All stories have a beginning. This one is no different. In fact, I'd say it's pretty typical. This beginning starts in the present, as an introduction to the past. A good old flashback style tale. And presently I am sitting at a taupe rectangle table under the florescent lighting of an interrogation room. That's right. I, Sarah Lambson, am a suspect for the most heinous of crimes-murder. Two days ago they found me, half starved, freezing, and nearly dead lying amongst the mounds of a couple dozen freshly dug graves. There was blood on my hands and clothes.
We lived in the woods, all 30 of us, for 10 months. That's enough to make any stable person crazy, I guess. There was a lot of tension that year, especially at the start. Clashing personalities, rumors, and sex prevailed. What else was one to do when the closest form of entertainment was a 30 minute drive away? I'd like to think that we did better than most would in our place. We signed up for it gladly, after all. After those first few months, however, we learned how to live with one another. The bands of tension finally began to slacken. We looked past each others flaws and ground our teeth against the most biting remarks. But we were honest and, on rare occasions, gracious. We were all Bear Brookians and we were there to stay.
Time passed swiftly some weeks and slowly others. It was the months that melted away. First May, June, and July snuck past punctured by various Independence Day celebrations. August came in all it's overly warm glory, then passed in wavy heat lines like a mirage. When September hit, we could all feel the inevitable end creeping on us. I began to think of my time in terms of weeks and got really scared of the future. But over the years I have become really good at ignoring endings until they are so close that I could punch them in the face.
So there was September, leaving suddenly like an uncomfortable dinner guest, making all the usual excuses ("I can’t stay, I think I left the oven on." "I don't want my wife to worry." You know, that kind of thing) when all September really meant was "I heard October was coming over and we used to date. It ended on bad terms and it would be really awkward if I were here."
October blew in with a kind of graceful beauty that we all learned to appreciate and love. And for me this included a never ending battle with my old friends Patience and Wait-And-See. But that is all neither here nor there really. You came here for the truth. The real story. Because something happened here. Something not very nice. And there are only two people who lived to tell the tale: Me, and the person behind it all.
So stay if you wish. Hear my story, dark as it is. For here is the most truth you will ever hear on the topic of the Bear Brook Massacre.
***
There had been a sudden October storm. The calm morning after told no tale of the havoc wreaked the night before. Not until one stopped looking at the mottled sky and focused on the branch strewn road before them could they see the damage. Trees had been felled by the brutal winds which raged through the late night hours. Limbs littered the path like so many severed appendages. If you were to travel a quarter of a mile down the road, you’d meet little else but debris 1 inch thick in diameter or less. If you went a bit further, you might find a branch or two of a larger caliber. But it wasn't until just before the exit gate you came upon the first impassable obstacle. A behemoth of a beech tree, her core weakened by rot (she had caught a nasty case of beech blight 5 years previous) had finally met her tragic end. Relentless gusts of southeasterly wind had pushed and pulled with apathetic intensity until our beech could take no more. She submitted herself to the way of all things and with a thunderous crash (which wakened all the creatures in the area surrounding) fell miserably across the road (which incidentally had not been there when she was first a sapling thank you very much). Thus with this end, and by a sharp twist of fate, the unexpected fall of the 2010 SCA NH Conservation Corps began.
The first morning started as most do: With the rising of the sun and a sense of promise.
October 11, 2010-7:00am
Slowly but surely, bodies began to stir within their nailed-to-the-wall-for-structural-support bunk-beds. Minds blearily thought not of the winds the night before, but of hot breakfast, showers, excremental relief, and the coming weekend. Each stream of consciousness continued thus as each sleepy-eyed individual trudged along the water-logged and stick-littered path back to the main lodge. All were blissfully unaware of the bit of disconcerting news that awaited them there.
