Bloodline

Steve stepped from his porch, surveyed the day and decided today was a good morning to explore. He was now completely moved in and ready to spend some time examining the land he purchased.

Steve was once a very successful owner of a small construction company. Years of hard work, some good contracts and a natural inclination for selling led him to the opportunity of selling his company at the young age of fifty two.  The deal was lucrative, which left him with a fortune and the ability to do whatever he wanted.  After years of working every waking hour, his immediate want was to spend some time relaxing and enjoying the freedom of what others might describe as retirement.

Steve’s land was almost ten thousand acres in the deep woods of East Texas. The land, never acquired by the lumber industry, was a rarity in such a large quantity. The original family harvested some of the timber years ago, but the rest was still unmolested by mankind.

Steve met the last surviving heir to the land before the start of negotiations for his company. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, whom he guessed was in her late sixties. Not the least bit reserved, her questions were direct and to the point.

They met while attending a construction conference. He was having breakfast, when she stopped and asked if she could sit at his table. Her explanation was she didn’t like eating alone and he had an honest face. Not really knowing what to say, he told her he’d be honored.

Over the next hour, they spoke of business, the construction market and the current economy. He found they had similar opinions and strategies on taking full advantage of what was offered. It was a pleasant surprise to Steve. His original impression was that he would not enjoy his breakfast. Instead, he was a little disappointed when she politely excused herself and left for a meeting.

As the conference progressed, Steve realized the woman was far from a small business owner. She was a major stockholder and on the board of one of the largest construction companies in the world. Later, he would find out more and realize she was far from a trust fund baby, even if she had inherited much of what she used to increase her fortune.

When the large company offered to buy Steve’s company, he was surprised and felt a little uneasy. He wasn’t on the market, but knew it wasn’t uncommon for such offers to be made. Before he responded, he sat down with his accountant and attorney. His instructions were to assess the complete worth and research the legalities of the transaction.

Steve stated his price and waited. Over months he received no information except for a letter stating the offer was received, even though it was sent by certified mail. He was impressed. It was a small unexpected courtesy.

While on a project site, Steve received an unexpected call from the woman he met at the conference. She asked if he could meet with her and discuss his price. He agreed and they set the meeting date one week from that day.

Arriving at the corporate headquarters, Steve was escorted to the woman’s office. She rose, shook his hand and asked him to sit. After a few pleasantries, she handed him a small stack of papers and asked him to review the information before he responded. 

“This might take some time.”

“I’ll have my assistant bring us some coffee.”

It took almost an hour for Steve to complete his examination of the papers.  The well prepared information was almost identical to the report from his accountant, which he used for basing his price. An expert at negotiations, he added twenty five percent to the actual worth for his asking price. Obviously, either his accountant had provided the information to his buyer, or they were well prepared for assessing a company. Either way, it was time to get down to business, so he set the papers on her desk and waited.

“As you can see, we have a pretty good idea what your company is worth. If your accountant is worth his beans, the figures we’ve provided you are close to what they provided. So, that’s why I’m going to offer you fifteen percent over that figure as my final offer.”

Steve just sat over the next few moments and sipped the last of his coffee. Before he could speak, she had one more thing to add:

“There are two more things I’ll add before you make your final decision: You must agree to not compete for ten years and you must purchase some land I own with stipulations attached.”

Steve looked into her dark brown eyes and tried to read what was on her mind. The effort was fruitless, so he asked:

“How much land and how much is it per acre?”

“Ten thousand acres, with a comfortable home and the price is one dollar per acre.”

The price was astoundingly low. Unless it was a chemical waste dump, even just doubling the price for resale would be well worth the paperwork.

“What are the stipulations?”

“You cannot sell the land to anyone. You will have enough money to guarantee the preservation of the land from developers or business.”

Steve had to know, so he asked: “Why so cheap and what’s so special about this land?”

She responded:” I’m hungry. Why don’t we discuss this over lunch?”

Steve agreed and spent the next two hours learning the history of what would soon be his.

