The Last Kah

By Terry Bailey

Does an evil intelligence underlie the world we think we know? What exactly is the universe and how alone are we in it? Do ancient legends and traditions point to more than we imagine? How afraid should we be? Find out in – the Last Kah. Joe Stinson (Gulf War veteran and Indiana bachelor farmer struggling to overcome the past) and his nephew, Christopher Grant (fifteen, undersize, only child of an overbearing father struggling to meet the future) meant only to catch a few fish. The discovery of an unusual and somewhat unsettling track on the sandy shore of the White River seemed little more than a minor adventure. Who knew? A few impressions in the sand would bring new friends (Ranger Becky Parker and Reality Show Naturalist Cliff Ledges) into their lives and earn them enemies, some familiar and some beyond their imagination. More: the track sets in motion a chain of events that will change their view of reality forever – provided they survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Bailey
• Release date: Aug 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301203147

Terry Bailey

I was born in the middle of the last century and grew up as part of a small farming community in central Indiana. How small? My actual home town (Wakeland) suffered a 5% decline in population when I left. Before that day, I alternately fought and played with four siblings, delivered papers, mowed lawns, put up hay, and, much to the surprise of several neighbors who lost money betting against the probability, grew up – kind of. I experienced the call to preach early – at age 12. I graduated from the Eminence Consolidated School System (1975) and earned a BA from MilliganCollege (1979) and an MDiv from the Emanuel School of Religion (1985). I have served congregations in three states, currently, Indian Run Christian Church of East Canton, Ohio. My wife (Mikel) and I have three grown children and four grandchildren. My main passion remains the gospel of Jesus Christ but along the way developed sub-passions for history, science, canoeing, birds, and writing.

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The Last Kah

Terry Bailey

Published by Terry Bailey at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Terry Bailey

Discover other titles by Terry Bailey:

The Pilate Plot

Chapter One

Hold up, Uncle Joe! Christopher called, slowing to a halt. Joe Stinson already stood knee deep in the river. He ceased splashing through the shallows and turned to regard his nephew with a bright flash of clean teeth against tanned skin. What’s the problem, Chris?

Christopher recalled all the times his father had asked the same question – without the smile or the cheery tone – and his face reddened. He looked down at the sand under his feet. It was finer, drier, and somehow dirtier – maybe more like dirt was the right way to think of it - than the beaches back in New Jersey. He raised his eyes to the river’s edge. The beach transformed as it approached that edge until the murky water lapped over dark brown mud with tinges of green lining small pits and dimples of unknown origin.

I don’t know. Christopher began. He took a hesitant sniff, searching for any trace of the familiar tang of salt in the slow heavy aroma that reminded him of last year’s leaves. He shrugged. It’s just – when you said we were going to the White River, it sounded – cleaner?

Joe laughed. Don’t worry none, Chris. Time was, this river was mostly a sewer ‘n parts of it were worse ‘n that. Some yahoos still dump old washers ‘n tires ‘n such in it, but what you’re lookin’ at is just plain honest dirt.

Christopher started forward again. After all, he reasoned, Uncle Joe said he swam and fished in this river all the time and he seemed healthy. Christopher compared his own pale skin and bandy arms to his uncle’s deep tan and stocky, muscular build. He ran a hand over his own smooth chest, lamenting the absence of the dark coarse hair that bristled on most of his uncle’s body. In the process he discovered a smear of sun screen he hadn’t managed to rub in thoroughly.

Another step found, with some relief, that the unpleasant looking mud was only a thin coat of sediment covering more sand. Christopher waded after his uncle. The water flowed through his surf-socks like they weren’t there and he decided he liked both the temperature and the mild current teasing the flesh of his ankles. OK, Uncle Joe, I’m right behind you. Joe’s smile broadened and he resumed his progress down the length of the sandbar.

Christopher smiled too. He picked up speed and the water splashing up around his calves lost its murky appearance and sparkled in the sun. He stopped, stooped, cupped a double handful of the river and stared at surprisingly clear water. Bits of sediment, Uncle Joe’s plain honest dirt, and some larger particles of the leaves and stems of plants ground to bits as the current tumbled them over sand and stones, floated here and there. Not so bad. He said to himself. He dropped the handful of water back into the river and splashed on only to stop again and stare in fascination as at least a hundred tiny dark shadows darted around and between his knees. Awesome! He shouted when a few of the minnows rotated enough to flash silver in the bright sunlight.

