Eye of the Owl

By Diana M. Flareau

Eye of the Owl is a fantasy fiction that takes place in the small town of Prickly Pears located at the edge of a mystical oasis along the San Andreas Fault, where the paranormal and social misfits were not unusual. The protagonist—Darla Fleaurant, a staff writer for a newspaper in Des Moines, Iowa—had big dreams and career goals in the world of journalism. To achieve her dream, she played everything by the rules and according to social expectations. Her entire life was planned out before her until her husband, who was her childhood sweetheart, divorced her to marry her closest lifelong friend. Devasted by pain and shame, she left her hometown and traveled to California. By happenstance, she took the wrong off-ramp and ended up in the town of Prickly Pears where she met Emma Blackmer, owner of Emma and Luke’s Prickly Pear Café and RV Park. It was through Emma’s role modeling and teachings that Darla broke down social barriers and found her true self and how she fit into the greater scheme of society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796016543

Diana M. Flareau

Diana M. Flareau earned a bachelor’s degree in English and a master’s degree in Education: Instructional Technology through California State University San Bernardino. In 2005, she was accepted into a doctorate program in Education: Community College Leadership through Walden University where she earned an ABD (all but dissertation). She enjoyed two major careers: one as a staff writer, photographer, and editor for various newspapers throughout California, Arizona, and Nevada. Later in time, she was employed as a community college reading, writing, and journalism instructor and taught in that capacity for 15 years until her retirement. However, her most important role throughout her adult life was that of a single mother of two children. While attending college and supporting her family, she generally worked two and three jobs in the service and hospitality industries. It was during those years and her years a professional, she experienced employment limitations based on her gender. Through her struggles (both personal and professional), she developed a deep concern regarding women’s issues, which led her to write the novel, “Eye of the Owl.”

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Finding Prickly Pears

I T WASN’T UNTIL I met Emma Blackmer, part owner of Emma and Luke’s Prickly Pear Café and RV Park when I discovered that everything I thought I was doing right wasn’t right at all – at least not for me. I was the poster child for obsessive compulsiveness and a stickler when it came to the rules and social expectations. It was a stifling mentality to maintain that brought with it isolation, loneliness, and finally, div orce.

Serendipity did not happen gracefully in my life. In fact, there was no such thing as a happy accident, which is something most artists and writers rejoice and embrace. Instead, spontaneity and accidents of any kind brought on extreme anxiety attacks; thus, every day of my life was planned out far in advance. I was so inflexible that most of my friends and colleagues avoided spending recreational time with me because, let’s face it, I wasn’t a fun person to spend time with. As a result, I spent much of my time alone and frustrated because, for the most part, nearly everyone I knew bent the rules on a regular basis to fit into a variety of personal and professional agendas.

I did everything according to defined social procedures. I was on time for every event; in truth, I was fifteen minutes early as a rule of thumb, while far too many others were just fine about arriving to work and social occasions fashionably late; hence, I must have spent a third of my frustrated adult life just waiting.

Likewise, I was overly persnickety about my public and personal persona. I wore my skirts at mid-knee and button-up blouses that were ironed just so, while many other women my age didn’t mind baring more skin than what I considered appropriate, especially in a professional setting. And though I put more time and effort into my job than others seemed to contribute, it was never me who was rewarded with promotions. The wage increases, and promotions first went to the men, and then to the women, some of whom unashamedly flirted their way to the top. That was back when women had little clout in the workplace, so I didn’t judge them; I simply held the naïve belief that our skills, talents, and ethics should be honored accordingly.

Emma, on the other hand, was the empress of simplicity and flexibility, which is as she would say, the key ingredients to a satisfied life. Though much of her passion focused on food and recipes, her true passion centered on the healing of the hearts. She insisted, however, that a well-nourished body supports a healthy mind and soul. She was the quintessential healer, a medicine woman of sorts, a naturalist, a botanist, and as time passed, she became the most influential person in my life.

I’m not sure how I ended up in the small village of Prickly Pears, but I had just left Des Moines, Iowa three days after concluding a messy divorce. My husband, Tom had left me for my childhood friend, Chelsea, and I was certain that I would never survive the heartbreak and shame of losing both my husband and my closest friend to such a hideously wounding event. I had never imagined that emotional pain could be quite so devastatingly ugly and difficult to endure. I knew in my heart, however, that I had to make some changes for me to mend my broken heart and shame. Thus, I decided to leave my home town, family, and friends. I quit my job as a news reporter with the Des Moines Gazette and decided to go west to California in hopes of starting a new life.

