1 “They Found It” JUNE 1, 2005 Low afternoon sun streamed in the tiny bedroom of the Miller’s Cape Cod throwing a sabre of white light across the oak floor and ending just in front of a pair of sturdy black oxfords. Mrs. Michelle Nicestrum sat perched on the edge of his bed a bible in her lap. She’d been keeping vigil by her charge’s side ever since he lapsed into another of his catatonic trances. Michelle noted the hour hoping his parents would not return before the boy came to. These episodes were always more dramatic when they were here. She reached out, placed a hand on Jackson’s stiff leg, cold as a corpse, like he stepped out of his shell. Nearly five, the baby fat was all but gone except for the face. His rose bud lips were parted, and his green eyes open, staring into space. Michelle glanced up at the picture over his bed comparing Jackson’s blond curls and sweet mouth to the print. Light of the World, wasn’t that the name of the painting? She remembered giving the garage-sale find to his mother for the baby’s room, pleased with the handsome frame. That was the first time she’d noticed Clarice’s aversion to anything religious, but the girl had been too polite to deny the gift, and the picture hung first over his crib and now his bed. Michelle sighed and shifted her position, short legs pushing the matronly figure on the mattress edge. Even when uncomfortable, Mrs. Nicestrum sat regally. A sturdy five-foot-two practical dresser in tweed skirts and soft sweaters, she had been with the Millers since Jackson was born. Snowy white hair in a dignified upsweep met a pappy face of feathery skin, intelligent eyes, and a compassionate smile. The kind of woman who’ll say oh well and roll up her sleeves when disaster strikes. She owned that quiet, earned authority, given respect not for any great feat but for her daily and personal charity. She’d been sitting so long her joints ached with arthritis, which was bad today. Well, what can’t be helped should be ignored. Her head bent to the familiar Psalm. Near indeed is salvation for the loyal; prosperity will fill our land. Love and truth will - “They found it.” His clear voice sliced the verse like a paper cutter. Little Jackson gazed up, vacuous eyes returning to normal. Mrs. Nicestrum, whose breath caught at the news, managed to level her voice peering over her reading glasses. “They have?” Jackson sat up nodding, a dampish blond curl falling across his forehead. “Well now,” she stroked the lock from his eyes, “it won’t be too much longer then, will it?” “Mommy doesn’t understand, yet.” Mrs. Nicestrum pulled her glasses from her nose and let them drop on the pearl chain. “I know dear but she will.” He was quiet, his eyes cast down. She could never ask his thoughts or what he had seen in his ecstasies. The little boy, who only an hour ago had played with those Legos on the floor, sat alone contemplating a destiny she could but glimpse. Oh, if only she could spare him! But her task called for his protection alone. “Nicey, when will I go there?” “Now, now, you know that has not been revealed. The time will be shown to us.” Jackson pushed himself up and into her arms almost knocking her off the bed. She sat there comforting the boy wondering just how much he saw in these trances. Such an extraordinary being, intuitive, genius, articulate, graced with compassion and empathy, yet just a boy. She alone understood the complexity of this child and the grandeur of his purpose. He squirmed in her lap, nuzzling in, unbalancing her. She attempted to lift them both higher on the bed, her bones crying in complaint. At eighty, she felt old and tired. How much longer could she protect him? Oh my! She choked on a more frightening possibility. If Clarice and John have found his sanctuary, who else may know of it? There would be some who would stop at nothing to prevent him from reaching the silva templum. Yet, Jackson must wait for the appointed time. She held him closer thinking of the danger ahead. * * * HE The farmhouse was old and rundown. If it had ever been painted, it would be impossible to say. The hundred year wood had turned a murky grey, perhaps in quiet sympathy to the neglected yard. Truth was no one in Cobleskill could even remember when the land had last functioned as a farm, and most would be surprised to learn the property was actually in use. But to the members of Ordinatio Triune Orbis it was known only as The Ranch. The sun slid further behind the hill deepening fingerlike shadows creeping across the plank floor pointing all the way to the ornate desk where he sat. “They found it,” He said opening his eyes looking toward his bodyguard. A brawny, long-haired Italian named Sergio turned from the front window where he’d been looking out at the barns and bunkhouse, but his boss closed his eyes again. Sergio studied him unsure whether he was being addressed or not. He always looked the same in one black suit after another – made by some Hong Kong tailor once upon a time. Tall and unnaturally thin from years of self-deprivation, full gray hair swept back