Joe cast a glance back and Christopher pointed a rigid finger to the water. There’s like, a zillion little fish over here! Sure. Joe replied from where he waited at the downstream point of the sandbar. That’s why we’re here. Only we want their big brothers! He waved an arm over a bare depression that ran behind the sandbar. Christopher’s eyes narrowed as he took in a half acre of crusty soil divided by deep cracks into a scaly pattern surrounding a few poisonous-looking pools of water. Scattered tree limbs draped with drying algae littered the desolate plot.

When the river’s up some, this’ll be a backwater. The fish’ll love it then. Gives ‘em a place to get outta the current and makes for easy feedin’. It’s a great place to run a trot line.

A what line? Christopher asked.

A trot line, Joe answered. See, you tie a piece of nylon twine to one of those trees over there, run it clean across the backwater, ‘n tie it off to another tree on the sandbar. Then you put hooks on it ever so often, bait ‘em up, ‘n hang somethin’ heavy in the middle to sink it to the bottom. Long about midnight, you go out ‘n harvest your fish. But that’s for later. When the river’s down like this – it’s noodlin’ time!

Chris frowned. We’re going to use noodles for bait?

Joe laughed. No. I don’t know why it’s called noodlin’, come to that. But it’ll be easier to show you. Now, on ahead of us the water’s gonna get deeper ‘n the bottom mayn’t be so nice. Walk slow ‘n feel your way with your feet. Best to find a rock ‘r a limb ‘r even a sudden drop off the easy way.

That said, Joe started off and Christopher followed. He shuddered and rubbed at the tiny hard goose bumps that rose on his arms as the water got not only deeper but colder too. With each step his feet sank deeper into the bottom until the soft silt accumulated enough to rise over his ankles. Past the wide mouth of the dry backwater the bank changed. The ground rose away from the river and the gentle slope of the sandbar was replaced by an abrupt vertical wall. Christopher gritted his teeth and leaned against the growing surge of the water that now parted around his waist. His scalp prickled at the thought of the current getting much stronger. It prickled more at the thought of approaching the tangled vines and hairy roots that carpeted the cut earth of the bank rising above his head.

He looked up and saw that the mat of vegetation descended from ordinary Maples, Cherries, Willows, and a few large Sycamores that crowded the bank creating a pleasant canopy of greens and browns to fend off the late June sun. He hoped when he looked back down the creeping undergrowth would seem less sinister. It didn’t.

Christopher scratched absently at a fading red rash on his left forearm. How much of this stuff is poison ivy? He asked.

Joe spoke in matter of fact tones as he pressed up against the tangle and began probing the bank beneath the water. If the leaves ‘r in groups of three ‘n it ain’t got stickers, don’t touch it. But if you think you did, just scrub your skin real good in the river water.

Anxious to develop no more itchy rash, Christopher immediately began washing at his arms and legs until it occurred to him that he would scrub off his sunscreen. He wondered how sunburn would affect his poison ivy – or the scratches from the plants that did have stickers which he couldn’t seem to avoid, either. Gosh, Uncle Joe, why is nature out to kill me? At least back home… Christopher’s mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide as an angular stick-like brown spider skittered out of its hiding place and ran over his uncle’s shaggy salt and pepper hair before scrambling back into the roots.

Ugh, Uncle Joe. A spider just ran over your head!

Joe continued to step along sidewise, smiling as he went. Well, sure, the roots ‘n grass ‘r fulla spiders ‘n other things. They all got to live! You just mind your own business and they’ll get outta your way! If a person worries over ever bug in the world, he’ll never catch fish!

Christopher wasn’t convinced. His stomach churned at the thought of pushing his face into the bank with its surely endless supply of creepy crawlies. Suddenly, Joe stopped. His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened a little. Come on over here, Chris.

