"Church Leaders Face Charges"

He had gotten into the habit of getting up early in the morning. He usually rose around 4:30...well before the sun came up...depending on the season. He enjoyed the stillness and the quiet. He would brew one large cup of coffee in the drip machine that set on the kitchen counter-top and when it was ready, sit bare foot at their round oak table and read the "Standard". The article headline that had caught his attention that morning had been expected. It described how the leaders of a small fundamentalist religious sect by the name of the "Inheritors" had been charged with various crimes including receiving stolen property, assault and false imprisonment. There was a photo of them being led away in handcuffs. The thought crossed his mind that he might be subpoenaed to testify at their trial. It mentioned that a conviction on the more serious charges could get them a $20,000.00 fine and fifteen years in the State Pen at Bismarck. It could be that they might have to go for a while without their Beluga caviar and single malt scotch, he thought.

Life was slowly getting back to normal for his little family. They had lived with Kaydee's mother in Charbboneau for almost a year after "the event." It had worked out well for all of them. She lived in the big old farmhouse that their family had owned for years. It was spacious and provided plenty of room for everyone. He had spent the time doing some remodeling, installing a second bathroom, and replacing some siding boards on the old barn. Kaydee's mother had been so much help in caring for the twins. He had thought often about that late afternoon when he wheeled the Flamingo up the gravel drive to her house. Kaydee had been standing at the back screen door brushing her long black hair not knowing who it was driving up in this strange car. Then, after he had gotten out of the car, and taken a few steps towards the house, and recognizing who it was, she burst out the door and ran to him with arms wide open and tears streaming from her dark eyes. They had fallen back into the thick soft grass that grew in the front yard. They lay there embracing one another for a long time...eventually talking about what had happened...conveying how anxious they had been not knowing what had occurred or whether they would ever see each other again. Kaydee had been doing everything that she possibly could to locate him but her efforts had proved fruitless. They had held each other as they walked across the yard and up the old squeaky steps that led into the house. She had pulled away from him as they walked through the door. Kimimela, his mother-in-law, who had been standing at the window, had tearfully embraced him. "My son, my son", she had cried. Kaydee had walked across the room and had gently lifted a swaddled bundle from the crib that set near the picture window on the far wall. She smiled as she passed the bundle carefully to him. "This is our son"...she had said..."Eja". He took the tiny bundle and cradled it in his arm and gently pulled back the soft cotton cloth that surrounded the child's face. The sleeping child was the most beautiful thing that his eyes had ever fallen upon. It had been the most prideful moment of his life. As he held his first-born son in his arms, he felt all the pent up thoughts and emotions of what he had endured over these last few weeks come rushing in on him and he struggled to contain himself. It was then that Kimimela had approached him, carrying in her arms another swaddled bundle. "My son", she had said gently, "this is your daughter Chante". Kaydee had taken Eja from him while he took the soft bundle into his arms. They had been on either side of him, both embracing him as he stood there dumbfounded, gazing at the angelic face of his daughter who he held in his arms. Kaydee had laughed and said, "I told you that I had a surprise for you!"

It was about a month after he had arrived in Charbboneau that they had decided to drive to Antler and return Aristotle's old car. Kimimela was happy to care for the children. He had told Kaydee all about Aristotle and the generosity that he had shown him. She was anxious to meet this old man who had been so kind to her husband. It was mid December and the trip there and back would take them about eight hours. They left early one Saturday morning just as the first rays of light were breaking off to the east. He had started both the Flamingo and Kaydee's old Ford truck so that plenty of warm air was blowing from the heating vents. They had decided to travel north and cross the Missouri River at Williston and then head east to Berthold then north to Antler. After they had returned Aristotle's car, they would head home through Minot and stop at the "Blue Rider" for dinner.

They crossed the Missouri River on the Lewis and Clark bridge south of Williston and made their way into town. The bridge had been the largest infrastructure project in North Dakota history and as they crossed he gazed up and down the length of the slow moving river. They had decided to stop at "Gramma Sharon's" restaurant for breakfast. He had ordered blueberry wheatcakes with cinnamon and Kaydee had gotten Belgian waffles with whipped cream. Sitting there, he thought how wonderful it was to enjoy a delicious, hot breakfast with his beautiful wife. He thought back to the few weeks that he had spent in the "camp" and the things that he had eaten just to stay alive. He smiled and thought to himself that maybe with enough time he would not be able to recall the taste of boiled horse meat.

