Speak to the king within the man...

Millie paused a moment, caught her breath, and stepped inside. She closed the heavy red door behind her and leaned against it, folding her arms, closing her eyes, smiling from deep within. Lost in her emotions, she failed to realize that she wasn’t alone. Mr. Snyder stood in the entry to the dining room, with his hands clasped behind his back, watching her.

Millie sighed and opened her eyes, sensing then seeing her father. He looked stern, eliciting a concern that Millie recognized right away. She bowed her head, removed her eyes from his penetrating gaze, and walked quickly over to the staircase.

“So, you don’t want to talk to your father?” he asked, stepping into the foyer.

She stopped on the fifth step, paused for a moment then turned to him. “What about? Do you want to lecture me on how the Snyder’s don’t mingle with poor folk?”

He bit back. “Millie Snyder, don’t you go putting words in my mouth.” It was a soft bite that held little if any ferocity. He was as a proud man, and never allowed anyone to speak condescendingly toward him without recourse, anyone except Millie. She was allowed to tread where few would dare, simply because she was his little girl.

“What? We just talked. He invited me to go out for a burger tomorrow. That’s it.”

“You’re not to see him again. I thought we had that clear.”

“Well, we didn’t. And it will never be clear.” Millie was on the verge of overstepping his good graces. She could see the redness rise up from under his collar, consuming his neck.

He took a hard breath and held it for a moment. “It’s not Creed I’m concerned with, Millie.” He continued, “It’s that Lombard boy, that whole Lombard family. They’re no good, and I don’t want you anywhere near them. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if Creed didn’t run with Magnet.”

Millie exhaled loudly and rolled her head back in disapproval. “Get over it. Until now, Magnet was the only friend Creed had. Besides, they’re only friends because they live by each other, and Creed is decent enough to talk to him. Money doesn’t matter to him, Daddy, and it shouldn’t matter to you.”

“It’s not the money, and don’t ever accuse me of that again!” He was livid, shaking his finger at her. His chest was noticeably rising and falling, as rage consumed his usually calm demeanor. No words were spoken for the next heavy moments, allowing Mr. Snyder to gain composure and cool the fire within.

Millie broke the silence. “Well, is that it?”

He put his hands in his pockets and spoke softly. “You can see Creed on one condition; I don’t want Magnet anywhere near you. That is fair.”

“But—“

“That is fair.”

“Fine.” Mille turned hard and stomped up the curved staircase, stormed down the hall and into her room, slamming the door behind her.

*****

It was dusk. The sun had descended below the horizon, yet had enough luster to barely illuminate the trees along Johnson Hill Road, the only way out of town and into Milltown. Creed’s spirits soared high as he hummed Skyball Paint and bopped up and down, swaying to the music in his mind. The apprehension and confusion he had felt prior to arriving at the Snyder’s had vanished. He now felt a confidence like never before, and through all of the excitement he had forgotten about the gift that had haunted him for the past three years. He felt something for the first time, a feeling that everything was right in his world. He had always considered himself blessed; having a loving family, a home, and a truck to call his own. But the only thing he felt he missed was a social life outside of Milltown. Now he had found it in Millie. Yes, everything was good in Creed Lindens world.

Creed pushed the pedal hard and accelerated. He needed all the momentum the truck could muster for the climb ahead. The first time he attempted the climb on Johnson Hill, Yeti had come to a crawl before peaking, almost failing to reach the top. The hill was steep, with a slight bend to the north at the crest. Once on top, the view was breathtakingly vast, stretching across Milltown and almost to the Tennessee border.

The engine howled as his speed increased, steady and sure, forty, forty-five, fifty, and finally fifty-five. Yeti wailed under the hood and shook something fierce, just as he reached the base of the hill. He pushed upward, feeling the whine of the motor throughout his body. Quickly, the truck slowed, as the hill started to win the battle, forty, thirty-five, thirty. “Come on Yeti, you pile of junk. Up you go.
Don’t fail me now,” he urged. “That’s it, almost there. That’s it.”

Finally, as the trucks speedometer fell to fifteen, the hill leveled off and he made the turn to the north. Creed breathed a sigh of relief and smiled as the valley he called home opened up before him. He never tired of the magnificent view, but something was different. He noticed it before he made the turn. A smell tickled his senses, the sweet odor of burning wood. As he gazed across the valley, his attention was immediately diverted to a billowing charcoal cloud, pluming upward into the purple sky. Looks like it’s coming from home, he thought.

In that moment, the feelings that consumed him just minutes earlier were chased away by a dark, vile impression. The warmth inside, the sense of belonging, the feeling of sure joy; it was gone, replaced by a ripe fear, a painful hole in his stomach that grew with each uncertain second.

“No!” he cried, as he mashed the gas pedal to the floor, barreling down the road. The descent was dangerously bent with blind turns and narrow stretches, but Creed took it at a reckless speed and little caution. As he closed the distance between himself and home, he became more certain of what burned in the distance. “No, please no!” he screamed. “No!” His face was a pale yellow, and his hands dampened with sweat, gripping to the wheel. Nausea filled the deep hole in his stomach and he could feel his legs become weak and achy.

He rounded the final turn, entering the gravel driveway. By now he could see the small residual flames biting at the night sky, and he knew his home, the home built by his father, had been consumed by the glowing devastation. He reached the house, screeching to a halt. He threw open the truck door leaving the engine running. He moved quickly around the fire truck, with its lights illuminating the scene. He frantically scanned the chaos, searching for his mom, Dandy, Jeter, Liz; any one of them. But his quick search came up empty. Without thought, he jogged toward the charred home, splashing through the water that had accumulated. But before he reached the smoldering porch, a big man donned in fire gear grabbed hold of him.
“Son! You need you to back away!”

He heard the voice and felt a strong arm wrap around his chest, pulling him away. Creed kicked and fought with all he had. “Where’s my family!”

The man’s grip tightened and Creed ceased his flailing.

“If I let you go, you promise to stay away?”

Creed replied instantly, “Yeah, just let me be.”
He let go and Creed stepped away, looking hard at the fireman and breathing heavily.
“You live hear?” the man asked.

“Yeah! Where is everyone?”

The man put his big arm over Creed. “Follow me,” he said softly, and led him to the back of the latter engine. He sat him down on the bumper, and then removed his coat and gloves. He knelt in front of Creed in a crouch, resting his forearms on his knees. “What’s your name son?” His voice was soft yet stern.

“Creed Linden. Please tell me everyone is alright.”

“Do you know where your father is?”

Creed looked back at his smoldering home, and then faced the man again. He was in no mind to answer questions. He only wanted answers. “Dead,” he replied. “He died a few years back.”

The man ran his hands through his sweat soaked hair, and for the first time, Creed saw a look of sympathy on the stout man’s blackened face. Creed knew what was coming.
“We haven’t…,” he stopped, gained composure, and then continued. “We haven’t found any survivors.”

“No!” he whimpered. His head fell hard into his chest, meeting his trembling hands. He sobbed, as the anguish rushed out with no barrier. Just like that, his world and all he lived for, was shattered. It was too much to believe, too much to comprehend.

Gently, the man put his hand on Creeds shoulder. “I will be with you as long as you need me.” His voice was broken with emotion.

Creed didn’t respond, too overcome to speak. His sobbing continued for a time. His surroundings slowly dissipated, starting with his peripheral view and moving inward. His gaze was hard, transfixed forward on nothing in particular. The only life that existed at that moment lived within his mind. The outside world came to an abrupt end, and though the noise of sirens and shouting men reverberated off his ears, he was completely alone in his consciousness.

He thought of his mom’s smiling face as he drove off for school that morning. She had been smashing blackberries for her jam, and had some of it smeared on her apron. The strong smell of berries lingered in his mind. She had always smelt of jam, and that scent held strong emotions that were tied directly to his mother. He had just seen her that morning. He had just talked to her on the phone a few hours before, and now she was gone. His family was gone joining his father in another realm.
His mind released the painful thoughts, and he became aware of his surroundings. The ordeal started to feel dreamlike, and Creed felt he needed tangible proof to seal the horror.

He lifted his head and spoke. “Where are they? I want to see.”

The man’s eyes bore concern. “I don’t think that’s—

“I want to see for myself,” he said, forcing his words through the emotion.
The man paused as he contemplated Creed’s petition. After a moment, he stood from his crouch and spoke. “That is your right.”

Together, they walked across the front lawn and over to where an ambulance was parked with its passenger side tires resting on an embankment. As they approached the vehicle, Creed slowed then came to a stop, distancing himself from the fireman. He had second thoughts crowding in. However, it was too late. He had come to close to the ambulance and by accident spotted a row of four black bags lying prostrate on the ground in front. He had seen enough. The color was gone from his clammy face, and he felt as if all the strength within his being had faded. His legs refused to hold his body upright. He staggered sideways, and then fell onto the long handmade bench sitting just feet from him. He caught himself with his hands and twisted to an upright position.

Sitting there, he let his gaze fall to the ground, and felt the trembling inside grow. His intense sadness morphed into a numbness that moved throughout his body. He felt a stinging sensation run up his neck. It cascaded over his scalp, as his hair seemed to stand on end. His hands found his hair and he pulled it back, gripping clumps between his fingers. Freely, his tears trickled down his face, rolling onto his neck and dampening his shirt at the collar.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man dressed in a tie and slacks. He stepped out of the rubble carrying a burnt can of sorts. He approached another man similarly dressed and held the can upward pointing to it. Creed was too far away to hear the words exchanged between them, but he could tell they were words spoken with confusion. He also surmised that the charred container had to be a gas can.

Instantly, Creed had a horrifying thought as he watched the men communicate.

The fireman, who had also observed the men, confirmed the thought. “Arson,” he said through his clenched teeth.

“Who would do that,” Creed said softly. “Why.” He fell into a wrenching cry, and the fireman took a seat beside him on the bench. The sun had vanished from this part of the world as the dark night fell on the Linden home.

Chapter 7

His office was warm, almost hot. That was the way he liked it. He was known as a strange man by both teacher and student, and a minute in his office was always an experience.

“Why is it so hot in here,” Creed asked sitting uncomfortably in a hard plastic chair.

Principal Hanks sat behind the desk and rested his elbows on the small piles of papers. “I like it hot. Makes the kids uncomfortable, especially when they are guilty of something.” He smiled and winked at Creed. “Plus I have thin blood.”

Creed laughed.

Principal Hanks smiled and then a confused look fell on his face. “Lets see. You do know why you are in here, don’t you?”

Creed found the question odd, but decided to entertain it. “I’m in trouble for fightin’”

“Wrong answer!” He said in a loud voice followed by a soft “your not in trouble at all.” He gave Creed a deep sympathetic look. “I just wanted to tell you it’s good to have you back at school.”

