End of the Road Page 9

  To those of our generation it was the loss of one of nature's great creations. Never again would its majesty bring about that feeling of awe and wonder. The fire investigators were unable to determine the cause of the blaze. It was rumored that a lightning strike several months earlier may have smoldered in the hollow, rotten center of the tree before finally igniting and bringing its long life to a sudden end.

  Life for the rest of us would continue on, but a hole would forever be left in our hearts. We would miss The Senator and the stability in life that it stood for.

  Almost two months had passed when I saw the news of Llangernyw Yew in the United Kingdom. Llangernyw was believed to be the fifth oldest tree in the world. Just as with The Senator, the news of its burning and collapse was shrouded in mystery. It was a cornerstone of local tradition and a symbol of the region itself.

  I wondered at how two of the oldest living things on the planet had perished within the span of a few months. Those thoughts brought back sadness over the death of The Senator. The world seemed a lesser place.

  Soon word came of the death of a third and then a fourth old tree, all suffering the same fate of an internal fire that burned unseen until such time as the whole tree burst into flame. Each collapsed, in a pile of char and ruin, within a matter of hours.

  It was then that I learned of the Gathering. Ten individuals had come together in Inyo County, California and were gathered at the base of Methuselah, a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine estimated at 5,000 years of age. It was the oldest known living organism on Earth.

  The Gathering was made up of ten individuals from around the world, each having lived their lives within close proximity to one of the world's oldest trees. Each told a story of how their parents and the parents of their parents, as far back as their family history was recorded, had been given the task of watching over the tree nearest them.

  None had ever been given a reason as to why they had been chosen. None had ever had a break in the chain of watching over their sentinel. The families were complete in their devotion with each of the major races of man having a representative seated before Methuselah.

  The gathering was a spectacle, an oddity, something the news channels or their patrons could not get enough of. As a camera panned over the Ten, I noticed an old Seminole Indian friend. He had frequented Big Tree Park since I was a child. He was there in the Gathering representing our tree. I could see a great sadness in his eyes. The legacy of his family, a major part of his life, was now gone.

  More bad news came a month after the gathering had begun. Two more of the worlds oldest trees had burst into flames. The eldest of the Gatherers then rose and addressed the growing crowds. The onlookers had come in droves to witness the Gathering and listen to the sage. Her name was Pearl. She was a 109 year old Paiute Indian.

  Pearl began to tell a story of the world as seen by the trees; a story of many achievements, many tragedies and many generations of Man; a story of Man's rise to power and of the Awakening.

  She then took on a somber mood and began to tell of the end time coming. She told of the ten Sentinels that had watched over Man and how they were now leaving this earth as the cycle was coming to an end.

  She told that the end of the cycle was in sight and that when the last tree, the greatest tree, the Methuselah... "When the Methuselah bursts into flames and leaves this earth, the hour of Nature's cycle will come to an end." The old woman then returned to her seat on the ground before the great tree. The large crowd of onlookers slowly began to bustle with discussion.

  The quiet discussion soon turned to loud remarks and arguments. A near panic ensued as people began to turn and run down the trail towards the parking lot and their cars. The few attendees of the media continuously rebroadcast the reports of the elder's statements to their affiliated networks.

  Within hours the blogs and the news sites were filled with rumors that the end of the world might be at hand. It seemed the entire world was listening and the entire world was wholly consumed with the plight of the trees. No one was sure of what to do.

  2

  It was a Friday afternoon. When I arrived home from work I immediately turned on the news. The reports were not good. Riots had broken out in several cities and some of the panicked people were making runs to hoard groceries. As soon as I heard I gathered the family and headed to our local store.

  We filled four carts with canned and dry goods. I felt guilty about being a part of the problem, but I had a family to protect and feed. The store was bustling with others doing the same; the checkout lines were extremely long.

  When we arrived home we quickly transferred the food into the house as several of our neighbors looked on. If food shortages were to come about, I knew we might end up with knocks on the front door.

  As we settled in on the couch, after our own little rampage at the store, we watched intently as the chaos continued to grow. On Sunday morning the church pews were loaded with Holy-Day sized crowds. Our normal Sunday evening out to dinner was canceled as we could not tear ourselves away from the live broadcasts. My Monday morning routine brought news of more rioting, fires and looting.

  The day at work was wasted around the water cooler and at the desk surfing the news sites. Management had made the rounds warning workers of their lack of production only to be caught later doing the same themselves.

  As I began my drive home in the afternoon I noticed the longer lines beginning to appear at the gas stations. I stopped and topped off my tank as a precaution. Again, the feelings of guilt over my actions emerged. But I had a family to care for and a clear conscience would not keep the car moving if an emergency arose. As I pulled away from the pump I took note of a fight erupting between three of the customers. Fists were flying as I pulled out onto the street.

  When I arrived home I drove hurriedly into the garage. I quickly closed the door securely behind me. I was greeted by my wife as I came into the family room. She had news of the rioting and looting only spreading. I told her of the fight at the gas station.

