Metal Horses: Harry the Mole – 2 the Continuing Story of the People

By Ray Mootrey

Two hundred and twenty years after the death of Harry the Mole, the people of the hill and the valley lack the metal resources to replace even the simplest tools that they once had. Seven men, each with different special psychic abilities, undertake a journey on horseback to find a historical site of mining and ironworks. What they find and the conditions that they overcome will change them forever as it pushes their humanity to the limit.

This is a postapocalyptic adventure fantasy thats sure to excite and entertain.

Watch for the next in the series, The Descent into Normalcy, as time, conditions, and the nature of man continue to oscillate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524528171

Ray Mootrey

Ray Mootrey, BSc, PP, is the owner and president of Ingredient Supply Co. Inc. He was born in 1938 in Carbonear, Newfoundland, and now lives as a widower in Kitchener, Ontario, Canada. He worked most of his life in the food manufacturing business and now intends to spend most of his spare time writing. He has been a professional member of the Canadian Institute of Food Science and Technology, the Canadian Spice Association, the Association for Research and Enlightenment, and many others. Currently a member of the Canadian Authors Association, he is an avid reader who also likes a movie, a game of pool, or a game of poker.

Book preview

METAL

HORSES

Harry the Mole – 2

The Continuing Story of the People

A Novel

by

RAY MOOTREY

Copyright © 2016 by Ray Mootrey.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2016911900

ISBN:       Hardcover       978-1-5245-2819-5

       Softcover       978-1-5245-2818-8

       eBook       978-1-5245-2817-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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.

Rev. date: 08/08/2016

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Home

Chapter 2 On the Hill

Chapter 3 The Meeting

Chapter 4 Preparation

Chapter 5 Departure

Chapter 6 Good Times Never Last

Chapter 7 Baptism

Chapter 8 Jack and Anne

Chapter 9 Haunted Forest

Chapter 10 Jack and Anne

Chapter 11 Epiphany

Chapter 12 Jack and Anne

Chapter 13 Capture

Chapter 14 Escape and Battle

Chapter 15 Bunker and Trade

Chapter 16 The Way Home

Chapter 17 Metal Horses

Dedicated to Molly, my soul mate forever, and to Sean, my son, and Renee, my daughter—who both overlook my idiosyncrasies.

The present changes the past. Looking back, you do not find what you left behind.

—Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss

As conditions change, all life, especially mankind, in this third density must change in order to survive. Depending on your point of view, the change may be considered progression, regression, or transgression.

CHAPTER 1

HOME

Fuck drip, no good for nuttin’.

Henry heard it in his semiconscious. He opened his eyes. The old man was standing at the foot of his bed. Henry turned over and closed his eyes again. He had had a decent sleep. He hadn’t dreamt. He thought, Change is coming soon. Things will be different. The only thing forever is the surety conditions will change. He realized there was light. Three seconds later his consciousness kicked in. He sat up with a jerk.

Damn, he said, I slept in.

He arose and dressed, including his tunic. He looked through the dirty glass window thinking, I should clean it one of these days. It was cloudy outside. The morning light on the snow still covering most of the meadow was bright to his sleep-filled eyes. The old man had left. From his small bedroom, he walked three steps and pushed open the door to his modest kitchen. The old man with his smashed head was now standing near the unlit fire pit as if warming his hands.

Henry said, Go away, old man. There’s nothing for you here anymore. Be gone.

The old man replied, Fuck drip, no good for nuttin’, then disappeared.

No sound was made. Henry heard it in his head, and he could read the old man’s lips; living alone, Henry had a habit of talking to himself. He decided to eat breakfast later. He had chores to take care of first. He pushed open the door and stepped outside. There were no locks yet; there was no need for them. The cold breeze from the northeast hit him in the face like an unexpected slap, making his eyes water. He thought, No snow will melt today.

He walked slowly the forty-five meters to the compound. When he pulled open the wide wooden doors, he felt the warm air from inside flood over him. The familiar smells then smacked him in the nose to remind him today would be no different from every winter day. There’d be plenty beds to clean. It wasn’t spring yet. The mixed smells of piss, shit, and body heat didn’t bother him. He was used to it. His senses equalized with the comforting warmth of his love for each of them and the love he assumed they had for him. He walked directly to Mariam. She had seemed distant and stubborn when he fed her last night. She obviously had lost her appetite as well because he now noticed most of what he had left her was still where he had left it.

