The First Book of the Pure (14 page)

“Call the authorities if you feel threatened,
but the results will be very, very bad for you. Just do as we ask,
and you’ll profit for your lifetimes, and your children’s
lifetimes.” With a very scary grin he turned and walked away,
Robert following.

Once outside Robert stopped, turned and faced
Maximus. “Max, you threatened and cajoled those men. I thought we’d
given up that life.”

“We’ll be gone a long time Rob, so I thought
we should really set it in cement with them. They’ll take advantage
if they can, so let’s try to head it off. My old teacher would’ve
pulled me off that guy and tried to make nice with everyone. This
isn’t the time for that.”

“I suppose.” Robert stopped abruptly and
faced Maximus. “Was Mu’dar, your old teacher, a weak man, Max?”

Max took a moment to think about the odd, yet
somewhat profound question. “No. He was a gentle spirit, and
gracious in everything, but he wasn’t weak. He had great inner
strength. Why?”

“It just doesn’t seem right to be doing
things this way. We can be strong too without being abusive can’t
we?”

“You picked a fine time to grow a conscience,
Rob, but yes, we can try to be more gracious as we set the rest of
this up. But it has to hold up for a lot of years. Remember that
too.”

They reluctantly contracted with a long-time
crime family. Both Max and Robert had reservations about it, but
they were the only game in town willing to watch out for their
interests while they skipped. With big retainers, huge promises,
and freedom to act for them without restraint over the next few
decades won them over. Their job was to check up on the other firms
working for Max and Robert and see that they were honest. Anything
less had to be punished; how was left up to the family.

Both men had reservations abut using
criminals. After all, why wouldn’t they just rob their absent
clients, just like the people might they were watching.
Unfortunately there seemed to be no better choices.

Over the course of the next few decades, the
companies did their jobs. The money was invested. The forests were
planted. The mobsters did their job too, and checked up on the
others regularly. Life went on without Robert and Uncle Max.

Treachery While We Skipped

One boutique legal firm, however, after
nearly 30 years, decided that the money should be forfeit, since it
was obvious that nobody connected to this fortune was alive or
interested in it. They quietly and illegally skimmed from some
accounts, and eventually, as nothing bad happened, went whole hog
and liquidated a small fortune in assets.

The law firm of Briney and Scope had nine
partners and had grown fat while managing the assets of their
mysterious, presumably dead clients. One morning, Norm, the
Executive Partner, stepped out of his sprawling five bedroom ranch,
dropped into the back seat of his Lincoln Town Car, and told the
driver it was a normal day. Then he sat back to relax and read the
crisp morning paper. He still liked paper. He carried several small
wireless devices on his person and in his briefcase, but he still
liked to shuffle the paper and skim the page. Face it, that’s
pretty tough to do on a small screen. It just wasn’t the same.

His driver knew what a “normal” day’s routine
was, so he drove to the Café Extravaganza, double parked near the
door, and got out to hold the door for his employer. Norm levered
his bulk out of the car, which was not such an easy task now that
he topped 350 pounds, and headed in to get his morning java fix. He
liked doing some things himself, so his driver waited by the rear
door for him. He was friendly to the staff here, and they treated
him very well; he was a great tipper. For his small snack that he’d
take and eat in the car, and his ginormous coffee done just exactly
his way, he would be charged just over nine dollars. His tip was
always the rest of the $20 bill he handed them. “Thank you,
Annette.” He reached for his coffee and made a show of inhaling the
aroma. “Ah, it smells wonderful, as usual. Have a good day,
dear.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scope, have a great day
yourself!” And his day went on – a normal day.

His driver pulled up to the front door of
their building and went through his routine again, holding the door
again as Norm pried himself out of his car. He found himself
wondering if his next car could have a power lift seat in the back,
kind of like the power lift recliner at his mother’s apartment. As
he walked into the office, he found everyone stricken with intense
anxiety. “What’s happened here?” he asked. All he got was
stares.

Finally Bradley, another partner, a short man
with thinning blonde hair and no discernible chin, radiating a
sense of flab, spoke up with a quivering voice. “Phil, Monica, Don
and Blake are all dead.” His grim, pasty white face made this
unbelievable turn of events seem pretty believable.

