Yellow Wood Read online

  YELLOW

  WOOD

  YELLOW

  WOOD

  TERRY TRAFTON

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events

  in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are

  used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is

  coincidental and not intended by the author.

  A Fox Lane Book

  www.foxlanebooks.com

  Yellow Wood

  Copyright © 2019 by Terry Trafton

  Published by Gatekeeper Press

  2167 Stringtown Rd, Suite 109

  Columbus, OH 43123-2989

  www.GatekeeperPress.com

  All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be

  sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical

  means, including information storage and retrieval systems without

  permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a

  reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  First Hardcover Edition August, 2019  ISBN: 9781642375626

  First eBook Edition August, 2019  ISBN: 9781642375633

  Library of Congress Number: 2019934394

  Jacket art © 2019 Joyce Trafton and Sherod @ Smiley Designs

  Jacket layout © 2019 Dragan Bilic

  Printed on Acid Free Paper

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my brothers, Charlie and Gary Trafton

  Acknowledgements

  THROUGHOUT THE WRITING of Yellow Wood, it was always apparent how significantly the contributions of others mattered. I am grateful to those at Gatekeeper Press whose suggestions and patience were invaluable, Tony Chellini, Rob Price, and Kelly Santaguida, who as they did on my novel Spider Lines worked closely with me during every aspect of this new project. Always courteous, always positive, and always willing to provide constructive feedback, the publishing team at Gatekeeper Press provided the kind of guidance any author expects from a publisher.

  I express my gratitude to the people at Barnes & Noble Booksellers and appreciate the generous support shown by several other places who made my signings of Spider Lines enjoyable experiences. Thank you to all those readers who read my previous novel and for the comments they posted at Amazon, Barnes and Noble Booksellers, and Goodreads.

  There are those whose names I have forgotten, the silent ones who influenced to a large extent both the dialogue and characters in this new book. Although considerable research was necessary before and during the writing of this story, in the end Yellow Wood remains entirely a work of fiction. The website, Stellarium.org was used for astronomical research. The names of some actual historical locations have been changed. The author is responsible for any inaccuracies, omissions, or other egregious errors.

  Finally, I express my gratitude to my own family and especially to my wife Joyce for her work on the dust jacket, and whose constant encouragement always motivated me to continue writing. Her interest in my work was not without criticisms, which after careful consideration I realized were perceptive suggestions intended to make the writing stronger. I am also much indebted to my son, Sherod at Smiley Designs for his extensive work with the dust jacket graphics and the design and construction of the website, www.foxlanebooks.com.

  Author’s Note

  WHAT HAPPENS WHEN any of us takes that road less traveled? Whether by coincidence or choice every step taken requires courage and commitment. Discovering who we could have been is always possible around the next bend in the road. Although what we failed to be too often assaults relentlessly a remorseful conscience, we can still rejoice in the sunlight of a better tomorrow. There are no hallelujahs on the road to failure and regret, so put on your walking shoes and don’t just walk but run down a new road with dreams and possibilities tucked safely under both arms. Each footstep takes us closer to the realization that if we truly believe, the impossible is always possible. Leave yesterday where it belongs—in the past—and accept risks and disappointments as momentary obstacles that can be overcome by conviction and determination. It is in the sublime excitement of the present that we find ourselves tomorrow.

  T.T.

  The Road Not Taken

  By Robert Frost

  Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

  And sorry I could not travel both

  And be one traveler, long I stood

  And looked down one as far as I could

  To where it bent in the undergrowth;

  Then took the other, as just as fair,

  And having perhaps the better claim,

  Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

  Though as for that the passing there

  Had worn them really about the same,

  And both that morning equally lay

  In leaves no step had trodden black.

  Oh, I kept the first for another day!

  Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

  I doubted if I should ever come back.

  I shall be telling this with a sigh

  Somewhere ages and ages hence:

  Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I—

  I took the one less traveled by,

  And that has made all the difference.

