In Search of Camelot

By Doyle Duke

Brad Sellers is a young man forced from a mind-controlling religious community into the search for a fabled land confused with the ancient, mythical kingdom of Camelot. Fleeing from raiders and struggling against the elements, he and his uncle’s family brave the perils of a two thousand mile exodus beyond the great western mountains. Along the way Brad finds love with a beautiful young woman. He faces adversities that test his rite of passage to manhood, forges friendships, and opens doors of understanding sealed and forbidden in his homeland. With understanding comes another search, one that asks questions about the past and gives teasing glimpses of the future. Who built the crumbling, once-mighty cities? Who were the ancient ones? What happened to their civilization? Why are there different stories? He believes Camelot holds the truth. His father told him: “find Camelot and you’ll find the answers to all the questions we can’t ask here.”

Fables draw Brad toward Camelot. Yet, before he reaches his goal, rust spots appear on the knight’s armor and cracks weaken the towers. Yes, people have heard of the wonderland—some have even visited it. They confirm the stories of electricity, automobiles, and skyscrapers, but they also speak of other things, troubling practices that one would never expect in a utopian paradise. In the end, Brad discovers that Camelot is not a fabled paradise but a place built from the ruins of another civilization, and that the mistakes of the past are destined to be repeated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doyle Duke
• Release date: Aug 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301403325

Doyle Duke

My name is Doyle Duke; I’m seventy-six years old and retired. I’ve been married to my wife, Fay, for fifty-five years. We have two children, four grandchildren and two great-granddaughter. In the working world I made my living as a photographer and lab technician.I spent eight years in the U.S. Navy as a photographer’s mate. I attended three photographic schools, was a designated motion picture photographer, and rose to the rank of Third Class before I decided not to make the Navy a lifetime career.During my career in the real world my two major employers were the Chattanooga Times Newspaper and Hinkle’s Commercial Photographics. I attended local colleges, business and art, and managed to complete one year.

Book preview

In Search of Camelot

Also by Doyle E. Duke

The Amazing Deception: a Critical Analysis of Christianity

Tomorrow’s Dreamers-Dreamer Series, Book 2

In Ebook form:

Extended Vacation

Line of Ascent

Adult Bible Stories

Disharmony of the Gospels

Available at: http://www.amazon.com/

In Search of Camelot

Doyle E. Duke

Amazon Edition

Copyright © Doyle E. Duke, January, 2011

ISBN #978-1-30140-332-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Thanks

To my friends and fellow members of the Coffee Tree Writers’ Group who encouraged, assisted, and taught me so much about our craft.

Special thanks to Fred Anderson and all the volunteer members of the North Alabama Railroad Museum for opening the world of railroading to me.

Forewords

In Search of Camelot grew from my desire to draw attention to a rapidly increasing population growth that I believe is a threat to our planet. I firmly believe the events illustrated in this story will happen. Not precisely as portrayed and not in the time frame depicted. I have purposely accelerated the occurrence of events to serve story development, and increase drama.

It isn’t likely the events portrayed will occur in this generation. However, unless efforts are taken to control our rampant population growth and the depletion of natural resources it will occur.

Chapter 1

The water lapped gently around the stone pilings and crumbling walls of what was once a great city. To the east, rusty steel girders protruded from vast mounds of fallen masonry. Huge sections of brick and mortar lay scattered as if belched from the depths. One intact wall, with an emblem of the sun and faded words, towered forty feet above a pile of protective rubble and the relentless sea. On this side of the manmade barrier, the water was calm. On the seaward side, the waves rolled ceaselessly, intent upon erasing all traces of civilization. Their efforts were nearly complete. The only signs of life were the sporadic flights of gulls, and one small fishing boat curling its way through the inundated city.

A man, well into middle age and missing most of one leg, sat with an arm draped over the tiller. A young, teenage boy braced himself against the mast. The two occupants stared silently at the wall. Neither could read the words Sun Life Stadium although the letters were easily discernible.

The two were dressed in loose, white clothing and large, conical, straw hats. Straps beneath their chins prevented the sea breeze from spinning their hats across the water. Their sun-bronzed skin, and the way they rode the rise and fall of their craft attested to their oneness with the sea.

As the boat picked its way through the debris, the youth shoved the craft away from an obstacle with an oar, and then steadied himself again with a hand on the mast. He turned aft, to face his father, Did Great Grandpa Gary live in this town?

Martin Sellers understood that his son wasn’t speaking of his actual great grandfather. Cemetery records in their village went back three centuries, but no one remembered the old ones. According to tradition, a Gary Sellers and his wife lived in this flooded city. Time had blurred the exact line of descent. I don’t know, Brad. There were so many people, the cities sorta run together. The coastline started along here somewhere and ran north. You can mark it somewhat by the large ruins we passed.

Could it—could all the old cities been like Camelot?