“What? How?” demanded Norm.

“Phil and Monica were coming in together in
Phil’s car when they were apparently run off the road by a truck –
no witnesses. The car fell a long way off the bluff near Dover.
Blake was killed in his home last night, along with his wife and
teenage son; the police are calling it a home invasion. Don was
stabbed just outside his favorite coffee shop, just down the block
from here. He parked, walked over for a latte.” He coughed
nervously. “And now he’s…d-d-dead.”

Norm remained frozen as it sank in: four out
of nine partners, and some family as well, all dead in the same
twenty-four hour period. Not a coincidence. They had cheated their
invisible client, and now the first shoe had fallen. As he
revisited the painful memory of that nasty day, when that nasty
man, Maximus, had thrown him against the wall and threatened him,
he wondered when the other shoe would fall. “We’ve all been part of
something that was probably not wise, and I suspect it has led to
this unfortunate turn of events.”

“Unfortunate turn of events,” yelled Terry,
another partner. “You insensitive ass! Six people are dead, and you
call it an unfortunate turn of events! You must have skipped the
line for hearts when you were put together.”

Norm stared him down as the senior partner.
“Let’s not panic and cast blame. Let’s get this fixed, or we’ll be
next. He didn’t get to say much more, because the building shook as
an explosion rumbled below them. Their offices encompassed the
entire fourth floor, and they felt the tremor escalate. “Quickly,
get out,” urged Norm. Everyone rushed toward the doors when the big
explosion hit. There were no survivors on the first, second, third,
fourth and fifth floors. The building didn’t come down, so people
on the next six floors were just traumatized, not killed.

Other firms handling the investments of Max
and Robert received anonymous notes in the mail, indicating simply
that Briney and Scope had also represented the estates of Dunning
and Palamos, just as they did. That was all it said. There were no
claims regarding the deaths, and no outright threats. It was
informative only. Threats weren’t really needed; actions spoke
loudly enough.

The firms they had employed were smart enough
to realize, however belatedly, that they were
actually
being
watched. Adjustments were made, money was quickly put back where it
should have been, and time went on. Another twelve years passed,
and then a grandchild, with his grandsire’s name of Maximus, came
to collect his money.

Session 8

The next morning started out for Kenneth
exactly as each day did. Today however, his host seemed agitated.
Something about the story of the day bothers him
.

“More about our Roman today, or our Inuit
friend?” Kenneth asked in a light bantering tone. His aim was to
irritate without bringing retribution on himself.

His host looked at him with eyes that headed
off any other comment. “Close. He
is
an Indian.”

Automatically, having come to adulthood in
the world of the seventies and eighties, Kenneth corrected him.
“You mean Native American.”

Stepping up to his captive quickly, the host
lifted him easily from his seat, holding him high. “Some mornings
you test me. I’m not in the mood today, Kenneth. Be silent, and
just listen. Am I clear?”

Kenneth nodded ascent.

Setting him down roughly in his chair again,
his host continued. “Today, I have to tell you about another unique
man, and one of whom I am not overly fond. Nonetheless, he is a
Pure, and his story is interwoven into our lives. It must be told.
His name is that of legend, and he is a fascinating person from any
point of view. His tale starts in the Old West of your United
States.

His name is Goyahkla, but you may recognize
him by his most famous name, Geronimo. Of all the Pures of whom I
have knowledge, none heal or recover like Geronimo. None!”

Goyahkla

He was born in what is now New Mexico, part
of the Bedonkohe Apache tribe, in June of 1829. His Chiricahua name
was Goyahkla. He looked every bit the Apache, and applied himself
to the skills of his people. Along the way he had wives, children,
and realized that he was going to live a longer life than expected.
History, as recorded, says that he lived eighty years: a very long
life for a man of his times and passions.

He tried to live at peace with the white men,
and with the Mexicans, as did many of the other Indian nations. But
it was not to be.

Goyahkla and three braves, warriors close to
him, had just returned to the camp, and he went to see his wife. He
loved his family and was devoted to his wife and children. He did
not show affection as the pale people did, but his sons knew he
loved them. His wife knew it also, with no doubt whatsoever. He
entered the tent, and his sons greeted him, then ran out to give
their parents some privacy. Goyahkla would remember this day for
many, many years.

