Prophecy (15 page)

The speculation led in a circle of defeat. If indeed there were a master plan, if the creation of the planet were more than chemical accident, was man designed as the tool for destruction? Or did the master builder go too far? Perhaps man was created in God’s image. Perhaps they both were prone to developing one machine too many …

To find himself speculating in this way was a revelation to Rob. He was a man of science, not easily given to thoughts of mysticism or God. It was, perhaps, because he felt so small here, so vulnerable compared with the size and power of everything around him. Also, there was the cello music coming from the cabin, its haunting sound rising and falling on the wind, enhancing the sense of mystery.

Maggie had become claustrophobic; music provided her only relief. In Rob’s efforts to complete his job as quickly as possible, he had become consumed with his research, walking the island by day, burying him-

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self in reading material and writing his report by night. Maggie had read every magazine in the cabin, all outdated periodicals, played Scrabble by herself until she had become sick of it, and experimented with how many ways there were to prepare the salmon that Rob easily caught in the lake and brought home for dinner every night. Their supply of canned goods was running low, and they were subsisting mainly on fish. The diet was as monotonous as the rest of their existence.

On the third day of rain, they hazarded the boat ride from the island to the shore, but found that the road into town had been damaged by the rain. It was ten miles long, and even though they were eager for supplies, they were fearful of getting stuck in a pothole. They returned to the cabin, hoping that in the morning the sun would shine.

For John Hawks and Romona Peters, the rain was a welcome relief. They had pitched camp together deep in the forest and for three days and nights lain in each other’s arms, forgetting the torture and frustration of their lives on the outside. In the deluge, the lumbering activities had come to a halt; Hawks did not have to deal with the fearful spectre of the roadblock. It was as though nature had intervened to halt the catastrophic momentum of events.

Romona had spoken with the two pregnant women in the Indian village, and they had flatly refused to accompany her to see a doctor in Portland. There was nothing to do now but wait. If either of the two children these women gave birth to were deformed, Romona would take them, living or dead, to be examined by someone who could give her some answers. For now, all she could do was push the troubling thoughts from her mind and allow herself to be soothed by the sounds of rumbling thunder.

The only troubling aspect of the rain was that it had somehow given rise to a renewed epidemic of the

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katahnas. The Indian villagers had used the first day of rain to empty their heavily laden salmon nets and smoke the carcasses of the fish in their smokehouse. For two weeks prior, they had been living on canned goods, reluctant to go to the river for fear of being confronted by villagers or lumberjacks.

Now, three men were felled with seizures, trembling with fever as the chill wind swept through the silent Indian encampment.

Word of the new onset of katahnas reached Romona and Hawks on the third night of rain; they went to the village to investigate. There they visited each of the three men, all delusional and frightened. Hawks was bewildered and, for the first time, understood the severity of the mysterious illness. The katahnas struck without warning, and there seemed no explanation for why, or when, they hit.

As he and Romona walked back toward their encampment, they were swept with a sense of defeat. It was as though the forest itself had turned on them.

In the quiet of the night, an owl hooted above them and took flight; they stood and watched it as its powerful wings propelled it toward the glowing circle of the moon. The clouds had parted and the rain had stopped. The downpour that had provided respite from the problems that beseiged them had passed as quickly as it had come. The trees glistened in moonlight, and Hawks and Romona knew that in the morning their battle would resume.

But it did not hold until sunrise. They were awakened at night by the sound of an approaching land-car, its motor groaning as it lurched toward them, cross-country, through the forest.

Hawks stepped out of their tent and his eyes were hit with a spotlight. He could see the silhouettes of three men approaching him in the glare, rifles held loosely at their sides.

“You John Hawks?”

“Yes.”

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Hawks shielded his eyes and saw that they were garbed in the attire of lumberjacks; the man in the middle was apparently in charge. He held a plastic drinking cup in his hand.

“Someone in that tent?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then you won’t mind if we fire some buckshot in there.”

One of them quickly cocked his rifle.

“Wait.”

“Tell him to come out.”

Romona emerged from the tent, three flashlights turning on her frightened eyes.

“Well, well …” one of them muttered.

