Death Among Trees - C. L. Hodge (i read a book .TXT) 📗

Death Among Trees

By

C. L. Hodge

Copyright 2016

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The trek William plunged through the South Georgia swamp could have welcomed imminent death. He need rest. William Cain needed water. The trees were not going by fast enough; his legs became rigid and numb. He held his Nikon tightly against the right of his twenty-nine-year-old abdomen. It pushed inward toward the pale flesh and delicate bone almost creating an imprint. His pulsating brain thirsted for blood as the journey had drained it from him. His bloodshot eyes made it difficult to see the most familiar of surroundings. Blindness felt inevitable.

He was on assignment in the Okefenokee Swamp. His company sent him there to photograph wildlife for an upcoming brochure. William had a choice in the matter of whether he wanted to go or to stay in Chicago, but being the highest level employee for Burgundy and Lace Publishing, his ego became inflated and he gladly boarded the plane.

William violently gulped down half of his canteen.

In the distance, a close distance, William saw what could be a large rock. A boulder. Maybe this was his chance to rest. Or to faint.

His hungry heart raced when he saw that his assumptions had become fact. The large granite protrusion looked as though it could have been laid to rest somewhere deep within the Amazon River Basin. He collapsed onto it eager to revive himself.

His body had found a sliver of paradise. It would give him the time he needed to finish his expedition.

After only ten minutes had passed, resuscitation awoke him. Beautiful scenery danced before his eyes and he gazed upon a most picturesque site. The scenery before him was indeed pristine. What had been Hell minutes earlier had become an oasis on the edge of its damning eternity.

The Pines and Cyprus flawlessly formed a semi-circular embankment surrounding a small cascade in the fresh-water pond. William imagined it to be a beaver dam, only half complete. The trickles of water ran over it graciously, imitating a miniature Iguazu or Niagara. The way the sun’s rays penetrated the small droplets of water on the leaves made the dugout sparkle in color, like jewels: Rubies behind emeralds in between sapphire gems. William could hear faint doorbells ringing as each bead blinked in and out, each one inviting him closer.

Professional photographers develop a nagging search for this sort of thing, unconsciously snapping mental shots that coincide with their inner creative desires.

William reached for his Nikon to prepare to capture this wonder. His gut reaction whispered that this would become the crucial photo of the whole shoot; it would possibly take the brochure’s cover.

He fondled the camera and got his grip around the aluminum casing. He pulled himself from the miracle-boulder that had empowered him to take the shot. The thorns and limbs would be no match for him. William swore to himself that he was going to be the victor. He was going to conquer the battle no matter what he had to endure.

With his destination reached, his wait was over. Trees and brush had cleared and the scene materialized in front of him, still flashing. Chiming. Without hesitation he cropped the site into the aperture and allowed his index finger to pounce onto the button. He continued in a series of four rounds: Three with the camera vertical, three with it horizontal, then he continued to snap in diagonal frames in both ways. He knew he could always crop them later. He adjusted the lighting settings and began to click in abstract.

After exhaling the camera from his unwavering eye, he allowed the red and black strap to hang from his shoulder.

Delighted after his accomplishment, hope once again filled his lungs. He would be the talk of the firm with the title of Senior Editor finally within reach.

That thought quickly evaded him when William felt the oddest sensation of not ever wanting to leave his newfound haven. He was at home there. Absolute peace. A peculiar notion entertained him that he may have lived in this spot on Earth before in one of his numerous past lives. He very well could have been the beaver that constructed this slice of amazing bewilderment, however many years ago it may have been.

His grin reversed itself when a painful memory of his family in Chicago roared into view.

William and Carolyn had been divorced for six years, and it being more of an arranged marriage than a traditional spectacle, the wedding should never have occurred.

Carolyn had come from an affluent family in the Dominican Republic. She desperately required to flee the years of domestic abuse inflicted onto her from the uncle who had caused her budding dreams of becoming a fashion designer to morph into tarnish. Both of Carolyn’s parents were killed in a growing political scuffle when she was ten, then she was sent off to live with her uncle and grandmother. Uncle Lionel lent her to kingpins for sex and for other monetary favors when she was twelve and her career as the family slave ended just a year before William was introduced.

He had gone to Santo Domingo on a grant that Summer and had spied Carolyn inside a café alone at a corner table. He approached her with the insignificant amount of Spanish he could muster. Her dark oak locks surrounded her avocado eyes and gently fleeced her satin-pink lips. Her skin was the palest porcelain among all the Dominicans in the place and she was stunning. He had never before been invited for conversation with just a smile, until Carolyn. –

Within the heat slushing around him, William swiftly scoffed at that memory. Carolyn’s welcoming smile turned to grimace.

