Tonder

By M. T. Scarlett

The true measure of a man is determined by how he treats God when no one is watching. Sutter Abel has spent his life in hope that no one is watching him as he tries to understand the mysterious Tonder. Alluring, enchanting, and encouraging the work of God, Tonder is questioned by Sutter and responds by giving him a unique gift. The gift turns out to be a heavy burden and forces Sutter to discern the true voice and his calling. Is Tonder a divine being or an evil entity; disguised and deceitful? Sutter tries to find life saving answers - even at the risk of losing his family and his soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467025096

M. T. Scarlett

M.T. Scarlett is a prolific writer who systematically melds the fictional world with realistic characters, creating questions of physical being and answering those questions with religious faith. Scarlett fashioned his first book, Tonder, around the idea that one may not stray so far from his faith to not be welcomed back by a loving, forgiving God regardless of past decisions. This premise stems from a strong Catholic upbringing in the rural community of Brownstown, Indiana where Scarlett bases his characters and the storyline itself. The rolling hills and tree-filled landscape of southern Indiana provides the perfect setting for an everyday character to find himself after searching for answers in many of the wrong places. After receiving his Masters degree, Scarlett settled in the Bedford, Indiana area where he and his family live amidst the same landscape depicted in his first novel, Tonder.

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© 2011 by M.T. Scarlett. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 08/30/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2510-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2509-6 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

To Kathy, Kaylin, Tyler, and Kyla –

my inspiration; my reason; my family

Chapter 1

For an unusually hot October, I realized that my childhood was becoming distant. Not distant in a sense that it seemed far away, but removed from me in a way that seemed unreachable. Maybe there was a churning in me that caused a longing for the comfort of my childhood. Likewise, the irony of growing up caused me to wave fondly at my fleeting youth, never to look back. On this morning, I laid in bed listening to the creaking springs of my mattress while I turned to my side. I wondered how long it would take or how many times I could roll before the worn springs would push through the tired mattress poking my side and piercing my dreams. I stayed there, full of sleep, scanning the walls of my room that were adorned with posters of bikini clad women and sports icons. I gave no life to the thoughts of what the day held for me. I gave no prediction of the feeling of fear that I could neither ignore nor explain.

Within an hour of sunrise, the morning dew was dissipating into the hazy light rays and the promise of the day was more heat and humidity. My dad awakened me an hour earlier and I raised my bedroom window in hopes of capturing a slight breeze. I paused for only a moment to take in the echoing song of bull frogs and wearied crickets. My view was interrupted by imposing clouds in the eastern distance and soon a sky the color of gun-metal was shielding the typical morning sun, casting a hue of uneasiness and worry to the dirt and bareness between the grassy patches of yard.

Before eight o’clock my father loads me into the cab of our pick-up and we are in motion. I am traveling with my father without speaking. We travel for almost an hour and the area is unfamiliar to me. I know approximately where we are, but I also know that I have not been here, although there is a sound of remembering in the wind. We exited Old Vallonia Road and turned onto an unmarked path through the woods and are now an hour through desolate fields without houses or evidence of civilization. The silence hurt my ears while I waited for him to say something the might make this trip tolerable. Occasionally a small rock or debris will fix itself within the tread of our tires and jump out onto the side of our vehicle making a clink against the paint. Besides the bouncing monotony of the engine, the exchange between rocks and tires is the only conversation.

My small physique is tossed around the faded tan seat of the Chevy truck as I try to compensate the bouncing with my arm comfortably rigid against the door handle. My open window lets in the smell of fall and harvest. The sweet smell of the dirt road masks the odor of what I remember to be decaying flesh. This was a familiar smell from the many long summer days spent alone on the banks of our family’s pond in countless hours fishing. My cousins and uncles frequented the pond and most times would dispense fish much too small to eat down to the lower portion of the bank to die and rot. This was a thinning-out process to give larger fish room to grow and something that I found difficult to understand. In a way I resented the action, sighting that in my youth I was also a small fish in a very small pond. In a family of great strength and pride I was not surprised when my opinion was quickly misunderstood and so rejected like the rotting carcasses of fish paste which spotted the banks.

The road traveled hard upon us. On and on we ventured forward, seemingly never slowing or hindering from the trail on which my father placed us. He wore upon his face a look of confident dismay and the corners of his weathered blue eyes dropped slightly downward. Still there was the comforting constant of my father beyond the scowl. The lines of smoke from the endless cigarette balanced upon his lips traveled upward from the corner of his mouth and circled his rugged looks before being captured by the wind of his open window and escaping into the morning air in what seemed to be a great hurry; as if the smoke sensed a greater urgency and direction that it needed to follow, and carried out its duty without thinking. I tried to carry my thoughts out that window and high into the atmosphere.

A metallic rosary hung suspended from the rear-view mirror. The beads, worn and elongated, were evidence of use and clutching. The unevenness of the road would ricochet the crucifix between the stereo knobs before Dad’s hand, scarred, weathered, and callused, would gently halt the cross in mid-air in a momentary display of reverence.

