a diary's house scribd submission chap1_i begin my journey

7/31/2019 A DIARY's HOUSE Scribd Submission Chap1_I Begin My Journey

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Christopher David Murphy

Please note: A Diarys House is now available in ebook version $3.99 on

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Barnes and Noble, Kobo, etc by August 3, 2012. Only the first two chapters

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ADiarys

HouseWhere True Love

EnduresBY:

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Chapter 10 The Randola Has Its Say 195

Chapter 11 Sebastians Island 216

Chapter 12 The Diary Begins To Tell Its Story250

Chapter 13 Annabelle And I265

Chapter 14 My World Is Shaken290

Chapter 15 My Delivery And My Escape309

Chapter 16 We Are Revisited In The Bloom Of ThatNight329

Chapter 17 The Heart Of Kituhwa334

Chapter 18 Grandmothers Sanctuary368

Chapter 19 A Most Stunning Revelation381

Chapter 20 I Am Discovered / Villains Of The Doom402

Chapter 21 The Diary Evolves421

Chapter 22 A Message Sent And AnotherDelivered434

Chapter 23 I Peer Back Into The Single Eye OfHistory448

Chapter 24 Glory Of The Season467

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A Diarys HouseChapter 25 The Trail Of Tears481

Chapter 26 I Look For Clues 507

Chapter 27 Thanksgiving And Fellowship524

Chapter 28 The Day Of Settlement542

Chapter 29 The Chase559

Chapter 30 The Long-Awaited Reunion582

Chapter 31 A Short Interlude598

Chapter 32 One Final Glimpse614

Contact Information629

Preview: When Tomorrow NeverComes.630

Author Biography631

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Prologue

To Begin With.The Lost Cherokee Legend

There is always a birth to each story; the beginning of something

anew. Life, above all else, is no exception. It is a time when someoneremembers for the first occasion; their memories of family and ofhome, of first crawls, the first smell of a rose, the first hands in thegrass within a meadow field, the first breeze, the first showers; thefirsts to everything. How else is a story to have an appropriate, shallwe say Genesis, than to have a start where a story is most regularlyfirst-born. And as it so happens, this story shall bear its first fruit in thetale and revelry of my initial youth.

How convenient, I suppose, it is for me to be the product of myown yarn. But a story such as this carries its own value and genuine

beauty; that it must and most assuredly be told. It could havehappened to anyone. Yet, perhaps I was the fortunate one to have itoccur so promisingly within my own life.

Now mind you I have become an old man now. One who sits onthe park bench in a wayward and remote town deep in the heart andhills of North Carolina. No, no; I certainly wasnt born this way; just toexpress to you where I have come to in my life. Now I shall share withyou where I have come from.

People pay me little or no attention these days. I have learned topartner myself with my own solitude; and I to be resting in the fact that

my life has been a very blessed one. Each day, when the sun andweather cooperates, I will find myself steadily passing bread to mypigeon friends, which I have grown to love and know almost by heartand name.

The early morning is always fresh as if it were smartly baked andcooked by the uprising sun, or newly born from the previous nights

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A Diarys Housedew. The tightly-spun breeze moves about the open meadow park atits own leisure, and seemingly leaves its soft whistles in the brancheson the trees about. I know the spot well; the one I regularly andprominently go to. If you were a regular here you would see mepresent in a religious kind of way also. I suppose nature has turned intoa sort of Bible to me. This is where I find many of my companionsstrolling about from tree limb to tree limb, and they picking feverishlyat their feathers as they go about.

Dont suppose you can tell me on your general or specificpreferences for bread I would watch them pace about at my feet,angle their heads back and forth, pace some more, stare back at meblank-eyed again, and pace even further as I pulled out everyassortment of bread known to man, Cornbread...Eh? How about sweetbuns anyone? Biscuit? Muffin? Cottage Loaf? Surely you will take agander at Yeast rollsNo? Crumpet? Rye? Certainly someone has ataste for Farl?

They continued about their pacing silently.Well They do say a good friend is one to always listen, I

smiled with reflection, Doesnt say muchI paused.But if you had the mind to, the mouth to, the tongue to, I

laughed, you might take to talk so much that your feathers would fallof and you would strut about like a long-necked goose without itsclothes on.

They paced with even more agitation.Now that wouldnt fair too well, would it? Itd get too cold in the

winterand where could you fly to?There is Fredrick; having eyes only for the largest share of bread.

He takes his dough quite wheat-like thank you, bobbing his head inapproval as I toss it to him. Now Jeremy enjoys the smaller scraps ashe cares more for the heel than the softer bread. My guess is he has aweak stomach and digestive tract, and he prefers a more hardenedsupper. Jewels, quite the obstinate fowl, will have the finicky notion ofa cat; almost requiring me to feed her from hand-to-mouth, though hercolors are oddly beautiful.

Ah yes, and as well, Roger. He is such the fat kite that I would

never think he could take off and fly amongst his feathering friendsagain. Though, to his good credit, he makes smart management forflight after each and every meal; even with his enormous appetite.Cory is the most intelligent of this crew, watching me from his treestool till I can find a good seating place nearby. There, as always, hewould swoop down and rest himself right on my shoulders; eyeing

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every morsel and food product I could pull from my coat pocket, andhe so pecking at it till the food was free. He seemed to always wantfirst dibs.

When all was finished and every bird was disbursed aboutAh now, I smiled broadly to see the last, lone bird to inch

forward, saved the very best for lastAnd there was Landon. I have a special affinity for him. He is the

more patient; waiting privately for his individual turn; never to jostle orpoke through or push his brethren aside, but rather polite andesteemed in his mannerisms. He appeared more like a true southerngentleman than a small-minded pigeon. His truest art is in hiscourtesy, or as wisdom reaches even the smallest of fowl, hepossesses a bounty load of it.

As each visit to that special bench came and went, I would oftenkeep one eye on Landon and the other eye on the rest of them. They

could be rather flesh happy if my hands are too far exposed. Orhunger could drive them to be so bold in their eating habits likefeasting kings at the dinner table. Landon however kept his distanceand always fed in the rear of the supper; as to the gentle pigeon heappeared to be. He would never eat if another bird went around theleast bit hungry. I learned quite early to pardon a small portion of myrations till the very last when I knew, with the utmost of certainty, thatall the other birds were fattened to the ripe stage and no other pigeoncould even wobble my way, least of all fly off with the hefty newbaggage they carried.

It was such a joy to view Landons polished humility. I peered outto make sure the coast was clear and then I pulled from my left pocketthe true prize of the feast. How he would stare for a moment, and soput my smile into such laughter when he looked about. He would comeever cautiously to my feet, stare at me, flap his wings in a slight way,and lift himself to my knee where I politely fed him his desert.

It is so a frequent occurrence, that during his dainty andparticular way for feeding I can softly pet and stroke his wings. He is afancy bird that surely had the proudest of parents, and the mostbeautiful pigeon I have monitored to date.

My mornings and evenings are much the same if the sun andweather cooperates. And as to the heart of my days I will take mysimple strolls down to the local drugstore and coffee shop, meet upwith dog-eared Sam and Adams-apple Joe (forgive the adjectives butthis is what they were called). We would wait for Tinky Doris to graceus with her presence, and so keep our quarters ready for the daily bet.

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A Diarys HouseWho on earth would prissy Doris wink at first? Well, that was the bet.Most of the time Adams-apple Joe won, due to the mere fact shealways giggled at the huge lump he had in the middle of his neck. Herepeatedly said it was all owed to genetics and that it has been a lady-killer thing since it first grew out of control during puberty.

Here at this frequented sandwich and ice cream shop (regularlyesteemed as The Fat Turtle), the coffee was constantly stale. Charliemust have kept that old pot smoldering through the night until it wasbone dry. It seemed he never washed that fossil coffee pot more thanonce in ten years. But just the same; coffee is coffee and for two centsI dont rightly believe I have the authority to complain much. Though, Imust add, liquor probably wasnt as hard-proof as this.

Tinker Bell!! Joe would cry out at the first sight of Tinky Davis,Hurry about Charlie! Joe smarted at him as he was pouring out morerude coffee in our stained cups, Watch this Tinker! Adams-Apple Joewould turn quickly profile, point his nose high, lift his full cup higherstill, aim down, drip then drop; gulping all the way to get that Adamsapple bobbing up and down like a vicarious apple in swirling water.

Thats nothing! Dog-eared Sam spun about, pulled on hisearlobes in an attempt to stretch them down to the floor; snicker, thenproceed to roll his sleeves up, press hard his rolled-up fists to hisshoulders, and flex about what miniscule arm muscles he might havedreamt about that he had.

