The Chardon Chronicles: Season One -- The Harvest Festival (7 page)

“Sure, I’ll take some water.” David said.
They walked to the library.

“People have all kinds of ideas about the
world, the way it works, and ideas about themselves. We get those
ideas from school, from watching TV shows, from our families. In
many ways the world we inhabit is built entirely from those ideas.
The ideas seem so incredibly solid, clean and logical--and they
seem like they’ve been around forever. But that’s all wrong.”

“Mmmmm…. Ohhh kayyy.” Tracy said.

He gestured around the room. “This is a
really unique collection. Knowledge of many very wise people,
distilled, then distilled again by your family and friends.”

“My family?”

“Yeah, they’ve been building this collection
for a long time… This library’s like the ideas of the western world
distilled to the really good stuff. It isn’t just a bunch of books.
This collection is really a record of what went
into
writing
books.” he gestured emphatically like a man pouring water from his
hands. “There’s authors notebooks, notes scrawled in margins, on
napkins. It’s like behind-the-scenes stuff.”

“Wow.” Tracy looked around the room with new
eyes. Chloe flipped through some of the notebooks on a nearby
shelf.

“These books are the record of people solving
problems. It’s lifetimes of eureka moments and epiphanies. The
universe whispering directly in the ear of some authors. There’s
some totally crazy stuff in here, dangerous stuff, too. It’s a
truly amazing storehouse of wealth.”

Chloe said, “Oh, speaking of wealth… You
might know something about this?” She handed him the phone with the
coin picture.

“Oh… Very interesting. Cool.”

“Do you know what the inscriptions say?”

“Oh, it’s a motto in Greek, an abbreviation
of a motto, really, Philosophers and Dogs. It’s a saying attributed
to Diogenes: ‘Dogs and philosophers do the greatest good and get
the least rewards.’”

The words had an immediate effect on Tracy.
She crumpled onto the floor.

“Tracy!” Chloe ran over to her side. Tracy’s
eyes were closed, but moving rapidly.

“Let her be. She’ll be OK.” David said
calmly.

A few seconds passed and Tracy woke up.
“What… time is it?”

“You just like passed out a minute ago.”

“I feel like I slept… hard… all night. Wow,
weird dream.”

David looked at her intently, “What sort of
dream?”

“It was my parents… my dad and mom in my
room… my dad was apologizing, said it was the only way to tell me
what I needed to know… that’s about all I remember.” They helped
her off the floor.

“Can I give you guys some homework?” David
said.

“Ugh. That reminds me we’ve got those essays
to write!” Tracy said.

“Oh yeah you’re still in school--that sucks!
Anyway, this is the assignment. Start poking around in the library.
Most of it won’t make any sense at all. Certain things will speak
to you more than others. Oh, and you might want to write down what
you remember any time you zonk out like that and what triggered it,
or any dreams you might have.”

“Sure.”

“You guys, it’s been great meeting you as
almost-adults.” He hugged each of them. “Do you think I could get a
lift to my parents’ before it gets dark?”

Tracy puttered around in the library later
that night. She had fuzzy slippers on and was wearing a sweater and
sweat pants. She had a big mug of cocoa in her hand. Its steam
wafted up and disappeared in the air. The silver disk of a nearly
full moon was visible through the big picture window. The house was
creepily quiet, so she went around and bolted all the doors, and
turned on the TV in the kitchen for some noise. It droned in the
background as she wandered the shelves.

She’d barely paid attention to the library
before. She hadn’t noticed the labels on the shelves. Some were
carefully carved from wood and gold lettered. Newer ones were taped
on and she recognized her father’s handwriting. The labels seemed
to mark categories. The shelves held a mish-mash of materials. Some
old leather bound books, some legal pads that were faded with age,
some photocopies and few black and white photographs.

A black ledger book was leaning against the
end of each shelf row. The book had handwritten notes with dates
stretching back into the 1830s. In some cases the notes cross
referenced other works. Sometimes they were just terse statements
like, “Agricola’s
De Re Metallica
is the source.”

She read late into the night, and finally
just passed out in her favorite chair in the library. She slept
soundly until the morning sun illuminated her face.

“Oh man!” She woke up with a start. She
rushed into the kitchen and popped her laptop open. She dashed off
an essay on friendship with Cuba. She threw on some pants and ran
to the printer.” She was in school ten minutes later.

Keith parked in front of a dive bar in
Parkman. “MIKE’S” was written in black letters on a small sign over
the entrance. It was just a bit after noon, and the place was
almost empty. An older man with bushy white mutton chops was
mopping the floor and a couple of customers were eating burgers.
Lizzy Cantoe was sitting on a bar stool at the back of the
building, smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke out the cracked
door. The light of the day was brilliant compared to the dismal
darkness of the place.

Keith walked up to her. He was just an
average looking man, but he exuded energy and confidence, and women
usually warmed up to him after some conversation.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh Sugar, maybe some coffee, no booze yet. I
am still feeling last night.” She chuckled then frowned and held
her hand up to her head.

She had a pretty, oval face with big blue
eyes, but she’d lived a pretty rough thirty-two years of life. A
couple of the teeth on the right side of her mouth were dead and
gray. Her hair was a little frizzed from years of tanning and
coloring--it was currently dark red. Her skin was still tight and
smooth as moonlight on cream and her clothes accentuated her
curves. She wore a gray hoodie that was open to her stomach.
Underneath, she only wore a sports bra. It held her large breasts
and accentuated her cleavage. She had a cherry tattoo on her chest
and a pierced belly button.

