House of Gold (43 page)

"–there is no–"

she brought her lips to his, opening them, so soft,

"–no Mark Johnson–"

and Buzz wanted to keep kissing Ellie forever,

"–at the end of our jetty–"

tears, salt water, pliant lips joining–

Chesterton heard it first.

A sound.

The sound of something in a dull grey sky.

A sound coming out of
the mist, like a son of man on a cloud.

The dog bolted back up the hill toward the master, barking wildly, leaping, bounding–

Buzz and Ellie, still embracing on the barren snow, sharing their suffering with their love, waiting on the death-edge of a jetty after taking a walk that had been so long, oh so very long–

–while the big collie kept barking, now right next to them, circling them, all three
of them one hundred feet from the pond.

Chesterton's labors were not bearing fruit.

Buzz and Ellie were in their own world, on a jetty, finding the Holy One in the soul of the other...

So Chesterton jumped them.

"Hey?!" Ellie came out of it first. She did not want to stop; she wanted to keep
having
Buzz, but this damned dog–

"Chesterton!" she shouted.

She looked at her man.

Buzz was looking up
at the sky.

"What is it, boy? What is it?" he asked the dog.

Chesterton barked again; the dog's voice was becoming hoarse.

Buzz sprung to his feet, and now she was looking into the sky, too, because she also heard the sound. Buzz pulled her up, and she returned to his arms, and together, they saw it.

+  +  +

It had been so long since they had seen an airplane. But there it was, a twin engine,
coming toward them, as if bursting forth from a rip-tear in the overcoat of time.

It was closer now, almost on top of them, just beyond the pond.

"Look! Ellie!" Buzz pointed.

"What?" she demanded.

"Somebody's gonna jump, see?"

And she saw it. A man poised in the doorway, holding something in his arms, something golden, fluffy...

Chesterton stopped barking; he catapulted toward the pond. It wasn't
much more than a puddle.

Puddle jumper,
Buzz thought disjointedly as what they were about to witness unfolded to him. He turned to Ellie to tell her–

But before he could, the plane was practically upon them, on the tops of the trees, maybe fifty feet above the ground...

...and the man jumped out, holding his golden pillow, and...

Swooosh!

The plane streaked fifteen feet above their heads...

...and
the puddle-jumper landed feet-first into the pond with a splash–but Buzz and Ellie didn't see his landing because they could not pull their eyes from the airplane...

...which Buzz now noticed didn't have...

"Buzz, there's no landing wheel," Ellie told him, but he was already running away from her...

...toward the plane as it bounced on the gentle slope over the crest, the one good wheel snapping
off, flipping into the air behind the aircraft.

Buzz braced for the explosion. None came. The plane touched down again–

–a wing-tip caught in the snow; the entire wing sheered off with a metallic screech, and the fuselage began a long, slow spin, and came to a halt, tipping to a rest on the remaining wing.

Buzz was loping full-speed, almost there.

Ellie spun around, and saw the man in the pond;
he was swimming to shore. His ball of fluff was doing something just plain queer: it was motoring away from the man, toward Chesterton. The big collie was now in the water, too, swimming toward the puddle-jumper and his bizarre toy pillow–

She pirouetted, her long skirt whirling in the air, the now-ancient tears drying on her cheeks–

–and saw a vision.

...of man jumping out of the plane, his face
covered with blood. He was huge. Bigger than Buzz.

It can't be,
she thought, in the netherworld between terror and joy.

Her legs began to move, toward the plane, toward Buzz, toward...

+  +  +

"Give me a hand!" the big man shouted at Buzz.

The giant had the doors open now. He reached into the back of the cabin, unbuckled the other passenger, who was out cold–Buzz saw this–the passenger was facing
the opposite way of the cockpit seats.

Dead,
Buzz thought.

But the giant grappled the body out of the cabin anyway, and delivered the corpse to Buzz, just as the pungent odor of aviation fuel reached Buzz's nostrils–

"Get him clear!" the bigger man ordered.

Buzz took the command; he hefted the corpse onto his shoulders, arms and head dangling over his back, and began laboring back up the slope
toward Ellie.

