The Lengthening of Shadows
Colonel Jack O'Neill had never ascribed to the theory of your life flashing before your eyes when facing death. And he had had plenty of opportunity over the years to test it. Never once did he experience a remembrance of any kind. Until now…
June 1964
Two hours into the nearly four hour trip to Duluth, Jack shoved his stash of comic books back into the baby blue overnight bag that he tried to conceal beneath his feet. The one his mother had insisted that he bring on the train with him. She called it luggage but as far as he was concerned, anything with a double handle was a purse. Thankfully the rest of the matching Samsonite Silhouette luggage was stowed in the baggage car holding everything he needed for the next six weeks. He settled back into the seat with his hands cupping his head. The summer stretched before him endlessly before him much like the eternity Sister Mary Bartholomew talked incessantly about. For the first time in his twelve years, he had been deemed old enough to make the trip alone to his grandparent's cabin.
The ride from St. Paul aboard the Great Northern Railway was just the first great adventure of a vacation that would be filled with fishing, tree-climbing, overnight camping on the island in the middle of the lake and maybe a driving lesson or two in the '50 Chevy pickup.
His grandparents were first generation Irish Americans. The elder Jack O'Neill was born in St. Paul in 1892, and had fought in the "Great War." After his return he met and married Orla Delaney, had a son, and worked on the docks until he retired in 1957. For five months of the year, his grandparents lived across the Mississippi River in their white post-war home. But from "ice-out" on the lake until the first freeze they fled the bustle of St. Paul for their cabin. And a cabin it was with just four rooms, two tiny bedrooms, a kitchen, living room and the screened porch that housed the cot he always slept on. It didn't matter that the bathroom was an outhouse and the only running water came from the pump outside. For him it was sheer paradise. What could be better than a clear, cool lake for a bathtub? And nothing could compare to the sound of the waves lapping on shore at night with the canopy of stars above him. But the best part was spending time with his grandparents and their dog, Rooster, so named because of his somewhat unfortunate habit of baying at daybreak. It was going to be the best summer ever.
Jack was a little surprised when his grandmother appeared alone to meet him at the depot.
"Where's Gramps?" he asked as she greeted him with a hug.
"He's at home. Rooster's a little under the weather."
"Ate something he shouldn't have again, didn't he?"
His grandmother nodded.
They collected his luggage and were on their way in short order. Jack scarfed down the sandwiches his grandmother had brought. Between mouthfuls of bread and corned beef he managed to get answers to all of his important questions.
Yes, the fish were biting.
No, the wild blueberries weren't ready pick.
Yes, the mosquitos were out but not as bad as last year.
The hour ride always flew by. Jack never tired of watching the tall pines so close to the road whiz by as they drove. As they made the last turn onto the gravel road that led to the cabin his heart started pounding in anticipation. He had his hand on the door handle of the car even before his grandmother applied the brakes.
"John," she warned. His grandparents were the only people he tolerated using his given name. He could see their point; after all his grandfather was Jack. "Wait until I stop and then you'll be helping me with your bags."
"Yes ma'am."
She parked and they unpacked the vehicle. With arms loaded down, they entered the cabin through the narrow breezeway that connected the garage to the living area. He made a beeline for the porch, dropped his stuff on the floor and noted that his cot sported a new quilt. He ran his hand over the coverlet.
"Like it?" His Grandma asked as she placed the suitcase she was carrying next to the bed.
"It's great. Now I see why you wanted those old shirts of mine."
"Well, I remembered you got cold out here last summer."
He gave her one of his rare smiles. "Not this year. Thanks."
"You're most welcome."
The screen door opened and his grandfather entered.
Jack straightened and walked forward, his hand extended. He greeted him, as was their habit in Gaelic. "Dia dhuit." [general greeting, literally " God be with you"]
His grandfather's handshake was firm as he replied, "Dia is Muire dhuit."[ reply to Dia dhuit, literally "God and Mary be with you"].
But this time the grip was held for longer than normal.
