"Cady-TheSonsOfNoah" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cady Jack)

JACK CADY

THE SONS OF NOAH

*
In a hidden Oregon valley, a religious congregation lives a life of peace and
natural harmony, until a determined developer brings progress too near.

*

And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon
every beast of the earth, and upon all fowl of the air,
upon all that moveth upon the earth, and upon all the
fishes of the sea; into your hand are they delivered.

Genesis 9.2

When darkness edges through this valley, shading slow figures of cattle moving
toward milking barns, last light falls on the weathered steeple of Sons of Noah
Church. The church stands on stilts beside Troublesome Creek, as do all our
barns and houses. The valley is a flood plain. Visitors to our northwest
valley always ask why we, the country people, stay in a place bound to flood
every sever years. Why do we choose to live in houses foundationed on
twenty-foot timbers hewn from ancient cedars? Why live where cattle climb ramps
to elevated barns? We reply that floods renew the soil and make good pasture.
Our milk and produce are the purest in the world. What we say is not false.

What we do not say is that this valley casts a spell. It is shadowed by
eight-thousand-foot mountains. The valley is twenty miles long, seventeen miles
wide. Weather systems bred in the Aleutians bring rain nine months each year.
Darkness often covers the land, ever in daylight, and not all darkness is
threatening. The mountains are protectors, because the world beyond these
mountains is beset by demons.

From this mountain valley our sons sometimes go away to the Army. Those who
survive always return, and they tell crazy tales. They speak of endless streams
of automobiles, and of demonic voices chattering from television screens. They
speak of billboards and politicians; wars, suicides, whoring, rape, drugs,
satanic worship. Visitors describe us as "peculiar, and maybe that is true. On
the other hand, we hear of the outside world and describe it as insane. We do
not mind if the rest of the world chooses insanity, as long as that world leaves
us alone. At least, we have not minded until now. I am elected to write of
this. My name is Thaddeus Morris, which of course means little, although around
here the name carries weight. I am not the oldest man in the valley- the oldest
is our preacher, Jubal Petersen-but I'm old enough. My fingers are crabbed
around the pen as I write, and lamplight, fueled by finely rendered sheep fat,
glows smoky and slick across these pages which aim at your salvation. We do not
want to harm you. We wish to be known as builders, not destroyers. We hope
that you will be warned.

Allow me to show how life is with us, then tell the sad story of a terrible
destruction which has caused us to become troubled. First I must recount a bit
of history.

Our ancestors came to this Pacific Northwest from upper New York State in the
1860's, following the Oregon Trail. They had strong leadership and holy
purpose. From their very beginnings they called themselves the Sons of Noah.
Their beliefs centered around the mistakes and sins of Noah after The Flood.
They saw themselves as quiet people who would eventually reclaim the world
through decent behavior and piety. Old diaries kept by womenfolk tell of that
harsh trek: of worn-out Conestogas, of privation, of dying oxen, of Indian
raiders.

Our people found coastal Oregon overpopulated. Trees fell before pioneer
ambitions. Log houses sometimes stood no more than a thousand rods apart.
Indians wearing sealskins, or colorfully dyed cedar bark robes, clustered around
settlements. They traded furs for guns and whiskey. The world seemed filled
with helterskelter. The leader in those days was a man named Aaron Schmidt. In
prayers Schmidt received solace, and in dreams he received direction. There was
a northwest valley, he was told, avoided even by the Indians. In written
records the harsh journey northward to the Olympic Peninsula is known as The
Pilgrimage.

This valley finally lay revealed. It lies two thousand feet above sea level,
and above a mighty rain forest. Our pastures are vibrant and lush, and the
darkness of this valley is a good thing. With more sun the pastures' growth
would carry frenzy. A road now runs partway in, but the last two miles are
corduroy road, suited only to oxcarts. These days we sell produce and cheese to
merchants who monthly send trucks to the head of the road. That original
congregation arrived and first built a church and a graveyard.

The long pilgrimage took its toll on older members, including Schmidt. The
earliest grave markers were simple stones from the mountainside. To this day
they sit as squat reminders of faith among the multitude of carved markers. In
a hundred years many are born, and many die.

The original congregation looked about in wonder. Grass grew lush, and a
constant supply of pure water ran in Troublesome Creek. The valley spawned
life. Our forefathers took two-hundred-pound fish from the creek, fish so
bizarre that they seemed ancient as creation. Fish with teeth like the canines
of wolves. Fish with winglike fins that when tanned became fine leather and
walking fish with appendages stiff as legs. Bear and cougar and elk shuffled
and stalked and ran through the valley. Beaver and possum, weasels, foxes, and
wolverine contested for food and life. Our people gave thanks in prayer, but
they were also mystified. These days we have more knowledge, because we are not
averse to new ideas. We learn a great deal, because we take in more of the
world's coin than we can possibly spend. Our only purchases from that outside
world are salt and books. We study books of today and books of the past. In
this way we figure out our world.

Our valley sits atop a great fissure. When these mountains were created, the
rock structure split, then tumbled back on itself. Beneath our feet lies a
primeval lake. Troublesome Creek, which seldom runs more than forty feet wide,
is also bottomless. Living water from melting snow in the mountains runs along
the surface of the creek. It passes over water that may be two thousand feet
deep, or more. The rock is impermeable. The entire fissure holds water as old as
the original creation. We do not know everything that lives down there, but
sometimes we get indications. It works this way:

Every seventh year the valley floods. There are biblical explanations for this,
but none are scientific. As flood spreads across our fields we check our boats.
Water does not often rise more than ten or twelve feet, while our houses are
twenty feet aboveground. Only twice in this century has water risen to cover
the floors of our houses. In 1917 it rose to twenty-one feet. In 1945 it rose
to twenty-three. Flood covers the graveyard like a protecting hand, and no
grave is ever disturbed, Even the upright markers do not tilt. For those years
of highest water we have flatboats to carry our horses, oxen, cattle, sheep,
fowl, and swine. Ordinarily we pass between houses and barns and church in
rowboats, Water rises quickly. Flood replenishes the land, and the flood seems
driven by a mind of its own. Waters flow, then concentrate. Some years they
may greatly enrich the Jensen acres, sometimes the Petersens', or other farms.
The valley lies for forty days beneath flood, then the water slides away, down
the mountains or into the fissure of Troublesome Creek.

The water level sometimes drops quickly. Huge shapes flee across the fields,
dashing back to the safety of deep water. Silver streaks intermix. They are
flashes of light sparkling above the drowned pasture, When water drops too
quickly, strange fish are stranded in the fields, although there is a type of
fish that is never stranded. The variety is fleet and many-colored, like
shooting rainbows through the torrent, These fish have nearly human eyes, but
larger, seeing wider than do we. It is a busy time for our whole community. Men
harness horses and oxen to huge mud sleds. The sleds skid to the fields, and a
process of selection begins. We try to protect the original creation. Those
fishes still living get dumped back in the creek. Then the men use pitchforks
to load the rest onto the sleds. There is no waste of the creation. Men dress
out the fish, and women dry them. We have never had seven lean years here but
are prepared should they occur. Twice there have been fish that had to be towed
by two oxen.

And so we live, living among the primal forces and original fury that brought
this planet into being. Power grows. We walk beside great waters.

On Sundays, after services, we gather in front of Sons of Noah Church: the
Andersens, the Jensens, Adams, Schmidts, and two dozen other families.
Traditionally it is a time of quiet joy.