Beats me, the man telling us about it, didn't say nothing about them.

You reckon it’s like he said, with big building and cars that run, and a wise ruler who fights evil and protects the good people?

Martin’s thoughts had taken him elsewhere, Uh huh.

Brad gazed toward the ruins. You been telling that story for years. You still think it’s real?

water at high tide. The tide’s in now, but we can still see it. That means the sea is receding. Summers are cooler too, so maybe more than the sea is changing."

He looked to the north, gazing over the wreckage. They stories about this place. You heard them. How at one time there was more people living in this one spot than there are all over the Kingdom today. They stories of cars that run on air and water, roads going in all directions—even right here, below us. He turned back to his son and indicated the ruins, Everything changes, some slow, like that, some fast.

A strong gust of wind threatened Martin’s hat. He slapped a hand on it for insurance as he studied the sky. Lowering clouds and the loud, angry surf warned of a storm somewhere over the horizon. Using the threat as an excuse to postpone his chore, he motioned for Brad to shove their craft clear. Silently he cursed his cowardliness.

They hoisted sail and ran north parallel to the road, a debris-strewn, gray serpent—dead a hundred years, yet still decaying. They tacked back and forth, but always ran with the crumbling, concrete ribbon. It buried itself in the sand dunes, dipped beneath waves, or soared above the water on the stiffened legs of bridges. At times, the azure water stretched from horizon to horizon with no sign of the great roadway or the once mighty cities.

The day faded, dark clouds obscured the sun, and the wind grabbed the tops of waves and dashed them over the water. Their boat was too small for the open sea, and lay heavy in the growing swells. They were losing headway and tacking became impossible, so the two ran their craft onto one of the many small islands of rubble and palms—tombstones of a past civilization. As the hull grated against the stony beach, Brad jumped over the side and splashed ashore with the bowline. With the lift of the next swell, he pulled the boat high onto the rocky sand. Martin twisted his body over the gunwale, and reached back inside to retrieve a crude crutch. The receding surf sucked the sand from underneath his foot and threatened to drag him away as he scrambled ashore.

Check that pile of rubble for shelter. Martin pointed to a bush-choked mound of masonry.

As his father pulled some fish, they’d taken earlier, and a tow sack of supplies from the boat, Brad picked his way cautiously through the scrub, alert for coral snakes that often inhabited these small islands.

One wall looks pretty solid, Brad yelled.

You shove on it?

Yes sir, didn’t give.

Drag the boat over there while I start a fire and clean these fish.

Brad drew the bowline over his shoulder and straightened to lift the bow clear of the sand. Even with the drag eased, his young muscles corded as he hauled the craft to a collapsed building. Martin hobbled to the edge of the bush, dropped the sack, and began piling dried palm fronds for a fire.

Want me to lean her over against the wall? Brad asked.

Martin studied the scene. No, wind might get underneath. Line her up with the wall and weight her down with those old building blocks. We’ll hunker down between her and the wall.

While Brad filled the boat with broken blocks and shattered masonry, his father scraped a shallow hole out in the sand, lined it with green palm leaves, and placed the leaf-wrapped fish inside. After replacing the sand, he built his fire on top. Pulling himself up with his crutch, he checked Brad’s progress. The boy had stowed the mast along the base of the wall, weighted the boat, and was laying palm fronds across the open space between the boat and wall.

Be the first thing to go! Martin yelled against the rising wind.

What?

Wind will get those branches first thing.

I’m gonna weight them down with these old chunks of concrete. Might stay a while.

Be better off covering the ground inside.

Already done that.

Good! Martin drew more dry fronds to his fire.

As darkness closed, father and son huddled before the fire. The wind whipped the flames, sending red embers spiraling into the night sky. A fiery maelstrom erupted as they shoved the coals aside to retrieve their food. After unwrapping the fish, they ate the hot, crumbling flesh with fried cornbread from their stores.

Brad and his father crawled into their makeshift shelter to escape the constant, buffeting wind. The coming storm cooled the air, but the evening was still warm. It presented another blessing—the absence of mosquitoes. The rising wind rustled the palms inches above their faces, and left a salty smell.

Dad, what’s it like out there?

What—where?

Out there—the rest of the world.

Martin sought a starting point. Well, you know about the Great Tribulations and how all the governments failed, about General Atchley, and how he and Bishop Hen—

I don’t mean what the Apocalypse says. Brad lay tense, What happened to all the old cities?

Martin paused, here was another opportunity to speak, but dare he? Children learned not to ask certain questions, but what they did not seem to notice was that adults never asked those questions either. There was a history, but it was the Church’s history. It was one thing to speak of the old people, another to criticize the Church. He procrastinated.

Nobody knows what happened. People ran out of food. There was fighting. Bishop Henry and the Saints fought with the Mexicans in the west, and the Heretics to the north. Here, the ocean flooded the land while the west dried up and became a desert. Most of the Mexicans went away.

