Between Two Creeks: The Mystery of the Blue Mist My First Summer

By Terry L. Burden

Between Two Creeks is a story based on rural life in Western Kentucky. This book captures the lives of individuals and their special relationships in the Valley of Two Creeks. The story is enriched with the arrival in Two Creeks of Amy Hawkins, a young woman whose parents had an untimely death in New Orleans. She immediately finds love and support. Amy teams up with John LaMont, and they become vessels of good among the people. The stories of the local people are filled with humor, love, and mystery. Forces of national intrigue infiltrate this sleepy community. The supernatural appears at the Oasis in a water mist with its mysterious blue glow that empowers the two main characters. Together, they fight the domestic terrorist organization Dawn Robin led by the elusive Uncle and try to foil the terrorist plot to assassinate Victoria Washington, the President of the United States. Amy Hawkins is also the narrator of our story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665716482

Terry L. Burden

Terry L. Burden is assistant professor of comparative humanities at the University of Louisville.

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Copyright © 2022 Terry L. Burden.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations are sourced from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible,

copyright © 1946, 1952, and 1971 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the

United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1649-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1647-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1648-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021925315

Archway Publishing rev. date: 1/27/2022

For Claudie and Geneva

His daily life was simple, without surprise, for uncertainty alarmed him so greatly that he feared anything more than one. He lived in a one-room house, with one dog, one cat. He read one page from one book each day until he had finished the last page, and then he would begin reading it all over again as he had done so many times before.

The One-Room House

CONTENTS

1.     The Night of Billy Wilson

2.     Maple Grove Again

3.     Summers with Sarah

4.     The Valley of Two Creeks

5.     Maple Grove

6.     The Caretaker

7.     Wolf Hollow

8.     Amy Hawkins

9.     Julie and John

10.   The Fall

11.   Arnold’s Feed and Tool

12.   The Voice

13.   Goble’s Pain

14.   Sarah Moody

15.   Return to the Oasis

16.   Dalton’s Hand

17.   Julie Meets Amy

18.   Amy and Sarah

19.   Water Wars

20.   The Party

21.   The Sermon

22.   Candessa Fontaine

23.   The Healing of Teresa

24.   The Shooting of Amy

25.   Owen Ray’s Dilemma

26.   Two Bullets and a Dream

27.   The Investigation

28.   Breaking News

29.   The Meaning of the Dream

30.   Jeff and Amy

31.   Lake Henry

32.   Goble’s Danger

33.   The Discovery

34.   The Hawkins

35.   Todd Rummy

36.   A Mysterious Person

37.   The Abduction of Miss Julie

38.   Epilogue

CHAPTER 1

The Night of Billy Wilson

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G ravel flew as the car ran off the shoulder of the narrow North Creek Road. This January night was dark and cold. No moon. The rattle of rock against hubcap, squealing tires, and the roar of a souped-up 58 Chevy invaded a brisk peaceful night in Wolf Hollow. Late evening activities had bedded down, not even the haunting moan of a wolf could be heard. This young man in his twenties was driving much too fast on this winding country road. Sitting behind the wheel, he was jerking about as though a bee were loose in his car. His car ran off the left side of the road, glancing off the steep, rocky bank and swerving back and forth down the road. He soon lost control, heading to the right and rammed through a white fence in front of the Thomas house. Fence boards exploded across the lawn, one striking the front door of the house. The car finally came to an abrupt stop in the front lawn.

The front door of the house slowly opened. A man carefully looked outside to see a car resting on his front lawn, engine smoking and popping from being over-heated. He knew the car; so did everyone in Two Creeks. The lawn security lamp lit up a man’s figure emerging from the front seat. Billy, that you? the man from the house called out. The young man remained silent. He immediately fell to his knees, clutching his forehead with one hand and the back of his neck with the other. Billy! You hurt? the man called out while running to him.

The dazed driver stood up and began to stutter, Who’s there? Wait! Get back. Looking around and in the direction from where he came, he yelled out, Where are they? Don’t trust him! Why? You get the chair! Don’t plant the corn! Jeff’s not here! He rattled on, Why? Don’t go! Leave me alone! He held his head, all the while stammering senseless words.