They headed north out of town on highway 2, and in about ten miles came to where the road curved off to the east. He remembered that Aristotle had related to him that it was here where both his mother and father had been killed in the accident with the log truck. He so looked forward to seeing the old man again. There was so much to tell and talk about. He imagined that by now, Aristotle had become informed of exactly what had caused this destruction that had visited their little corner of the world. He could imagine his knowing reaction as he nodded his head and puffed white smoke from his pipe. He could hear the old man say ..."Well son, I'll tell ya something that I've observed over my ninety some years...sometimes things happen that ya just don't understand...but as more time goes by there always seems to be a logical explanation come about." He had been right. There was a logical explanation for what had happened...not the superstitious thinking that he had been induced to believe.

They had stopped at the Cenex station in Berthold for gas and then headed north through Carpio and across the Souris Wildlife Refuge. It had been a beautiful drive across this fertile land. They had traveled through the heart of the "central flyway" where millions of waterfowl pass every spring and fall from their nesting grounds as far north as the arctic and their wintering grounds as far south as Central America. He observed that in just about every pothole or creek that they passed, there were a few Canadian geese or green headed mallard ducks sitting on the unfrozen surface of the open water.

It was quiet when they pulled into Antler that day. The first thing that he had noticed was although it hadn't been repaired yet, the damage to the Cabin Bar had at least been boarded up and made secure to the weather. He had wheeled the Flamingo up in front of the sliding galvanized metal door that led into Aristotle's garage and when he got out of the car, he saw that a note, written on yellow paper, had been stapled to one of the posts. Kaydee had gotten out of the truck and had wrapped her arm in his as he pulled the note from the post. It read:

"Hello son, I took off for my little farm in Westhope last Tuesday December 7th. If you happen to stop by while I'm gone, I sure am sorry...but we can meet up again sometime I'm sure. We had quite a caravan come through town a while back. I haven't seen that many green vehicles since I was in Camp Roberts! They was just checking on people and helping any that was injured. They was good young fellas..all of them. I told them I was fine and doing alright. They left me some canned food and some rice and beans and a big ol' block of "government cheese". I'll be danged if they didn't have some pipe tobacco too. You can just pull my old car inside and lock the door with the padlock. There's a gallon jug of the homebrew in the fridge... help yourself to a glass or two. There's a brick in the wall just to the right of the back door that's not mortared in. Slide it out and there's a key to the door under it. You can even spend the night if you need to. Them soldier boys even filled my propane tank so just turn up the thermostat if it's too chilly. Just don't leave any of those empty Pabst cans laying around..haha...P.S. ..we got a lot to talk about what happened...oh...and your little pony is doing just fine...I borrowed the neighbors horse trailer and brought her back here to Westhope...your friend Aristotle Brumby.

Van had taken Kaydee inside the old man's "cabin" that day. She had been fascinated by Aristotle's collections. She was especially interested in a ceremonial pipe that had been carved from catlinite. It had been carved in the form of an owl with a flattened stem formed from ash wood and had been decorated with dyed horse hair and porcupine quills. She told him all about how the stone had been named after George Catlin, who, she said, was the talented nineteenth century painter from Pennsylvania who had created so many beautiful paintings of the plains Indians and life on the western frontier. She told him how the best stones came from a quarry in Pipestone Minnesota. She knew so much about her culture and the unique customs that had been passed on down through so many generations. It was obvious to him as he sat and listened to her that this was what she truly believed in. He remembered how, when he had told her about what he had experienced in the days soon after the "event", she had gotten a profound look of sadness on her face. It had bothered her. She hadn't said much...only, "My people are not like that". He regretted ever encouraging her to join him in what the "Inheritors" had induced him to believe.