Where’d they go?

I don’t know, to their country I reckon.

If they gone, why we still fighting them?

Now! Tell him now! Martin hated himself as he replied. I’m not sure. Maybe it was just the people who left, not the army.

But you were there. Didn’t you see them?

I’ve told you, Brad, I don’t like to talk about that time. He waited tense and expectantly. Then damning himself for a coward he let the moment pass again. The fighting with the Heretics, to the north, got so bad everybody left the land along our border, that’s why it’s called the Wilderness—

I know ‘bout all that. What’s on the other side, in the Interior?

The Interior? Of course, that was what emboldened his son. I’ve told you about Camelot to the west, past the desert. The Heretics are to the north. Course we don’t go up there.

Uncle Nate does.

Well, yeah, but he hasn’t been real far.

Is he a Heretic?

Course not. Why would you even think such a thing?

He goes up there and they don’t kill him.

’Cause he trades with them. Martin was becoming nervous, afraid he might have opened a tide gate. His son was nearly grown. He looked like a man, but still thought like a kid—and kids were apt to say whatever came to mind. He couldn’t do it; maybe later, when Brad was safe with his uncle. Enough, you’ll find out everything you need to know when you go with your uncle. You want to know about Camelot? Go with him. Maybe you’ll find it. If you do, you’ll learn the answers to all them questions. Now, go to sleep.

#

Sleep eluded Brad. He tried to understand why his father was acting so strange. Why had he brought him here? They had traveled two days to reach this forsaken place. It was a perilous journey in their small fishing boat, one few ever made. All the talk about the past and the sea rising was confusing. It couldn’t be about the trip with Uncle Nate either. His dad could have told him about that anywhere.

Brad had been here once before. He retained vague memories, most centered around his mother. He remembered his excitement because they seldom went sailing with his father. And, they were going all the way to the old city. That trip provided the last memories of his mother. The plague came shortly afterward, when he was ten.

As the disease ravaged the village, there was nothing to do except pray and care for the ill. No one realized the extent of the tragedy until the dying ended, when the survivors were able to count their losses.

Brad had been stricken and didn’t recall much of the event, but the loss of his mother and grandparents altered his life dramatically. That earlier life had been joyous, filled with laughter, feminine praise and embraces, and his grandfather’s guiding wisdom.

He remembered running and playing with other boys and girls. Two years later, he became too old to play with the girls. He and the older boys were separated from them. Friendships died. Life was reduced to work, responsibilities, and fishing with a father who said little and grieved much.

He pushed the gloomy thoughts aside. His father had hinted that the water drove the people out, but that wouldn’t hold true for those dead cities inland. Some said a great army had invaded them. If so, where were the invaders? It wasn’t the brethren. They had a constant struggle keeping the Mexicans and Heretics back. Some said the people fought each other. Some blamed it on something called a failed economy, or a great plague. Reverend Heywood declared it was Jesus’ wrath upon a wicked world. Brad reckoned that’s what if was, but that still didn’t describe the world before the Great Tribulation began.

He realized the real story lay hidden within all the tales. Why hadn’t the clerics recorded it? Then again, maybe it wasn’t important. The mystery didn’t seem to bother anybody else. Certainly not his father, for his snoring was almost as loud as the wind whistling around the boat.

#

Father and son were shocked from sleep by the rattling palms overhead. Before they could kick free of their blankets, the temporary roof whisked away. Suddenly, a powerful, cold rain and sea spray hit them with a staggering shock. A chilled, wet wind slashed through their makeshift shelter. It grabbed at their bodies and fluttered the loose edges of their blankets. The weighted boat shuddered, and the uppermost palm limbs whipped wildly as their tops twisted to impossible angles. Yet, neither Brad nor his father saw this. Martin had covered Brad with his body and they burrowed like sand fleas at the base of the wall.

For hours, the wind shrieked and cold rain lashed their huddled forms. Broken palm fronds windmilled through the air before lodging in the bushes or disappearing into the night. The loaded boat rocked and swayed. At the storm’s peak, the wind tilted it and dumped the debris upon the huddled forms. Then it slammed into the wall with an audible thump, spun on its stern, and was lost in the dark. Brad screamed in terror as he pushed and shoved to escape the weight of his father and the busted concrete.

When he was free and sanity returned, he realized his father was not moving. With cold dread, he clawed at the broken blocks covering the inert form. He lay low, beneath the buffeting wind, and pushed the debris away. It piled up and he strained to push more up and over the stack. When his father’s head was clear, Brad ran his fingers over his face and skull. In the dark and rain, he couldn’t tell if there was blood.

Oh, please, merciful Jesus, don’t let him die! Don’t let him be hurt bad! Brad shoved more blocks away. He ran his hands over his father’s body, down his arms and legs, searching for a gaping wound or twisted limb. The fierce wind snatched his desperate pleas away. Please, Lord Jesus, don’t let him be dead.

