It is a day full of beauty, Corcoran O’Connor.”
Cork said, “We’d like to talk, Henry.”
Meloux’s face turned thoughtful. “I have heard about your trouble.” He looked back at the cabin, where the smoke was beginning to thin. “I think it is a good morning to sit by the lake.” He put the burned corn bread on the ground, where Walleye sniffed at it, then stepped warily back. The old man said, “Only a very stupid or a very hungry animal will eat that. In this forest, there are both.” He went back into his cabin, and when he returned he carried a box of kitchen matches, which he slipped into the pocket of the red plaid mackinaw he’d put on.
A path led from the cabin across the meadow and through a breach in an outcropping of gray rock. At the edge of the lake on the far side of the outcropping lay a black circle of ash ringed by stones. Split wood stood stacked against the rock, and nearby was a wooden box the size of an orange crate. Meloux lifted the lid and pulled out a handful of wood shavings and some kindling. These he handed to Stephen. “We will need a fire,” he said. He pulled the box of matches from his coat pocket and held them out to the young man.
Without a word, Stephen set to work.
Cork handed the pack of American Spirits to Meloux. The old man took the gift, opened it, and eased out a cigarette. He split the paper and dumped the tobacco into the palm of his hand. He sprinkled a pinch in each of the four cardinal directions and dropped the last bit into the fire Stephen had going at the center of the ring. They sat on sawed sections of tree trunk, and the old man passed a cigarette to each of them, then a stick that he’d lit from the flames. They spent a few minutes while the smoke from their cigarettes mingled with the smoke from the crackling fire and drifted skyward. Stephen had smoked with his father and Meloux before in this way because this was not for pleasure. In the belief of the Anishinaabeg, tobacco smoke carried prayers and wishes to the spirit world.
Meloux was an Ojibwe Mide, a member of the Grand Medicine Society. As far back as Cork could remember, the old man’s guidance had been an important part of his life. When Meloux was a young man, his renown as a guide and hunter was legendary. He had the heart of a warrior and twice had saved Cork’s life. His knowledge and understanding had also helped Stephen back to wholeness after the trauma of a kidnapping. This old man who’d turned corn bread into hard charcoal was remarkable in more ways than Cork could say.
“Tell me what I can do,” Meloux said.
Stephen explained his dream. “I don’t know what it means or why it came to me,” he confessed. “Was I supposed to do something, or is there something I’m supposed to do now?”
The old man considered. “Sometimes a dream is just a dream, Stephen. It is a way for the spirit to examine pieces of this world.”
“I think it’s more than a dream, Henry. I think it was a vision.”
“Tell me what you think this vision means.”
“The white door has got to be the snow, right?”
The old man did not reply.
“Right?”
Instead of answering, the old man said, “You thought there was someone in the room with you. Who?”
Stephen frowned, trying to remember. “I don’t know, but whoever it was, I was afraid of them.”
“Afraid for yourself or for your mother?”
“For her, I think.”
“This room, you said it was big. What else do you remember?”
“It was yellow. And full of white rocks,” Stephen said suddenly.
“There were rocks in the room?”
“Yes. They looked like ice. Like the door looked.”
The old man nodded. “Do you remember anything else?”
Stephen closed his eyes. “A light under the door.”
“The door that hid your mother and closed itself to you?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Anything else?”
Stephen shook his head hopelessly. “It was a long time ago.”
“Yet you remember much. I think you are right, Stephen. I think this is more than a dream.”
“What does it mean?”
“I do not know. But I will tell you this. If there is a door, it can be opened.”
“How?”
The old Mide shrugged. “Your vision. You will have to find the answer yourself.”
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“You already have,” Meloux replied. “A vision is never seen with your eyes, Stephen. Your heart is the only witness, and only your heart understands.”
“So… what? I have to, like, talk to my heart?”
“I think listening will do.”
“Henry, I need an answer now. My mom’s in real trouble.”
“All the more reason for everything inside you to be still, Stephen, the better to hear your heart.”
“That’s all you can tell me?” Stephen said.
“I am afraid so,” the old man replied.
“Jesus.” Stephen threw the last of his cigarette into the fire, stood up, and left the ring. He disappeared through the rocks heading along the path back to Meloux’s cabin.
“He’s scared, Henry,” Cork said.
“He has reason to be. He holds a key, but does not know the lock that it fits.”
They walked together to the cabin with Walleye following closely. Stephen wasn’t there. Cork saw him far across the meadow, stomping along the path that would lead him through the forest to where the Bronco was parked. Meloux bent, picked up the black corn bread brick, and broke it open. The center was yellow and unburned.
“At the heart of most things that look bad is something that can be good and useful.” He crumbled the edible section of the corn bread and spread it on the ground for the animals. “I am sorry for your situation, Corcoran O’Connor, and I hope that you discover some good in it somewhere.”
Cork walked back the way he’d come. He found Stephen sitting in the Bronco, staring through the windshield. He got in, kicked the engine over, turned the Bronco around, and headed back toward town.
“Lot of good that did,” Stephen said. “Listen to your heart. What kind of bullshit is that?”
“I’d never accuse Henry of offering bullshit.”
“Okay, you tell me what it means. What door am I supposed to open?”
“I don’t know.”
“See? No help at all.” Stephen folded his arms across his chest and slumped in his seat.
Cork had intended to use the trip to Meloux’s to break the news to Stephen that he was flying to Wyoming, alone. But he found himself backing off, hoping a better opportunity might present itself, though he didn’t have a clue how that might happen.
Halfway to Aurora, his cell phone rang. He pulled to the side of the road and answered. He listened and said, “Thanks, Mal.” He put the phone away. “We need to get home,” he told his son. “They’ve found something in the mountains.”
Stephen’s face brightened. “Mom?”
“No. They’ve spotted the door to a plane.”
EIGHT
Day Three, Missing 49 Hours
Deputy Quinn was calling him Cork now.
“That’s right, Cork,” he said. His cold wasn’t so much in evidence anymore. “One of our planes spotted debris in a high mountain canyon in the Washakie Wilderness. It’s in an area that’s part of a formation known as Heaven’s
