196---
The fifty minute trip was interminable as Dom had known it would be. Jo sat in the front seat very quietly, mature enough to recognize his need for silence. They reached the high mountains without incident and Dom made his approach from the west, following the ribbon of blue from the point it ran into the valleys as the Meechum River. On a whim, he took the old Sikorsky upstream in a slow circuit of the volcanic basin itself, vigilantly scanning the terrain as he flew. The area below was beautiful and untamed -- a primeval wilderness as untouched as it had been when the Indians had been the undisputed masters of the continent. Even then the majority had shunned this sunny crest, barred by superstition leading back to ancient times, when a handful of shamans would come to practice certain unnamed rituals long banished from the collective memory of man.
He was less than a mile from the sturdy cabin Alan Hawke had inherited from his deceased parents, and directly over the deepest part of the lake, when he spotted an oil slick marring the crystal waters. He hovered lower until he could see pieces of wreckage bobbing in an elongated arc, the slow current spreading them lengthwise in the direction of flow. Of bodies there was no sign for which he was initially grateful. Perhaps his friends had reached shore after all? He made another run along the shoreline looking for any sign that the Hawkes had survived, but there was no sign or disturbance to show that anyone or thing had disturbed the vegetation growing down to the water's edge. Disappointed but unwilling to give up hope, he set the Sikorsky down on the sturdy platform that jutted out over the water. The pilings were solid, and reinforced to double as both boat dock and heliport, and did not so much as sag under the big helicopter's weight.
He shut off the engine, both he and Jo sitting there for several seconds listening to the rotors cut the air in increasingly delayed cycles. He stopped the girl as she was reaching for her safety belt, taking her arm in a firm grip. "Jo, I want to speak to you," he began, breaking a silence that had lasted almost since takeoff. Neither of them had been ready to talk about what they'd heard on the radio; now they would have to.
The girl calmly finished unbuckling, although her wide eyes regarded him soberly. She was not unaware of what they were walking into, he noted, and was remarkably composed about the whole thing. "I know what's going on," she told him in reflection of his thoughts. "Uncle Alan and Aunt Carmella are dead, aren't they? Even if we didn't see them in the lake. And I know that Saint John and String are gonna be crying and stuff."
"You're a very intelligent little girl," he told her without condescension. "And you're right. When we go into the cabin I'm going to have to give all my attention to Saint John and String. Do you think you can stay out of mischief until we get everything sorted out?"
She tossed her head, her expression going from worried to offended. "I'm not a child," she snapped, sounding very grown up indeed. "I'll stay out of your way."
Dom rewarded her with a smile. She really was his favorite niece.
It was a hundred feet to the cabin, which nestled at the foot of one of the surrounding peaks. It was a picturesque place made of sturdy logs, the cracks between filled in with mortar, the sun glinting down to be absorbed by the wooden roof shingles and the evergreens that surrounded the stead. Normally, there was a fire in the hearth, the white smoke pouring from the stone chimney making the place look like something out of a Hallmark card. Normally. Maybe nothing would be normal here again, Santini told himself sadly.
He and Jo walked up the sandy path to the porch, the fragrance of pine riding the gentle breeze. The solid wood door was ajar, and Dom pushed it open slowly, calling out so as to not startle the two within. "Saint John? String? It's Uncle Dom."
"We're in here, Uncle Dom," came a quiet, boyish voice from the living area.
With Jo trailing him, Santini crossed the dining area toward the large, cold fireplace, until he could see the two boys huddled together in one corner of the upholstered sofa. The oldest, Saint John, was a strapping lad of fourteen, with bronze colored hair and intelligent gray eyes. Even with the gangliness of youth upon him, the wide shoulders and strong arms showed promise of the solid build that would be his in only a few years more. He sat with both arms wrapped around a younger boy easily recognizable by virtue of similarity as his brother. Still several months away from his tenth birthday, Stringfellow was a small boy but wiry and strong, with an elfin face, sun bleached hair and serious blue eyes. Dom had known each of them from birth, had taken them fishing and on vacations, treated skinned knees and applied a firm hand whenever necessary, while growing as fond of the children as he was of their parents, his dearest friends.