Settle down Billy. It’s George Thomas. The young man appeared not to hear him. Billy, hang on. I’ll call an ambulance. You need help.

George? Mister Thomas? Where am I? Look out! He’s coming! Gotta go! Go! Run Mister Thomas. And then Billy sank to his knees. No movement. He appeared to have passed out.

Mister Thomas reached for Billy just as he lunged his shoulder into Mister Thomas’ chest knocking him down. George Thomas was stunned and couldn’t breathe. Billy began to swing his fists wildly, striking Mister Thomas on the face and chest. While trying to recover his breathing, a clear, distinct click of a revolver was heard. Billy looked up to see a rather small woman pointing a pistol at his head.

Stop it! she yelled out. Get off him!

You. It’s you, Billy called out. Still sitting on Mister Thomas, he continued to chatter aimlessly, Gotta go! He’s coming! Don’t go there! Stay away! Laughing, he continued to sputter, Silver bullet! Won’t do! Can’t help! Where’s Jeff! He knows!

George, you alright? she asked, not taking her eyes off Billy. Hit him again, young man and I’ll shoot! Now, I’m gonna tell you one more time! Get off him! And then Billy became limp and fell across Mister Thomas.

Still trying to regain his breath, Mister Thomas said, Lower your weapon, Honey. Everything’s fine. He gently shoved Billy away from him and tried to stand up but couldn’t.

Just then, car lights appeared above the rise from the same direction of Wolf Hollow where Billy had come. Billy began to wake up, afraid, and continued to mumble out of his head. He jumped to his feet and ran back to his car. He tried to restart the engine. The starter whined. Finally, the engine turned over. Billy pressed the gas to the floor, and the car peeled out of the yard, throwing grass and dirt up in the air. He raced away.

The approaching car slid into the driveway. The driver jumped out, engine still running, the car door left open. George, what happened? That Billy Wilson?

Yes. Mister Thomas was still sitting on the grass.

I thought I saw him tear out from the Dale Cross house back there. What happened George? He attack you?

Not exactly. Well, yes. Billy wasn’t himself. Something caused him to do this. Mister Thomas had finally gotten to his feet, with Miss Lulu holding him about his waist.

Jeff, go after him. He needs help, Miss Lulu insisted.

She’s right. He might hurt someone, even himself. I’ll be fine. Look, son be careful. I’ll call Woody.

Promptly returning to his car, Jeff looked back at them. You have to report this, you know. Mister Thomas nodded in agreement. I’ll be back, he said, and then he drove away.

Honey, would you call Woody for me?

Already dialed, she said. Woody, this is Lulu. We have a 148 in progress on North Creek Road. It’s Billy Wilson. He’s traveling in the direction of Chickasaw Trail Road. He attacked George. She paused to listen. Not sure, Woody. Could be drugged. No alcohol. With these words, the excitement was finally over.

Such was George and Lulu Thomas’ evening. They looked at each other, then across the lawn and shook their heads.

This cold January night returned to its wintery silence with a faint sound of a train in the distant darkness, lumbering across the East Ridge of the Valley of Two Creeks.

CHAPTER 2

Maple Grove Again

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S pring is not spring without the gentle sting of a lingering winter breeze and the tingling chill from the soft dampened ground after the winter thaw. Spring in the Valley of Two Creeks always reminded me that life was constantly changing and, in fact, depended upon the visitation of both the familiar and the new, the peaceful and the loud, the spiritual and the mundane. The trees of Maple Grove swayed in the cool wind as though the Great Spirit had breathed a sigh of relief now that winter was over. The grasses and vegetation were busy with growth; their colors changed almost daily. The many creeks in the Valley flowed with endless childlike energy as if their streams would forever remain full. When I came to the Valley of Two Creeks, this my first summer, I soon discovered life in this place was something special, and, for the LaMonts, the beginning of summer usually involved a return to Maple Grove.

Don’t know when the old place looked so good. John LaMont said while taking a box of books from the back of his truck.

You staying into the fall this year? Mister Dalton inquired as he took the box from Mister John’s hands and turned to walk in the direction of the back porch.

