When Green Leaves Fall

Jack A. Robey

Description

A MYSTICAL GLIMPSE INTO AMERICA'S PAST. When Green Leaves Fall encompasses the gamut of elements in great classic fiction, from history and suspense to romance, poetry, mythology, and faith. Add to this the author's exceptional character development that brings the people in the novel alive and the breathtaking imagery of the untamed world they discover. The story begins in the summer of 1909, when the sleepy little mill town of Devlin, W.Va., awakens. Best friends, Morgan Darrow and Dewey Baughman, leave boyhood behind in the wild mountain forests as they assist surveyors Lowe Yancy and Black Jack Clark on their expedition for the Watoga Lumber Company. When Lowe first sees the noble giant trees of the Big Timber, he is awed by their creator, and his journey to find peace and absolution in his life takes a new direction. The team faces many obstacles along the way, and learns that subduing the violence of other men is often much easier than conquering that of nature. Adventures of the heart also await them in Devlin, as Morgan and Dewey both fall in love, and Lowe's eyes open to the love he relinquished long ago, but never forgot. Set in the days of post-Civil War West Virginia, When Green Leaves Fall captures life in a small company town, where the company has the power to influence even hopes and dreams. In the tradition of John Steinbeck, Robey's novel explores a unique time and place in America's past through the hearts and voices of his memorable characters, and allows his readers to experience the last of the magnificent uncharted forest that once graced our land. The novel was inspired by the author's great-grandparents, who lived, worked, and raised their family in the small lumber mill town of Nallen, W. Va.

Sujets

• Historical
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 26 juin 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781977229137
• Langue: English

Extrait

When Green Leaves Fall All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2020 Jack A. Robey v3.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
ISBN: 978-1-9772-2913-7
Cover Photo © 2020 www.gettyimages.com .. All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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For Diane
and in Memory of
Bill and Juanita Robey
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
PROLOGUE
All but two were gone. The plush green canopy of summer had long since succumbed to the shorter days and the cold, ravaging winds of December. Now there were just two red leaves clinging to the young isolated maples, which grasped for light and life against the high shade of the pine grove. It was these same pines that would carry death to the young, unguarded woodland. The leaves, the trees, the creatures, the community of the forest, even the grove itself, would falter and fail against the rush of the implacable foe. Fire had come to take them all.
The two leaves played upon a growing breeze as distant flames inhaled the clean breath of the wilderness. They had danced before on many a wind, and high on their branch, they would dance just once again. They had not known fire, only the peace and beauty of creation. And now it was upon them.
At first the burn moved as a thin bright line inching slowly across the forest floor. The leaves, still damp from the morning’s mist, matted the ground and smoldered before igniting. Their smoke moved ahead of the flame as both crept slowly up the ridge toward the grove. In their wake, a pristine wood, once warmed by autumn’s color, now lay wasted and cold in the black monotones of a charred earth and the singed bases of the trees.
Then the fire quickened as it pressed itself into a dry bed of needles. Fueled by the volatility of resins, fed by unceasing gusts of air, it loosed new fury upon the hapless pines. It leapt from root to crown, from limb to limb, from tree to tree, until all that was once ever green was left dark and lifeless. The trees dissolved in the hot, swirling light, exploding almost instantaneously, one behind the other.
The leaves now played on a different wind, on the upward drafts of a heated thermal. They jumped and bent with each spike of the approaching flame, barely dodging the touch of fire. When the flame withdrew, they pulled against the tether of their stalks and then rose again to avoid the surging blaze.
It was a moment of time before one leaf broke free and lifted skyward, only to meet the glowing ash, then burn. The second dipped against the flame and was gone. So it was for every living thing.