Good morning, Mariam.

She glared at him sideways in a manner speaking louder than any sound. It indicated, Who the hell are you? What do you want? Leave me alone.

You not feeling good, girl?

He bent over and grabbed an ankle and while lifting one of her legs said,

There’s something I have to check in your sensitive part. If you’ve got it filled with dirt again or pebbles in it, I’ll have to clean it out right away.

As he was looking, he added,

It’s almost spring and any day now some man will want to have you for a few days and we don’t want to disappoint him, do we?

Before he finished, the leg was jerked out of his hand so hard and fast it almost knocked him off his feet. It came back with a brutish kick that by chance missed his knee by millimeters. It would have crippled him for sure. He lurched backward in time to miss a well-aimed bite at his face. He damned near knocked over the lit lantern that he had so carefully placed on the rail. He grabbed it in time and moved away. She didn’t follow. None of the other sixteen bothered to move. He knew they were patiently waiting for him to dish out their morning feed. He spoke out loud again, It’s a damn good thing it’s not eight years ago, Mariam.

He remembered how his father used to handle them, with a whip.

He had been that kind of man. He controlled everybody by using pain to instill fear and obedience. He always whipped the horses for no reason at all except to remind them that he was the boss with the whip. I have always used kindness. That’s why he always called me a little fuck drip and no good for nuttin’.

He stood there reminiscing.

I remember the day he died. I was fourteen and saw the whole thing. I’m not sure, but I think it was Saviour’s sire. Dad was trying to force the stallion into the barn as usual with the whip. The horse didn’t want to go in. It kicked out with both hind legs, and Dad bent over with three broken ribs. The horse kicked again, and this time both hooves struck the man square in the head. He flew backward and landed on his back. He slid about two meters, and that was the last move he made on his own. Dad was buried the next day. The horse wasn’t put down. We could afford to lose a man easier than it was to lose a horse. I wouldn’t admit that I saw anything, let alone identify a particular horse. I’m still not sure if I did the right thing. I wonder about that sometimes. It wouldn’t have made any difference. The man was dead. It wouldn’t have done any good to have killed a horse as well.

A low deep whinny from farther down the aisle brought him out of his musings. He recognized it.

That sounds like you, Saviour. I’ll get to you when I’m damn good and ready. If I had told on your father, you wouldn’t even be here now.

Henry felt warm and comfortable. He felt more at home in the barn that he did in his shack. He leaned on the railing near his lantern and went back to his thoughts. It was a habit. He did it often. He kept going over his past and wondering where he might have done better and how he might have changed things. He pondered over whether it would have been for better or worse.

I inherited this place and the herd at age fourteen, seven years ago. I’ve only increased the herd by seven. Eh! One a year. I had ten when I started. I’ll have to do better than that. Mom was a good mother. She seemed happier and more comfortable here after the old man’s demise. It’s been three years since she passed with pneumonia. I miss her. I have seventeen friends, my horses.

He wiped a tear from underneath an eye and decided to get to work.

I’m worried about Mariam. I’ll feed the others and do something for her afterward.

He continued with his daily winter routine. He brought more hay from the loft for each horse’s stall. Then he’d fill each trough with fresh water. They didn’t need grooming; that was usually an afternoon or evening job. The doors would be left open until dark so they could come and go as they please. He had two paddocks where they could run and frolic. Once spring arrived, they could graze all day. During the spring, summer, and fall, most of them would be on loan to work for whoever needed them. That was the system. In return, Henry got his share of crops and goods that others produced. He got what he needed, which he sometimes thought wasn’t a hell of a lot. Considering he was only one man, he didn’t need very much. He didn’t bother to imagine any other ways. He wasn’t ignorant or apathetic. Although he was mostly self-educated, he understood scientific principles and people as well as he understood horses. He had spent all his spare time in the old museum and library on the hill. Besides studying, he did his share of recopying the old manuscripts. He cared deeply about the human condition, but he would never take the initiative or suggest a solution. The only thing he would ever insist upon would have to do with the horses.

He left Saviour until last. Saviour was his special stallion. He was a six-year-old beauty. He stood twenty hands high and weighed over eight hundred kilograms and was as fast as the wind. He was totally black except for a white cross on his forehead that stretched down between his eyes. It was Henry’s mother that had named him. Saviour whinnied low and deep when Henry approached, as if to say, About time. The love and respect between them could almost be felt in the air. When someone wanted to borrow Saviour, Henry always concocted a good story of why he needed him himself.