Christopher edged forward, distrust plain on his face. Joe reached out and placed a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. It’s OK, Chris – one step at a time. You can feel what I want you to without gettin’ up close ‘n personal with the spiders – yet. Joe eased aside and ushered Christopher into the space he’d just vacated. He put his arms around the boy from behind and took a firm grip on each of his nephew’s wrists. Don’t worry, Chris. Nothin’s gonna happen to you. I’m just gonna show you what we’re lookin’ for. Christopher let his uncle guide his hands under the water. The bank there felt just like the portion above the waterline looked.

No spiders under the water. Joe said. Then he guided Christopher’s hands to the right where they found – nothing. Joe felt his nephew’s arms tense. Nothin’ to fret about, Chris. The current makes a lotta little washouts. We gotta make sure this ain’t just a dent. So we feel forward… Joe gently pushed Christopher’s arms forward a few inches. What do you feel now, Chris?

N, nothing, Uncle Joe.

That’s right, Chris. That’s because this is a sure ‘nuff genuine hole. Now pull your hands back some and let’s see how wide she is. Guided by his uncle, Christopher spread his hands and found the backs of his fingertips pressed against the borders of the hole. What would you say, Chris, two foot – maybe a little more?

Maybe a little. Christopher agreed.

Good! That’d be pretty wide for a muskrat, which we ain’t lookin’ for ‘n besides, muskrats bite. Why, the old man that taught me to noodle, Stubby Johnson we called him, he used to…

Christopher jerked his hands out of the hole and back into the sunlight where he regarded his fingers with obvious alarm. Joe laughed heartily. Only funnin’, Chris. But a body can get bit by a muskrat.

Christopher’s face reddened and his eye brows drew into a wispy blonde V. It’s not funny! What else lives in this river that you haven’t told me about? The next thing you know we’ll be dodging piranha and crocodiles!

Joe sobered. Take it easy, Chris. I sure didn’t mean anything. And there’s nothin’ in this river that could really hurt you. People worry over turtles some, but I’ve hauled out lotsa turtles ‘n till you get ‘em clear of the water all they think about is gettin’ away. Course, once you have ‘em up in the air it pays to be careful. But we’re hopin’ for a big cat. The females’ll be nestin’ now. I’ll check this hole ‘n maybe you’ll want to try your luck with the next one.

Joe leaned into the bank and thrust his arms out of sight beneath the water. Christopher could see that his uncle was straining to push his hands farther forward. This is a deep one, Chris. Sometimes, you have to put your head under the water to reach further in. But there’s another trick ‘r two before that. Right now, I’m just gonna wiggle my fingers good and hard. Makes ‘em look like…

Joe’s explanation ended with a grunt as his body thrust forward against the bank and his face clinched into a grimace of pain and exertion. Christopher stared wide eyed as his uncle’s body leaned to the right despite obvious and massive efforts to resist.

Come on, Uncle Joe. No more kidding. It’s not funny!

I ain’t kiddin’, Chris. Joe hissed between clinched teeth. Take hold of my left arm and throw all your weight on it.

Christopher hesitated an instant and then, seeing his uncle’s left elbow lift from the water, he leapt on the arm. With the help of the extra weight Joe righted himself and when he was planted firmly, gave instructions between gasping breaths.

Good…now get behind ung, me. Put a big bear hug around my arms. On three…a big step back with our left feet and then, nnnng, pull hard…backwards ‘n toward the sandbar. One. Two. Three!

Joe and Christopher stepped together and man and boy heaved with all their might and managed to bring their right feet alongside their left. Good, Chris. Again. One Two Three! Joe grunted as though he was trying to lift an elephant by main strength and he and Christopher managed another step back and angled toward the sand bar. Before Joe could speak again the water in front of him exploded. Christopher peered around his uncle’s straining right bicep and almost let go and ran when he saw the size of the fish’s head and noted the presence of blood in the midst of all the motion and froth. But Joe wasn’t letting go. Christopher steeled himself and step by step they fought their way back toward the point. As the water grew shallower the length of the fish became clear. Christopher noted that it was not as big as the sharks he’d seen hanging from the charter boats off Point Pleasant. But he hadn’t been wrestling with those sharks!