Beside the church, the churchyard with its gravestones becomes a living
presence. Our ancestors lie at our very elbows, so to speak. Children, who have
learned to sit patiently through morning services, romp among the graves. They
are like flitting butterflies, brightly colored, dancing in games of
hide-and-seek behind tombstones. We talk among ourselves, the way our people
have sought truth since the 1860's. We used to discuss crops and ideas.
Unhappy I am to report that these days we are forced to speak of power.

A demonic world presses close. Aircraft sometimes pass overhead, where once
passed only the birds of the air. More beasts of the field, deer and elk and
wolves, are driven to our high valley as a demonic world logs the rain forest.
We are careful in our speech. "We do not command these waters. To think we
command is the sin of pride." Our preacher, Jubal Petersen, says this. He was
once a man of immense strength, and even in his age he still drives oxen. His
shoulders are square, and his hair is a cloud of white above a high and furrowed
brow. The children play. Here and there young wives and husbands whisper
together. One girl's waist has grown. In a few months there will be birth and
christening. The generations are intact.

Men stand in silence, waiting for the spirit of truth to guide their words. We
are not a hasty people. The men are fair of face. Their suits are subdued colors
of gray, blue, brown. Work-hardened hands hang restful at their sides. The men
stand like protecting trees of the mountain forests.

"Do we serve at the threshold of divine power?" one says. His name is Lars
Landstrup. his father was Eric. his grandfather was Sven. Lars' strength is
great. and, of all of us, he worries most about right and wrong. "Maybe," he
says thoughtfully, "we protect the creation."

"The waters protect us," a woman murmurs. Mercy Adams is a grandmother now, but
there is that about her which recalls the beauty of her youth. If our women
have a leader, then surely Mercy leads. "We are in delicate balance," she says.
She glances toward the younger women, toward the young wife who is with child.

The graveyard lies silent, except for children's play. Our women stand like
flowers. They dress in gowns showing the many colors of natural dyes, Above the
graveyard the steeple rises like a benediction.

"Our cause is just," another woman murmurs.

"We do none of this for gain," a man says. "We are not engaged in spurious
adventures."

Our disputations rise because some men from that outside world are most
hideously dead. We fear that we had a hand in matters. We do not yet question
the tenets of our faith, but clearly something is askew. Our ancestors believed
that their quiet ways and piety would overcome the world. They believed in the
power of reverence, not the power of force.

And yet, great forces aid us. Power accumulates. I must now record the manner
of those terrible deaths.

We did not immediately understand that the man was insane. Perhaps we might
have helped him. One cannot hate the insane, only pity them. At the same time,
however, if a wolverine gets loose in your streets then it must be contained.

On an April morning last year, when sun glowed like a blessed spirit through
mountain mist, the solitary figure of a man appeared at the head of the road.
His outfit exceeded his need, Perhaps such waste should have warned us. He wore
wool knickers, tall boots with much lacing, and a down parka quilted like a
sleeping bag, His rolled pack rode on heavy shoulders, a pack filled with enough
implements and supplies to last if he knew what he was doing for many months in
the forest wilderness. Yet he had only hiked in two miles from the paved road
where he left his truck.

And the truck itself was another mark of insanity, had we been clever enough to
read its meaning. One of our sons who has been outside described it as an
all-terrain vehicle. The truck proved capable of driving over rough country but
was too small to haul anything. We thought it rather silly.

We have always welcomed our few visitors to this valley. We've hoped they would
feel the serenity of this place and thus learn to be serene. Our message of
piety would go with them when they returned to the outside world.

The man was bluff but friendly. At the same time, he at first spoke to us as if
we were children. He was a man accustomed to commanding others. In the grand
illusion of his power he regarded us as simple, ignorant folk. We have had
other visitors who thought us simpleminded. We always tolerate their pride,
knowing they will leave.

For three days he camped at the head of the valley. The Jensen family invited
him to supper and offered him a bed in the large room used by their sons. The
man Hamilton-"Joe Hamilton to my friends," he said took supper but refused the
bed. He pitched his tent at the far edge of Jensen's western pasture, The tent
stood as a glowing spot of unnatural blue among the gray-and-blue mist of our
valley. Hamilton spent three days walking the lower reaches of the mountains.
In April, Troublesome Creek runs swift from melting snows. People who live at
the far end of the valley carry goods to market on rafts.

On Sunday Hamilton attended church. He joined in hymns, singing in a strained
and nearly boyish voice that was most unlike his speaking voice. We know now
that either eagerness or tension pinched his song. We enjoyed his presence,
thinking him a willing and possibly able man. We have never, in this century,
had a convert. After services matters took an unsettling turn. We stood in
groups after church. Muted sunlight washed across the churchyard, casting pale
shadows behind gravestones. Muted breezes touched spring grass around graves
where tulips grew in thick patches of yellow and red. A few crocus remained.
Hamilton stood among Landstrups and Jensens, as our minister Jubal Petersen
approached. Hamilton's voice did not carry. He seemed trying to cooperate with
the quiet of Sunday service but was awkward with quietness. His large shoulders
huddled inside the down jacket, We thought him shy, not manipulative.

"This must be the most peaceful place in the world," he said to Lars, "although
you work very hard." His face was roundish, like a painting of a Dutch sea
captain. Blond hair receded above a high forehead. His lips were thick, his
speech precise. His large hands were unmarked and carried no callus. The
high-laced boots shone with mink oil. He was somehow aggressive, although he
seemed shy.

"Tibet," Lars said. "I expect Tibetan monasteries are the most peaceful places
in the world. We could probably learn something from them."

"I have means," Hamilton murmured. "What a convenience it would be if this
valley had a water system." He said this with a straight face, and we tried to
receive it with straight faces. "For the convenience," he said.

"Troublesome Creek is convenient," Lars told him. "That's why we live beside
it."

"For sanitation purposes."

"Our people solved those problems a hundred years ago." Jubal Petersen joined
the group. He looked uneasily toward the graveyard, then toward hitching rails
where horses stood waiting to pull wagons home. Children ran among the horses,
clambered over wagons and carriages. They laughed and shouted after being freed
from Sunday sermon, but on this Sunday they did not go near the graveyard.

"Perhaps a stranger might come to belong here," Hamilton said quietly. "If he
required no land and paid his way,"

It was a strange statement. It would be difficult to pay one's way around here
without working the land. Even our minister is a farmer who earns his family's
keep.

"It would make life easier," he said, "if your roads were paved." He looked at
the creek and the towpath. "A man could build flatboats engined with a drive on
each end. It would be easier to get to church." His voice did not conceal a sort
of boyish excitement. Nor did it conceal the notion that he wished to show us
his version of salvation. We've heard it all before. Bring bulldozers to the
head of the road. Install electric plants. Bring in oil, gasoline, fire
engines, tractors, flush toilets, chain saws. Life would be easy then. Idyllic.
We've heard it from visitors, and occasionally even from our sons who have just
returned. After our sons have been home for a year or two, they regain their
senses. Still, we had never heard it said with the missionary zeal of Hamilton.
He spoke with the fervency of a disciple of "progress." His fingers tap, tap,
tapped at air as he attempted to drive home his points.

