Tears of the Virgin

By Douglas Jamiel

Wealthy Denver businessman and politician Ramon del Fuego has two obsessions: possessing the storied golden religious icon, the Madonna d'Oro, for himself, and becoming Denver's mayor. Though the statue's existence is in doubt, del Fuego hires Gulf War Veteran Paul Worthing to follow Karl Lieber, the one man, he is convinced, who knows where the Madonna d'Oro can be found. When del Fuego is led to what he discovers is instead a wooden copy, he is enraged. However, the faux Madonna appears to have its own "miraculous" powers, setting in motion a course of events that shines a light on the effect and persistence of religious myth in the modern world and its often-destructive consequences for politics and women's rights.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645367147

Douglas Jamiel

Author and musician Douglas Jamiel is an expat presently residing with his wife, Bonny, in Hauptstuhl, Germany. Douglas's writing has appeared in numerous publications including Truthout.org, Colorado Labor Advocate, and the Denver Rocky Mountain News. Tears of the Virgin is Douglas's first novel.

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About the Author

Author and musician Douglas Jamiel is an expat presently residing with his wife, Bonny, in Hauptstuhl, Germany. Douglas’s writing has appeared in numerous publications including Truthout.org, Colorado Labor Advocate, and the Denver Rocky Mountain News. Tears of the Virgin is Douglas’s first novel.

Dedication

To Bonny, my rock; and my sister, Madelaine,

who helped me.

Copyright Information

Copyright © Douglas Jamiel (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Jamiel, Douglas

Tears of the Virgin

ISBN 9781643781914 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781643781921 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645367147 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control number: 2019907830

The main category of the book — Fiction / Historical

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Chapter 1

I

Seen through the whiskey, the barrel of the gun was contorted, bent up, and asymmetrical through the golden prism of the half-drunk bottle. Dormant and menacing, the revolver struck Marvin as just another element of the life he’d stitched together: a Picasso-like pastiche of twisted bodies that haunted him night after night. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long swig, revealing the clean black lines of the pistol in its stark reality. He wished these bodies he saw each night were Pablo’s harmless bodies instead, their eyes on the side of their heads, and their big, blob-like hands. But these bodies were real – or had been, at least – until he’d killed them. But the crumpled, lifeless figures that haunted him had been sanctified by a flag and a uniform. Marvin picked up the gun with his right hand and teased at the trigger. In his left, he held the phone.

They found me, Paul. The bastards found me, Marvin muttered, his words a little slurred.

Who, Marv? Who found you? asked the voice on the other end of the phone.

Ratley! Friggin’ Ratley, that murderer! He calmed down a little. Don’t worry, Paul, I didn’t tell them where you live.

Just take it easy, Marv. Don’t do anything. I’m comin’ over, pleaded the voice.

Why, Paul. What difference?

’Cause I wanna talk. Let’s talk, Marv.

I’m done talkin’. And I’m sure not gonna do time while those bastards get off scott free.

You won’t, man, you won’t, Paul urged. He thought for a moment. Look, Marv. I’ll turn myself in too. We’ll fight it. You know, get a good lawyer and take the bastards on, eh? Hey, they’re the ones who gave the orders.

Marv listened and even considered it for a moment. He watched as a small spider worked its way across the table in front of him, its spindly legs pulling it past the saltshaker, the glass of whiskey, and the three bullets lined up neatly in a row. He could have killed it easily enough, but he had no more stomach for killing – for God, country, or anything else. He opened the chamber and, cradling the phone against his shoulder, slid the bullets into the pistol.

I’m not draggin’ you into this, Paul. This is my shit.

Okay, okay, Paul conceded, trying to think of something else to say. Hey, I know. We’ll pack it in and go somewhere. Jamaica, maybe. Yeah, how about Jamaica, Marv?

I don’t need a damned vacation, Paul. I need to stay in a job more than six months. I need a place I can come home to. I need to walk down the street and not wonder if someone’s following me. I need a night’s sleep without seeing those poor fuckers’ faces.

Marvin closed the chamber, took off the gun safety, and carefully placed it in front of him. He surveyed the table for the little spider, but it had gone.