The summer heat placed its mark on my surroundings which is most apparent by the brownish tint of the grass near the tree lines. A dry summer makes men weary when thinking about the wasted days of no rain. In days such as this, the dust dances like a jet stream through brick dust and behind every ground ball that you try to field making the day seem hotter than it actually is. Most nearly intolerable summer days are spent inside until the sun sets and the dew plants itself, cooling the grass and softening the earth. With fall upon us, there is a certain relief to the misery of a teenage boy who cannot stand to spare a minute of summer enjoyment.

The truck continues to follow the course that my father has placed us on regardless of the dust, fields, stench, or memories. I sit patiently. I ride nervously. I wonder unknowingly. Without warning, my father reaches to turn the knob of the radio, changing the atmosphere only slightly. At my young age I have developed distaste for the sound of Johnny Cash singing Sunday Morning Comin’ Down this early in the morning. I am sure that I have been conditioned since this is the usual time that I would hear the tune while eating breakfast before school every morning. A salty taste of grits and bacon fills my mouth as Johnny sings:

 . . . and the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, so I had one more for dessert.

A smile breaks through the lines of my father face as he begins humming along and slowly dragging smoke through his cigarette while never losing sight of the oncoming road ahead. Knowing this look, I decide to break through the drone of travel.

Ronnie says that later he will take me down to White River and we can fish for Channel Cat.

You don’t have a fishin’ license and I doubt that Ronnie does either. You boys ought to just fish in the pond where you don’t have to worry about it.

This was a typical response coming from my father. I knew the answer even before I made the statement. I only chose to leave out the part of our plan to take beer from a cooler that Ronnie’s dad kept in his garage. We had done it before and had grown accustomed to the taste of skunked Old Milwaukee on our fishing outings. Besides, his dad never missed them. They were left over from his fishing trips on the weekend and generally after they warmed from being on ice, they were no good to drink and he would toss them out. We were not drinking for the taste, but because we were sixteen and they were available. We could have been drinking bile and would have been just as happy as long as we were forbidden to do so.

You are right, but you can’t catch Channel Cat in our pond, Dad.

Ah! Boy, there’s catfish in that pond as big as your leg if you know where to catch em! Just the other day I saw a snapper in there as big around as a wash tub. You wanna watch that Ronnie anyway, he’ll get you in trouble if ya ain’t careful.

Ronnie’s not a bad guy.

I didn’t say that he was a bad guy, I said that he would get you in trouble. He’s just like his dad and his dad was always into something that he wasn’t supposed to be. Be careful hanging around with Ronnie Turner.

Once again, silence filled the cab of the truck as we tumbled forward in time. My father had won the discussion as he had many times in the past and most likely would in the future. I knew my limitations with him and occasionally would push the boundaries as the subject would dictate. My father’s downfall was that he was an extraordinarily intelligent and well-rounded man. In the small town where we lived, he was an Einstein among Forrest Gumps. This situation made it difficult to communicate as the community loud-mouths can make him into the fool since he did not think as they thought. I remember countless conversations with some of the locals in which my father would speak in a manner more appropriate to their understanding. His vocal inflection changing to match theirs, his weight shifting from foot to foot, and hands nestled in his front pockets. Even his noxious smoking habit was a product of those around him; an effort to blend in and be unnoticed.

Each time I witnessed this, I would ask myself why he behaved this way. Instead he chose to laugh as they laughed while they told him of the pet tricks they watched on the previous night’s Late Show. My father was more complex than those. I watched him work out calculus problems in his head as he planned projects that he engineered to build an idea that was simply on his mind. He created for the sake of creating. Sometimes I could find him in his garage before the sun raised reading from the diaries of Freud and studying the minds of great authors. I never fully understood why he chose the path that he walked as I always saw him as something much larger. I guess that explains why he speaks to me in the fashion that he does with the mannerisms and dialect of the community. Occasionally, when we are alone, his true self emerges and I experience the knowledge and power that he keeps asleep inside of him.

A familiar voice cuts through my thoughts as Blair Wannamaker begins the agriculture report over the hum of radio waves.

Corn yields are low and that could mean trouble for area farmers. This has been attributed to a dry spring, an early summer, and the blight which plagued most farmers recently. Agriculture specialists are expecting results back on tests conducted on crops from Vallonia and surrounding areas throughout Jackson County as early as next Tuesday. The unidentified blight swept through many areas of Jackson County destroying corn crops for as many as one hundred acres at a time. We will keep you updated as information is presented to us.

Dad, have you ever noticed that the stations play the same songs in the same order everyday?

Well, you gotta understand that we live in a small town. Our music is taped from a bigger station and piped in over our air waves. Hell, our only DJ is Blair Wannabe Wannamaker. He basically just sits in a hot room all day and interrupts the transmission when he’s got some local news to give which usually amounts to bull.

