Authors: Wayne C. Stewart
When Totems Fall
For my father, Lynn Elliott Stewart,
who is always reading good stories and has modeled
the kind of thoughtfulness and loyalties I hope to
live out in my generation as well.
PROLOGUE
Friday, April 5, 2013, 05:40—PST
Former Naval Communications Outpost: Bremerton, Washington
Beep.
C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?
C:>|......
Double-spaced and justified
at a limit of fifty characters, the row of text and the empty prompt that followed flickered once per second on the comm room screen. Basic, orderly, mechanical. Bright green lettering occupying an otherwise vacant black background. Equal parts surprising and unsettling, the unadorned words collided, and jarringly so, with the complexity of the question at hand. So out of place; at its very core a gross mismatch of format and content.
Nonsense.
Still, this four-word query, better suited for a philosopher's pen or ancient theologians' scrolls, blinked unerringly, demanding a deeper reflection—for which there was no time—and a definitive response, for which there was no easy answer.
C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?
C:>|......
Lieutenant
Zebulon Mordecai Dalton,
United States Army Signal Corps (retired), fought valiantly against the mental fog enveloping him, threatening to overtake him. His headspace, fluctuating between disciplined reasoning and barely restrained panic, was little more than an untended circus carousel spinning at a furious, increasingly nauseating, rate.
Shaking his head, forcing it left to right and back again, he hoped the momentary disorientation might somehow usher him back into the world of clearer thinking. Zeb summoned every power of intellect and emotion he had remaining, willing himself through the unrelenting gray, to think, to assess, to respond.
What are they trying to do?
What could possibly be their endgame?
Dalton's hands hovered over the console, weak, a scant inch above the instrument that at his command would bring untold destruction of life, including his own. In a Faustian play of simple biology, a single line of perspiration trailed down and inside his right shirtsleeve, pooling at the tip of his forefinger, then dropping onto the faded J of the sweaty, sticky keyboard. Zeb desperately needed to buy some more time.
Repeat last transmission
was his best shot.
Seconds later it refreshed.
C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?
C:>|......
Dalton froze again,
hands outstretched in the same robotic pose. The onerous cloak of human mortality lay heavy in the room. Unshakable, it refused to ease even one ounce of his burden. Necessary, imminent decisions pressed in with a force undeterred, as every second of delay only proved itself more overwhelming than the last. In the crucible of this moment, established and trusted protocols became nothing more than rehearsed, memorized futility. It was the ultimate no-win scenario, with simply no good choices to be made; at least, none that appeared obvious, actionable, or desirable.
Zeb squinted, focusing again on the readout in front of him.
C:>inserttext>Do You Fear God?
C:>|......
The surreal, inexorable nature
of the circumstance struck the lieutenant broadside as his barely-contained fears transitioned, unabated, toward a hopeless, powerless despondency. He didn't know how much longer he could keep the unthinkable from happening. Honestly, he just wanted it all to end. If this whole thing came down as a worst-case ending, then so be it. It would all be over soon.
"Zeb?"
"Zeb. What do we do?"
The sound of another's voice in the room called him to the present, drawing him back away from the edge. But it did little to satisfy the question still blinking on the screen.
ONE
25 Days Earlier
Monday, March 11, 2013, 7:00 am—Pacific Standard Time Zone
Seattle, Washington
The strong, dark liquid in the ceramic mug radiated its heat upward, forming a small cloud of vapor on the aging, street-side window pane.
Inspiration struck
as Zeb considered the readied canvas of glass and condensation before him. Leaning forward in his chair and then reaching out with his right-hand index finger, he sketched with the urgency of an artist already seeing the completed work in his imagination. What followed were bold strokes, fine details; at least as much detail as his chubby digits allowed.
It didn't take long.
On the windowpane before him: round head, two eyes, an over-sized grin.
The classic happy face.
Zeb nodded admiringly, certain his first grade art teacher would be very proud. But then his countenance changed. Something about the unbounded expression put him on edge, the wide grin and carefree attitude grating at him. So he set out to destroy the little man… in his thoughts.
The courthouse setting that began to unfold in Zeb's daydream resembled the screenplay climax of your basic legal thriller. As the gilded presence of prosecutorial power—no, of
justice
—he stood before judge, jury, and defendant to present his case. His first salvo arced across the bow, more accusatory than questioning. Though he'd not actually attended law school, Dalton's strategy was still flawless, at every turn unassailable. Each line of questioning plunged mercilessly into the accused's right to happiness. No holds barred. No statements defied. No assertions overturned from the bench. Zeb was rolling.