I went into this little Mediterranean place today, Paul, for lunch.

Yeah. Was it good?

Sure. It was okay, Marvin answered. I grabbed a menu and I’m sittin’ there deciding what to get when I hear this voice over me with a thick Arabic accent saying, ‘May I help you, sir?’ I look up, and I swear to God it was him, Paul.

Who, Marvin? Who’s that?

The doctor. The Iraqi doctor. The guy at the hospital bus? Marvin waited for a reply, but Paul said nothing. I’m telling you, the hair, the eyes, the mustache – he could have been this guy’s twin. My hands started shaking. I guess my voice was too. I don’t know. Anyway, I ordered falafel or some shit like that, and I swear to God, Paul, I was back there in the desert. And there he was, on the ground handing me one of those worthless damned surrender leaflets we dropped from the planes. You remember?

Yeah, Marv. I do.

Anyway, the guy brings my food and I just stare at it. I can’t eat. He, of course, starts to wonder if there’s something wrong with the food. He asks me like three times and finally I get pissed and yell at him. You know, telling him to back off and shit like that.

What’d he do?

What could he do, Paul? He just stood there.

So what happened, Marv?

I started crying, sobbing like a fucking baby. So what does this guy do? He puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me it’s okay.

Paul didn’t know what to say, so there was an awkward silence.

He’s right, Marv. It is okay. Come on, man, we’ll take ’em on, buddy. Whadda ya say?

Naw. I’m done, Paul. I’m tired.

Marv… Marv. Talk to me, Marv.

There was a long silence – about two minutes. Paul had heard the sound of guns many times. But the gunshot had an eerie sound through the phone, as though it came from some other world. Paul buried his eyes in his arms for a moment and allowed himself to weep. Then he called the police from a pay phone and wished he could see his friend Marvin one more time. But that was impossible since he couldn’t risk being captured himself.

Chapter 2

No, it wasn’t a mortar. It wasn’t an M-16. Paul was sure it wasn’t anything meant to kill. After all, no one screamed. No one shouted, Man down! It was a goddamned car backfiring, and he knew the difference. Yes, his body recoiled and his pulse raced, those muscle-memories still encoded after myriad firefights. But over the years, he’d learned to squelch those feelings, to herd them farther up into his brain where he could smother them in the cold grip of reason and circumspection. He’d never taken refuge in a bottle or a pill, and you’d never hear him blaming some imaginary protestors who spat on him: that was crap, too. Fact is: it was a needless war we lost. Period. But that war – ’Nam – and the ugly parade of broken souls and bodies it churned out was somehow more palatable than the turkey shoot he’d walked away from in the Gulf.

For most of his career in the military, Paul had been a good soldier, born too late for the two Good Wars. While he’d weathered the absence of some nobler conflagration with as much optimism as possible (Grenada, Panama, the Persian Gulf were, after all, jokes), civilian life seemed disappointing. He hoped the wave of prosperity ushered in with the new president from Hope Arkansas would somehow find its way to him. For too long he’d been a warrior in search of a war. And though he attacked each job with enthusiasm, he felt a quiver of self-contempt that he, a former soldier, had now been reduced to following a crippled old man through downtown Denver. He thought about Marv, but Marv was gone now. He couldn’t even go to his funeral. Paul had a job to do, and he couldn’t risk losing this one.

What’s he doing now? said the voice over Paul’s cell phone. Where are you?

Paul fought his way up the crowded mall like a trout swimming upstream, never losing sight of the old man.

He’s turning onto Curtis.

Good, the voice replied. Maybe we’ll see what the old bastard’s up to. That statue is mine. He knows where it is, and I’m going to get it.

Paul shook his head. Not only did he question the usefulness of the whole undertaking, but it bothered him that the old man reminded him of his father.

I think we’re wasting our time. This guy’s missing a gear. He’s…

Look, do you want this job or not? the voice interrupted. If you like, you can go ask Uncle Sam for your old job back. Maybe some time in Leavenworth would suit you.