with one shocking black streak at the temple, an undeniably handsome face even considering his eighty years on earth. He sat stiffly, bony fingers resting on the arms of the red-leather high-back chair. The chair was a gaudy. Everything in the room was, Sergio thought, his eyes roving the once simple parlor, a minute imitation of a king’s throne room from the Louis XIV desk on the heavy oriental carpet to the long gilded mirror across the room reflecting a hundred dangling crystals on the chandelier. Looked like Madame Tussaud threw-up. The whole of the room sat in ludicrous contrast to the run-down farmhouse that contained it. “Found what?” Sergio said always feeling a little dull in his presence. But the compelling black eyes remained closed, so Sergio returned to looking out at the ranch. His mind chicked off a list. He’d checked the barns where Lee and Gage were feeding the girls. Shit, it reeked in there. How did they stand the stench? He made a mental note to have the barns hosed again. The gate was locked, he’d seen to that himself and every inch of the mile of barbed wire cordoning off the private property had been inspected. No one was getting in or out. “The sanctuary, Judas.” He rose, walked over to join Sergio at the window. Sergio’s teeth clenched at the pet name. He called him Judas cause he’d betrayed his own friend for drug money. He renamed Mark too, the other bodyguard. He called him Cain because Mark killed his own brother in cold-blood. Both he and Mark were indebted to him. Mark’s ass had been seconds away from life in prison, and his own treachery had left him a hair’s breadth from being maimed by his former gang. He’d given them new lives, fed their every fantasy, given them every privilege as they gleefully fell further and further from any speck of goodness in their pathetic lives. He could care less that they hated him, Sergio thought, so long as they stayed fiercely loyal and obedient, aware of their place under him . . . and in Hell. The nickname bugged Sergio all the more since He rejected his given name if he ever had one. His arrogance was bar none, refusing to be called anything by his lessers. Sergio cringed smelling his vile breath so close. He hesitated, unsure of whether he was expected to continue the conversation. “Do you know where it is?” Sergio said. “Imbecile,” he hissed, “I’m not omniscient.” He dragged his S’es like he was a fucking snake. He fell silent. After a full minute, he spoke again almost as if Sergio were his confidante. “We must reach the boy before he is led to the sanctuary, Judas. We still have time to find him.” One gaunt hand caressed the other, and Sergio stared down at the odd habit thinking aside from the rapes, it was probably the only human touch he enjoyed. “The boy’s parents are blind to his purpose, and his protector’s light grows dim.” Why should they care if some kid lives in the woods, Sergio wondered. What kind of threat could a little boy be? Besides, wasn’t it enough they risk getting caught kidnapping the girls he requires to impregnate? Suddenly the old man’s hand flew across Sergio’s temple. Blood oozed from the fresh cut. “Idiot! None of those things are your concern.” Sergio watched him lick blood from the yellow nail that had swiped him. Never sure how to react when his thoughts were read, he swallowed his hatred, tried to make his mind blank and awaited his next command. * * * SIMEON “They found it.” Father Simeon started at the sound of his own voice breaking the stillness of the chapel on the wooded Hermitage. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the vision caused him such joy that he’d broken the rules. The grey-clad monk of a different order two pews in front of him turned to inquire in a respectful whisper, “What’s that, Father? Do you need something?” Simeon shook his head, then flicked his hand to make the concerned young monk turn back around. When the monk seemed in no hurry to obey the flickery, he bent his head back to his beads more fully ignoring him. The trouble was the other religious here held him in too high a regard. They saw a tall, sinewy, Merlin-like figure with a longish gray beard and eyes that twinkled with suspicious inner-knowledge of all their faults. Simeon had become cranky in the winter years of his long life, but those who knew him excused the rudeness as impatience for this world and longing for the next. His judgments were true and never minced with false charity. The almost accidental founding of Mount Charbel forty years previous had gained him, he felt, undeserved attention and undue respect. As a young priest he had come up here to live a solitary life of contemplation and prayer but was eventually hounded by throngs of people looking for a guru. Mount Saint Charbel, in the hills of Maine, NY was really born of the people, not him. So even though the Marionite Order of the monk two pews ahead now owned the Hermitage, he, a cantankerous old Franciscan, was revered and coddled as its beloved founder. It was no use. He could barely concentrate after the vision. Simeon