Creed looked away from the principals awkward glare. “Thanks,” he replied feeling a smidgen of relief.

The principal took a loud sip from his cold coffee and smacked his lips. “Hmm. Nothing like cold coffee. Can I get you some?”

“No thanks.” Creed wanted out, now. He new what was on his agenda for the evening and couldn’t wait for it. Plus, he needed to phone his ma and get permission. “If I’m not in trouble, can I go now?” he asked carefully.

“Oh, I suppose so.” The principal stood and walked around the desk toward the exit.
Creed followed but before the reached the door, Principal Hanks spun around. “One more thing. It is a school rule that anyone caught fighting on campus will need to serve at least one day of detention. You may serve that today in room 128.”

Creed couldn’t believe it. He thought he was off the hook. “I thought you said I wasn’t in trouble?”

“I did say that. And your not. But you are obligated to serve the minimum. That would be just, and I run a just system. Now, if you need to call your mother, you may use the phone in the attendance office.”

“Gee, thanks,” Creed said. The punishment was tolerable since he expected much worse.

The principle opened the door and let Creed walk by. Creed got a few steps away from the office when Principal Hanks called to him. “Creed.”

Creed turned.

“Be careful son.”

Creed nodded and then headed for the attendance office.


*****


Mrs. Snyder leaned over the cutting board, slicing tomatoes when Mr. Snyder walked in. She could always tell when her husband had had a long day. He had his tie loosened and his top button open. His sleeves rolled twice. As he entered the kitchen, Mr. Snyder sauntered over to his wife and pecked her on the forehead.
“Smells good Fran. Let me wash up and I’ll help.”

“Hope you’re in the mood for stuffed feta and salad, John.”

“My favorite,” he replied as he ran his hands under the trickling water.

“Millie is having a guest for dinner, too.”

“Oh?” It was common for Millie to have friends over so this was no surprise to Mr. Snyder.

“A boy. Creed Linden.”

Mr. Snyder turned the water off and remained motionless for a moment. In a deliberate manner, he grabbed the dishtowel draped over the oven handle and dried his hands. He looked at Fran with disapproval.

“What’s wrong with Creed? He is a nice boy.”

“Nice isn’t everything, Fran. There is something strange about the kid. Just like his dad. I don’t think I want my daughter mingling with him, that’s all.”

Just then, Millie strolled in through the swinging door. “Who don’t you want me mingling with?”

“Creed Linden,” Mr. Snyder said looking at Fran.

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons young lady.”

“Don’t be so judgmental daddy. Just ‘cause someone doesn’t have money is a shallow reason not to like them. He’s a good guy.”

“Don’t use that tone with me Millie. I think I know what’s best for my daughter.”

“If you did, you’d let me choose my own friends.”

Mrs. Snyder watched as tension grew. She knew she would have to interject eventually, yet she let Millie assert herself. Mrs. Snyder knew these tiffs were good for both father and daughter. They always managed to draw the two closer together.

“Daddy, you should have seen him sticking up for Magnet today. He was so--”

“Magnet Lombard?” Mr. Snyder tossed the dishtowel on the counter and walked over the Millie. He grabbed her by the hand and led her to the sofa. “Sit down Millie.”

Millie sat down slowly. Confused and concerned, she asked, “what’s wrong, daddy?”

“Listen to me. This is important. Are Creed and Magnet friends? Do they run together?”

“Yeah. Magnet is the only friend Creed has. Why?”

Mr. Snyder stood and moved quickly into his den, shutting the door behind him.

“What daddy?”

Mrs. Snyder walked over to Millie looking confused.

“What’s wrong with daddy?” Millie motioned to the den.

“Not sure sweetie.”

After a couple minutes, Mr. Snyder emerged from the den. “Creed can come over tonight, but from here on out, I don’t want you around him, are we clear?”

“But—“

“Clear?”

“Yes!” Millie stormed up the stairs and to her room.

*****

It was 5:50 when Creed pulled up to the Snyder house. He gazed at the white mansion through the passenger side window. It was easily the largest house in Robbinsville; ten times the size of the Linden home. The front yard sprawled behind the white picket fence in a lush green display of perfection. The brick walkway, lined with flowers and shrubs, meandered through the yard and led to the front porch.

Creed took a deep breath and flung open his door, stepping into the street. He walked around Yeti, through the front gate and up the porch. He noticed the well-kept furnishings on the porch that seemed to shout high esteem and status. He knew he was way out of his element, but he mustered his courage and rang the doorbell. The large red door swung open revealing a stunning Mrs. Snyder adorned in a green apron.

“Good evening Mr. Linden.”

“Evening m’am.”

“Please, come in.” She smiled and moved aside allowing the nervous Creed to enter.
Creed smiled back, and then surveyed the grand entrance, the oak stairway to his right, the high polished wood floors beneath him. “You sure have a lovely home Mrs. Snyder.”

“Thank you Creed. Why don’t you have a seat on the sofa over there? Millie should be down in a moment. Do you like Italian?”

“What, do you mean Italian people? Never met one, but I would assume their good folks.”

“No, Italian food,” her smile was as genuine as it could be.

Creed turned flush around his neck, and could feel the skin on his cheeks turn warm. Italian food was as foreign to him as the Italy itself. “Oh, yeah right,” he said. “I love it.”

“Good,” she said then leaned over the banister hollering, “Millie, your company is here.” She smiled at Creed and added, “wait right here, she’s just cleaning up.” Mrs. Snyder then scurried off into the kitchen to finish preparations.

Creed patiently waited, trying to calm his nerves, breathing deeply. After some effort, Creed felt a sense of calmness come over him. His heart slowed to a normal pace and the shiver in his knees vanished. He felt relaxed, but that feeling was short lived as Millie came down the stairs. Creed felt a fluttering within. His pulse quickened and his nerves returned to an alert state, working on overdrive and wreaking havoc on his desire to remain cool.

“Hey Creed,” she said bounding down the stairs, with her hair curled perfectly around her soft face.

“Hey Millie.” Creed stood, and then nervously adjusted the waste of his worn jeans. His t-shirt, tucked in tightly, added to his discomfort as it pulled on his shoulders and constricted his movement. Yet it was his best attempt at looking presentable.

“You look nervous, Creed.”

“Is it obvious?” Creed asked following her into the dining room.

She stopped and turned, moving in close. “Relax, and don’t worry about anything. You’re here because I invited you, remember?” She spun away, and then recoiled. “You do look nice, though.”

“Thanks, and sorry Millie. I just feel out of place.”

“Well don’t. Just be you. My parents will love you.”

“Hope so.”

As they rounded the large mahogany dinning table, Mr. Snyder emerged from his den. He noticed Creed and grinned mildly. “Ah Mr. Linden, how is life treating you?” He briskly walked to Creed and extended his hand.

Creed reached for the hand as confidently as possible, hoping the vision would not appear again. Not right then. He shook with a firm grip. His father had made mention of how important a strong handshake was in a man. ‘It shows you’re proud of who ya are. You’re a Linden, be proud of that.’ He would have been proud, as he shook with the zeal of a politician replying, “life’s good Mr. Snyder.”

“Well good boy. Why don’t you have a seat right here next to me? And Millie,” he motioned with his stubby finger, “why don’t you take the seat by the window across the table from Creed.” Reluctantly, she took the seat her father offered her, as far away from creed as the table would allow.

Soon Mrs. Snyder entered carrying a large crystal bowel of Salad, and sat at the table, breathing a sigh of relief. Dinner was ready. Without hesitation, Mr. Snyder said a heartfelt blessing on the food. During the lengthy prayer, Creed squinted around the table. Millie lifted one eye open and her gaze met Creeds. They smiled at each other, just as Mr. Snyder closed his prayer and amen’s were said.

As the meal progressed, the only sounds rising from the table were that of clanking silverware on dishes and an occasional compliment on the pesto and vinaigrette salad. Creed did his best to show his approval of the fine foods, but found the curdled cheese stuffed inside a pasta shell almost repulsive. He fought the urge to puke and managed to clear one helping. He thought it was a huge accomplishment, until he noticed everyone else going for another helping.

He watched as Mrs. Snyder scooped a few more shells onto her plate. I hope she don’t offer me any, he thought. As if the two were tuned into the same metaphoric brain wave, she glanced at Creed, then spoke the only words he cared not to hear at the moment.

“Have some more feta shells, Creed.” She offered the dish.

Why, He thought. What’s with the curdled buttermilk stuffed in a shell. Why do you haunt me? Then he quickly thought of the situation. How do I get out of this one? He knew if he took one more bite he would heave, just as sure as he sat. “No thanks, it…it was good, though. I’m just completely full.”

Mrs. Snyder laid the dish back on the table, keeping her disappointed eyes on Creed. A strong feeling of guilt rushed over him, erasing his selfishness. He realized she worked hard on the meal, and the courteous thing to do would be to entertain a second helping. He was about to rescind his decline, when the doorbell rang.

Mr. Snyder jumped from his chair letting his napkin fall to the floor. “I’ll get it. It’s for me.” He moved quickly to the door, opened it and casually stepped outside.

From Creeds vantage point, he could see through the dining room window. Mr. Snyder and another man stood on the walkway, talking. The man was short and skinny and appeared to be in his late twenties. He wore a long sleeved, light blue dress shirt tucked into a nice pair of tweed pants; his sleeves rolled to mid forearm. His hair was dark and slicked. Creed watched as the two conversed briefly. He watched Mr. Snyder pull an envelope from his vest pocket and hand it to the man. The man ran his fingers through the contents, and Creed could tell by the color and size, that it was cash, and a lot of it. The man quickly put it in his back pocket, shook Mr. Snyder’s hand and walked back to his car parked directly behind Yeti. Creed watched him drive away and thoughtfully filed the encounter in his memory. Creed held tightly to the thought of Mr. Snyder dying and knew he needed to be receptive to anything unusual.

Mr. Snyder stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“Who was that, John?” Mrs. Snyder asked.

He joined the family at the table. “That, my dear, was Luke Sholes, a new foreman at Bemis.” He breathed in deeply and on the exhale said, “I needed to give him something for tomorrow.”

Money? He needed to give him money? Creed wasn’t sold on Mr. Snyder’s response, but apparently Mrs. Snyder hadn’t seen the exchange of cash. She smiled and returned to her plate.

Creed gathered his strength, ignored the complaining of his stomach, and spoke. “I think I’ll take some more of the shells after all.”

Mrs. Snyder smiled and scooped a few shells onto Creeds plate. Then, through sweat and tears, he forced down the second helping.