Even as he prayed, another part of his mind cried for reason. Questions kept interrupting his prayers. What if he’s hurt bad? Is he bleeding to death? I can’t see! Is this blood or rain? Here, below his ear, is that blood? It feels warm. It must be blood. But where is the wound?

He prayed and cried. Fear gripped him. Not of the raging storm, that was only a hateful menace preventing him from caring for his father. No, he feared being alone, alone here on this deserted island—without his father.

At last, as the storm abated and he found there was no bleeding, he stretched alongside his father and lay with his ear on his chest, listening to the gentle passage of air. Exhaustion and relief from the storm’s fury dimmed his concerns. He drifted into a light sleep—sleep filled with frightful dreams that did nothing to restore his strength.

As the eastern sky began to show a faint, dark gray, the wind eased. The rain stopped. Brad roused from his fitful sleep. He was cold, wet, and aching. Then recollections of the terrors in the dark night jolted him to full awareness. His heart leaped. He started to sit up, but stopped to settle back and hug the hairy arm his father had curled around him during the night. As he luxuriated in the security that arm afforded, his eyes filled with tears. It was a special morning. His father was well, and for the first time in Brad’s remembrance, his father had embraced him.

He lay still, afraid to move, basking in the warmth and smell of his father. Too soon, Martin groaned, freed his arm, and sat up. Brad rose too, and studied his father. There was a deep red scrape on the left side of his head. Otherwise, he appeared to be well. Brad decided not to mention the terror he’d experienced during the night. You okay, Dad?

Martin sat with one hand cupped to his injured scalp. He looked around in confusion. I guess so. Did we have a storm?

A chill gripped Brad’s heart. Yes, sir. Don’t you remember?

Uh … I’m not … ’member landing here. He continued to look around, searching. Remember weighting the boat down with these blocks. Yes, now I remember—the boat—where’s the boat?

It blew away in the night.

Martin pulled himself up with his crutch and swayed like a dry cornstalk. Brad stood also, hands ready to support his father. They freed themselves from their soaked blankets and gazed about at the mayhem.

We gotta find the boat. A tremor sounded in Martin’s voice. If it blew out to sea—

Martin started around the wall, staggered, grabbed his son’s shoulder, and pulled him past the corner where they could see across the small island. The boat was in a tangle of mangroves—bow down and keel up. A quick inspection revealed only minor damage. They slumped down, exhausted before the day began.

Despite the debris scattered around, the eye of the storm had missed them. There were no downed trees, but torn fronds littered the area. Everything was wet, including their meager stock of food. The sea was still white capping, too rough for their frail craft. Leaving them no choice but to wait until the sea calmed. With no dry fuel, they were unable to warm themselves, so they huddled in the lee of the wall and ate the soggy cornbread and fruit as they waited for the sun.

The sea kept running high. The morning sun burned through the stormy glum, and long tentacles of white cirrus clouds streaked a cobalt sky.

Martin pulled himself upright with his crutch. Come on, we won’t get back today, but we should be able to catch some supper.

They dragged the boat from the mangroves, and flipped it back into the water. As the boat rolled upright, Martin lost his grip, staggered, and fell.

Dad! Are you alright?

Rolling to a sitting position, Martin laughed. Yeah, I’m fine. My crutch stuck in the sand.

Brad knew better. The crutch was under his dad’s left arm. He’d fallen to the right. Maybe we ought ‘a wait awhile ... give your head time to clear.

Nothing wrong with my head. I don’t even have a headache.

After installing the mast and sail, they pushed out a ways to cast their net. The first cast was poor. Still it netted enough fish for two hungry men.

They spent a more peaceful night on the island and were up with the sun. Anxious to be home, they hurried to take advantage of the cool morning. After eating the remaining fish, they launched the boat and opened the sail to a northwesterly breeze. Despite a favorable wind, the little craft lumbered and dipped, unable to pull her heavy hull to the top of the waves. Even so, by noon, familiar islands began to appear. Martin emptied the sail. Boats rarely ventured this far out. Fishing should be good and a large catch would help justify their long voyage.

Casting their nets, they fished until mid-afternoon. By then, snapper, bonefish, and grouper covered the bottom of the boat. Though both were intent upon the work, they couldn’t let the afternoon slip away. To make landfall before dark, they hauled in their nets and raised the sail. Near home, they crossed the path of the destruction left by the hurricane. Broken limbs and fallen leaves floated thick upon the water. They sailed through the devastation for nearly an hour, then they were clear. The world around them was back to normal. As the sun neared the horizon, they met other fishermen from their village headed to shore.

Ahoy! Martin called as he struggled to hold a large grouper aloft. His crutch slipped and he staggered. Instinctively, he waved his left hand to regain balance. When he did, the great fish was too heavy for his weakened arm and he let it fall back into the boat.