Soon, they had the fish in water too shallow for it to struggle effectively and a moment after that, they had it landed. Joe drove the steel pin of a stringer chain through the skin behind the monster fish’s lower lip, fastened the clip, and tied the stringer off to a tree with a length of nylon twine. When the fish’s flopping grew less, Joe plopped down on the sand and sat panting, cradling his left wrist in his right hand. Christopher’s excitement at having caught such a large fish dulled as he considered his uncle’s injuries. More than the obviously pained wrist, he focused on the bloody and torn state of his uncle’s fingers. Joe saw him staring and smiled.

Don’t worry none about the blood, Chris. Catfish don’t have real teeth – just hard sandpapery gums. She roughed my skin up some but that’s nothin’. She may’ve broke my wrist. It sure hurts anyway. Lotsa times, when a catfish grabs somethin’ they’ll spin ‘n twist. That big she-cat sure meant to rip my hand off and swallow it! It kind of caught me off guard, her bein’ so big and strong.

Christopher switched his gaze back to the fish. How big is it, Uncle Joe?

I’m not sure Chris. The little fish scale I brought won’t weigh her. But she’s a hundred ‘n fifty pounds if she’s an ounce. And a blue cat! They say the river used to be full of ‘em like that – ‘n even bigger. She’s the first blue I’ve seen in my life, though. When we get ‘er back up the trail to the truck we’ll call the rangers. They’ll want to know.

Christopher remembered the trail through the woods. Though it had seemed like quite a jaunt, it probably wasn’t a quarter mile to where they’d left the truck by the railroad at the end of a dirt lane. Still, it was a long way to carry a big slimy fish. Joe read his nephew’s concern.

We’ll get there, Chris. I’ll take one gill with my good hand, you take the other ‘n we’ll make it. Let’s stretch our legs a minute and get at it.

Joe rose, careful of his injured wrist, and took a few steps toward the water. Even as Christopher rose to follow, Joe came to an abrupt halt, his eyes fixed on the sand in front of him. When Christopher reached his uncle’s side and saw what he was looking at, his own eyes widened and he pulled an involuntary inhalation past his lips.

What is it, Uncle Joe?

Joe knelt to study the track and spoke almost in a whisper. I wish I knew, Chris. At first I’d a said it was a bird – if there was any such thing as a bird that big. See, it’s got three toes goin’ forward ‘n one goin’ back, claws all round. But look how deep it’s sunk ‘n how the sand is sort of splashed out at the edges. Whatever made it is heavy ‘n was movin’ fast.

Joe cast a quick glance about. I’ve heard talk about emus getting’ away from farmers ‘n runnin’ wild over the river bottoms. I ain’t no expert on what an Emu’s foot looks like but I don’t think there ever was an Emu nor Ostrich neither big enough to make this track. Look at it! It’s gotta be two feet from back toe tip to front. Joe refused to speak the thought that kept tickling his mind. There were no dinosaurs and that was that. I’ll tell you one thing for sure, though. This track wasn’t here thirty minutes ago. Not only could I never call myself a hunter again if I’d a missed it, that outside right toe is laid smack over the heel of one of my own footprints.

Christopher raised his eyes to the trees in the direction the track pointed, relieved not to find something monstrous bearing down on them. Joe rose, looking the opposite direction. Well, Chris, whatever it is was headed away from the water so, either it flew here or… Joe took another couple of steps, careful to avoid the mystery print. Follow me, Chris and don’t step close to the track. The sand is soft and you might…yeah! Lookee here.

Christopher looked where his uncle pointed. At the very edge of the water he saw a small imprint. It took him a moment to place it as the tip of the longest toe of another track. Peering through the shallow water he could see the entire outline of the foot. Joe measured the distance between the two tracks with his eyes and whistled. Five foot easy. Course, if it’s a bird it could’ve flapped its wings a time ‘r two ‘n hopped. Joe looked up and down the river’s edge. If a bird landed here you’d expect two feet together, not one and then the other. Whatever it was either swam ‘r walked up out of the river.