Mister John picked up another box and followed him. Not sure. I’m just looking forward to the summer. I’ll probably go back in the fall. He looked at Mister Dalton from the distance. When with Mister Dalton, he often reflected upon his younger days at the old home place. John LaMont was a man in his mid-years, a professor of religion at Murray State University—its campus also located in a sleepy rural community in Western Kentucky. His work took him away from Two Creeks during the fall and winter months. Since his parent’s passing, Mister John and his wife Julie returned to the old home place during the summer months.

Now, Mister Dalton had lived in the Valley all his life, seldom leaving for even a vacation. He was a giant of a man, a bit heavy at the waist, and too tall for the average person. He always wore an old straw hat with a bent brim on the side. Mister Dalton reminded some of the old farming days, when a man on a farm carried a tobacco pouch in the front pocket of his bib overalls, with the tie string hanging down outside the pocket. Mister Dalton was an expert in rolling cigarettes. He’d hold the paper in his right hand, pull his tobacco pouch out of his pocket by the string with his left hand, open the pouch, pour the tobacco into the paper, close the tobacco pouch by pulling the string with his teeth, return the pouch to his pocket while licking the paper and rolling the cigarette with his right hand, all the while taking a match out of his left pocket and striking its head on the sole of his shoe with one stroke. Mister Dalton would then settle into his moment of pleasure with his smoke. He’s a genius.

Mister Dalton was a true handy man in the neighborhood. His skills ranged from plowing tobacco to milking cows or just about anything whenever someone needed help. He wasn’t formally educated, as one would expect these days. Everyone liked Mister Dalton, though some say he’s a bit slow of mind. His mom and dad were friends of Mister John’s family, and had been for many years. He lived just over the ridge that traversed the back acres beyond Two Creeks. The ridge separated Two Creeks from the range of bottom lands where he lived on his own home place of about ten acres. Mister Dalton was known to walk over the ridge into Two Creeks on his way to town. His favorite mode of travel was to hitch a ride with whoever was willing to stop at the prompting of his right thumb. He was used to walking, and, although few vehicles crossed over into Two Creeks to travel the old Chickasaw Trail Road, he would often catch a ride. He seldom walked all the way to town. On this day he had walked by Maple Grove and spotted Mister John unloading his truck.

Need some holp, he would often say. His and Mister John’s fathers grew up around Wolf Hollow and Two Creeks. This old dialect had made its way into rural Kentucky from other parts of the South. They were always willing to holp anyone when there was a need. The same could be said of most people in Two Creeks. Mister Dalton would never walk by without offering a helping hand. Mister John hadn’t spoken to him since last summer, and he could always rely on Mister Dalton, especially for any local news.

Anything going on these days? Mister John asked his old friend.

Mister Dalton stopped to rest his right foot on the front bumper of the truck, with his arms crossed on top of the box. Well, I suppose just about everyone’s heard about what happened to George and Lulu the other day.

George and Lulu Thomas?

Without acknowledging Mister John had spoken, he continued to talk. Well, just about three months ago, as I recollect. Suppose you didn’t get the news down in your neck of the woods. Mister Dalton knew just about every person in the county, and just about every rumor. Truth would eventually pass through his mouth and come out in some form other than what he heard. He wasn’t a liar. In fact, no one in Two Creeks could be called a liar. They just like to tell stories.

Okay, where was I? I’m afraid I’ve become a bit like Mister Dalton. Oh, yes, by now Mister John had become impatient with Mister Dalton’s inability to get to the point. Mister John was alarmed by what he heard. No! Haven’t heard a thing. George and Lulu Thomas were an odd couple who live in the direction of Mister Dalton’s place on North Creek Road. Mister Dalton had to pass their place on his way over the ridge and into the Valley. Their home sat quietly in the tall trees at the base of the West Ridge before the road enters Wolf Hollow. Mister Thomas worked for the government for a few years. For the past five years or so, they had settled down in Two Creeks.

You know some things are really strange. You’d never guessed they had any problems. Mister Dalton said.

Yeah. I know. Always thought they were good people.