Paul pulled the phone from his ear before he could say something he’d regret. He looked at it and scrunched his face into a contemptuous expression, imagining he was about to speak to the face belonging to the voice. He said nothing, however. The specter of unemployment tied his tongue. This was his fourth job in a year-and-a-half. Somehow, they always caught up with him. He slipped the rather heavy phone into his shirt pocket and quickened his pace, coming to within twenty feet or so of the old man who, with the aid of a wooden cane, supported a crippled left leg with remarkable agility. He – Karl Lieber, S.J. (once a member of that august religious body, that is) – stood erect and robust despite his seventy-plus years. His broken limb was like an old yet healthy tree shorn of a branch in some forgotten storm. He carried a leather satchel over his right shoulder, the weight of which lent his walk a rocking sort of rhythm, much, Paul thought, like the stubborn yet dutiful brooms in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. This hobbling, somewhat disheveled old man seemed to Paul like some alien creature wading through the river of business suits.

Karl indeed hated the feel of the sidewalks. The cement, the asphalt, was not like the soft soil of Nicaragua where his every step had been accepted like a cool embrace. The earth had always beckoned him and Karl had answered early in life. It was no surprise, then, that when he stopped by the flower vendor, he was drawn to the flowers less by his training in botany than as a bee intoxicated by the smell. He drew one white carnation from the green plastic bucket, buried his nose in it, and consumed its fragrance. Aaaaah, he said, letting the vowel spill out in a long tone. Dianthus caryophyllis. Tears of the Virgin.

Excuse me? said the vendor, an emaciated woman in a cheap Denver Broncos jacket.

The old man drew a small knife from his pocket, cut the stem of the carnation, and slipped it into the buttonhole of his shirt.

Tears of the Virgin, he repeated. Legend has it that carnations sprang from the tears of the Virgin Mary as she followed her son to his fate at Calvary. Such a sad flower, don’t you agree?

Yeah, sure, said the vendor, rearranging the flowers in the bucket. That’ll be two-fifty, please.

Karl fished a ten from his pocket and, after another quick sniff of the flower in his shirt, left without waiting for his change.

There were a lot fewer people on Curtis Street, so Paul increased his distance from Karl. He was sick of this job and sick of following this old guy. He couldn’t have cared less whether he had some statue or not. But Ramon was obsessed. In three weeks of tailing him, the old guy had done nothing more incriminating than buy flowers from every vendor in the city, pet every dog or cat that happened by, or talk to the occasional person who often took him for crazy. With his thick white hair and disheveled appearance, Karl reminded Paul of his late father, a humorless man bereft of warmth and friendliness and always teetering just at the edge of inebriation. The comparison stopped there, however. Paul felt drawn to Karl and wondered where he himself might have ended up if his own father had been honest with him about his own service in World War Two. Paul knew now, from the movies and documentaries, what really happened in those little towns in Italy and France, and what it had been like in Korea. But back then you didn’t tell your teenage son you hated killing (at least, not when you wore a uniform). No, you sucked it up and disguised what you saw in vapid tales of personal heroism that didn’t contradict the images of John Wayne on the screen. You lied, and you hoped your kid wasn’t perceptive enough to notice you had a hard time going to work every day, that you could do little more with your free time than watch Ozzie and Harriet or Lassie. You lied, and you hoped your kid wasn’t sharp enough to see the disparity between the tales you told and your own dysfunction. Paul was indeed not sharp enough; not then, anyway. Paul joined the army when he was eighteen – just in time for Vietnam.

Karl waited for the traffic light across from the Arts Complex. Paul stopped and pretended to tie his shoe in order to keep some distance between them. The light changed, and Paul followed Karl across, glancing up at the flashing marquee reading: ‘Keepers of the Word’ Convention, Avrahim Shavitz, Guest Speaker. How Denver had changed, he thought to himself, since he left more than twenty years ago. Long before Coors Field and the Tabor Center – when sixteenth was just another street and the only people on Larimer were vagrants – Paul left to serve his country on the other side of the world. He looked up and squinted, the sunlight streaming through the steel-ribbed canopy covering the length of the plaza. Like the nave of a cathedral, it seemed to gather all the theaters and concert halls with gigantic arms, its graceful curve framing the mountain peaks in the distance.