  Chapter 1

  IN THE EARLY morning just after three o’clock the faint scent of flowers merged with another more pungent smell, much like the scent of heated paraffin. The blended aroma lingered for minutes in the cool air as strange images came to life behind a transparent veil. Still hazy, still vague, but gradually becoming undeniably distinct, three stiff people stood motionless in front of a large stained-glass window. Pasted to a full moon, which resembled a fiery hole in a bleak and foreboding sky, was a clockface with only the number 12 protruding and pulsing erratically—like the weakening beat of a broken heart.

  A man with a spiky black beard held an oversized book with both hands. He stared with narrowed, unblinking eyes at the man and woman in front of him. The young woman, dressed simply in a plain white dress, held a beating heart in one hand and a bright red rose in the other hand. The man beside her wiped blood from a long-bladed knife with a white handkerchief that he returned to his jacket pocket once the blade was clean. Entering through a crooked doorway was a frail girl clutching one arm of a faceless ragdoll. She handed the doll to the man with the knife and watched as he severed the doll’s head with one determined slash. The detached head fell heavily to the floor where it remained several seconds before the bearded man picked it up with hideously knotted fingers.

  Long and shiny was the needle that had suddenly replaced the knife in his right hand. The doll’s head was stitched to the doll’s body—where the heart should be, and after taking the throbbing heart from the young woman, slowly as though unsure of his actions, he sewed the heart to that place where he had severed the head. Smiling, the small girl took the doll from him and instantly began to melt into the wooden floor, at which time the man with the thorny black beard opened the oversized book to reveal blank pages, nothing but several empty pages dropping slowly, scattering haphazardly at the woman’s bare feet. Gnarled fingers snaked through a steamy mist, yanked the rose from her hand and shook it forcefully until each petal floated in the air. As the clock chimed loudly, the entire room began to shudder. Vibrations were so extreme that each of the three figures began to crack, as though they had endured too long the merciless wrath of an avenging God.

  As three fractured silhouettes watched in disbelief, the doll, whose head was a human heart, the doll that had melted into the wooden floor with the young girl, had left behind several wax letters, which shuffled purposely and with shocking precision into pithy sentences, one sentence piling
on top of another until the room filled with stacks of wax sentences. The ancient hand, wrinkled and misshapen, grotesque in its deformity, cast an ominous shadow across a room so severely inundated with decrees, principles, and judgements that suffocation seemed inevitable—until each page, every sentence, and the thousands of wax words were seized by those long, contorted fingers.

  In primordial moonlight, exotic words were the hot enticements that shaped illusion; but stoic determination compelled her to cover her ears with both hands. Eyes wide, breathing raggedly, the sharp seductive fragrances lingered long in each inhalation. Then, with the inevitable fear of the huge stained walls closing in, the woman whose faith had faltered could no longer keep her head above the sea of unholy water pouring in through an open window. The sacred book overfilled and choking now with too many consecrated words, its rigid covers warping and cracking, the spine buckling as water continued to rise in a cruel and merciless rain, she reached for the shaken broken book in an impulsive effort to keep it from getting wet, to prevent it from sinking into the purging water. Near her was the man with the spiny black beard. With two deformed hands already reaching toward her and distorted fingers attempting to secure the book of edicts and traditions, she gripped the manuscript loosely in wet fingers and raised it high above her head, only to feel it slip away. Her body relaxed as though it had given up, and reluctantly she submitted to the fate of drowning in a vortex of swirling, purling water.