Finally, when leaving, Henry again checked on Mariam, his favorite mare. She didn’t seem sick or hurt. She was only surly.

Do what you like, girl. I’ll check on you later.

Henry left the barn, and he noticed again the cold air. It gave him a shiver that seemed to start from the inside and work its way out. He didn’t feel cold regardless of the northeast wind. It was more like a feeling of ominous foreboding that permeated his soul.

When he entered his modest cabin, the apparition stood by the small fireless fire pit as if warming himself. Henry had not yet lit a fire. Unaffected, Henry said as usual,

Go away. Be gone. There’s nothing here for you anymore. Go.

The old man turned to Henry with a snarl and mouthed, Fuck drip, little shit. Henry knew that was what it had said even though no sound was heard. It didn’t perturb him. He experienced it on a regular basis. Then he looked at the table, and his adrenaline kicked in. For the first time in his life, he almost went into hysterics. Lying on his table were the old whip and the almost-rusted-away curb bit that his father had used on the horses. Henry thought, Good God! He’s now advanced to a poltergeist.

The whip had never been used by Henry. It had been stored away in the back room. Henry didn’t use bits. He thought that even an ordinary one was an unnecessary cruelty. He used a halter with a separate double connection across the bottom of the jaw, causing no pain or discomfort to the horse. This damn thing he hadn’t seen for years and didn’t even know where it had been. He didn’t worry about anyone else using bits on his horses. There were no metals with which to make replacements. He wished though that he had enough iron to make horseshoes. Good horseshoes would protect the hooves from injury. He’d still have to trim their hooves as often and clean out the sensitive centers, but shoes would give them a more secure grip and protection.

Henry couldn’t find enough metal to repair his old cooking utensils. His frying pan, which he was about to use, was close to being finished. It was so thin in the middle that he had to fry near the sides. He remembered when as a wee lad there were remnants of an old cast iron stove. It was long gone. Its remains had been used in an attempt to repair the last generator at the last wind turbine. These were long gone too. Now he had a fire pit like everyone else. Eventually he got a small fire started. It took longer than normal. The flint sparked, but the handful of hay he brought in his pocket had been damp. No doubt it had gotten that way from his own recent cold sweat. As he fried and ate the small steak someone had given him and the three eggs someone else had given him, he pondered on what could be upsetting Mariam. If she was sick, he should go and talk to Chuck. Chuck was the only so-called vet who had studied animal doctoring from the old books. His thoughts were interrupted by a slight tap on the door.

Come in if you’re alive. If you’re dead, you’re not welcome.

The door opened, and what came in was a huge grin under two bright enormous brown eyes.

I’m alive, Henry. You been seein’ that ghost of your dad again?

Jeez, I’m glad to see you, Jake.

Why, what’s up? … The horses? Most of them were in the paddock when I came up.

Did you see Mariam?

Didn’t notice.

She’s probably still in the barn. She’s upset this morning and I don’t know why. She damned near crippled me and then tried to bite my head off. She hasn’t been eating much. I think she might be sick. I was considering going to see Chuck.

Well, aren’t you glad I came along. I’ll go down and have a chat with her.

I’d appreciate that, Jake, but be careful. She’s not herself. You don’t suppose that animals can be possessed by an evil spirit, do you?

I don’t know, Henry. I haven’t met one yet. I think maybe wolves can. You stay here. I’ll talk to her alone. Be right back.

He left at full speed. He wasn’t hyper, but like any thirteen-year-old he never moved at a slow and regular pace. He moved mostly on the run. Henry was relieved. Jacoby and horses went together like bows and arrows. Jake was a horse whisperer. He could deal with all animals, even the wild ones to a degree. He had no fear of animals. He was able to somehow get in tune with their vibes. He couldn’t necessarily control them, but he could communicate with them somehow and calm them or pick up their intentions. He was only eight years old when he wandered over to Henry’s horse ranch one summer day and has been coming back every free hour ever since. Other than the horses, he was Henry’s only friend and confidant. Henry treated him like a brother. If Jake ran into a wild or stubborn animal, he mentally threatened them with fire, and they fell into line. He was enrolled into the special meditation classes on the hill. He had a special ability called pyrokinetics. The son of a gun could start a fire up to fifty meters away just by concentrating and pointing his finger.