gave up on his rosary and re-slung it through the thick rope on his brown habit. Rising, the ancient bones in his knees rebelled with an embarrassing crack, and then had the gall to crack again as he genuflected in the short aisle while holding the wooden pew for support. Outside, he reclaimed his walking stick and made his way along wooded paths to a favored bench by the pond. St. Francis Lake, really a large dug out pond, was a tranquil spot, its placid grey water completely surrounded by a forest of maples and pines. Brisk air nipped Father Simeon’s cheeks, and he blessed his woolen cassock. Blue sky seen through a cathedral like canopy of budding greens was turning that delicious pink azure marking the end of another day. The ducks gathered to beg crumbs the moment he sat, and Simeon reached in his robe to find the roll he’d saved for them. “They found it,” he said tearing tiny pieces of bread, “but the child is not delivered yet.” Several ducks began a skirmish over a larger chunk. “Squabblers!” he chastised and continued thinking out loud. “I don’t know where he is, or who he is. Even the boy’s protector remains unknown to me. Oh, but what I have seen! Such mercy! So many souls to be affected by just one.” His brow creased, he directed his speech to one particularly precocious duck. “It isn’t all roses you know. No, my no. Some will see his message of salvation as a threat. There is one at least who won’t easily suffer the loss of so many souls.” The big brown duck jammed his bill into Father’s hand, which in his distraction had ceased tearing crumbs. “Ow! Cheeky aren’t you?” But somehow the attack called to mind the boy’s imminent peril. Oh when would he be able to help the child reach safety? “Why show me so much,” he cried looking up, “when I can do nothing until I meet him?” But that wasn’t true. The bread gone, Father Simeon watched the ducks swim away, freed his wooden beads, and began to pray. 2 The Glen The Miller’s Gold Blazer grumbled as it climbed the mountain road in Ithaca, New York. Blacktop had disappeared and the route had morphed into a rocky dirt trail, but the scenery was more than making up for it. It was the first of June, and the hills were dressed in that bright new green only seen up North, when the trees awaken from winter slumber and their leaf buds first open. The air was warm and sweet, ripe with the promise of long summer days. Clarice Miller gripped the arm rest on the passenger door, looking over at John as he drove, his six foot frame firmly planted in the seat while she held on like a kid on a rickety rollercoaster. Her husband glanced back just as another jolt tossed her up, her small bottom clearly leaving the seat. John laughed and she joined him. “Good,” he said. “What?” “You, laughing.” He reached a strong hand over and gave her leg a squeeze leaving his hand on her knee. “Reece, you’ve been jiggling that leg since we turned up this road. You thinking about Jax?” Clarice nodded, but immediately justified the fib to herself. After all on some level, wasn’t she always thinking about her son Jackson? Not now though, this was something else; her nerves were on edge, some curious apprehension tickling her chest like something was up there waiting, just waiting for her. She hated those feelings, and this one was brutal, but since when did she ever give in to premonitions? She placed her hand on John’s. “He’ll be fine.” Clarice rubbed his big hand admiring the deep tan just before he returned it to the wheel. “So does Mrs. Nicestrum know this realtor?” “Oh, I don’t know,” Clarice said trying to recall the circumstance of Nicey recommending the agency. “I’m not sure she knows anyone there. She did say they handled her house years ago.” “You mean when her husband died?” “Yeah, I’m guessing it’s the same realtor who sold their house when she moved to the apartment.” “Well I hope these directions are right,” John said just as he swerved the car to miss a gorge-sized rut. “This is pretty remote. I haven’t seen a house since we left 79.” “Me neither.” She stretched her tiny figure in the seat forcing herself to relax and reached out to pat John’s arm. “That bother you, hon? This too far away from where you want your office?” “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” John gave the wheel a thump, “I found space for rent downtown. It’d be perfect for a satellite office.” He looked pleased, that ready to take on the world pleased. “Anyway, I’ve been clocking this, and if the directions are right, we’ll only be about 20, maybe 30 minutes from Ithaca.” Clarice uh-huh’ed as her fingers found the window button. She turned her head towards the fresh air, her right shoulder feeling a little chill making her wonder if the sleeveless shirt might have been a gamble. “Did you bring a jacket?” “Nope. How many acres did they say were up here?” “Five,” she pulled her head back in, ready to talk if he wanted, but John leaned over the steering wheel concentrating on the road, looking excited, probably already dreaming about living in a veritable wilderness. She loved