She was the descendent of original settlers to the land. English by heritage, they carved a life out of around eighty of the acres. From this land, they survived, but one of the sons had a particular skill that led to the family fortune. In the present, he would be an engineer. In his day, his ability to move large amounts of timber down the Sabine River forged an enterprise that grew over time. As the family fortune grew, the ability to keep the land from harvesting became a family tradition. While others harvested the timber, they refused to change what they learned to love and protected the land fiercely.

“I’m the last descendent with any interest in our heritage. I have a daughter, who I love dearly, but she’s as wise as a box of rocks and horribly self-indulgent. She has no interest in the land and I can never trust her decisions on the land would be best. That’s why I’ve made you the offer. You’ve proven your honor by your actions and from our conversation at the conference, I can see you have a deep respect and love for the land. We may be some of the greatest manipulators of our environment, but we can never reproduce old growth trees or accelerate what takes centuries to change.  I’m not so foolish to believe the entire world needs to be treated as such, but I am wise enough to know some things within our grasp are treasures to cherish.”

Steve sat and pondered on the offer. Amazed at how wonderful it was, he was hesitant to agree. Could there be some other stipulation? What was he missing?

“You’ve put a lot of trust in someone you barely know.”

“I know, but I’ve found my opinions on people are true over time. I don’t think I’m making a mistake.”

“I think we need to shake on our agreement.”

Steve rose, reached for her hand and said: “I have one stipulation before we close this deal.”

Surprised, she asked: “And, what is that stipulation?”

“You must personally give me a tour of the land. I would trust nobody else.”

She smiled; they shook hands and started discussing the process of finalizing the deal. Before the day was over, they agreed on when the tour would happen.

The tour was on a brilliant early spring day. The dry, cool air of a late cold front had provided a perfect day for their task. A few red buds were blooming, but the heavy growth was still mostly brown from the winter.

Steve immediately liked the house. Modest in size, it had a covered porch that ran completely around the perimeter. The single story building sat on brick piers, which were enclosed by a skirting. The windows and doors were modern, but the he could tell the original structure was old. Time, and effort, had preserved the old building, which now had modern appliances.

Behind the house was a large combination work shop and caretaker quarters. It too was old, but had been modernized. The quarters were comfortable and the shop was well equipped with just about anything a craftsman would need.  At one end was a small stable stoutly built and well drained. Adjacent to the stable was two acre pen enclosed by a wood fence.

“Does someone live in these quarters?”

“Mr. B lived there up to six months ago. His age, and health, finally prevented him from doing what he loved.”

“It sounds like you really like him.”

“He’s like an uncle. He loves this as much as I do, but he knows it’s time to turn it over to someone else. He’s very glad you agreed to purchase the land.”

“You can tell him I’ve decided to move here.”

“That’s rather sudden. What brought that on?”

“The last hour; if I wanted to, I don’t think I could build something that fits me this well.”

They spent the remainder of the day sitting on the porch in idle conversation. By the time to leave, both were much more comfortable with what they set in motion. When they left, she was leaving forever, except as visitor. He was leaving only long enough to make final deals and prepare for moving. Her sadness was obvious, but she found she admired his exuberance and was content with her decisions.

                                                                     ***

Steve walked to the stable and opened the door. Bill, his gelding, snorted as he entered and pawed at the ground for a few seconds.

As Steve opened the stall, he spoke to Bill: “I know. I’m ready too.”

He let the horse loose into the pen adjacent to the stable. Bill pranced as he went into the pen and immediately rolled in the sun warmed grass. Steve ignored the horse as he gathered his saddle and tack. He’d let Bill spend some time being a horse until he saddled him for the ride.

As he worked, Steve thought of his new life. He’d never ridden in his life, much less owned a horse, but it was part of the deal he made. Since motorized vehicles were to remain off the land, he needed some method to move about the land other than by walking. Bill was his all-purpose vehicle. A stout quarter horse, he was trained to do just about anything Steve needed. The trainer had taken extra time to insure Bill was totally prepared and choose him from stock that was known as smart and gentle. Bill cost Steve much more than many would pay for a horse, but for those that knew such things, he was well worth the money.

“Are you ready?”

The horse snickered and walked to Steve. Within minutes, he was saddled, wearing a halter and obviously energized. He’d be a little frisky for awhile, but Steve knew he would soon fall into his steady walk, which he could accomplish all day, if needed.

