Chapter Twelve
Falling
Vin
walked past the
As
he had learned from a trip to the
Locks
19 and 18 were just ahead, and he reflexively stopped to scan the lock walls as
he passed them. No mason’s marks. The walkway out to
He
stopped to read a display sign that referred to two massive stone walls that
squeezed the towpath and the canal just ahead.
Structures
such as this stop-gate were designed to divert flood waters from the
canal. Wooden planks were dropped into
slots, forming a dam which diverted rushing waters along a stone levee and back
into the
He
proceeded to the stop gate and scanned its ten-foot-thick walls for mason’s
marks, finding none. Vertical slots as
wide as his hand faced each other across the sliver of canal and towpath. The wall before him end-capped a levee of
stone and earth that receded through the
Flooding
in 1924, at Six Locks near
Not
far from where he was standing now. In the
photo’s foreground, the river had risen dozens of feet to engulf the canal and
the towpath just below a lock. Scattered
tree-tops scarred the water halfway to the
Although
this stop-gate was a local success, the canal as a whole suffered great damage
from periodic floods which became more frequent and violent as land was cleared
for farms and towns along the
“A
local success”. He tried to imagine the
1924 floodwaters coursing along several feet overhead and slamming into the
stop-gate’s planks and stone walls, then draining across Bear Island, guided by
the earth-and-rock levee that extended from those walls.
The
trailhead for Section A of the Billy Goat Trail abutted the sign, and feeling
he was unlikely to find Kelsey Ainge’s elusive mason’s mark along the heavily-trafficked
towpath, Vin followed the trail toward the cliffs overlooking the
When
the trail swung onto the highest rocks, he stopped to assess Mather Gorge. It was dead straight for over half a mile,
with the cliffs on the
He
sought out the next blue blaze. There
were countless stone surfaces along the Billy Goat Trail, but none etched with
mason’s marks. The photo he’d seen at
Kelsey’s studio showed the mark on a stone block, but blocks served no purpose
along this high route. The trail
descended to cross a drainage that emptied into a small cove, then quickly
climbed back up a wall of rocks on other side.
When
the trail and the river began to curve out of Mather Gorge, he reached a sign
post. Beside it was a spur trail through
the woods that the sign said was a shortcut back to the towpath. Thinking the less-traveled paths held more
promise, he followed the spur, which wound past boulders and a dark, translucent
pool before meeting the towpath near the upper end of Widewater. Towering sycamores mocked him across the
water from the
What
am I doing, he wondered? Circling time-worn
paths along the river and the canal, searching for a mason’s mark and a trinity
of sycamores. An old photo and a
dried-out note were the two fragile threads tethering his search to the real
world. “In your search for me you may
find the truth.” Maybe the truth
awaiting him had nothing to do with Lee Fisher’s fate, or with the money, the
killers, or the dead. Maybe his
vulnerability was the truth, and maybe Emmert Reed’s albino mule was really an
albino whale. Yet he knew that walking
away would extinguish a mystery and curl up a hidden dimension of the world.
The
towpath crossed a bridge over a small cove that bit into
Unless
it was more than a depression behind the wall.
Maybe it was a drainage. He
remembered the drainage he’d just crossed on the Billy Goat Trail, shortly
before climbing to the spur trail. Maybe
the wall blocked a draw that ran all the way to the river. In that case it might be there to prevent the
canal’s exsanguination. He crossed the
remainder of the bridge and found an entry point into the woods.
Working
a diagonal, he aimed for the opposite side of the stone wall. He ascended a mound through dry foliage and
found an oblong pond on its far side.
Just past the head of the pond to his left, the ground rose to the back
side of the wall. To his right, the tail
of the pond was obscured by scraggly trees where the shoulders of the drainage
drew together. The gentle grade before
him was covered with matted brown grass and the truncated spears of trees
felled by beavers. But no water was
flowing, so while beavers had been active here, the pond wasn’t their
work. He circled toward the head of the
pond and picked through a tangle of vines and branches.
The
stone wall was about his own height, and he walked along it examining its stones. The faces were too flat and the edges too
straight to be natural. Since there were
no meaningful gaps between them, the stones must have been cut by masons to
make the wall watertight. No marks were
etched on their faces. The path to the
far side of the pond was blocked by imposing boulders, so he retraced his steps
across the grassy slope. The tail of the
pond was bordered by a thicket of saplings sprouting from the steep banks on
both sides. Broken shadows loomed inside
the thicket, extending into the water and leaving only a slice of pond visible
between them.
He
followed the crest along the side of the pond and down past the thicket that
held the shadowed forms. Their backs
faced south and were brightly lit -- two old stone walls, screened by the
tangle of brush. Seven feet high with
flat faces, straight edges, and a body-length gap between them. The walls merged with the shoulders of the
drainage. He pursed his lips and
whistled softly. It was a stop-gate.