Stiffly he settled on one knee before the couch until he was on a level with them, his stomach lurching at their shell-shocked expressions. "Are you two all right?" he asked in a low voice, sensing Jo hovering somewhere in the background.
Saint John met his gaze directly; his smooth face was flushed and tear streaked but composed. "I'm fine, Uncle Dom," the teenager replied in a hushed voice, and Dom patted his arm supportively. The boy was upset but making an effort to be calm, and Dom knew this was directly related to his having taken on the responsibility of caring for his brother. "But...."
Saint John nodded toward the boy he held, and Dom offered him a warm clap on the arm. "You did good, Son, real good. I'm proud of the way you handled things up here."
The older Hawke boy managed a wan smile. "Did what I had'a," he returned, and in his tones Dom could hear an echo of the man he was becoming. Dom was very proud of him. He returned the smile and turned his attention to Stringfellow Hawke, who had neither moved nor spoken during this interchange. "String?" he hailed softly. When there was no response, he used his thumb and forefinger to tip the boy's chin up, his anxiety growing by leaps and bounds when he got his first clear look into the child's face. Against the chalk white skin, the blue eyes looked wide and dark, tears leaking slowly over the bottom lids. The effect was even more disconcerting for its silence -- despite the tears, the boy neither sobbed nor sniffed, simply let the tears gather and fall without a sound. Despite Saint John's tight hold, Dom could feel the boy trembling violently, and he blessed everything he held dear that the child hadn't been up here alone all this time -- for both youths' sakes. "String, boy, it's Uncle Dom."
Stringfellow dropped his eyes away from Dom's, nestling a fraction closer to his brother. "They're dead, Uncle Dom," he reported solemnly, so emotionless that in another context Dom might almost have believed he was referring to two strangers rather than his own parents. "The boat exploded and they died."
Dom ran his hand through the child's blond hair, cupping the back of his head. "It was a horrible thing, Son. I'm sorry."
"They're dead," the boy repeated as though he hadn't heard, that frightening calm still coloring his words. "The boat exploded and I didn't do anything to help. I just watched Mom go down and I didn't do anything."
"You couldn't do anything, String," Saint John interjected, crying again himself. "You weren't even awake much. And the gasoline was still burning, and...." He broke off to sniff, loosing one hand from his brother to swipe at his eyes, then replacing it quickly. "I was awake. I should'a done more."
Santini turned on him quickly, tightening the grip he still maintained on the teenager's arm. "Don't ever say that, Saint John. No one could have helped Alan or Carmella, but you saved your brother. Never forget that."
Saint John bit his lip, unconvinced at first, but then String looked up at him, showing the first signs of life Dom had seen yet. His numbed eyes touched Saint John's, containing a trace of near-worshipful adoration. "I'd'a died too without you, Saint John," he said quietly, then he looked away, brushing past Dom's gaze, the spark fading as if it had never been. "But now we're alone."
"I'll take care of you, String," the older boy swore, hugging his brother even tighter. "We're never alone if we got each other. Right, Uncle Dom?"
Santini felt a warmth tugging at the cold spot inside. He twisted to settle gently on the couch on String's other side. One arm he stretched behind them until he could grip Saint John's angular shoulder; the other he wrapped around the front, purposely bracketing Stringfellow between them. "You'll never be all alone, Son -- either of you. Not as long as I'm around." And that was a promise he'd kept with never one day of regret.
They sat like that a long time, Jo standing quietly by the fireplace, until the authorities arrived with their questions and their search. Then Dom swept the three children up and took them home with him. Jo went back to her grandmother after her birthday was over, but the three remaining -- Dom, Saint John and Stringfellow -- stayed together, bonding into a tight, unbreakable family unit.
Until Viet Nam.