  Our children told of how many of their classmates had not been in school. Several of their teachers had also been absent. My wife had been sent home from work at the bank early, after a run had emptied much of their on-hand cash.

  We watched the news through the evening as our civil society slowly slipped into chaos. The news from around the world was not any better. In Greece, a quarter of the government buildings were on fire. In Rome, crowds were gathering at St. Peter's Basilica. In Beijing, the army was dispersing crowds before they had a chance to gather. In Moscow, the Kremlin was being heavily guarded with numerous troops and tanks as crowds began to gather outside.

  By Thursday I had stopped going into work altogether. Only a skeleton crew remained to keep our servers running. I doubted our IT workers would make it through the weekend.

  On Friday, during the middle of the day, two neighbors had crashed their cars into each other in the street in front of our home. A heated argument ensued as we watched through our front window.

  By Saturday morning I was outside installing our hurricane shutters on all the windows. We would huddle in our fortress as the world turned nasty. Our concerns for our safety continued to grow.

  Before the day was over, government spokesmen from almost every state, from the federal government, and from many nations of the world, were on the air telling everyone not to panic as this was just "Rumors gone wild." Many of those same spokesmen were privately discussing the issue with their family as to what they might do if the end was indeed at hand. Orders were being given by those in charge, but largely not followed.

  The panic only grew as did the crowds gathering around the great tree. The people were broken into sections with some carrying religious signs while others partied and performed lewd acts. But the largest crowd was gathered around the base of Methuselah. From there could be heard a resonant chanting of "Ohhhhm, ohhhhm."

  Within days the trucks which fed our obsession for “everything easy” h
ad stopped running, the drivers no doubt heading to their own homes to care for their own families. Store shelves were empty, gas stations deserted, businesses and schools were closed. The only people on the streets were those in search of food or those in search of chaos.

  Soon the word came of home invasions. The National Guard had been deployed in every city and town, but their numbers were not sufficient to keep the evil-doers at bay. Fires burned nightly in many a once-quiet neighborhood. I huddled with my family and did my best to calm my children's fears. Our wonderful, civilized world was coming apart at the seams.

  The dregs of society had come out to celebrate and were robbing, raping and pillaging at every opportunity. The world's governments were breaking down as soldiers and policemen abandoned their posts to be with their families. It was as if civilization itself had abandoned all hope.

  Then all were quiet and watched intently as the first wisps of smoke appeared from the great tree. Within minutes the entire crowd was witness to the grand great Methuselah beginning to smolder heavily. The weeping of those nearest the tree began and the anguish spread outward through the crowd as ripples in a still pond. Wailing was heard as the first flames appeared in the top of the tree.

  Everyone stood in silence, watching, waiting and wondering what would happen next. As night fell Methuselah burned brightly with a bright orange flame. Within hours, Methuselah was in full blaze. The stark faces of the onlookers showed only disbelieve and sorrow.

  This was the final tree. The oldest living thing. The crowd watched silently as the end neared. By morning the smoke from the tree swirled upward into a gloomy overcast sky as its blackened embers continued to burn. The crowd surrounding the great tree had swelled to more than five hundred thousand souls.

  The great tree gave its last breath as it finally collapsed in a smoldering heap. A single charred cone fell to the ground and rolled up in front of the old Paiute woman. She stretched out her hand and retrieved the fallen fruit. As she inspected the cone a single seed petal split open revealing to her a tiny seed of the Great Basin Bristlecone Pine.

  She looked intently at the seed and then back at the other Sentinels. She then stood; looked at the crowd and proclaimed as she held up the tiny seed "the cycle of Nature is renewed!"

  The old woman then placed the seed gently into a tiny purse that was strung around her neck. Followed by the other Sentinels, she turned and walked carefully through the now stunned and confused crowd. The on-lookers stood in silence as the Sentinels walked away.

  Those who had come to the Gathering eventually returned to their homes as did the rest of the world. Many things had been done that could never be undone. For months the people of the world threw accusations and pointed fingers. For months the unrest continued.

  But as all things with Man have an end, so did the burning of the trees. Schools and businesses reopened, workers returned to their jobs and as the drudgery of daily life returned, the wounds slowly healed. My family came through the tragedy and chaos largely unscathed, but the image of it all would forever be burned into our hearts. We would always carry with us... The Death of the Senator.

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  Copyright 2012-2013 Stephen Arseneault, All Rights Reserved

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  Chapter 12

  The Long Road Home

  By Jeanette Raleigh

  -1862 in a Federal camp, along the Tennessee River-

  John Summers closed his eyes and pulled the blanket over his shoulders, his wife's letter on his pillow while he breathed the scent of her perfume. The stench from the latrines choked the air and the offal brought flies by the hundreds. Rebecca stood between him and the abyss. He felt this truth somewhere deep in his soul.

  As the light faded, he could no longer see the picture of her and so he tucked it into his jacket, but the letter he always slept with, a talisman against nightmares. His wife's scent sometimes brought good dreams.