Steve headed toward the creek that ran through the property. At the widest places, it was only around 30 feet wide. Artesian fed, and shallow, it supplied a constant supply of water, which was necessary to the original settlers.

As they travelled, Steve’s mind wandered. Without the constant pressure of running a company, he was still amazed at how little leisure time he had in the past. He never noticed, but it was now apparent. He had a better understanding of why his short marriage never worked and why he was almost alienated from his son. They had completely different outlooks on life and his musician son seemed to avoid anything that resembled his father.

Steve decided to parallel the creek and travel to the north, which was upstream. He’d cross if necessary, but planned on staying on the west bank. He had plenty of other days for the other side. Today, he would concentrate on only one.

After an hour, they reached a low bluff, with few trees. Deadfall was apparent, and the groundcover was thick. Blackberry vines created a thicket, which was impenetrable by the horse and rider. Deciding to cross, Steve nudged Bob toward the bank. Hesitant, the gelding slowed and became nervous. Knowing enough about horses, Steve gently spoke to the gelding and rubbed his neck. Eventually, after one step into the water, the horse almost lunged into the water to avoid tripping. When the shallow water cooled the horse’s legs, he snorted in contentment and continued. Steve stopped him in the middle. The bottom was sand and hard packed iron ore, so there wasn’t any threat of sinking. He gave the horse rein and allowed him to drink for a few moments.

Looking upstream at the semi-straight channel, he decided to proceed upstream in the creek. It was shallow and he knew the only deep spots would be on the outside of curves. They should be fine and he’d turn around if he didn’t like the passage.

Bob seemed to enjoy the extra work of waking the shallow water and seemed as curious as Steve.  He scanned the banks and his ears would turn forward at the sound of a frog or movement on the band. Birds flew between the branches of the trees and squirrels fussed at the strangers in their territory.

They were about one quarter mile upstream when they found the creek blocked by a deadfall tree. Thinking of turning around, Steve changed his mind when he noticed the bank gradually sloped up to what appeared as a small clearing. They left the creek, climbed the slope and found a small meadow, only a few hundred square feet in size.  Steve dismounted, let the reins fall and decided to explore a little further on foot. Tying Bob to a small tree, he eased on through the thin brush at the north end of the meadow. He wouldn’t go far; he only wanted to see if he needed to prepare for extended time hiking in the future.

He wasn’t far when he found the tree, or what was left of it. Lying on the side, it was at least six feet in diameter and covered with moss. What had caused the magnificent tree to fall wasn’t important, but the fact it still remained after what must have been decades –or longer – was what stirred Steve’s thoughts.

From the side, Steve estimated the huge remaining section of trunk was thirty feet in length. Close examination revealed what appeared as char on the outside. Steve was wondering if Lightning killed the tree as he worked his way to the end. When he reached the end, he peered into the large hollow section. The other end was covered with dirt, so it took a few moments for Steve’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. As they did, he realized the trunk had been occupied at one time.

Crude furniture occupied several sections of the hollow trunk. They appeared to be old rotten crates with crude timber boards on top. Time had deteriorated the furniture to the point it was hard to discern the original intent, but the crude comforts of home soon became apparent.

On one wall was a crude bed, with a shelf at the far end. Across from the bed was a table with a badly tarnished fork and spoon laid correctly as though they were part of a dinner setting. A large porcelain saucer sat in the middle. The remains of countless candles lay in a puddle on the bottom and the stub of the last candle stood only a few inches above the puddle. It was gnawed at top; probably by a hungry squirrel. Carefully stepping into the primitive abode, Steve examined the walls and floor for snakes. Finding none, he stepped further in towards the small shelf at the end of the bed. The metal box on top was the focus of his attention.

Before reaching for the box, Steve carefully examined the outside. He knew the shape, and the remaining writing indicated it was a surplus ammunition box. Badly rusted, he didn’t want to move it if it would fall apart. Satisfied it would survive being moved, Steve carefully picked up the box, made one last survey of the hollow tree and made a mental note to return in the near future. He had gauged his time and knew it was time to start the trip back to the house. Any unforeseen events could lead to being out without the proper equipment after dark. He knew better, so his curiosity would have to wait.