Up to fifteen pound curls in each arm! as if that were aprecocious feat to be most proud of.

Why lookie here! Tinky Davis, all sprite and dressed way

above and beyond the occasion, would curl her linguistic pronunciationto sound like the most ardent southern bell.

Fancy this! As if the same old routines were all brand new toher. She adored the attention in more fancy than the foolery these twogentlemen were in display with. I felt most inconvenienced to be sittingnext to two best friends who were more apt to be in childhood playthan acting on their true age.

How about you? She would press on me.I looked at her raw. I was not tempted by her southward drawl

and rapidly-batting eyes.

Oh, I fake-smiled, Im the least monkey-type of us three.OH POOH! She was angry at my unwillingness to play, A bird

with brown feathers flies without charm.Now let me see She turned back to this goof-ball display.

Adams Apple Joe pressing that coffee down his throat ever harder,while pushing that knot in his throat up and down even faster, as if it

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were an aging piston in his car; Dog Eared Sam wincing at the painhis arms were suffering through, and making every attempt to pull outhis large ears even larger.

Let me see, she eyed them both closely, Ill take Theypressed more furious with all their ancient might. Then it came theflirtatious wink right at Dog Eared Sam.

How about another round Joe sounded off.Maybe next year Sailor she took her soft, white gloves and

draped it just past his face so he could take a whiff of her intoxicating,nose-burning perfume. His eyes rolled back as if he were in a seizureor a concocting angel had just passed his way.

She made her way about the shop to find her next prowl.Sometimes (of course, when the weather and sun will not

cooperate and it rains) we will all jump in Charlies tin box with fourwheels on it, and go about three miles or so to the flicker show; watch

and speckle-eye the latest movie that had come out some five years orso ago. Sometimes we could ride his box to the show and sometimeswe had to push it there. No matter, Charlie wasnt much for themechanical side. So, more often than not, walking got us there at afaster pace.

During the annual parade we will drink hardcore, hot, cider-spelled, roof-burning lemonade that tastes just as sour if we had eatenthe lemon raw. We sit in his old dude car as he calls it, carry our hugeAmerican flags, wait our turn (which is always last), and honk downmain street to top off the parade. Why? Because we are the oldest

things in town and they love our constant spirit for being as such.Life is as good as it has always been. The memories are long and

thoughtful to reflect upon; noting, as always with a smile, that life hasbeen a pleasant travel for me. From time to time people will ask meabout my past. And with a soft smile and a quick sparkle in my eye Iwould say that I can speak on it another time when there is enoughtime to tell it in. All the while I know that there was much to tell; muchindeed.

You may very well wonder how this story shall go, and as to mydistinct recollection; here it is, with my best forwarding. As I have

spoken: the story begins at the youth of it; my youth.My name is Landon Hampshire, and how noteworthy of you to

recognize the fact that the one pigeon I most admired is named afterme. I was born early, round about (my certificate was as approximateas any inexact certificate would be they werent good about keepingup with such things back then) the year of 1875, in the deep heart and

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A Diarys Housemysterious mountains of North Carolina. A son of a well-to-doagricultural man who, during the beginning sentiments of my earliestlife, became the burgeoning springs of a timber mogul. His wholeproperty of ideas concentrated mainly on a two-step process. First,clear the land and sell the timber to the highest bidder; secondly,cultivate and crop that very same land for further profit. Needless tosay we were the most esteemed and admired business family withinthis sleepy region.

Our home was more the Georgian plantation type than all else; asit would rival the wealthiest cotton entrepreneur residing much deeperin the south. All of our properties cradled two modest towns; each ofwhich settled their banks on the most active river known near and far;the Randola River. Our home sat in quiet regal splendor within theconfines of a town called Mandolin. Much of the commercialenterprising was performed in her sister town of Windrow Heights; aflat stones throw away from Mandolin.

My father was not so much the self-made man as one mightsuspect. In fact, my grandfather Eldred Hampshire was a very famoussea captain who traveled more of the world in a few years than mostwould do so in several lifetimes. I knew nothing of him but for thevague and ambiguous tales I overheard at large family gatherings.

At these particular gatherings the table would roar with laughteruntil his name would crop up. Then the room would shudder withsilence and quiet down for as long as our stares would last. Forwhatever reason, as material as it may seem, such a thing was neverdiscussed or uttered in the presence of our large blood community. I

thought it to be a rather strange and distasteful manner of deletionthat a man of his apparent stature could never be reflected upon, evenafter his departing. His death, as unfortunate as it may seem, was farpremature for his age. And of all things it did not come by thebattlefield. Nor did his untimely end meet with the similar status of hismaking.

But as I did in fact overhear a distant cousin and my uncle oncetalk in a whisper; and they did make a slight promotion of the idea hisdeath came by accidental drowning. They were within the parlor roomin the downstairs west wing doodling through my fathers weapon

trophies; and so gawking at his treasure trove of rare hand pistols. Iheard their whispers, though exaggerated and sometimes animated;but still they kept within their low tones as not to be overheard exceptfor their mutual partnership; while I, clearly by accident, was mostunobserved by them. I leaned around the corner and listened in from

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the next room. Their shadows appeared to crawl low along the floorand their silhouettes danced by the brims of fireplace lights.

You dont suppose this planter would fetch a pretty price? Mycousin supposed; watching the pale pistol with interest and aconcentrating, lustful stare.

Obscene, my uncle smiled wet.Theft has its privileges, he conveniently deposited the gun

under his firm jacket.I wanted to intervene but I held my ground as they were the two

most unlikeable characters in our family tree.I taught you well my uncles smile returned.

I hear theyll be a run on baggers coming southDont supposeMore regular by next spring I here, like ants on a wet dust

mound my cousins whispers drew more soft.

Theyll be looking for land. Land full of timber.In hoards, he drew closer to his father, timber will be at a

premium. Kept in contact with Sutter; plans to disburse from RhodeIsland come six months from now.

Good, my uncle settled on another pistol; eyeing it mostreligiously, Will have to make a move by then.

Found it yet?The will, he stared back at my cousin, No but theres time.

But this is of no concern. There will be another in place.Yes, but time is thin

Hush-bound, my uncle peered around; staring about as ifeverything was moving and looking in on them, Hell sell cheapotherwise; at wholesale no less, and push the markup quitehandsomely. Why Josh, well be merry men of wealth yet.

We wont have to beg for a feast no more he laughed.The conversation was quite caustic and matter-of-fact. To the

point as though they were two full-bellied vultures properly fightingover which had the greatest feast of inheritance to gloat over. Therewas no reverence for those who had passed on. But they werenothing more than the curious environment of two mens idle

discussions. There was more to do about my grandfathers passing onof the family fortune than the actual passing on of himself.

I must admit that I had a very refined distaste for many factionswithin my less-immediate family members. Their workmanship ofcharacter, the thoughtless ventures with which they seemed to be

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A Diarys Houseconsumed by, and their infinite ways of breaching family ties left littleto desire or admire them on.

My father had siblings of ill-repute; and though by blood alone didhe have the bare essentials to tolerate them with.

Like father to son and son to father, I was the mirroring midget ofhis every approach. I was a most impressionable toy of his that evenmy shadow would follow to the identical tee on what his would do. Wewould play the mimicking games as far as my memory can serve me. Ifhe were to dip his raw carrots in melted butter at the dinner table, sowould I. If he were to make a ruckus round of laughter at the slightestdrop of a good joke or a humoring one-liner, I would also sound off tofollow with a miniature giggle in somewhat matching his. If he were totip his hat a certain way when we were out and about, I would also tipmy hat to the same precise degree and measure.

There, by the early evening fireplace light, we would sit and faceeach other, pass corresponding horrid expressions to see which one ofus would impress more upon the other, sip ever so tightly on our hotchocolate - even when the heat and flavor were long gone, and watchthe last and final embers in the fireplace sparkle and fade till motherbroke into our sessions and so speak on how appropriately it hadbecome my bedtime; or more past beyond it.

There were moments of long pleasure in my room. It was theusual and normal course of events for each evening. I could feel theearly Fall chill creep past my cracked windows as I stumbled into bed.My father was not far behind. He rolled the covers over me and taxedhimself one final time for the day in pulling out my then current

favorite story, and he reading aloud a chapter or two.This would become the time my father and I used for his grand

storytelling. Whether by truer versions or fictional yarns, it was then Iwas to learn about the legends and bygone eras.

Of course he would tell a tale with spirited voices and engrossingexpressions; in heightening the elements to the story and makingthem more of a product in experience than simple reading. I often feltpractically inside the story rather than an ordinary outside observer.He was surely a golden father with a golden touch for parenting - and Iloved him so.