"It is true that we work hard," Lars told him. "Whether it's a virtue or not,
hard work is the price we pay for the peacefulness you admire." Lars also looked
uneasily toward the graveyard. He was a head shorter than Hamilton, but he
seemed as tall. He has the blue eyes and thin lips of a Dane, but his voice is
always gentle, "You've been here for three days," he said, "and you've heard no
sounds of engines. Listen." Children's voices tinkled joyfully across Sunday
silence. Above the mist a hawk circled, and the faded shadow of the hawk slid
across fields. The liquid murmur of Troublesome Creek blended beneath the
far-off crowing of a cock. Horses snuffled, shifted in lightly creaking
harness. From the Petersen place a new calf bawled for its mother.

And then silence deepened. For moments even the voices of children seemed
muted. From the graveyard came a lack of sound that we had never heard before.
The best description would say that it was active silence. Always before our
forefathers have lain passive and tranquil. Their message to us is a message of
faith.

Jubal Petersen looked at Lars, then at Hamilton. If the rest of us heard only
active silence, it may be that Jubal heard more. "Of all the sins available," he
said to Hamilton, "perhaps the sin of pride is most dangerous. Zealousness is
often a form of pride." His voice was kind but firm, "We are aware of something
happening here that you are not. I must excuse myself." Jubal turned to the
churchyard and walked slowly among the graves. We stood in wonder. Our
minister was obviously communing with the dead. His dark-suited figure moved
easily, and he occasionally murmured as if answering questions. At first his
wrinkled face showed sadness, and then a sort of fear. Jubal is not a man to
fear anything, and he especially would not fear our dead.

When he returned he spoke quietly, first to us, and then to Hamilton, "Do not
underestimate the eternal power of the human spirit," he told us. To Lars he
said, "There's a mystery here, and what I've just said has naught to do with
pride." To Hamilton he said, "You are welcome as a guest. Confine yourself to
being a guest. If you do that, all will be well."

He raised his hand, not to bless us but to dismiss us. There was plenty of
excited talk among the families during the ride home, and during the following
week.

During that week madness overcame Hamilton, To his credit he tried to remain
respectful, yet his insanity compelled him toward destruction. It seemed that
because he had the power to change things, he could not deny use of the power.
We forgive him because of his insanity, but we do not forgive the power that
corrupted him.

On Monday morning he folded his tent and disappeared down the road to the
outside world. We supposed we were quit of him and were greatly relieved. At
the same time we felt loss. Had the man remained among us for a few months his
urgency would have faded. A good, strong man is never a burden. We knew he was
ambitious, but we did not know that in the world's terms he was rich.

On Friday the distant sound of truck engines came faintly across fields nearest
the head of the road. Shortly afterward we heard the chip, chip, chip of a
helicopter, and we looked toward the pass where Troublesome Creek begins its
slide down the mountain in its rush to the sea. A large silver box hung beneath
the helicopter. It proved to be a house trailer. One of the Jorgensen sons
went to investigate.

He found Hamilton consulting with surveyors, workmen, and an engineer. The house
trailer sat on a ledge and was used as a field office. The men immediately set
to work. Through habit, perhaps, they wore hard hats as they climbed along the
mountainside at the head of the road. Ancient trees have not survived at that
elevation because warm winds sometimes blow in winter. There are many
avalanches. Orange hard hats moved through the light green branches, and
surveyors broke or cut young trees to take sights. The snarl of a small chain
saw echoed like a stream of curses.

April is a busy time. Work continued in the fields, but at our backs we felt
Troublesome Creek turn from rapid flow to subdued violence. Waters rolled as
dark shapes moved just beneath the surface. Occasionally huge, bladelike fins
hovered in thin sunlight, then disappeared. This was not a seventh year, a year
of flood. Yet Troublesome Creek grew active, Against all custom we quit work
two hours before dark. After supper everyone assembled at Sons of Noah Church.

Families lingered before the church. Soon we would climb the many steps to the
church, but at first it seemed necessary to remain clustered before the
churchyard. If our ancestors had a say in this matter. as we reverently hoped,
we wanted ears that would hear.

What we heard caused a strange combination of emotions. We were both soothed
and made to fear, although we feared not for ourselves.

It is hard to say whether the voices came from the graves or from Troublesome
Creek. The murmuring was vast, as if it rose from creek and fields, from barns,
silos, graves; as if it rose with controlled energy from sloping sides of
mountains, from the steeple of the church, from the darkening sky. Power rose
midst murmurs of peace, a power fantastic, a power that was fabulous.

In our quiet lives there is no equation for such power. There can only be sin in
such power. We did not know what we had wrought. The voices assured us that
all would be well. The voices were serene with power.

We entered our church. There are many steps and a railed balcony. One of our
sons says it reminds him of a ship's bridge. The church is thriftily made, with
clear windows that allow sunlight and starlight.

"You must tell us everything the man said." Jubal talked to Billy Jorgensen, who
at fifteen is still awkward, but who can already do a man's work. Billy will
soon be known as William and will take his place among our men.

"Mr. Hamilton has a plan," Billy said quietly. "He schemes a special kind of
lodge. I told him about avalanche. He talked about retaining walls."

I am compelled to report that a spirit of fierce and possessive pride overtook
our congregation. We watched Billy, listened to his straightforward speech, and
each of us no doubt thought of him as our son.

"He plans to sell peace," Billy told us.

Noble thought. But peace cannot be sold, only earned. It developed that
Hamilton would treat our way of life as a commodity.

He would build a lodge for the use of those who suffer too much fame. It would
be a haven for politicians and generals and movie stars, a place where guests
registered only by their first names. He would build a lodge where, if one
guest recognized another, it would be the height of discourtesy to acknowledge
the other's fame . . . a place where those who suffered limelight could retreat
and for a while become anonymous.

"He means it as a compliment," Billy said. "At least he told me that."

Any man or woman even reasonably sane would understand that Hamilton's plan was
a deadly insult. However, insult was not the threat. We have handled insults
and misunderstanding since the 1860's.

"He will change what he touches. We must reason with him." Lars is slow to
anger, but should he ever turn to anger it would show itself as cold and
deliberate fury.

People spoke quickly, agitated, and younger men urged action. Beyond darkened
windows wind carried a quick storm of mist, like mighty clouds sweeping the
valley. Candles flanked the altar and stood in torcheres beside the aisles. We
suddenly felt small and helpless, but not helpless before the ambitions of
Hamilton. A torrent of rain began to walk the valley, and rain drummed on the
roof of the church, The voice of Troublesome Creek deepened. Storm pounded,
throwing gales of wind like cannon. We knew what was happening in all the
streams and tributaries of the mountains.

"Hamilton and his dreams are removed from our hands," Jubal said, and he was
sad. "He is delivered unto other hands." For a moment Jubal looked tenderly at
his congregation. "We have lived beside the forces of creation," he said, "and
we have underestimated them. We thought, no doubt, that because we are patient,
they are patient as well. See to your beasts and your boats. Dawn will light
over mighty waters." Our lanterns gave light unto our feet as we brought beasts
to the barns, and yet were we aided by powerful forces. We are accustomed to
rain, but on this night where we traveled to barns, fields, storage sheds, rain
only feathered around us. Our swinging lanterns were washed by mist, while
everywhere beyond us in the fields and mountains, rain pounded like the trump
card of heaven.