Returning to Bob, he tied the box to the back of the saddle, quickly mounted and they were off. The next few hours were spent with Bob’s mind in motion. Who was the inhabitant? Was it a former family member’s camp? Was it a stranger? Where did they go?

After reaching the stall, Steve removed the riding gear, gave Bob a quick brushing, placed a little feed in his bowl and left the door open so he could graze in the pasture. Steve would return before dark to close him in the stable.

Stepping into the workshop, Steve found a can of penetrating oil, sprayed the hinges and placed some more on the latch. He’d let the oil work while he prepared his supper. Returning to the house, he cooked and would occasionally look toward the workshop. His mind was on what was inside. He could feel it had something in it. What this something was now completely occupied his thoughts.

After finishing his evening tasks, Steve returned to place Bob in his stall and to open the box. Carefully, he pried on the latch until he had some movement. Working the latch a little more each time eventually allowed the latch to be released. A few minutes more and the latch came completely loose and allowed him to start on the hinges. Using a screwdriver, he pried a little on the lid, which allowed a tiny amount of movement. More penetrating oil, a little more force and Steve continued with successfully opening the box. Within a half hour of tedious work, he had enough clearance to peer into the box. Whatever was in there was wrapped in some type of plain oilcloth. He’d have to completely open the box before he could remove the contents.

As he continued to work on the latch, he wondered why he didn’t just use a power tool to remove the lid. It didn’t take him long to remember he had all the time he needed and to destroy something as rare as his find seemed unconscionable.  He needed to be patient. Within an hour, the hinges finally were free and he could open and close the box without the grinding restriction of the rust. It was time to examine the contents.

The oilcloth was almost brittle, but still in fairly good shape. Reaching into the box, he grasped the wrapped object and set it on the work table. Peering into the bottom of the box revealed a handful of tarnished silver quarters, some buttons and a badly deteriorated sewing kit. Turning to the bundle, he carefully removed the oilcloth and found a small leather binder. Opening the binder revealed a few pencils and what would soon occupy the majority of his night.

Steve cleaned up his work area and placed the box on a shelf. Grabbing his new found treasures, he returned to the house and placed it on the kitchen table. He decided the occasion called for fresh coffee, so he started a pot before he set down to his task. Within minutes, with a fresh cup, he opened the binder and started on the first page of writing:

If you’re reading this, either the good Lord has taken me, or I’ve been found once again. Either way, this journal is far from a culmination of my life, but there’s enough to where I feel what I consider important will not be lost forever by the passage of time.

I was born in 1931 in Illinois. I was raised on a farm, but the farm was not my goal, or my parents. They wanted me to obtain a degree from a university and have life with more opportunities. Through frugal living, and hard work, they saved enough and I studied enough to be accepted for higher education. My goal was to be an attorney, but the tragedy of a tornado took my parents during my last year of college. Without the resources, or the heart to continue, I struggled through and finally ended up with a degree in business. It was enough to start my life and allow me to forever be free of Illinois.

I landed a job with a medical supply company. At that time, a tremendous amount of money was to be made in Occupied Japan, so I was sent to work in the branch office in Tokyo. It was a learning experience and changed my view of the Japanese people. Where I hated them during the war, I found them to be far from the hideous monsters as portrayed in the war films and by reports. They were mostly the victims of the unbridled power of a cruel government. Their only fault was to blindly follow their leaders and they suffered tremendously from this error.

The big change in my life came after a tragedy at a local house of ill repute. A young sailor, inebriated on Sake, turned over a lantern, lit the entire facility on fire and managed to not only receive severe burns, but suffer a horrible cut to his leg. This is where I became involved.

The burns were in need of immediate treatment, but the cut had caused severe blood loss. I was at the hospital at the time, had the right blood type, so I volunteered a pint even though my work mates felt it was foolish. They cautioned the sailor would die eventually from the burns, so why waste a pint of good blood? I wasn’t raised that way, so the blood was given.

I didn’t think much of it and the matter eased from my thoughts over the next week. The young doctor that treated the sailor cornered me in the hall of the hospital and asked me to follow him to the room of the sailor.