In that moment Jack studied his face. The eyes that were normally wreathed in Irish mirth were tired and sad, wrinkles prominent.
"Rooster?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
His grandfather released his hand and motioned Jack to follow him.
Through the screen door and to the woodshed he allowed the elder O'Neill to lead him. Wordlessly Jack slid past him as he held open the door to the shed. It took some moments for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. The shadows parted and he was able to distinguish the form of a huddled mass lying on some blankets on the dirt floor.
He sank to his knees beside the dog. "Oh, Roo," he said.
The tail thumped a weak greeting but that was the only response from the animal. Jack ran his hand over the once sleek hair and was shocked at its coarseness.
He looked up at his grandfather. "What happened?"
"Poison, maybe. The vet wasn't sure."
"How long has he been sick?"
"Like this, just a day or two. But he's been losing weight for the last couple of weeks."
"But he's going to get better, right?"
The look on his grandfather's face and length of time it took him to respond told Jack the truth.
"It's hard to say. All we can do is wait and see."
And wait they did. For two days, Jack and his grandfather held vigil next to Rooster, rejoicing when the dog managed to keep down some food, despairing when the dog's breathing labored. A kerosene lamp lit the woodshed as the second day faded into a warm summer night. Jack couldn't stifle a yawn fast enough.
"Go to bed."
"No, I can stay awake."
"You haven't really slept since you got here. You need to rest."
"But…"
"Not a request, John."
Jack knew arguing was fruitless. He pulled himself away from the dog and headed up to the cabin. As he pulled open the screen door to the porch he saw his grandfather assume the position he had held next to Rooster.
Jack jerked awake, the bright light signaling that the day was well underway. He slipped out of bed, hurriedly pulled on his pants and shoved his arms into his shirt. He pushed open the door to the cabin in time to hear the final words of a telephone conversation between his grandfather and someone.
"I understand, Maggie. I know what has to be done. Thank you and goodbye." He slowly replaced the receiver and looked at Jack's grandma.
"Doc's fishing in Canada. Won't be back for a week."
"I'm so sorry." She moved to embrace him.
He stopped her at arm's length, gently guiding her away from him. He walked to the breezeway and returned with his rifle. At that moment his eyes and Jack's met in terrible understanding.
Jack bolted back through the porch and ran to the woodshed. He fell to his knees, cradled the dog's head in his arms and burrowed his face in its neck.
Though his eyes were tightly screwed shut, he grew aware the light of day had disappeared. He opened his eyes and raised his head. The profile of his grandfather filled the doorway and his shadow blocked the sun.
"He'll get better. You have to give him time," Jack insisted.
"There's no getting better. Time only prolongs his suffering."
Jack stood. "I won't let you do this." His voice quavered in anger and instinctively his hands balled into fists.
"Say your goodbyes, John." His grandfather bent and scooped the dog from the floor.
Rooster lay limp in his grandfather's arms. Jack ran his hands over the dog's muzzle and head. His eyes opened and he whined once.
"Please," Jack pleaded.
His grandfather didn't answer, simply turned and carried the dog out of the shed.
Jack followed and screamed, "I hate you! I wish I'd never come here!" He ran back to the porch and sought the only refuge he had. He climbed onto the cot and pulled the quilt over his head. The tears came hot and uncontrolled. The sobs wracked his body and drown out all other sounds save the one sharp report of the rifle.
He cried until his eyes were almost swollen closed. Occasionally a deep sob would resurrect itself and the tears would begin again. He stared at the ceiling of the porch and watched the rays of the sun shorten until night claimed his sight with its darkness. No one invaded his self-imposed exile.
He wasn't sure what woke him. There was only the rustling of the leaves in the gentle breeze. Then he heard it again. A deep choking sound. He slipped out of his cocoon of covers, padded across the wood floor boards, pulled open the door to the cabin and listened. He recognized the soft, soothing voice of his grandmother but could understand none of the words. Then as realization came to him, he backed away from the door. He threw himself back into the bed and pulled the pillow over his ears. And tears flowed again as he cried along with his grandfather.