A clear dawn displayed our well-washed valley where Troublesome Creek ran
boiling. Before we ever lifted our eyes toward the end of the valley, we knew
that the laws of nature were set aside by nature's God. Troublesome Creek stood
three feet above its banks, but it did not flood beyond the banks. It ran like
a compressed road of water, standing above the surface of the ground. Great
fishes streaked flashes of light. Some of the fishes were dark, but others were
cast in luminous colors. Through the years there are more fishes with nearly
human eyes. These now dominated the waters. They twisted, dove, then rose to
crest in sunlight.

At the end of the valley, the creek no longer discharged down the mountain. It
built higher and higher, the voice of water like the sounds of thunder. It
rose, as though an ocean were being upended. The turmoil of water echoed like
surf. The flood rose as if the great fishes themselves pushed the water, and we
could not distinguish crashing waves from the flash of silvery backs. The
waters surged here, there, rose and fell in a grand orchestration. The waters
sped according to their own designs, or on the commands of unbreachable power.
Water sealed the entrance to the valley, and it steadily rose toward Hamilton's
camp. The trucks and house trailer were red and silver dots among the trees,
and the wall of water reached forth. Voices sounded in the distance, but they
were not the voices of Hamilton and his men. These voices were ancestral. They
were commanding but serene. They directed the waters, while above the waters
sea eagles screamed, dove, beat the air, rose high, only to again dive toward
Hamilton's camp, where frightened men scampered like mice.

We clustered beside our church as our young men unhitched horses from carriages,
preparing to ride in an attempt to aid Hamilton. They yelled to each other, and
they planned to cast ropes by which men might be drawn to salvation. Our men
were desperate in their godly aim of saving lives.

Jubal stood among us, our rock about which the stream of life swirls. He
listened more than he watched, but he also watched our men. "Useless," he
muttered, "but of course they must try." He turned to a group of us. "This is
not about one man with shabby dreams," he muttered. "This is a message to us,
and we do well to observe carefully. We'll have to understand the message."

I could see his point. That chaos of water could overwhelm great cities. It did
not flow forth simply because of Hamilton, who might be destroyed by a small
particle of such enormous energy.

Clouds, of a kind not seen since the creation, formed along ridges of the
mountains. There were towering clouds of fire, and equally high clouds of ice,
yet the fires did not consume and the ice did not destroy. Fires rumbled
upward, darkly smoking, swirling toward the heavens, and sunlight glinted from
cascades of shattered ice. Sunlight penetrated black columns of smoke. Light
winds swept the valley, interleaving cold and heat while massive chunks of ice,
ripped from glaciers, appeared in Troublesome Creek. Then great winds began to
howl, twisting in the high heaven, as if they blew through space from distant
stars.

Frightened animals screamed from the safety of barns, and the creek rose
steadily until it was a wall of water. The wall stood high, then higher. First
it was above our heads, then rapidly grew until it stood above our rooftops, but
it still did not flood. Giant trees torn from mountainsides began to twist and
turn in Troublesome Creek. Voices rose serenely above the tumult.

I heard the saddened voice of my mother, long dead, and the firm voice of my
father, long dead. The ancestry strode invisible among those waters. and we
heard the congregated voices of our people. They spoke without hate, only
sadness. Yet they commanded the waters.

Hamilton died as men on horses pounded through the valley in an attempt to aid
him. He outlasted his cohorts. After all, the surveyors and workmen and engineer
were only men doing a job. Their last sight of this world was a rain of glacial
ice that killed instantly; and then the bodies were tumbled into the waters and
devoured by fishes. Hamilton's death, however, was prolonged. For a while the
creek flowed backward. Then it ceased to flow in any direction and simply stood
as a gigantic wall of water. Clouds black as the soul of night stood overhead
as lightning crashed, jumped between clouds, illuminated a shadowed landscape
that lay beneath volcanic shocks of thunder. Within the wall of water, silver
flashes streaked, and the flashes echoed human voices. The ancestry rode in
those flashes, the eternal human spirit rising to protect-or warn-or teach-we
know not which.

Not everything in the creation is beautiful. That which raised its head above
the surface, and clasped Hamilton, caused even the bravest of our young men to
rein back their horses, Even when the water form expanded, becoming elongated
over half the length of the creek, we could not tell whether it fed with mouths
or eyes; for what we took to be mouths were also lidded. They blinked in
unaccustomed sunlight, and smoke, and hail. Darkness and light shifted, as if
color were liquid, and the creature carried all colors and all darkness.

Hamilton was carried, his round face distorted by screams, just above the
surface. The creature of the flood drove the flood, and the flood roared above
the tiny voice of Hamilton, This strong man, so filled with pride, but also
filled with possibility, thrashed amidst his screams. He called to us, and
whether he screamed curses or apologies we do not know. His voice garbled with
fear, perhaps with repentance, and then his voice was instantly silent. In the
enormity of water, the great shape dove into the crevasse, sliding into darkness
and the pressure of two thousand feet. Hamilton was only a small spot of color
from his expensive clothes as he disappeared into eternal night.

We do not know. We do not know. Mystery surrounds us. We walk in fear of
ourselves. To such power we have no right.

With the death of Hamilton the flood receded. Waters sucked into the earth,
returned to the crevasse, but no fish were stranded. Troublesome Creek resumed
its normal course. Clouds whipped past, then dissolved like echoes. We stood
anticipating the eternal promise, the rainbow which stands as sign from the
Almighty that He will never again destroy the world by flood. The rainbow
appeared, but it brought small comfort.

We returned to our families, our fields, and our beasts. Spring calves romped
beside their mothers, and cattle moved fed and content in new grass. The steeple
of Sons of Noah Church rose beside the creek, a loved and familiar silhouette
against the surrounding mountains. We have always treasured peace and quiet
ways.

Yet we have memories. The first ugly sound of the helicopter, chip, chip,
chipping away, like a tiny hatchet attacking a giant tree. We remember the easy
confidence of Hamilton, the blindness of his power. He had the money and the
equipment and the men that would allow him to alter the very peace he yearned
for. He could not deny using his power, nor so, we fear, can we.

Another spring is at hand. Our congregation has met anxiously in fear and
question for nearly a year. I need to explain carefully what troubles us.

The world encroaches. Sometimes, even in this far place, the skies carry a hint
of muddy color. On days when winds stand exactly in the mouth of our valley,
distant sounds of engines live on the very edge of hearing. More beasts of the
field flee here. Deer have always grazed among our cattle, but now the most shy
of all large creatures, the elk, gather among our herds. As forests decrease we
become sanctuary for wild beasts: bear and cougar and wolves. We control them,
these dying generations of animals. We light bonfires in our fields against the
wolf. We bear no grievance toward the beasts, who must, after all, pursue life
and habitat. And we bear no grievance against the world of men. After all,
perhaps we are "peculiar" people. Our way is holy to us, but we allow that each
man must follow his own path, If that path is one of destruction, then who are
we to say it nay? We cannot oppose madness with madness.

But we now understand that Hamilton was a symbol. His death forecasts what may
be the death of the world that spawned him. He died in a clash of powers.
Against such forces he never had a chance.

Thus do we congregate in fear. Even our children become quiet after service,
for children are wise. They know something is wrong. They sense that we-or our
ancestry or all of us together control-the original, primal energy.

We fear our power. We fear it. Although there is eternal promise that the
Creator will not destroy the world by flood, there is no promise that man will
not. We feel tributaries rising in the mountains and sense the rolling of
distant thunder. We feel the rivers of the earth turn quarrelsome. The waters
of the earth pulse before our feet. Take heed. Take heed. We feel the oceans
bulge.