Chapter 9

The evening was cool and clear as the sun set in an auburn sky. Millie and Creed stood on the front porch, arms resting on the railing, looking at the stunning sunset. Creed’s nerves had settled and he was beginning to feel relaxed around her, like she was an old friend. There was a breeze blowing to the east, and Creed watched the cascading branches of the large weeping willow sway in the wind. Late April was beautiful in Robbinsville and evening was a prime time to be outside. It seemed surreal for him to be standing on the front porch of the Snyder mansion talking with the most perfect thing in Robbinsville. He could hardly believe that he was here by invitation, and not to mow a lawn or deliver a newspaper. He was here as a friend.

Mille drew a big breath. “So tell me a little about Creed Linden.”

Creed raised his eyebrows then looked down at his clasped hands. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Lets see. What’s your favorite movie?”

Creed thought. “This one is easy, The Maltese Falcon. Can’t go wrong with Humphrey Bogart. Besides I’ve only seen two movies, so there’s not much to choose from.”

“Wait, you mean you only seen two movies in your entire life?”

“Yep. Never really had much time for movies until lately.”

Millie turned to Creed, and then walked over to the wicker swing. “We’re gonna change that.”

Creed joined her on the swing. “Sounds good to me.”

“What’s the other one?” Millie asked.

“Bambi. A little sappy for me, though.”

“I was just going to say that was my favorite. I cried like a baby when those hunters blasted Bambi’s mom.”

“I’ll be sure and remember that. I’ll remember you cry during sappy cartoons about talking deer that get shot at.” Creed grinned, and shook his head in a playful taunt.

Mille nudged him back. “That is kinda stupid of me, huh? So, tell me more about you. I know you don’t watch movies and don’t have very good taste in them, anyway.” As she talked, the wind blew her hair across her face prompting her to pull it back, cinching it with a band. “Tell me about your family.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I have the best family any one could ask for. I have a brother named Jeter, a little backward, but more entertaining than a cat without whiskers. My little sister Lizzie is the cutest little bug in the swamp for sure, and my mom, who is the best, most genuine person you ever did meet. Then there is Dandy who you’ve probably heard about. She’s the old lady who got in a heap of trouble for lifting silverware and salt shakers from Crazy O’s Diner.”

“That’s your grandma?”

“Yep. She may be rough on the outside, but she’s as golden as corn on the inside.”

“Creed, she’s a legend. Everyone knows about her. I knew I saw something special in you.”

Creed laughed. “Not me. Nothing special about this kid. Just a boring mountain bred boy.”

“I don’t know. I’m not convinced of that. There’s something different about you.” Millie’s face turned serious. “You’re different Creed.”

Creed looked at Millie. His eyes held hers for a moment. If there ever were a time to tell Millie about his ability, now would be it. He looked away, then back. “There is something.”

Millie smiled softly, as if amused by his up coming confession. “I know what it is.”

“You do?” Creed asked.

“Yep. I think so. You showed it today.”

“I did?” Creed was burning with curiosity.

“Anyone else would have stood and watched Magnet get beat up. Actually, everyone else did. You didn’t. You have a big heart, Creed. You didn’t care that Steve was bigger than you. You risked yourself for Magnet, of all people. Magnet doesn’t like anyone.”

“He likes me,” Creed added.

“I don’t blame him. I see you sitting under that tree all by yourself at lunch, and something inside of my wants to be there with you. I would rather be sitting with you than with anyone else, but I don’t have what you have.”

“What do I have?”

“The courage to do it. That’s just it. You don’t care about being popular or being liked. That, Creed, is different.” Millie continued. “When we first moved here, I wanted so badly to be liked. I wanted to be in with the crowd. It was all I thought about, so much so that I let that need for acceptance dictate how I treated people that were not a part of the crowd. I was mean to people like you.”

Creed frowned with his eyes. “People like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean, Creed.”

Creed nodded. He knew she meant no harm.

“Well, something changed. I guess I grew up, I don’t know, but I realized that being popular is just plain worthless if you treat others like dirt. But see, you didn’t need to hurt anyone to learn that.” Millie paused and let time pass for her own thoughts.

“Those are kind words and all, but that’s not what I meant.”

Mille studied Creed for a moment, staring curiously.

“There is something else that makes me far different than you realize.”

Millie looked confused. “Don’t tell me you’re a German spy.”

“What?”

“Nothing, never mind. Dumb joke.”

“Whatever. Anyway,” Creed paused, and fought with his thoughts. This was going to be harder than he anticipated. “My granddaddy had this weird thing about him.”

“How nice of him.”

“So did my dad.” Creed paused.

Just then, Mr. Snyder stepped out of the house and onto the porch. He had the paper tucked under his arm and a freshly lit cigar between his teeth. “Millie, about time to have your company leave for the night. You’ve got homework.”

“Yes daddy.” She waited for him to enter the house. He pulled the cigar free and puffed out a cloud, content to stand by the door until Creed was gone.

“Can we have a little privacy?” Mille said in a surprisingly brazen tone. He entered, but didn’t look too happy about it. “We better talk about this later. Daddy can be temperamental. Let me walk you to your truck.”

Creed felt a sense of relief, yet at the same time disappointment. It was a perfect opportunity lost to the very man he was trying to help.

The two of them walked slowly down the walkway. Creed admired the lights along the brick path, and mentioned he had a great time. Millie smiled then rubbed her hand in his hair, roughing it up a bit. “Thanks for coming. Next time we wont have Feta shells.”

Creed stopped. “What? I liked them.”

“You don’t have to pretend, Creed. I saw you about to gag.”

“They were pretty nasty.”

“Guess it’s an acquired taste. Truth be told, I prefer a burger and fries.”
There it was. Mille left a perfect opening for him to make a move. Creed recognized the moment and spoke. “Can I buy you that sometime? At Crazy O’s?”

“Tomorrow night sounds good,” she said without hesitation. “But I’ll need to pick you up.”

“Why? You embarrassed folks might see you in that beauty,” he said motioning to his truck.

“Of course not, I just think it would be best.”

“Fine by me, if you don’t mind driving to Milltown.”

“Don’t mind one bit. Besides, I want to meet Dandy.”
They reached the truck and Creed grabbed hold of the door handle with his right hand and stood for a moment before opening it. Should I shake her hand or something, he thought.

“Be safe going home,” Millie said.

It was then that Creed acted on impulse, an impulse he didn’t know he had. He reached out and grabbed her hand. He quickly gave her a peck on her backhand then let it go. Of all the things he could have done in that moment, he chose to kiss her hand. How dumb was that, he thought. The all too familiar embarrassed feeling came over him again as he climbed into his truck. He looked at Millie through the window. She was grinning from ear to ear. “Thanks Creed. I won’t wash my hand for as long as I live.”

“Better not. Someday my spit will be famous,” Creed said with a wink.

Millie giggled obnoxiously and ran up the walkway toward the house. He sat for a moment savoring the feeling inside. He had never felt this way in his seventeen years of existence. He wondered how long it would last. She was perfect, flawless. She was real. He was painfully imperfect, but for some reason, it didn’t matter. He fired up the truck and headed for home, glowing inside.

Lunch was always a lonely hour for Creed. Robbinsville High School was the only one in town, and was rather full. But friends were hard to come by. Magnet was the only friend Creed had, but Magnet usually spent his lunch hopping from table to table trying to find a group to sit with. It was futile as every lunch ended the same way, with Magnet sitting against a wall eating by himself. At least he was determined.

Creed spent his lunch at a picnic table under an old secluded birch tree away from the other tables. The birds congregated above, and used the table as a waste place, but this did not bother Creed. He couldn’t let it. It was the only place he felt comfortable. He could see the other tables in the distance, closer to the classrooms and full of the many clicks of students. A part of him longed to be sitting in the middle of it all, shooting spit wads, hanging with the rest of the crowd. Nevertheless, deep down he knew this was where he belonged. He was different, and he knew it. He had the gift, and it was slowing becoming his identity, though no one else knew it.

He was exchanging glances with his chemistry book, and the pony-tailed blonde who chatted with her friends a hundred yards away. Creed wondered if she thought about him at all after Friday night. The look she gave him while shaking his hand had burned a hole in his thoughts. As he gazed across the field at her, she turned her head his way and caught his eye. She gave him a quick smile then turned back to her friends. After another minute, Creed watched as Millie glanced again in his direction. This time her smile was a bit wider and less subtle. Creed smiled back then returned to his chemistry book.

As he began his reading on the subject of ribonucleic acid, his attention deviated to Millie again, then to something else. “Knock it off,” Creed said to himself. Her father was going to die, and all he was thinking about was how he felt about her. Creed laid his head down on his arms and let his mind focus on what he must do. Mr. Snyder didn’t have long to live. Creed needed to pay a visit to the Snyder home, after seeing Collin Bradbury.

Creed kept his forehead nestled in his arms for the remainder of the lunch period. He dozed in and out of consciousness, as his lunch lay unattended next to him. Time escaped him and he was about to drift into a deep state of sleep when he heard the small roar of students. He picked his head up, looked around and saw a circular congregation shouting and cheering something. Another stupid fight, he thought to himself. He felt compelled to hustle over to see who was at it this time.

Forcing his way through the crowd, he noticed two boys rolling on the ground, clawing and punching uncontrollably. Steve Cooper, who played point guard on the basketball team, was one of the culprits. The other, the one on the losing end of the fight, was pinned down taking blow after blow. It was Magnet.

No one was going to come to his aid, and Magnet was being pummeled. Mustering up all of his courage, Creed jumped in, delivering a powerful kick to Steve’s mid section. Creed felt his foot smash into bone, and then the adrenalin rush through his chest as Steve fell to his side wincing in agony.

“Leave him alone!” Creed yelled. “You jerks are always pickin’ on him.”

Magnet was still prostrate on the ground holding his hands over his face. Creed moved to help him up when someone grabbed his shoulder from behind. It was big Tom Statton, a faller with the lumber company. Creed spun around and just as he noticed Tom, he noticed Tom’s fist hitting his chin square. The lights in Creeds head flickered and Creed fell to the ground. The sting of the punch triggered something in Creed that he had never realized existed, pure rage. Instantly Creed fumbled to his feet and charged Tom, hay bailing wildly. His right fist landed on Tom’s temple, staggering him. Tom eluded the rest of Creeds fists of fury, and lunged at Creeds waist, tackling him to the ground. Suddenly, Creed found himself where Magnet used to be, fighting for his life beneath the predator. Creed was taking a healthy beating, in dire need of divine help, which came in the form of Millie Snyder.

“Get of him!” she yelled, while beating on his back. “Get off! I swear, jerk. I’ll have my dad after you if you don’t.”

Tom ceased his beating and stood to his feet huffing and puffing. “Creep started it. It wasn’t his fight. It was between moron Magnet and Steve. Had nothin to do with Creep!”