He and Carolyn had dated only a month when her grandmother cried to William for intervention on Carolyn’s behalf. She pleaded for William to marry her. To take her back and to make her into a U.S. Citizen. He denied the colossal offer of Dominican Peso she offered and agreed to marry her for love. William had learned of the tempestuous horrors she endured for so long and it further promoted his perception of her beauty.

After arriving in Chicago, William began to discover his wife in intimate manners beyond the sexual: He discovered Carolyn’s tainted personality. She would argue about anything: All things imagined from no things factual. The flaws weeded to surface from roots firmly planted in her festering erotic tomb. He was, after all, the first man who showed love to her in that particular manner. The other men she had since childhood were viruses. They were bacterial colonies extinguishing her innocent cells. William had been her first aim for an antidote.

They both discovered the cure had come too late.

Two years had passed after the wedding and Carolyn learned she was expecting Rocco. William was ecstatic to become a father, yet Carolyn’s ever diminishing emotional attachment to him finally terminated itself. She held onto her Catholic instruction and carried the child to full term. A year after Rocco was born, Carolyn fled to Manhattan. She would not divorce. That too was anti-Catholic. Her pending citizenship also calculated in that decision. They would keep up the façade until she was officially united to the Republic. Until then, Carolyn would have little to do with William or with her radiant son.

William’s mother and father provided help for him and for their grandson while his career took time to make something of itself. Carolyn would send support from her trust fund as well. It was the least she could do. Knowing Carolyn, it was the most she could do. She showed her love the best way she knew how: By being absent. With citizenship accomplished, a divorce was finally granted. All communication as well as financial support - ended.

Rocco was well favored by all with whom he associated and at eight years-old was the happiest boy in Chicago. He was an artist. He wrote short stories and poetry. Public speaking never frightened him. He articulated every word he spoke on talent days at school. Some kids danced; others sang. Most refused to participate. Rocco would record himself before a show reading a poem he had written and would let it play while he was onstage painting a scene that would mirror the narrative. He had seen it done somewhere before and had decided that was what he was going to do with his life. Art flowed throughout the channels of his body and William was blessed to be able to embolden him. Yet, Rocco’s beauty was all Carolyn’s. While he watched his son paint, William could see her angelic waltz as Rocco’s figure flowed with a verse’s plotting rhythm.

The pain of his separation turned itself into comfort as William thought about his boy. He wished he could share with his son the magnificence that shone upon him in the sultry forest of Southeastern Georgia. The photos simply would never be enough.

William bolted from his daze. As he thought about moving Rocco to this perfect place of serenity, barring the heat, his inner senses became conflicted. If he relocated, he would make less money. He had just recently secured his debts and was closer than ever to reimbursing them. Would it be feasible to construct such a radical move? Ideas of going freelance instantaneously invalidated that hassling thought.

He could stay with Burgundy and Lace and add jobs submitting to various magazines. His contract with the firm did not prohibit that. He could combine monetary forces and raise Rocco away from the clogged forest of asphalt and glass. But what about education?

How were the schools? William would need to investigate the locals. What were the comparisons between Chicago Public School academia and the complexities of rural intelligence? What were the positives and which were the negatives, and in what direction did they mostly number? Had this corner of the South progressed enough to escort his half-breed son through life?

He had heard the motel manager use the term upon arrival. The worker had told him his room number and that he would be staying next-door to a half-breed family. And that they could be loud at times. To not call the police but to call the front desk. Someone would take care of the noise. In due-time.

It was alien to William. The term immediately conjured images of segregation days and of public lynchings, but he shrugged it off knowing that the South had long ago retired from that business. Still, racism was alive and well all over America, yet only in passive verbal forms. It was a coming-of-age obstacle every U.S. Citizen endured, but on one in which everyone was required to form an opinion. Progress in the matter still had not fully matured. It was still the principle of sticks-and-stones and such.

For it to be such a derogatory and subtle form of hate, William could not help but notice many of those half-breeds as he walked around the town’s Main Street. They seemed to outnumber the local populace.

They traveled in herds: Crammed into ancient busses and leaned out of old Ford pickups. When he stepped into the Piggly-Wiggly, they were all paying in cash: One Hundred Dollar bills.

“I’m sorry, sir. I need to get a manager for just a minute.” Her name was Doris and she spoke to him without eye contact as she wiped down the counter with spray-bleach after the half-breeds