JACK CADY

THE SONS OF NOAH

*
In a hidden Oregon valley, a religious congregation lives a life of peace and
natural harmony, until a determined developer brings progress too near.

*

And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon
every beast of the earth, and upon all fowl of the air,
upon all that moveth upon the earth, and upon all the
fishes of the sea; into your hand are they delivered.

Genesis 9.2

When darkness edges through this valley, shading slow figures of cattle moving
toward milking barns, last light falls on the weathered steeple of Sons of Noah
Church. The church stands on stilts beside Troublesome Creek, as do all our
barns and houses. The valley is a flood plain. Visitors to our northwest
valley always ask why we, the country people, stay in a place bound to flood
every sever years. Why do we choose to live in houses foundationed on
twenty-foot timbers hewn from ancient cedars? Why live where cattle climb ramps
to elevated barns? We reply that floods renew the soil and make good pasture.
Our milk and produce are the purest in the world. What we say is not false.

What we do not say is that this valley casts a spell. It is shadowed by
eight-thousand-foot mountains. The valley is twenty miles long, seventeen miles
wide. Weather systems bred in the Aleutians bring rain nine months each year.
Darkness often covers the land, ever in daylight, and not all darkness is
threatening. The mountains are protectors, because the world beyond these
mountains is beset by demons.

From this mountain valley our sons sometimes go away to the Army. Those who
survive always return, and they tell crazy tales. They speak of endless streams
of automobiles, and of demonic voices chattering from television screens. They
speak of billboards and politicians; wars, suicides, whoring, rape, drugs,
satanic worship. Visitors describe us as "peculiar, and maybe that is true. On
the other hand, we hear of the outside world and describe it as insane. We do
not mind if the rest of the world chooses insanity, as long as that world leaves
us alone. At least, we have not minded until now. I am elected to write of
this. My name is Thaddeus Morris, which of course means little, although around
here the name carries weight. I am not the oldest man in the valley- the oldest
is our preacher, Jubal Petersen-but I'm old enough. My fingers are crabbed
around the pen as I write, and lamplight, fueled by finely rendered sheep fat,
glows smoky and slick across these pages which aim at your salvation. We do not
want to harm you. We wish to be known as builders, not destroyers. We hope
that you will be warned.

Allow me to show how life is with us, then tell the sad story of a terrible
destruction which has caused us to become troubled. First I must recount a bit
of history.

Our ancestors came to this Pacific Northwest from upper New York State in the
1860's, following the Oregon Trail. They had strong leadership and holy
purpose. From their very beginnings they called themselves the Sons of Noah.
Their beliefs centered around the mistakes and sins of Noah after The Flood.
They saw themselves as quiet people who would eventually reclaim the world
through decent behavior and piety. Old diaries kept by womenfolk tell of that
harsh trek: of worn-out Conestogas, of privation, of dying oxen, of Indian
raiders.

Our people found coastal Oregon overpopulated. Trees fell before pioneer
ambitions. Log houses sometimes stood no more than a thousand rods apart.
Indians wearing sealskins, or colorfully dyed cedar bark robes, clustered around
settlements. They traded furs for guns and whiskey. The world seemed filled
with helterskelter. The leader in those days was a man named Aaron Schmidt. In
prayers Schmidt received solace, and in dreams he received direction. There was
a northwest valley, he was told, avoided even by the Indians. In written
records the harsh journey northward to the Olympic Peninsula is known as The
Pilgrimage.

This valley finally lay revealed. It lies two thousand feet above sea level,
and above a mighty rain forest. Our pastures are vibrant and lush, and the
darkness of this valley is a good thing. With more sun the pastures' growth
would carry frenzy. A road now runs partway in, but the last two miles are
corduroy road, suited only to oxcarts. These days we sell produce and cheese to
merchants who monthly send trucks to the head of the road. That original
congregation arrived and first built a church and a graveyard.

The long pilgrimage took its toll on older members, including Schmidt. The
earliest grave markers were simple stones from the mountainside. To this day
they sit as squat reminders of faith among the multitude of carved markers. In
a hundred years many are born, and many die.

The original congregation looked about in wonder. Grass grew lush, and a
constant supply of pure water ran in Troublesome Creek. The valley spawned
life. Our forefathers took two-hundred-pound fish from the creek, fish so
bizarre that they seemed ancient as creation. Fish with teeth like the canines
of wolves. Fish with winglike fins that when tanned became fine leather and
walking fish with appendages stiff as legs. Bear and cougar and elk shuffled
and stalked and ran through the valley. Beaver and possum, weasels, foxes, and
wolverine contested for food and life. Our people gave thanks in prayer, but
they were also mystified. These days we have more knowledge, because we are not
averse to new ideas. We learn a great deal, because we take in more of the
world's coin than we can possibly spend. Our only purchases from that outside
world are salt and books. We study books of today and books of the past. In
this way we figure out our world.

Our valley sits atop a great fissure. When these mountains were created, the
rock structure split, then tumbled back on itself. Beneath our feet lies a
primeval lake. Troublesome Creek, which seldom runs more than forty feet wide,
is also bottomless. Living water from melting snow in the mountains runs along
the surface of the creek. It passes over water that may be two thousand feet
deep, or more. The rock is impermeable. The entire fissure holds water as old as
the original creation. We do not know everything that lives down there, but
sometimes we get indications. It works this way:

Every seventh year the valley floods. There are biblical explanations for this,
but none are scientific. As flood spreads across our fields we check our boats.
Water does not often rise more than ten or twelve feet, while our houses are
twenty feet aboveground. Only twice in this century has water risen to cover
the floors of our houses. In 1917 it rose to twenty-one feet. In 1945 it rose
to twenty-three. Flood covers the graveyard like a protecting hand, and no
grave is ever disturbed, Even the upright markers do not tilt. For those years
of highest water we have flatboats to carry our horses, oxen, cattle, sheep,
fowl, and swine. Ordinarily we pass between houses and barns and church in
rowboats, Water rises quickly. Flood replenishes the land, and the flood seems
driven by a mind of its own. Waters flow, then concentrate. Some years they
may greatly enrich the Jensen acres, sometimes the Petersens', or other farms.
The valley lies for forty days beneath flood, then the water slides away, down
the mountains or into the fissure of Troublesome Creek.

The water level sometimes drops quickly. Huge shapes flee across the fields,
dashing back to the safety of deep water. Silver streaks intermix. They are
flashes of light sparkling above the drowned pasture, When water drops too
quickly, strange fish are stranded in the fields, although there is a type of
fish that is never stranded. The variety is fleet and many-colored, like
shooting rainbows through the torrent, These fish have nearly human eyes, but
larger, seeing wider than do we. It is a busy time for our whole community. Men
harness horses and oxen to huge mud sleds. The sleds skid to the fields, and a
process of selection begins. We try to protect the original creation. Those
fishes still living get dumped back in the creek. Then the men use pitchforks
to load the rest onto the sleds. There is no waste of the creation. Men dress
out the fish, and women dry them. We have never had seven lean years here but
are prepared should they occur. Twice there have been fish that had to be towed
by two oxen.

And so we live, living among the primal forces and original fury that brought
this planet into being. Power grows. We walk beside great waters.

On Sundays, after services, we gather in front of Sons of Noah Church: the
Andersens, the Jensens, Adams, Schmidts, and two dozen other families.
Traditionally it is a time of quiet joy.

