Brush of Shade (11 page)

They waited for
me around the corner from the furnace next to a ratty, woolen quilt attached to
the wall. My mouth dropped open when my aunt pulled the quilt aside, revealing
a thick door with engraved panels of Conestoga wagons crossing the Great
Plains. It required both of her hands on the metal ring to tug the door open.

“I’ll schedule
someone to come oil the hinges,” Shade said in a mater-of-fact tone as though
everyone had a door to a secret passage in their basement.

Just how many
knew about this, whatever this was? The idea of something secretive going on
inside my family home gave me a case of the creeps. I wondered what else was
hidden on the property.

Plush carpeting
sprang beneath our feet as we crossed what would pass for an office building’s
reception room. Mirrored panels reflected the light, making the room feel airy
and spacious. Along one wall, an artist had painted a scene, depicting the
valley back when the town consisted of only a handful of buildings. Tucked into
the corner of the room, an intimate seating area with a loveseat and two
matching chairs was grouped around a glass topped coffee table. On the opposite
side of the square shaped room, a leather bound, sign-in book sat open on a
narrow table next to a pair of double doors.

We had that many
people coming down here that we needed to keep track? How had I missed them? I
gripped my arms to my chest and followed Shade over to the double doors.

“How are you
holding up?” he asked. “Your pulse is racing. Take some slow, even breaths.
There is nothing to be afraid of. This is an intricate part of your family
heritage.”

“Yea?”
I replied, finding it hard to speak, envisioning
ghoulish, ritualistic sacrifices.

He chuckled.
“Our ancestors did have a sense of drama when they built this place.”

We were related?
My question got stuck in my throat when Aunt Claire swung open the double doors
revealing, a long, narrow room with eight rows of padded benches divided by a center
aisle. An ornately carved, wooden pulpit stood in the center of a raised dais
at the far end of the room. Hand painted on the off-white walls beneath the
crown molding and again on the terra cotta tiles leading from the double doors
up to the dais were sage-green vines matching the print on the bench pads.
Several landscape paintings, one that I recognized as my aunt’s work, adorned
each of the long walls. I dragged in a breath of lemon-scented wood polish.

Thus far
everything appeared normal, if I ignored the pesky fact that we were in a
secret room off my basement. Wasn’t this the point in the story when the
heroine becomes the meal or mate of a grotesque creature? Great plan coming
down here; I hadn’t cast the hero yet.

Shade’s
footsteps slowed to a respectful pace. Aunt Claire slipped past us to flick a
switch at the pulpit. Florescent lights came on, highlighting relief work that
curved around the back wall.

“If this is a
place for twisted worship or . . . you know what I mean, then I don’t want this
truth. If you have a heart or a measure of respect spills over from my father
to me, then be kind. Don’t destroy him for me. I couldn’t take that,” I
pleaded.

“Olivia, you
couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ll have you know, the majority of us attend
the Methodist Church around the corner from the high school, while the rest are
divided between the Presbyterian Church at 3
^rd
and Jackson and the
Catholic Church over in
Salida
. This is a place of
words, not violence. From this pulpit, your father’s words of unity rang out to
the council on the night before he died,” Shade said reverently in his deep,
southwestern drawl.

“Dad spoke
here?” I swallowed hard, missing him with such fierceness that my voice got
rough. “Town council meets at City Hall not in a secret underground chamber. I
thought I was going to get the truth,” I said hesitantly, not sure I still
wanted it. The steady shore was looking awfully comforting right about now. The
problem was that I’d gone this far. I couldn’t resume a normal life by
pretending everything was fine. I certainly couldn’t ignore that door in my
basement.

“You’re right.
The town council for Spring Valley meets at City Hall the first Tuesday of
every month. Our town council is temporarily meeting here in our clan room while
the facility on Washington Street is being renovated,” Shade explained.

“You say that
like you, I mean we,
aren’t
part of Spring Valley.”

“If you’re
talking the geographical boundaries of the town, then your property is part of
Spring Valley while mine is unincorporated. This will be easier with a history
lesson first,” Shade replied, leading me onto the raised dais and circling to
the left around the pulpit to join my Aunt Claire in front of the first panel.