While Jake was gone, Henry put the whip back in the old box where it belonged. He picked up the remains of the old, now rusty, curb bit and wondered where in hell it had been. He hadn’t seen it in years. He thought, Perhaps hell was exactly where it had been. He wondered if keeping the old box and its contents in his house could increase the negativity already lingering there from years gone by. It’s too bad he didn’t realize that he could do the same with his memories. He could put them all into a mental box and file them somewhere out of mind in a back closet in his brain.

This time the grin covered the whole face but still couldn’t outshine the excited brown eyes as they burst in through the door.

Henry, silly, you should know what’s wrong with Mariam, as he broke into a loud boyish laugh.

An annoyed Henry said, What, asshole?

She’s in heat. That’s all. She wants to get screwed.

With a sudden realization, Henry replied,

Damn, I never thought of that. Of course she’s a three-year-old filly, but it’s not even spring yet. It’s a few weeks away. That’s why I didn’t think of it.

Jake, still with a silly grin, retorted,

I guess when you want to, you want to.

What do you know about that? You’re only thirteen years old.

That was last summer, dummy. I’m almost fourteen now.

OK, Master Coby, you’re all grown-up.

Don’t call me that.

I’ll call you what I like. I’ll call you Oby if I want to.

Well, that I wouldn’t mind. It gives me a nice comfortable familiar feeling. But everyone calls me Jake and that’s what I like. Except my father calls me Jacoby—he insists on being formal. I guess he thinks he’s showing respect by using my full name.

Well, all right, Mr. Jacoby, if you’ve come over to help me, we’ve got a lot of work to do. Mariam probably won’t respond to me and I don’t want her kicking at me again. So you lead her out to the small paddock while I go get Saviour. We’ll leave both of them out there alone for the rest of the day and see what happens.

Can I watch, Henry. Can I. I’d like to watch.

"For heaven’s sake, Jake, Why? There’s nothing to see, only two animals frolicking. Hell, if you approached a girl acting like a horse, she’d never speak to you again. Forget about it. Besides, there’s a lot of cleaning to do in the barn. We have to clean out every stall and put in clean straw.

Jake said, Especially Mariam’s.

Why especially hers?

Because it looks and smells like she pissed in it all night or haven’t you cleaned it for a week?

I cleaned it out yesterday.

Well, she’s got a pissin’ problem. Come on. I can spend the day with ya. This is rest day at home. My father insists on having a rest day every seven days. He’s not sure why. It’s something that was passed down from his ancestors. I checked up on it in the library and it got something to do with our old religion.

They cleaned out the stable and set up each stall with fresh hay and water. The day was edging toward dark. The horses, including Mariam and Saviour, gradually returned to their stalls. Mariam was settled down and more like her normal self. Saviour was more calm and relaxed than usual. Both Henry and Jake figured that they had copulated. Jake was about to leave for home when he remembered,

Gee, Henry. I almost forgot. I’m supposed to tell you that you have to attend a meeting tomorrow on the hill. I have to go too, right after lessons.

Me? Why do I have to go to a meeting? I’m going to no meeting. What’s it about?

I don’t know what it’s about, Henry. I was told that it’s important and for you to be there.

Henry shook his head and thought, No way. I don’t like meetings. There’ll be a bunch there.

Jake left for home in his happy, high thirteen-year-old way. On his way he turned back, waved, and yelled,

See ya tomorrow.

Henry didn’t bother to acknowledge it. He settled into his normal routine of preparing something for his supper. He wasn’t a good cook by any means, but usually he had something that someone had given him that he just had to warm up and eat.

The most difficult job had been obtaining water to fill the stalls’ troughs and filling up for his own for personal use. He didn’t mind carrying two large bucketsful at a time from the well. It was the well itself that sucked his energy. The water came from a spring beneath the surface higher up on the ridge. He had with the aid of his divining rods traced it down to a particular spot on his property and then dug a well. He had dug it two meters deep, and it filled up quickly to the surface. He then dug a shallow ditch, which became a brook flowing through his property, from which the horses could drink always downstream from his well. The problem was that Henry and the well didn’t get along. It wasn’t the well’s fault. Henry had an innate fear of water. Every time he had to fill a bucket of water from the well, he had an overpowering fear of falling in. He overcame it only by forcing his will to overcome the fear long enough to pull up a full bucket. It had something to do with one of his recurring nightmares. He would dream of being in water and unable to swim. He would wake up in a panic just before drowning. It had an effect on his personal cleanliness. He’d never had a bath. He went to the trouble of building a cistern system whereby he could fill a large wooden container with warm water, stand underneath, pull a cord, and get a shower. He loved showers. He couldn’t get in a bath. It was too unnerving to be immersed in water.