I was a flint to his spark; a burst of energy to his long standingradiance, and the man I most desired to be like. The stories he wouldtell; the phantom measures of imagination which streamed from hismind, and how all made an impression on how I ultimately would seethe world as. But none was as great as the story he would tell of theCherokee; the lost horizon of a world left behind in the manic

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inquisition of the white mans pursuit for more land, gold, andpromised treasures in those long winding and mysterious mountains.

It is a Cherokee world of forgotten treasures; something leftbehind in the vaults of history; something left in the rubble of timeitself. This would be the long lost and forgotten story my father relayedto me during one evenings storytelling:

The tale of the Kituhwa afathers tale to his son

Hello Father, the door to my room popped out the hallway lightlike a candle that suddenly turned into a brief flair. A silhouette imageappeared front-and-center in that midst. I knew it to be father. It washis time for storytelling, Will we be reading about the greatadventures of David Copperfield?

No, he paused, Not tonight sonTom Sawyer thenNor him, he came with the same pause.Jim Hawkins, Ill say, I spoke with a bit of a whisper that all but

seemed to hide within the shadows of my room - yet my father clearlyheard me.

Not to be son, he moved slowly about and shook his head as hewent, I wont take a gander at John Silver. The great pirate will haveto rest tonight.

Then Robinson Crusoe and his lonely affair, I was sure, Thatmust be it I kept my eye lauding over my father while he movedcautiously about; never seeming to inflict his expression towards mine.

The bookshelf was left abandoned in its frame. The books remainedstill and unmoved as my father was breaking from his tradition to headdirectly for it, fumble about, and ask me what my mood might be forthe reading on a particular night. This would be the one occasion whenhe would hold himself from picking a great reading in one of thosebooks; where normal tradition and habit were broken, near my eighthbirthday.

The evening was an October night and sky. The air began to turnfrom the warm summer musk into the start of another chilly Fall night.I had been often told this was the beginning of the year for autumnsongs; that trees sang throughout October. But in my listening justoutside that bedroom window, the air seemed unusually still, quiet,nearly reverent; and it held an unusual cold about it.

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A Diarys HouseYoull appease me tonight Landon, he circled in an off-pattern;

though finally making it to my bedside. He stalled and gently loweredhimself into a sit just at my left hip.

No story tonight father?There is a story, he took his look from me towards the

bookshelf, But its not over thereI leaned up to fill about his waste jacket, peer into the front part

of his lapels, and then settle back as I was.You didnt bring it, I accused him with a mostly odd and

expressive gaze; though he smiled and nearly giggled in response tothis.

Oh he stalled, Its here, well enough.Then where is it? I pondered.Up here, he pointed to his temple with a careless grin, And

here, he pointed to his heart. The way they used to tell stories;before they ever wrote them down in books Something you pass onto each generation. The most valuable stories to tell

Kind of like a folk story, I surmised.You can say this, he tucked my covers around me more tightly

now, But as moving as anything you can read on a page... maybeeven bettermaybe even better.

Father turned to light up a candle near my bed. All of a suddenthe room lit up into a bright glow and steady flame. And so the dancingflickers pranced around the room in shadows. As if someone hadstarted up an old Irish tune for them to dance by. The smell of newsmoke filled the area next to my nightstand with a waft of pure-

burning wick. The shadows were long and reaching into the ceilingrafters as he began his slow-trotting to verse out the old lives of thisold tale.

Lets begin, I smiled; pulling up the covers near to my eyes.They say there is a red oak treeOne so old that it seems to be

the wisest bark to ever liveIs this where the story comes from? I eagerly asked, The red

oak tree?Oh of certain, father replied, The red oak was the only thing

that could live long enough to tell it. Otherwise, it would have been lost

foreverI think it would be quite frightening to have a red oak tree start

in on talking with you I suggested, Without announcing itself firstto keep from scaring you!

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Ohh, my father shrugged in a smile, I dont know. A soft voicein a whisper is never scary. You feel the peace before it speaks Hesmiled and gazed outside my window.

You say you have?Could beWas it? I pressed, Did you?He paused in another smiling thought of his.It turned out to be a most unexpectant pleasure, Father poked

into my side, She said she was old and tired, and she had lived toolong already; but that she wanted to tell someone this story; so theycould hear and know the storyand it would live on for anotherthousand years.

That long! I was amazed and astounded, Thats longer than Ican remember!

I would forget long before then

Who did she tell it to? I was nearly frantic in coming out of mybed, Did she tell you dad?

One day, he whispered low in a softer melody, I was walking toschool and I was tripped up by her roots. When I fell I looked back anddidnt see the roots. I looked up in the tree. Maybe something fell. Iwalked around the tree several times nothing. I began to walk by itand I tripped again. This time I knew something had come up out ofthe ground and tripped my feet. I looked back and I saw the roots goback and settle in the ground.

You must have been scared! I was shocked.

Surprised; more like it.Did you run?No, he smiledRun? I was more serious than fearful this time.No, his smile grew, A face appeared between two large arm

branches and the tree lifted me up to its tallest branches. This is whereI could see everything so long in the horizon; this is where she beganto tell the tale.

You had to be scared My suggestion was gushing out.Oh, he grinned with a silly reply, Of course I wasnt. There was

a peace about her - a calm I cant describe; like an illusion, but it wasreal so very, very real. She began most promptly, just at the timeschool starts, and she did not finish until after school let out.

Where was this? Where is the red oak tree now?Dead, he shook his head.Dead? I inquired.

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A Diarys HouseLong dead, he shook out his head further, She lived nearly a

thousand years; as old as the story goes. When she was a youngstriplingthis is where the story came to begin.

Ever told anyone?No one, he swore on me, Kept it a secret. I went back a month

or two afterwards to talk to her one last time, but she had died; herbranches were all withered and dry and bare any leaves; the leaveswere fallen - gone.

I was despondent, That is sad I would hope I could talk withher, I looked shyly at my father.

It was her time he whispered.Will I like the story? I was more concerned at this juncture.Someone else needs to know, his face grew into a grim stare,

the story of the KituhwaThe Kituhwa I echoed out his sentiments.The dream that once was the Cherokee his voice tailed off as

he spoke through this sentence.He spoke of this tale from the heart which no page or paragraph

could rightly do it honor, and so place with it the range of emotion andadequate justice due to it. I did listen to his every breath and word inthe very escape of my own; I dare say I held both for nearly twocomplete hours. My eyes never blinked; my attention was in raptureand entirely captivated. The trees about, on that moody evening,began now to stir and whistle a blow in unison outside my windows; allthe while my father was tearing through this tale with the vengeanceby every spoken word.

I would shutter at the right moment; bear all devils fright at theright moment, and cautiously shiver when the right moment arrived. Iwas the perfect audience, and he most assuredly the perfect teller toit.

The North Carolina lands deep within the mountains are indeedsteeped in charismatic folklore and alluring mystery. And of all thetales that would normally translate from generation-to-generation;perhaps this one was the finest of them all.

Mandolin and Windrow Heights have always been partnertownships since the earliest times. Both sat quite intimate near the

Randola River and its vagrant shorelines. As legend so goes, bothtowns were actually married once. And through their very inauspiciousand rocky union came this single offspring; a violent, undertow,heaping-currents, whitewater rapids, steep-climb ridges and hairpin-sheering-cliffs-of-a-river. It is said that death does not visit the Randolaoften; but in fact it resides there year-round. So many names have

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accumulated and have fallen into that river over the years that it wouldmake most stutter to think of what madness and backdrop could birthsuch a name and legend as this. Yet as my father did relate to me thatone early October evening, so do I extend to you.

The earliest inhabitants were Cherokee. Within a few hundredyears, early settlers with the mixture of trappers and Anglo Saxontravelers attempted to pass by into the Kentucky valleys and beyond.Some stayed in finding home and Heaven there; others stayed to allowwinter to pass before traveling further on at the beginning of thesubsequent spring. There were all sorts of people who were theuniversal kindred; English settlers, French trappers, Scottish hiredhands and land keepers, Irish immigrants and cattle headers. Evensome Spanish adventurers gave their part to settle here. Peace, by andlarge, prevailed through even the most turbulent times. The areabrewed with increased activity, economy, and trade. Languages, lyrics,

and folklore were transferred from one to another, and mixed in thiscontinual melting pot of cultures and customs. With such a diverginglandscape and vast formations, many new settlers wondered how sucha place could be contrived and made through the long years of history.

Now you will listen most intently. My father so warned, Therewill not be a second telling to this story.