“For our
purposes here today, the story of our people unfolds when they lived nestled in
the dark forest of Austria under the shadow of nearly inaccessible mountains on
whatever small scrap of land that could be found, or in caves large enough for
our dwindling clan. Life in those remote areas, as you could imagine was
difficult. Food was scarce and crops were hard to grow in the poor soil and in
the shorter growing seasons. Each time we thought ourselves safe, settlers or
hunters would discover our locations. Our differences scared the superstitious people
of that time. Many clan folks were butchered in the name of witchery. We were
never what you would consider a threatening number. These losses hit us very
hard and churned up old tendencies.”

“To the
misfortune of our clan, we established a settlement in an area fraught with
border skirmishes between several individuals discontent with their lot, or
should I say, lack of wealth and power. Betrayed by a greedy counselor, a young
man about your age was abducted by his father’s arch enemy, thus beginning
several brutal years. During this time of raids and counter raids, many of our
people lost their lives when swatches of the forest were burned or our crops
trampled beneath mighty war machines. Desperate to feed the population, teams
of three to five individuals were sent into our enemies’ camps and villages to
steal supplies. Although many cried for revenge, our elders refused to allow
any retaliation for past grievances. They condoned no mission that could lead
to the discovery of the clan or the loss of a soul to the old ways.”

As Shade spoke,
he guided me past the first panel depicting scenes of parents huddled over tiny
earthen mounds, of fires raging through the woods, and of soldiers executing
entire families. Poised now before the second panel, I wondered what had
happened to that young man abducted from his home, for there had been no
depiction of him in the relief work. I was about to inquire when Aunt Claire
pointed to a marble bust on a spot-lit shelf over the center most panel.

“Roland Pepperdine,”
she said in a hushed tone.
“A visionary.”

“Let’s not get
ahead of ourselves,” Shade said respectfully.
“Back to the
history lesson.
Just because these teams weren’t allowed to retaliate,
that didn’t mean they weren’t above mischief. Most of it was harmless. On
occasion a full quiver of arrows would go missing, a soldier’s water sack would
spring a leak, or saddlebags would mysteriously come untied. Over time, they
grew bolder and ventured further into their enemies’ strongholds, causing minor
disruptions enough to sour the local population towards their lords or cause
dissention in the ranks. On our side, the cohesive structure of the clan—that
was always shaky—began to unravel. Sadly, we lost several members to the rages
of grief.”

 “Three
years of languishing in a cell not much bigger than a shower stall had weakened
Roland Pepperdine to the point where he’d lost most of his muscle mass. It is
said that he so despaired of being rescued that he began a lament to his
beloved homeland. Deprivation had made Roland’s once beautiful voice rough and
gritty and he began to cough sometimes for several minutes at a time. Still, he
struggled to sing, and in doing so rediscovered those memories of home and
loved ones that his torturers had tried to beat out of him.”

“With each
repetition the tragic tone of the lament became less a story of loss but one of
personal triumph and the indomitable will of one man. Such unbearable sorrow
entwined with so fierce of a devotion to life transfixed a clansman,
contemplating surrendering to practices best left in the before time. Moved to
tears by Roland Pepperdine’s Soul Spell, as the clan calls powerful, poignant
releases of the heart, the chief’s eldest son refused to leave the stone
prison. Fearing for his safety, his teammates were forced to choose between
removing him by force, certain to draw the guard’s attention and quite possibly
trap them as well, or obeying the young man’s strange request, a bold gamble
that could potentially decimate the clan.”

“That night
under the cover of darkness, Roland Pepperdine in his delirium mistook the clan
chief’s son and his elite warriors for angels come to carry him to heaven. Deep
into the heart of what his enemies fearfully called the Forest of Whispers, he
was carried and laid out beneath the weeping branches of an ancient tree. The
clan chief’s son and his closest companions stood sentinel, taking up the
lament while Roland Pepperdine was tended by the most senior of clan healers,
the clan chief’s own mother.”