As emotionally wounded as I was at the time, I quickly discovered some positive points about divorce; in fact, some materialized very soon after Tom flew the coup so to speak. The first and most immediate gain was my option to take my birth name back. Darla Fleaurant describes who I am far more definitively than Darla Smith. Marriage immediately brought on the loss of my birth name, which felt as if a significant part of my identity had been amputated; thus, I never adapted to Smith. An added insult to the injury, Smith was way too ordinary in comparison to Fleaurant. Moreover, with the loss of my birth name, I seemed to have lost my first name as well; people began referring to me as Mrs. Smith. I cringed at the sound of it each time I heard it.

Many times, especially during my time of sorrow, I often reflected on Virginia Woolf’s novel, A Room of One’s Own. She stated, a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction. Well, I not only gained a room of my own; I gained an entire house – a very large and empty house for that matter. And though the two-story house felt way too large for one person, my writing improved because my household was quiet – no interruptions and loud noises, for example Monday night football. Even so, the house felt emotionally vacant, especially on Sundays.

I always looked forward to Sundays when Tom and I would spend the entire day at home alone together – except during football season that is, and I despised football. The sound of those games with the constant babbling of the sports announcers and crowds screaming every time fans team gained a point made my hackles rise. Naturally, Tom and his buddies howled at every down or touchdown. I couldn’t write or do anything that required concentration during football season. Moreover, I never did really understand the game. However, as much as I hated the sound of football and everything it stood for, after a few months of being alone, I started turning the television on to the sports channel for background noise just to feel some sense of normalcy.

Looking back, my newfound freedom seemed as if the positives outweighed the negatives, but it just didn’t feel that way. For example, I no longer had to share monetary obligations and decisions with my spouse. I gained complete control of my bank account and could decide on my own how to spend my hard-earned money; in fact, within the first month after our separation, I had more shoes and undergarments than ever before. And though there was far less money in my bank account at the end of each month because a journalist’s wages aren’t what one might consider lucrative, I seemed to have more funds available to use as I wished.

Then again, prior to discovering the adulteress affair between Tom and Chelsea, I was so caught up in what was right and wrong that I never guessed that Tom was using a significant amount of our money to pay for his overnight stays at the historical Hotel Fort Des Moines, trips for two to Florida and Hawaii, and for whatever else he did to please Chelsea.

His standing excuse for staying at Hotel Fort Des Moines so often was for work-related meetings and mini-conventions. Dummy me; I never questioned him. And as for the costs, he assured me that he would be refunded by the company at the end of the fiscal year. I trusted every word he said, and as it turned out, his stays at Hotel Fort Des Moines were for important meetings alright, but the meetings were definitely not work-related, nor were his so-called business trips to Florida, Cancun, and Hawaii.

Stupid naïve little me, I’d say. How could I have been so blind? Right there under my nose. Chelsea even came to our house for Monday night football on occasion, and like me, preceding their ongoing affair, she didn’t care for football either even though she was a cheer leader throughout our last three years of high school.

Aside from the cruel acquaintance with truth, not only had I gained an entire house and bank account of my own; I also gained a bed of my own. Though I was taller than Tom by two inches, I was much lighter. I remember back when we were in our teens; I kept growing taller while he stayed the same height that he was in the ninth grade. I was just under six-foot tall weighing in at about one-hundred thirty pounds by the time I was fourteen. Tom, on the other hand, stopped growing at the age of sixteen and never made it past five-foot eight. By the time he was eighteen, he weighed close to two-hundred pounds, mostly of solid muscle. He had spent years weight-lifting and was quite in love with his own body. That should have been my first clue. I remember wanting to be small and petite like Chelsea. I always felt like an ox whenever I stood next to her. She was the perfect five foot two, eyes of blue.

Over time, I began to realize that Chelsea and Tom had more common interests than what he and I shared, and she was outgoing and wasn’t afraid to wear revealing clothing out in public, I also noticed that Tom couldn’t keep his eyes off her, but never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine the two of them having an affair. The rules didn’t allow for affairs, and I never dreamt for a second that it could happen to me.