Beside the church, the churchyard with its gravestones becomes a living
presence. Our ancestors lie at our very elbows, so to speak. Children, who have
learned to sit patiently through morning services, romp among the graves. They
are like flitting butterflies, brightly colored, dancing in games of
hide-and-seek behind tombstones. We talk among ourselves, the way our people
have sought truth since the 1860's. We used to discuss crops and ideas.
Unhappy I am to report that these days we are forced to speak of power.

A demonic world presses close. Aircraft sometimes pass overhead, where once
passed only the birds of the air. More beasts of the field, deer and elk and
wolves, are driven to our high valley as a demonic world logs the rain forest.
We are careful in our speech. "We do not command these waters. To think we
command is the sin of pride." Our preacher, Jubal Petersen, says this. He was
once a man of immense strength, and even in his age he still drives oxen. His
shoulders are square, and his hair is a cloud of white above a high and furrowed
brow. The children play. Here and there young wives and husbands whisper
together. One girl's waist has grown. In a few months there will be birth and
christening. The generations are intact.

Men stand in silence, waiting for the spirit of truth to guide their words. We
are not a hasty people. The men are fair of face. Their suits are subdued colors
of gray, blue, brown. Work-hardened hands hang restful at their sides. The men
stand like protecting trees of the mountain forests.

"Do we serve at the threshold of divine power?" one says. His name is Lars
Landstrup. his father was Eric. his grandfather was Sven. Lars' strength is
great. and, of all of us, he worries most about right and wrong. "Maybe," he
says thoughtfully, "we protect the creation."

"The waters protect us," a woman murmurs. Mercy Adams is a grandmother now, but
there is that about her which recalls the beauty of her youth. If our women
have a leader, then surely Mercy leads. "We are in delicate balance," she says.
She glances toward the younger women, toward the young wife who is with child.

The graveyard lies silent, except for children's play. Our women stand like
flowers. They dress in gowns showing the many colors of natural dyes, Above the
graveyard the steeple rises like a benediction.

"Our cause is just," another woman murmurs.

"We do none of this for gain," a man says. "We are not engaged in spurious
adventures."

Our disputations rise because some men from that outside world are most
hideously dead. We fear that we had a hand in matters. We do not yet question
the tenets of our faith, but clearly something is askew. Our ancestors believed
that their quiet ways and piety would overcome the world. They believed in the
power of reverence, not the power of force.

And yet, great forces aid us. Power accumulates. I must now record the manner
of those terrible deaths.

We did not immediately understand that the man was insane. Perhaps we might
have helped him. One cannot hate the insane, only pity them. At the same time,
however, if a wolverine gets loose in your streets then it must be contained.

On an April morning last year, when sun glowed like a blessed spirit through
mountain mist, the solitary figure of a man appeared at the head of the road.
His outfit exceeded his need, Perhaps such waste should have warned us. He wore
wool knickers, tall boots with much lacing, and a down parka quilted like a
sleeping bag, His rolled pack rode on heavy shoulders, a pack filled with enough
implements and supplies to last if he knew what he was doing for many months in
the forest wilderness. Yet he had only hiked in two miles from the paved road
where he left his truck.

And the truck itself was another mark of insanity, had we been clever enough to
read its meaning. One of our sons who has been outside described it as an
all-terrain vehicle. The truck proved capable of driving over rough country but
was too small to haul anything. We thought it rather silly.

We have always welcomed our few visitors to this valley. We've hoped they would
feel the serenity of this place and thus learn to be serene. Our message of
piety would go with them when they returned to the outside world.

The man was bluff but friendly. At the same time, he at first spoke to us as if
we were children. He was a man accustomed to commanding others. In the grand
illusion of his power he regarded us as simple, ignorant folk. We have had
other visitors who thought us simpleminded. We always tolerate their pride,
knowing they will leave.

For three days he camped at the head of the valley. The Jensen family invited
him to supper and offered him a bed in the large room used by their sons. The
man Hamilton-"Joe Hamilton to my friends," he said took supper but refused the
bed. He pitched his tent at the far edge of Jensen's western pasture, The tent
stood as a glowing spot of unnatural blue among the gray-and-blue mist of our
valley. Hamilton spent three days walking the lower reaches of the mountains.
In April, Troublesome Creek runs swift from melting snows. People who live at
the far end of the valley carry goods to market on rafts.

On Sunday Hamilton attended church. He joined in hymns, singing in a strained
and nearly boyish voice that was most unlike his speaking voice. We know now
that either eagerness or tension pinched his song. We enjoyed his presence,
thinking him a willing and possibly able man. We have never, in this century,
had a convert. After services matters took an unsettling turn. We stood in
groups after church. Muted sunlight washed across the churchyard, casting pale
shadows behind gravestones. Muted breezes touched spring grass around graves
where tulips grew in thick patches of yellow and red. A few crocus remained.
Hamilton stood among Landstrups and Jensens, as our minister Jubal Petersen
approached. Hamilton's voice did not carry. He seemed trying to cooperate with
the quiet of Sunday service but was awkward with quietness. His large shoulders
huddled inside the down jacket, We thought him shy, not manipulative.

"This must be the most peaceful place in the world," he said to Lars, "although
you work very hard." His face was roundish, like a painting of a Dutch sea
captain. Blond hair receded above a high forehead. His lips were thick, his
speech precise. His large hands were unmarked and carried no callus. The
high-laced boots shone with mink oil. He was somehow aggressive, although he
seemed shy.

"Tibet," Lars said. "I expect Tibetan monasteries are the most peaceful places
in the world. We could probably learn something from them."

"I have means," Hamilton murmured. "What a convenience it would be if this
valley had a water system." He said this with a straight face, and we tried to
receive it with straight faces. "For the convenience," he said.

"Troublesome Creek is convenient," Lars told him. "That's why we live beside
it."

"For sanitation purposes."

"Our people solved those problems a hundred years ago." Jubal Petersen joined
the group. He looked uneasily toward the graveyard, then toward hitching rails
where horses stood waiting to pull wagons home. Children ran among the horses,
clambered over wagons and carriages. They laughed and shouted after being freed
from Sunday sermon, but on this Sunday they did not go near the graveyard.

"Perhaps a stranger might come to belong here," Hamilton said quietly. "If he
required no land and paid his way,"

It was a strange statement. It would be difficult to pay one's way around here
without working the land. Even our minister is a farmer who earns his family's
keep.

"It would make life easier," he said, "if your roads were paved." He looked at
the creek and the towpath. "A man could build flatboats engined with a drive on
each end. It would be easier to get to church." His voice did not conceal a sort
of boyish excitement. Nor did it conceal the notion that he wished to show us
his version of salvation. We've heard it all before. Bring bulldozers to the
head of the road. Install electric plants. Bring in oil, gasoline, fire
engines, tractors, flush toilets, chain saws. Life would be easy then. Idyllic.
We've heard it from visitors, and occasionally even from our sons who have just
returned. After our sons have been home for a year or two, they regain their
senses. Still, we had never heard it said with the missionary zeal of Hamilton.
He spoke with the fervency of a disciple of "progress." His fingers tap, tap,
tapped at air as he attempted to drive home his points.