Scrawled across the dry erase board in bold black letters was the following:
The power is out for several days! Please do not use running water. Use water and dishes sparingly. Use the outhouse instead of the bathrooms. Conserve water. A large tree across the road is blocking us from leaving for the moment. Park authorities have been notified. 229,000 people are W/O power and we are a low priority right now.
Thoughts of the weekend fled like a flock of frightened starlings.
The Power is out? What does that mean?
This means that we can’t charge our phones or anything!
Don’t use the water? How are we supposed to shower?
What are we going to do about cooking and dishes?
We’re blocked? For how long?
How are we going to get anything done?
Great, I already smell. How long before I can shower?
Aw, I can’t watch my movie now, can I?
How long?
How long?
How long??
The outhouse? Ew.
How LONG?!?
The questions flew about searching for purchase upon the illusive tree of knowledge. They manifest themselves in the form of scattered murmurs among the crowd that had gathered at the board. They of course found nowhere to perch and so were accompanied by several shrugs and a few creased frowns. After a number of minutes, realizing their questions would be met with no immediate answers, each individual murmur soon collectively morphed into one bear of an inquiry.
Where are the leaders?
Eyes roamed the immediate vicinity but saw nothing of Mike, Marlee, Sue, or Jeremy.
Seemingly drawn by the beam of concentrated thought, the front doors opened and one by one the leaders entered the room, stomping mud off their boots. Every eye focused on the older, more experienced individuals. Before an overpowering din of voices could ensue, Mike held up his hands.
Quiet Coyote Style.
Automatically, as if pulled by invisible marionette strings, hands shot up mimicking the gesture.
Mike Spoke.
“I know you must all have questions," Said he.
No Kidding was the communal bit of sarcasm reflected in each interns eyes.
“So if you will all gather at the couches and grab the others on your way, all will be answered.”
Invisible rubber bands of tension released among the group as they scattered, searching for their un-present fellows. They rounded them up like they were border collies and the others were sheep in the movie Babe. Or would that make them pigs?
Sorry, I digress.
Five minutes later the scene at the fireplace resembled a trial with 28 jury members and 4 witness awaiting questioning.
The room was as silent as a grave until Mike murdered that silence, taking a deep breath.
“We are without power. We do not know for how long. There is one large tree in particular preventing us from leaving Bear Brook and several more that would keep us from getting off Deerfield road. Our pumps are electric, so there is no running water. This means do NOT use the bathrooms. Use the outhouse.”
He took another breath before questions could start.
“We are pretty low on the totem pole of problems so we could be without power and stuck in the park for a while. A week at the most I would say. Our gas stove works and we have enough food that we won’t starve. It’s chilly enough that the food in the fridge will keep for a little while. The stuff in the freezer, however, needs to be eaten within the next couple days. Do not ask us when the power will be back, we have no idea.”
Here he stopped and surveyed everyone with grim consideration. He seemed to be steeling himself for a wave of questions that would inevitably crash over him.
None came.
There were several worried faces but most were looking set. Determined, if not a little phased. The majority of the interns were nodding in understanding.
“Are there any questions?” Marlee asked tentatively.
There was silence. Then one voice came through.
“How are we going to get work done?”
“Ah. Well anything on the Internet is going to have to wait, obviously. Conservation crews don't have too much to do still, though interpreters are out of luck if you have loose ends to tie up. We will not expect you to get your time sheets done, of course. I know it’s going to be tough but there is plenty of cleaning up we can start doing in prep for the end of the season. Each leader has a list of things that need to be done. See us after breakfast and we will give you as task.”
She looked around the room.
“Anything else?”
More silence. This time it lasted longer.
“Okay then. So, let’s disperse, get some work done, and try keep up morale.”
There was a moment of hesitation, as if the lack of power extended to the electrical synapses of the brain that channeled movement.
All at once, synapses fired and people got up, going their separate ways. The mood which permeated the lodge was subdued. Everyone knew it was going to be a long day.
And an even longer weekend.
1 comment:
the metaphors are delightfully silly. A fun story so far.....
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