The Feather

By John A. Mark

Five individuals, through a series of unexplainable events-are drawn together into a metaphysical mystery. Their lives, always grounded in science and reality, now struggle to explain occurrences their rational minds can't comprehend, experiences that defy the world of science and technology they're accustomed to. As they seek answers, their liv

• Language: English
• Publisher: The King's English Bookshop
• Release date: Jul 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781792321566

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Feather_ebook_cover.jpg

THE

FEATHER

THE

FEATHER

A Novel

by JOHN A. MARK

Copyright © 2020 by John A. Mark

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Cover art by Laura Boardman

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-7338513-0-5

John A. Mark

[e-mail]

1511 South 1500 East

Salt Lake City UT 84105

www.kingsenglish.com

TKE Ink

www.kingsenglish.com

for Annie

You make all things possible

One

Fall 2008

Dr. Barbara Harrop, world-renowned British neurosurgeon, came to Iraq as part of a team of physicians to study what combat surgeons were facing. The battlefield had quieted down in recent days and no trouble was expected.

She’d had been in country for almost two months, touring various facilities, witnessing the devastating head injuries suffered by soldiers as well as civilians. She was there to help, but also to learn. The doctors she’d met were awe-inspiring; true heroes.

Today she was scheduled to spend five hours at a U.S. Marine Combat Support Hospital in Anbar province. It was to be her last stop before heading home.

The skirmish had been short, but intense. Casualties were not heavy, but one soldier had been badly wounded by an RPG grenade. He had sustained serious head trauma and his brain was riddled with shrapnel. When he arrived at the hospital the triage physician didn’t know how the soldier had lived this long.

Being the only neurosurgeon present, Barbara quickly scrubbed up as the patient was prepped for surgery. She had the usual team to assist and the surgery commenced at half past five.

Barbara began by removing pieces of the skull. She had performed surgery on patients who had been shot in the head, occasionally multiple times, but these wounds were beyond the pale. Shrapnel and bone fragments were lodged in every corner of the brain. Blood vessels were cut. Neural pathways seemingly destroyed. It would be merciful to let this poor man die; the damage is just too great.

She was a physician. She pressed on.

Her assisting physician was beginning to hint that this was a waste of time. Barbara could tell that the cadre of nurses and aides, while voicing no opinions, were feeling the same way. The marine’s breathing had become erratic and his heartbeat was arrhythmic; the anesthesiologist was having trouble as well.

She had just about convinced herself that to let the Marine go was the best course of action.

She momentarily looked up from her work. As an aide patted perspiration from her forehead she noticed a doctor she hadn’t previously seen standing at the foot of the operating table. She didn’t think much of it. People came and went all the time during surgery, doctors curious to see how things were progressing, or to offer assistance if need be, or on long surgeries, a normal rotation of staff.

There was something unusual about this man. He was tall, about six feet three inches, however it was his eyes that captivated her. The iris was a deep blue color that gradually became almost purple toward the edges. Barbara had never seen anyone with eyes like that; she didn’t think it possible. He was dressed in a normal surgical gown and mask with gloved hands. He looked at Barbara; she felt his eyes penetrate her very being. He’s looking into my soul…

He said, This man can be saved, continue.

Barbara was stunned. What is he talking about? Where did he come from? She’d met all the staff doctors earlier in the day, there were only five and she was sure he had not been one of them.

Again he said, This man can be saved, continue.

The O.R. staff looked at her, expecting her to say what everyone had been thinking; the soldier was gone.

But he wasn’t. And somehow she knew he wasn’t going to be.

She looked at the man on the table. Continue. To do what? What more could she do?

Her assisting physician leaned in toward Barbara and was just about to intercede when Barbara came out of her brief coma and began to work, work as she had never worked before. Ideas and procedures she had never thought of suddenly flooded into her mind. Her hands began to move rapidly and with a precision she never knew she had.

The man at the foot of the table stood watching in silence. She knew he was her inspiration, but how could that be? She didn’t have time to process the thought. An explanation would have to come later.

The medical team was astonished. The patient’s brain activity, which had almost flat lined, gradually resumed. Neural pathways were reconnected, his heart and breathing functions ever so slowly returned to normal.

Word spread quickly around the base of the amazing work happening in Operating Suite #2. Those who had authority to do so came to watch. Staff rotated in and out. Barbara took no break and neither did the man who she knew was helping her. If she became tired or momentarily unsure about what came next, all she needed to do was look into his eyes and she would become refreshed.

But most of all it was the energy she felt that surrounded her and everyone in the O.R.

By two a.m. it was over. Barbara stepped back from the table to let the aides wheel the patient into the recovery room. She was finished, and beyond exhaustion. The Marine who, when he’d arrived, had been at death’s door, was resting comfortably. It would be a long recovery, but his prognosis was good.

It seemed unfathomable to her what she and her team had done. There were so many questions. Despite her exhausted state, she set out to find the real doctor to get some answers.

But he was nowhere to be found.

Back in the O.R. prep area she collapsed in a chair; too tired to even remove her surgical gown and gloves. All she could do was lower her mask and stare at the wall opposite her.