He ate, showered, and went to bed. It had been a good day. Perhaps the night would also be kind and drift by without another nightmare. He wasn’t that lucky. He had a recurring dream problem.

During the middle of the night, he pushed open his outside door in answer to a loud thumping. He was looking at a wide leather belt fastened by an old, rusty curb bit. It wrapped around a midriff twice the size of his elevated cistern. His adrenaline started to flow from the pit of his stomach like a slow-moving lightning bolt until it filled his senses. He was in a severe flight mode, but his feet wouldn’t move. He slowly strained his neck backward to look directly above. His sight moved gradually upward over a massive hairy black chest to an indescribable face of a half man and half beast. His eyes met the black lifeless eyes of a giant that was over three meters tall. He stood frozen in that position for a long time. He was then grabbed around the neck by a four-talon hen’s claw the size of a bear trap and lifted until he was at eye level with the giant. The giant’s eyes were only two immense black holes. He noticed that the sky beyond the thing’s head was alive with swirling colored lights. Suddenly he was looking down from a height such that his ranch looked like an anthill. For some reason he noticed and made a mental note that the creature was left-handed. Its right claw was making circles over Henry’s head. It then opened its pointed teeth cavity and growled something that sounded to Henry like a rumbled, H e a r y. Henry was dropped. He fell for a long time as the anthill got bigger and bigger until he could see each one of his horses waiting in line to take a kick at him when he landed.

The instant he hit, he jerked awake and sat up in bed. He was as wet as the bedclothes soaked with his cold sweat. He sat in the dark with eyes wide open and knew there’d be no more sleep tonight. Unsure of how many hours of darkness left, he didn’t want to lie down again in the wet and cold. He dressed and lit the lantern. Then he started a fire and made himself a cup of herbal tea. As he sat alone sipping his tea, his mind as usual wandered back and forth between the past and the present. He wondered if he should get the courage to consider finding a mate. He wasn’t a virgin. He had several girls over the past few years, each one only for a short period. His biggest problem with girls had been trying to avoid them. As soon as they hinted at a serious relationship, he gave them a feeble excuse, such as, I’m not good enough for a girl like you. You can do better. His best attempts had been made trying to not hurt their feelings. Most of them went on to find love with somebody else. There were still plenty from which he could choose if he wanted to. He didn’t know exactly what true love was. He hadn’t found his dream girl yet, but he had a vague image of her in his mind. For now, his greatest love was for his horses.

As a boy Henry had been small for his age. He had malnutrition. He was weak and extremely shy. During his school years from age six to age twelve, he was picked on daily. The other kids called him nicknames; a favorite was Babyface. He was never chosen, unless last to make an even number on a team for any sports activity. Sometimes he was chosen for an imaginative game of heroes and clones or something else—equally, in Henry’s opinion, silly. In such cases he was always a clone and never a hero. The name-calling didn’t bother him at all. Nothing anyone else said could ever hurt as much as being constantly called a little fuck-drip good for nuttin’ by his own father.

He was pushed around and beat on every day; Dave had been the worst. Dave was two years older than him and two grades ahead in school. Dave was a bully. Nobody could beat Dave. He was always the toughest, the biggest, and the strongest. He was always the loudest as well. He thought he knew everything. Nobody argued with him. If he thought that Henry’s lunch was better than his, he traded with him whether Henry wanted to or not. Most times he didn’t trade. He took Henry’s and ate both. Henry never fought back. To this day he has never made a fist with the intention of hitting anyone or anything. In his own terms he had conquered his ego.

At puberty Henry began to grow. He is now twenty-one years old. He stands 1.9 meters tall. He weighs 97.5 kilograms—not one gram of it is fat. His baby face has grown into that of a handsome Greek god, just with a slightly smaller nose. He had always been the first in his classes. He was an avid reader of the old books and rewrites of the long-ago technology, science, and every other discipline recorded in the old library; still he chooses horses over people.

