Spirit Pouch (20 page)

“I have to go with Lyn right now,” I explain.  I can see the hurt look in his eyes, kind of like I have betrayed him.  Like I am no longer worthy to be his friend.  Guilt sweeps over me like a cold wind, and I know I have to fix things right now.  “Ty,” I say quickly, “I want to talk to you, too.”  And that is no lie, either, because I want to tell him about my adventures in Colorado with William Cottle.  “Meet me after school … better yet, after Cross Country practice, in the parking lot near the activity bus.”

Ty nods and I turn quickly to follow Lyn.  I do not look back.  I do not want to hurt Ty’s feelings, but if I have, I do not want to know about it, either.  It only takes about five seconds to catch up with Lyn.

“Now, don’t laugh, Jared,” she admonishes sternly, “because I made this myself.”

“Okay,” I promise.

“Hold out your hand.”

I do and Lyn retrieves the gift from her purse, stretches it, and slides it over my wrist.  “It’s a friendship bracelet,” she says, seeing my perplexed face.  “Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it,” I say without hesitation.  I lift my wrist and examine it closely. 
Small beads.  Red, black and green spiraling around the central band.
  “It’s great,” I say taking her hand.  I keep her hand in mine as we walk.  It is warm and soft and nice.  When the hallway splits and I have to go to Spanish class my hand slips out of hers.  I remember the soft touch of her hand all through Spanish.  I learn that ‘te quiero’ means ‘I love you’.  I silently practice saying ‘te quiero’ several times until it just flows off my tongue.

The rest of the day goes great, too, even though geometry class is as confusing as ever.  Mr. Hewitt hands out a list of vocabulary words and says, “You need to understand each term on this page or you will not understand the questions on the test.”

“Whoo,” I breathe as I lean over to pick up my book bag after cross country practice. 
I guess I’m tired.  Ten miles today is a long run.  I ought to be tired.  Oh, yeah.  Ty’s probably waiting for me.

In a hurry I leave the locker room and in just a few minutes I am plodding across the student parking lot headed toward the activity bus.  Ty is there already.  His eyes lock with mine and he comes running toward me.

I guess he wants to talk before I get distracted away by someone else,
I muse. 
That’s good though, because my own adventures in Colorado are not for just anyone’s ears, either.  I wonder what Ty thinks is of such earth shaking importance?

“Jet,” Ty blurts as he comes to an abrupt stop along side of me.

“Hi, Ty,” I say, smiling at his enthusiasm.

“Jet,” he almost interrupts.  Ty looks to see if I am really listening and I guess he decides that I am.

“You know the seminary assignment that Brother Franklin gave us?”

“Yeah …” I say hesitantly.  I am starting to wonder if I have missed an assignment because I can not think of anything that would generate this much excitement.

“The four generation sheet,” Ty continues, “where you list yourself, and then your parents, and then your grandparents, and …”

“Ty.  I know what a four generation sheet is,” I say, looking at him and smiling.  “I had mine already done.  I just stuck a copy into my pocket last night.”

Ty looks frustrated and just a little impatient.  After all, he has been waiting all day to talk to me and I am interrupting his unbelievable story.  Actually, I want to hear what has sparked such enthusiasm. 
The Spirit of Elijah tugs on people pretty hard to do family history,
I think. 
But I have never heard of a person being so completely smitten by it.
  I just nod so he can continue.

“So … I was reading the names off my father’s pedigree chart and filling out my four generation form, but the names were really confusing.”  He pauses and drops his book bag to the pavement.  I do the same because Ty pulls a sheet of folded paper from his pocket and I can tell this conversation is going to take more than just a few seconds.

“How confusing can it get?” I say.  “I mean, if you have the correct information, you just plug it into the form.”  I want to say,
You waited all day to tell me that your four generation sheet is confusing?,
but I do not say all that.  It is just great to see him excited about something church related.

“It’s not that the sheet is so hard to fill out,” he explains, “but it’s the names.  They just don’t line up.  I mean, they don’t match.”

“They don’t match?” I ask.  Now I am confused.  “What do you mean they don’t match?”  Ty does not answer and I see his eyes disengage and drift past me, while his jaw sets firmly and locks.

“Ty …?”  His gaze does not return to me, so I turn to see what the attraction is.

We are standing between two cars.  At the other end of the two cars stands Franky Barata.  I was so busy talking with Ty that I hadn’t seen Franky come up behind me.

Ty speaks first.  “Hello, Franky.”