Why
here? He glanced at the tail of the pond,
which meandered left around a bend with the drainage, and grasped the
stop-gate’s purpose. Not to keep the
canal’s water in, but to keep the river out.
If this drainage led all the way to the river, then it was also a
backdoor to Widewater during floods. A
path for the river to reclaim its severed finger.
He
picked his way along the bank toward the near wall and his eyes settled on a
waist-high block on its right edge.
Amidst white and green lichen, an eroded symbol was carved on its face. Kelsey Ainge’s mason’s mark! He felt compelled to touch it, but it was out
over water of unknown depth. He pushed
through saplings to the wall and found a foothold on its face. Cracks and bumps served as handholds, and he
was able to edge out far enough to trace the mark's outline with his fingers.
Vines
and moss were sprouting from cracks between the stones as the woods slowly engulfed
the stop-gate. Looking across at the
opposite wall, he saw two saplings growing in dirt that had accumulated on its scalp. His fingers stiffened, so he shifted back and
dismounted from the wall. Retreating for
a broader view, he noticed that the near wall was also lidded by a layer of
dirt, moss, and dead vines. No trees,
but three pale sticks visible through the vines. They were vertical and aligned, which seemed odd.
He
climbed the slope and beat his way down through the thicket toward the top of
the wall. The pale sticks were crosses, planted in the
shallow dirt near the far edge, above the stone with the mason’s mark. He stepped carefully onto the top of the wall
and knelt in front of them. The crosses
were made from broken sycamore branches stripped of bark and lashed with twine,
and each was annotated with black ink.
The shaft of the nearest cross bore a single word, two letters above the
arm and two below:
t
h
e
n
The second cross had writing on both its arm and shaft. Vin didn’t recognize the name.
1
9
Miles Robin Garrett
7
2
The
third cross bore a single word, or perhaps two, written on the shaft above and
below the arm:
s
o
o
n
How
soon, and what? The ink was still dark and
the crosses were planted too lightly to remain upright for long. Planted for him, he felt certain. He uprooted them one at a time. The buried ends had been carved into rough points
and the top ends were broken to form sticks of the desired lengths. They felt dense and heavy, not long dead.
Who
was Miles Robin Garrett and what happened to him in 1972? The year resonated for a reason Vin couldn’t
place. If the words referred to a
sequence in time, how long ago was “then”?
And how far away was "soon"?
With
the crosses in one hand, he retreated up the shoulder from the top of the wall,
climbing through the thicket. A
penetrating chill struck and he felt the presence of someone or something
watching. Heart pounding, he flashed a
glance toward the head of the pond. A
light breeze pushed a fleet of ripples toward him. He swiveled toward the legion of tall
boulders guarding the far side of the pond, but saw no sign of the presence
he’d sensed.
As
he turned back to the slope, his foot hooked the root of a vine and he went
sprawling. Left hand still holding the
crosses, he extended his arms to break his fall. His elbows hit first, followed by a snapping
noise and a sharp pain in his hip as his knees, chest, and face collided with
the hillside.
“Shit!” He released the crosses and pushed himself to
his feet, then brushed the dirt and grass from his face and hands and assessed
the damage. His hands were dirty but
uncut. He swept debris from his sleeves and
the knees of his jeans as a stinging pain arose in his left hip; he pulled up
his jacket to find its source. A
finger-length gouge was turning from white to red and beginning to bleed
freely. Raising his arms must have
exposed the skin, he thought, and his hip must have fallen on one of the carved
ends of the crosses. He pulled a folded
bandanna from his pocket, moistened it with saliva, and drew it gently over the
wound to clear the dirt and blood. It’s
a large scrape, but superficial, he thought after cleaning it to get a better
look. He pressed the bandanna to the cut
and tightened his belt to keep it in place.
“Fuck.” Realizing that his fall was triggered by a
baseless anxiety made him feel embarrassed and angry. He snatched sullenly at the crosses lying at
his feet. All were dirt-stained now and
the shaft of the “soon” cross had snapped in half. Its broken base was tinged with earth and
blood at the point. He gathered the
pieces in his hands and marched defiantly up the slope, then jogged along its
crest past the tail of the pond. When
the drainage bore away, he continued straight along thinly-wooded level
ground. Ahead he saw a row of boulders. Beyond them were larger rocks ascending to a
rounded ridge and beyond the ridge was open sky. Still holding the crosses, he climbed from
rock to rock, up to the base of the ridge.
A blue blaze stared at him from the trail. He reached the crown and the sky opened up,
with Mather Gorge and the river below and the views along the ridge
unbroken. He advanced to the edge of the
cliff, selected a cross, and gripped its base.
“Then!”,
he yelled, casting it into the chasm and watching it fall end over end into the
sweeping current below.
“For
you, Miles!” He threw the second cross.
“Soon,
motherfucker!” He threw the two pieces
of the broken final cross. “Soon.”