Justice is swift in my little village. Within twelve hours the shaman had sentenced three different men to death for the same murder. Mog was taken back to the clearing for execution. Poot was set free and even allowed to throw the first stone. The shaman, apologizing for my wrongful conviction, awarded me ownership of Meg’s Tavern. “And you can have this bag of cowrie shells as soon as you finish that cave painting.”
“It’s done,” I said, grabbing the bag.
So now I’m a tavern owner, and Mother couldn’t be prouder. Poot works for me, running the bar. As part of his policy no drink costs more than three shells. And I earn enough so that I can paint whatever I want, whenever I want, and no one can make me change it. My first project was a family portrait for the wall of my cave: inside a border of roses are me and The Oldest Woman on Earth. And I must say, Mother never looked more beautiful.
The Jeter family stared at the rose-framed picture on the cave wall. “What the ding-dong is this supposed to be?” asked Mrs. Jeter.
“Well, most scholars believe that this man is the artist,” said Oswald Plummer pointing to one figure. “And this other one... well, it’s some sort of demon, possibly a dragon.”
A Terrible Storm
by William T. Lowe
I broke my ankle the week before the Great Ice Storm, but I did what I could during the emergency. With a cast halfway up to my knee I couldn’t handle a chain saw or drive a truck or run a back-hoe, so I worked in the shelter the fire department had set up in the Fountain Town Hall.
As people were driven out of their houses by the storm, they were brought to the shelter; we assigned them cots and issued blankets. The women’s auxiliary kept the kitchen open day and night. Since I used to be a deputy sheriff, I know most of the people on this side of the county, and I kept a log of names so relatives could find each other.
It snowed on Sunday, and a heavy freezing rain began on Monday. In hours everything was coated with ice. Twigs as small as pencils were encased in three inches of ice. Mature trees splintered and fell under tons of weight. In less than a day power lines were down, phones were out, roads were blocked from the Adirondacks far into Canada. There was a continuous barrage of noise — limbs tearing away from trunks and crashing into ice-coated underbrush.
By Tuesday the shelter was pretty well organized. The fire department had hooked up some generators to provide light. The Red Cross sent in cots and blankets and bottled water. Without electricity, grocery stores had no refrigeration; they donated meat and produce and milk.
Fountain was dark and deserted. Schools were closed. The only traffic was work crews. The hardware store had been open but was out of batteries, flashlights, any kind of heaters. The Mobil station pumped gas with a standby generator until the underground tank ran dry. We had already had four inches of freezing rain.
Everybody knew what had to be done. Clear the roads so repair crews could reach downed power lines. Check the houses, transport people to the shelter. Watch for wires on the ground, stay clear of overhead branches. The fire department, the ambulance squad, the highway crews all worked double and triple shifts.
The Town Hall had a basketball court — that was where we set up some eighty cots. I slept that night in the clothes I had on, my cane and some aspirin for my ankle at hand. The rumble of generators outside and snoring and coughing inside didn’t keep me awake.
Like the other small mountain towns we were isolated, but we were in good shape. We had radio contact with the police and hospitals; we had bottled water, kerosene, and the promise of oxygen tanks tomorrow. The radio said the storm was not about to let up, but we were too tired to worry about it.
On the second day I logged in more people, those who had decided against staying at home without heat or lights or a telephone. Someone brought in games and puzzles for the children. The women gravitated to the kitchen.
A Mrs. Julie Allen brought me a cup of coffee at my desk by the door and handed me a letter.
“Mr. Sessions,” she said, “the Post Office is closed, and this letter can’t go out. What can I do?”
I explained that because we were now a federal disaster area the mail trucks were not running. I put the letter in my pocket. “I’ll mail it for you the first chance I get.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sessions.” She remembered something. “Oh, there’s a check in it. It really should go registered, and I left home without my purse...”
“Don’t worry. You can pay me back later.” She thanked me again and headed for the kitchen. Before I put the letter in my pocket, I glanced at the address. Reverend Daniel Fisher, Church of the Sacred Word, a post office box in Orlando, Florida.
Mrs. Allen must have spread the word that I would be a substitute mail drop. That afternoon another lady asked me to mail a letter. It was addressed to the same Reverend Fisher in Orlando.
I was busy; I forgot about it. The shelter was also headquarters for the relief effort. Work crews came and went, clearing downed trees and utility poles. One crew went through town pumping out flooded basements. As soon as Route 9 going south was open, the power company began trucking in tons of dry ice to be distributed here and in other small towns to people who wanted to maintain their home freezers.
The freezing rain continued, coating everything except workmen’s faces and the warm hoods of trucks. Now there was the threat of flooding along the river. Volunteers began showing up from all over the county, asking what they could do to help. I paired them up with local crews.
“Are you sure we can’t rent a car or something to get outa here?”
It was the man who called himself Charlie Silva. A road crew had found him and a companion stranded on Route 22 yesterday and had brought them in.
“No, Charlie, I’m afraid you’re stuck here. Everything is grounded except emergency vehicles.”
“Okay, okay,” he said apologetically. “Just askin’.”
“Don’t worry about your car,” I told him. “It’s safe enough for now.” The car was on a side road off the highway, and it would stay there because a thirty foot oak burdened by a ton of ice had fallen directly in front of it.
Silva was short, mid-twenties, black hair, dressed in sports clothes. He struck me as the type who would spend a lot of time on street corners and know a lot of baseball and football statistics. His girlfriend was named Elaine Hagen. She was younger, medium blonde, with the neat manner and dress of a salesclerk. When I checked them in, Charlie told me they were from Garden City on Long Island and had been visiting in Montreal.
The next day Charlie had another question. “Who can I sue for letting that tree fall on me?”
“Why, nobody. It was an accident. And you didn’t get hurt.”
“We were both scared. That’s mental anguish. Somebody must own that property. Somebody I can sue. I think we got a case here.”
“No, you don’t,” I said. “Forget it.”
He shook his head and turned away. Clearly I didn’t understand the fine points of big city law.
Elaine Hagen helped out in the kitchen and gave some tired mothers a break by playing with their children. She was an attractive girl, but two things made me suspicious.