Joe shook his head and silently insisted again. There ain’t no dinosaurs! He sighted over the tracks. "It was movin’ toward the woods over to the right of the path ‘n….Joe stopped mid-sentence and clamped a hard grip on Christopher’s shoulder. The pressure caused the boy to wince and transmitted a sense of urgency and alarm that made him tense too, even before he saw what had disturbed his uncle. The fish was gone. The stringer was gone. The frayed end of the nylon cord hung from the tree, stirred by a passing breeze.

* * * *

Chapter Two

Christopher sat on the stool to the left of his uncle and drew a sip of Sprite through his straw. He’d never seen Joe Stinson angry before and wondered how well the man on the stool to Joe’s right knew him and whether he was pressing his luck. Joe slid his glass to the front of the bar and set both hands, fingers splayed, on the surface before him. He pressed his lips tight for a second before speaking.

Hal, first off, I wasn’t talkin’ to you. Second, you probably think I’m joshin’ ‘n ‘r just joshin’ back. Leastwise, I’d hate to think you’d really call someone a liar when you’ve known ‘em as long as you’ve known me. So, just to set the record straight – I ain’t joshin’.

Harry Jenkins rubbed his bristly jowl and looked over the deep wrinkled flesh at the corner of his eye to where his son, Porter, was lining up a shot at the pool table. Despite the tension in the air, Harry beamed, as he always did when he considered Porter: a four letterman linebacker feared by every high school quarterback in the region and bound for Bloomington at summer’s end on a full football scholarship. Harry spoke loud enough to be heard over the clacking of billiard balls and Porter looked up to see what was going on.

Well, if you’re not joshing, Joe, then I guess I’d have to wonder what you had packed in your cooler yesterday.

Joe stiffened and rose to his feet without taking his hands from the counter. Fifteen years, five months, one week, three days. That’s how long I’ve been sober. I called the DNR. A ranger’s sposed to meet me here but I spect I’ll like the air better outside. Come on Chris.

Joe turned to leave and Christopher rose to follow but Harry Jenkins laid a hand on Joe’s shoulder. Jenkins then made a sweeping motion with his free hand as though to indicate that he spoke for everyone in the diner. He certainly spoke loud enough to be heard by all. Aw come on, Joe! Don’t go off mad. Tell us again - how big was this fish you don’t have!

There was a fair lunch crowd for a Saturday in Petersburg. Some of the customers looked up, only now realizing anything was going on. Others, close enough to have followed the whole conversation scooted to one side. Porter leaned on his cue and looked to his father – who winked.

What was it, Joe? A hundred and fifty pounds you said? A blue cat too! But it didn’t just get away did it, Joe. Noooo – it was took by a monster wasn’t it, Joe? A bird maybe, as big as a horse and quiet as a ghost. Well, why not, Joe? The one’s as likely as the other. And of course, you aren’t joshin’ lying, - or drinking. Maybe not, Joe, but it’s the best fish story I’ve heard since…

When Joe Stinson moved, it was quick. Christopher didn’t see exactly what happened; only that the other man’s hand wasn’t on his uncle’s shoulder anymore and the man himself was taking a couple of staggering steps backward from the stool he’d been seated on. The big young man at the pool table shifted his grip on the cue and took a step toward them but halted when a sharp, clear voice from the doorway intervened. Is there a problem here?

The voice reminded Christopher of the principal at his school back in New Jersey. But the person framed in the doorway didn’t look anything like Ms. Clymire. Neither the khaki uniform nor the hat covering most of her raven hair concealed the fact that she was young, trim, and pretty. Her skin was a little darker than a tan could account for and her eyes were large, dark brown, and a little almond shaped. She waggled a two-way radio in one hand. Because I could have the Sheriff here in just a minute – if we need him.

Harry Jenkins considered how a police report might affect Porter’s scholarship. I don’t guess so, ma’am. Thanks for getting here in time to save the town drunk from a beating.

Joe took Christopher by the arm and pulled him toward the door. I’m Joe Stinson, Ma’am, and I expect you’re here to meet me. He pushed Christopher ahead as he stopped in front of Porter Jenkins. He spoke first over his shoulder back at Harry but loud enough to be heard by everyone present. "Fifteen years, five months, one week, three days.