“His name is Creed,” Millie said, kneeling over a bloodied Creed.

“I could have taken him,” A weak voice said. It was Magnet. He looked at creed and mouthed ‘thank you’, then walked away, headed for the drinking fountain.

Tom helped Steve up, and the two swaggered off, glaring menacingly at Creed as if to say more punishment lay in store.

The crowd also disseminated, leaving the two alone. Creed took a beating, and his face bore the proof. “Thanks Millie,” he said holding his lip.

“Those guys are jerks.” She looked at Creed and smiled. “You alright?”
“Hey, no big deal. I asked for it.”

“No you didn’t. You were just defending Magnet when no one else would. That was…well mighty nice of you.” She untied the scarf around her neck and placed it on Creed mouth. A hint of that familiar perfume caught Creeds senses, causing him to smile, and Millie noticed.

“What are you grinning about,” she said with a smile of her own.
“Oh, nothin’. It’s just that you smell good.” He said it. The filter between his mind and mouth failed him, and he felt a wave of embarrassment come over him. “I didn’t mean that.”

“You didn’t?” The smile left her face.

“No, I—mean yes-I mean—I did mean it, Millie. You smell great and you look great. You’re perfect.”

Her smile returned, bigger than ever.

Principal Hanks, who had the nurse tagging along behind him, interrupted their moment. “Creed Linden?” he said sternly.

Millie moved away and Creed sat up. “Yes sir?”

“I bet you weren’t the instigator, were you.”

“Well, yes, sort of. Magnet was taking a licking, so I jumped in to save his hide. Then, Tom jumped in and, well look at me? I lost.”

“Let me have a look,” the nurse said brushing everyone aside as if she were suddenly in charge. “That lip looks pretty bad. How about your jaw? Can you open up all the way?”

“Think so.” Creed opened his mouth gingerly.

“Good, no break then. Let’s get you to the office so I can get some ice on that bottom lip.” She was a husky woman and could carry Creed to the office if she needed to. Instead, she helped him to his feet with the pull of his arm. Creed winked at Millie, then looked at Principal Hanks.

“We’ll talk about it later Creed. See me in my office this afternoon after school.”

*****
As the final bell rang, Creed stepped out of his Math class and into the crowded hallway. Through spaces between passing students, he could see Principal Hanks, standing in his doorway across the hall. He had not noticed Creed, so Creed decided to stop by his locker to drop off his books, and gather what he needed for homework. He stepped into the flow of students with head bowed hoping to avoid the Principals scouring eyes. When he reached his locker, someone was waiting there. The last person Creed ever expected to see at his locker; Millie Snyder.

“Either you are the stupidest kid around picking a fight with someone twice your size,” she said, and then changed to a softer tone, “or you are the most loyal friend a guy could ask for.”

“I think stupid might be the best choice. Especially since I got pummeled.”
“Magnet is lucky to have a friend like you.”

“Be sure and tell him that.” Creed laughed briefly and rubbed his swollen lip causing Millie to giggle.

“Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?”

Creed looked behind him to make sure Millie was actually talking to him. “Are you talking to me? Cause it sounded like you were talking to me.”

“Yes Creed, I’m serious. My parents would love to have you.”

“Whoah, whoah. You want me to come to your house for dinner.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“It’s not, I guess. But, I would hate to burden… I mean I would have to ask my ma.” His reservations were few but legitimate. After all, he was the only one who knew Mr. Snyder was living on borrowed time, but he had planned to visit sometime anyway. Then it hit him. This would be an opportunity to tell Millie. Maybe the two of them could work through this. Maybe together they could save his life. “I’ll be there at 5:30.”

Millie chuckled. “Well, don’t you need to ask your mom?”

“Oh yeah, I guess I do. But I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

“Good. Listen I better get going and you need to see you know who.” She looked past Creed at the Principal who was gliding down the hall toward them.

“Right. I’ll see ya later. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

Creed flung the front door and yanked off his mud caked boots, leaving them on the porch. His socks were soaked and they left prints on the wood as he walked gingerly over to the stairs. He let his senses fill with the comfort of the home he loved, and he failed to notice his mother sitting on the sofa in the dark, and Dandy gliding gently in the old rocker.

“Everything alright?” Annie asked.

A startled Creed squinted in the direction of the soft voice. “No Ma. Guess I bought trouble with Yeti.”

“Broke down again, huh?”

“Yeah, this time it’s a busted hose.” Creed continued. “It’s sitting on the side of the road about thirty miles back on 19.” He noticed Dandy, who was rocking away. “Up late aren’t ya Dandy?”

She didn’t respond, and her silence told the story.

“She’s out cold.” Annie spoke the obvious, and Creed could see it. Her toothless mouth hung almost unhinged and her gray head was cocked back against the chair. Yet she rocked back and forth involuntarily.

“How did ya get home?”

“Mr. Snyder saw me on the road and stopped. Millie was in the car, too.”

“She’s a perdy one, aint she Creed? Her dad is a nice man, too.”

Creed grinned and nodded.

“You know Mr. Snyder tried to buy this place?”

“When,” Creed asked?

“Oh, a few months back, after Daddy died. Said he thought it would help us out. I knew Daddy wouldn’t like it to much if I agreed to it, so I said thanks but no thanks.”

Creed stepped toward her. “It’s a good thing, too. This is our home. No where else would do.” Creed removed his jacket and shook it gently. He placed it on the rack by the stairs, and then paused. “Why would he want this place anyway?”

“Just trying to help our financial situation, I suppose.”
Creed removed his wet socks and placed them on the ground beneath his jacket. Creed thought about the vision and Mr. Snyder’s kindness to his family. He felt even more urgency. He couldn’t let anything happen to him.

“Everything okay, son?”

Creed broke free from his thoughts. “Oh, yeah. Just thinking about Millie.”

“I see. My boy’s been smitten.” She laughed softly, and smiled. “Why don’t you draw yourself a nice warm bath and clean up. You’ll need to move Jeter. He’s in your bed.”

“Aw ma, I told you not to let him sleep in my bed. I’m sick of laying my face in his drool.”

Annie stood up and, with arms folded, headed in the direction of her room. “He loves the loft Creed, and besides he cleaned it up for you. Now, in the morning I suggest you head on up to the Lombard’s and have Magnet take ya back to get the truck fixed.” With that, she retired to her room kissing him on the forehead along the way.

Creed started up the stairs, and then paused. In that instant he made the decision to make his bed on the sofa for the night, after a good washing and change of clothes.

*****

The Lombard’s home was only a healthy jog away from the Lindens, but that was a jog too close for Creed. Magnet and his parents cared little for the things they had, and this malcontent was evident upon first glance of the property. The yard was littered with trash, spare auto parts, and rotten plumbing fixtures all making residence in the tall noxious weeds. The shack they called home was dilapidated and in dire need of attention. None of those who dwelled beneath its broken thatched roof cared to mind it any and it remained the eyesore of an ugly Milltown.

Creed banged on the front door, then waited next to an old cast iron sink that had been there as long as Creed could remember. Rust had taken over its once white finish and weeds shot up through the drain holes, cascading into the sink and hiding its auburn surface from the sunlight.

He noticed a salamander run across the dirt path, and then up the paint pealed siding of the house. Finding an entry, it disappeared into the Lombard’s kitchen.

Creed banged once more on the door, but no one answered. He thought about the salamander and how it would be funny to plant its lifeless carcass in Magnets covers. He was never one to play pranks, but this was Magnet, the butt of almost all the jokes in town. Besides, he knew Magnet had an advanced form of reptilphobia, a fabricated term for a very real fear of all things reptile.

He quickly glanced around, grabbed the loose knob and gently creaked open the door. “Magnet?” he said poking his head in. “Any of y’all home?” No response came from inside, so Creed quietly walked in. The house was a shambles and reeked of body odor and filthy bathroom. “Nasty,” he said pulling his shirt over his nose. The floor was only an assumption beneath the cluttered remnants of Lombard life. Clothes, papers, and even an occasional piece of furniture lay intermingled in the rubble.

Navigating his way around the domestic jungle, he entered the kitchen in hopes of finding that salamander. But with one look he new it was a lost cause. You couldn’t find the oven, let alone a tiny creature. As he turned to make his way to the front door, his meandering eye caught hold of a picture hanging crooked in the hall. Examining it closer, he noticed it bore a strong resemblance to Collin; only the man in the picture was much younger. He straightened the picture just as the sound of a sputtering engine grabbed his attention. Quickly, he darted out the back door, and into the wooded area in the back of the property.

The Lombard’s car rumbled up the drive, spitting out mud from its tires and smoke from its hood. It slid to a stop in front of the house. Magnet hopped out of the back and ran to the door, with his parents in tow. Creed could here the two parents bickering about something.

“I’m sure I’m gonna be blamed for it. Should ‘a knocked him out then, huh?” Mr. Lombard circled his arm as if loosening a kink in his shoulder. He was a big, tall man, with a big wide gut. His diamond shaped body was lumbering similar to that of Magnets; only Magnet was as skinny as a praying mantis.

“Guess you should have Harold. If you lose your job over this I’m gonna leave ya, ya hear?” Mrs. Lombard swore at her husband then waddled the rest of the way up the dirt walk. She lugged her wide body up the front steps and into the house.

Creed circled around to the road avoiding attention from the two, and then leisurely strolled up the driveway. Magnet flung open the front door and headed to the car.

“Hey Magnet? What’s new?”

“Mornin’ Creed. My dad got in another fight at work, that’s what’s new.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Creed walked up to Magnet who now had the trunk open and was pulling out paper bags of groceries.

Magnet removed his head from the trunk and leaned into Creed. “Shh,” he whispered. “Don’t tell him I said this, but he’s a stupid man with a bad temper.”

This was not something Creed was naive to, but he was not about to agree. “Come on, what makes you say that?”

Magnet gave Creed a condescending look. “Give me a break Linden. Everyone knows it. He can’t control his temper to save his neck. Plus he’s stupid on top of it.”

“Don’t be so hard on him.” Creed paused for a moment, reflecting on his own father. “Just… be glad he’s alive.”

Magnet continued to pull out the groceries. “I’m just afraid he’s gonna lose his job.”

Creed brushed the notion aside. “Nah, that aint gonna happen. Your pa’s a good worker. They won’t let him go just cause of that.”

“I hope you’re right,” Magnet said, pulling out the last of the groceries that were now stacked on the ground next to the car. “Let’s get these in the house before we get a first hand look at that tempter.” Magnet reached down and grabbed a couple bags.

Creed did the same and they headed inside. They forced their way into the kitchen and placed the bags in the middle of the floor. They returned for the rest then ended up in the living room.

“Just drop them there. My ma will come and get them.”