My mother always said, He can look, but he can’t touch. I took her words to heart and over-looked Tom’s obvious lusting over my best friend. I was certain, however, that he was too good a man to ever stray, so I would just let it go. Besides, Chelsea and I had been best friends since the first grade; hence, I was confident she would never betray me.

I’ve always had problems sleeping, so sharing my bed with a man much heavier than me was a discomfort that I never did adapt to. When the two of us would retire for the evening, that is, those rare nights when we went to bed at the same time, as most young couples do, we slept in the same bed. He weighed nearly seventy pounds more than me; thus, when we were both in bed, the mattress would slant in a downward slope in his direction, and I’d have to hold on to the edge of my side of the bed so that I wouldn’t roll to the center. And though I missed having his warm body to snuggle up to during the cold winter nights, after our divorce, I no longer had difficulties sleeping. Furthermore, there was absolute silence while I slept. Yes, Tom’s tendency to snore woke me regularly; consequently, I was perpetually exhausted. I wore earplugs to sleep at night; even so, I could still hear the repetitious braying of what sounded more like a fog horn than something that came out of a human.

Most significantly, if Tom had not decided to dump me for my so-called best friend, I would have never had the opportunity to seek out my dream job as a reporter somewhere other than Des Moines. I had always wanted to work as a journalist in California – most preferably for the Los Angeles Times. That was my ultimate dream job, but Tom had a secure management position in fiber optics communications, and he planned to work for the same company until his retirement, which pretty much wiped out my own ambitions. And though I felt that I had no other option but to leave Des Moines to heal emotionally, not to mention the need to save face among our shared friends and family members, the sense of freedom I felt when driving across the state line was surprisingly euphoric.

June 10, 1992: It was my third day of driving, and the sun was already beginning to set when I entered the state of California, and though there were many sights to behold along the way, I was determined to reach my goal in a timely fashion. It wasn’t long after I crossed the border of Arizona into California that I came to the small desert town of Blythe where I stopped at a gas station to fill up my tank and purchase some munchies to hold me over for the next couple of hours.

It felt so good to get out of the car for a much-needed stretch, but it only took seconds before I was overcome by the oppressive heat of the desert. It had to be well above one-hundred degrees. It was a dry heat, however, which was something I had never experienced before – far more comfortable than Des Moines summertime heat at ninety degrees with eighty-eight percent humidity.

I continued driving west on Interstate 10 until, at last, I came to the Coachella Valley. It was my objective to find a motel in Palm Springs on my third day of travel, and it appeared that my plans were working out in a timely fashion. I wanted to stay a few days in Palm Springs to take in some well-needed rest and sunshine before I completed my journey to Los Angeles. I had heard and read so much about Palm Springs; and from the photos I had seen in travel magazines, it seemed exotically romantic. Though I had no partner to share the romance with, my journey to California all by my lonesome seemed far more romantic than what I could have ever imagined, and there was no way on Earth that I could have ever envisioned what I was about to experience. In fact, it was within the next hour or so that my plans began to transform into something far from my original plans, and it was so unlike me to veer away from my plans.

I made one mistake, and it was a big one. I had forgotten to reserve a hotel room in Palm Springs. In the past, an unexpected change of plans or forgotten arrangements would have surely brought on an anxiety attack. I had no idea what was about to transpire, and I couldn’t have ever dreamt up what was in store for me on my own. My mind simply didn’t work that way. A writer with no imagination is an oxymoron. Though I always thought that someday I would write a novel, somewhere in my heart, I knew I was only cut out to be a journalist.

Other than forgetting to reserve a hotel room, I had mapped out my trip well because it appeared that my goal to stay a few days in Palm Springs by the end of the third day on the road would be fulfilled within the hour. Then, after some three days or so of reprieve, and according to my projections, I would have headed out to Los Angeles. I would have first focused on finding a small apartment, and then hopefully within the first week, I would have been hired on as a staff writer and photographer for a large publishing company. I succumbed to the fact that my first job in Los Angeles would not be with the Los Angeles Times; thus, I planned to build my resume by working for smaller newspapers. Note that I said, would have.

I had driven non-stop since early that morning and must have been overly exhausted because after driving all day long until early evening, I began experiencing long spells of white-line fever, in which I had to continue waking myself every few minutes from the trancelike condition. I tried desperately not to succumb to it, but the hypnotic powers of the highway continued to draw me in until finally, I completely missed the Palm Springs turn-off.