"It is true that we work hard," Lars told him. "Whether it's a virtue or not,
hard work is the price we pay for the peacefulness you admire." Lars also looked
uneasily toward the graveyard. He was a head shorter than Hamilton, but he
seemed as tall. He has the blue eyes and thin lips of a Dane, but his voice is
always gentle, "You've been here for three days," he said, "and you've heard no
sounds of engines. Listen." Children's voices tinkled joyfully across Sunday
silence. Above the mist a hawk circled, and the faded shadow of the hawk slid
across fields. The liquid murmur of Troublesome Creek blended beneath the
far-off crowing of a cock. Horses snuffled, shifted in lightly creaking
harness. From the Petersen place a new calf bawled for its mother.

And then silence deepened. For moments even the voices of children seemed
muted. From the graveyard came a lack of sound that we had never heard before.
The best description would say that it was active silence. Always before our
forefathers have lain passive and tranquil. Their message to us is a message of
faith.

Jubal Petersen looked at Lars, then at Hamilton. If the rest of us heard only
active silence, it may be that Jubal heard more. "Of all the sins available," he
said to Hamilton, "perhaps the sin of pride is most dangerous. Zealousness is
often a form of pride." His voice was kind but firm, "We are aware of something
happening here that you are not. I must excuse myself." Jubal turned to the
churchyard and walked slowly among the graves. We stood in wonder. Our
minister was obviously communing with the dead. His dark-suited figure moved
easily, and he occasionally murmured as if answering questions. At first his
wrinkled face showed sadness, and then a sort of fear. Jubal is not a man to
fear anything, and he especially would not fear our dead.

When he returned he spoke quietly, first to us, and then to Hamilton, "Do not
underestimate the eternal power of the human spirit," he told us. To Lars he
said, "There's a mystery here, and what I've just said has naught to do with
pride." To Hamilton he said, "You are welcome as a guest. Confine yourself to
being a guest. If you do that, all will be well."

He raised his hand, not to bless us but to dismiss us. There was plenty of
excited talk among the families during the ride home, and during the following
week.

During that week madness overcame Hamilton, To his credit he tried to remain
respectful, yet his insanity compelled him toward destruction. It seemed that
because he had the power to change things, he could not deny use of the power.
We forgive him because of his insanity, but we do not forgive the power that
corrupted him.

On Monday morning he folded his tent and disappeared down the road to the
outside world. We supposed we were quit of him and were greatly relieved. At
the same time we felt loss. Had the man remained among us for a few months his
urgency would have faded. A good, strong man is never a burden. We knew he was
ambitious, but we did not know that in the world's terms he was rich.

On Friday the distant sound of truck engines came faintly across fields nearest
the head of the road. Shortly afterward we heard the chip, chip, chip of a
helicopter, and we looked toward the pass where Troublesome Creek begins its
slide down the mountain in its rush to the sea. A large silver box hung beneath
the helicopter. It proved to be a house trailer. One of the Jorgensen sons
went to investigate.

He found Hamilton consulting with surveyors, workmen, and an engineer. The house
trailer sat on a ledge and was used as a field office. The men immediately set
to work. Through habit, perhaps, they wore hard hats as they climbed along the
mountainside at the head of the road. Ancient trees have not survived at that
elevation because warm winds sometimes blow in winter. There are many
avalanches. Orange hard hats moved through the light green branches, and
surveyors broke or cut young trees to take sights. The snarl of a small chain
saw echoed like a stream of curses.

April is a busy time. Work continued in the fields, but at our backs we felt
Troublesome Creek turn from rapid flow to subdued violence. Waters rolled as
dark shapes moved just beneath the surface. Occasionally huge, bladelike fins
hovered in thin sunlight, then disappeared. This was not a seventh year, a year
of flood. Yet Troublesome Creek grew active, Against all custom we quit work
two hours before dark. After supper everyone assembled at Sons of Noah Church.

Families lingered before the church. Soon we would climb the many steps to the
church, but at first it seemed necessary to remain clustered before the
churchyard. If our ancestors had a say in this matter. as we reverently hoped,
we wanted ears that would hear.

What we heard caused a strange combination of emotions. We were both soothed
and made to fear, although we feared not for ourselves.

It is hard to say whether the voices came from the graves or from Troublesome
Creek. The murmuring was vast, as if it rose from creek and fields, from barns,
silos, graves; as if it rose with controlled energy from sloping sides of
mountains, from the steeple of the church, from the darkening sky. Power rose
midst murmurs of peace, a power fantastic, a power that was fabulous.

In our quiet lives there is no equation for such power. There can only be sin in
such power. We did not know what we had wrought. The voices assured us that
all would be well. The voices were serene with power.

We entered our church. There are many steps and a railed balcony. One of our
sons says it reminds him of a ship's bridge. The church is thriftily made, with
clear windows that allow sunlight and starlight.

"You must tell us everything the man said." Jubal talked to Billy Jorgensen, who
at fifteen is still awkward, but who can already do a man's work. Billy will
soon be known as William and will take his place among our men.

"Mr. Hamilton has a plan," Billy said quietly. "He schemes a special kind of
lodge. I told him about avalanche. He talked about retaining walls."

I am compelled to report that a spirit of fierce and possessive pride overtook
our congregation. We watched Billy, listened to his straightforward speech, and
each of us no doubt thought of him as our son.

"He plans to sell peace," Billy told us.

Noble thought. But peace cannot be sold, only earned. It developed that
Hamilton would treat our way of life as a commodity.

He would build a lodge for the use of those who suffer too much fame. It would
be a haven for politicians and generals and movie stars, a place where guests
registered only by their first names. He would build a lodge where, if one
guest recognized another, it would be the height of discourtesy to acknowledge
the other's fame . . . a place where those who suffered limelight could retreat
and for a while become anonymous.

"He means it as a compliment," Billy said. "At least he told me that."

Any man or woman even reasonably sane would understand that Hamilton's plan was
a deadly insult. However, insult was not the threat. We have handled insults
and misunderstanding since the 1860's.

"He will change what he touches. We must reason with him." Lars is slow to
anger, but should he ever turn to anger it would show itself as cold and
deliberate fury.

People spoke quickly, agitated, and younger men urged action. Beyond darkened
windows wind carried a quick storm of mist, like mighty clouds sweeping the
valley. Candles flanked the altar and stood in torcheres beside the aisles. We
suddenly felt small and helpless, but not helpless before the ambitions of
Hamilton. A torrent of rain began to walk the valley, and rain drummed on the
roof of the church, The voice of Troublesome Creek deepened. Storm pounded,
throwing gales of wind like cannon. We knew what was happening in all the
streams and tributaries of the mountains.

"Hamilton and his dreams are removed from our hands," Jubal said, and he was
sad. "He is delivered unto other hands." For a moment Jubal looked tenderly at
his congregation. "We have lived beside the forces of creation," he said, "and
we have underestimated them. We thought, no doubt, that because we are patient,
they are patient as well. See to your beasts and your boats. Dawn will light
over mighty waters." Our lanterns gave light unto our feet as we brought beasts
to the barns, and yet were we aided by powerful forces. We are accustomed to
rain, but on this night where we traveled to barns, fields, storage sheds, rain
only feathered around us. Our swinging lanterns were washed by mist, while
everywhere beyond us in the fields and mountains, rain pounded like the trump
card of heaven.