Ahoy! Brother Martin, a friend yelled. Did you lose your sea leg?

No place to stand! I’m up to my stump in fish, Martin yelled back.

The fishermen laughed and shouted friendly insults as they pulled away. Brad’s concern for his father grew. He had often seen him hoist fish much larger than the grouper, effortlessly, with one hand.

Near the village, they came to a large levee that rose above tall saw grass. From a distance, a stranger might mistake it for a huge mound blocking their way, but as they came closer, a waterway opened to the left. Here, they dropped sail and reverted to oars.

Bamboo shacks lined the shore. Fishermen used them as a place to mend their nets and sleep if they chose not to walk home. They also served as market stalls for the fishwives who awaited the arriving boats. The women were dressed in long, loose-fitting gowns and bonnets. Fishermen, clad like Brad and his father, mingled among them.

Where did you take these? one man asked.

Before Martin could answer, another interrupted. He’s been out a couple of days. Where were you, Brother Martin?

As his father replied, Brad carried their catch to the stalls. Normally, they traded in the village market where they’d get a better exchange, but today they were too exhausted.

He and his father welcomed the crowd that moved in around them. Eager hands helped carry their catch to the stalls. The wet, slick fish skidded about on the smooth wooden table. Their strong, fishy odor mixed with the garden scent of vegetables, melons, and the fresh blood smell of mutton and ham. Women scattered clouds of flies with hands and fronds. Brad found trade here more brisk than in the village where it was a slow, boring experience. With just his father and a seldom seen uncle for family, there was little occasion for socializing. Not since his mother’s death, could Brad remember garnering so much attention.

How far did you go out? a smiling young woman asked.

To the old city.

Is it still standing? someone interrupted.

Brad didn’t have time to answer.

You have some beauties here, Brad. Where were you casting?

Did the storm catch you? another asked.

The loud bantering and laughter suddenly ceased at the approach of two men. The market traders stepped back, a few still holding their claims. Some watched with apprehension. Others studied the ground, obviously wishing they were elsewhere. The remainder avoided meeting the newcomers’ gaze in their own way. One of the men was tall with a broad and powerful chest. His huge hands incongruously grasped a palm-leaf fan. Only the straining white robe over his middle made it evident he was losing the physical fitness battle. This, everyone knew, was Brother Garland Wilkes, the assistant pastor to Reverend Joshua Heywood, spiritual leader of Lake Harbor.

One might suppose Brother Garland to be a jovial and compassionate holy man, for he always wore a smile and spoke softly. Later, they might recall a twinkle in his eyes, which never focused, and large canine teeth that lent a snarl to the smile. Despite his congeniality, the nervous posturing of those present made it obvious he was a man to fear. The other man, though dressed in a similar robe, was lost in the shadow of the first.

The seemingly gregarious man spoke to Martin with a nod and a smile. Good evening, Brother Martin.

Garland.

Quite a catch. You must have gone out a ways. As he spoke, he indicated certain fish with his fan. His companion whisked the fish into a separate stack.

A ways, Martin watched his catch thin. You come down to greet me, or have you started collecting the taxes personally?

The resulting flicker in the assistant pastor’s eyes was barely perceptible. Mere coincidence in both cases. You were out four days. Am I right?

Two days out, three back.

Ah, yes. The prize grouper joined the growing stack. Little boat like yours really isn’t very seaworthy. Of course, there isn’t anything out there … no place to go, right? The smile froze.

Martin thought of the dead cities. Just the past.

The past! Brother Garland laughed. Is that what you’re trying to do, Martin, resurrect the past? His fan gestured toward a young woman holding a fish, That one too, Charles, for my table this evening. Brother Martin, I thank you for the bounty. He turned to the other fishermen. Perhaps you should also try venturing further out. The Lord Jesus blesses a bold heart. With that, Brother Garland walked away, leaving his assistant to care for the tax just levied. Martin’s insolence was costly. His catch was the only one taxed, a fact not missed by the others.

#

After five days on the water, Martin and Brad were tired and eager to reach their own home. The village of Lake Harbor was in the old state of Florida, and lay two miles inland on a large lake known as the Big O. Centuries ago men had built great levees with channels and floodgates to keep the rising sea from contaminating the fresh water. Today, the gateways were rusted and useless. Occasionally, storm-driven, salt water breeched the gates.

It took days to walk the levee. It was so lengthy, there were a number of villages along its circumference. Many residents made their home on the broad top. For some it was a matter of convenient access to the lake. Others sought the breeze as relief from mosquitoes and the almost constant three-digit temperatures. Most villagers were farmers who fished the lake to supplement their diet. Others, near the sea, fished the salt water as an occupation.