Gosh darn it! I yelled. I can’t believe that I missed my turn-off! This part of Interstate 10 is hardly confusing! How could I have missed? How frustratingly thoughtless this was of me!" It was then when that familiar feeling of anxiety started to set in. My hands and feet began to sweat, and my heart started to race. I wanted to pull over somewhere. I needed to get out of the car to get some air, but there was no place to safely pull over.

After expressing a few unmentionable expletives in which I only vocalized while driving alone, I was relieved to see the sign that read Exit 117, Highway 62 to Twentynine Palms and Yucca Valley, 1 ½ miles.

Once I reached the off-ramp, the anxiety began to subside. I thought I might turn left and drive over the interstate then turn back and head east on Interstate 10 to the Palm Springs off-ramp, but then I noticed another sign that read, Desert Hot Springs, 4 ½ Miles. This is when my unplanned adventure began.

I decided to turn right in hopes of finding hotels with more vacancies than what might be available in Palm Springs, and I was far too exhausted to be picky at that point, which again, was quite unusual for me, but I thought it might be nice to try out the mineral hot springs especially after driving non-stop from De Moines.

I had read that every hotel in Desert Hot Springs is equipped with hot mineral pools, so I made an instant decision to spend one night in Desert Hot Springs and enjoy a good soak in the mineral baths and then spend the rest of my stay in Palm Springs. After all, my body was beginning to stiffen up from the stress of driving. A warm soaking would be good for me. And besides, I had never experienced hot mineral water, and I thought that if I don’t try it now, I may never have the opportunity again, especially once I was hired on to a full-time position as a staff writer for a world-known newspaper.

Though I was pleased about making an instant decision, I was still disappointed in myself for failing to make reservations in advance. As I peered into the rear-view mirror, I scolded myself; Darla! You should have made hotel reservations before leaving Des Moines. You would have had a definite destination. I don’t know what I was thinking at the time because it wasn’t in my character to not plan. This time I did not, so I was forced to make the best of it, and as it turned out, destiny had a stronghold on me. As my hippy mother would have said in a situation like this, The universe always knows what’s best for us. I always thought of her as a typical woman of the seventies – oblivious to reality while caught up in an unending LSD trip. She was far too liberal for my taste.

Squinting to read the clock on the dashboard, I was surprised to note that it was already half past nine o’clock at night, and it wasn’t fully dark out yet. However, after driving for another five or ten minutes but what seemed like a lifetime, I noticed that my world began to grow darker by the second. There were no street lights, and the wide-open desert was starting to feel rather eerie. As I continued to drive, I realized that I had never felt so alone, and the darkness seemed to consume me as I drove deeper into what seemed like a barren wasteland – a dark hole in the universe.

This is darn right creepy, I said as a wave of chills ran down my spine. I was frightened by the silence and strangeness of the desert. I was born and raised in a big city where the streets were always lit up and there was never a silent moment. The silence of the desert made my ears ring, even with the sound of the air conditioner, so I turned on the radio and found a good oldies station which seemed to help calm my nerves some.

At that very moment and without warning, a scruffy looking coyote ran across the road directly in front of my car. I slammed on my brakes, came to a skidding stop, and just barely missed it.

Damn! I yelled as I pulled over to the side of the road to catch my breath. After waiting a few minutes and after my heart stopped pounding into my throat, I returned to the lonely road and resumed driving towards Desert Hot Springs. This was the first time in my life that I had come so close to wildlife, except for the creatures I had seen while visiting the zoo.

There wasn’t another car or any sign of human life anywhere in sight, but I still had three-quarters of a tank of gas. I assured myself that I should be able to find my way to Desert Hot Springs long before the tank ran dry.

At last, I came to a sign that read, Dillon Road to Desert Hot Springs, so I turned in and headed what seemed to be eastward. After a few minutes of driving, I came to a stop light at the crossroads of Palm Drive and Dillon Road.

Ahhh… I sighed. There are actually street lights and signs, a good indication that there are human beings living out here in no-man’s land. But why in the heck would anybody choose to live in this desolate place that seems to be at the edge of the earth? And what kind of people would choose to live out here anyway?