  As he began to sink into sand too quick and deep to escape, his fingers stuffed into his mouth, the man who had transformed the faceless doll with a calculated slash, was heavily enclosed in black and was a shadow in those deeper shades of iniquity and shame. A piercing voice carried on a snappish wind was vehemently accusatory and resonated with cruel, acerbic words—wrenching reprimands made by a conscience brutally darkened by guilt. As the jagged edges of a broken moon scattered the stars, sharp spears of light impaled the book of rules, customs, and disciplines, and when he looked at his hands they were on fire. But in an extraordinary burst of exonerating light flashing icy blue on the summer horizon, an animated shape gripped his arm, pulled it so forcefully that he instantly experienced the peculiar sensation of falling from a sky filled with unbroken stretches of resolute, impenetrable clouds. While the Angel of Grief spread her wings across a darkening firmament, clock chimes announced tomorrow’s midnight hour, and in the town, yesterday was little more than a fading memory.

  Starlight, starbright, strangely blue on summer’s night

  Always there for him to see; but beware the sting of bee

  Chapter 2

  BENEATH A WHITE vinyl canopy, her face partially concealed by early morning shadows, the young Amish woman seemed in no hurry to interact with the dozen or so people who stood patiently under umbrellas observing the early morning activities around them. Aaron had seen her at the farmer’s market other Saturday mornings, and this morning during a persistent rain, he watched her move crates and cardboard boxes filled with produce. She arranged vegetables on long wooden planks, but left potatoes and apples in baskets under a wooden counter. When their eyes met coincidentally, she smiled slightly. It was not a smile seen in her eyes. Lines of light brown hair trailed out from under a black bonnet and stuck to her damp skin. There were moments when her pale eyes stared into the distance, when she seemed to be thinking fondly about something or someone. Too soon, and to his dismay, the woman turned away to wait on customers, heavy-eyed shoppers who resembled stiff sleepy shadows under this black and broody sky.

  For Aaron Fain, early summer mornings in rain were often extraordinary. Steamy fogs still hovering above the long pastures created a pleasant sense of isolation and escape, and the sound of raindrops striking the pavement sharply was strangely mesmerizing. As a young boy growing up in Southern Indiana, he had thought how carelessly promises were disclosed on rainy days. Rain always sang those promises boldly . . . bravely. With each raindrop came thoughts of living closer to Calvary—a virtuous time when purged guilt denoted freedom, another chance to inhale the fresh rare air of innocence. As puddles deepened, Fain wanted the cleansing rain running through his veins, wanted the sins of being human to dissipate; but even with this redeeming rain cold against his skin, he knew sins never suspended for long their ruthless attacks on a conscience already weak, already fatigued too severely.

  During those early years of their lives, Aaron and his brother Charlie were in church practically every Sunday, sitting with their friends, listening to a nervous preacher attempt to put a benevolent God in their lives. It must have worked for Aaron, because his belief in a deity was as strong now as at any other time in his life. Though he was not a member of a church congregation, he had attended a protestant church with some regularity—until Jane left. After that, the realization that his faith had taken a shaky and profane hiatus continued to weigh heavily on his conscience. Though he had not been to church since, strong convictions remained, and not once had he denied the existence of God. But God had a tremendous temper. God, although merciful, could lay down a curse on those who had strayed too far from The Word. Such a thought generated real fear in a man like Fain, a man who had relegated the sacred cannons of Christianity to secondary status behind personal ambitions.

  Sin was endemic in the genesis of humankind. It came with a sentence of mortality adjudicated in a Higher Court. To be human was to be a sinner. The idea that one sin was more serious than another was frequently contested among religious academics. But for Aaron Fain, sin was sin, and each sin required its own redemption. Although recovering sinners were determined to walk the straight and narrow pathway to salvation, there was some wobbling along the way, and requests for divine intercession were frequent.

  In the end, the faithful would survive. The Sunday morning crusaders marched to a resolute drumbeat, proclaiming their beliefs openly, unabashedly, while continuing to endure the sins of humanity. The Sunday morning hypocrites proclaimed a Sunday morning commitment that came up short on other days of the week. But Sunday would come again, and each time it did, strong-of-word but weak-of-heart worshipers had another opportunity to confess and be forgiven. Nevertheless, the rain was momentary consolation for this man who had wandered too far and too fast from the passion of Jesus Christ.