“My name is Romona Peters. I am the granddaughter of Hector M’rai.”

She stood stiffly, with her head erect, a slight tremble of her chin betraying her fear.

“What do you want?” Hawks demanded.

“Turn around.”

Hawks remained still.

“I said turn around.”

“Why?”

“I want to check for concealed weapons. I hear you carry a mean ax.”

“I won’t turn around.”

One of the rifles slowly lifted.

“Turn around.”

“Do as he says,” Romona urged.

“Better listen to your squaw.”

“I won’t turn around.”

“I’ll turn around,” Romona quickly said. She turned her back, and one of the men approached her from behind. Hawks made a move for him, and a rifle barrel swerved close to his face; the sound of a hammer clicking back echoed in the night.

“Did you come here to kill us?” Hawks gasped.

“Why don’t you just wait and see.”

The man behind Romona reached around her and

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cupped her breasts; Hawks tensed and two rifle barrels jammed into his head, stopping him.

“Let them do this, John,” she whispered in a trembling breath.

“See there? She likes it.”

“Get him off her,” Hawks growled through his teeth.

“Just checking for weapons-”

“Get him off her!” Hawks shouted.

Romona whimpered and Hawks lunged for the man; the man grabbed Hawks by the collar, spinning him against a tree, the two rifle barrels poking hard into his neck.

“You’ll have to kill me,” Hawks gasped.

“We’d rather you watched.”

“Please let us alone,” Romona implored. “We’ve done nothing to you.”

“You’re trespassing.”

“We’ll leave!” she cried.

“We’re not trespassing,” Hawks hissed.

“This land is owned by the Pitney Paper Mill.”

“This land belongs to my people.”

“Now, that’s just not true, Indian.”

“What do you want from us?” Romona moaned.

“We want you out.”

“We’re not leaving.”

“I think you are.”

The man in charge raised the plastic cup he’d been holding, as if to toast Hawks, then suddenly threw its contents onto the crotch of Hawks’s pants. Hawks could smell gasoline. He tried to run, but the other two pinned his arms against the tree, overpowering him.

The man in charge moved slowly forward, putting a pipe in his mouth and lighting it with a butane lighter. His eyes were on Hawks as he turned the flame up high. Then he slowly lowered the lighter until the dagger of flame was just out of reach of Hawks’s gasoline-soaked pants.

“You have twenty-four hours to leave this forest,”

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the man with the lighter said. “If you aren’t gone by tomorrow night, we’ll be back for you.”

Then he switched off his lighter and the threesome backed away. Hawks stood, unmoving, as he watched their car turn and lurch away into the night.

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9

Rob and Maggie responded to the sight of the morning sun like prisoners who had been in solitary confinement seeing the first light of day. It was a tonic to them, filling them with energy and refreshing their spirits. They quickly organized for a trip into town.

The lake sparkled in sunlight as they crossed it in their small boat; when they reached shore, they saw that the road to town had already begun to dry. They put down the canvas top of the car that Isely had left for them, and let the fresh air wash over them as they drove through a glistening green forest. Rob had a momentary concern that they might be stopped again by Indians because they were in a lumber-company car, but when they passed the place where the roadblock had been, there was no one there.

“Think they gave up?” Maggie asked.

“Doubt it. I’d like to get rid of this car.”

They turned onto the main highway and drove into town, parking in front of the library, which was Maggie’s first priority. She would look for some books, then shop while Rob went to the bank and cashed some traveler’s checks; then they would rendezvous at the post office, where Rob was planning to send soil and tissue samples back to Washington.

They were so exhilarated to be out of the confines of their cabin, to be walking on cement instead of mud, to be rubbing shoulders with other human beings who nodded and said good morning, that they failed

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to notice they were being watched. John Hawks and Romona Peters had also journeyed to town and spotted the lumber-company vehicle, recognizing it as one of the two that had run through the blockade. In the small, one-street town, they waited quietly for the opportunity to confront them.