I fanatically shook my head with agreement on this.This story must never stretch beyond this room, he came

again, At least not for the time being.I kept to my silence, though my eyes were square on his. I could

not even spare a blink.The Cherokee have often told that the moon and sun are

actually married; wed at the beginning of time. Their most prizedoffspring was earth itself. During the day, the father, or sun, would lookafter earth; the moon, likewise, during the evening hours.

My father took in a pause, and then continued.Day and night, for ages and for as long as it is known, the sun

and moon carefully nurtured this good earth and all that lived on it.This here, the lands we are on, used to be flat lands; meadows, andlong trailing forests for as far as the eye could see. This was when the

first of the Cherokees came into this land.How long ago was this? I quickly wondered aloud.When the red oak tree was very young, the Cherokees came.

She said even the bounty of the Randola River was more like a lakethan a river; the waters unstirred and unmoved. The red oak tree toldme it was quite a tranquil place.

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A Diarys HouseI believe I have seen it in my dreams father, I wondered out

loud, and with a curious stare his way, I wish I could speak with herYou will keep in mind the sun and moon he suggested.Oh yes father, I grinned.Then here is the tale of the Kituhwa his eyes grew to a bulge

and brilliant white, and the great legend of the Cherokee

As it were the Cherokees stood above all else, being that theirlength of stay extended beyond all others. The legend so goes thereonce resided two great tribes in these mountains; one lay to the east,the other lay to the west - one of peace, one of war. But theirseparable roots only lay with the absence of knowledge in not knowingthat the other great and enormous tribe ever existed. For many years,by this very clause and truce, peace did rule and the Father Sun andthe Mother Moon were pleased.

Within the peaceful tribe of the east there came to be known agreat and powerful Iroquois warrior named Kituhwa. He was amagnificent man of principal, reason, fortitude, love, peace, happiness,strength, character and grace. He ruled by the absolute favor of his

people. His stamina was enormous and his compassion was of equalstanding. During Kituhwas lengthy reign, Father Sun was very kindwith its fortune to his people. The weather was always fair; food lay

plentiful and in vast quantity; rains would come when the need arose;the winters were held in check and be kept mild. The people werewealthy in their happiness and this tribe prospered throughout all theseasons of the year.

The western tribe however fought by violence and aggressionwithin their own kindred clan. How so their actions cursed the verycore of the land. They stripped it of its resources as timber tumbledonto the mountain floors. Animals were sported for the kill and left todecay. Tournaments were held within this self-inflicting tribe, wheremen fought to their deaths. Tribal councils always resolved into somecarnage of human sacrifice and violent destruction. Father Sun viewedthis increasing tragedy from afar, seeing whatever this western tribetouched was left in ruins and incredible defamation. Mother Moon

pleaded with Father Sun at every sunrise and sunset to intervene and

destroy the tribe of the west.It was never the desire or wish for Father Sun to do such a thing.

For many weeks he deliberated over this and he gave the westerntribe every hope and chance to change; but none came. The time hadcome to end the western tribes plight.

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Hot firing winds blew in from Father Suns very core; crossingevery valley, hill and lands of earth, and leaving all else untoucheduntil reaching the western tribe. They bore down from the south andtorched most everything that lay within this infested land. Rivers werebleached dry and turned to sand dust; what remaining trees wereincinerated as they stood; the sky turned red with anger and revenge.But the western tribe saw the winds come before they hit and they dugdeep within the wells of earth. Most survived the torching realms ofthose fire winds. They mocked and laughed on Father Sun when thetribe members rose from the smoking ashes around them.

Their hands were lifted in defiance; their feet stomped withopposition. The western tribe had no reverence for anything, nor anymeasure of thanksgiving to what was given to them, but neverrightfully received. Storms brewed soon thereafter from further west;storms of mighty calamity and destruction. Clouds rolled in like wet

fire and scorching downpours as sheets of rain rushed forward andpelted the western tribe in an unrelenting shower. It was like spears ofdroplets to them, and the western tribe had to go back into their hiding

places below. They huddled and amassed themselves there like caughtanimals in an unforgiving trap. The waters fell as rain and the crestlevels rose as floods into the valleys.

Some were drowned, yet most took to flight into the far-reachinghills. With weapons in hand and destruction most settled in theirhearts, they ran forward as a stampeding herd. They pushed throughthe outskirts of their own devastated land.

They say that Father Sun closed his eye in a moment of eclipsinghorror. And all darkness fell upon the earth when Mother Moon cameto talk to him. The earth shuddered in fear with such an earthquake-like force. Indeed, the western tribe had discovered its kindred easternclan there, sitting in Heaven.

It is believed when they saw such a sight, the western tribehowled like pack wolves; with black eyes of death, and fists full ofhardened coal. Where two polar worlds collided and met; where theeastern and western tribes pierced into a titanic struggle for survival;where one must kill to live, and the other must live to endure.

This catastrophic evil; this band of sinister souls, whose longshadows spread nothing more than doom; wailed and howled, ragedand shouted, till like a community of spirited bees, they ascended tofeast on this awaiting tragedy.

Kituhwa quickly summoned his great courage from within and hebrought forward his greatest tribesman to counter the bloodthirsty

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A Diarys Househoards of western tribal men who were descending from the mountainranges above. A tribe for peace has no stamina for war, nor could theyredefine the inevitable outcome which was soon to take place. But withthe gracious sacrifice they possessed, with the skill for duty, and thelove for what they were, they kept the western tribe from intercedingfor a time.

It seemed this war was kept in a standstill for as long aspossible .It was then the eastern village women and children began toassemble and flee; scattering as they could to find refuge in thecorners and crevices of their own homeland.

It is said that Kituhwa looked back in a deep search for hisdeparting bride, and by some natural order of instinct did she, at thatmoment, stop and turn to find him. Their eyes locked for one last timeas he, by his very expression, demanded of her to depart and find thevery spot where they two, only knew of.

It was a place of seclusion; a place of seeming security; a placewhere they went often and felt secure in; a place where she could go.

There came a crying rain then as Father Sun and Mother Moonwept together over what was transpiring. The landscape was violentlytorn from its intended peace. Valiancy sat so well with the easterntribe as they, one by one, began to fall victim to the western tribe; andthe outcome had so made its sunset into reality. The war was turning;the barriers broken; the eastern tribe losing its members by singleslaughter, till Kituhwa found himself singled out and alone. A chaseensued to the height of the highest mountain range. And to thehighest tree above the mountaintop, Kituhwa climbed upon its highest

tip. They call it Clingmans Ledge.The foes from the western tribe let out their howls and danced

through this crying rain, round about that very tree, that very same tallmajestic red oak tree, as the western tribe members tried to cut at itsbase. And with the fierceness of utmost retribution, lightening beganto strike from every corner of this heavy downpour, striking eachwestern foe into death until Kituhwas life and safety was spared.

Now Kituhwas bride made her way through the forestry realm tillshe met with the place of her destination; that secret hiding place. Allof her kindred fold, left and scattered about, were hunted and

slaughtered but for her. She resided in fear, there, and she could hearthe echoes and cries of all her tribe people being hunted. Still andsilent, without even a whisper, she kept quiet in her most specialhiding place.

But being the great trackers they were, members of the westerntribe soon discovered her trail and so formed a massive search to find

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her out. She lay knelt onto the ground; shivering in her own fear asFather Sun and Mother Moon gazed onward and watched the dramaunfold. Yet with such a force and mighty plea, and with their collective

powers united, the most fiendish flood and horrific earthquakeunleashed and cast the landscape about into terrible turmoil but forher single hiding place.

She lay in stillness as all else around her collapsed, heaved, andclashed in a horrendous roar. Mountains rose even higher, torn fromtheir own bellies; and created sheer cliffs and hard rock formations theheights of a thousand feet. Floods rumbled through with so the mightyrush, force, and rage of the most savage rivers; and so there was bornwhat is known today as the Randola River. It is said that out of utterrevenge the Sun and Moon had every surviving member of the westerntribe pulled away from where they stood at that very moment andthrown into the depths and waters of the Randola River to drown in.

But all the while Kituhwas bride lay still and seemingly asleep for mostof three hours, when she awoke to find herself on an island;Sebastians Island, in the violent midst of the Randola River.

And to this highest mountaintop where Kituhwa remained, hecalled for her with the strong reaches of his cries; his calls echoed allthroughout the mountains. The sounds cascaded through the forest,

yet bore no return of her response. His attempts continued to beunanswered as he anxiously lept and sped throughout the range hestood upon, as if he were a frantic buck galloping in a search of hisdoe. He looked to the Heavens; his eyes full of tears, where he bent to

the earth and wept openly for her. He did not know if she survived andhe cried all through the night in thinking she was lost; lost forever.

It was then the skies parted and Mother Moon blew down a softand twirling wind; a small tornado which was harmlessly self-containedin its own funnel.