  Drifting off to sleep, John felt longing and homesickness, a world-weary exhaustion born from boredom and fear. Late in the night, long after John's loneliness had dissolved into dreams, hell descended on camp in all its fury.

  The sound of gunfire shocked John awake with the shouts, “We're under attack.”

  The men in his tent stumbled in the dark, grabbing their guns. After pulling on his boots, John followed Ted out and saw him point to flashes and smoke in the trees. “Over there.”

  Swarming out of the tents half-dressed, the men scrambled to take positions on the line where the pickets held. John was running toward the flashes where shots were exchanged when one of the shadows holding firm with a rifle at his shoulder dropped with a cry. The soldier must have been one of the heroic ones, the men who stood firm and fought with a fury, because the instant he fell, the rest of the men scattered. He hoped it wasn't the lieutenant. Suddenly the scouts were running past him. “Fall back. Fall back.”

  John turned, carried along with the running men into the trees while the enemy pursued. It was then that he remembered Rebecca's letter. He had two other letters from his wife, but this one was special.

  While the men took positions on the far side of camp, John stared at the dark outline of the tent where the letter still lay on his pillow. The moans of the wounded carried across the field.

  One of the men nearest whispered and asked about the enemy, “You think they're still out there?”

  “Yes,” John edged back. They waited with guns poised, watching for movement in the damp cold, grateful for the clouds that cloaked moon and stars and left pockets of midnight in which to hide.

  Creeping out of the shadows, the rebel war cry rose into the night and John shivered while the same man said, “They're coming now.”

  The shadows separated from the trees as the enemy moved forward into camp. Confederate soldiers laid fire into the woods. His companion edged forward and fired on the encroaching shadows.

  When a minie ball blasted the bark of a tree just over John's ear, exploding bits of detritus across his hair, John hit the dirt, slinking back on all fours and looking into the dark for the man who shot at him. Shouts and gunfire and screaming horses echoed in the night. Belly-crawling through the dirt he worked his way deeper into the darkness. In the moment of quiet between volleys, he listened for a voice he could recognize. A voice cried out, “Hold the line!”

  He heard gunfire and a desperate scream.

  The whoops of the confederates chilled John with their proximity. He lay in the cold mud with a stone pressed to his cheek and waited in silence. Each breath seemed to stretch between eternities. He thought of the letter, replaying every word while the rebel yells of confederate soldiers surrounded him and bullets crashed into the trees and the few men brave enough to stand.

  Every word gave him hope. Every sentence gave him courage. My Dearest John, I hope this finds you well. Not so well, really. The rock was cutting into his cheek and the wet earth chilled his skin and he trembled. He was alone in the dark, surrounded by enemy troops. And I lost your letter, Rebecca. It’s gone. He took a deep shuddering breath and realized that he could get it back, what with all the confusion and the dark. He had time, how much he didn't know, a few minutes, an hour until daylight. Maybe he'd be captured and sent to a dank prison, but he'd have the letter.

  Somewhere far to his right flank, exchanges of gunfire crackled. John squirmed through the cold, wet slime inch by inch trying to work his way around the camp perimeter, back to the tent.

  An hour later and John was close, so close. But a new line had formed near the very tent he was trying to reach and bullets ripped through the air. As he slowly inched his way forward, he heard a voice say, “John, is that you?”

  Lieutenant Ralph Barrister, in command of the thirty men who had formed the picket, spoke from the shadows, startling John who h
ad crawled by in the dark. “Yes sir.”

  “Why are you coming this way? Most of the company has already fallen back.” The voice in the dark was a hoarse whisper, spoken between bouts of gunfire and shouting.

  “My wife's letter. I left it on my pillow. If those bastards get hold of it...” John knew how desperately foolish he sounded. He had slithered by his superior through muck to get a damn memento. How does one confess to that? “Sir, I have to get the letter back. I know how foolish it sounds.”

  “We're already overrun. You can't think to go out there and survive. Not without help”

  Ralph lifted his gun and fired. John saw the flash and blinked. Not enough light to see his face or even body. Ralph's shadow separated from the tree, moving forward. A brave fool. The lieutenant made a target of himself. John whispered to him to get down. He was surprised when Ralph ducked back.

  John could see the shape of the tent now just a few yards away. He whispered to Ralph who had gone down on one knee next into the shadow of the tree. “It's so close. I'm sure I can make it.”

  “We'll do it together. Henderson. Smith. With me.” He hadn't sensed or seen them until the two men joined Ralph. The smell of smoke and sulfur drifted across the camp. The night seemed lighter, and John wondered how long they had until daylight.

  Willing himself to stillness, John thought of the moment just last afternoon when he fingered Rebecca's letter, the parchment crackling to his touch.

  “Reading that letter from your missus, again, eh?” Theodore Jarvis handed John a chunk of dried beef and took a bite of his own with relish.

  John nodded, wanting to be alone. He should be grateful for the food taken from a dead enemy's pack. Instead he felt a faint queasiness.