I recover from my own little world in which I am having a private conversation with Ty and have blocked out the fact that there actually are other students around.  Franky is one of them.  I scowl, “What do you want, Franky?”

“Oh, it just looked like a good time for me to wrap up a little business with Ty’s daddy,” he sneers through a sinister grin.

“Are you brain dead, Franky,” I say in a nasty tone that even I am surprised at.  “Last time we spoke Ty made it pretty clear that his father does not deal drugs.  So take your drug business somewhere else.”

“And last time we spoke, Franky says with a touch of anger, “I promised that you would pay for sticking your nose in other people’s business, namely mine.  And right now looks like a good time for you to pay.”

Forgetting about the switchblades that appeared last time in the men’s restroom, I tense my fists and am ready to throw a few punches into Franky’s nose if he tries to make anyone pay. 
You’ll see who will pay!
I think, as my heart pounds.

Ty pushes past me and faces Franky.  “My father does not deal drugs,” he says sharply.  “And you are not making anyone pay today.  The fact that I do not lay you out flat on the asphalt should be payment enough.”

“You talk big, Samuel T. Smith,” Franky grins.  He slides his hand from behind his back producing a blackened-steel handgun.  Actually, most guys my age can probably rattle off the name of the gun, what it is made out of and who makes it, what caliber it shoots and how many rounds it holds.  But I can not.  All I know is that the gun looks black, and it looks real to me, and the fact that Franky kind of swings it around loosely strikes fear into my soul.  He has no respect for guns.  And if Franky has no respect for guns, then he has no respect for life, either.  No respect for my life.

Ty stops cold, and then slowly begins to back up.  I do, too.

“I expect that someone
will
pay today,” Franky points the gun at me.

For an instant I can see straight down the barrel.  I can see the black hole that will spit out a piece of lead when Franky pulls the trigger.  I turn to run, but my shoulder plunges into a body and stops.  In fact, there are two bodies standing there.  One I do not recognize, but the other is Schmally.  We are not going anywhere just yet.

Franky chuckles, “I haven’t had the chance to use this on anybody yet.”  He waves it toward me.  “I’m itching to try it out.”

“Not here, Franky,” Schmally says quickly.  “Witnesses.”  His eyes dart around.

“Of course, not if I don’t have to,” Franky gets serious.  “So I got us a ride.”  Franky pulls a set of keys from his pocket.  “Just so happens that this nice chick lent me her keys without her knowing it.  And it just so happens,” he pats the car next to him, “that I find you two standing next to the car they fit in.”

Franky presses a button on the key fob and the trunk pops open.  “Get in,” he commands gruffly.  There is no smile this time as he flashes the gun for emphasis.  Schmally gives me a shove and we move unwillingly to the back of the car.  I glance around the parking lot, hoping someone will see us climbing into the trunk.  Hoping that someone will call the police.  Hoping someone will cause Franky to lose his nerve and let us go.  No one.

I climb in first and push up against a dusty blanket and a tire jack.  Ty almost falls in on top of me.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.  The trunk lid slams and it is immediately and totally dark.

“He’s going to kill us, Ty,” I say in a low voice.

“I know,” Ty answers.  “I could see it in his eyes.  He would have shot us right there in the parking lot if it weren’t for Schmally.  I’ve seen that look before.”

“Where have you seen …”

“What we need is a screwdriver to pop the lock,” Ty interrupts.  “Do you have one?”

“Do I
have
one?  Why would I
have
one?” I almost yell at the ridiculous question. 
Why would
I
have a screwdriver?  Like I keep one in my pocket on the off chance that I might have to escape from a trunk!  You’re the one with a screw loose,
I think. 
Maybe you should keep a screwdriver handy!

“No.  I mean, is there one over there by you somewhere?  We
are
in a trunk.  Sometimes there are
tools
in trunks.”

“It’s too dark, Ty,” I say, regaining some of my composure.  “I can’t see anything.  Besides, I didn’t see one when I got in here.”

We both hear and feel the car door slam and seconds later the engine starts.  In a moment we are backing out.

“Ty!” I say.  “This is a new car, sort of.”

“So what?  Should we be happy that we are being kidnapped in a
new
car?”

“No, but newer cars are required to have a safety latch to open the trunk from the inside.”

I hear Ty frantically searching around with his hands for some sort of lever.  And I feel a vibration that tells me we are moving, and it feels like we are moving fast.

“I can’t find it,” Ty reports.

“Sometimes it is recessed.  You might have just missed it.”

