Close to the Edge Down By the River

R.L. Sterup

Description

Complex, densely textured literary novel, constructed somewhat loosely around a tornado, a mountain lion attack, and several alternative potentialities, set in Cathar County, Nebraska sometime in the recent past, or perhaps the present, or perhaps the future, rich in biblical allusions and many a pop-cultural reference not to mention the scientific method. Alternatively humorous, heartbreaking, and profound. Featuring characters named Faith and Arch and A. Jacks and Parrish and May and Hanratty and Helen and Horton, and others too numerous to mention, none of whom are less real than any other reality. Faith seeks recovery of a twin son apparently captured by a big cat. Arch seeks to tune in an elusive frequency. A. Jacks seeks to re-construct a Valhalla collapsed by a cyclone. Parish seeks spiritual deliverance in a coming apocalypse. A two-million dollar accidental death insurance policy hands in the balance. Stream of consciousness constructs a beginning, a middle and an end.

Sujets

• Literary
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 14 février 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456621254
• Langue: English

Extrait

CLOSE TO THE EDGE
Down By The River
 
R.L. Sterup

Copyright 2014 R.L. Sterup,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2125-4
 
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means – whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic – without written permission of both publisher and author, except in case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and punishable by law.

 
Acknowledgements:
To the man, husband, son, brother, father, who lives eternally.

 
Down at the edge, close by a river.
Close to the edge, round by the corner.
Close to the end, down by the corner.
Down at the edge, round by the river.
Jon Anderson, Steve Howe.
 
 
And so it was at the beginning of their dwelling there, that they feared not the LORD: therefore the LORD sent lions among them, which slew some of them.
2 Kings 17:25.
CHAPTER ONE
Leaping Lion Nabs Kid. A local lad barely escaped fatal entanglement with a lethal creature while fleeing from a funnel not far from the river’s edge in the company of his Mother last Sunday, as an alert bystander insinuated himself between the tyke and certain death just before the twister lifted the roof off a henhouse and demolished the family’s ancestral home. All at no greater cost than a twisted ankle for the lucky duck’s Uncle. Make and model of the leaping creature remains a mystery, on account of the wind and rain, and general hubbub, as too does the current whereabouts of the survivor’s twin brother, who plunged over the edge never to be seen again when left unattended in the tumult. Or at least not yet. The twister destroyed many a tool shed, not to mention two dozen head of herefords, though the missionary meeting at the Methodist church went off as planned that very Sunday afternoon. Mystery man allegedly responsible for salvaging the alleged widow’s allegedly surviving son reportedly remains missing, too. Sightings of man or beast kindly should be reported to this desk.
 
So might have reported the Plowman Meteor, narrative-commencement-essence-wise
 
Exactly when and how A. Jacks came to our County and its remote backwaters hard by the Platte River’s roiling flow remains even to this day a matter of some dispute.
Greater Nate claimed the man appeared at precisely the instant a mountain lion sprang from its concealed perch atop a sandy bluff intent on snatching the more slightly built of the twins from his mother’s clutches. A prototypically tawny beast splayed elegantly against the sandstone mesa, jaws cracked, salivating, presumably, at the sight of the untended twin’s fleshy loins. The mountain lion, that is. A. Jacks himself somewhat notably less tawny and long, not to mention a mere man, standing seven cubits at the shoulder, or should that be seven hands? A little over average height, in any event. His burly frame topped by an unruly shock of thick black hair, his chiseled features punctuated by characteristically blazing orbs. Eyes which lacked not the foresight, apparently, to spy the crouching predator and take action before it could, or perhaps at precisely the same time.
This near the family farm north of Plowman some years after Faith’s man up and disappeared without a trace, leaving behind the wife and twin boys, and Faith’s brother Arch, not to mention inconsiderable incandescent incongruity inherent or maybe incipient to the illusion the several potential mountain lion appetizers had -- or were about -- to become.
So to speak.
A half second later and the big cat would have succeeded in its mission, as all later agreed. Particularly being as Thomas, the more slightly built of the twins, could and would have fit comfortably in the lion’s gaping jaws. A mere snack for the big cat. A boy aged ten or maybe twelve at the time -- we can’t remember precisely -- suitably pre-pubescent, in any event. The lad maybe ninety-eight pounds soaking weight. A mere sliver of the man he would someday become. A prototypically towheaded boy-child boasting but enough fleshy tendon to satisfy a big cat’s ravening appetite for a day or two, tops. Even less if the cat had cubs stashed nearby anxious to devour whatever lifeless bundle of protein their mother brought back to the den that day.
This on a May late afternoon some years ago now, in the land of black dirt pastures, cottonwoods dotting the plain, flat land fanning in every direction, as far as the eye can see, mostly, with one notable exception, to be addressed anon, an egg by spunky swimmer impregnated -- so to metaphorically say -- in the customary way one supposes, all modesty aside, gestating conventionally, as dictated by genomes, or DNA, or Darwin grinning modestly, or perhaps the chance of infinite happenstances. The child frolicking long in the womb-y soup, happy as the proverbial clam, one presumes, at least until the rather rude eviction by circumstance demanded -- for one’s hips can only be so wide, practically speaking, upright walkers that they were, and are -- a sudden expulsion, ejection, slippery catapulting from place of safety into the way of blinding light and predator.
In a manner of speaking.
With a thunderous oath A. Jacks leapt just as the lion leapt also, colliding with the cat in mid-flight. The burly man crashed against the flanks of the seven-feet-long-if-it-was-an-inch feline, causing the cat to careen down the sandy banks of the roiling Platte, heels over teakettles, screeching and yowling every step of the way, while the former, A. Jacks, merely bounced in a generally equal and opposite direction from the point of impact, like a cue ball that expends its momentum in the billiards against which it has hurled itself, and reposes more or less serenely even as those particles scramble chaotically through space and time. Whether A. Jacks attempted to wrangle the cat, or merely propel it harmlessly into the roiling Platte, none could say for certain, and remains also a matter of conjecture. Either way, Thomas the more slightly built of the twins found himself in the arms of his mother, and not traversing the gastrointestinal tract of a ravenous cat, bite by grinding bite, as he otherwise might have been.
 