You got that right. Went to Olive Hill Church most every Sunday. Mister Dalton continued to talk. George was an awfully quiet man. Lulu wasn’t. She’s bossy. Some say she likes to run the church. Ah, I don’t know, he said with a smile, but you know that, don’t ya?

Mister John stopped and stared at him with an impatient look. Dalton! What happened? Mister John liked Mister Dalton a lot, and he knew him all too well. Dalton loved to tell stories. It didn’t matter if he wandered through the woods to get to the back yard. It was the telling that was more important. He liked to talk; so did everyone in Two Creeks. In this country community, gossip is how everyone got to know each other. A person can’t keep something hidden very long. This is our Two Creeks at its best. The people in the Valley felt more at home in a place where everyone knows everyone and secrets make the headlines.

Bad! Really bad. Mister Dalton shook his head in disgust. Some say Lulu was mad at George for something. Now, that’s what I heard. This was a favorite line for just about anyone in the Valley. It was sort of a disclaimer that would allow a story to be retold in just about any fashion that pleased the moment.

Now focused on talking rather than work, Mister Dalton continued, George just up and disappeared. No one knows what happened to him. Lulu won’t say a thing. Kind of odd. You know her. She’s never short for words. Pointing to the west ridge behind the house, in his story telling mode, he said, Some say a beast came out of Wolf Hollow and ate him. You know, that old golden lion story the old folks tell. Mister Dalton laughed. I don’t go for such nonsense. It seems, I have learned, the beast story was an old Valley myth. The old folks in the Valley like to tell the kids a story about a big and hairy mountain lion that would come across the ridge and carry off mean children into the woods. In Mister John’s childhood days, such stories would make the kids too scared to venture too far from the house at night.

Feeling a little annoyed with the subject, Mister John tried to refocus, I guess not. Sounds spooky anyway, I’d heard some time ago that George didn’t like country living.

I guess so, Mister Dalton added.

He seemed alright to me. Last time I saw him. Whatever happened, I always liked George and Lulu. And Mister John meant every word. I don’t know of any person in Two Creeks Mister John didn’t like. Well, there were some, but we’ll get to that later.

Mister Dalton affirmed. Yes, indeed. They was fine people. Mister Dalton always used his favorite verb was. It didn’t matter if he was grammatically correct. His ability to destroy the King’s English was what made him the great story teller he was.

What’d the police do?

Not a thing. George just disappeared. Not a trace. His car still in the drive.

Really? Mister John paused and looked across the back yard, in the direction of North Creek Road.

Left for work one morning. Never got in his car. Just vanished.

Vanished?

That’s not all Johnny. Strange things have happened in Wolf Hollow since last Christmas.

What? Mister John’s remark didn’t go anywhere. He knew Mister Dalton wasn’t about to stop talking.

You remember the Wilson family. You know. They live just around the bend from me.

Nodding his head in frustration, Yes.

Never hesitating, Mister Dalton kept talking, Their youngest boy tore down the North Creek Road late one night and drove by my house in a big hurry. Drove like a drunk. Lost control of that old Chevy and ended up in George’s front yard.

Now, this got Mister John’s attention, and he stopped to listen.

You know, Johnny, he attacked George or something like that. They say he went crazy. Ya know, I can see George’s house from my window. The night was too dark to see much. The next thing ya know Billy Wilson tore out down the road and topped the North Creek ridge. Johnny, that’s the last time he was seen alive. That crazy boy drove his car straight into the North Creek. He didn’t even slow down for the stop sign. Didn’t try to brake. He just flew across the main road and plowed right into the creek.

Yes, I recall. I read about his death. Didn’t know it had anything to do with George. What’d George say?

Now that’s what’s so strange. George disappeared the very next morning. No one knew anything about Billy until that morning. Didn’t leave any skid marks. When the sun come up, there was his car right there stuck in the muddy bank.

I suppose I should pay Lulu a visit. There’s gotta be an explanation. Billy and George. As he spoke to Mister Dalton, he thought to himself, Now what could’ve brought those two together? What happened to Billy? I need to talk to Woody. Surely he’ll know. Mister John was by nature a man who couldn’t sit still when there’s a mystery to be solved. And this strange happening on North Creek Road had set in motion some genuinely strange things during my first summer in Two Creeks.