that about him, a real man’s man, full of adventure and rugged strength. A wavy chestnut-haired Mel Gibson beauty, whose physique fell between a linebacker and quarterback, John was humble, wholesome, and completely unaware of his own charm. She thought for the thousandth time how lucky she was to have him. She’d spent so much of her childhood not fitting in, this wooden spoon in a drawer full of silver, first fighting for acceptance, then trying just to blend in, and finally happy to simply be ignored. She never dreamed someone like him would fall in love with her. Then again he knew nothing of that ostracized little girl, the one who eventually learned the best way to dodge the taunting kids, avoid the delusional mother, and spare her poor dad was to disappear in herself, become so still and unimportant, she no longer mattered. Clarice shook her head; she was no longer that girl. To John she was beautiful, loved, and very normal. John let the conversation drop as he daydreamed, and Clarice returned to the window watching the thick, lush woods whiz by. They both loved the woods, loved walking in them, hiking and exploring. Her heart lifted. This might be cool if only she could shake the weird feeling… instead the premonitory sensation vexed her like flies on a pony. She couldn’t swat them, but damn it she had a hundred tricks for ignoring them. Her ears caught a string of familiar notes on the radio. She leaned over, turned it up, let the song fill the car. I don’t mind spending every day out on the corner in the pouring rain... It was comfortable like this, not talking. It was never like this way with any but John, except of course with her son, Jackson and Mrs. Nicestrum. With most she had to put on a face, make conversation, or worse, fight not to see the ugly darks and twinkling lights that accompanied their souls. Look for the girl with the broken smile. Ask her if she wants to stay a while, and she willl be loved...and she will be lu-uuu-ved. The song ended just as they pulled up beside a yellow Realty sign and cut the engine, the quiet of the lonely mountain filling the car instead. Clarice looked out the window surprised at how flat the land was after the long climb. Sparsely covered with young maples and tawny scrub-brush, the five roadside acres were easy to spot, outlined on three borders by a dark forest. Across the road the land dropped back down the hillside. John leaned over her pointing out the passenger window, his face inches from hers, his soft brown hair brushing her cheek and fresh cologne teasing her nose. “Man, look at those giant oaks,” he whistled. Scattered amid the thin, grey trunks of the maples were several stately oaks, their colossal brown trunks sprayed in sage colored moss. “Whoa John, I bet they’re at least two hundred years,” she said, immediately visualizing some pioneer type planning a homestead, chopping down trees but saving these few handsome specimens, perhaps to shade his cabin. But whoever it was, apparently never got to build it, at least according to the realtor, no one had ever settled up here. “They’re perfect, aren’t they?” John said, “Made to order.” He kissed her head and slid out of the car. They met in the road and turned their attention to the view of Ithaca in the distance where mounds of pistachio hills surrounded the valley below. Clarice tucked herself under John’s arm and held her hand on his taut stomach enjoying the farms and little hamlets that dotted the landscape. “Check it out,” John pointed to a hill on the left where a bit of Cornell University could be seen. “We could get season tickets and see all the home games.” Despite the view and John’s exuberance – both of which she loved - she could barely focus. The flies had returned, only now the little buggers jumped up and down in her chest like the stars of a flea circus. She heard John’s deep voice say something about re-stoning. “What? Re-stone, what’s that?” “I said-” He began then stopped to look at her tilting his head. “You alright, Reece?” “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s nothing,” she lied again then took a big breath as if the gulp of air could smack the skipping, uninvited guests back down. “They use a mixture of tar and stone,” John continued, turning back to the land as she tried again to focus on the conversation. “Road just needs more stone is all. It’ll prob’ly be fine after that.” A light wind kicked up a slice of chestnut hair sending it across the high forehead. John’s hand saluted to catch the strand then parked at his temple shielding his eyes from the waning sun. “Hey, what if we build over there,” he pointed. He did an about face, strode across the road and looked over the embankment. It was like this at every property, the measuring, planning, and estimating, scoping out the land, weighing every aspect. Of course her John had a lot more riding on it than most homebuyers since he would build the house himself, or at least his construction company would. She was proud of him, all he’d accomplished, how hard he worked, but she watched him