There was something else that struck me, but it took a while to k in: There were no cars. In fact, there were no trucks, or motorcys, or even tricycles anywhere to be seen. This entire end of town ked transported from the previous century. The paint, upon closer utiny, was indeed whitewash-what Tom Sawyer had applied to his nt’s fence. The clothes lines, the piled split wood, the occasional ss-saw seen leaning against a wall-all harked back to preindustrial es. Aside from a glimpse or two of a woman or child in the ubiquicotton Mao suits, all of it could have served well at Williamsburg Sturbridge Village. Except that all this looked real, including the odd ap of antique garbage.
I saw a woman hanging laundry by the side of a house partway the street. “Hi. Excuse me.
She turned and looked at me, her initial smile fading. She didn’t swer.
“I’m looking for Edward Sarris’s house.” Without a sound, she pointed across the street at the narrow side road where the Wingates had waited for their daughter the night before last, the one that led off into the wooded hills east of town. “Up that street?” She nodded, now looking quite grave.
“Thank you very much.” I followed her direction, looking back just as the tall grass and the corner of the opposite house were about to hide me from view. She was still looking at me. I waved, still to no effect.
From Atlantic Boulevard the road looked more like a driveway than a road, but once on it, past the houses and across the wooden bridge spanning the Passumpsic, I felt myself suddenly in the country, surrounded by nothing but tall frostbitten grass, underbrush, and a growing number of gray, bare trees.
The road led upward for only a third of a mile, but became increasingly steep, so I soon found myself stripping off my coat and dangling it over my shoulder, despite the dabbled shade the now dense trees were supplying. I wasn’t hot, just pleasantly warm, and with the absence of any bugs this late in the year, I discovered I was thoroughly enjoying myself.
The house first appeared as more of a suspicion-something dark and solid amid the dark and distant tree trunks. Its substance grew quickly, however, along with its obvious size. It was built of logs, was no more than a few years old, and was truly gigantic, not quite the Rocky River’s three stories, but almost. This sense of size was reinforced by the fact that it was built out from the hillside, its front supported by a small forest of pillars, making it look much like a dock approached at low tide in a small boat.
The road, which turned out to have been a driveway after all, ran past the house, circled around, and ended in a large parking area that had been cut out of the hill to the rear. Several cars and vans were parked there, only one of which-a new Jeep Cherokee-was obviously used with any frequency. The others were all aligned at the back of the lot, and covered with dust and leaves. There were about twelve of them. The license plate of the Jeep spelled “ORDER,” a word I’d always found had ominous undertones.
I walked up to what was obviously a handmade cherry door quite beautiful in its detailing-and knocked. Edward Sarris opened up almost instantly. “Hello, Lieutenant. I thought you might be next.” He was immaculately attired, as when I’d last seen him, making his cotton garb look like custom-tailored silk. I hoped to find him at a disadvantage, dripping wet from the shower aps, but he either kept ungodly hours, or had already locked into ychological war plan. “State Police beat me to it?” “Yes. Yesterday afternoon.” “Well, I can’t promise I’ll be the last.” “I’m familiar with the system.” His tone reflected the thrill of it I tilted my chin at the building. “This is quite the eagle’s nest.”
He smiled and ushered me in. “It suits us.” What I entered was one huge room, easily one hundred by fifty ,and extending two floors up to a web of heavy wooden supports, ss braces, and rafters. The downhill wall, leading out to an equally e deck, was a mosaic of windows-squares, rectangles, rounds, and f-rounds, which salted the room with multi-fractured light. There a church-like stillness to it all, enhanced by a view that encomsed the slope I’d climbed, all of Gannet, the hills opposite, and far ond.
“This is beautiful.” “Thank you. We built it ourselves.
I walked to the middle of the room, which had little furniture, and mostly benches lining the walls, and looked around. My footsteps oed majestically on the uncarpeted hardwood floor. “How long did ake you?”
“Not long. We’re a very dedicated clan, and we work hard at what love.”
“Well, I tip my hat. You did an amazing job.” He walked by me and threw open a set of French doors to the deck. ome outside.” I followed him and felt I was stepping aboard an aircraft carrier.
e deck was in fact longer than the room, extending a good twenty more to the right, and revealing there was more to the building than one room. It was surrounded by a simple rail, thin enough to be almost invisible from a distance, giving me the impression of being held it, above the trees, as on a huge magic carpet. If the intent was to inspirational, it was a sure-fire success. “You guys don’t fool around with tight quarters.” “Our goal is to be as one with Nature, Lieutenant.
Depending on ur viewpoint, that is either a practical or a romantic ambition, but either case, we have tried to capture the poetry of that mission here our place of worship.” Again, I was struck by his diction and vocabulary. He spoke with precision like a highbrow radio announcer, and had a nice baritone voice to boot. He must have been hell on the pulpit-or whatever he used.
“So this is your church?” “We choose not to use that term. This is simply our place of worship.” “And what do you worship?” “Nature.” “It’s my understanding that for the average cause to work it has to have not only an appealing goal, but something to unite against as well.
What is it you’re against?” He looked at me in silence for a moment before smiling. “Have you always been a Brattleboro policeman?” “Over thirty years.” “But you went to college.” I smiled back. “Why?” Now he chuckled, rubbed his chin, and wandered toward the outside rail. I followed him. “Because you display more intelligence than I have come to expect from the local constabulary.” “That’s pretty faint praise.
There is no local constabulary.” He smiled and waved that away. “I meant the State Police.” “So who are the bad guys in your world?” He didn’t duck it this time, nor did he bother to argue semantics. “The materialists.” “The head of General Motors or the woman buying groceries at the P&C?” “Both. They both contribute to the erosion of those parts of life that are healthy, benevolent, and in harmony with nature. They are the water that cuts away at the sandy bank of our existence, making our foothold on this planet increasingly precarious.” I leaned against the rail. From the edge of the deck, overlooking a good twenty foot drop, I felt like a bird at the top of the trees. I chose to avoid a philosophical debate, by which, I was quite sure, neither one of us would be satisfied. “Did the materialists burn your building?” His face clouded. “I don’t know. I have no reason to think so yet.
Do you?” “No. What about Bruce Wingate?” “Bruce Wingate has chosen not to look in the mirror. He blames us for his errors and attacks us for putting his wrongs right.” “But did he kill your people?” I could see he was wrestling with his composure. I had hit a button with Wingate’s name. “I’ve already answered that.” “I understand Fox was one of your lieutenants.” “We have no such ranking: We are as one. “You’re the leader.” He hesitated. “I am.” “You must need people to help you run things.” He made an impatient expression. “Very well, as you see things, was a lieutenant.
An Elder, perhaps, more accurately.” “One of many?” “Fox was a friend and an advisor. He was among a small group imilarly trusted individuals. We shall all miss him, as we shall miss people who perished with him.” His tone was final. I switched tack.