Sun-Struck Eagle: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

The early morning sun breaks over the ridge to the east of the homestead and a portal is opened from another world. Fantastic hues of orange and purples and reds lay cover upon the Earth and, all at once, strange visitors make their daily sojourn to the farm. The spiked heads of the yuccas cast deep violet starburst down the ridge and up along the side of the wooden slits where the family resides. Each rock is its own finger print that sets its mark upon the dawn-coated landscape—no crack nor crevice nor chip the same. Hundreds, thousands, of unique silhouettes begin their journey as they grow and prostrate themselves before the rising sun. It is cool and calm and quiet. The cacti and the sagebrush catch the early light and, now, they too begin to weave their web across the red land—new visitors to the farm.

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In a bush, a thrush ruffles its wings and stretches its neck. It thinks about opening its yellow beak and calling its first welcome to the newborn day. But it decides against the task, and the spotted brown ball of feathers disappears once again into the branches from whence it came. The dark shadows continue their march across the homestead, followed still by the colors of morning dancing through the sky. A deep purple canvas streaked with blood red and apricot. The golden chariot of the sun lays low in the firmament, striking only the tallest inhabitants with the full might of its shine. A saguaro at the height of the ridge is the first to catch Helios’s eye—the lime body of the succulent is pierced with an arrow of light, sending a blast of pale green down into the homestead. Another visitor announcing its presence.

 

The battered door of the home creaks open and out steps the Father. Barney follows, the halo of his golden hair illuminated by the approaching sun. Now comes Luke. The three grab their tools and begin their toil. The thrush awakes fully from its bush and lets loose its song. The purple and red sky is torn asunder by the white hot light of the full-borne sun. The dawn’s strange visitors evaporate into the heat of the day—their early morning march brought once again to a sudden halt. It is one month since the Father and two sons walked home from church in the pouring rain.

 

The sun beats down on the ranch with an extra cruel ferocity today; the full weight of the midday sun leaning against the homestead, so warm that it’s as if the wooden shack itself is threatening to shed its rusted nails and lay down in search of respite. A still malaise falls over the land. But, in defiance of the swelter, the Father and his boys continue their work. Their shovels and pickaxes cut streaks through the blistered air. Their swings are slow and laborious, but strong. Each strike at the acrid earth looses a crunching cry from the soil and rock—last gasps from the undisturbed land before it is tilled and turned and made to be productive.

 

A crow sits atop the makeshift windmill and watches the family as they toil. Inky-black feathers shine in the light, and deep purple eyes dart restlessly across the landscape from high atop their perch. The bird lets out a hoarse squawk and flies off into the East. Luke looks up from his shovel and follows the crow in flight until it disappears into a small cloud of a dust. A small cloud of dust that is moving fast, and headed straight towards the homestead. “Father,” he beckons. All three stop their work and fix their gaze on the horizon. “Boys, go fetch some water,” says Father. “We have a visitor.”

 

The car tears a path along the dirt trail leading to the domicile. It is black, with an impeccable shine to its four doors and long body. It is slick and sleek and glides effortlessly over the dirt and rock; its whitewall tires sport neither scratch nor smudge. The ebb and flow of the curved wheel wells cut through the desert air and the vehicle flows across the landscape like a drop of water dyed midnight black. Atop the hood rides a silver ornament in the shape of a bird.

 

The machine roars to a halt in front of the homestead. Sunlight catches the wings of the metallic hood décor and casts a ray into Luke’s eyes. He rubs them clear, and now stands the driver. The man is short, with olive complexion, a hint of stubble, and jet black hair combed skin tight against his scalp; the product he uses shines even brighter than the car he rode in on. He removes his driving gloves to reveal large hands, smacks the dust off his thigh, and tucks the leather mitts away in his back pocket. The suit he wears fits tight against his stocky build. It is also black, with a faint floral pattern embroidered on the vest—as if making an attempt to ingratiate himself with whomever he may meet. Daisies to disarm and distract from this weapon of a man. A painted cannonball. He clears the desert soot from his throat with a sharply inhaled snort and spits into the soil, nearly hitting one of manicured tires. The globule sits shining atop the dirt, the land itself fights back against the new incursion—a battle that lasts only a moment before the ground relents and sucks up the spittle. The man steps forward.

 

Afternoon, gentlemen. He flashes a smile at the family. His mouth is stained with specks of beechnut and tobacco—a man of taste. If only there were little floral vests for teeth. My name is Mr. John Rankler, and I’ve been sent here today by my boss, who represents an interested party in what could be a lucrative endeavor for all involved. Quite the lucrative endeavor indeed, let me tell you. May I ask you gentlemen, you enjoy the finer things in life, no? When’s the last time you had one of those juicy steaks at Carol’s down in town? Gristle and all! Or Mr. McGrath’s, have you been in to see what that ol’ stitch head has in store? Man knows how to make one fine coat—for a papist, that is. Ha! Hell, what about this here fine piece of machinery I rode in on? Ever thought about getting one for yourself? It’s the newest off the line all the way up in Detroit I’m told.

 

The car behind Mr. Rankler sits shimmering in the heat, inky black metal boiling the air around its place in the dirt. Ripples of light emanate and undulate in the high-noon heat—the mechanic beast sits impatiently amongst the farm. It does not belong here, and it knows it.

 

Well, don’t be so shy boys! Whaddaya say? You interested in a business proposition? Father remains silent. The heat is oppressive. Barney looks at Father. Luke stares at the pristine white wheels of the car. Oh come on now, don’t you want nice things for your boys? My boss is willing to offer just about anything you could ask for, in fact—

 

But what is he asking for? Father finally interrupts.