Hawks had come to demand that the sheriff provide protection from the men who had threatened them the night before. The sheriff of Manatee County had listened without sympathy, not even making the gesture of a lie that he would look into it. It was his customary way of dealing with the Indians; simply to nod until they were tired of talking. Romona had tried to dissuade Hawks from wasting his time, for she knew this sheriff well. He was the same man she had tried to appeal to when she had been raped as a twelve-year-old girl. Now, sixteen years later, she saw the same hint of amusement glinting behind his eyes.

The sheriff’s name was Bartholomew Pilgrim; a heavyset man, fifty years of age, he was allowed to continue as head of local law enforcement over the years, more out of public lethargy than from support. There was little crime in the town of Manatee, little need for effective personalities in public office. He, the president of the local bank, the mayor, the three pastors of the churches, the board of the Chamber of Commerce, were all of a generation that grew up together, supported one another and, once seated, held firmly to their jobs. Recently, the chief operating officer of the Pitney Paper Mill, Bethel Isely, had joined their ranks. In its small-town way, it was a ruling junta; each defended the other for the good of the whole.

Bartholomew Pilgrim had been alerted to the presence of John Hawks in the Manatee forest; the news of the events at the blockade had been brought to him by Bethel Isely. But he could not deal with Hawks in the way that he would have liked to. He had been cautioned by his superiors in Portland that the

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Indian spokesman for the O.P.‘s was known in Washington and had to be dealt with, on an official basis, delicately.

On an unofficial level, it was different. As long as no law enforcement personnel could be accused of harassment or violation of civil rights, Pilgrim could close his eyes to events like those that happened to Romona and Hawks the night before.

As Hawks spoke to the sheriff, he could see in his eyes that he knew what had happened to them, and had likely sanctioned it.

“Gee, I’d sure like to help you, my friend-”

“Don’t call me your friend.”

“I’d sure like to help you, pal, but there’s nothin’ much I can do.”

“It’s your job to protect me.”

“It’s my job to protect the citizens of this county.”

“I am a citizen of this county.”

“No, no, you’re from out of town.”

“I was born here and I’m living here.”

“I wouldn’t advise that. If I were you, I’d move on down the road.”

“I’m not moving anywhere.”

The sheriff sat back in his wooden swivel chair; it creaked beneath the weight of his massive body.

“I’m gonna tell you somethin’, old pal,” he said. “I’m not against you people, and neither is Mr. Isely. Matter of fact, he’s a very generous man. After I heard about the blockade, I was all for bringin’ you into this jail. I’d have been perfectly within my rights to put you under arrest. But Mr. Isely, he said no. He said that John Hawks is a good old boy, and we just got to give him a little time to move on down the road.”

“I’m going nowhere.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“If anything happens to me, people will find out about it.”

“I’m sure they will.”

“You will be held responsible.”

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“I hope you take care of yourself, then.” It was after this exchange that Hawks and Romona exited the police station and spotted the lumber-company vehicle parked in front of the library. Now, with his life threatened, Hawks knew that he had nowhere to turn except to the man from the government.

“This is a hell of a vacation you sent me on, Victor.” Rob pressed one hand to his free ear and spoke loudly into the telephone as he stood in a phone booth on the corner next to the post office. “I get away from the rats, and the raccoons attack me. The Indians are out for blood, and the lumberjacks are only too happy to give it to them. I’ll tell you, it makes the tenements look like a rest home.” Rob paused and nodded. “I’m going to get this done as quick as I can. I’ll finish up the report when I get back to Washington.”

Victor Shusette sat in his office in Washington, listening with concern. His choice of Robert Vern to conduct the field survey in Manatee had backfired on him, and the last thing he wanted to hear was that Rob was going to make fast work of it. The timber lobby had learned that Vern had no experience as an environmentalist; the fact that he was qualified by virtue of his having been tutored by veteran field workers, and by reason of his own native intelligence, meant little to them. They now had a possible cause with which to discredit his report. It was too late for Shusette to reverse his choice; if he did so, it would further damage the Agency’s credibility. Credibility was all they had to sell, and credibility was a fragile commodity. In many ways, people looked upon the Environmental Protection Agency as they would look upon a police force. Even though it could function perfectly for years, a single questionable incident or the transgression of one individual could bring out all the hidden resentment toward it and collapse the