Richard checked out of the motor lodge and took the freeway north. He bypassed his mom’s place and stopped at an
isolated liquor store on Bodfish Road on a hunch that Annalisa might have
stopped there. He pulled the photo out
his wallet and handed it to the clerk.
“Have you
seen her?” Richard had desperation in his voice.
“I believe I have. Yes, a few
minutes ago. She ran up that pine tree
out yonder,” the clerk could not help laughing.
Bewildered, Richard snatched
the photo from the clerk and saw that it was a photo of a squirrel. Incoherent
attempts at speech came out of him. Carl didn’t do this. He decided not to think about it and raced up
the mountain as fast as he could take the curves. At a certain road marker, he hid his
motorcycle and continued on foot.
Gradually the sound of the Tule River grew louder. The heat was unbearable. There wasn’t even a
hint of a breeze.
He reached a cliff and studied
the deep green pool below before he took the leap. If there were evaporation rings on the rocks,
then it wasn’t safe to jump. There were
no rings. The water was ice cold year
round. Under the circumstances it felt
good. He quickly swam to the edge where
the water in the pool was spilling over and trickling down a steep slab of
rock. He scooted down slab until gravity
carried him on a wild ride down to the next pool which was only up to his
waist. A bikini top floated in the
pool. He hoped it did not belong to
Annalisa.
Again he climbed out of the pool
and scooted in the direction the thin film of water was traveling down another
steep slab of rock. This time he slammed
into a much deeper pool at a high speed. He surfaced to a horrible sight. On an altar-like rock formation beside the
pool was a naked old Paiute medicine man from Mono Lake called The Fly Eater,
sleeping in the sun like a grotesque lizard.
“Eww,” Richard looked away.
“Looking for your brother?” The
Fly Eater stood up in all his glory and stepped into his shorts.
“Yeah. What are you doing down
here?” Richard and Bobby knew The Fly
Eater. The Shaman was famous for showing
up at campsites precisely when dinner was about to be served. He would exchange
tales of mystery for a tasty meal. This pool
was off the beaten path where there were no campers to mooch.
“Guarding the gates of hell,”
The Fly Eater motioned for Richard to come up and see for himself.
~ To Be Continued ~
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