There, to Kituhwas astonished look and stare, it met with theeastern tribe leader and it appeared to have the desire for him tofollow, which Kituhwa did as much. For three days Kituhwa walked inthe shadow of this funnel; day into night; night back into day; withoutretirement or sleep, till they both met with the violence of the massive

Randola River. All the while, Father Sun and Mother Moon carefullywatched over him.

The Randolas white waters were so rampant, the undertows andundercurrents so extreme that it appeared the very spirits of thewestern tribe were leaping from her waters in the chance and hopethey could escape these prison waters. Hands seemingly emerged

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A Diarys Housefrom those watery bounds. Hands so desperately grabbing upon theshorelines; eyes and expressions looked as if they appeared in thebackdrop of every spray head that rose from the waters cresting.

Kituhwa watched as this gentle funnel began to stretch itself overthe top of the waters, pausing at the edge in wait of him. He cried oncemore for his bride. The echoes tore through the valleys and waterstreams like a raging wildfire in a hurry. But no response came and hisheart fell. Slowly, by the inner courage he bore, Kituhwa walked intothe raging river, giving no resistance to its formidable tides. He couldnot fight anymore as the waves ferociously pounded him. But to the

point, and in such a swift and directing movement, this funnel movedover him and settled in his midst to protect him.

The waters were raging and pounding like mad men in violenthunger. Yet within the funnels domain where Kituhwa was, the waterswere calm and still. Both Kituhwa and the funnel moved past FurysFold, Demons Dredge and the Devils Turn, down beyond Dead MansGap, down through Belail Waterfalls, which at its longest stretchdownward, fell some four hundred feet from its topping foam; and atlast reaching Babels Cliffs where Sebastians Island sat in its midstand equal surroundings.

There Kituhwa looked through the funnel to find the presence ofhis bride. She stood on the shorelines waiting for him. Her expressionspoke to him of hope and survival; relief and of ultimate joy. Both werereunited there. And as he came to meet her, the funnel softlydissipated and disappeared there before them both. They knelt andwept tears as bountiful as the waters surrounding them, embracing

one another with no seeming release until the night came and they fellasleep together.

It has been spoken Kituhwa and his bride were the Adam and Eveof the Cherokee nation; living through their lives upon this remote,beautiful, and inescapable island. It is where nature and Heaven hadspun a world of perfection and absolute symmetry. They say whenbirds are viewed rising from the islands base and roving about theseenormous cliffs of Babel, that they are truly the spirits of Kituhwa andhis bride reaching for Heaven.

Now do you understand the secret? My father softly whispered,as not to stir anyone else up from bed.

I think soNow you know why it must remain as such.I think so I was more confused this time.

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Tick-a-lock, he pronounced; all the while twisting his fingersabout his lips, and further all the while holding to his constant,dramatic, and overly-serious stare over me.

Tick-a-lock? I had to question.Tick-a-lock He shook his head in agreement.We kept our eyes poised on one another for that moment; smiling

a bit, but never saying anything further.I do remember that early fall evening when my father spoke of

this legend; as if the moment and point of it had just left me. I oftenwonder where truth and legend came into friendship with one anotherand where folklore might have taken over to fill in the empty spots;yet, as to my knowledge on all that I know, the story is as heartfelt andtrue as any.

The look on his face; the complete and formidable stare myfather gave me there, comes rushing into my memories whenever I

take a chance to reflect on it, or dream into the heart of any nightsince then.

How the old and natural whistle sounds of those winds blew intomy bedroom as my father, by his loving hands, curled the covers justover my chin, gave to me a soft kiss on my cheek, and said hisgoodnights with that usual engaging smile of his. After my father left Iwould stare into the glass ocean of my windows and watch the dancingtree limbs tickle the other side of the glass. I wondered to myself howKituhwa must have felt and how I would like to meet him someday.

This story played on me as much as an obsession would. No other

tale had more of an imprint with me. I thought of it often through theworkings on each of my days.

It is here that I come to the age of thirteen; closer to adulthoodbut still rather far away. My dreams were more milked withimagination than of idle wandering in those years. I would daydreamwhenever I had the measure to take delight in it, no matter where Imight be. I saw the journey in my mind; of the life ahead and all thehopes that were carried in them.

Being a child of thirteen you are still the miniature person you willbecome. And yet, crossing the bridge from childhood and into being an

adult, you find the mixture of both worlds still taking root inside of you.There were places where my mind could only take me to; that I stillhad the chance of adventure to see for myself in the days ahead. Butthose times were quickly approaching; far sooner than I would haveever imagined before their actual occurrence within my life.

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A Diarys HouseStill I would often wander on the wings of that fertile imagination

over this story of Kituhwa and his bride; upon the birth of the Cherokeenation; of life in these glorious mountains I see as home to me.

It was like a spark that ignited whenever that internal match litout. During my schooling hours, into the workings of my education,during the soft evenings when all of our family members came to sitabout the fireplaces of our home and strengthen the ties between us; Ithought of it always.

There were times we would take the lanterns out with us onto ournightly journeys or our horseback rides through the roaming hills of ourbeautiful lands; when we would spot the sunset and watch it cast overthe ridges a brilliant hue. When the sun moved slowly down over theimmediate horizon, I would think of it.

Sometimes my father would take us all out in those evenings,book-in-hand, where we would curl around him for a good read at theedge of our vast properties; and the beautiful sunset being thatglorious backdrop for us to settle in. It was most particularly beautifulafter a good, late-evening shower.

I thought of how the sun and moon looked so reflective in thoselate evening times. And in this partnership of nature, how they hadgrown a little wiser to make more beauty out of those evening hours. Iwondered how Kituhwa and his bride would see these sunsets as. Orhow, for myself, the sunsets on Sebastians Island would look to mefrom those long-ago years.

I began to feel a strange, though certain kinship with Kituhwa. Ican not speak on the measures as to why. But that we were in our own

rights, partners to some long-stretching bridge through time. Therewas nothing more which had greater enamoring with me. I wanted tofind that red oak tree my father spoke of. Perhaps an ancient seedlinghad developed and it too, could speak to me. Perhaps there was moreto the story than what I knew.

There were times I would travel by Babels Cliffs, gaze out overthis long yard of beauty and nature, see the falls as they tumbled likedroplets into that bayish, long-eyed view ocean below. I would watchintently over this long-distanced island of Sebastians. Maybe I couldsee Kituhwa and his bride playing in those pools below. I seemed to

hear the winds of some ancient echo brushing up at me while I peeredover those enormous cliffs. At times I would pray; at others I wouldstretch out my body at the tip of this cliff, feel the winds cuddle me,and I dream as if I were a bird making ready to fly over this arena.

But what remains is as it always is; the story of Kituhwa. Soon Iwould venture into a world I partly dreamed of and I partly never knew

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existed. These are the times of childhood; these are the times ofyouth; a travel once in life of which there would be no return to. I couldfeel it slipping beyond my own experiences now.

But this very story of Kituhwa had melted itself into my heartindelibly so. It kept its step with me through each day after its telling.

The branding was complete; the passions were swelling within. I knewthe time had come for me to act and become the man that I would be.

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A Diarys House

Chapter 1

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I Begin My Journey.

My mother once told me a man has to do what he thinks is right,

regardless of whether other people think it is correct; that is, in orderfor one to achieve some level of independence from others and thusgather in their unbridled respect. All in the sense if manhood were tobe established by its apparent heir (in this particular case, it beingmyself) at an early age, he would have less trouble in life. Noting thisgreat and glorious philosophy, the impressions it made, and the sourceby which it came to me, I took it upon myself to learn the heart andsoul to its powerful banner, the legends in its ritual, and the profoundmessage it seemed to speak on me at the ripe age a boy is moresuitable for schooling, rather than testing his will for Manhood.

There are many merits to what she spoke. I suppose I hadaccumulated them like some old rug that I was currently draggingthrough time, and without the truest understanding that I was doingso. But by their enormous weight upon me, they became more ofinstinct than taught lessons over the years. What lessons I havelearned from my mother play more of an indelible impression with methan mere dates, facts, and the wherewithal of any story I couldprecisely speak on.

She was a powerful, humane woman of the utmost virtue. Hername was Angelica Hampshire, with hair of deep raven color that heldonto black as much as the deepest part of night would. The eyes of thebluest emerald oceans; a smile that would bring any laughter to thehardest of souls; a heart with the finest sense for sacrifice and gentleendurance; all these qualities she had brought into my life. She alwaysseemed to keep herself well within the properties of a lady. And she sopossessed the casual wisdom when the need arose.