A steady stream of doctors, nurses and staff came by to congratulate her. It was an historic and unexplainable achievement, made all the more memorable because it had been done in a field hospital. She was being called a genius. Her reputation as one of the finest neurosurgeons in the world was known, but now, some said, the bar had been raised to an entirely new level.

Barbara let the accolades pass right over her. She knew it just wasn’t so. There would be no true explanation until she found the real doctor.

Edward Marrs, an orthopedic surgeon, had been her primary assisting physician. Odd, yes, but there had been no one else available. He came and sat beside her.

That was quite a performance. Like everyone else, I was astonished to say the least.

So was I.

What are you talking about? Except for one time, about two hours in, I saw no hesitation at all in your actions, or doubt on your face. You were in complete control and pulled off what I would call a miracle if I hadn’t actually been there to see it. I’m not knowledgeable about neurosurgery by any stretch of the imagination, but I know if you hadn’t been here that young man would be dead. None of the rest of us would even have tried to save him after the first couple of hours. He was too far gone.

Who is he? She was still blindly staring at the wall, unable to move.

Who is who? The patient? His name is Timothy Riser, a corporal in the Second Battalion, Fourth Marines. From Denver, I think.

No, not him though thanks for telling me. She let her head drop slightly as a brief feeling of shame swept over her for not thinking of the man whose life she had just saved. No, I mean who was the doctor at the foot of the table.

Dr. Marrs had been in the O.R. for all but about fifteen minutes of the procedure. He looked at Barbara and said, What doctor? The only doctors present were you, the anesthesiologist, and me. At about the five-hour mark, our C.O., Colonel Hutchinson, came in briefly to see for himself what amazing things were going on in one of his O.R’s. He stood behind me for the short while he was with us.

She was becoming mildly agitated and gave him a perplexing look. She knew what she has seen.

Staff, then. Who was the staff member standing at the foot of the operating table?

Dr. Harrop, Barbara if I may, there was no one standing at the foot of the table, no one, ever. You are beat, as well you should be. It’s almost two-thirty in the morning. You are beyond exhausted.

A nurse entered and brought them both a glass of juice and some snack bars. Have some light refreshments, wash up, and if you feel like eating something more substantial, the mess will make you anything you want, Dr. Harrop. You’re now scheduled to head back to Baghdad around sixteen hundred hours, sorry, about four in the afternoon. The C.O. has arranged sleeping quarters for you as well. With that the nurse turned and left.

The nurse had some good advice, Barbara. It will all become clear after some food and sleep, especially sleep. He stood. Truly, it was amazing. I am proud to have played a small part in it. I can’t wait until you write this up in a journal. He removed his surgical gear, turned to Barbara, smiled and went out.

He thinks I’m making this up. I’m not. She sat quietly for a bit longer, sipped the juice and took a couple bites from the snack bar. She was not hungry, but she was tired. Sleep. Dr. Marrs was right, it was sleep that she needed.

She rose from her chair, discarded her surgical gown, and looked in the mirror over the scrub sinks. My God, what a sight.

The nurse who had brought the juice was waiting for her outside of the scrub room. What may I get for you, Dr. Harrop?

Which way to my quarters? I only want to sleep.

This way.

Barbara followed the nurse outside the operating suite, down a narrow street to a building about forty yards away. It looked like a series of old shipping containers that had been welded together and then had windows and doors cut into them. That, in fact, was exactly what they were. Then they had been subdivided into individual sleeping quarters. Barbara’s room was on the far end, which gave her the luxury of two windows instead of one. It was furnished with a single bed, a chair, and a nightstand with a lamp, and a pitcher of ice water. There was also a room air conditioner mounted on the far wall. It might pass as a prison cell, she thought, but in her present condition, it looked like the most welcoming room she’d ever seen.

Thank you, Barbara said.

It’s not much, but it’s what we’ve got. When you get hungry, the mess hall is the large building next door. It’s open 24/7. The food is actually pretty good. Oh, and the C.O. would like to see you whenever you feel like it before you leave.

I’ll be certain to stop by.

Food was not on her mind, sleep was. She promised herself she would find the mysterious doctor or staff person when she woke up. Dr. Marrs had been caught up in the surgery, she thought, too busy to notice. Someone else must have seen him and knew who he was.

She was so tired she didn’t even take off her clothes, just lay down on the bed on top of the covers. The mattress was firm; the pillow was soft, just as she liked them. She pulled up the extra blanket at the foot of her bed, turned onto her left side, and crumpled the pillow with her arm to give her head a bit more support. As she was about to doze off, she became aware of something lying between her pillow and the edge of the bed.

She looked at the object in utter befuddlement. What in the world, how on Earth did that get here? she said out loud.

She looked again, and then touched it. Immediately she felt a burst of energy flow through her body. Not the kind that caused anxiety or pain, no, it was a calming, peaceful, loving force; she felt as though she was floating on air.

It was the feather of a white dove.

Two

April 2016

David awoke slowly, his eyes struggling to focus on nothing in particular, but just to focus. The digital clock on his nightstand said 6:05.