Lake Harbor was a quiet community of approximately three hundred people scattered over an ill-defined farming area. Several large, wood-framed structures dominated its center. Most conspicuous were the church and the mayor’s home. Other framed buildings were shops or warehouses. The remaining structures were trading stalls and houses made of bamboo and fronds.

Brad and his father bathed the encrusted salt from their bodies in a canal that filled the lake, and walked wearily toward the welcoming glow of kerosene lamps. The setting sun had become a faint gray smear on the horizon when they trudged through the empty street. Bartered sacks of beans, corn, and potatoes hung from their shoulders. A warm flickering light in their shack announced the presence of Nathan Sellers. Brad’s heart raced. Uncle Nathan didn’t live in Lake Harbor. His home was in New Kingsport, far to the north. Brad always looked forward to his visits.

The Sellers’ dwelling would not qualify as a house or even a cabin. It was a bamboo and thatch shelter. Elevated on a raised platform, it milked the slightest breeze, and found protection from floodwaters. Rolled bamboo curtains formed the walls. Open, they welcomed the breeze. With a tug, they dropped to provide privacy or protection from inclement weather.

As they entered, Martin’s brother turned from his hammock where he had been stretching his mosquito netting. Welcome home Brother … Squirt.

Uncle Nate! Brad controlled an urge to throw himself into his uncle’s arms as he had as a child. He had to remind himself that men didn’t hug. They might poke each other’s shoulder or slap backs, but hug—never. Brad was too much in awe of his uncle to be so bold, not so long as he was called Squirt.

As the two brothers went through the backslapping ritual, Brad exclaimed, We got caught in a storm, Uncle Nate, and had to shelter on this little island! And there wan’t no cover and no place to hide. Dad got hit on the head by a block.

Brad paused. Would his uncle question his dad and find out if his injury was serious.

"Bad?’ Nathan asked.

Scary, but the worst of it missed us, Martin said.

You hurt? Nathan pointed to the bruise on his brother’s head.

Nah! Just a bump. Knocked me goofy.

He’s been dizzy and falling. Brad belied his father.

Sounds like more than a bump on the head, could be a concussion. Move over here by the light and let me see your eyes.

Frowning at his son, Martin obeyed. Nathan laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and tilted his head to the light. Hmm, I think one pupil is larger than the other. He released his hold. You better lie around and take it easy for a few days.

Will he be all right? Brad asked.

Sure. Lot of people get hit on the head, but not many die.

Die?

I’ll be all right, son, Martin assured. If it was serious we’d know by now, right?

Brad wasn’t convinced, but he couldn’t argue with his father’s logic. When nothing more was said; he wandered over to a cast-iron pot on the table.

The brothers looked at one another and Nathan mouthed a silent, ‘Did you?’ Martin dropped his head to stare at the floor.

Nathan scowled, and turned his attention to Brad. Some woman brought the stew. A Widow Jessup, if I caught the name right.

Ah, yes, Martin said. You remember her, Thomas Jessup’s widow, used to live on the levee? She’s been a big help with Brad. When Nathan answered with a grin, Martin continued. Treated him like a son. Cared for him while I was out fishing … or had to be away.

Really? I’d have never guessed. Nathan looked puzzled. I don’t think she mentioned Brad, but she sure seemed concerned about you.

Yeah, well … she’s been a good friend. Martin picked up a bowl and turned his attention to the stew. Nathan and Brad exchanged knowing grins.

His uncle’s strange clothing never failed to impress Brad. Nathan wore a light, sleeveless, cotton shirt, a billed cap, and coarse, denim jeans with brass studs on the pockets. A broad leather belt encircled his trim waist, and large, hard-leather shoes rose above his ankles. The shoes were so heavy Brad wondered that his uncle could even walk. But Nathan was a big man. When Brad was small, he used to think that was the reason for his strange garb. That his uncle was the only man strong enough to wear it.

Nathan was mumbling as he settled into his hammock. I’ll be glad when you move out of this sweat hole, Martin. The heat is enough to parch your brains, and you have to hide from the damned mosquitoes just to get some sleep.

Martin exchanged a shocked look with his son. Nate, watch your language.

Oh, yes, that’s another thing, the Church. Why do you—?

Nate! Martin interrupted. I told Brad he’ll be going with you. This what you gonna teach him?

Nathan twisted in his hammock to stare at his brother. Anger tinged his voice, Someone needs to teach him.

There’s a time and place for everything, Nate. When you’re in a man’s country, you gotta respect his rules and laws. Things might be different in another place … at another time.

Brad could tell his uncle still wanted to argue, but he lay back with his fists knotted behind his head. So, your dad’s going to let you go with me, eh, Squirt?

Brad nodded and grinned around a huge mouthful of stew. He wanted to tell his uncle that Squirt wasn’t his name. That he didn’t like it. But he didn’t want to be ridiculed.

Then we’ll have to get you outfitted. You can’t go traipsing through the mountains in those flimsy rags. Look over there in my belongings. You’ll find a package for you.