“I know,” Ty says, a hint of desperation in his voice.  “You got a flashlight?”

I try not to be angry at another stupid question.  “No,” I spit back sharply.

“A lighter?”

Another stupid question.  “I don’t smoke,” I bark back.

“A cell phone?”

“No,” I reply definitely.  “I’m not a rich spoiled kid whose parents give them a phone.” 
At least that is a decent question, and a cell phone would have a light on it and …
“… and if I did, I would have called 911 already,” I add.  I feel the car slow down and then we bounce up and down.  The car scrapes bottom a few times.

“We must be heavy,” Ty says, observing the scrapes as we bottom out.

“We just went off road,” I say.  “We are going into the desert.  And we are pretty close to the school.  I think I know where we are.  We’ve got to get out of here.”

“I can feel the trunk latch … ugh … right here,” Ty says as we hit another bump and then slow to a stop.  “Do you have a pocket knife, or fingernail clippers?  Anything I can pop this latch with?”  His voice is desperate.

“Uh-oh,” I say sniffing.  “I smell gasoline!”

Ty stiffens and then pounds on the trunk.  “Franky, don’t do that,” he yells.  “FRANKY?”

I reach into my pants pocket. 
I have to have something that we can use to pry the trunk latch with.

“You will pay, Taggart,” I hear Franky yell, though it is muffled.  Through the lid of the trunk I can smell smoke now. 
Franky set the car on fire.  We will suffocate, and then burn to death!

“FRANKY!” Ty screams.

Sliding my hand into my pocket while lying down is harder than searching the contents of my pocket with just my fingers.  I immediately find the leather pouch and yank it out, clutching it to my chest.  With my free hand I pull Ty up against me.  Even though it is dark, I close my eyes.  “I wish we could …”  I cough and gasp for air.  I hear yelling somewhere and I cough again.  “I wish we could be with William Cottle in Colorado.”

Chapter Eleven

A Lot Of Smoke

I
cough again, barely able to breath.  The air is dry and gritty and tastes like dirt.

“Ty,” I yell, but we are bouncing again and this time the vibration and the bouncing is so rough that my words come out of my mouth in jumbled up spurts and make no sense.  I can tell that we are moving again, and we are moving pretty fast.  On fire, in a burning car, and rolling.  I have seen enough movies to know that in the next scene the car explodes, or rolls off a cliff and explodes.

“Whoa,” I hear a distant voice call out.  The vibration and bouncing nearly subsides.  We are slowing down. 
I don’t know how you stop a burning, moving, out-of-control car by saying ‘whoa’, but we are definitely slowing down.
 
Horse hooves,
I think as a distinct clip clop fills my ears.  Somewhere a horse whinnies.

“Try the trunk lid again,” I manage to yell this time.

“Soft,” Ty yells back.

“That’s because we aren’t in a trunk.  We’re in …”  I think about where we could actually be, but I can not conjure up in my brain a sane and rational explanation.  “Actually, I have no idea.  Can we get out?”

Ty pushes against the soft covering and it parts, letting in a swirl of dust and gobs of sunlight, which temporarily blinds both of us.  Ty tumbles out of our enclosure just as our vehicle slows to a complete stop.  The cover closes and it is pitch black once more.

I struggle to follow Ty, but my foot has wedged between … between … something.  I pull hard, nearly dislodging my shoe.  I have gone long enough without shoes just recently and I am not giving mine up just yet.  With a slight twist, my foot comes loose and I scramble out from under the heavy leather covering into the bright sunlight.  As my eyes adjust to the sunlight, I glance around.  We are in front of a brick building with a sign which reads, “Denver Stage Station.”

A wagon loaded with supplies rumbles past us, led by two brown horses.  Women in long dresses and men in coat-tails scurry across the street dodging a horse and buggy and pausing for a gentleman trotting his horse down the center.  A boy about my age catches my eye as he rounds the corner of the station.  He stares at me and then at the stagecoach on which I am standing, then starts walking toward us.  I see Ty standing in the street and jump down beside him, sending up a cloud of dust as my feet touch down.

“Come on,” I tug at Ty’s arm.  “Let’s get out of the street.”

“Where are we?” Ty stammers as we step up onto the wooden sidewalk which also serves as a porch and store front for a hotel.

I look across the street.  A sign at the top of the building says, ‘Denver City Bakery’.  “I’d say Denver.”

“Denver?” Ty questions.

“I think so.”

“I don’t remember a Denver Street near the school.  Besides, this looks more like Old Tucson.  They must be filming today.”