The fifty minute trip was interminable as Dom had known it would be. Jo sat in the front seat very quietly, mature enough to recognize his need for silence. They reached the high mountains without incident and Dom made his approach from the west, following the ribbon of blue from the point it ran into the valleys as the Meechum River. On a whim, he took the old Sikorsky upstream in a slow circuit of the volcanic basin itself, vigilantly scanning the terrain as he flew. The area below was beautiful and untamed -- a primeval wilderness as untouched as it had been when the Indians had been the undisputed masters of the continent. Even then the majority had shunned this sunny crest, barred by superstition leading back to ancient times, when a handful of shamans would come to practice certain unnamed rituals long banished from the collective memory of man.
He was less than a mile from the sturdy cabin Alan Hawke had inherited from his deceased parents, and directly over the deepest part of the lake, when he spotted an oil slick marring the crystal waters. He hovered lower until he could see pieces of wreckage bobbing in an elongated arc, the slow current spreading them lengthwise in the direction of flow. Of bodies there was no sign for which he was initially grateful. Perhaps his friends had reached shore after all? He made another run along the shoreline looking for any sign that the Hawkes had survived, but there was no sign or disturbance to show that anyone or thing had disturbed the vegetation growing down to the water's edge. Disappointed but unwilling to give up hope, he set the Sikorsky down on the sturdy platform that jutted out over the water. The pilings were solid, and reinforced to double as both boat dock and heliport, and did not so much as sag under the big helicopter's weight.
He shut off the engine, both he and Jo sitting there for several seconds listening to the rotors cut the air in increasingly delayed cycles. He stopped the girl as she was reaching for her safety belt, taking her arm in a firm grip. "Jo, I want to speak to you," he began, breaking a silence that had lasted almost since takeoff. Neither of them had been ready to talk about what they'd heard on the radio; now they would have to.
The girl calmly finished unbuckling, although her wide eyes regarded him soberly. She was not unaware of what they were walking into, he noted, and was remarkably composed about the whole thing. "I know what's going on," she told him in reflection of his thoughts. "Uncle Alan and Aunt Carmella are dead, aren't they? Even if we didn't see them in the lake. And I know that Saint John and String are gonna be crying and stuff."
"You're a very intelligent little girl," he told her without condescension. "And you're right. When we go into the cabin I'm going to have to give all my attention to Saint John and String. Do you think you can stay out of mischief until we get everything sorted out?"
She tossed her head, her expression going from worried to offended. "I'm not a child," she snapped, sounding very grown up indeed. "I'll stay out of your way."
Dom rewarded her with a smile. She really was his favorite niece.
It was a hundred feet to the cabin, which nestled at the foot of one of the surrounding peaks. It was a picturesque place made of sturdy logs, the cracks between filled in with mortar, the sun glinting down to be absorbed by the wooden roof shingles and the evergreens that surrounded the stead. Normally, there was a fire in the hearth, the white smoke pouring from the stone chimney making the place look like something out of a Hallmark card. Normally. Maybe nothing would be normal here again, Santini told himself sadly.
He and Jo walked up the sandy path to the porch, the fragrance of pine riding the gentle breeze. The solid wood door was ajar, and Dom pushed it open slowly, calling out so as to not startle the two within. "Saint John? String? It's Uncle Dom."
"We're in here, Uncle Dom," came a quiet, boyish voice from the living area.
With Jo trailing him, Santini crossed the dining area toward the large, cold fireplace, until he could see the two boys huddled together in one corner of the upholstered sofa. The oldest, Saint John, was a strapping lad of fourteen, with bronze colored hair and intelligent gray eyes. Even with the gangliness of youth upon him, the wide shoulders and strong arms showed promise of the solid build that would be his in only a few years more. He sat with both arms wrapped around a younger boy easily recognizable by virtue of similarity as his brother. Still several months away from his tenth birthday, Stringfellow was a small boy but wiry and strong, with an elfin face, sun bleached hair and serious blue eyes. Dom had known each of them from birth, had taken them fishing and on vacations, treated skinned knees and applied a firm hand whenever necessary, while growing as fond of the children as he was of their parents, his dearest friends.