Jack woke, dressed and walked to the shore of the lake. He noted that his grandfather's canoe was gone. He washed his face in the cold spring-fed water. He returned to the cabin to find his grandmother in the kitchen.
"Hungry, John?" she asked.
"No."
"Good, one egg or two?" She held one in each hand.
He knew well enough to admit defeat. "Two," he said with resignation.
"Sit down."
"Yes, ma'm"
There was silence except for her banging of the skillets as she cooked breakfast. Jack focused his sights on the red and white tablecloth. A plate appeared in front of him. The yolks glared at him and the bacon arranged above them gave him a very disapproving frown.
"Eat before it gets cold."
He picked up his fork and poked at the food.
His grandmother slid into the chair across from him.
He glanced up at her. "I don't understand how he could do what he did."
"The vet was out of town, John. He offered to put Rooster down last week but your grandfather said no. He wanted to give you a chance to see him one more time."
Jack looked down and the frown of the bacon appeared to deepen.
"He loved that old dog about as much as he loves you."
Now Jack couldn't even lift his head. "I told him I hated him."
"He knows you didn't mean it."
"Did he say where he was going? Or when he'd be getting back?"
"No. He just needs some time to think and remember the good times he had with Rooster."
Jack spent the day helping his grandmother and it was after supper that he saw his grandfather's canoe gliding back to the small dock on the shore. His grandfather didn't come in; rather he sat on one of the fishing stools on the pier, casting out into the water.
Jack went from window to window. "Why doesn't he come in? Is he mad at me?" he asked.
"No John. He's just not ready yet."
Finally he could stand it no longer. He went to the garage and gathered up a fishing rod and tackle box. He walked through the kitchen and saw his grandmother's approving glance. If his grandfather heard his approach, there was no indication. Jack came to his side and motioned at the stool next to the man.
"This seat taken?" Jack asked.
"You should know there's no fish in this pond. But suit yourself."
Jack readied his gear and made a couple of casts. He cast a sidelong look at his grandfather trying to read his mood. The man didn't seem angry or sad and Jack decided he'd never be any good at reading people.
"So are you wanting to go home, John?" His grandfather asked as he looked out over the still water.
The question caught him off guard. "No…no, sir," he stammered.
"Good, because I scouted a good place for an overnight on the far island today."
Jack reeled in and placed his pole on the dock.
"Quitting already?" His grandfather asked as he turned toward him.
Jack straightened and looked up. His voice trembled a little. "I'm sorry, Daideo'."[Grandpa] He couldn't remember the last time he had called his grandfather that.
"I know you are. I'm sorry I put you through that. That was a mistake. There just was a part of me that hoped…" his voice drifted off. "But he was suffering and I was the one who had to make the choice."
"I could never do that."
"Not even for your best friend?"
"I don't think so."
"I pray that you never have to make the choice, my boy. But you're an O'Neill. You'll do what's right." His grandfather placed his hand on Jack's shoulder and together they watched until the lengthening shadows claimed the day.
There were no shadows in the harsh light of the infirmary or the sound of gently lapping waves. Jack felt the touch on his shoulder. He turned to face Daniel in the Gate room. And after a few moments made the only decision he could make for his best friend.
"Jacob, stop..."
Epilogue
Jack brushed away the dry leaves covering the cairn of stones and carefully restacked those that had fallen. It had been years since he had been here. He had discovered the grave of Rooster some years after his grandfather's passing.
"What are you doing, Jack?" Daniel asked.
He stood. "Just reliving some memories."
Daniel shifted nervously. "Kind of fresh out of those."
In the months following Daniel's fall from ascension, Jack had made every effort to jog the memories of his best friend. He hoped that spending time here at the cabin away from the distractions of the Mountain would help.
"Let's go back to the dock. Sunsets always look great over the lake." Jack clamped his hand on Daniel's shoulder and together they headed back to the cabin to watch the beauty of the lengthening shadows.