The two men finally carried the last of the boxes into the den just off the kitchen. Mister John’s office had been a bedroom on the north side of the house. The room had large windows that allowed him to look out across the northern flat of Two Creeks, in the direction of the North Creek Road and the western ridge at Wolf Hollow. A few steps from the kitchen, his office was a perfect place for reading and writing, just in reach of the coffee pot and fridge. During the day, Mister John seldom ventured into the rest of the house.

Enjoying a fresh cup of coffee, Mister Dalton and Mister John were standing in the kitchen when someone call out from the back porch, Anybody home?

Mister John knew the voice so well. Come on in. Door’s open.

The back door squeaked open and a tall man walked in. Hey, Owen Ray, Mister John said with a smile and immediately reached out his hand for a shake.

Welcome back John. Good to see you again. Turning, Owen Ray said, Hello Dalton. How you been? Things okay?

Doing fine. Doing fine. Thanks for asking.

Owen Ray Fuller was Pastor of Olive Hill Community Church. Located on Chickasaw Trail Road on the slope of the South Ridge, Olive Hill was a perfect little country church. Mister John’s family had attended there for as long as most people can remember. Pastor Owen Ray Fuller had been the Pastor for about twenty years. He lived in the parsonage across the street from the church. The steeple of the church could be seen from just about any point in Two Creeks. Almost a landmark, the church with its steeple serves as a reminder of the strong Valley traditions that go back to the days of the Civil War. The old church still had curved pews that made a circular appearance in the sanctuary with the podium in the front. Many of the benches are cracked and uneven, but the old-style décor was one of the main attractions of the church. No one dared change a thing in the church. It’s said some time ago, the trustees wanted to have the pews covered with cushions, and even these modern comforts were voted down in business meetings.

How are things in Two Creeks? Mister John asked the Pastor.

Things are fine. Julie come with you? Pastor Owen Ray and his wife Rebecca have been close friends of the LaMonts for many years.

She’ll be up later in the week. She has work at the shop. Not sure just how much she’ll be here this summer. Had some employee changes recently. She’ll be needed there. How’s Becky?

We’re all fine. School’s out next week. She’ll be on break for the summer. Rebecca Fuller is a fifth-grade teacher at Hanson Elementary. Well, I see you’re busy. Wanted to stop by and say hello. Pastor Owen Ray started to leave but paused to say, Almost forgot. Could you speak at the church in about two weeks? I’ve a Pastor’s Conference. Need someone to fill in.

Glad to.

Good. I thought you would. We’ll talk again, the Pastor started out the back door. Stopping again he added, Oh, by the way, I’m on my way to Manitou. Need anything from town?

Thanks friend. I have to make a trip to the grocery later today, Mister John and Mister Dalton followed the Pastor out the back door.

John, you need me for anything else? Mister Dalton asked.

No. I think I have things under control. Appreciate your help, Mister John rubbed him on his shoulder while they walked.

A distant rumble of thunder got their attention. Dalton looked up at the sky. Preacher, you mind if I ride with you?

Dalton, I’d enjoy some company. Come on, we’ll stop at Cosby’s. The two men walked to the Pastor’s car in a lively discussion as though Mister John was no longer there. Pastor Owen Ray was that kind of person. He gave everyone his deepest attention. He was personal, warm, and genuine. Liked by just about everyone in Two Creeks.

Mister John gave a brief wave, picked up his brief case, and walked back onto the back porch just as a gentle drizzle fell. The porch was right off the door to the kitchen and extended the full length of the west side of the house. The evening sun was blocked nicely by two huge maple trees. In the middle of the porch rail and banister a door opened into the back yard. A bricked walkway passed between the two maples and continued out across the yard, branching off in the direction of the old well to the right and to the left to Mister John’s old workshop he had inherited from his father. The old well was a picturesque site on the property. A large square stone structure, the top of the well was a white roofed trellis with morning glories walling up on the back side. The well was a traditional structure with a long cylinder bucket hanging from a pulley attached to the middle of the top. Drawn from deep underground streams, its water remained refreshingly cold even in the heat of summer months. The wells of Two Creeks were crystal clear without a hint of minerals. Mister John kept a gallon of well water in his fridge and a vat of ice cubes frozen from the same water. Fresh well-water tea with lemon was the main refreshment for the back porch and patio.