When he reached her, he carefully, but quickly, laid the body down at her feet.

"Ellie, see what you can do with him," he instructed breathlessly.

He wheeled then charged back toward the plane.

The bloody-faced pilot had four huge duffel bags out of the cabin–plus two rifles. He tossed a bag to Buzz, who caught it–it must have weighed sixty pounds–and kept his balance. Buzz immediately
reversed field and ran toward Ellie.

The bigger man, three bags around his body, caught up to Buzz in an instant, and they matched strides until they were within a few yards of the woman, who was down with the corpse now. She looked up as they reached her–

–and the plane blew. And Buzz dove toward Ellie, in an effort to cover her, even as she fell onto the dead man to cover him.

And the giant
landed on Buzz.

The ground shook.

Bet Tommy Sample heard that,
a thought blew into Buzz's head...

...as little pieces of junk and shrapnel landed all around them...

...and Buzz unsqueezed his eyes and realized that they were plenty far enough away from the plane.

The wind was eastward, kicking up, and the black smoke and roiling fire immediately turned away from their little pile of humanity...

Along with Buzz, Ellie lifted her head, and together they looked back toward the pond to recognize–

–Chesterton and–
a golden puppy!
–which was no longer fluffy; it was dripping wet.

Not a pillow,
Ellie thought, dreamlike.
A puppy.

The puddle-jumper was right behind the dogs.

"Dad!" the puddle-jumper shouted, water sopping off his black pants and shirt. "You okay Dad?!"

"I'm fine, Shay," the giant
said, getting to his feet, lifting his arms and legs, inspecting for injuries.

"At least I think so."

Buzz climbed to his feet.

Ellie snapped her head from the puddle-jumper to see her Buzz standing beside–

–this living mirage. An Olympian monster with blood pouring out of his temple onto his face and beard.

A booming laugh spurted from the beautiful ogre's face. He slapped Buzz on the back.

"It's great to see you, buddy," it said.

There was a sudden silence, except for the panting of the two dogs, and the crackling sounds from the burning plane.

This outlandish crew paused, looking at each other, mentally processing the impossible.

The man from the pond was not a man.

He was a tall boy. Almost as tall as Christopher had been, but with more bulk, like his ogre-father. When the boy's
gaze came to rest on Buzz, recognition dawned on the boy's face. He wiped himself on his soaked pants, and thrust out his right hand.

"Hi, Uncle Buzz," Shay greeted him.

Buzz, mouth hanging open, shook the boy's hand. A strong grip.

He looked to Ellie, who was staring, blank-faced, at the bloody giant who had just dropped down from the clouds.

Fee fi fo fum,
she thought oddly.

"Mark?" she asked,
her voice shaky.

"Hello, Mrs. Fisk," the giant replied, leaning back, his hands on his hips, still standing next to Buzz. "If you aren't the prettiest damned thing I've seen in ages. A sight for sore eyes."

The giant looked at her hand, then spied her lonely diamond; he remembered how she had been in Buzz's arms when he first saw them from the clouds.

He turned to Buzz.

"Sam's gone. Christopher
too," Buzz told him.

Buzz and the other father watched a dream die in Seamus's eyes; the boy fell to his knees and put his hands over his face.

But he did not cry because he was his father's son.

"Maggie. The girls?" Buzz asked the bigger man, foreknowing the answer.

But he had to ask; one must honor the dead.

The giant shook his head slowly.

"Mel? Your sons?" he asked.

Buzz shook his eyes.

"And
a little one," Buzz stated somberly. "A girl named Grace."

The giant, smaller now, put a steady hand on his friend's shoulder. Another long walk had ended.

"Mark," Ellie breathed to herself, eyes stilled, no longer on the jetty. "Mark Johnson."

Chapter Twenty-One

A Breed Apart

They turned to the corpse.

"Sorry about your friend," Buzz told Mark, looking at the body next to Ellie.

Mark crouched down next to the body, and then grabbed the hem of Ellie's cotton dress.

"Mind?" he asked her.

She shook her head.