Shade stepped
closer to the intricate carving of a woman bent over a body hidden behind a
curtain of branches. Head inclined, he spoke so softly that I couldn’t make out
his words. Solemn eyes nearly overflowed with tears as he looked upon the bust
of Roland Pepperdine immortalized in stone. I had no words, no comfort to offer
this complex man. I looked to my aunt for guidance, but she’d moved on to the
next frame. A look of impatience vanished behind anxious eyes when she caught
me staring at her. A heavy sigh blew across my face. An
embarrassed
half smile graced Shade’s face. When he glided over to the next frame, his
expression looked as anxious as my aunt’s.

“We’ll skip the
interim part where Roland Pepperdine’s presence amongst the clan fueled bitter
debates. I will say that his trust was valiantly earned, and in time he was
given leave to return to his homeland. Roland, as a brother of the Whisper
Clan, and a specialized unit made their way through enemy territory at great
personal risk to a clan that was clinging to existence.”

“Overjoyed to
have the return of their son, brother, and uncle, Roland’s family invited the
clan to take up residence on a large tract of land that, while not the best for
farming, was far richer than anything the clan had farmed in years. With the stipulation
that they be allowed to govern themselves, the clan agreed to this
arrangement.”

“Sadly, things
didn’t progress smoothly. The war had left Roland’s people in dire straits.
They resented the newcomers who they believed Roland favored overmuch, and they
were openly afraid of their strange ways. Tensions mounted. Rumors abounded as
did unfounded allegations that spurred more talk of witchcraft and other dark
arts.”

“In the spring
of the fourth year since Roland’s return with the strangers, a man accused the
clan’s herb woman of sickening his herd of cows. He set fire to the woman’s
home. Her child died asleep in her bed, and the woman died several days later
from her wounds. Upon returning home from a hunt and hearing the news, the
woman’s mate became so enraged by grief that he went after the man responsible.
The clan tried to stop him, but he turned aside from their touch. Alone and
filled with rage, he took up the old ways. Fearing for the innocent, the clan
eventually had no choice but to end his life.”

“The damage to
the tenuous alliance forced Roland to make a fateful decision. When he stood by
the clan’s request for justice, his father banished him for his betrayal. The
clan with Brother Roland, as he was affectionately called, vanished during the
evening’s storms.”

“Homeless and
wary, the clan hugged the edges of civilization, always a step ahead of those
who found their ways unsettling. But they weren’t unaffected by the heartache
of those, like themselves, in need of home and family. The clan’s membership
swelled as outsiders were brought into the fold. But the heart of the
Whisperers had not yet healed. Fear of betrayal marred the collective
consciousness. Discord arose out of cultural and physical differences. Afraid
of seeing his fragile community fractured, Roland crafted guidelines for the
preservation of cultures and rights that eventually became clan law called The
Pact.”

“His community
lived and worked together for their mutual good until outside human wars drove
them to find a new homeland. Pepperdine’s clan traveled to Ireland where a
settlement of Whisperers with distant ties to the clan welcomed them uneasily
as brethren. Over time, Roland negotiated coexistence treaties between the two
clans and neighboring villages. As the years past, first Roland and then his
children located more clans. Several came to Ireland to establish new homes
near their brethren.”

“Inevitably
questions and problems arose out of circumstances and differences in customs.
To resolve these matters, Roland formed the Elder’s Council from senior members
of each clan. Diverse backgrounds combined with dynamic personalities resulted
in little, if any, significant progress. Frustrated, they approached Roland as
the one individual all sides respected. Well into his eighties at this point,
Roland, sharp as ever, knew that what each side sought was his private backing.
Instead, he manipulated them into creating a new position, called the Warden of
the Pact. The Warden, our arbitrator, facilitator, administrator of the Pact,
is required to be a direct descendent of Roland Pepperdine and chosen by the
council based on character and skill in communicating with the Whisperers.
These days, the primary purpose of the council and the Warden is to protect the
Whisperers, be it the people or its culture, from discovery.”