Even up to this day I often think of her. Whenever the memory ofher comes as a wisp to me; to see her glorious smile there in mythoughts; it would reach from beyond; from those long, escapableyears to where I was at in that very present moment; touch me, and socause me to smile in response.

But yet I do remember well the point where my journey began. Iand two of my school friends met in open quarters near the old churchbrook which was nestled on the outskirts of Mandolin. The old churchsat bleakly on its bank with a steeple seemingly at the foot of Heaven;reaching out to the clear stars about our heads as we spoke.

`

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A Diarys HouseIt was a simple structure, this church, with one room for services

and prayer, and with a small basement where most Sunday schoolclasses were being held. The master frame was much like an ovenduring summer worship services; blistering our souls when the ministergot hot-on-heavy with his sermon; and the temperature did also. It waswhite painted, simple-square and parched from the summer sting ofheat. The stairs were cracked and chipped and in need of dire repair.One door stood in front and another to the basement level on one side.Large oaks nestled at each side of it. One with a branch so peculiarlybent that I often thought it was making some obscure gesture toshelter the church, especially when the minister was on such a tiradebinge. Sometimes the air bore down on us with such a stuffy fume thatthis peculiar tree seemed interested in giving us whatever refuge thatwas necessary.

On this night however, the moon remained high and bold withlight, peaking through one of the oak counterparts with its single, yetwhite-like reflection. We sat assembled near a mobile campsite by afire that would glow almost to its peek, in-between the church and thebrook just below.

The purpose for our meeting does not leave me so conveniently.There was but one reason for our trio gathering; to become men; toenter the age of manhood. Like children exploring a new world; wewere there, tempting fate, humanity, and all the revels of posteritythat we could muster. We had a task, a point of determination thatwould prove beyond all doubt we were true men. It would be a jointventure requiring skill and dexterity, which brought utter fear to the

most courageous; to cross into the Randola River and enterSebastians Island.

We all three had pre-arranged to meet at the dimmest hour ofthat particular Sunday night, absent any parental permission to do soof course. Once all else had fallen quiet within our homes each of ussnuck out from the comforts of our rooms; undetected and into thestronghold of that night. I, by my own demise, jumped from mysecond-story window as if I had the clumsy fortitude of a blind andbabbling-drunk robber. Even with all the episodes and traditions ofknowing my own estate and home by heart, to the very point of

knowing how many steps it would take to travel from here to thereor there to here, I could not have been less ecliptic in my approach.

I had managed to find and rediscover every element within mysurroundings that would create the most profound sensation of noise.First of all, there came the latticework just outside my window;standing out like some trip-wire to alert everyone upon my

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whereabouts and my adventure. Then came the resounding crash oftin canisters the helpers had left out that very evening, round to theback corner of the house; a horse troth, a nice high-pitched bucket,rakes and shovels left over by the gardening workers who wereemployed to do planting for my mother.

And yet, to my happy shock, no one stirred from the commotion,or so it seemed at that moment. So I quickly made my way from theshores of my long driveway and out onto that brisk run nearly threemiles where the church stood awaiting our collective arrivals. And inour prescribed allegiance, Jonathan, Thomas, and I built that weak-ember fire right there on those grounds.

So there I sat in alliance with these two fellow conspirators to doour parents regulations a bit of harm. Coming together as we were,plotting the sort of thing that would make us men; seeing how ouradventure would take a grand measure of courage and fortitude.

There was Tommy; the self-imposed, articulate one. The younglad with a spot more intelligence than most his age, and who had amore proper stage about him. It was quite evident he would look uponhimself with a sense of grandeur and pride. He was blind to that simplecontradiction - that he constantly displayed a rather weak stomachwhen even the slightest of perils might come his way, though he mightfancy himself as the bravest of souls when danger was not in the mix. Itook little regard in his elevated sense of himself. But I knew I wouldneed to be on guard about the times Tommy might feel the need tobolt on us. I had been told that many intelligent people had a deep and

intimate sense of cowardliness; Tommy was no different.There also was Jonathan; the strong, freckled, silent type who had

very little by way of counterfeit heirs and false perceptions; butpossessed the capability of either turning good or bad. He was farbeyond his years in that he was not an impressionable boy, nor did hefind amazement in much of anything. He took a liking to me, but forwhat reason I could not tell. He had the indigenous nature and longtradition of being a farmer; a pure breed and hard-born one for thissingle purpose. His life had already been settled and I am not sure hefelt it to be more of a grace than a scourge. There seemed a lost, but

deep sense of discouragement within his thoughts; though he was notone to regularly make pronouncements about his self-prescribedidentity.

And at last there was me; of ordinary traits and ordinary abilities.I was nothing special; just a shadow boy finding his way into manhood.

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A Diarys HouseWe all sat silently engaged in a miniature circle. The fire yet to be

lit was to brim just near two feet high in order to collect about a goodshare of our chills and give us adequate warmth.

Thomas spoke first; the self-tagged, wanting, and supposedleader always does, You have the Light? A shiver came through hisverbiage, which all but indicted us for not working quick enough tosatisfy his desire for that warmth.

Of course You think I would forget it? Jonathan responded,fluent in his determination, Ill have it lit in a second.

Dont let the wind get it. Youve only got a few matches, I camein with my suggestion, though Jonathan swore me off with his look ofdisdain, Sorry, I apologized with a word and a stare as I folded myselfback into my silence; I being the youngest presently.

How long do you think it will take? Thomas asked.Youre full of it tonight arent you? Jonathan poked at him,

questions and all. Jonathan, not noted for being irritable, seemedsomehow testy by the way he spoke to the both of us, You know, I canget in a lot of trouble if we go through with this, he kept steady onthat duty to light our fire.

So can we all, I said, though careful in my approach, We holdto our pact; nothing said; nothing learnedright?

Agreed, Thomas muttered. When the deed is doneIt still doesnt reduce the risk, Jonathan inferred between us,

We have a devil-born river to beat.The wind brushed through us with a silent quiver and it made the

owl turn his head and bat his eyes from the oak tree branch above us.

How much longer is it going to be? Thomas chimed in withchattering teeth, I mean, we could be here all night and nothingcomes of this.

Hell be good about it soon enough, I struck back in Jonathansdefense.

We need light and heat, or we will freeze Landon.How can I get this fire started with you two here are chattering

like two feral cats in a brawl? Jonathan stopped short with a pause,Give me a moment, will you?

Jonathan cut Tommy off with a quick, biting, yet sturdy look;

which appeared to impose his current anxiety. The gesture given; hisgaze placed on the situation an air of silence that all but gave him themoment necessary to concentrate on setting our fire. Putting himselfto good usefulness, the effort was only matched by his formidablesuccess. His abilities brought from a match, a spark, then from this

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spark came out the fire for us to continue on with our motive and ourdiscourse.

As I looked about the landscape we were under, the drab moonlitnight gave us little-to-no reflection to work with. Only Jonathan hadgiven us a flicker to have our sights play on. All of our movementswere as three conversing shadows, except for the eyes, which toldeach of us the vital particulars on what the other two were thinking -and ultimately were hiding.

There our campfire grew to a smolder and gassed-up fumes andtrailing smoke to choke out the clearing dark skies just above wherewe sat. The shadow of clouds moved and illuminated into the night. Anicy cold stare came back to us from the one-eyed moon. We thoughtthe night was a ghost itself and that it seemed to play the mood of aghoul which would haunt us until daybreak. We shuddered at everyfrightful sound. This increasing campfire appeared more to expose us

than become our protector. What chill from the cold Thomas had feltpreviously on, this soon turned into a dreadful chill of converginghives; though the heat all but made us itch even more. Tommy camefrom his seat all of a sudden. As if by a split moment something tookpossession on him. He moaned out a cowering yelp.

OH Itchin Scratch! What bit me?! He spun around in circles tillhe fell backwards on his backside.

The whiskey man! Jonathan smiled and giggled all the same,Never took a drop, but carried the symptoms in his brain. Then hissmile dissipated, Now mind you. You keep to dancing like that and

youll find yourself in the fire seat heretaking to dumping pineapplesthe rest of your days, every time you had to go.

Something stung me, Tommy pleaded.Dont mind it. Now sit Thomas, Jonathan came more stern now,

You ever heard of rump roastyoull be roasting calluses on your...pointing to Thomas backside with a stick he held in his hand.

You think its funny? Thomas peered on me to make certain myface was straight as an arrow.

You did nicely, I proposed.I hope you get the coots, he despised on me like he had his

own method for putting a most dreadful spell over the very grounds Iwas sitting over.

You going to be a part of this Tommy? Jonathan swore.Of course, he gurgled, I love adventure. Im brave about it

too!