"So, you admit to smiling without ceasing... "
"You do not deny this, do you... Mr... Face?"
A required, dramatic pause.
"Please then, illuminate this courtroom—no, reveal to us your secrets, the reasons for your ongoing condition of unrestricted bliss."
There was no stopping him. No slowing. No break in the remorseless barrage.
"Do you find it plausible in a world filled with pain, betrayal, and greed that someone could be happy all the time?"
Dalton's voice rose again. "Do you find it reasonable they might be happy,
ever
?"
Unfiltered, no regrets, he fired shot after verbal shot upon the weak philosophical foundations of the tiny man's joyous demeanor. The fantasized litany poured out of Zeb viciously. A burst dam, overcome by a swollen springtime river, would have been more merciful.
The face stared back, unblinking. It was pitiful and beautiful at the same time; an attack making any law professor proud while leaving mothers of happy-faced men around the world infuriated by its cruelty and callousness. A few more rounds of this and the prosecution rested. Confident, even cocky, Zeb re-buttoned his impeccably tailored suit coat and took his seat, from there awaiting the all but certain verdict of "guilty".
Back in the real world
a delivery truck drove by, spraying water from the street onto the glass in front of him. The hollow, rhythmic combination of tire, pothole, and rainwater played at the edges of Zeb's subconscious mind, inviting him back to reality.
Like a student awaking mid-lecture, Zeb did his best to re-enter the room with subtlety and grace. A slow glance over his right shoulder. Now, to the left. No rush of concerned citizens. No men with white coats bursting in to take him away. Satisfied all was safe, Zeb turned back to the glass and cleared away any evidence of the last few moments with his shirtsleeve. This case was now closed; the little man could be released from custody.
Whoa there, Dalton.
That was more "Castaway" than you want to admit to.
Pretty soon you'll name him Wilson, apologize to him, and mourn his untimely passing.
Get a grip. Get a flippin' grip.
The sarcasm indicated that Dalton was all present again. Present, yes, but also embarrassed by what had just occurred in-between his ears. And not only embarrassed but keenly aware of his disturbingly raw emotional and mental state this early Monday morning. Some of this was just routine, for the most part only revealing a darker shade of humor residing in Zeb than the general populace. Still, these uninvited forays into the ridiculous and angsty had been occurring more often lately, he reflected. This was probably worth noting.
Feeling a bit more himself, Zeb threw back a generous swig of the still-warm contents of his mug while simultaneously congratulating himself on the choice of this lightly frequented cafe.
Ah, a coffee to be savored by the few,
he beamed. Not the over-commercialized brew found amongst the java conglomerates of the world, he preached on internally, but a cup appreciated only by those as serious about this kind of thing as their politics.
He was at least correct in that first assertion. The Arabica bean featured today
was
exceedingly rare, harvested in small yields from family farms in quite remote places. Zeb raised his cup in unity with the indie coffee brokers and farmers of the world. As he did, he realized he was taking in more than just the scent of the dark brown liquid.
Buildings have smells, too, and this one carried the scent of untold layers of paint and stain cloying on mature walls, floors, and ceiling. Like geologic sensory strata, these elements—the collective presentation of a space standing now for well over a century—concocted a heady, unique ambiance. It came off as more industrial than people-place. Muscular, yet comforting. Like it held a purpose, something more than merely gathering humans for show.
Dalton inhaled again, deeper this time, zeroing in on the room. Somehow the act of breathing, taking in the scene this way, helped him recapture some emotional equilibrium. He needed that. Closing his eyes, he let it all wash over him.
Okay, that's a little better.
More centered now, Zeb sat back, way back, his eyes drawn to the space above him.
Whoah.
The open-beam ceilings were putting on quite a show. A rough-hewn tapestry of solid timbers. Old-school plaster. It all reminded him again why he cherished this place.
Towering overhead, these planked sentries created a sense of majesty and reverence missing in many modern shops and businesses. Here they stood, unflinching, preserving the sanctity of the space amidst a neighborhood of tear downs and new construction. Even from this distance the grain and knot patterns gave away that they were quarter- or half-sawn; basically big old tree trunks squared off to shape and set into place so many years ago. If these ceilings could talk, their stories would hearken all the way back to when this pioneering settlement had emerged from the womb.