Brad’s jaws froze in mid-bite and his eyes grew wide with excitement. He jumped up from the table before he remembered that he was no longer a child. With forced calmness, he crossed to the gear piled in a corner. Inside a large backpack, he found a package wrapped in brown paper. Resisting the urge to tear into the package, he made himself untie the string and unfold the paper slowly.

Inside was a pile of clothing like his uncle wore. What caught his eye was a pair of denims, complete with brass studs. For a minute, he fingered the stiff cloth, and marveled at its thickness and tight weave. Rising, he held the pants against himself, judging the fit. His heart was beating faster and he was finding it hard to breath with his mouth full of stew. With a gulp, he swallowed, Can I try ‘em on?

They’re yours, Nathan said. But you better try the underclothes first or you’ll rub your bal—butt raw.

Brad turned his attention to the other clothes. He found a sleeveless shirt, a heavier, long-sleeved shirt made of a thick, cotton material, three pairs of wool socks, and a pair of the short-legged underwear, like those his uncle wore. He shed his clothes and stepped into the shorts. A button secured the front. He stood looking down at the baggy fabric where it tickled around his thighs. His hand slipped down to examine the opening that would simplify calls of nature. He looked at his father and uncle, and grinned.

Now the denims, his uncle said.

Brad had more trouble with the denims. It was easy to step into his light cotton trousers, but when he shoved a foot into the pants leg, it caught in the stiff material. He staggered and hopped around the room to a chair where he sat to tug them on. When he stood, his legs felt as though they were in stovepipes. He couldn’t bend his knees.

His father and uncle laughed and shouted instructions.

Button them up and fasten the clasp at the top.

Squat down in them a few times, they’ll loosen up!

Brad began to have misgivings. If he couldn’t even walk, how could he get used to them?

There should be a belt and some shoes in the bottom of the pack, Nathan said.

Despite his concerns, Brad’s heart raced as he pulled the heavy shoes from the sack. The complex eyelet system and interlacing strings was baffling, until his uncle jumped from the hammock and knelt to show him how to run the laces. When Brad stood, he felt as if he was wading in a muddy bayou. How did his uncle walk all day with such awkward, clumsy weights attached to his feet?

Uncle Nate, I shore do thank you for the clothes, they real fine, but I … I don’t think I can wear them.

What? Nathan said. Course you can. The jeans are a bit large, but you’ll grow into them. And the shoes fit as well as you could expect.

But they so stiff and heavy. I think I’d better just wear my old clothes.

The two men grinned at each other before Martin explained. Brad, you can’t wear those clothes in the mountains, not with winter coming on. You’ll freeze.

Brad blinked at both men. He knew about the cold, had heard tales of water turning to ice and falling from the sky like rain. Still, foul weather had never been part of his dreams. Always, in his yearnings, the day was warm and sunny. He and Uncle Nate strolled through a magical land of green grass and giant trees without a care in the world.

Nathan discerned his thoughts. Squirt, I think you might have the wrong idea about this trip. It isn’t going to be easy. The weather will be hard. You’ll either be too hot or too cold, and wet or baking like a loaf of bread. You’ll be traveling through a land with rough roads, and at times, no roads at all. You’ll ride a horse until you feel like your butt is splitting up to your shoulders. Then, you’ll walk in those shoes until you’re slogging in the water from your blisters. The next day, you’ll do it all again.

He paused and looked the boy in the eye. Now, I’m taking an extra-large load of sugar, two wagons, and I need another driver—a man who can do the work. Someone who can drive a wagon, care for the livestock, set up camp, and fix a meal. Are you man enough for the job, or should I look elsewhere?

Brad was unaware that his uncle was manipulating him, pushing him into denying his manhood or capitulating. The door to adulthood was open. He couldn’t disappoint either his uncle or his father. I can do it.

Sure you can! His father laughed with relief and gave him a slap on the back that turned into a brief hug.

You’ll get used to the duds, Nathan said. Wear them around here all you can until we leave. They’re going to hurt like hel—the devil, but you’ll have to break them in.

When will we leave?

Monday, after the next Lord’s Day. Nathan looked to Martin before adding. We have to get Reverend Heywood’s blessing, and I have to pay my respects to Mayor Chase.

Chapter 2

Nathan’s visit to see Mayor Eldon Chase was a routine courtesy he afforded the village official. As a trader, he knew the value of a good ally. He had cultivated this particular one for years. Mayor Chase was an avid gator hunter, and Nathan was a cheap source of ammunition. On each visit, he would drop by with a box of .30-06 rounds that he traded for tanned gator hides. He might even accompany the mayor on a hunt. Other times, they would sit and sip tea—also supplied by Nathan—and talk of his travels or the latest events occurring in the Kingdom.