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A Diarys HouseThen tuck your upper lip behind your lower one and keep it

there.I watched Tommy frown on this suggestion.Now Thomas was the middle-aged one in the trio lot of us, and he

so possessed a less than average sense of curiosity, yet he wasprovoked by some whimsical desire to explore if all was secure in theadventure. He seemed often unsettled at times, wanting more thanwhat he knew. The urge of adventure was greater to his fancy thanmost, though he was rather guarded by how his parents might interjectdiscipline when the need arose. I did sense he held an urge tosomehow breakout; to be a brave explorer he imagined himself to be;to so become the grand wanderer who was without the precepts ofhome or family roots. He seemed to be inspired by his self-delusionalways.

He stood of soft but gazing features; forever staring with suchforce and dexterity that he may well shoot his eyeballs like bulletsfrom a pistol when he took to look on you as he did at me right then.

This quality was only enhanced by the fire when, at times, he wouldpass to me a glance and have flames reflecting within his expressionthat would ultimately pierce me thru and thru. He was not a boy fortrust. That by the very ingredients of his makeup was he more apt tothink of self more than friend; though he had a special way forinvention, which held some value on our relations.

He regularly spoke of distant lands as if they were distant starsand galaxies to be explored. He had a fade-and-glow desire to travelbeyond the bounds of our small, engrossed world. That if such a feat,

as this we were contemplating would so succeed, he would have rightsas a new-born man to travel forward. That somehow no guardiansobjections will keep him from it any further than tomorrow.

Now Jonathan, being that of a farmers son, wanted some level ofadventure in his life, if not to be the more daring fool of us all. Hedidnt want to settle and this was clearly put. He never spoke of it;more of his thoughts were by the private matter than to be aired forpublic consumption. The less we knew of him, the more empowered hefelt over us.

There was a quiet self-assurance in his disposition, though he

bore a terrible stingy manner with his thoughts. He was more apt tosend vibes through his expressions than by explicit wording. One couldsense Jonathan would become a rather burly man in his adulthood.While he possessed the physical size to impress on you as much, hestill was all the age of sixteen, or barely so.

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Even with this cautious persuasion to carry some level to beinternally guarded with, he did possess the desire to room himself withour friendships. Even to this day I cant find the adequate reasons forit. He was much like his fathers making. Down to the pipe he pulledfrom his pouch. It was here he began to smoke on it.

They say there is treasure there, Thomas spoke to stir up ourinterest, as was his normal format for influence, brought down bypirates a hundred and fifty years ago. They say they never came backfor it.

Ive heard that. Thats nothing new, Jonathan replied, as if itwere a given to him, or rather to take the honor once more indiscounting anything Thomas ever spoke on. Thing is, they never left.

You know the story, how it goes and all.No. Ive never heard it, said I, curious to the extreme.

The story of Kituhwa and the famed Cherokee legend came

rushing back to me all at once. I could still sense the October windpulling through my open window that night, brushing up against mycheeks like a kiss in the breeze. My fathers eyes glowing back at meas he forwarded that story to the finish. And I often wondered whysuch a story as this was so softly kept in the community. Myschoolfellows obviously knew nothing of the tale. I was certainly bareat the thought in telling them so and letting it pass on through than mespinning this yarn for them to hear. I knew I had to keep the promise Iswore to my father in keeping its very secrecy. Tick-the-lock, Isuppose.

Treasure at Sebastians Island, he looked on me.Have you ever been there? I inquired on Jonathan.Who has? Old men and dead men have is all he shuffled

round his pipe to somehow illustrate his wording, and he begananother light to smoke it, Dead men cant speak, and old men haveonly half-a-brain to remember it with. Theres no one left to tell. Thatswhy I want to go and see for myself; about the legends and all.

His pipe blew a speck of flint dust when its light grew to asmolder.

And the treasure! Tommy interjected, but was ignored.

Legends. I heard my father speak on them once, I said, thoughproviding no details to the fact; and I so desiring to fib just a bit, But Idont remember. It was so long ago and I was so young when he toldme.

I took a liking to his pipe.

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A Diarys HouseSay! Where did you get that? I asked; observing the pipe with a

marveled, strange look on my face, It must be a hundred years old.Seventy, he said, took it off my fathers mantle. He

wont miss it till morning. As long as he doesnt get up to take to theouthouse during the middle of the night. You see? Hes got to havesomething to mess with while he does his business

He gazed on me in all seriousness.Treasure, huh? I tried to bring him back to the subject.I heard old man Montague say he saw a ghost on the island

some forty years ago and by boat too; doing night fishing on theRandola River, no less. He swore on his fishin habits that there wassomethin happening on it. Couldnt see very well through the night fog,but he supposed it was a gypsy ghost; mighty rowdy one at that too!

Jonathan took a pipe whiff several times through his speech toenjoy the aroma; collecting himself, then, releasing a puff cloud nearhis face that was all so pushed away by his words, Old man Montaguenever told a lie; never had a reason to. So I have no doubt on thesubject that what he saw was either the truth or someone playn trickson him.

Which do you think it was? I said, coughing a bit.The Truth? he responded, You see, people are terrible afraid to

go on that island because of all the stories and fables surrounding it.Besides, there is only one way on that island and that is going downthe Randola. There is death there for anyone daring to cross it. Buttradition kills you into fear and keeps everyone from going otherwise.But also, if they were sharp enough even to navigate through Randola;

that is, if you survive even this, the legends aboard the island wouldget them. Only the most daring have tried and only one has evergotten on the island that I know of... Now old man Montague, hes it;none more like them than he. Hes still the living image of a spookyghost; like he was waitn to die so he could keep on living! The mansfull of weirdness. Like a shadow of night follows him; most similar tohow a moody pirate would be. Hes daring all right; enough to take onSebastian!

How many do you think have tried? A throat lump crossedthrough Thomass words as he swallowed hard on it, and lived

Jonathan took about him another puff or two in that darkenednight. He collected himself for a slight pause while we sat on the cliff ofhis new words, You try; you die or you make it. Failure means deathhere. No way to come off Randola once you get on it. The ghost of itwill suck you in; toy with you; pull you within its rapids andundercurrents; sap you dry of any strength you have, and then take

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you into its belly. Whos to say the number? A hundred? A thousand?Dunno

Now my lump grew quite the heavy load in my throat; much towhat Thomas was feeling. I saw Jonathans pipe smoke simmer roundhis breath, swirl in a clockwise motion, then spin off of him as hespoke; seemingly to be terrified of what he said as well. I looked overat Thomas for some measure of relief, though he bore down on

Jonathan with the same tragic intensity, and he could not pull his eyesfree from the very shock that cut through him.

Maybe we shouldnt do this he squeaked out.Jonathan passed over a caustic smile to him, and shook his head

in a reply, Do as you wish; dont plan to go unnoticed all my life. Ibelieve old man Montague can get us there.

How well do you know old man Montague? I asked.Well enough where he wouldnt send me off if I came to visit,

Jonathan seemed quite sure on this one; nodding his head in his ownapproval.

Are you sure? came Thomas.So it seems, Jonathan poked him with his pipe, Been to the

tower!No! I said. I was stunned by his very singular statement.And you lived to tell about it Thomas jaw dropped.Indeed, I have, he nodded on it again, hes as queer a man as

you think it. But hes been round well enough to know the secrets.What has he told you? Thomas spoke next to inquire.

Little. He gives it to me a bit here, a bit there. Sure as can be,the devil himself may be on Sebastian. They say lightening strikesthere once a year; same time each year. Come reckon its near thattime again; some two weeks away as old Montague told me last week.

What is to happen?!! Thomas grew in excitement, and he stoodabove us.

Keep it quiet! Sinister Minister may be at the church, Jonathanreturned as he lowered his voice into a stern hush, and he returned

Thomas to his knees.This late? Never! I whispered; prodding the fire with a tiny rock.

Hes an eccentric old coot. Hes got cooties for brains. The manisnt right. Never has been; never will be. They say hes got a wargoing on in his head!

Jonathan bore down on me just as hard with his tone. He took hispipe and nearly stabbed me with it as I pulled slightly away from him.

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A Diarys HouseThey say Sinister Minister drinks just before he hits the pulpit.

He returned.Of course he doesnt! I recanted back from my own memory.

And never to this day had I seen such a thing as this.Why, he needs to be full of the spirit, doesnt he? Jonathan

objected, Ive been in the child choir mind you! I know the routine. Onthe Sundays they have us up there? Ive seen him swipe a jig or two.

No! Thomas spoke in disbelief.The eyes are as good to witness as anyyou see it! You know

it!When are we to go? I put it to Jonathan since he knew more

about the plan than I did and he had the most knowledge about oldman Montague than any of us. I rubbed my shoulder where Jonathanspipe pierced me.