The eastern sky began to lighten. Henry prepared himself for another day. He wasn’t looking forward to attending a meeting with a crowd.

CHAPTER 2

ON THE HILL

Although Samuel had no concept of it, a new cycle of increased sunspot activity had begun. There were no communication devices to be affected. It’s effect on mankind was to increase restlessness.

Sam dipped his well-worn wooden mug into the wooden bucket and filled it once again with cool water. He made sure not to spill any on his way back to the large wooden table. He sat in his comfortable wooden armchair with the goose down cushion. He carefully placed the mug on the table within his reach. He wasn’t thirsty. It was like a security blanket to him. As long as it was within reach, he was contented. Sam didn’t feel so chipper today. He would rather sit than move around. It was because he didn’t sleep well last night. He had tossed and turned through a series of dreams in which he had fought demons for metals and for his people’s survival. He looked around the large pyramid-shaped room and wondered why the damn thing hadn’t collapsed on him—or worst, on his friends and neighbors as well during a council meeting when the room was full. It was older than their written history. It was involved in their legends of so long ago that now some of the stories passed down during the centuries are considered only myths. Of course, every year a volunteer crew inspects the old structure for potential problems and makes repairs where they deem necessary.

Now from the outside it doesn’t look much like a pyramid anymore. Over the years of their grandfathers or before, a huge rectangular structure had been constructed on the western ends, which is now used as a school and a meeting and meditation area for the special students. These students show promise with special abilities. These special abilities were once considered, as late as their grandfathers’ time, as some kind of occult or devilish behavior. They are now taken as normal human advancement. They are still relatively rare. Those of this current generation are considered very special indeed.

The eastern end of the pyramid had been embellished by the addition of an even larger rectangular structure to serve as the great library and museum. It is used for the preservation of old books and magazines. Most of them now are rewritten copies in order to keep a record of their past and culture and to remind them of who they had once been and especially of what they once had. It was a continuous job. As the old pieces of paper deteriorated, they were copied on coarse parchment, which they made. They were hand copied with inks made from various vegetable oils and with pens carved from wood or with what were once called quills. In any case, it was adequate for their needs. It was part of Sam’s job to keep the library and museum up-to-date. He is a recommender and an overseer. He does none of the actual work himself except for keeping a record of goings-on.

Sam had always been more of a thinker than a doer. If there was something that had to be done, he thought long and hard about it first. Usually by the time he had finished thinking about it, someone else had it done. Sam is a good bureaucratic leader. He keeps good records. He is a man of rationale and orderliness. That is why he had been elected every year for as long as he could remember as leader and recorder of the whole area. He is sort of like what used to be called a mayor. The whole area consists of what is known as the city on the hill and the valley. The valley now includes several valleys and ridges both north and south of the river.

It is now 358 years since the bombs, 280 years after Harry’s revolution, and 220 years after Harry’s death. Their yearly calendar is based on that now. The current year is 220 AH. The stories of those times are still taught in their schools.

Sam is thirty-two years old. He’s in relatively good shape physically. His hair is thinning on top. He doesn’t mind. He thinks that he might look even more handsome with a bald head. He’s 1 3/4 meters tall and weighs eighty-two kilograms. He feels that others think him dull. He thinks so himself, but he has an ego, and he wants to leave a legacy of some great deed or discovery. He intends to be a hero to his wife and two children. This plan of his might provide that opportunity.

Sam sat comfortably and thought about all of this. He suddenly felt a cold breeze pass by him. It felt more like it passed through him. It blew out the two big lit candles on either side of his desk. He thanked God that it didn’t blow out the several lanterns hanging around the perimeter of the room. He didn’t want to be alone there and in the dark. He relit the two from the one still burning on the shelf behind him and let out a long relieving sigh. He had been working here and holding meetings for fifteen years and still couldn’t feel at home in the old place. He was convinced that it was haunted and still held secrets that as yet nobody had discovered. He had never seen an apparition, but the air in the room and the feelings that permeated it suggested that many unseen forces were warring there. Sometimes these sudden air movements were unusually cold. Sam knew that many times they had searched but never found a reason for it. There were no windows nor openings to the outside, and the doors were always closed when it happened. He drank a mouthful of water, which he thought was a lot colder now than when he had first fetched it. He wondered if the water in the bucket was similar. He didn’t check it. He shivered and wished that the boys would arrive. He convinced himself that