Karl made his way toward a sculpture titled Infinite Energy at the center of the complex, an imposing steel mass that looked like a cross between a double helix and braided lianas reaching up to the sky. Paul leaned against a recess in one of the buildings and watched as Karl sat down next to a man in a clerical collar who was seated at the bench that circled the perimeter of the sculpture. They each nodded in recognition and Karl opened a satchel, took out some documents, and handed them to the cleric who studied them. After a few moments, the cleric, who looked to be a priest, reached into his jacket for an envelope, and handed it to Karl. They then both rose, shook hands, and went opposite ways.

Karl followed the walk that runs along Speer, behind the Convention Center. He waited at the light at Speer and Colfax, and one might have thought he was ready to cross until the sound of a crowd, east toward the Civic Center, caught his attention. He changed course and made his way toward the commotion. As naturally as he had been drawn to the flowers, Karl was drawn to the clamor, the shouting, and the makeshift signs with messages like, DEL FUEGO CATERING DOESN’T CATER TO US, and GIVE US A CONTRACT – NOW!!! Just as he had worked the soil in his native Nicaragua, he had helped to shape the political landscape there as well. In small groups like this, he had fanned the embers of discontent into a firestorm of revolution. It was, for him, the irresistible attraction of the voiceless finding their voice, the sound of ordinary people growing their power. Karl positioned himself next to one of the less active demonstrators – a short, barrel-chested Hispanic man – on the fringe of the crowd.

So negotiations aren’t going well? Karl asked the man.

The man gave a cynical little laugh in response.

What negotiations? Ramon del Fuego doesn’t negotiate.

Karl gave a startled look. Ramon owns this place?

Yes, the man answered. We just won an election to organize, but he couldn’t care less. We got old, unsafe machines in there he won’t service. We got undocumented workers puttin’ in fourteen, sixteen hours with no overtime ‘cause they’re afraid they’ll get sent back if someone complains. We got no health insurance. We spend hours making fancy shit – foie gras and pates – for his rich friends’ weddings and parties, but he doesn’t pay us enough for our own tables.

He pointed at a campaign poster with a picture of the man in question: Ramon Perez del Fuego, the very person to whom Paul had been speaking. It was a Latin visage, with a thin, aristocratic face, thick hair, and narrow, dark eyes that gleamed with confidence and entitlement, eyes that seemed almost to scream, Get back to work! Below the picture, in a thick, serif-less font, were the words: WIN WITH RAMON: DEL FUEGO FOR MAYOR.

Yeah, we’ll win, all right, the man said with a dismissive gesture of his hand. He gets anywhere near city hall, and we’re screwed.

Karl nodded in agreement. I should ask him why he won’t negotiate.

You know him? the man shot back.

Karl nodded again. Yes. My niece is married to him. Believe me, I had no say in the matter. Not only did this revelation not impress the man, but he moved away from Karl toward the center of the activity where a short, rather scruffy college-aged man used a battery-powered megaphone to cheer the group on and stoke its energy. His long, shoulder-length hair bounced as he declaimed with rhythmic consistency: Whadda we want?!

Justice! the crowd wailed in return.

When do we want it?

Now! they cried, waving their signs and holding up clenched fists.

Over and over they chanted, their energy swelling like the frenzied supplications at a tent revival. Their voices, however, were not raised to the Deity, but to the spirit of Debs and Mother Jones. So rapt was the faithfuls’ attention, they didn’t notice that the catering business’ delivery van had pulled up to the curb just a few feet away. The occupants were young – in their twenties and younger – and were one to encounter them individually on a bus or in a market, their olive-green shirts, khaki pants, and black boots would seem no more menacing than a workman off to his job. Paul watched from a distance as they poured out of the vehicle, shoving picketers aside and breaking signs over their knees. It was soon clear to Paul (who watched from a distance) that their attire was every bit as much a uniform as a soldier, a police officer, or a Storm Trooper. And it was also clear who wore these: They were Ramon’s boys, and they’d obviously come to teach the picketers the downside of collective bargaining. He held back. His concern was for Karl, whether it be to follow him or protect him.