From the mountain lion’s perspective a somewhat less dramatic event, probably. Lurking in a well-concealed lair of a late spring afternoon, just waiting for prey, when up comes the wind and the thunderous rumble accompanying lightning’s flashing, clouds bunching, a storm brewing, twisters in the air, but concealed and comfortable enough withal, merely waiting and watching. When suddenly under one’s very whiskered nose stumble a company of bipeds. Though in the storm-induced gloom one particularly smallish package of protein looks very much like a newborn deer fawn lurching its uncertain way. Thus instinctually primed, leaping as one’s nature commands in the general direction of the unexpected bounty in one’s way cast, only to be rather rudely interrupted mid-flight, propelled over the very edge of the narrow snaking trail -- albeit landing on one’s feet as is customary -- before skidding to a halt in the dirt and the mud and the dust. Only to find the deer fawn tumbling directly into one’s clutches a half count later, as if bodily flung by the fierce and unpredictable wind. Doing then what one’s very DNA commands, without hesitation or reflection, because instinct cannot be debated. Dragging the prey to the protective cover of nearby scrub and brush as is customary, notwithstanding that it, the prey, turned out to be not a deer fawn at all, albeit plenty rich in amino acids, its upright-walking weirdness notwithstanding.
All in a day’s work.
 
Brung by the surplus deer population, we later agreed. Notwithstanding nary a speck of mountain within six hundred linear miles, our county nonetheless attracted a card-carrying exemplar of that exotic species, as Faith and Arch and Thomas and Peter the other twin learned the hard way that very late May afternoon while scrabbling from their modest two-story farmhouse to escape the impending tornado. “Too damn many deer,” we muttered one to another at the Idle Chat in downtown Plowman proper. “If only them danged fish and game boys opened up the season a month or two earlier them bambis wouldn’t be so damn many of them and we’d have no damn bloodthirsty mountain lions to eat our sheep.” Or our kids. Many a trigger finger itching. Deprived of opportunity, we holstered our weapons, thus paving the way for a slightly superior predator to occupy the field, or, in this case, sandy bluff hard by the Platte’s roiling flow.
 
Oh, the cyclone. Shifting spring winds tend to bring them our way. Cold winds scudding in the grip of the jet stream crash against the flanks of sluggish gulf air unlucky enough to stray in the way, the radically misfit air masses intermingling chaotically, with predictably disastrous results. Located some ten miles from town as they were, at the end of a dirt and gravel lane mere yards from the river’s edge, Faith and Arch and the boys benefitted not in the least from the siren blasting warning from atop of the courthouse on the Plowman town square -- for not even seventy-mile-an-hour winds can whisk a siren’s sound all of ten miles – but scurried for cover (Faith and Arch and the boys, that is) nonetheless, as the rapidly advancing low pressure anomaly made a beeline for their front parlor. Intuition, call it. A Midwesterner’s hard won sense of precisely when and where a twister threatens imminent death and destruction.
Signs aplenty that particular May day. At least for those with eyes to see. Monstrous thunderheads bunching in the west. An eerily atypical darkening of those towering clouds. Ominous, brooding, blue black cloudbanks blanketing the horizon. Skiffs of unusually intermittent breeze sallying from all sides.