Creed watched Magnet as he negotiated his way around the junk heading into the hall. He followed Magnet, at first trying to avoid the domestic land mines, and then decided it was useless. He trounced on top of what ever was in his path. In the hall, he made a point to take another quick peek at the picture on the wall.

“That’s my Uncle Tom,” Magnet said standing in his bedroom doorway. “He’s a weird one.”

“Why?”

Magnet put his finger to his lip and waved his arm motioning Creed to his room. “Come in and I’ll tell ya.”

Creed moved swiftly to Magnets room, closing the door behind him.

Magnet bent down on all fours and reached his hand underneath his bed. He pulled out an old tin box laying it on top of his unmade covers. Creed’s interest was riding high, as he knew there had to be a connection between Uncle Tom and Collin Bradbury. They looked too much alike for coincidence.

“You ready for this?”

Creed tried not to sound overly interested. “I guess so.”

Magnet creaked open the box and stuck his hand inside. “Uncle Tom has two personalities. You wanna see who else he is?”

Creed nodded nonchalantly, burning inside.

Slowly, Magnet pulled out a card from the box; a baseball card. It was a 1944 Joe DiMaggio.

“Jolting Joe?” Creed asked in disgust. “You’re tellin me he thinks he’s Joe DiMaggio?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that loony?”

The disappointment cut deeply into Creed. He was expecting something far more helpful. “Whatever. Can you take me to pick up my truck? I blew a hose on 19 last night.”

“What’s in if for me?”

Magnet never did anything unless there was something for him in return. Creed knew this and was prepared. “I’ll let you shoot my gun.”

Magnet grinned. He loved guns, even though he had never owned one. They were too dangerous and there was no way Mr. Lombard would allow one in their home. “Let me ask my pa. I reckon you have a new hose to put on it?”

“Actually, I was hoping you might have one in the garage.”

“Probably do. Hang on, I’ll ask pa.”

Magnet scurried out of the room, leaving Creed alone. He looked at the tin box lying open on the bed. From where he stood, he could see only a portion of its contents. The first item he noticed was a shiny brass harmonica, lying on top of a folded piece of white fabric. Creed went to the box and sat beside it on the bed. He fiddled with the harmonica then blew into it just to hear how it sounded.
He then felt the urge to unfold the fabric. From what he could tell, it looked like a scarf of sorts. He lifted it from the tin box and snapped it from its folded state. As he did, a coin flew free, landing on the floor by his feet. It rolled on its end under the bed, and out of sight. Quickly, Creed jumped to his knees and felt under the bed, finding the coin within seconds. He sat on the bed and studied its foreign face. Roughly the size of a quarter, it had the color of a dull penny and was old in appearance. He gazed on the piece resting in his palm, and then Magnet returned. As he entered the room, Creed noticed him humming a tune, a familiar melody.

“Pa has a… I see you found my coin.”

“Oh, yeah. Where’s it from? It looks old.”

“It is. It’s from London. My Pa gave it to me when I turned ten. ‘Guess it was his Pa’s before.”

“Your family must be from London.”

“Yep,” Magnet responded.

Creed now had a question shouting internally. He wrestled within to shout it out. He knew he could not. If he did, if he brought up Collin Bradbury, he would have to explain the Gift, and no one was to know of it. However, Creed was desperate. He needed to know where to find Collin, and if Magnet were related, surely he would know Collins whereabouts.

The battle within had ended and Creed blurted out, “do you know Co…” and then caught himself.

A moment passed.

“Go on. Do I know who?”

“Ah, never mind. Does your Pa care if we go get my truck?”

“No, and yes we should have an extra hose in the garage. Lets git.” Magnet headed for the door, and Creed flipped the coin on the bed and stood, feeling a little relief come over him. He had not said too much.

Magnet stopped mid stride and turned. “Do I know who, Creed?”

He didn’t answer right away, but thought. He thought hard and decided to go with his first instinct. “Collin Bradbury.”

Magnet gave Creed a puzzled look, and answered slowly. “Yeah, he’s my great grand daddy. How do you know him?”

It was another tough question for Creed to answer. And this one didn’t merit an honest answer. “I met him in town. At the market.” Creed instantly knew he said the wrong thing, and Magnet sealed it.

“He doesn’t go to market. He’s dead. Been dead for a long time.” Magnet was now boring through Creed with his scrutinizing eyes.

Creed was at a terrible loss for words, and stood silent for a painful minute.

“You can just tell me the truth on the way.” Magnet let him off the hook. But why? Creed asked himself that question as he meandered through the house and out the front door. He must already know, he thought. Magnet jogged awkwardly to the garage, and Creed waited by the car. His mind raced as he tried to create a bluff, a diversion from the truth. Nothing came to mind. Lying was not a strong suit for Creed, and as he leaned against the car, he wished it were. A big, convoluted story of make-believe would come in handy right then, but Creed finally realized the truth would have to do. Only if asked. After all, maybe Magnet would forget.

Magnet emerged from the garage with a hose in one hand and a wrench in the other. They climbed in the car and Creed kept his eyes straight ahead. Magnet sputtered up the engine and soon they were clanking down Buckskin road. No words were said until they reached the highway. Magnet was not going to forget.

“So, you gonna sit there like a bump on a log, or tell me how you know great grand daddy?”

Creed sucked in deeply and began the story of the gift. As he revealed detail after detail, he noticed no shock or disbelief on Magnets face. Soon, the story was complete and the two of them drove in silence. The silence lasted for some time.

Finally Creed spoke up again. “So? Do you know where I could find him?”

Magnet looked hard at creed. “How would I know? I thought he was dead.”

“True,” Creed replied quietly.

“I know where he lived before he died.”

“Hey, I’ll try anything.” Creed smiled

“Wait till I tell you where. You’ll probably change your mind. You know the two sixty trail?”

“Heard of it,” Creed responded.

“Well, take that to the other side of Mullin Mountain. Just when you go over the top, there will be another trail heading to the east. Take that trail as far as it goes and you’ll come to a small lake, Potato Lake. On the other side of the lake is where the shack is. Hasn’t been lived in for long time now. No telling what you’ll find in it. Was told I could never go there or I’d go with you.”

“That’s alright. I can manage. By the way, how many miles is that?”

“Not sure. I think about twenty or so.”

Twenty! That could take days! “No big deal. Should only take a couple hours.” Creed cocked his head back trying to hide his concern.

“About a day each way, so plan on a trip. Oh and pray it don’t rain. The trail floods in heavy rain.”

Creed grinned and shook his head, letting the stoutness of his heart flutter away.

They pulled up to the stranded truck sitting on the side of the road. The two worked quickly and precisely. Soon, they had the repair work done and Creed was filling the radiator with water. Little did Creed know this would be the last time he would be fixing Yeti.

Two chapters today.


Chapter 3

It was a Linden household tradition to have the radio playing during dinner. The family sat around the long table, talking casually about the waning day as Guss Gandy rattled on in the background about current events. The content usually centered on the war, and now that the war was over local heroes were returning home from duty by the day. It wasn’t that anyone paid any attention to what was being broadcast. The noise alone was somehow pleasant to their ears. Occasionally, a story would present some interest and cause discussion, but for the most part, the noise of the radio was sufficient.

“Pass the fried onion, please,” Jeter said as he smacked on his pork chops.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Dandy snapped. “Didn’t your ma and pa teach ya anything?” She ended her berating with an expletive under her breath.

Lizzie heard it, and promptly repeated it. Everyone around the table felt the shock of that word coming from her four year old mouth.

“Lizzie!” Annie said. “That’s not nice talk.” Annie looked at Dandy and Dandy looked sharply back. “Only Dandy can say that word.”

“Sorry, ma,” Lizzie said, and went back to playing with her food.

“Sorry for talkin’ with a mouth full, Dandy,” Jeter said.

After all apologies were accepted, Creed passed the plate of onion to his younger brother. He was about to ask for the pitcher of water when his attention quickly diverted to a late breaking story pumping out of the small radio.

“This just in folks. Another tragedy on the rail line. This time, a drunken drifter by the name of Bartram Smith. The accident occurred just a little while ago. Bartram was crossing Carters Bridge, and well folks; he didn’t make it to the other side. The train conductor reports that he thought he might have missed the thirty-five-year-old Bartram as he leaped over the bridge railing. Investigators are working to determine a cause of death. I’ll have more details on this breaking story as I receive them.”

Creed looked at his mother with a sudden loss of appetite. “May I be excused momma?” Without waiting for approval, Creed stood, pushed his chair back with his legs, and then slowly headed for the loft.

*****
Creed gazed with granite eyes on the spikes lying in front of him. The lamp next to his bed shone brightly on the wooden walls. He thought about turning it off and retiring for the night, but knew it would do no good. He had too much on his mind for sleep.

There was nothing he could do for Bartram Smith, though Creed was certain it was Bartram’s voice he had heard. His experience was too vague, and this is what bothered him the most. If he were going to use this gift for good, he would have to learn to be more receptive to his premonitions. Maybe his visions would be more vivid with time. He could only hope. His mother coming up the stairs interrupted his thoughts.

“Mind if I come in?”

“No ma,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t finish supper, or help ya clean up.”

“No worry. I know you’ve got lots on your mind.” She walked over to Creeds old dresser and carefully picked up a dirty pair of socks, throwing them in the hamper by the window. “You know there was nothin’ you could do, right. About the accident?” She spoke softly while tidying up the ransacked room.

“Yeah, I know. I guess I’m just not ready.” He picked up the spikes and held them close to his face. “You should’ve heard the man crying ma. It was horrible.”

She stopped and moved to his bedside. “I can only imagine? Creed, I’ve been thinking about what you said at pa’s grave a few months ago. Ya know about finding the good in this thing?” She sat next to him. “The older your daddy got, the more he learned to really pay attention to the visions. He got to the point where he could recreate them in his mind. Over and over he would dwell on these horrific images.” She put her hand on his arm and looked in his eyes. “I guess what I’m trying to say is don’t let it get you down. Don’t let it rule your life. Your father became troubled, despite his attempts at understanding it and I don’t want to see that happen to you.”

The next few moments were silent as they both contemplated what she said.

“Ma, can I ask you something?”

She nodded.

Creed began fiddling with the bottom of his shirt. “Did Pa know he was gonna die that day?”

Annie was caught a little unprepared for the question. “Why? Do you think he knew?”
Creed raised his eyebrows in affirmation.

“Truth be told son, he knew how he would die, just not when. That was always the problem with the gift. He could never tell when things was gonna happen.” Annie pulled her legs onto the bed and sat Indian style. “A couple weeks before the accident, he came home from work shaken up about something. After some prying I found out what that something was. He told me that he saw himself dying in an accident while topping a tree.”

