Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

his crop back in late October and had taken all but five pounds down to his brother in Berkeley. His mountain grown buds had become a local favorite in the bay area and why not? Gilpin knew his crop. His indica buds were the best he'd ever tasted anywhere.

The lighter popped out and he pressed the glowing tip to the end of his hand rolled cigarette. He sucked pungent smoke deep into his lungs. When the inevitable cough hit the back of his throat, he pinched his nose and pursed his lips, forcing the potent smoke into his sinuses. His ears popped.

“Whoa.”

His vision whirled in the momentary stupor and he let off the gas, waiting for the dizziness to pass and his vision to clear.

This straight stretch on River Road made a perfect black ribbon against the moonlit snow piled high on both sides. A fuzzy, bluish glow rounded the curve down at the far end of the straight stretch, near his turnoff, speeding toward him.

Headlights? 

Nason’s truck.

A yellowish halo of sparks at road level fanned out in all directions.

“Wow. Cool.” He took another hit.

Nason’s tire chains were the cause of that yellow halo underneath. Snow covered the headlights to create the bluish tint.

“Damn, Nason, the meeting wasn’t that important.”

The high pitched hum of chains against pavement as Nason sped past made Gilpin’s teeth itch. He took another hit and looked in his mirror.

Nason's sparks zoomed toward the village. The hum faded.

Gilpin slowed and turned onto the snow covered gravel road toward the bridge. He’d driven it a million times without chains, following his own tracks from earlier. If the bridge looked too icy to drive across, he’d walk home and pick up his truck in the morning. He followed the wide curve in the gravel road, driving slowly down the slight grade toward the bridge.

What the . . .

Something dark sped across the path of his headlights.

Those stupid birds, those meadowlarks from Potter’s upper meadow.

“What the hell?”

Something big moved onto the bridge, something fast enough to dodge his headlights.

He accidentally dropped his joint between his legs and looked down to find it. He raked frantically at the seat, not wanting to burn his tender nuggets. “Whew.” He raked the smoldering joint to the floor and let it lay.

A huge swirl of meadowlarks blocked his headlights, more birds than he knew existed up here. They flapped and fluttered into his windshield and attacked his side windows. So weird, so frightful that he nearly screamed.

What the . . .

Past the birds, barely visible, something big and dark stood at the center of the bridge. A bear maybe, not moving. Red eyes glowed in his headlights.

Of the million thoughts and images flooding across his smoke clogged brain, one question stood out: Why hadn't he sold this worthless dump and moved down below like his brother?

To hell with his daughter's education. To hell with this stupid school. To hell with his stupid wife. It had been Sally who’d insisted the school here was so much better.

Stupid.

THANK CHRIST.

Nason finally caught up with his breathing, finally feeling safer. Maybe he wouldn’t break Embry’s lame neck after all. Fool didn’t even know how to put the truck into four wheel drive, getting them stuck up there by the falls.

At least he hadn’t gotten stuck in the bog. The deep snowdrift had been bad enough.

Nason had reached his truck out of breath, all the running, jumping, slipping, sliding, tumbling and crashing into every tree and rock on his way down from the Perch, feeling that thing’s claws at his back, too afraid to look.

The snow was so deep where Embry had gotten stuck that Nason had needed to dig snow just to climb into the driver’s side window. Embry hadn’t said a word climbing over to the passenger side.

Just as well he kept his mouth shut.

Look at him over there, having a conversation with himself, working it all out.

Fool.

Nobody could work this out, not even the vicar.

The buzz from the tire chains changed pitch, rounding the last curve on River Road, getting closer to the village.

Christmas lights had been put up at Jacobsen’s and over there at the Rock, nice to see.

Nason looked in the side mirror.

Sparks flew from the tire chains. He’d need new tires, probably new chains.

Embry said, “Why you expect me to turn this thing around? Ain’t right.”

“Why in hell you drive head first into that snowdrift and keep plowing? Mini-mind. Nearly got us both killed.”

“Ain’t right, you blaming me. That’s all I’m saying. Was you said not to get into that bog.” Embry shifted in his seat and gazed out the window, talking low. “You see it up there by the falls?”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

Embry turned to face Nason, tipping his head to one side, emphasizing his point. “He had all four legs.”

“Yeah.” Nason slowed, coming into the village.

“How can it grow another leg like that?”

“How should I know?” He turned and parked in front of the bank. “You saw what we took up there was a human hand.”

“Jesus’s teats.”

“Don’t ask me any more.” Nason didn’t want to say what it was by the time he'd gotten it up to the Perch, no longer human.

Alive!

It had somehow reconnected with the arm.

So quick.

Nason shut off his truck and both men climbed out.

The high windows and full moon gave ample light to climb the steps and enter the front vestibule of the bank. “Don’t mention that part. Let me do the talking.”

“What part?”

“That human hand, you mini-mind.”

Whatling, Ralston and Olen Jacobsen sat in their usual chairs. Their winter coats hung from the rack near the back door.

Nason and Embry took off and hung their coats with the others. “Sorry we’re late.”

“That’s okay.” Whatling leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head, looking official. “We had a quorum and paid Gilpin, got him out of our hair.”

Embry said, “Yeah, we passed him on our way in.”

Olen sat in front of Bell’s desk cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife like he wasn’t very