Mark Johnson wiped his hands and face on her skirt, then lowered his ear to the man's nose. Still looking at the man's face, Mark
extended his arm to grab a canvas bag, zipped it open, and pulled out a bottle of Tabasco sauce. He spun off the top, opened the corpse's mouth with his free thumb and index finger, then shook four or five squirts onto the tongue.

The corpse coughed.

"Fadder Tony? Wake up!" he commanded.

The corpse opened his eyes. "Aacch. Hey?!"

"He's a priest," Ellie stated.

Seamus crawled over, the shivering
puppy under one arm.

"Is Father gonna be okay, Dad?" he asked.

"Sure, he's okay. See that welt on his forehead? Something in the cabin must have hit him in the head during the touchdown."

"That was no
touchdown,
Dad. That was a
crash."

Mark fixed a look on his son. The boy sure was getting a mouth on him. The elder Johnson, deciding this wasn't such a bad thing, harrumphed in agreement.

The priest's
head remained on Ellie's lap; his eyes were scrunched closed, but he was coming out of it, wincing as he reached for the bump on his forehead. He felt her warm hand on his cheek, then looked up into her almond-colored eyes.

"Ah. I am in heaven. Is Mark here?"

Ellie shook her head slowly, answering his first question.

"Right here, Fadder," Mark said, still crouching, taking the man's wrist. "We
made it."

"You're in Bagpipe, Father. I'm Buzz Woodward, and the heavenly vision is, uh, my fiancée, Ellen Fisk."

Father Anthony McAndrew's gaze darted from Buzz to Mark and then back to Ellie.

"And they got a collie, Father," Seamus added happily. "Another collie."

"His name is Chesterton," Buzz added.

"Rest your head back," Ellie offered gently.

Buzz Woodward was scrutinizing Father McAndrew,
making his guesses. The priest was young–no older than thirty. His accent was pure Cleveland-native, with a twist of the east side. (Buzz correctly guessed that he grew up in Euclid.) He had a premature, receding hairline, with thin black hair, navy-cut. His face was open, but there were worry-lines etched into the outer cracks of his unfocused eyes. A goatee was making a half-hearted attempt to
escape from his chin.

Probably wears glasses,
Buzz thought.

"Collie? Bagpipe. Mark–did you get my glasses from the plane? And where is the plane?"

"I got the glasses," Mark said.

Buzz stepped aside to give McAndrew a view, and the priest, turning his head, squinting, followed their gazes to the smoldering wreckage down the hill. He turned to look back at Ellie for a lingering moment.

Buzz could
have sworn he saw the brief flash of a chaste blush come to the priest's cheeks.

"Crashed it, eh? Help me to my feet," Father Anthony commanded.

Mark and Buzz complied.

The priest took a measured look at Buzz.

"Did you say your dog's name is Chesterton?"

Buzz nodded.

"Good name," the priest said with a squint, adding a closed-mouthed nod of approval.

Buzz felt as if he had passed a test of some
sort.

"Well then, Mr. Woodward, perhaps you can name this puppy for us?"

Buzz nodded.

As if he were watching a high-speed film of the sunrise, it dawned on Buzz that perhaps Mark was not the one in charge here.

"Are you in contact with your bishop?"

The priest directed this question toward Ellie, and Buzz, honing in on the essence of the priest, noticed that the young man diverted his eyes from
a direct view of her face.

"No, Father," she demurred, looking down.

McAndrew was wearing khaki pants rolled up at the cuffs, and a red-checkered, wool shirt which obviously did not suit his accountant's build. Buzz noted the black shirt beneath. The neckband was the distinctive kind needed for donning a Roman collar.

Seamus's pants?
Buzz thought.

The priest was thin, perhaps three inches shorter
than Seamus. The shortest soul in the group.

McAndrew stretched his shoulders as he surveyed the landscape.

As smart as the day is long,
Buzz surmised.
You're the kind of guy the bishop sends to Rome to get your doctorate.

Buzz, as usual, was correct.

"All in one piece, Fadder?" Mark asked.

"Oh, I'll be okay in a minute, Mr. Lindbergh. But my back is out again," he replied brightly, reaching behind
with his hand, a pained expression on his face.