What about the lumber; youve got that? Thomas asked.Well hidden, he relished in the taste of that pipe.Where I was suspicious and cautious all in that single word.As I said, Jonathan fussed, Well-hidden.Jonathan, I was harder, WhereDown the shore; five miles west from here.Five miles west, I was even more suspicious now, Dont you

suppose five miles west, down river, is mighty close to the Boores oldfarm house and kin cemetery?

Precisely, he blew out a full contagion of smoke.Its haunted I was moody in the phrase, Very haunted. Why

would you ever store anything there?

Why not?Because, Tommy was in a terrible fright now, and he was too

nervous to speak more than a single word about it.Seemed the best place for it, Jonathan returned, Besides, who

will go there and find it?Jonathan, I confessed, Its haunted. Old Boore killed his family

there twenty years ago. People have tried to live in that house since,and they all leave saying its haunted.

Its the devils roost now, Thomas shivered on this.Old wife tale, Jonathan sputtered out.

Nothing, Thomas sparked, ShootWhat did you put there? I pressed further.Logs from the clearing they had done at Andersons old roost;

plenty enough to build a raft with I hid them deep in the cellar so noone will see them, unless they knew they were there to begin with,

Jonathan paused to think, The nails I took from Whitfords store;

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hammers, ropes, ties too. Its all there; stashed away behind somedingy maps and bear fur.

You hid them in the cellar I was straining now.Yeah Jonathan appeared most confused by the commotion in

it all, That not good enough for you?Well, I replied, Seems just as well you should have dug up the

graveyard instead and hid everything in the caskets. Dont supposeanyone would have looked there either.

Whats your fuss?Just that I hear the cellar is where Boore hid the bodies for more

than a year in there; claiming they had gone on a long family vacationout west; its where I hear the howls and moans mostly come out ofwhen the ghost family has a good mind to stir. Its supposedly themost haunted part of the lot.

Exactly, Jonathan cast out a prudish smile our way.

So when are we to go and get everything? Tommys face drewlong; hedging lower; and he lifting up his eyes to partly shift back andforth to stare on me, then Jonathan.

I figure three, four days from now. Jonathan muddled out.Montague said he would help, said I, to intrude, He said he

would-right?Did I tell you that? He doesnt even know! Jonathan said.He doesnt know?!! Tommy spoke, How else can we do it?Hush! Keep your breath on us Thomas! Lord help you! Seems

you were born on a crooked end and you dont know which side of you

is straight or turned wrong!What about the sail? I tried to intercede on their conflict.Of course; sown from bed sheets. Got them too, he kept quiet

for a moment to hear in the silence, I dont think hell go with us. Hesaid there is bad magic on the island; its been cursed. He said thirtymen were killed on Sebastian by pirate fiends as soon as they made itto the island. These devils ghosts come out of the ground like grassweed when someone steps on the island, and they take out the soulsof the living for a feast.

What? I replied. I was half-baked out of my wits by what

Jonathan spoke.Ghosts; to take back live souls with them. They eat the souls;

leave the body like a dead shell. Perty horrible, by how old Montaguedescribed it.

So there is more than one gypsy ghost, Thomas inquired.

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A Diarys HouseSo he says, Jonathan exclaimed, as if in great leisure to scare

us and take on another whiff of his pipe.So if Boore doesnt get us when we go get the supplies, then his

family might. And if we make it that far then Old Man Montague couldput us under. And if we make it that far, get the raft built, well then theRandola could pull us under and make us end all. And if we make itthat far, then we get to the island and find ghosts waiting to eat us,and kick the spirits out of our body so they can have us clean forsupper

Exactly, Jonathan took the biggest whiff off of his pipe yet.He seemed quite enthralled by the prospect of terrifying us all. I

was more the observer and had more to lose in this adventure thanany of our trio group. So fear was more to me than them. Thomas,however careless of his parental sting, had every fear for anythingelse. And when such a fear engulfed him, it was worse than gravityitself. Jonathan had on a curious streak and he appeared to enjoy theshaky frolic of his peers. My attempt was to show little reservation, ifany, and to lessen perhaps the complications upon my relations with

Jonathan and Thomas both.To think if I feared my mother and my fathers own retribution,

how would I then react to a clan of ghastly ghosts tearing upon my soulas if it were a Saturday evening meal? I had less of recollection at thatprecise moment on how well and often my parents labored to steer mein the correct path and what pains it placed on me to result in this; amisguided son, unabated by their care. Perhaps their point of viewwould not be so insane after all, when hearing Jonathan while heripped my sense of security from me.

My thoughts were though put squarely on the idea of my survivalfrom this man-making event, and what options I so possessed thatwould help me to make it to manhood. I did not want to becomean empty shell, forever lost on some bygone, thwarted, untamed,ghost-infected island they called, above all else, Sebastian.

Longevity of long life remained more to my priorities than whatwe would soon encounter. I noted how Jonathan had an air forconfidence upon his expression, and Thomas was likewise stalling hisinner feelings in favor of some unmovable front. So here we sat,

playing mouse-to-cat and cat-to-mouse with each other; testing thevery wills that brought us here together...all to see if one of our fellowconspirators would slip.

Pirates, from what I had read in my youth, were rather anunforgiving bunch. A crew of shrewd, tyrant, careless individuals whowere deemed not even fit for life itself; and who placed their clans to

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whatever horrors and pillages they could create. And me, being thusput in harms way of them terrified the very pit of my emotions.

And of course ghosts; the decadent howls of all earth. Theyseemed to take more pleasure in the eternal scare than in finding restand peace after life. I would not delight in meeting the banished Boorefamily some twenty years after their death, or finding the elder Boorehimself hunting us down with that rusty old hatchet of his.

I took to the shakes but only as the other two were not watchingover me. The cold air was so harsh and demanding on us that itseemed to freeze us clear through, and cut me where I sat.

Jonathan was stoking the fire again, making it crackle and pop,and then sending out vibrant smoke which appeared to attract all theareas insects. These insects wandered in and out; to and fro throughthe midnight air; inspecting, as you will, the gross attention we gaveon our own fire, while not showing form or synchronized movement in

their precarious dance. They were making hideous sound-like callsfrom the insect wild that all but amplified in the nights silence.

I gazed quickly around. I saw how their forms and movementsguarded the local sky just above us. Then I returned on Jonathan with asort of false smile that passed from me to him. As though I werelooking for some, even faint assurance in the matter; in which heoffered none in the slightest. He rather poked his index finger at thebase of his pipe. And then biting it soundly with his teeth, he smokedthrough his jaw grip. The aroma, accompanied by a more prevailingscent of newly-burning wood, made me wheezy from its collective

exhaust.A few nights from now, we meet with old man Montague, said

Jonathan, at the windmill, like he wants. Smoke was set free at everyword he spoke. Ill tell him then what our plans are.

Its so soon, I replied.The currents are as low as theyll get. The water lines wont hold

much longer. Perty soon, we wont be able to pass through Randolauntil spring, if we wait more than two weeks longer Jonathansounded off on me with a grand sense of urgency.

No warning came from his face. But in a moments time, his

expression turned into a hasty look as he bore his stare past my leftshoulder. I knew there was something amiss at my rear.

Get low-Quick! He spat; leaning closer to the ground. I bent lowand turned to see what he saw.

Without warning, one light flickered from near the basement dooron the west wing of the church. A human shadow appeared round it. As

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A Diarys Houseif the ghost within had lit the hanging wick candle, and the light sobegan swinging aimlessly in the basement air.

The form was in a misty silhouette and it didnt give us the abilityto recognize its identity. Rather it just was predisposed to muddleabout; alone, and seemingly to be intoxicated by some liquor airbelow. He roved the basement floor with undue unrest, and how hescoped out this territory as if one born for some unknown mission. Heappeared to stare outward by the window side. That is where itappeared to see our group in congress, our fire ablaze, and our trailingsmoke.

The figure gave no immediate moves but rather stood there; still,pondering for a moment. No urgency in his motion; calm to theoccasion, and so seemingly careful at its step that he dared not tomake a step at all. The light was still swinging like a loose toy; bobbingabout in that parlor room as it shifted its light source all around.Showing there a figure present; and as the light moved to the otherside of the room, he disappearing from our sights as though he wereno longer there. Then, on the moment did he reappear as if he had yetto move from that original spot.

Take out the fire, Jonathan swore on us with his strong whisper,Take it out! Take it out!

I did as he had asked, but by more from instinct than thecommon command itself. I looked out over the church when it wasdone. Our fire trailed a ghastly, immeasurable level of smoke. Thefigure had moved from

a diary's house scribd submission chap1_i begin my journey

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