In fact, he would never forget it, not one
tiny detail of it. He made love to his wife and it was sweet. The
memory of the catch in her breath, the exquisite touch of her
fingers on his skin, and the delight in her eyes as they lay
together would always be with him. For some reason they lay and
held each other for a long time afterwards, still and quiet. Ever
practical, he finally said to her, “The Mexicans are close, and I
don’t trust them. Be wary as we go to the town today. Perhaps I
should not go at all.”

She looked at him strangely with her
captivating eyes. “Would you let them think you fear them? You fear
no one, and should do what you have planned. We’ll watch with care,
my husband.”

He caressed her as he spoke softly to her.
“My brave woman. You shame me. I’ll go, but we’ll be back tonight.
Watch the boys. They think they’re grown men, but they’re still
boys.”

He rose and left, gathering his men with him
to head out.

While Goyahkla and other men from his camp
were in the local town trading, four hundred Mexicans under the
command of Colonel Jose Maria Carrasco attacked the camp,
slaughtering everyone still in the camp: the women, children, and
the elderly. Goyahkla lost his wife, all three sons, and even his
mother in that raid. The experience instilled in him a deep and
abiding hatred for Mexicans. He would never forget, and maybe never
forgive. Longevity has its benefits and curses: this was both.

He rode into the camp, realizing that all had
died, and raised his knife and his face to the heavens and screamed
out in Apache, with a voice aching with both anger and pain,
“
Sishxéná:
I will kill him!”

He would never forget that day. When he
returned to the camp he had found it burned, his family and tribe
butchered. The signs were easy to read, and they hadn’t tried to
hide who they were. Mexicans!

It was also on that day that he set out to
find them and exact retribution. While he and his braves didn’t
find the large group that had massacred their families, his band
found a sizable group from the Mexican army and attacked them
without hesitation. As Goyahkla led the charge, he felt the massive
thrust of the lead pierce his shoulder and whip him sideways, but
on he charged. Before they joined in combat with their enemies he
felt another bullet pass through his left leg, and still he urged
his pony onward in his charge. His pony was shot from under him,
and still he charged. It would have been easy for others to believe
he was never hit. The precision of the rifles and pistols used was
not great, and the skill of the relatively untrained soldiers was
equally poor. On top of that, it was always more difficult when the
target was moving and trying to kill you. Combat made many too
twitchy with their weapons.

While running was excruciating and jagged, he
led his braves on foot, and when he reached the enemy, his knives
were slicing and stabbing as he danced through their lines,
dropping bodies behind him like scythed grain. His warriors bravely
followed him, though many of them died. When they were done, not a
Mexican was left alive, and Goyahkla was bloodied badly. His braves
thought the blood was from others, for he walked with them through
the field, cutting the throats of any Mexican who might be
unfortunate enough to still be breathing. He left the scalping and
trophy collecting to his men. He just wanted the lives of these
murderers of women and children.

Often he would lead his followers into battle
against any nearby Mexicans, leaving none alive. He became ruthless
in his war against them. They’d taken everything he held dear from
him, and he could never exact enough revenge for the lives of his
wife and sons.

His chief, Mangas Coloradas, sent him to the
band of another famous warrior, Cochise. There he was to continue
the Apache fight for revenge against the Mexicans. It was there
that he got his new name. There is much confusion about how it came
about, but during the battle he was absolutely fearless, and led
charge after charge against the Mexicans, in the face of their
gunfire, and was never hit. He attacked with a knife, and did great
damage, both to their numbers, as he killed many, and to their
morale, as they couldn’t touch him. After that fight he was called,
Geronimo. His name became a universal call for “
charge,
” and
a charge into overwhelming odds. It was a shout of courage. He was
proud of that. What almost nobody knew was that he had indeed been
hit during those fights. Bullets had struck, but he kept going.
They never put him down. He healed so fast his own warriors didn’t
know he’d been wounded. The blood he always wore following a raid
was assumed to be that of the Mexicans and whites he’d killed. He
loved his blades, and killed mostly hand to hand, with his knives.
He believed he should look at his opponent, face to face, when he
took his life.