A clear dawn displayed our well-washed valley where Troublesome Creek ran
boiling. Before we ever lifted our eyes toward the end of the valley, we knew
that the laws of nature were set aside by nature's God. Troublesome Creek stood
three feet above its banks, but it did not flood beyond the banks. It ran like
a compressed road of water, standing above the surface of the ground. Great
fishes streaked flashes of light. Some of the fishes were dark, but others were
cast in luminous colors. Through the years there are more fishes with nearly
human eyes. These now dominated the waters. They twisted, dove, then rose to
crest in sunlight.

At the end of the valley, the creek no longer discharged down the mountain. It
built higher and higher, the voice of water like the sounds of thunder. It
rose, as though an ocean were being upended. The turmoil of water echoed like
surf. The flood rose as if the great fishes themselves pushed the water, and we
could not distinguish crashing waves from the flash of silvery backs. The
waters surged here, there, rose and fell in a grand orchestration. The waters
sped according to their own designs, or on the commands of unbreachable power.
Water sealed the entrance to the valley, and it steadily rose toward Hamilton's
camp. The trucks and house trailer were red and silver dots among the trees,
and the wall of water reached forth. Voices sounded in the distance, but they
were not the voices of Hamilton and his men. These voices were ancestral. They
were commanding but serene. They directed the waters, while above the waters
sea eagles screamed, dove, beat the air, rose high, only to again dive toward
Hamilton's camp, where frightened men scampered like mice.

We clustered beside our church as our young men unhitched horses from carriages,
preparing to ride in an attempt to aid Hamilton. They yelled to each other, and
they planned to cast ropes by which men might be drawn to salvation. Our men
were desperate in their godly aim of saving lives.

Jubal stood among us, our rock about which the stream of life swirls. He
listened more than he watched, but he also watched our men. "Useless," he
muttered, "but of course they must try." He turned to a group of us. "This is
not about one man with shabby dreams," he muttered. "This is a message to us,
and we do well to observe carefully. We'll have to understand the message."

I could see his point. That chaos of water could overwhelm great cities. It did
not flow forth simply because of Hamilton, who might be destroyed by a small
particle of such enormous energy.

Clouds, of a kind not seen since the creation, formed along ridges of the
mountains. There were towering clouds of fire, and equally high clouds of ice,
yet the fires did not consume and the ice did not destroy. Fires rumbled
upward, darkly smoking, swirling toward the heavens, and sunlight glinted from
cascades of shattered ice. Sunlight penetrated black columns of smoke. Light
winds swept the valley, interleaving cold and heat while massive chunks of ice,
ripped from glaciers, appeared in Troublesome Creek. Then great winds began to
howl, twisting in the high heaven, as if they blew through space from distant
stars.

Frightened animals screamed from the safety of barns, and the creek rose
steadily until it was a wall of water. The wall stood high, then higher. First
it was above our heads, then rapidly grew until it stood above our rooftops, but
it still did not flood. Giant trees torn from mountainsides began to twist and
turn in Troublesome Creek. Voices rose serenely above the tumult.

I heard the saddened voice of my mother, long dead, and the firm voice of my
father, long dead. The ancestry strode invisible among those waters. and we
heard the congregated voices of our people. They spoke without hate, only
sadness. Yet they commanded the waters.

Hamilton died as men on horses pounded through the valley in an attempt to aid
him. He outlasted his cohorts. After all, the surveyors and workmen and engineer
were only men doing a job. Their last sight of this world was a rain of glacial
ice that killed instantly; and then the bodies were tumbled into the waters and
devoured by fishes. Hamilton's death, however, was prolonged. For a while the
creek flowed backward. Then it ceased to flow in any direction and simply stood
as a gigantic wall of water. Clouds black as the soul of night stood overhead
as lightning crashed, jumped between clouds, illuminated a shadowed landscape
that lay beneath volcanic shocks of thunder. Within the wall of water, silver
flashes streaked, and the flashes echoed human voices. The ancestry rode in
those flashes, the eternal human spirit rising to protect-or warn-or teach-we
know not which.

Not everything in the creation is beautiful. That which raised its head above
the surface, and clasped Hamilton, caused even the bravest of our young men to
rein back their horses, Even when the water form expanded, becoming elongated
over half the length of the creek, we could not tell whether it fed with mouths
or eyes; for what we took to be mouths were also lidded. They blinked in
unaccustomed sunlight, and smoke, and hail. Darkness and light shifted, as if
color were liquid, and the creature carried all colors and all darkness.

Hamilton was carried, his round face distorted by screams, just above the
surface. The creature of the flood drove the flood, and the flood roared above
the tiny voice of Hamilton, This strong man, so filled with pride, but also
filled with possibility, thrashed amidst his screams. He called to us, and
whether he screamed curses or apologies we do not know. His voice garbled with
fear, perhaps with repentance, and then his voice was instantly silent. In the
enormity of water, the great shape dove into the crevasse, sliding into darkness
and the pressure of two thousand feet. Hamilton was only a small spot of color
from his expensive clothes as he disappeared into eternal night.

We do not know. We do not know. Mystery surrounds us. We walk in fear of
ourselves. To such power we have no right.

With the death of Hamilton the flood receded. Waters sucked into the earth,
returned to the crevasse, but no fish were stranded. Troublesome Creek resumed
its normal course. Clouds whipped past, then dissolved like echoes. We stood
anticipating the eternal promise, the rainbow which stands as sign from the
Almighty that He will never again destroy the world by flood. The rainbow
appeared, but it brought small comfort.

We returned to our families, our fields, and our beasts. Spring calves romped
beside their mothers, and cattle moved fed and content in new grass. The steeple
of Sons of Noah Church rose beside the creek, a loved and familiar silhouette
against the surrounding mountains. We have always treasured peace and quiet
ways.

Yet we have memories. The first ugly sound of the helicopter, chip, chip,
chipping away, like a tiny hatchet attacking a giant tree. We remember the easy
confidence of Hamilton, the blindness of his power. He had the money and the
equipment and the men that would allow him to alter the very peace he yearned
for. He could not deny using his power, nor so, we fear, can we.

Another spring is at hand. Our congregation has met anxiously in fear and
question for nearly a year. I need to explain carefully what troubles us.

The world encroaches. Sometimes, even in this far place, the skies carry a hint
of muddy color. On days when winds stand exactly in the mouth of our valley,
distant sounds of engines live on the very edge of hearing. More beasts of the
field flee here. Deer have always grazed among our cattle, but now the most shy
of all large creatures, the elk, gather among our herds. As forests decrease we
become sanctuary for wild beasts: bear and cougar and wolves. We control them,
these dying generations of animals. We light bonfires in our fields against the
wolf. We bear no grievance toward the beasts, who must, after all, pursue life
and habitat. And we bear no grievance against the world of men. After all,
perhaps we are "peculiar" people. Our way is holy to us, but we allow that each
man must follow his own path, If that path is one of destruction, then who are
we to say it nay? We cannot oppose madness with madness.

But we now understand that Hamilton was a symbol. His death forecasts what may
be the death of the world that spawned him. He died in a clash of powers.
Against such forces he never had a chance.

Thus do we congregate in fear. Even our children become quiet after service,
for children are wise. They know something is wrong. They sense that we-or our
ancestry or all of us together control-the original, primal energy.

We fear our power. We fear it. Although there is eternal promise that the
Creator will not destroy the world by flood, there is no promise that man will
not. We feel tributaries rising in the mountains and sense the rolling of
distant thunder. We feel the rivers of the earth turn quarrelsome. The waters
of the earth pulse before our feet. Take heed. Take heed. We feel the oceans
bulge.