“I knew it,” Creed said. “Is that all?”

“No son.” She paused for a moment then continued. “He said he saw you in his vision. You were there, Creed.”

Creed closed his eyes and fought back his emotions. “That’s why I wasn’t supposed to go on site?”

“That is why.”

“So when he saw me that day, he knew he was…” He caught his breath and continued. “You should have seen the look on his face. I’ll never forget that look. Even when I was in trouble, he never looked at me like that.”

“Now don’t go blaming yourself for his death. It was gonna happen eventually. We was only trying to delay it.” She placed her warm hand on the back of his neck and pulled him close. Creed accepted the invitation and placed his head on her shoulder.
“He told me to tell you you’ll be fine without him. That’s the last thing he said.” Creed heard a small sniffle come from his mom. He sat up and saw her stoic look, as she pined inwardly. The only sign of her deeply rooted pain was the few tears that rolled down her cheeks and onto her dress.

She wiped her face then turned to Creed. “You need to get some sleep. We’ll work through this together.” She stood and moved toward the stairs. Just before she descended, she looked once more on Creed with a proud smile and said, “Love you, Creed.”

Chapter 4

For someone in their teens, a year can bring about much change. Creed had grown five inches and put on considerable bulk from working hard at the lumberyard. His voice dropped an octave and the little acne he once had was now gone, leaving its mark with a few scars here and there. He was now seventeen and quickly turning into a man.

Because his mother had found a lucrative hobby making quilts for a roadside market just outside of town, Creed was able to cut his work to weekends and still earn enough to make ends meet. His load had also lightened some now that Jeter was old enough to share in the tending of the home. More importantly he was able to attend high school. He soon found, however, that it was more difficult keeping up with his studies than laboring in the lumberyard. He often considered dropping out and working full time, and would have done it, if not for his mother. Annie knew her son had more in him than that dead end Beamis Lumber Company, and she never shied away from telling him so. On more than one occasion, she convinced him to persevere.

Staying in school proved to be a sound decision, as he gradually became a respectable student. In the first semester of his senior year he met Mrs. Lofgreen, a science teacher with orange hair, and a face full of teeth. She in turn introduced him to ‘Yeti’, an old white ’29 ford model A pickup truck that would eventually become his first set of wheels.

When Creed first laid his visionary eyes on the clunker, it was sitting bumper deep in weeds behind Mrs. Lofgreen’s shed. The hood was missing and all four tires were flat. The bed of the truck was fashioned of two by four and plywood, and the paint job looked like muddy snow. Its saving grace was that when the ignition was engaged, the old beater fired to life. Despite its less then respectable appearance, and because it purred like a comfortable kitten, Creed was more than willing to pay the meager asking price of forty bucks.

‘Yeti’ was his. However, he soon learned that what he once saw as his passport to a normal teenage existence; dating, drive-in’s, and the like, was nothing more than a headache on wheels and a thief of his time and money.

There was a reason why he only had to pay forty bucks to call it his own and he was painfully reminded of it once more as he sat on the shoulder of the highway, choking on radiator steam.

It was late evening and the rain had been falling steadily for the past hour. He was somewhere on highway 19, though he wasn’t sure exactly how close to Robbinsville. He had spent the day in Ashville buying odds and ends, and he considered finding lodging for the night, but made the decision to head for home. He knew now that it was the wrong choice.

It was late evening, and the moon was missing. Leaving his headlights on, he popped open the hood to survey the damage. Reluctantly, he jumped out of the dry cab and into the rain. Untying the rope that held the misfit hood down, he quickly raised it up with both arms. Coolant-laced steam billowed out like an incoming storm cloud moving in time lapse, covering Creed instantly. He gasped momentarily and then fumbled around under the hood in search of the problem. After a short time, he found it; a busted radiator hose. He had no way of fixing it and his gut tightened as he knew right away that he would have to walk.

In a burst of anger, Creed slammed his fist against the wheel well, cursed at the emptiness around him and headed down the highway. Within a moment, he was soaked and shivering compulsively as the damp air danced against his wet skin. But that wasn’t what concerned him. His mother would be expecting him, and when he didn’t show, she would start into a panic. He pushed through the pelting rain, plodding along the edge of a civilized highway to his left and an uncivilized wilderness to his right.

Soon his own mortal fears began to roll in as every little sound from the woods startled him and placed his sensory system on high alert. The snapping of lightning hitting a distant treetop, the muffled sound of a wild dog howling at the rain, the moaning thunder of the upset sky. These were all sounds that Creed had heard a thousands times, but as his fear-altered perception took hold, those noises brought on a tickling of his spine and uneasiness in his soul. He prayed for someone, anyone, to come along and allow him a spot in their safe and dry vehicle.

His prayers were answered as he heard the hum of a car cruising toward him. The lights grew brighter as the car approached. Soon it was upon him, headlights blinding. Then, it pulled beside him revealing its beautiful new red paint. He recognized the car right away, a brand new 1946 Chevy Fleetline Aero Sedan. He could hardly see through the rain spotted passenger window, but as it slowly rolled down, what he saw before him made the whole experience worthwhile. It was Millie Snyder, smiling a penetrating, perfect smile.

“Why if it isn’t Creed Linden.” Her voice leeched through his chest and soaked into his heart.

She knew his name. He had seen her around school, admiring her from a great distance, but had never spoken a single word to her. He was a recluse with barely a friend, but she was well known and even better liked. He was quiet but confident. She was outgoing and charismatic. Underneath the dirty unkempt exterior, Creed was handsome and gentle. Millie was polished and perfect inside and out.

“That is your name, isn’t it,” she said impatiently.

“Oh yeah. Sorry. Hey thanks for stopping.” He looked past Millie and saw her father sitting behind the wheel. “Howdy Mr. Snyder,” he said with a small wave and a timid voice.

“Just get on in boy, you’re getting the interior wet.”

Millie opened the door and slid her seat forward, just enough for Creed to slip into the back seat. The car was warm and smelt of a foreign odor, foreign to Creed anyway. It was the rich smell of brand new car. Right away he realized he was soaking the back seat but wasn’t going to say anything.

Millie closed the door and Mr. Snyder continued down the highway. The car was silent allowing Creed to hear the hum of the perfectly new engine; a reverberating chord that he longed to hear from under Yeti’s hood.

“How’s your family getting along?” Mr. Snyder asked.

He didn’t get the sense that Mr. Snyder’s concern was in his question. “Doin’ fine thanks,” Creed responded.

“Sure was a terrible thing that happened to your father,” he replied tritely.

“Yep, a shame. But we’re getting by just fine.” Creed wanted to keep the conversation going but found himself shy on words. Mr. Snyder was a big man with a big presence. He was the new president of Beamis Lumber, and could say and do anything he wanted around town. He also had the most gorgeous daughter in the entire state. The silence grew awkward, and Creed grew more intimidated. Finally Creed blurted out nervously, “Nice car.”

Millie smiled brightly and turned to face Creed. “Thanks. Daddy just bought it for me. Just heading home from picking it up in Asheville.” She winked at her father and rubbed his shoulder.

Creed looked himself over, and then wished he hadn’t. A tinge of embarrassment came over him as reality slapped him in the face. His wet t-shirt was dirty and a bit too small. His jeans had holes in the knees, exposing his bony kneecaps. He caught a good whiff of himself. It was strong with burnt engine, but occasionally disrupted with subtle splashes of flowery perfume, no doubt coming from Millie.

“You live in Milltown, right?” Mr. Snyder asked.

Creed quickly responded, “Oh, yeah. Just off Buckskin road. You can just drop me off at the turn off. I’ll walk on home from there.” There was no way Creed wanted Millie to see the shack he called home. He knew that she was aware of his humble lifestyle, but he didn’t want her to see it first hand.

“Don’t be foolish boy. I’ll take ya on home.”

“Yeah, Creed. Let us drive you home,” Millie added.

“Nope. I’ll just walk.”

Mr. Snyder paused a moment. “Well no sense in arguing with you about it. Besides, we don’t want to get this beauty all muddy now, do we Millie?”

“Guess not.” She giggled lightly then turned back to look at Creed. She smiled sincerely, almost bashfully at him.

Creed returned a confused half smile. No doubt she’s playin with m’ mind, he thought. The rest of the way he thought, as the conversation turned absent.

Finally, they arrived at the Buckskin turnoff. Creed extended his hand to Millie first, and he knew instantly that was a big mistake. Mr. Snyder shot a hard glance at him. Millie quickly grabbed his hand and shook it, almost as if she didn’t want to let it go. Their youthful eyes locked for a time and finally, she released his hand and Creed offered it to Mr. Snyder. He grabbed it firmly and shook hard, drilling through Creed with his eyes.

Creed swallowed then said, “thank you for th…” his words left him as he grabbed a quick glimpse of something horrible in his mind. It was Mr. Snyder’s face, bloody and donning deathly fear. Creed grimaced and winced as the vision occupied his consciousness. The image of Mr. Snyder bore into him, and then he heard the faint whimpering of a young girl. It was Millie. His grip on Mr. Snyder’s hand tightened, as Millie’s face came into focus. Tears dripped off her cheeks. Her hair fell over her ears and stuck to her face, and Creed knew she was holding her father.

“Hey now boy, you got a good grip there,” Mr. Snyder quipped. He yanked his hand away causing Creed to come back to reality. His breath deepened, his heart pounded inside, and he was visibly distraught.

“You alright son?” Mr. Snyder was glaring at him.

Creed looked at Millie, who’s smile was gone. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks again for the ride. You saved me a lot of trouble.” He looked deeply on Mr. Snyder and felt a hollow feeling in his gut. Creed knew Mr. Snyder’s days were numbered.

Creed stepped out of the car and into the downpour. Two miles of uphill trudging lay before him, but he was grateful to see the Buckskin gate welcoming him home. Opening it, he looked back and watched the Snyders drive away, feeling as though he left a part of himself in the back seat. His visions over the last year had been sparse yet indelible. He agonized over each one, as he had yet to unlock the secret of how to put a time to the scene, though he knew what he must do to bring him closer to the elusive ‘when’. He knew, but lacked the courage to face it, until now. He must seek out the man with all the answers, the one at the source of this burden. His friend at the grave, Collin Bradbury.

The humble Linden home was built in 1920 by the callused hands of Creed’s father and grandfather. The workmanship was mediocre at best, which was saying something considering the supplies they had to work with and the meager funds at their disposal. However, to the Linden's, having sole ownership without a mortgager was worth more than fancy dining rooms, parlors and modern conveniences. In fact, it allowed them to have bread on the table during lean financial circumstances.