pace the distance to the nearest pole with nothing but relief. He’d be mentally calculating for a while. Turning from John to face the property, Clarice gazed beyond to the massive timbers bordering the old forest. Before she knew it, she found herself walking across the lot crunching over weeds and dodging thickets. Her pace was brisk and determined, headed for the dark wood. It was irrational, no doubt, but the forward momentum felt right, a sweet release to the pent up anxiety. In fact, she thought, finding her way around a giant briar, if she stopped walking right now, her spirit would probably pop out of her body and continue on its own. Clarice reached the forest edge and slowed her step awed. Before her lay a textbook example of ancient woodland from seedlings to fallen giants. Her head fell back scanning the straight trunks of oaks and hemlocks stretching a hundred feet overhead. With shaggy bark and buttress roots these regal mammoths had stood for uncounted centuries like silent guards to another realm. But standing there her heart raced. Excited, she pulled her eyes from the lace canopy and started forward. The ground was covered with leaves, broken branches, lichens and ferns. Undeterred, she began picking her way around a fallen hero, her hand landing on a crop of mushrooms sprouting from the decaying corpse. Wiping her hand on her jeans, Clarice spied a giant fern, plucked it and continued walking. After turning from the electrical wires swooping over the road to catch a glimpse of Clarice’s peach shirt and jeans disappear into the forest, John was headed Clarice’s way. What the hell? Where is she going? He frowned. He’d wanted to spend more time on the lot, but now he’d have to follow her. His work boots pounded easily over the field of bushy weeds tracing Clarice’s trail of bent grass. Weaving through slim maples, around bur and briar patches, John mentally noted which trees would go or stay in their imagined yard, but by the time he reached the dark wood, Clarice was nowhere in sight. He began to follow a crude deer path amazed to find himself in a climax forest, the kind of rare environment where three hundred-year-old trees grew wide and far apart. John inhaled the spicy pines and rich earth. Yup, this was why they wanted to live near Ithaca. A couple of years ago, they’d picnicked at Buttermilk Falls and fallen in love with the hiking trails, gorges, and waterfalls. Ever since then, he’d been keeping tabs on Ithaca. His construction company in Binghamton was fairly new, but it could move anywhere there was a market. Ithaca was seeing a resurgence of new homes and Miller Construction intended to tap into it. Not a trace of her. John doubled back to circle the area. Almost to the forest opening, he stopped, pulled out his new Blackberry. Crud, no signal - not one bar. “Reece, Reece!” he yelled, then let out one of his famous whistles. Jackson and Clarice could hear his whistles from the park some four blocks from their house. John stood perfectly still for a moment, the old forest stared back at him in stony silence. He ventured off the path noting a lone Sassafras tree. He would have to start remembering landmarks to keep from getting hopelessly lost. Climbing over the giant cadaver of a rotted fir and ducking a snag, something green on the dead leaves caught his eye. It was a fern with its top torn off. Encouraged, John continued looking. Bam, there was another piece. She definitely came this way! He’d seen her pull leaves off like that a hundred times as they hiked. Far ahead Clarice stepped around a wide oak, caressing the trunk, her fingers slipping into the deep ruts and wondering why she didn’t feel the least bit frightened. After all, she’d seen some pretty scary things in that other world, and this weird call to her spirit reminded her of those sensations. There was no telling what she may encounter, but no, this wasn’t like that at all. Besides being a hundred percent physically present, everything is as solid and real as it should be, she thought slapping another fat trunk. No sir there’s something amiable here, she decided veering left as if there were an arrow nailed to the tree, it’s like...the forest is smiling. The land curved in a gradual descent, and water gurgled somewhere below. She quickened her step, leaves and twigs snapping underfoot. Whatever it was; it was close. Soon the land leveled off, and before she knew it, she was there. In the distance like the backdrop for a stage rose a short wall of grey shale over which spilled a waterfall, filling a small pool and flowing to a stream. It was a glen, brighter than everything around it. Clarice’s steps slowed to a reverent tip-toe. Framing the Glen, clear waters rushed by like liquid glass, trees politely stood apart for dappled sunlight to play on the forest floor nourishing ferns and undergrowth. A few enormous boulders rose on a carpet of the most lush and healthy moss she’d ever seen. Every rock and twig, every plant lay in the perfect spot, as if it were meant to be there, as if it must be there. “What is