The crowd became quiet and parted for the six young men who swaggered in lockstep toward the man with the megaphone. They encircled him, blocking any retreat. Their leader – a thin yet well-toned Latin about twenty-five or so – stood eyeball-to-eyeball with the young union organizer. Though his manner was meant to be menacing, his eyes had a certain warmth and vulnerability. His black hair was close-cropped. It was obvious, from his pressed clothing and shiny boots that spit and polish was the sartorial goal. But there was something about him. He seemed, frankly, more actor than enforcer, and one imagined him changing from his non-thug hours into dockers, loafers, and cotton shirts emblazoned with Polo or Ralph Lauren labels. There was, however, no such irony with his helpers whose pulchritude and aggressive manner qualified them as certifiable, A-1 bodyguards. But they all shared two things: They each wore a gold crucifix-like emblem around their necks, and they each had a rather strange tattoo on their arms with the same image. It was an image of a shrouded, plump-faced female with big, blob-like hands, belts of snakeskin. Those familiar with the image would recognize it as the storied Madonna d’Oro. Across the top of this otherworldly image were the letters K.O.W. Though the man with the megaphone maintained a defiant pose, he was clearly rattled by the bodies surrounding him. He was, then, surprised when the gang leader assumed a friendly demeanor as he pointed to the megaphone.

That’s a pretty handy little gadget there. Can I see it?

It wasn’t a request. He snatched it from the organizer’s hand and, after fumbling with it for a moment, pointed to a switch on the back. Is this where you turn it on? He flipped the switch, put it in the man’s face, and shouted, HEY! The sound hit him like a punch in the face. The ringleader laughed and turned to his cohorts to ensure that they also understood the hilarity of what he’d just done. Then he put the megaphone to the man’s face once again. The organizer braced himself for another blast.

Whadda we want!!! the young Latin shouted, mocking what he’d heard of the demonstration.

Quiet and defiant, the young man replied, Justice.

This angered the ringleader who was trying to make an example of him.

No, the young man began in his normal voice, what we want is for you, (once again he put the megaphone in the man’s face) TO GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!

His face red with rage, his muscles drawn tight like a bow, ready to snap, he could swallow no more of this indignity and lunged forward. In an instant he was brought down by two persons of the group. One of them lifted his foot, ready to stomp his ribs.

Ernesto! Enough! Karl yelled. He hobbled through the crowd and positioned himself in front of the gang’s leader. He leaned on his cane and scolded him like a schoolboy. Shame! Shame on you, Ernesto. Does your father know what you’re doing here?

Paul was surprised that Karl knew the young man. Ernesto seemed visibly chastened and avoided looking at the old man. Karl wagged his finger at him.

What does Ramon pay you to do things like this? Certainly not enough to degrade yourself and your family this way.

Ernesto’s henchmen waited for him to react, but he did nothing. Sensing his leader’s lack of will, the big guy whose foot had just threatened the union organizer stepped between them. He only needed the slightest shove to topple the old man who hit the ground hard on his forearm. His satchel flew open, spilling some of its contents on the ground. Mind your own business, old man, he said, satisfied that this gesture had restored the gang’s credibility. The words had barely escaped his mouth when he himself hit the ground with Paul’s foot on his chest and a knife at his throat.

Okay, assholes, party’s over. Get out now or I cut your friend here.

Ernesto froze for a moment and then raised his right hand. Let’s go, he said simply. Paul let the big guy up and helped Karl to his feet. The old man took the carnation from his lapel and, with great care, slid the flower into Ernesto’s shirt pocket. While this gesture left the young man speechless, this was not the case for the old man who gave Ernesto a forgiving look, saying simply, My regards to Ramon and your father, Ernesto.

Paul knelt and began to gather the things that had spilled from Karl’s satchel. A look at the bag’s contents was, for Paul, a stroke of good fortune since his job from the beginning had been to follow the old man and find out what he could about Ramon’s obsession – the statue: the Madonna d’Oro. As quickly and nonchalantly as possible, he shoved the items back into the satchel. Most of it seemed to be scientific papers. But among the pens, pencils, and AAA batteries was a document whose title read: Banque Suisse, Genève and also what appeared to be some sort of contract.