Stiffly he settled on one knee before the couch until he was on a level with them, his stomach lurching at their shell-shocked expressions. "Are you two all right?" he asked in a low voice, sensing Jo hovering somewhere in the background.
Saint John met his gaze directly; his smooth face was flushed and tear streaked but composed. "I'm fine, Uncle Dom," the teenager replied in a hushed voice, and Dom patted his arm supportively. The boy was upset but making an effort to be calm, and Dom knew this was directly related to his having taken on the responsibility of caring for his brother. "But...."
Saint John nodded toward the boy he held, and Dom offered him a warm clap on the arm. "You did good, Son, real good. I'm proud of the way you handled things up here."
The older Hawke boy managed a wan smile. "Did what I had'a," he returned, and in his tones Dom could hear an echo of the man he was becoming. Dom was very proud of him. He returned the smile and turned his attention to Stringfellow Hawke, who had neither moved nor spoken during this interchange. "String?" he hailed softly. When there was no response, he used his thumb and forefinger to tip the boy's chin up, his anxiety growing by leaps and bounds when he got his first clear look into the child's face. Against the chalk white skin, the blue eyes looked wide and dark, tears leaking slowly over the bottom lids. The effect was even more disconcerting for its silence -- despite the tears, the boy neither sobbed nor sniffed, simply let the tears gather and fall without a sound. Despite Saint John's tight hold, Dom could feel the boy trembling violently, and he blessed everything he held dear that the child hadn't been up here alone all this time -- for both youths' sakes. "String, boy, it's Uncle Dom."
Stringfellow dropped his eyes away from Dom's, nestling a fraction closer to his brother. "They're dead, Uncle Dom," he reported solemnly, so emotionless that in another context Dom might almost have believed he was referring to two strangers rather than his own parents. "The boat exploded and they died."
Dom ran his hand through the child's blond hair, cupping the back of his head. "It was a horrible thing, Son. I'm sorry."
"They're dead," the boy repeated as though he hadn't heard, that frightening calm still coloring his words. "The boat exploded and I didn't do anything to help. I just watched Mom go down and I didn't do anything."
"You couldn't do anything, String," Saint John interjected, crying again himself. "You weren't even awake much. And the gasoline was still burning, and...." He broke off to sniff, loosing one hand from his brother to swipe at his eyes, then replacing it quickly. "I was awake. I should'a done more."
Santini turned on him quickly, tightening the grip he still maintained on the teenager's arm. "Don't ever say that, Saint John. No one could have helped Alan or Carmella, but you saved your brother. Never forget that."
Saint John bit his lip, unconvinced at first, but then String looked up at him, showing the first signs of life Dom had seen yet. His numbed eyes touched Saint John's, containing a trace of near-worshipful adoration. "I'd'a died too without you, Saint John," he said quietly, then he looked away, brushing past Dom's gaze, the spark fading as if it had never been. "But now we're alone."
"I'll take care of you, String," the older boy swore, hugging his brother even tighter. "We're never alone if we got each other. Right, Uncle Dom?"
Santini felt a warmth tugging at the cold spot inside. He twisted to settle gently on the couch on String's other side. One arm he stretched behind them until he could grip Saint John's angular shoulder; the other he wrapped around the front, purposely bracketing Stringfellow between them. "You'll never be all alone, Son -- either of you. Not as long as I'm around." And that was a promise he'd kept with never one day of regret.
They sat like that a long time, Jo standing quietly by the fireplace, until the authorities arrived with their questions and their search. Then Dom swept the three children up and took them home with him. Jo went back to her grandmother after her birthday was over, but the three remaining -- Dom, Saint John and Stringfellow -- stayed together, bonding into a tight, unbreakable family unit.
Until Viet Nam.