The drizzle had become a steady rain. A perfect time for sitting on the porch swing. With rain dancing across the lawn, the fresh air was cool. Alone now, Mister John’s memories visited him while he drank his coffee. Many a hot afternoon he spent either in thought or asleep on that old swing. The swing had been hanging there for many years, the favorite spot for Mister John’s father. He would drift off into the world of years past. He would tell me he could still see his father gently swinging back and forth, enjoying an occasional smoke. However, this morning was special. Mister John was back home at Maple Grove. The maples leaves beat out a rhythm in the rain. This is heaven, he said quietly as he breathed in deeply. Wish Julie were here. The back porch was his favorite place, especially in the early morning hours and on rainy days.

The mornings at Maple Grove are truly a beginning for each day. It seemed the maples harnessed the cool breezes and tossed them across the porch. Like Mister John, I also love to sit for long spells and just take in each moment. I think I know how Mister John feels in the comfort of his favorite swing. The fragrances from Two Creeks float across the bottom land and blend with the honeysuckle. The fresh air floods the senses and renews life to the wanting flowers and foliage. The rains of spring made Two Creeks truly a paradise.

CHAPTER 3

Summers with Sarah

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B ack in the early years, as Mister John would so tell it, friends and neighbors were accustomed to dropping by for a chat. Telephones and email weren’t the best way to talk. The older generation had never grown used to talking through a wire, or so they say. Sundays were the best time for visiting. With his dad behind the wheel of their old black ’49 Chevrolet, the family went for an afternoon drive. They often drove into Wolf Hollow to visit friends. One Sunday afternoon, after riding it seemed for hours, they stopped by the home of Joe and Francis Burton. Mister John always claimed this one visit to the Burtons changed his life forever.

The Burtons lived on a small spread of about thirty acres, covered with woods and a large pond. The house sat back into the trees and was shaded on all sides. Eight years old at the time, Johnny had never been to this house. The place was spooky at first. The old house was dirty white with a rusty metal roof. The front yard had very little grass and even the driveway was rutted from past rains. The gravel had been pushed down beneath the mud and the driveway was in desperate need a fresh surface. To the far side of the house, the Burtons were sitting on a swing under the shade of a huge oak tree. Pulling up to the house, they waved for the LaMonts to come over and join them. Johnny’s parents walked in the direction of their shady spot, but Johnny began to wander about the yard. He wasn’t interested in such adult rituals.

Everywhere he turned there were chickens and guineas. A few geese investigated this new visitor, but soon ventured off. There seemed to be hundreds of chickens and guineas. Johnny hadn’t seen so many feathered friends in his brief young life. Some were red. Some were white, and some were dark brown. Some were smaller than the others, brown, and very strange. He was told later the little critters were banty hens. One banty rooster was chasing the other chickens, acting like it was angry at everything that walked the earth. The guineas were big and fat and gray. They looked like they floated together everywhere like a flying saucer. These so-called barnyard critters followed Johnny wherever he walked, thinking he might feed them. Realizing the folly of their efforts, they waddled off to other parts of the yard.

Young Johnny walked around the house and away from the chatter of the adults. The back yard was partially fenced in, to keep the chickens from running too freely in the woods and fields beyond. Johnny was surprised by what he saw. A little distance from the house stood a well. The well was like the one at Maple Grove though still different. A square block structure with a wooden top and cross pulley with a bucket hanging down. Now, the well was not what caught his eye. Before him, as though no soul knew of her existence, a little girl stood. With her back to Johnny, she was drinking from a gourd ladle that belonged to the bucket sitting on the well top. She wore cut-off jeans that came down to her knees and a white shirt. Her jeans were dirty at the seat, giving Johnny the impression she had been sitting in mud. Her shirt was equally soiled. Her hair was long and brown and in much need of a shampoo and a brush. Johnny approached her, and she turned quickly around. Startled and scared, she and her secret well had been invaded. She started to turn away to run, but decided to stand her ground and meet this stranger who had invaded her secret domain.

