their heads. They gazed out over the water.

‘He sat by our fires, high on the mountain. His heart was healed.’

The Explorers raised their arms and poured out their emotions on the shore of the lake. Some of the girls wept while their leader spoke.

‘He is gone yet he remains. He’s in the trees over our heads, the rocks beneath our feet. He is every drop of water in the lake.’

‘Hey, Conner, this is Channing speaking. We’re here to say we love you.’ The mixed-race guy with the tall, rangy physique spoke softly. A low chorus of voices echoed his words.

‘We know you’re here,’ Channing murmured. ‘We know you’re at peace.’

‘Go but stay,’ Amos said. ‘Walk with us in harmony.’

The ceremony was short and simple. It ended with hugs, handshakes and tears, with smiles breaking through and a kind of quiet joy. Then we split into groups and talked amongst ourselves.

‘Are you in a hurry to leave?’ Aurelie asked Holly, her fall-coloured skirt blowing in the breeze, suggesting great legs beneath the flimsy fabric.

‘Are we?’ Holly checked.

Grace and I shook our heads.

‘So why not walk up to Trail’s End with us?’ Aurelie invited. ‘Papa’s cabin,’ she explained. ‘He’d love to talk with you about volunteering, Holly. And you too, Tania and Grace.’

We nodded. Shake, nod, shake, nod, like banjo-playing puppets on strings.

Anyway, we followed Aurelie, Jean-Luc, Ziegler and Amos up the track, under the trees.

What had happened to Jarrold, I wondered. I turned and saw him sitting alone on a rock, staring out across the lake.

‘So did you actually volunteer?’ Grace checked with Holly.

‘I decided I want to help out,’ she explained. ‘I can do survival skills, no problem … What?’ she protested when Grace and I looked sceptical. ‘I was a girl scout, I went to summer school – gathering berries, rubbing a couple of sticks together to make fire, boiling water. How hard can it be?’

‘But …’ Grace was tempted to bring up Holly’s old homicide theory, which had apparently been blown clean out of the water.

‘Don’t even bother,’ I warned. ‘Holly was at the ceremony and now she’s a convert.’ Amos’s words had been impressive – sincere, calm and convincing.

And his face had really and truly looked like one of the old tribal chiefs – lined and beaten by the wind, hair swept back from his noble features. If I switched off the critical part of my brain, I could see the attraction.

So we trailed on up to the New Dawn leader’s cabin, where we were caught off guard again.

‘No way do I call this a cabin,’ Grace whispered from a distance of thirty metres.

Trail’s End was way too big for a start, with wraparound porches and main windows looking over the lake towards the distant peaks of the Bitterroot Range. The porch furniture – swings, chairs and tables – were five-star quality with leather cushions and expensive ranch styling. An air-con unit stood next to the log store and the main door was open, showing a glimpse of a living room with a round table bearing the weight of a bronze statue of a bucking horse. So I agreed with Grace – this was no ordinary cabin, more the kind of ranch house you see in realtor ads, with moose heads on the wall and bear rugs on the floor.

‘Come in!’ Aurelie invited. ‘Can I get you iced tea?’

‘Yes, come in.’ Antony Amos stood in the porch. He must have been fifty-five years old, but he’d walked up the steep hill without stopping to draw breath.

‘He’s in good shape – it’s all that wilderness walking,’ I muttered to Grace as Holly stepped forward to accept the offer of tea.

Fifty-five, with thick grey hair swept back from his square-jawed, lined face. His eyes were deep set and dark brown behind small, wire-rimmed glasses, his clothes western style today, but not flashy – jeans, tooled boots, white leather belt but no cowboy buckle, a plain grey shirt with white piping around the collar and across the chest, a gold band on his wedding finger. ‘Which of you three girls wants to help out?’ he asked as Grace and I stepped up into the porch.

‘That would be Holly,’ Grace told him. ‘But I guess we might be interested too.’

We were? Had she forgotten I was heading back to Europe as soon as the doctors gave Mom the all-clear?