this place?” she whispered barely able to take in the Eden-like beauty. Her senses quivered aware of a living presence; something old and powerful was here. Listening she became conscious of a certain resonance and hum of the place. Bluebirds trilled above her answered by chirrups of tiny sparrows like playful teapots coming to a boil. The sound of leaves rustled by scurrying chipmunks played against the soft buzz of insects. Clarice closed her eyes, tilted her head listening to the symphony. A soft wind brushed her cheek, bathing her in pines and flora, wrapping her in curious arms as if she and the Glen were one. Long forgotten powers stirred within her. Feelings she’d always shaken off or ignored. Not here. Here they reigned, real, present, and so undeniable. As Clarice took in her surroundings, John continued searching, not exactly pissed, perturbed was more like it, worrying if Clarice couldn’t hear him, how they would find each other and praying she’d keep plucking those leaves. He resisted the urge to hurry afraid he’d miss one. He just didn’t get it. Why hadn’t she stayed on the lot? They only had so much time, and what if Jax had another episode? Until recently, their son’s trances had been rare. His condition was a mystery, and doctors were clueless about the cause. John wondered about Jackson’s natural father, whether this problem was in his genes or something. When he met Clarice - God, he fell in love with her fast - she was kind of close-mouthed about the father, who seemed to be totally out of their lives, anyway. Jax was barely eight months old then, and Mrs. Nicestrum was already in the picture. Hell, he thought she was Jackson’s grandma, she was so devoted. He remembered the first time he met Mrs. Nicestrum, how she stood there holding the baby all close while she peered at John, checking him out like there was some invisible sign on his forehead with small print she was trying to read. Come to think of it she was like that with anyone new around Jackson. Shining eyes in a soft pulpy face, intelligent questions in that mellifluous tone, the firm way she held her pleasingly plump frame. Yet her scrutiny was never unfair, quite the opposite. One felt justified by her approval and rightly chastised when censured. Nicey warmed pretty quickly to John, and he couldn’t have found a bigger fan. All four of them were like family now, and John was Jackson’s father, through and through. He’d kill to protect him. But this condition, this illness or whatever it was, if the natural father - Shoot, he checked his watch. They promised Mrs. Nicestrum they’d be back by seven, and the drive home was at least an hour. Brooding, John continued downward till he reached a flatter area. Then he saw her. The sleeveless peach shirt showed off graceful arms, a long neck, and just the right amount of full chest. He admired the low riding jeans she said made her look fat. Her figure was real, he thought, not the stuff of Atkins, South Beach, or some Zone Diet; hell, she even drank real coke. His wife had a secret weapon, though. Clarice loved to run, a passion second only to her love of painting. Light brown hair fell just to her shoulders in loose unkempt waves with a touch of gold brushed on the surface, a gift of the sun - payment for untold hours outdoors. She wore little make-up, owned few dresses and way too many flannel shirts. Standing there, as natural as the woods about her, Clarice’s petite frame seemed frozen. Her green eyes riveted to the spot, she was entirely too still. All at once, John wanted to get her out of there and back to the open woods. “So, what do you think?” he stepped forward and broke in on her silent reverie. Clarice’s chin snapped up startled. Her face was blank, and after a full second, she shook her head like she had to make room for his question. “I think,” she managed to answer, her eyes still feasting, “it’s perfect.” As they walked back to the Blazer, John chatted on and on about the possibilities of the land for their house. Clarice remained oddly quiet coming out of her reticence when they hopped into the SUV. “I love this place, John.” “So I take it our search is over?” Clarice nodded and leaned over to kiss him before buckling up.    Three hundred years ago it was time. . .
The world spun as it always had.  Men rose, and men fell; kings reigned, empires waned, and it was time. . .
Men remembered a Savior Who had come, and the world changed for a spell, then men forgot, and the world spun again as it always had, and it was time...  
There was nothing particular about it - some trees, some rocks, a creek spilling over an unimpressive waterfall into a shallow pool.           Three hundred years ago it was hidden.   An invisible shield cast over an ordinary piece of land, where a Tutelo Indian caught a fat trout in the cool stream only the day before.   So hidden, the Indian would be the last to have looked upon it for centuries to come.
Waiting,
  aging,
   growing  - 
Untouched,
  untainted,
    and unseen  -
Waiting for him.
    Waiting for us...
          The Glen.