Ellie looked at Buzz. Buzz nodded.

"We can take care of that, Father," she said, breaking out into a smile, her world all right.

Father Anthony,
she thought, remembering her stern entreaty to the miracle worker of Padua, Saint Anthony, on another cloudy day, over the graves of Sam and Christopher.

For once, a reminder of her two brave-hearts did
not cause her stomach to constrict.

Sam and Chris would get their Requiem Mass.

Chesterton barked.

They all heard the whinny of a horse, then looked down the road. It was Tommy Sample on his sleigh-wagon, slip-sliding along the snow-pack, the concern on his face transforming into a wide smile when his eyes found Buzz's happy wave.

"Here's comes Our Man Friday," Buzz observed.

"Alas, poor Yorick,
I knew him well. A fellow of infinite jest," the priest quoted.

Only Buzz got the reference (Buzz briefly wished the Man were here, because he would have gotten it, too). Shakespeare. Out of context, but it fit.

Everything seemed to fit today.

This sent Buzz back in time, nine whole minutes, to the
only-you
feel of Ellie's lips on his own, the rising rouge in her cheeks, the warmth of her breath–

Buzz needed a distraction.

So he continued his guessing-game regarding the priest. An image sprung to his mind of the abandoned white-clapboard church down the road, in the center of Bagpipe, past Tommy's place, Saint Francis Xavier; and of the little house of gold within her wooden frame, begging for a wafered I-Am-Who-Am to once again take up residence therein.

Buzz saw the future. He saw the
little church being torn down. He saw a stone basilica rising in its place.

It was a plain fact.

Hamlet, eh? I was wrong, Father. You're the kind of guy who becomes the bishop someday.

+  +  +

Buzz and Ellie, Tommy, along with Mark Johnson, his son Seamus, and Father Anthony (only Mark had the authority to call him "Fadder Tony"), with no other direction to take except toward that church in Bagpipe,
continued the long walk, that glorious long walk, like children on the beach hopping from stone to stone atop a jetty under a sun-drenched sky, the ocean waves a chorus to their laughter, in a universe of infinite potentials, plans, and possibilities, a universe designed by their unfathomable Creator, Who loved them.

+  +  +

Over hard cider with a soft kick, a bottle of Maker's Mark (from Mark's
cornucopia of contraband), homemade cigars Tommy had picked up down in Errol, pure well-water for Buzz, carrot cake (for Tommy knew how to bake), and potato-pancakes smothered in butter and maple syrup (Tommy was emptying his ice-box), Mark Johnson told, with precise (often humorous) asides from the good father McAndrew, for the first time, the story of the flight from Oberlin.

The story as told
at Tommy's table in his brand-new log cabin, would, of course, be retold many times in the coming years, by grandchildren and others. Future renderings would certainly be embellished as hagiography, which is the destiny of all xeroxed tales which strive to convey the tender infinitude of the Divine.

But this first telling, as with stories of the arrival of a child, had the authentic ring of pride,
even bravado, which comes when recounted by the father who witnessed the inevitable suffering that precedes the baby's first breath...

+  +  +

Mark Johnson decided to play the cards he had been dealt. The father and son had buried the littlest sister, Megan, and mourned, joining hundreds of millions of fathers and sons (and mothers, daughters) across a darkened world of grief.

Mark reluctantly
decided, despite long weeks of pondering alternatives, to make his stand in Oberlin. Following a similar line of reason as had Mrs. Ellen Fisk in Bagpipe, he realized that he had good land. Ten acres, most of it tillable with some clearing and effort.

Compared to most, he was rich.

Then Mark cast about for allies, and over the summer months, as his supplies dwindled, he went into the security
business while tending his "farm," trading for seed, fashioning his own tools. Starting with his neighbors, he recruited, organized, and trained a local security detail, which grew quickly, until he was made the unofficial commander-in-chief of the surrounding towns.

The division of labor slowly returned to the local economy. One made bullets, one fashioned hoes, another churned butter from the
cow of another. It fell upon Mark Johnson to be the local Charlemagne: to provide for the defense of the borders, organize the care of the widows and orphans, to give the hard orders.