The kitchen was small yet tidy and functional, using old wooden produce crates affixed to the wall as cupboards. The living room doubled as the dining area. The house had three bedrooms, a loft and one bathroom that drained into a septic tank which backed up often. The front porch creaked and the front door was too small for the frame. The roof leaked into the loft where Creed slept, and the floors were made of uneven pinewood planking.

Though the home was nothing of consequence, many coveted the land it sat on. It had been in the family since the mid 1800's and was a prime piece of real estate, close to the rail line and 18 miles from town. The Santeetlah creek ran adjacent to the house and carried a good deal of Rainbow and German Brown, both valuable foods for the Linden clan. Just off the Buckskin logging road in Milltown, theirs was the only house within twenty acres and this suited them fine.

On occasion, however, they did visit their neighbors for bartering purposes and simple entertainment. A strange bunch were the Lombard's, always carrying on about governmental conspiracy. They had a son Creed's age that everyone called Magnet, a nickname given by the townsfolk when the story leaked about how he had been implanted with radioactive plates for government tracking purposes. The story was fabricated by his attention-craved father, yet was widely discussed in coffee shops and barber chairs throughout Robbinsville as if it were fact.

Now that Tillman Linden was gone, the home rested firmly in the care of young Creed. This meant tending to the corn, mending and maintaining the exterior, milking the goat and planting and harvesting other crop; all of which he had been doing since he was nine. It also meant finding a career, most likely at the Beamis Lumber Company where his father worked, along with seventy eight percent of the men in Robbinsville.

The intangible affairs would still be the responsibility of his mother Annie and grandmother, whom the family called Grandma Dandy; and a dandy she was. Snuff and crochet were her hobbies and she did both well. Creed spent many hours cleaning the tobacco stained front porch; stains that came from the jowls of the family matriarch. At Seventy-two, she had the strength of a teenage boy and the mouth of one, too. She often embarrassed Creed's parents in public with her colorful vocabulary. She had even been banned from the Bingo Hall for some time over an incident involving one of the callers. Maybe her fifty-nine game winless streak was a coincidence. Whether it was or not, Dandy was taking it out on someone, and that someone was Steven Porter. He didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hades, though he put up a good fight.

Many concerns crowded Creeds mind as he carried sacks of corn from the field to the crib. It was afternoon, and Creed had been at his chores all day, neglecting school once again for the rigors of the field. Sitting in class was too idle and made for a long day as his mind often shifted to the death of his father. Working outside provided him with a respite from his painful loss.

It had been two months since his father’s passing and the subsequent giving of the vile. He wondered how he would know when he was ready, or if he would ever be ready. For that matter, he was almost sure he didn’t want to be ready. What little experience he had with his gift was not pleasant and death was all too personal.

Creed entered the small barn on the east side of the property and dumped the un-shucked corn from the gunnysack into the now full corn crib. He turned to head back out, feeling a smidgen of relief that the day’s work was done. As he stepped out of the barn, he heard the whinny voice of Magnet Lombard.

“Missed you at school today.” The lanky fourteen-year-old swaggered off the front porch, his hands deeply rooted in his pockets. His shoulders grooved in a stiff uneven tempo.

“Hey Magnet,” Creed said with a welcoming salute as he walked toward him.

Magnet gave him a look as if to instill fear. It didn’t work. He was tall for his age, and was quite awkward as his coordination was still a couple years away. He was hardly a menacing presence. He wore the same thing that he wore every day; terribly faded bib overalls over the top of a dingy white T-shirt, brown boots, and a train conductor hat that had seen better days.

“Didn’t feel much like schooling today,” Creed answered. “Haven’t felt like it in two months.” He noticed Magnet was holding a folded piece of paper. He nodded at the paper and then looked into Magnets face.

“Oh. Here. It’s from Mrs. Beckman. She didn’t seem too happy about you missing school. Why I’d say you is in trouble.”

“You think so?” Creed shook his head and grabbed the note out of his hand. “Na. I’m in no trouble. Thanks for the concern, though.”

“You’re welcome. I best get on home now.” He smiled oddly at Creed then turned tail and sprinted down the road toward his home.

“What a strange duck, that one,” Creed said as he unfolded the paper and read to himself.

Creed-
We have missed you lately. Please know that your grades are suffering from your absence. If you need any extra tutoring to get you back on track, please let me know.
Sincerely
Mrs. Beckman

Creed folded the letter and tucked it in his back pocket mumbling something under his breath. In that instant, it dawned on him. He was supposed to be at the bus stop waiting for his kid brother Jeter. He glanced at his watch. “Late again!” he said, and set off in a dead sprint down the long dirt driveway.

He rounded the final bend at the bottom of Buckskin road, after a half-mile sprint. Jeter came skipping toward him, his jeans rolled to mid calf and his socks rolled down to mid ankle. He was carrying his black tin lunch pail that used to belong to their father.

“Sorry I’m late,” Creed said resting his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath.

Jeter strolled up and shook his head in innocent disgust. “Not like I’m five. I can walk home myself.” He was probably right. Still, it was his mothers wish that Creed be there to pick him up.

Creed noticed his lower legs and chuckled. “Nice look, Jeet.”

“Quiet. It’s the new fifth grade style.” He looked himself over and nodded in an approving gesture. “Carry this,” he said shoving the lunch box in Creed’s stomach.

“What do you got in here?” Creed asked noticing its unexpected weight. It was far too heavy to only contain remnants of lunch. Creed opened it up.

“Rail spikes,” the two said in unison.

“Where did ya get these?” He removed the three giant nails from the pail.

“Found them back on the rail road. Neat, huh?”

“Sure Jeet, real swell,” he said sarcastically and placed them back in the lunch box.

As the two walked toward home, Jeter rambled on about his day, and how he had kissed Amanda Franklin by the drinking fountain. For only being ten, he was far too interested in girls.

Jeter offered Creed a piece of bubble gum. Creed accepted it and started to unwrap it, when Jeter took off as if a starting gun had sounded. “Beat you home slow poke!” he yelled. Creed gave chase, and then pulled up realizing he was too tired from his most recent sprint. Besides, they were now only a few hundred yards from their driveway. Creed put the gum in his mouth and continued up the road enjoying the fruity flavor.

Then, without reason, he had a strange urged to pull those spikes out once more. He did and as his dirty hands clinched them, and rolled them around one another, he heard the distinct sound of a train whistle. He was able to ascertain that it was coming from within his mind and not his surroundings. The whistling intensified quickly, growing louder by the second. Its off-pitch howl grew deafening, almost too much to bear.

Somehow, in the middle of the noise, he heard the faint sound of a man’s agony filled voice, wailing as if in dreadful pain. It added a haunting harmony to the blaring whistle. Creed tried covering his ears but the sound was too piercing. It came from within and no matter how hard he tried he could not escape its howl. The blaring continued. He stumbled, fell to his knees as the noise rattled him to the core. Then, without warning, the sound quickly died away, leaving a resonating ring in his head, a throbbing between his eyes. After a moment, he gathered himself to his feet, looked down and noticed his sweaty hand still clutched tightly to the spikes. Shaken, and in no mood for his gum, he spat it out, walked up the driveway and into the house. He dropped the spikes and the lunch box on the floor, and fell into the sofa.

Annie heard the clanking of the metal on the hardwood and poked her head in from the kitchen. “The work all done?”

Creed didn’t respond. His mind did not even register his mother’s question.
“You alright boy?”

Creed finally emerged from his daze and slowly turned his attention to his concerned mother. “I think had another one.”

With that simple response, Annie knew exactly what he meant. She rushed over to the couch. “What did you see?”

“That’s the problem, I didn’t see anything. I just heard a loud train whistle, and a man screaming. But I didn’t see.”

Annie then noticed the railroad spikes on the floor. She moved to them and picked them up. “Where did you get these?”

“Jeet found ‘em on the way home.” Creed’s face was pale and small droplets emerged on his forehead.

Annie paused a moment and then spoke. “Just lean back and relax while I finish supper. We’ll talk about it later.” Gently, she ruffled her son’s shaggy blonde hair then made her way back to the kitchen.

Lizzie, all three feet and twenty-five pounds of her, ran through the kitchen opening and over to Creed. “Hey Creed,” she said as she climbed up on to his lap.
“Hey little sis,” he responded. “Are you ready for supper?”

Lizzie smiled, “uh-huh.”

Creed pushed her face into his chest and she made herself comfortable. That is where the two of them stayed until their meal was ready.

My first novel (The Silo) came out so easily. I wrote the first draft in all of two months. I spent another six editing. During the process, I kept telling myself, surely this writing thing isn't normally this easy. Turns out I was right. Since I finished the Silo, I have yet to produce a submission ready draft of anything. I have three novels in process and this one, Changing Creed, is closest to completion.

I've been working on this novel for about four years and have finally finished the first draft. It has been a struggle as the subject matter is rather heavy and a bit out of character for me. As a matter of fact, when I read it I think, "man, whats wrong with me. Where did this come from?" Never-the-less, I have invested so much time into it, I feel I need to complete it. I plan on posting a chapter a day until it is all out here, in all it's glory. Not that anyone really reads this blog anyway, but if you happen upon it, please post a thought or two on this and if it is well received, I will spend the time on edits and then pursue publication.

disclaimer: This is merely a first draft. There may be some continuity, spelling and grammatical errors. Please ignore them and post any questions you may have.

Thanks.

Chapter 1

Creed crouched in front of the marker, soaked in rain, and consumed by grief. The world as he knew it was gone, and he was ill fitted to handle the change that had been forced upon him.

Moments earlier, the thickest of clouds had forced its way over the top of the mountain and rolled powerfully down the other side, consuming the sky above Creed. It brought thick darkness and heavy moisture as it released its downpour. The mountain welcomed the heavy drops as they pelted the ground and pollen filled tree needles. The strong scent of rain joined the damp air, and Creed breathed in as best he could through his stuffed head.

His shaking hands held tightly to a small bouquet of dripping wet wild flowers. Wrapped around the stems was his fathers good luck charm, a piece of twine with a button attached. He knelt down in the soil above his father and felt his knees sink slightly into the earth. Gently, he placed the flowers against the cross and whispered a prayer, a prayer for his father who was now in a far better place, a prayer for his widowed mother, and a prayer for himself. Creed knew that his burden was suddenly heavier than he was ready to bear. He now had to fill the shoes of his father at the young age of fourteen.

Creed lifted his face and let the rain tap at his closed eyes for a moment. He reached in his soaked corduroy pant pocket and pulled out a small picture of he and his father holding freshly caught trout. He placed it at the base of the flowers as the rain slowed to a drizzle. The welcoming sun soon parted the dark rain clouds, radiating through the massive spruce trees, glistening on the wet marker. Creed sat patiently and waited as the warm rays began drying his clothing and unkempt hair. The minutes turned to ten, then fifteen. His uncertainty grew with the passing of time, yet he remained as his father counseled. Masked behind the sorrow, a slow forming nervousness lurked inside. Who was this man whom his father spoke of? Why wait for him?