They had taken a walk around Antler that day. They had dressed warmly and although the temperature hovered around fifteen degrees, there was no wind and the sun was out which made for a pleasant walk. He had shown her the "Cabin Bar" and she had smiled when he told her about the bar tab that he had racked up there and that someday they would stop again and settle up. They walked past McLaughlin's Store with the unique pentagonal window and then north out of town to the little graveyard by the creek. They had stood there for quite a while...it had been so quiet. Walking amongst the old gravestones and markers she had closed her eyes and whispered words in her language that he didn't understand. They had treated themselves to a cold glass of Aristotle's homebrew and although they had considered spending the night there, had decided to travel home to Charbonneau the same way that they came.

It hadn't been but a few days after they had returned to Charbonneau when the cold winds had swept down across Alberta and Saskatchewan from the icy storehouse of the Canadian Rockies. It was the kind of cold that gave your footsteps that sharp, squeaking, crunching sound and formed a frozen crust on your beard from the exhalation of your breath. The kind of cold that burned your lungs and made your nose go numb. For ten days straight the ice and snow had fallen from the sky drifting the roads and piling up in front of the porch steps. Every other day a McKenzie County plow truck would rumble by keeping the road passable. His late father-in-law had kept a John Deere model A affixed with a snow plow in the tool shed east of the house. He had installed two types of engine heaters in the old tractor. One was simply a replacement dipstick with an electrical element that kept the engine oil warm and the other was an engine block element that kept the engine coolant warm. With a shot of ether starting fluid, the old tractor would usually fire right up. It had kept him busy that winter...keeping the drive plowed out and the vehicles running. About every other week they would either drive to the Supervalu in Fairview or over to Jack and Jill's grocery in Watford City for their shopping and whatever supplies that they needed. He had ordered a trailer load of ponderous pine logs that he cut up with his chainsaw and fed into the outside wood boiler that had been installed west of the house. It heated the water that circulated through a heat exchanger inside the plenum of the furnace. He would stoke the boiler every morning and late afternoon and it had kept his little family warm and comfortable those long winter months. He had thought often about Aristotle and had decided in the spring when the weather was milder that they would make the trip again to Antler for a visit, and if he wasn't there they would drive to Westhope and hopefully find him at his farm.

It was towards mid April when the arc of the sun had climbed higher in the sky and the icicles hanging from the eaves pattered a steady drip that splattered at the base of the stone foundation of the old house. He had been sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of hot coffee and a warm, buttered slice of Kimimela's homemade bread. Sunlight was streaming across the old table from the windows that faced to the south and the warmth that it brought to the kitchen was welcomed. It was just a few minutes past ten when the postman had pulled up in his canary yellow Wrangler and stopped at the mailbox at the end of the driveway. He had set there for just a few moments but then had reversed and backed-up the length of the drive until he was close to the house. By that time Van had his boots on and had shuffled off the porch to meet him. "Gotta certified letter for ya Van...ya gotta sign for it"...he hollered. Old Oskar had been delivering mail in McKenzie County for almost thirty five years and he talked loud because he was profoundly hard of hearing. Van signed for the letter and thanked him. Oskar smiled and shouted, "Not long till spring!...Stay warm!" ...and he gave a wave and a honk as he sputtered down the drive trailing blue smoke. Van tossed the copy of the Minot Daily News and the light bill from the McKenzie Electric Co-operative on the table when he came back inside. The letter was from the Niklaz Law firm in Minot. He had no idea what a law firm in Minot would be sending him a certified letter for. He took the butter knife that was laying there on the table and cleanly slit the top of the envelope. He unfolded the letter and began to read.

Dear Mr. Petrenko,

We are sorry to inform you of the recent passing of Mr. Aristotle Brumby of Westhope North Dakota. Some time ago Mr. Brumby made arrangements with us for the dispensation of his estate and has named you as a beneficiary. Please contact our office when it is convenient for you and we will make the arrangements to fulfill Mr. Brumby's wishes. Please be assured of our warmest condolences.