You okay? Paul asked.

Karl examined a quarter-sized abrasion on his elbow.

Yes, I think. Except for this unfortunate little scratch, I’m fine. He got a little too close to the cut and winced with pain.

You need to clean that and get it bandaged, Paul made a gesture to support Karl but didn’t touch him. You don’t want it to get infected.

Quite so, Mister…?

Paul. Paul’s fine.

Paul made it clear that surnames were, at this point, not available. He offered his help until he was sure Karl was once again supported on his cane. Firmly balanced, Karl attempted to lift the bag to his shoulder with his injured arm, but let it fall with a grimace before he had lifted it half way. Paul made a gesture to help with the bag.

Look. Why don’t you let me carry that for you? How far are you going?

Just over to my house, Karl pointed across the street toward the college. He handed Paul the satchel. That’s very kind of you.

Paul noticed his reflection in the glass at the front door, the only glass on the building’s facade that was predominantly brick. While there were a few small windows, they all had ornamental bars. There he stood: Sergeant – that is, Ex Sergeant Paul Worthing – as fit and firm as his first year in boot camp. Yet, despite the daily push-ups and sit-ups, he felt impotent and disconnected next to the old man. Following Karl had been easy for Paul, guarded as he was not merely by physical distance, but by a buffer zone of negative expectations about life in general. Always – not just in this endeavor but for most of his life – he had assumed the passive indifference of the observer, the not-so-knowing subject at the center of a world of direct objects that orbited around but rarely touched him. Walking with Karl, he felt uneasy and insecure, like someone spying on a family at mealtime who is suddenly invited to join the feast. He struggled to remain detached, to do his duty despite a strange affection he felt for the old man.

My house is just over there on the other side of the college, said Karl. It’s just a few minutes away. I won’t take much of your time.

Paul shrugged. No problem. I’ve got nothing but time.

Chapter 3

Paul knew he had to get some information about the statue, but he had to be discrete and take it nice and slow. He felt awkward walking with Karl across the campus. Every few steps some fresh-faced kid with a load of books would stop the old man either to chat or to query him about an assignment or test. The old man glowed with the attention lavished on him by these young souls and it wasn’t until they’d waded through this sea of students that Paul could work on the old man again.

They like you, said Paul with a little laugh. You must be a good teacher.

And I like them, Karl answered, picking up the pace now that they were a little away from the campus. It’s quite logical.

How’s that? Paul asked.

Well, when one thinks I’ve spent my whole life growing one thing or another, it’s the next logical step to nurture the minds of these young people. I’ve seen too much bad seed take root in my time.

So you teach what, chemistry?

No. I’m a botanist. That’s what I teach, Karl replied.

Knowing fully well it was botany he taught, Paul continued to play ignorant. So teaching is something new for you?

Yes. I, as they say, fell into it after I came here from Nicaragua.

Really? Nicaragua? And what did you do there? Paul asked, keeping up the ruse.

Believe it or not, I spent many of my early years as a priest in my home country. My family owned a coffee farm in Matagalpa. Somehow I divided my time between running the farm and cultivating souls.

Cultivating soil? Paul asked.

No, souls. Cultivating souls. I was a Jesuit, in fact.

Paul detected a note of cynicism in the old man’s voice and, being aware also of the circumstances surrounding Karl’s rift with the church, was cautious with his inquiry.

So you left the Order?

Yes, Karl laughed. You might say I had a disagreement with Holy Mother Church about how best to serve the flock. They seemed to think I couldn’t mix Jesus and java, if you know what I mean, he quipped, pleased at his little play on words.

Near the south end of the campus, the Colfax overpass slopes gently down and becomes a street again. Like a proffered hand, it delivers the traffic it has lifted safely over I-25, over the grid of railroad tracks and the broken skeletons of old buildings which had been the backbone of the city’s business district around the time of McKinley, Roosevelt, and Wilson. By a small patch of land situated among the parking lots and university service buildings, Karl stopped once again. While the debris strewn through the tall grass marked it as one of those rare plots spared the hand of progress, the red-flagged surveyor’s sticks ringing its perimeter seemed to indicate that its time had finally