He rolled slightly onto his right side and reached for Marza. All he found was a cold empty space where she should have been. Startled for only a brief instant, he remembered she had left yesterday with her best girlfriend for a Caribbean cruise.

He missed her already.

The ring of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. The number displayed on his caller ID made him smile. Marza.

Hello, you’re certainly up bright and early, he said.

Good morning! said the all too cheery voice on the other end. It is going to be an absolutely gorgeous day here. I’m on our balcony looking at the ocean. The sun is just about to peek over the horizon. I’m so glad Ginny wanted to come down a day early. We’ve got some coffee going and are getting ready for an early walk on the beach.

The joy in her voice made David grin. She’s happy. Now he knew he’d have a good day too.

Marza continued, Just the Fisk observation today, then a brief twelve-thirty with Harry Warren and Liz Nelson in Warren’s office regarding the Africa project, O.R. prep is at seven-thirty, surgery is scheduled for eight-thirty. You should be on your way to New Hampshire by early afternoon.

Always keeping me on my toes, even when you’re away.

Well, someone has to do it. Who better than me?

I can think of no one.

Good! Let’s keep it that way.

I can assure you there will be no problems on this end. When do you board the ship?

One o’clock. We leave at four. Then a week of drinking, eating way too much, telling lies and thoroughly enjoying ourselves.

You need it. These past few months have been absurdly busy. I already miss you, but I’m glad you and Ginny are doing this. Not many people can say they are still best friends with someone from their childhood.

It’s priceless. I miss you too. I’ll fill you in on all our adventures when I get back.

All?

"Okay, most. I know you’re going to New Hampshire to finish the edits of your book, but take time to enjoy yourself too. And give my best to Hank and Edie."

You know I will. I love you.

I love you, too. Oh, and watch out for bears! Bye!

Watch out for bears, her favorite phrase. She said it to him all the time, even when he was in the city. Bears, it seemed, were everywhere, especially in the city.

David was the Chief of Cardiology, Research, and Cardio-Vascular surgery at St. Mary’s Medical Center. The surgery on his schedule was one he wasn’t going to perform. He would be present only to observe Dr. Murray Fisk, a new addition to the staff.

A little over six-feet two inches tall, David’s body suggested he had a rigorous daily work-out regimen, which he didn’t. Just good genes he liked to say. His warm smile and disposition put people immediately at ease when they were around him. He’d just turned forty-five; a somewhat young age to hold such an important position, but his professional accomplishments could not be denied. He had the utmost confidence in himself and his abilities, not to the point of conceit or arrogance, just the quiet certitude that he knew who he was, what he was doing, and that he did it extremely well.

He yawned, got out of bed, went to the window and peered through the blinds. It may be warm and sunny in Florida, but it was cool and drizzling in New York.

No matter, time to get going.

* * * * *

The morning had gone smoothly and by four that afternoon David found himself just south of Milford, Connecticut heading north on I-95. A light snowstorm had raced through the area the day before and deposited just enough snow to make the normally dull winter scenery interesting.

The day had begun with a light rain, but it cleared by mid-morning. The rest of the day had been cool and clear. As he drove, the beginnings of a gorgeous sunset appeared.

His brand-new Lincoln MKZ devoured the miles between New York and Hancock, New Hampshire at a rate slightly better than the posted speed limit. Soon he was through New Haven and on the I-91. The route was familiar. From here, it was up through Hartford to Brattleboro, Route 9 to Keene where, if he was hungry, he’d stop at a favorite diner. Then to the intersection of Route 9 with Route 123, a right turn, and in another three-quarters of a mile, on the left, would be what he truly considered his home. A sturdy well-appointed house nestled in the midst of trees; ten acres of trees.

David arrived just before seven. It was totally dark now, the kind of darkness you only experience away from the cities. But the stars, my God, the stars! He and Marza may work in New York, but they lived in New Hampshire.

His stop in Keene was only for gas, nothing else; he just wanted to get home. As he drove up his winding driveway, a warm, welcoming glow came from inside the house.

Thank you, Henry Caldwell.

Henry, known to everyone simply as Hank, was a neighbor. He operated a small construction/handyman business out of a very well equipped workshop behind his house.

When David decided to buy the property the house was pretty much a run-down mess. Years of neglect and outright abuse had taken their toll. It was, to put it mildly, uninhabitable. But the setting had more than made up for it. Ten wooded acres, a stream and pond, New England heaven. He had found Hank through his real estate agent and they hit it off immediately. David described what he wanted and Hank did it, simple as that. Hank and Edie, his wife, also looked after his place when David was away.

David pulled into his heated garage; an out-building Hank had insisted he add to the property. He got out of his car, locked it, closed the door, and proceeded up the pathway to the house. As he entered he saw a small vase of fresh-cut flowers on his dining table, undoubtedly from Edie’s greenhouse, where else could she have found them in April, and a note.

Hello Doc, glad you’re back. Hope you had a good trip. There is cold fried chicken in the refrigerator along with some potato salad, eggs, bacon and milk. Edie made cinnamon muffins this morning; there are two in a container along with a bag of fresh coffee beans and a loaf of homemade bread on