I shouldn’t have asked myself that question because my mind began to wander to stories I had read about, especially those stories about clandestine militant groups as well as methamphetamine cookers that tend hide out in the desert to flee from authorities and social norms. The thought led to Vincent Bugliosi’s novel, Helter Skelter. I read the book when I was nineteen. The story was about Charles Manson and his followers who utilized the infamous Barker Ranch in Death Valley as a hide-out during the time of their horrific killing spree in Los Angeles. I was instantly overcome with what my mom referred to as the eebie-jeebies.

As I waited at the stop light that seemed as it would never turn green, I scolded myself. Stop thinking about monsters, Darla! This is not a time to focus on such.

Once the light turned green, I don’t know why, but out of sheer curiosity, I decided to continue driving east on Dillon Road instead of turning left towards the town of Desert Hot Springs.

I can always turn around and drive back to town, I said aloud. This was so unlike me, but for some reason, I didn’t question my actions. However, my overwhelming sense of curiosity had on occasion pulled me out of my obsessive-compulsive ways, which had ultimately led me to some of my best stories.

Tom used to warn that my curiosity would eventually get the best of me one day. He may have been correct, but contrarily, my curiosity was not astute enough to fathom that he and Chelsea were busy having an affair directly under my nose for a year or more. I never had the slightest clue. I must have felt far too comfortable or confident. On the other hand, the editor, who was my immediate supervisor at the Des Moines Gazette used to tell me that my curiosity would make me an outstanding investigative reporter someday if I could just let go of the rules on occasion. I chose to believe his words above Tom’s; after all, my supervisor had no reason to offer such a compliment to me unless he truly meant it even if he didn’t give me the promotion I put in for a few months earlier.

I had never been anywhere in my life where it was so dark, but even though I kept experiencing spells of the willies and intermittent spells of anxiety, something urged me to continue driving. I felt as if a magnetic force was gently drawing me deeper into the desert. The urge grew so intense that I felt that if I took my hands off the steering wheel and let up on the accelerator, the car would just take me to a destination on its own. Of course, that was a silly idea, so I held on so tightly that my hands and fingers went numb and began to cramp.

I drove four miles or more and passed Desert Sands Country Club on the left side of the road. The neighborhood seemed abandoned because there were no lighted windows or street lamps. Seconds later, on the right side of the road was a sign that read Hot Springs RV Park, and then I came upon a small country store and restaurant, both of which were closed. I sighed with relief to know that there were human beings somewhere around even though there wasn’t a soul to be seen.

I decided that it was a good time to pull into the restaurant parking lot and check my road map. I opened my window for some fresh air and pulled out my flashlight and map from the glove compartment. There was a slight breeze; it was warm and dry unlike Des Moines high levels of humidity, not to mention, the only semblance of a summer breeze in Des Moines were the occasional tornadoes during tornado season. And though the breeze felt warm and invigorating, the sounds of the wind, the eerie darkness, and the openness of the desert added to my growing sense of unease.

I opened the map and pulled my reading glasses from my purse and said, Let’s see here, where am I?

I turned off the radio, but the desert was so silent that my ears began to ring again. Then suddenly, from what seemed very close in proximity, some coyotes started howling and yipping. At first, one lone coyote’s shriek cries sounded like a woman screaming. I was instantly horror-struck, and then as more joined in and began to yip, I realized that it was a pack of coyotes in the very near vicinity of the parking area where I was sitting at that very moment.

Holy cow! There must be hundreds of them out there! I said as I threw the map and flashlight to the passenger’s seat and hastily closed my window. I was so frightened and alarmed that I felt as if my heart was going to pound its way out of my chest. Fortunately, I didn’t shut down the engine when I parked, so I changed gears from park to drive. I heard my tires squeal as I fishtailed out of the parking area and back to the road again.

Darn! I should have turned back towards Desert Hot Springs. Oh well, I’ll drive a little further while I catch my breath and then find a place to turn around.

As I drove deeper into the desert, I came upon a long stretch of deep dips in the road, one after the other. I worried that I wouldn’t see an animal if one decided to run across the road and in front of my car. I wouldn’t have had time to stop. Even so, the smooth up-and-down rocking motion comforted me; it reminded me of a carousel ride from my childhood. It gave me a tickle at the center of my stomach and made me want to drive a bit faster to intensify the sensation.

Just as I was beginning to enjoy the ride, something huge slammed