“Nice tat. I bet that hurt, though. Kind of a
sensitive area.”

“Hell yeah, hurt like a bitch, but the guy’s
an artist, so I let him
do me
there.” She smiled. Not too
subtle.

“Is it symbolic? What’s the story with
cherries?”

“Nah, I just like how they look. The red
pops.”

“Expensive, too, I bet.”

“Yeah, not that cheap shit.”

“I like a woman with expensive tastes.”

“Well, sometimes I like to make a little
extra money.” She smiled at him and stumped the cigarette out on
the door frame.

“Maybe I can help with an odd job.”

“Not too odd…”

“No, a pretty basic job, want to get out of
here?” He held his wallet open and flicked through a stack of
twenties.

“Charlie, I’ll be right back.”

“OK.” the guy with the mutton chops waved as
they walked out to Keith’s car. They barely sat down and she had
his pants open. He’d never paid for it before. She sucked him off
like a porn star. He slipped a hand down her pants. She was
actually enjoying it. “Do me.” she moaned. They climbed into the
back seat and he slipped into her.

“Damn… I needed that. That cleared my head.”
She wiped herself with her crumpled up panties and tossed them out
the window. “You know, there’s guys that
pay
for those?”

“I’m sure. Anything that you can imagine,
people are into.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me... Well, it’s been
real, but I need to get back to work.” she held out her hand.

“How much?”

“Well, how much do you think?”

He laughed. “Do I look like a cop or
something? Would a cop fuck you?”

“You do have that vibe. Why not just give me
what’s in there? Call it a tip.”

He handed her half the wad of cash. It was
$200. “Could I call you sometime.”

“Like for a date?” she laughed. “I’ve got a
boyfriend…”

“Another playdate.” he handed her the rest of
the money. Altogether about $400.

“Yeah, I like your style.” She wrote a number
on his palm with a pen.

He watched her walk back into the bar before
he drove away. The black lace panties rustled in the breeze.

It had only been a couple of days since the
English class handed in their essays. Tracy didn’t expect to get
much of a grade on it, and nobody thought they’d select the
finalists so quickly, but the classroom was full of people when she
and Chloe tried to get in through the door.

The Rotarians were back, along with Judge
Ralph and the Constable. The school newspaper photographer was
talking with Saul who held a digital camera with a large lens and a
big vivid display. Saul was giving her photography pointers. The
Maple Times also sent a reporter/photographer who was chatting with
Saul. Saul was keeping them both laughing.

The Judge took control of the room. His voice
boomed, “Friends, we are very pleased to announce the finalists for
the scholarship contest on ‘International Friendship’: Matty
Earnest, Steve Polloy and Tracy Wells. Miss Wells?” He looked
around the room.

She made a shocked face at Chloe. Mrs.
Rosewater blanched. “Oh wow. That was... unexpected.” She rifled
through the stack of graded essays. Tracy got a “D+”. She marked it
into a “B+”.

Tracy walked up to the front of the class.
Steve and Matty joined her. The photographers took picture after
picture. The judge filled them in on the details of the next round
of the contest.

As the group prepared to depart, Judge Ralph
pulled Tracy aside. “We’d like to take some pictures at your family
home later today, if that’s alright with you?” I think the paper is
going to do a story, too.

“Wow, um surprising, but sure.”

The group filed out of the class and the bell
rang.

“Nice job!” Chloe punched her in the
shoulder.

“That was weird. I wrote that essay in five
minutes, maybe. I didn’t think it even made sense.”

“Well, maybe they like your style.” Steve
said.

Judge Ralph called Tracy on the land line.
The kitchen phone rang so infrequently, that at first she thought
it was her cellphone ringtone. She dashed into the kitchen and
picked it up on the sixth ring. They arranged for the photographer
and reporter to come over.

The reporter from the Maple Times asked her
some questions. The Judge listened and occasionally asked some
too.

“Do you mind if we take a look around the
house? I want to find some good lighting.” Saul said.

“Oh sure, no problem. Help yourself.”

He turned the camera on. It was a gigapixel
sensor array with a fisheye lens. It recorded everything in the
room from the infrared through the visible light spectrum and into
near ultraviolet. Later, they would process the images to produce a
three dimensional rendering of the house interior in minute detail.
They could use spectroscopic analysis of the data to identify
chemical properties of the surfaces. He walked all through the
house holding the camera at different heights in each room. He
walked through the library very slowly and deliberately. The camera
drank in the images and archived them on a solid state drive.

“The library is impressive.” he announced
when he returned to the kitchen.

“Yes, I’m glad you like it.”

“Let’s do photos there.”

They stood in the library in various groups.
Tracy with the Judge. Tracy with the reporter. All of them
together. Saul snapped pictures. “I will email those to you. I
think they came out well. Such a pretty girl. Such a lovely
home.”

They all shook hands with Tracy and left.

~End of Episode One~

A gentle breeze clanked the blinds into the
sliding door of the hotel room. Robbie Wells opened his eyes and
propped himself up in bed. He ran his fingers through his short red
hair and over his face and beard. Now well into his 40s, waking up
took a while and he didn’t rush the process when he didn’t have to.
A lifetime of skeletal injuries didn’t make it any easier. He
sustained the first major one during high school. He broke his
tibia and fibula when he crashed a dirtbike. Whenever the story was
told at family gatherings, someone had to point out that his foot
was pointing the wrong way when they put him in the ambulance, but
he didn’t remember anything about the incident. He just woke up in
the hospital in a cast. The bone mended, but he had a slight limp
for the rest of his life.