“The movie studio?” I chuckle.  “No.  It’s Denver, all right.”  My eyes scan the street, reading the storefront advertising and building signs.  “Denver, Colorado.  The real question is ‘when?’”

“Have you lost your marbles?” Ty blurts out in a desperate effort to deny the thoughts and visual data which are impinging upon his previous concept of reality.  “Why … I mean … how …?” he stammers and closes his eyes in frustration.

“Look.”  I reach into my pocket and fish out the Bumblebee which Joseph had given to me.  I show it to Ty.  “Look what I’ve got.”

“Very funny, Jet.  But where’s the school and the car and Franky?”

“I’m trying to tell you,” I answer loudly.  As I hold up the Bumblebee taw between my fingers in front of Ty’s face, my eyes shift and focus on the boy who I saw earlier.  He is now standing just a few feet away and is staring at me, then over to the stagecoach from which we just disembarked, and then back at me.  The boy is obviously eavesdropping, and what I am about to tell Ty is not meant for indiscreet ears.

I turn my back on the boy.  “Ty, come with me,” I say softly.  “There are too many prying ears back there.”

We walk down the wooden sidewalk, past a saloon, and stop in front of the general store.

“So what does a stupid marble have to do with Old Tucson?” Ty finally blurts out.

“Nothing … sort of,” I answer, looking around for more eavesdroppers.  “But it does have to do with us being in Denver, Colorado … sort of.”

Ty gives me that look, and I can see in his face that he is thinking that I am speaking Ancient Hebrew.  Actually, knowing Ty, he can probably understand Ancient Hebrew, so he must be thinking that I am speaking Klingon.  At any rate, I am getting used to that look.  It happens to me a lot in Colorado, it seems.

“Remember that spirit pouch that I showed you?”

“Yeah.”

“It works!”

Ty rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath.  I can tell that he is about to launch into a discussion about all the reasons why the spirit pouch is just a legend and nothing more.  “I put a white stone in the pouch, for repentance,” I say hastily.  “I put a bean to represent faith, a vial of water, for baptism, and a dove’s feather to represent the Holy Ghost.  Yesterday, Wednesday, I held the spirit pouch and expressed the desire to be somewhere where I did not have to do dishes or clean my room.”

Ty looks at me like I am completely nuts.  His eyebrows rise and he starts to say, “You wished for …?

“I know,” I interrupt.  “It was stupid, but it worked.  I actually went to Dogtown, Colorado for five days!  I lived with my great, great, great grandfather, William Cottle, my ancestor."

“William Cottle?” Ty repeats incredulously.  “That’s …”

“I know,” I interrupt again.  “That’s impossible.  He’s been dead for over a hundred years, but it’s true.  Back there in the trunk of that burning car I expressed the desire that we go back to Colorado.  Back to where William Cottle is.  And here we are.”

Ty’s face looks pale.  “Sit down.” I command, pointing to a wooden barrel next to the door of the general store.

Ty sits down, closes his eyes and rubs them with his fingers, then opens his eyes.  I can tell that he fully expects Colorado to be gone.

“We’re still here,” I say, slightly enjoying the whole experience. In a sadistic sort of way it is fun to see Ty squirm a little.  It must be that urge to establish that teenage pecking order.  Ty seems to partially accept what he sees, “So, what does that stupid marble have to do with any of this?” he quizzes.  “And where is this William Cottle?”

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the chipped bumblebee.  Rolling it between my fingers, I answer, “This marble was a gift to me from Joseph Cottle, William’s younger brother.  He gave it to me when I was here last time.  That’s why I knew it wasn’t all just a dream.”

Ty sits there, perplexed, trying to logically assimilate this new information.

“So,” I continue, “that’s why William Cottle has to be here, somewhere.”

Ty stares at Jet with wide doubtful eyes.

“So, now you are saying that William is here, in Denver, because you wished it to be so?”

“Yes,” I say with conviction.  “I mean, no.” 
Now I’m confused.
  “We are here with William because I wished it,” I finally answer.

Ty thinks this through.  “I guess that makes sense … if any of this makes sense.”  He pauses as he takes in his surroundings one more time as if trying hard to believe this time.  “So, let’s go find this ancestor.  I’m anxious to meet William, and Joseph, the marble boy, too.”

I smile.  Ty is all right in my book.  We are off for an adventure, and this time I have my shoes.