  As she put green beans into a plastic bag with wet hands, rain dripped from her fingertips. After wiping her fingers in the white apron, she reached down for another bag, which she immediately filled with radishes. A smallish woman held a black umbrella with both hands, as though she expected it to blow away at any second. But there was no wind this morning, only the music of rain.

  Nervousness apprehended him as he stood curiously in the rain only a few feet from her. Umbrellas passed in monotonous-gray, inky shades. The dampness in his shoes was suddenly perturbing. Still, he continued to watch the beautiful Amish girl whose smile seemed fixed on two delicate lips. When she saw him standing like a statue in this Saturday morning rain, what would she think? Holding an umbrella which he had not opened, Aaron was barely conscious of rain dripping from his hair. If she looked his way now, she would just shake her head and laugh him away—blink him right out of her life. But there was no reason at all for her to consider him in rain, in sunlight, not even in starlight. Realizing this, he shrugged his shoulders slightly. Aaron Fain was just another insignificant shadow on this stone-gray day.

  Many farms in the surrounding area were owned and worked entirely by Amish families. The farmer’s market was dependable income for them, particularly during summer and fall months. They came to sell fruits, vegetables, fresh breads, and pots of cut flowers. The numerous buckets and baskets of lilies, irises, geraniums, and cone flowers splashed a small brightness across the otherwise dreary weather. Very much a familiar portrait of life in and around Jasper, Indiana, rows of black buggies set against the rainy morning were images of another time and place. Like apparitions out of the dawn, they had moved in a slow methodical caravan toward the Dubois County Fairgrounds. To Fai
n, the overwhelming blackness of so many Amish buggies in the long shadows beneath the trees was reminiscent of funeral processions he had seen.

  On the surface of a puddle near him, Aaron caught her shimmering reflection—the edge of her bonnet a somber shade against the sky. As raindrops struck the puddle, her face became a series of undulating lines rippling across the water. The puddle was a mosaic of dull flat tones with a bright splotch of red lipstick reflected. Low on the eastern horizon, the sun white, inky hues veiling trees and fields, the morning had a distinctly melancholy feel. Closer to a brick community building enclosed in drizzly grayness, were several huge oak trees, their long leafy branches snaking out across the lines of Amish buggies.

  When he looked back at the young woman, who had just finished bagging carrots and apples, Aaron was surprised to see her looking at him. He opened the umbrella hurriedly and dropped the front edge low enough to conceal his face from her. Turning, and then walking a few steps nearer the building, Fain felt a shiver, a kind of icy spike in his chest, but immediately shrugged it off as nothing more than a chill brought on by cold rain. As he continued toward the building, which seemed smaller beneath the oak trees, the same thought persisted. He could not deny that he had come to the farmer’s market to see the Amish girl who weeks ago had been such an evocative stranger in his life. Why had he lowered his umbrella so quickly? Too soon, another more perturbing thought disrupted any euphoria that came when their eyes met. It was only an unintentional glance, nothing more than coincidence.

  Rain drummed heavily the tin roof of the pavilion. Looking out through a nearby window, Aaron watched the morning turn darker. If heavier rain came, customers would leave and sellers would be obliged to pack away their fruits and vegetables. If that happened, she’d leave him wishing for sunshine on this rainy summer morning. Even during contemplation, a 35-year-old man does not stare into puddles or regard too long a gray sky filled with rain. But Aaron remembered other summer rains when the world had fascination and magic that were genuine. All those rains ago, as Herbert Avenue filled with streams of water, he and his younger brother Charlie had splashed the puddles in yellow boots. They had sailed away to new adventures on small boats that floated better than either expected. Charlie was gone, and the loneliness never ended. He had taken the sunshine and left behind lonesome days that stuck thick and heavy to even the most extraordinary summer day.