What’s the deal with this blight that he was talking about?

I wish that I could explain that one to ya, son, but I think that it will make more sense to ya in just a little while.

We traveled through a narrow pass beyond a section of trees that formed a bottle-neck passage into an open field of dirt. Through my window crept the thickened air which carried the stench plaguing my nostrils and intensifying as we entered the passage. The scenery did not change except for the ground. The soil looked as though no life had emerged from the reddish clods of earth or ever would. In the distance of the open field I noticed that we were circled by trees that produced no foliage within their inner circle. The air seemed still and stagnant as it passed through my nostrils, infecting my lungs with its putrid scent. This was not a smell that I recognized. There was a smell of what I imagined to be death without remorse. The rosary swung to a halt, expelling the truck’s inertia.

In the center of the clearing sat a single house long since deserted and falling down. There could not be more than two rooms in the dwelling, and an outhouse, far removed, displayed a hanging door; captive upon rusted hinges. There was no sound and no movement as my father and I sat gazing at the old house. I noticed a different look upon my father’s face. It was a look that I interpreted as a runner facing the eighteenth mile of his marathon when the oxygen is indebted to his lungs while his legs are pleading with him to stop. Something makes him go on when his body tells him that he can’t. He is an animal or something much more primitive: he is a waltz of time.

The silence is broken by the exhaling of air from my father’s mouth. He reaches into his shirt pocket and brings out another cigarette giving it life by the touch of fire from the Zippo in his right hand.

Dad, where are we?

My father turned to me with cigarette in mouth and places his chiseled hand on the back of my neck. Looking at him face to face was something that I would dread most times as his appearance reflected years of fighting and struggling. I knew that if he locked his eyes upon mine, he was serious and wanted me to hear and understand every word. At this time I tried.

Son, we are here.

Chapter 2

The truck door opened on my father’s side with a slow creaking reminiscent to the sound of a movie-style coffin lid, adding only to the heavy air of anticipation. My father stepped out and shut the door while inspecting the shack from his distant view. I remained in my seat not knowing if I should follow him or stay.

Why don’t you wait here for a bit until I tell ya. Just sit tight.

I nodded my head in acceptance as for once he and I were in complete agreement. I watched through the dust spattered windshield as my father walked easily and cautiously toward the shack. In a tone of authoritative reluctance, my father called out into the open air.

Emmett? Emmett, are you here?

I scanned the walls and windows of the old shack while struggling to see through the windshield. The windows showed no sign of movement, and the floor boards of the front porch were coated with a layer of red clay dust. As I intently studied the shack, a shaky and fearful voice bellowed from behind the truck, startling me and causing me to lunge forward in my seat.

Don’t turn around you, I’ve got a bead on ya, ya sorry mule!

My father froze in his tracks and did not turn around. His hands slowly rose from his sides reaching outward with his palms up while he faced the dirty shack. I turned to the direction of the voice to see a withered old man through the back glass. His appearance was that of an old prospector from vintage film with tattered boots, disheveled grey beard, and tanned skin. He stood awkwardly shifting his shoulders inside of his faded, ripped, and stained coveralls; the irony not lost on the smiling mascot of the Blue Hydrant Home and Lawn logo of his left chest pocket. His most outstanding characteristic, however, seemed to be the shotgun that he cradled upon his hip while pointed at my father. He was looking directly at me as if studying my face intensely.

Step outta that truck real slow ya piss ant and don’t turn yer head. I wanna see them eyes real good so ya don’t so much as blink!

I heard my father in the distance giving me instructions with an eerie calm within his voice.

Do what he says, Son. Don’t be afraid.

I found it difficult to open the door with my trembling hand but slowly made my way out of the truck as the old man continued to gape at my face. I said nothing. He seemed content with my cooperation, but continued with his directives.

You seem alright, now lay down on tha ground and keep yer mouth shut… and stop lookin’ at me.

My father broke in startling the old man while maintaining his surrendered pose.

Balsavoy, is that you?

The old man relaxed his grip of the shotgun and displayed a curious look of interest in my father’s words as my father repeated them.

Balsavoy, it’s Doyle… The Chaser.

The sound of this confused me as I had never heard my father refer to himself this way. The old man found comfort in these words and lowered his shot gun and cautiously walked up behind my father.

Who you think you are comin’ out here and callin’ yerself Chaser. Chaser I knew didn’t travel ’round with no sawed-off runt of a boy. Chaser I knew’d stare down the devil and smack his shiny tail all tha way back ta hell. Turn around and let me see ya, but do it slow!

My father pivoted slowly on his foot while looking confidently at the old man who was studying my dad closely, before his lips shaped into a crooked smile and parted to question my father with a single word.

Chaser?

Yes, it’s me Balsavoy, and that’s my boy layin’ down in your dirt over there. Why don’t ya let him get up?

"Son of a