He suppressed his concerns and let his thoughts turned to the accident that stole his father from him. No son should have to be the one to hear his father's last words as Creed had to. No boy should have to feel the warmth of his father’s last breath on his cheek. He knew that working as a high rigger didn’t come without a certain level of danger, but Creed never once considered it would be a means to his fathers end. He closed his eyes and felt once more the sting of the entire ordeal. One snap of a leather harness, a mighty fall, and Creed was a boy without a father. Creed sobbed as he relived the horror of that day. The day that forever changed who he was and what he was to become.

In an instant, his lament was driven off by a faint whistling sound hitting his ears. The tune carried through the quite cemetery. The source of the whistle was out of sight for a time, yet becoming more distinct. Finally, Creed caught a glimpse of what he was waiting for.

Creed squinted through the mist, trying to make out what was before him. "Are you him?"

In a slow deliberate stroll, the figure of a man cut through the dampness. He approached with his hands deep in his pockets, whistling a tune that Creed found vaguely familiar. His broad chest was covered in a ratty brown three-piece, accented with a bow tie, tied loosely around his piped neck. His weather worn face sat beneath the tallest hat Creed had ever seen, while his white hair dangled freely around his ears and neck, resting at home on his collar. His stern eyes gleaned with a pale blue hue. They pierced right through Creed.

"Awe my boy, you waited." His voice was deep and accented in Yorkshire.

"I did as my pa said," replied a shaken Creed.

The man gazed around the area, and then changed his focus to the marker in front of Creed. His head bowed slightly and a look of sympathy crossed his face then morphed into pensiveness. "Creed Linden. I understand you knew I was coming?”

"Yeah, Pa said you was.” Creed paused. “It must have been important.”

The man looked hard at Creed. “He was a good man, your father, a good man indeed. You have his strong shoulders you do.” The big man smiled delicately.

“That’s what momma says all the time.”

A moment passed and pleasantries turned to seriousness.

“I have something for you.” He reached into his vest pocket and removed a small corked vile, the contents of which were a dark blue. He took a few steps closer to Creed and handed him the vile. “When you feel you are ready,” he said gesturing at the liquid.

“I’m supposed to drink this?” Creed held the vile up to the sky, gazing on the clear blue juice inside.

“That’s right,” he said softly. “It’s a subtle solution, oh sure, but what power…”

“Power for what?” Creed asked.

The man folded his arms snug beneath his chest, and paused for a long while, gathering his thoughts. “Your grandfather had a gift. So did your father. And you Creed, I would bet you possess it as well.” He looked curiously at Creed who was gazing on the ground afraid to make eye contact.

The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then continued. “Let me back up a bit. Everyone born to this earth is given gifts of sorts. I suppose to Handel it was musical ingenuity that found its source in another realm. To Monet it was the eye’s to see and hands to create images to last lifetimes. To your dear mother, the gift of love and compassion matched by few. Gifts such as these are rare. They are the source of inspiration for the ages. You, Creed Linden, can count yourself among the great few who can use the gift you have to change lives. You and your fathers before you have something rare indeed.

Creed looked up at the burly man with sensitive eyes. The words spoken sounded important and sincere, and even though he knew nothing of anyone named Handel or Monet, the message resonated inside him. Creed burned with confusion. “What gift?” he asked, not really wanting the answer.

“Let me give you a hint. A little while back you had a horrible thought cross your mind while swimming in the pond. You told your father about it. Do you remember?”

Creed nodded. “I thought of a boy drowning there.”

“You did, didn’t you? Very well. Now, there will come a single moment in the future that will require the use of that potion you’re holding. I’ll say this one time. Use it only in that moment."

Creed went to speak, but the man cut him short. “Shh. You’ll know, son.”

The Englishman walked toward him and spoke sure and strong. "One more thing and I’ll be on my way. I want you to listen careful. You will soon have the misfortune to experience first hand the worst in mankind. Right here in Robbinsville lays a festering evil that is consumed by greed. This is where your gift will change the fortune and future of the Linden name. Be perceptive young Creed. Listen to your instincts. And above all, look after your family, trusting none other." The Englishman was upon him towering over Creed. “I will say this as one last counsel to you. Take this as a forewarning. True compassion can conquer any evil. Never forget this.”

Creed felt his inferiority as he coward beneath the hulking man. He stepped back and the man let the distance between them remain. Evil? Creed thought. His father said nothing about evil in Robbinsville.

The Englishman sighed. "I am done here. The gift is yours. You know the charge that has been given you." With an odd wink of his deeply sunken eye and a nod of his head, he removed his hat and smiled once more. “The name is Collin Bradbury. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Creed gave a half hearted hand gesture, still lost on all that was said.
The man turned to depart in the direction he came. Without looking back, he said, “find the good in this, Creed.”

Creed watched bemused as Collin walked away. His mind was clouded and his heart still ached as the weight of his new found burden fell hard upon him. A moment later, he heard the soft voice of his mother, climbing the hill toward him.

"Creed sweetie? Time to get home. Supper is on."

Creed turned to face her and it was in that moment that he saw her in a different way. She was strong in her step and her face was stoic. He knew the pain she felt inside, and yet he knew she didn’t want to let on. Creed could see her swollen, bloodshot eyes. Her mourning was present in her face yet she was as beautiful as ever. Her black hair, pulled tightly in a bun, lifted her thin face.

"Momma, I saw him. He came. The man pa told me about."

“Is that so?” she asked, hardly showing concern. Her gaze drifted away. Creed could see the pain in her absent face. He knew how deep her love was for his father.
“We better get home. My stew is about done.”

He flung his arm around his mother’s shoulder and the two of them headed down the hill toward home.

I’m not really a fan of sentimental books, but I read one a few years ago that had a real pearl of wisdom nestled in some dialogue in the middle of the book. More than the story itself, this exchange between two characters is what I remember most.

The book is called ‘The Timepiece’ by Richard Paul Evens. It’s a story about a man who has a fascination with clocks, anywhere from pocket watches to grandfather clocks. I’ll leave out any more details surrounding the story in case you want to read it. For a good half the book we really don’t understand why he has this love for the ticker, but in the following exchange with his new bride, he explains his fascination. This is the pearl of wisdom that I speak.

“May I tell you why I wanted to give you a clock?”

She turned to her groom. “There is greater significance than its beauty?”

David stared into the clocks face. “You once asked me why I collect clocks.”

MaryAnne nodded.

“I have given this question a great deal of thought since then. A clock is a strange invention. A collection of cogs and gears that are always in motion, yet accomplish nothing. Not like a pump that provides water, or a cotton gin that leaves something useful. A clock just moves without thought or meaning - - worthless without interpretation.” His eyes focused on the clock in condemnation. “It’s just motion.”

I’ll stop there because the rest gets mushy as he explains how his life was so much like a clock, just movement without meaning. That is until she came along.

Let me expound a little bit on the clock. Isn’t it amazing how the world is run completely by the clock? Every aspect of our lives is dictated by the ticker. We wake up when it tells us to, we go to work, lunch and home when it tells us to. We experience anxiety if it tells us we’re late. We feel at peace if it tells us we have a few minutes to spare. By all accounts we live by it. Yet, it’s not the clock that runs us; after all it’s just a mechanical instrument with perpetually moving parts. It is our interpretation of the object that controls us.

Maybe this struck me so hard because of my profession. It is very easy to see a business much like a clock. It has a bunch of moving parts, like employee’s making sales, costumers buying products, systems managing inventory, billing systems sending payments out, payment systems accepting payments. These are all just pieces of a business that feed their information into large databases. It is my job to extract that data and present it to executives in a way that they can apply their own interpretation to understand how their business is doing. Are they making money? What products are selling best? What types of customers are late with payments? This is business intelligence which is the field in which I work.

On a deeper level, and more to the point of the book, the clock relates to man. We are sent to this earth to gain a body. A body is a compilation of heart, bones, skin, nerves, blood and many other organs working in unison to provide our spirits with a vehicle to exist here on earth. It is what we do with ourselves while here that provide others with the interpretation of who we are. Are we wasting our opportunity? Are we doing everything we can to emulate the Savior? Do others see the Savior in us, or do others see us as judgmental, unethical, dishonest, or anything other than what we wish them to see?

I used to work in downtown phoenix and would see many of the city’s homeless on a regular basis. On one occasion while walking from the parking structure to my office, I saw a man who was so emaciated that it was a shock to see him upright. He wore a pair of ripped jeans that hung way below his hips. He was shirtless and shoeless. His skin was like leather and his eyes were deep behind his cheek bones. His face was lifeless as he sauntered toward me. With one hand, he held up his pants. With the other he held an empty plastic cup. I would bet that my interpretation of him at that moment was a far cry from what he wanted for himself at better times in his life.

As I walked by, I tried to get his attention with my gaze, but he would not make eye contact. I had a five in my pocket so I pulled it out and placed it in his cup. He didn’t say anything and barely acknowledged my existence. He was too tired to even nod. The mechanical pieces of his body were slowing down. His clock was breaking. It was almost as if he wasn’t going to live long enough to spend those five dollars. I thought about him that entire day and an awful lot since. I wondered what went wrong in his life. What led him to such a low point? In all likelihood he would die on a street with no one around him. No one would even know he had passed until well after, and who’s to say they would even care? This is a sad case of the gift of life being tossed away like a bad gallon of milk.

Many people end up this way through a series of bad choices, whether it is drugs and alcohol, or crime. Some get there through very little fault of their own, as mental illness or a pitiful childhood can be the culprit. If you’re like me and can say you have been given very favorable circumstances in life and a fine hand dealt your way, make the most of it. Lift others. Serve man. Love your family. Who are we to squander such a powerful opportunity to be the best we can?

We have free agency, the most powerful of all gifts. It gives us complete control to say and do as we wish. And back to time, as a friend of mine recently said, it is all we really, truly own.



On a side note, for mother’s day I decided to send Nik, her sister and her mother to a resort for the night. I checked Travelocity and found the Mesa Golf Resort for a relatively low price. The website said it was a four star, so I thought ‘hey, for that price, I’ll take it.’ Besides, it was close to home. Well, my friends, it was a dive. I guess everything was outdated, the bedding was dirty, it smelled, the carpet with filthy, not at all what I expected from a four star. So, of all the things Nik could have taken a picture of for proof of its subpar status, she chose to take a picture of the clock. Strange, I know. The picture above is the one she took. There has to be some relationship between the topic of this post and that picture, but I’ll leave that one alone. Just too deep for me.