‘The point is, you don’t need to know in advance the survival techniques we use here,’ Ziegler was explaining to Holly as we walked into the house. Ziegler with the black Stetson, columbine eyes and white T-shirt that emphasized his pecs – the man with the klaxon.

Self-conscious and hovering in the doorway, I focused on the bucking-horse statue, burnished and big as a lurcher, resting on a polished, dark-wood table with ornate carved legs. The artist had made the mane and tail fly, had sculpted to perfection the horse’s wild eyes and flaring nostrils, plus every muscle in its chest and neck. ‘You learn our methods while you’re out there in the wilderness with our Explorers,’ Ziegler said.

‘All you need is to be fit and healthy, period,’ Amos added.

‘I play tennis, I ski,’ Holly said eagerly.

Ziegler nodded and made a note. He asked Holly more questions in a quiet, relaxed voice, exploring her motivation for volunteering, how many hours per week she could give, how she saw herself relating to the Explorers in her team. She answered meekly and obediently, like a child at a magic show.

‘And what’s your interest?’ Jean-Luc asked Grace, leading her to the window and looking out over the lake.

‘That would be more the theory, the therapeutic approach.’ She plucked up courage and told him she was hoping to enrol in a course as a psychology major, starting next summer. ‘If I could get hands-on experience at a place like New Dawn, it would look great on my resume.’

‘And you?’ Amos turned to me as Jean-Luc concentrated on Grace. ‘What’s your focus?’

‘The kids here,’ I said without hesitation. Jarrold, Channing, the girl with the face studs – all of them.

‘Good answer. Tell me more.’

‘What brings them here to New Dawn? How do they deal with it?’

Amos listed criminal offences on his fingers. ‘They come here for larceny, violence, drug and alcohol dependency, the fall-out from family break-up – you name it. The conventional system processes them and spits them out. We pick up the damaged pieces. And each Explorer reacts differently. Most are pretty reluctant when they first get here.’

Like the scared girl in the denim jacket, looking like she wanted to run. I tried to picture where she’d come from and why she’d been sent to the community but found that I couldn’t guess.

‘But we ask them to turn their hearts, make a new beginning,’ Amos said.

I was growing used to the jargon, getting an inkling of what it might actually mean. So I tried not to take a cynical step back when he talked about turning hearts.

‘The wilderness helps them to learn respect.’ Amos paused, studied me then began again. ‘You don’t totally believe me, do you, Tania? But take Ziegler.’

The drop-dead-gorgeous coach sat with Holly at the central table. He heard his name mentioned, glanced up and smiled briefly.

‘Richard came to us aged seventeen.’

‘As an Explorer?’ I’d lost count of today’s surprises.

‘Juliet, my wife, spotted him on the set of one of my movies. He’d lied about his age and found work as a stuntman and body double. Then he got into trouble – street fights, petty larceny, that kind of thing.’

‘That’s hard to believe.’

‘Yes, when you look at him now. Originally we took him in for a ninety-day period.’

‘And he’s still here.’

‘On staff, as a team leader. How about that?’

‘Awesome,’ I said. From what little I’d seen of Richard Ziegler – at the lakeside on Saturday and again today, he seemed like one of those totally together people who can make decisions and take action in an emergency. It was hard to picture him as a punk kid in trouble with the cops.

‘My stepson says you were living in Paris.’ Amos cut across my thoughts. ‘Don’t look so surprised. We talked on the walk up to the cabin. I hear you want to study film.’

‘Yeah, it was fine art originally – painting. But then in Europe I saw a lot of video art, starting with Warhol. I got interested in instant playback and different ways of editing, especially when things went digital.’ Wow, I was loosening up at last, talking about film to Antony Amos, who was only one of the most successful directors of all time. ‘I like the underground Italian film makers.’

‘Stefano Cagol?’ he asked. ‘How about the home-grown guys – Matthew Barney, Gary Hill? And David Lynch – everyone knows
Twin Peaks
, huh?’

‘Yeah, cool.’

‘You know that Explorers here take footage of their wilderness experience?’ Taking off his glasses, Amos slipped them into his shirt pocket, accepting iced tea from Aurelie, who had reappeared from the kitchen.