Leadership is always a vital business. And it was in short supply. There were plenty of random, roving Rheumys to crush. There were only a few knowledge specialties remaining in the post-modern economy, but Mark
found his niche. He knew how to use a gun, but he didn't always need bullets. His powerful voice could convince a man to lower his gun and raise his arms. That was a service much needed by the folks in the area.

As for Seamus, when he wasn't cleaning guns, he was reading books and writing stories, which he never allowed his father to read, but Mark guessed they were about Maggie and his sisters
in one form or another. A way of dealing with his loss in his own way.

So he allowed the boy his writing and reading, and traded soybeans for pens, books, and paper scavenged by the cityfolk who came to town to seek profit from the remains of the old things.

A harvest came, and though there was little surplus, all surplus was used for trade. Trade begot trade, which begets additional surplus.
This dynamic was being reenacted by mankind the world over; with the imperative to consume daily bread, survivors did not need to learn how to barter. It just happened, because it cannot be forgotten.

So Mark was moving on by staying put.

Until a day in November, when he heard a knock on his cabin door, which he opened to find a skinny priest holding a fuzz-puppy. The stranger introduced himself
as Anthony McAndrew. He was wearing a Roman collar.

"Are you Mark Johnson?"

"Yes, and sorry, Father, we don't need a dog. Can't afford to feed it," Mark told him, not unkindly.

"I am not here to peddle this dog," the priest replied brusquely, giving Mark a familiar look.

Mark thought of it as the
You're a Dumb Jock
look.

"I am here to ask you a favor," he continued. "But first, take this animal
from me; a gentleman in North Royalton tithed it to me after I said Mass for him this morning. He made the suggestion that I eat it."

Mark leaned a hand on the door frame, and investigated the young priest's emotionless face for clues and found none.

"Do you want me to, uh, cook it for you, Fadder?" he asked, feigning sincerity, playing the dumb jock.

"Do I look like a cretin?" the priest asked,
dripping with sarcasm.

Mark laughed, and in the laugh, fell into that unique brand of love for which only men have a faculty; a love reserved exclusively for first encounters with other male friends.

The priest smiled wanly, then thrust the dog to Mark, who had no choice but to take it.

The stranger-friend was a priest, after all.

"Shay!" Mark called back into the cabin, turning his head. "Take
this dog."

Mark turned back to look the priest in the eye, but continued to speak to his son. "You can't keep it."

Shay came running over.

The visitor took this respite to polish his wire-rimmed glasses with a handkerchief which appeared from nowhere.

"A puppie! Excellent," the boy said with the same excitement he showed whenever Mark handed him a new mystery novel.

Mark rolled his eyes.

"You'll
have to give that dog a name," Father McAndrew prophesied.

"Okay. You win. Come on in. Tell your story."

+  +  +

Father Anthony McAndrew filled Mark in over scotch and apples. He grew up in Nashua, New Hampshire. He was ordained in Manchester and was still attached to that diocese. He was studying for his doctorate in biochemistry at Case Western University in Cleveland when the collapse stranded
him. (His first doctorate, which he received in Rome, was in sacred theology.)

Biochemistry? Mark wanted to know. McAndrew was being groomed by his bishop for pastoral work in medical ethics. A law degree would follow, or that had been the plan before the Troubles.

Facing the extinction of the inner city, McAndrew became an itinerant minister of the sacraments, wandering from one neighborhood
to another, eventually heading south of Cleveland, then west, before coming north again to Oberlin, at which time the surviving priest in the parish on the west side of town had directed him to Mark's little cabin.

During his travels, he had been welcomed at some places, not welcomed at others. He celebrated hundreds of funeral Masses, often two or three a day.

"The collapse is divine alchemy;
it sifts gold from souls," he explained in his terse, confusing (at least to Mark), almost lyrical manner.

"So what is the favor?" Mark asked.

"Assist my return to New Hampshire."

"But Father, how–"

"The world is changing quickly, Mr. Johnson. My heart discerns the call of my bishop. Your reputation precedes you; I'm confident you will find the means."