When we arrived, I was surprised to find the sailor in good spirits, healing as though he’d spent months in the hospital and unbelievably strong for someone that had suffered such severe burns. Instead of hovering near death from dehydration and infection, he was talking of how soon he would be able to leave.

Within a week, the sailor took a turn that was even better. His skin was healing without severe scarring. This is when the doctor asked me to run a few tests, which I agreed to perform. That was my mistake. I should have denied the tests and run like my life depended on it.

Over the next few weeks, a multitude of tests were performed. Besides the tests, it seemed as though they drained at least half my blood, although I didn’t seem to suffer any problems from the loss. I felt like a human pin cushion and trapped by my surroundings. The doctors offered platitudes and encouragement, but as time went on, I felt like a laboratory animal and they seemed like they only cared for results.

I told the young doctor I’d had enough and wanted to leave. This was my second mistake. I should have just slipped away into the night and disappeared. Within a day, I was escorted to a transport and flown to the mainland. I ended up at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. There, I was kept under guard, while they continued with the tests.

Over time, I realized my blood was being harvested. For what I have no idea, but from the constant visitations of high ranking officials, I assume it was for personal friends or family members. My personal life was gone and I only had a few workers at the hospital I could call friends. This is what led to my escape.

One Christmas Eve, while most of the staff was gone, or drinking, I realized my guard was suffering from a bad meal. He constantly left for a few minutes to relieve the symptoms. That’s when I made my move. Through constant watching, I knew the mail truck would leave at 11:00 pm, the guards never checked the outgoing truck and my only opportunity might have just been presented. I escaped without a hitch, but I knew I only had a few hours to disappear.

I managed to leave the truck at the San Antonio post office, which started my life on the run. At first, getting by was tough, especially with the constant efforts to find me again. There was no massive manhunt, since they didn’t want to reveal the purpose. Eventually, I blended in, found a way out and made my way to Houston, Texas.

I worked on the docks for awhile, but soon realized it was too confining and would allow me to be found. I went from there to the oil fields, which were filled with people that had pasts that they hoped would disappear forever. Few questions were asked and nobody really cared.

One evening, while I was hitchhiking to a prospective job on a rig in East Texas, I found myself on the open road with a tremendous storm approaching. I hid under a bridge to wait the storm out and fell asleep. That was a mistake. The rain swelled creek caught me in the middle of the night and swept me downstream. I ended up caught in some trees, in complete darkness and without any hope of help. Morning brought a better perspective and I found a huge deadfall tree for shelter from the continuing rain. That’s where I made the decision to go “native” and live off the land.

It took some time to acquire the things I needed to survive. I had to find the nearest town and do my business without anyone noticing the stranger. I eventually accomplished this task and returned to my new home.

Now, I will journal my life; hopefully without notice and maybe be free from the constant worry of being found once again.

I would give my name, but it might only cause you to acquire problems you never would wish on anyone. If you must place a name to this journal, call me John Brown. It’s a name as good as any, without the stigma my actual name carries.

Steve continued to read the journal. From that point on, it was the daily reflections of the writer. Some entries were detailed, but most were only short descriptions of the weather and if the writer was successful in finding food.

Steve finally reached the end, which was dated July 16, 1961. It only had a few lines describing the heavy logging noises to the north and the need to run the limb lines in the creek. Closing the journal, he sat and sipped the last of the pot of coffee.

Steve’s mind churned with thoughts about the writer. Where did he go? Did he die? Was he captured? During his musings, the old caretaker’s name came to his thoughts: “Mr. B” He realized he never asked his full name or for any details. Could he be John Brown?

Steve realized he would need to turn over some rocks to find the answers. He, also, knew turning over those rocks could reveal things about powerful people that wouldn’t appreciate his efforts. He decided to take the journal, replace it in the box and return it to the tree. He’d make sure it couldn’t be destroyed by nature and leave it for some future explorer to find.  It was too soon to unravel this mystery. Only time would reveal the secrets, or not.  

Steve placed his coffee cup in the sink. He would read the journal one more time in bed. Tomorrow, he would return it to hiding. After that, he would only have memories for recollection. They would have to do.