* * *

We walk west, at least I think it is west, back toward the Denver Stagecoach Station.  The sun is shining and the air is crisp and refreshing. 
It’s going to be a nice day!
I think to myself.  And that thought holds right up until we get to the corner of the saloon where we glance down the alleyway.  There is a small group of boys and one of them is pushed back against a wagon hitched to a horse.

“Hey!  That’s William!” I say, slightly surprised to locate him so quickly.  “Come on,” I gesture with my hand as I head toward the group.

“It looks like the other boys are giving him trouble,” Ty observes.

“Yeah, it does.”  I shout, “William,” and the head of each boy turns toward us.  As we advance toward the boys, the circle around William loosens and then I can see Joseph there, also.

“Hi, William,” I smile.  “What’s going on?”  I look at each of the boys and then back at William.

“Nothing.  Just talking,” he replies.

“Hi,” I say turning to one of the two boys that have William up against the wagon.  “I’m Jared.”  I hold out my hand but neither boy shakes it.  “So, what are you talking about?” I smile again, retracting my hand.

The heavier boy is the one who had been watching us when we arrived on the stagecoach.  He cocks his head to one side, and with contempt in his voice says, “This, here, is a private conversation, so why don’t you two just keep on walking?”

“Oh, I see,” I pause.  “Well, William here, and Joseph, are really good friends.  Like, we go way back.  And I haven’t seen them for at least …”

“A month,” William adds.

“Yeah.  It’s been a month.  It was April.”

Ty looks at me like I am crazy, and I know why.  I just barely told Ty that I had been here yesterday.  To me, it was yesterday.  But, I guess, to William it was a month.

“So,” I continue, “I’m hanging around right here while you finish up your conversation.”  I lean up against the wagon and pretend to settle in like I can wait all day if I have to.

“I don’t think you heard me,” the heavier boy says, looking at me.  “I told you to keep walking.”

“Thanks for the invitation,” I smile calmly, “but I’m staying right here.”  I have seen these bully types before.  I think it was actually on a television documentary.  They said that if you stand up to a threat from a bully, the bully will almost always back down because they are not as tough as they are pretending to be.  What the documentary did not tell me is what to do if the bully does not back down.

In what seems like slow motion the heavy boy makes a fist, pulls back his arm, and lunges toward me with his fist coming straight for my face.

What I do not expect is how Ty’s foot happens to slip out in front of the lunging boy.  Tripping, he falls hard on his face.  I jump to the side and the boy slides headfirst right under the edge of the wagon.

I guess he is a little angry because he scrambles up off of the ground spitting dirt and profanity from his mouth.  He whirls, as fast as a chubby boy can whirl, and flies at Ty, arms swinging wildly.

Gracefully Ty side-steps the boy’s fury, lands two punches to the side of his head, and kicks him as he passes so he lands again face down in the dirt.  It is then that the second boy decides to join the fight, and with both fists doubled and trouble in his eyes, he leaps toward Ty from behind.

“Watch out!” I start to yell.  Before I can get the words out of my mouth, Ty jumps and spins with as much agility as a Broadway Show dancer.  While still in mid air his foot shoots out and lands hard in the kid’s groin, doubling him over in agony.  Touching down like a cat, Ty pushes the boy over with a swift jab to his ribs from his left hand, sending the boy rolling in the dirt.

“Hey!” a voice yells from the end of the street where the stage station is located.  All heads turn to see who yelled.

“Break it up!” the man yells.  He is wearing a gun in a holster, boots, and a hat.  Otherwise, he could have been right off the streets of Tucson, Arizona.

The chubby boy gets up and dusts himself off, wiping dirt from his face and mouth.  The other boy clutches his chest on one side and moans.  I’m no doctor, but if I were to guess, his ribs are cracked.  At the very least, he will have a nasty bruise by tomorrow.

“Danny?” the man speaks firmly as he draws up.  “What are you doing here?”  I can now see his sheriff badge on his shirt.  I guess our skirmish has attracted some attention.

“I was just having a conversation here with William and this thief came along and started trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

Danny points to me, “I saw him and his buddy get off the stage a few minutes ago, only they weren’t riding as passengers.  They were in the back with the luggage and he stole something off the stage.  I saw it, and he has it in his pocket.”

The sheriff shifts his gaze.  For a split second it falls on Ty, taking in his pierced ears and the red streak in his hair, then bounced over toward me.  “Son, what is he talking about?”

“Yes, I was on that stage, but I did not steal anything,” I confess.

“Do you have the thing that he is talking about?”

I pull my pocket inside out revealing only the bumblebee taw that Joseph had given me.