Johnny spoke up to keep her from running away, Hi. No response. The two just stood there staring at each other for several minutes until he spoke again. You live here? Silence continued. This your well? Now, in Mister John’s youth, he had been a timid boy, especially when it came to making friends with other children. However, this time something was very different. It was this mysterious girl. Johnny was drawn to her from the first moment he saw her.

Hi, she said looking down. She began busily wiping away the dust from her shirt and pants. She always looked down, at least for a while. Later in life, this little dusty girl would tell me, in her many stories, her friend Johnny helped her look up at the world.

My name’s Johnny. What’s yours? he asked as he approached the well.

She just stood there in silence. After about a minute which, for Johnny seemed forever, he spoke to her again: You live here? She continued brushing and rubbing her clothes and never looking up. What’ya doing? he asked as she continued to dust herself. You’re okay.

Her expression began to change and she began to relax. For Johnny, her face was so beautiful; her eyes were so sad. Still looking down at the water dipper in her hands, Yeah, I’m staying here. Where you from?

Two Creeks. My folks know your folks.

She took another drink from the gourd dipper and continued, Not my folks. I’m staying here this summer. Mom’s coming to get me. Then I can go home.

Where’s that? Johnny moved closer to the well.

New Orleans. She tried to keep her distance, appearing to be ready to dash away at any moment like a frightened deer.

What’s your name?

Sarah. My name’s Sarah Moody. Pointing in the direction of the front yard, My grandma and grandpa.

Handing the dipper to Johnny. Thirsty?

Maybe. Johnny took the gourd dipper from her small hands and drank. With his nose inside the round dipper, he kept looking at Sarah, this beautiful, dusty little girl. The water ritual broke the ice, but she didn’t talk very much for the longest time. In fact, little Sarah didn’t talk much at any time. At least the tension had disappeared, a little. They began to walk and talk. She would sit and listen to all the stories Johnny would tell. And Johnny did love to tell stories. Still does today. Her eyes stopped looking down and became glued to him whenever he spoke of his experiences at Maple Grove. He told her about his friend Julie and the times they’d ride at Knoll Stables. Their conversations were very one-sided, since Johnny did most of the talking. If he didn’t talk, then nothing would be said. Occasionally, a smile would form on her lovely face. For Johnny that smile did it. Julie had her match.

Right in the middle of a story, Sarah blurted out, Let’s go. All of a sudden, this shy, timid, wonderful little girl became filled with energy though still few words. She jumped up, motioning for Johnny to follow, and started towards an old building that stood under some trees at the corner of the back yard. She hurriedly disappeared around the corner of the building, and Johnny followed her on a run.

The building was dark and dirty. To the right of the door, just inside, a row of boxes lined the wall, about three feet from the dirt floor. In each box was some straw with at least one egg. See this? Little Sarah pointed to one of the eggs.

Johnny didn’t know what to make of this unusual building. What’s this place?

It’s a hen house, silly. Chickens roost at night and lay their eggs. There, in the boxes on the wall. Pick up that basket. Johnny didn’t know much about chickens, so he just stood there. Help me. Sarah began taking eggs out of the nests and handing them to him. He struggled to manage the eggs as fast as she shoved them at him.

Hey. You missed one.

She looked at Johnny and twisted her mouth with impatience. Don’t know a thing about chickens and eggs, don’t you? she said. Actually, she was right. Now, horses and cows, Johnny could tell her a few things.

Here, you missed one.

Didn’t. That’s not real.

Looks real.

It’s a nest egg. The chickens need help sometimes. It’s a wooden egg. Can’t eat that one. Sometimes they lay eggs over in the trees. Grandpa don’t like that much. He said the nest egg helps them know where to go. Johnny couldn’t tell the real eggs from the fake ones, but Sarah could. You sure don’t know much about chickens. Embarrassing Johnny a bit, Sarah grinned. Come on, gotta take them to the house.

Little Sarah Moody was one year younger than Johnny. She was delightfully charming. He talked to her as if there was no tomorrow. Sarah loved to listen. Johnny’s father took him