Mrs. Mildred Chase, a thin, reedy woman who suffered recurring bouts of malaria, answered Nathan’s knock. She led him to a small room that served as the mayor’s office. There was no need for Mrs. Chase to announce Nathan’s arrival. The mayor was already rising from his seat as they reached the doorway. He greeted Nathan with a warm handshake.

Brother Nathan, so good to see you. Mildred, please bring us some tea. He turned back to Nathan. Will you be with us long?

I’m afraid not. I’ve already made arrangements to take a load of sugar north. Nathan handed the mayor a plastic bag.

Ah, my ammunition, he glanced in the bag, and tea! Thank you, Brother Nathan. Where did you find this bag? I haven’t seen one in ages.

Eldon, I have no idea where half the things I acquire come from. Traders out there move merchandise from everywhere. Why, a few years ago I came across a Zuni kachina doll.

A what?

A doll, made by some Indians that once lived to the west, Nathan explained. They’re folklore dolls, images of their gods.

Oh, heathen gods. I pray you didn’t acquire it.

No, I trade to meet a market, and I couldn’t imagine anyone who would want such a doll. Nathan pointed to the plastic bag the mayor was carefully folding, Besides, it was probably like the bag, rotten with age. If you’re planning to keep that, I wouldn’t trust it to carry much. I only used it to wrap the ammo.

Please, have a seat. The mayor waved a hand toward a stuffed accent chair as he moved behind a huge, polished oak desk that dated back to the twentieth century. Only a dark mold creeping up one leg marred its beauty. Now tell me, what have you been doing?

Nathan was outlining his planned trip when Mildred returned with a pitcher of tea. Silently, she served the two men and slipped from the room.

Too bad we don’t have ice, the mayor said. Last year I had some tea in Memphis with ice, and as you’ve said, it does improve the taste.

For the next twenty minutes, they exchanged tales and brought each other up to date on their separate activities. Then Nathan turned the conversation to the subject of his visit.

I was telling you of my trip into the mountains before Sister Chase brought the tea.

Yes, yes, you were.

Well, I’ll have two loaded wagons and I want to take my nephew along as a driver. I need to get a traveler’s permit for him. He won’t be doing any trading, so I don’t believe he’ll need a trader’s permit, will he?

You’re quite right, only a traveler’s permit. The mayor shuffled some papers about on his desk and found a blank sheet. What’s the boy’s name and date of birth?

After a few more questions, Mayor Eldon Chase signed his name to the document and handed it to Nathan.

#

Nathan’s next stop was not so easy or casual. The Southern Theocratic Kingdom scrutinized both secular and spiritual relations. They could sometimes arrive at contradictory opinions. Strict rules regulated the requirements for obtaining a permit. The needed blessing of the Church was more ambiguous. Nathan never got past his first obstacle—Brother Garland Wilkes. Brother Wilkes met Nathan with his canine smile and a quick handshake. Although they had grown up together, Garland sidestepped Nathan’s attempt at sociability by keeping the visit professional.

What can I do for you, Brother Sellers?

Nathan explained his planned trading venture and his need for a second driver. As soon as he referred to his nephew, Brother Garland’s eyes began to twinkle.

This is Martin’s boy, right? About seventeen, isn’t he?

Yes, I believe so.

He’ll be required to report for military duty within a year. Will you be returned by then?

I see no reason why not, Nathan said. I’ve made two trips in a year before.

But if I understand you correctly, you’re taking an extra-large load of—what was it, sugar?

Yes.

And you’ll have no trouble disposing of such a large inventory? Before Nathan could respond, Garland continued. Tell me, do you trade in bulk or do you make individual trades?

Nathan could see Garland’s ploy. Both. My profit is greater if I break a load down, but I move it faster if I trade in bulk.

Precisely my point, Garland grinned. And do you have a dealer ready to take your entire inventory?

Sugar always has a ready market. I’ve never had any trouble moving it.

And there’s another, more serious, consideration, I must take into account. The smile never left Garland’s face. That you intend to take this impressionable young boy into a land filled with heretics. You realize, of course, that the restrictions on travel were enacted specifically to curtail such mingling, to protect our flock from the lies of Satan. Brother Wilkes’ chair creaked as he leaned back and contemplated the rugged-looking man before him. Then he leaned forward and placed a forearm on the desk.

No, Brother Sellers, I cannot give the blessing of the Church for such an adventure. And I’ll tell you something else. Garland was no longer smiling. His voice dropped to a confidential level. If it were up to me, your license, along with all those who bring their tainted merchandise and filthy teachings here to Jesus’ flock, would be burned in the trash.

Nathan stiffened, My license bears Bishop Nestor’s personal seal. Perhaps you should discuss the matter with him. In the meantime, I’d like to take this matter up with Reverend Heywood.

That is your prerogative. The smile returned as Garland placed a blank sheet of paper before Nathan and reached for a pen. "If you’ll write the nature of