The young Shawnee stood in disbelief as the wind suddenly shifted. He had set the fire as he was told by his elders.
"Burn the leaves and thickets that we might move the buffalo and elk toward our winter camp. The spring will bring back the young shoots and tall grass for more to graze next year."
And so he did. With his torch of gathered pine knots, he spread a line of fire a thousand yards across the width of the long valley. The fire would move along the banks of the narrow stream, riding the soft wind at its back. It would not want to climb the steep hills with their rocky cliffs and talus. Neither would the herds climb to seek other meadows. They would move with the stream. They would stay with the sweet water and thick grasses until the flames bid them run.
Then, where the stream met the great river, the buffalo, the elk, the deer and all the beasts of the valley would cross into the waiting spears of his hungry people. His family would not know the cruelty of winter this year, for he was giving them life with his fire, which would race until it tired at the edge of the waters. It was the perfect plan, except in this world where the Shawnee lived with the whims of nature and where nature had contempt for the plans of man.
Flames eased across gentle hillocks, urged by a slow, unbroken breeze, and small herds scattered before a low blaze that steadily swept the vale. But as the mid-day sun warmed the land, the wind revealed its betrayal. With sudden ferocity, it turned into the faces of the young Shawnee and his kindled fire and threw them both toward the fortified walls of the mountain.
The youth moved quickly up the hill and into a shaded wood, where a thickening haze now hugged the ground. The swiftness of his feet whirled the smoke up and away behind him, but despite his speed, he could not be free of it. Tree after tree, hill after hill, he pushed through the forest ever upwards with a fading hope that he might flank the fire before it trapped him against the distant seam of rocks.
The conflagration found momentum on the steep sides of the ridge, and threatened to overtake the wary young warrior. He knew well the danger. He could hear the snapping of a distant blaze. He could almost feel the warmth of its light. There was one escape, only one diminutive chance for survival. He must race the fire up the mountain through the pine grove, ascend the crags and hide in the shallow pools of the rocky dome. One chance…race the fire through the pine grove.
He ran. The Shawnee ran with the strong legs of youth and the fearful mind of a child. He had little time, though the blaze was not yet upon him. The mountain was steep, and he would lose precious minutes sliding among the leaves and stones. He did not know a way through the crag and would need every moment, every measure of strength and energy to scale the steep cliff.
No man could outrun the fire once it touched the pines, so his life was wagered against his speed through the open hardwood forest. He must quickly make time. He must clear the pines before the fire reached the edge of the grove. There, it would rage into the high crowns of the trees with such intensity that stone would seem to melt beneath his feet. The air would give no sustenance to his body, and huge incendiary balls of flame would rain upon the mountaintop far ahead of his approach. The consequence of failure was death, slow and torturous, and the utter horror of it impelled him to press far beyond his human limitation. He understood. The savage force would surely yield merciless destruction to whatever dared defy it and to any who might flee its terror. Nature intended no exceptions. He ran. He ran.
The Shawnee was not afraid to die. He was a warrior, a hunter, a survivor of a most primitive way. He had faced death on many occasions and was assured of his place in the hereafter. But death? Not by fire, not now. He had reason to live.
He passed almost effortlessly through the oaks and poplars and chestnuts of the lower forest. The ground was firm and the grade moderate. He was used to running long distances, especially in the spring when men conducted raids against their enemies to the north. The sky above him remained clear and for a brief moment, he forgot the menace that was crackling at his heels. He paused at a brook and pressed his face to the water, sipping and splashing to dampen his long black hair and naked chest.
As he turned to look back into the valley, he saw new signs of the smoke that moved in advance of the fire. He tried to leap the brook, but fell on the slippery rocks. He tried to rise, only to fall again in the soft mud of the bank. It was a nightmare come alive, as his attempts to move were thwarted by the simplest of obstacles. Finally, he gathered himself and was again vaulting toward the pine grove.
The Shawnee found no relief. Saplings choked his way through an endless thicket of small trunks and needles. Even his eyes could not penetrate the dense pine barrier, but his legs nevertheless powered forward into the grabbing, gouging web of limbs. The smoke was now heavy and his lungs nearly burst for the want of air. He gave little notice to the throbbing ache in his legs and feet or to the burn of his sweat as it coated the wounds of a hundred briars and jutting branches. His flesh was torn, his spirit faltering, but he ran.
It was not long before he heard the deafening quake of the canopy fire. The pines were ablaze. Fifty yards…He would be clear. Twenty-five yards…He could not breathe. Ten yards…The heat blistered the skin of his back.
Strange though, his mind began to give comfort from the pain. His movement was steady and his thoughts were elsewhere. What would become of his family or of the beautiful child he was to marry in the spring? He pictured them, and then, only her. He saw her dark eyes and shining black hair. He remembered her as they would chase through the meadow. She was agile, graceful. He thought of her laughter, her tears, the softness of her sun-browned skin. He thought of the children they would have, of the days growing old with her, of his caring for her and her love for him. He could not die