 

Mr. Rankler grins. He speaks! It’s simply, really, my boss is interested only in dirt.

 

Dirt?

 

Yes, dirt. My boss has interest in dirt all over this state but this dirt, at present, is the dirt that he’s interested in. And so he sent me to come ask about this dirt.

 

He kicks lazily at the spot where his spit once stood. A small cloud of dust arises, dances in the air, pirouettes over his shoe, and sticks its landing right back down to rest where it began.

 

What’s special about my dirt? Father asks.

 

Your father is a smart man, boys. That’s a good question, sir. See, it’s less about the dirt really—more about what’s under it. My boss seems to think that you’re sitting on quite the goldmine out here.

 

Ain’t no gold here.

 

Rankler smiles again. The beechnut-tobacco cocktail swishing about in his mouth somehow even more noticeable than before. A gold-plated tooth gasps for air behind the brown-black sheen.

 

A smart man, indeed. You know your land well—but my boss has his sights set on a different sort of gold. The black kind—powering all sorts of things these days. And worth more than all the shiny rocks in the world combined.

 

Luke snaps his stare from the man’s car and now focuses his undivided attention on Mr. John Rankler’s words.

 

Turns out, if that Jennings-Bryan fellow had thrown his hat in for Free Oil instead of Free Silver he might just have gotten somewhere with folks. You don’t run nations on coin alone anymore. There’s levels to these sorts of things. Least that’s the way my boss says it. And I ain’t one to go against he who pay the bills, right?

 

Who’s your boss? The Father is getting impatient with Rankler’s incessant talk.

 

A man who pays a great deal of money and expends a great deal of energy to remain in the background of these affairs. A learned man, you see. He learned a long time ago that these things are better left to others. So, now, he trusts me to speak on his behalf. He buys the dirt, and I play in it. Type of man who prefers his attention to his studies. Like I said…a learned man.

 

Must not be all that learned, Father shakes his head. His studies would’ve told him that their ain’t no oil on this land neither, just like there ain’t no gold.

 

Mr. John Rankler’s smile flickers for a second, threatening to wipe from existence. But he catches himself and his grin widens even more. Beechnut and tobacco nearly spills from his mouth now, his gold tooth gasping for freedom once again, his lips work overtime to dam the inky-black poultice.

 

I have good news my good sir. Our men just wrapped up a survey a few days ago and it turns out that the old maps have it wrong—there’s a veritable ocean of the stuff just over yonder hills.

 

His arm stretches out and a meaty mitt points to the rocky mounds at the very westernmost edge of the family plot. Miles in the distance, they give the impression of little mole deposits. Like some creature from eons past had dug and it made its home there to hide from whatever eastern visitors may come.

 

Luke now squints at the hilly ridge, so too do Barney and Father. The family seldom visits that part of the land. Aside from the hills, nothing much stands in the western part of the homestead. The boys buried their dog out there when they were young. And Father once told a story of an abandoned Spanish church from hundreds of years ago that had been torn up by a tornado. But, now, hardly anything draws their attention in that direction. Until today. Luke’s eyes widen and then squint, trying to cut through the dusty haze and focus on the hills and their newfound riches. Searching for some speck of oily black erupting from the rock. Miles out, the shimmers of heat are mesmerizing. They hypnotize Luke, who squints harder and now tilts his head in an attempt to get a better angle. There—was that it? Is that what Rankler means? How much could the land really go for now? When could they—

 

It ain’t for sale. Father’s voice snaps Luke back to attention.

 

Excuse me? Rankler presses.

 

You heard me. This land ain’t for sale.

 

This time, the smile does disappear fully from the big man’s face. The corners of his now-closed mouth are stained black. They quiver before he speaks.

 

Now, sir, I appreciate putting on a good show in front of your boys here. That’s commendable, it really is. But I think you should really consider before you go and make a decision like this. We’re talking about a great deal of money. We want to set your boys up nicely now, don’t we?

 

My boys are set up with all they need right here.

 

Mister. Rankler spits. The inky globule slides across the dirt and comes to rest atop a beetle. It begins to flail in an attempt to free itself. Take a look around you, he says. There ain’t nothing out here that could be even remotely considered as “set up” for anybody. You house is near fallen apart. You can’t grow anything that’s worth a damn in this dirt. I could basically smell this shithole from a mile away on the drive in. You’ve built nothing. You own nothing. From where I’m standing, looks to me like you and your bunch ain’t worth a penny. The only thing you do have—which you should be thanking my team for finding—is oil. Tell me, do you know what to do with all that oil up there? Do you know how to drill for it? To extract it? Barrel it? Put it to any sort of use? Have you even been up there—it’s practically sitting on top of the ground! His hand stretches once again to the hills. It casts a shadow over the beetle in its liquid prison.

 

I told you, there ain’t any oil. Been on this land a long time, and there just ain’t.

 

So you’re stupid and you’re stubborn. That’s a dangerous combination around here.

 

Father looks up and down at the man’s suit and car. What do you know about here?

 

Rankler scoffs. I know there’s oil out there. And I know you’re missing out on a whole truckload of money.

 

Pa! Oh hell! Come on—

 

The smack comes unseen and it comes upside Luke’s head. The Father puts his hands back into the pockets of his tattered denim overalls.

 

This place has been in my family for generations. There ain’t no oil and there ain’t no way I’m giving it up to the likes of you. Father turns around and begins to walk inside. Barney swivels to follow.

 

My boss is a learned man, and a persistent one, too. Good afternoon, gentlemen.

 

With that, Mr. John Rankler enters his vehicle, starts the ignition, and flashes Luke one last speckled smile before speeding off into the midday east.

 

The beetle lays dead beside the tire tracks.

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