Alexa Niklaz / Niklaz Law / Minot ND

After reading the article about the "Inheritors" he had folded the newspaper and laid it on the table. Everyone was still asleep and the house was quiet. He poured another cup of water in the coffee machine and added one level scoop of coffee without changing the paper filter, and after a few minutes, when the machine had finished burbling, he poured the black coffee into his thermo cup and quietly stepped out the back door. A motion sensor tripped the flood light mounted on the outside wall and illuminated the south side of the house. It was nice in that it helped him find his way across the yard without stumbling into something. He thought that he would sit in the shed, in the quiet of the morning and watch the sun come up, like he had for so many mornings before. Just as he reached the door of the shed, a timing switch had turned off the flood light on the house. He had wired the shed a few months previously...installing a small sub-panel for a few circuits and lights. He would often come out here to tinker on things or just to sit and read. The shed was pretty much just how he had left it on the morning that they had started out for Antler. The leather harnesses still hung from the rafters...the small cast iron wood stove against the back wall, and the hand tools hung orderly above the workbench. The table and chairs set as before...a kerosene light and the bed he had slept on. On the small table, still, the copy of "The Gulag Archipelago" that he had convinced himself that he would finish reading one day. He slumped into the old chair that set beside the bed and turned on the small table lamp with the crooked shade. He often just sat and shook his head...reflecting on everything that had happened to his family these last few months. Especially this twist of fate that had brought them back to this very same little farm where he had taken shelter for those long, few weeks after the "event." Little did he know at that time just who the farm belonged to.

The young lady at the law office in Minot had told him how they had helped Aristotle with his affairs for many years. She had discussed with him how Aristotle had stopped in one sunny afternoon last January and had made the arrangements that named him as the beneficiary of his estate. He had smiled and related to her about having out-lived his family and just about everyone that he ever knew. He had two granddaughters living far off in Florida that he hadn't seen in years. He knew that they were both well off. One of them and her husband owned a hotel in West Palm Beach and the other owned a brokerage firm in Miami. He had talked about his friend, Van, and how this young man had fallen on some difficult times and how he had decided that he couldn't think of another person that deserved more of a little help than him. They had also assisted Aristotle with the arrangements to have the damage to his property repaired. Farmers Union Insurance had taken care of hiring a contractor for the site clean-up and within a few months they had poured a new foundation and set a brand new three bedroom modular home with a gas fireplace. An Amish crew from Rolette County had come in and had re-built the damaged end of the old barn and replaced the entire gambrel roof with new sheets of galvanized metal roofing. She had told him how he had taken in stride the loss of his old farm house. He had managed to poke around a bit, in the rubble, and salvage a few things that hadn't been consumed by the flames...a silver nugget from a mine he had worked at in Nevada, a handful of old coins that he had collected, and an old brass compass from the Marble Arms & Manufacturing Company from Gladstone Michigan. Those things had been left on the table that set in the middle of the room along with a partial foil pouch of Prince Albert tobacco and a worn corn cob pipe. A neighbor, Ivo Svendsen, had stopped by that morning. His wife Hela had fixed up a container of her original Klubb and ham recipe that Aristotle loved so much. Ivo had found him behind his old truck on the backside of the barn, near the wide opening that led into the stalls. A feed sack full of grain lay there next to him. The emergency responders had concluded, that most likely, the lifting of the grain sack from the bed of the truck had caused a strain that was too much for his old heart to handle.

He sat there and thought how all the time that he had been taking care of his family in Charbonneau those frigid months, he had been oblivious to all that had passed back in Westhope. The National Guard had set up a type of morque facility in town. The nearest funeral home in Bottineau had been destroyed in the "event." They had a small ceremony there for him. Ivo, his wife Hela and a few of the guardsmen had attended. The young guardsmen had become aware that he had fought on Okinawa and spoke in subdued voices amongst themselves about what that experience must have been like. He had been dressed in his favorite bright yellow shirt and was holding his stovepipe hat with the monarch butterfly pinned to the side. He was buried next to his wife in the Westhope Cemetery on an overcast day in February.

The first faint glimmers of light were becoming apparent off to the east as he looked out through the old single pane windows across from where he sat. He thought that it was going to be a beautiful clear day. There was a rhythmic scraping sound coming from the door. The top section of the Dutch door must have come unlatched and Fireball had pushed it open with her nose. She stood there with her head inside and pawing the concrete slab outside the door with her hoof. She had learned how to unlatch the door to her stall in the barn. That was something, he thought, that he should probably put on his list to fix today. She had let herself out a few days ago and had helped herself to about a half row of snap peas and a dozen ears of ripe sweet corn in Kaydee's garden. He smiled, remembering that he had heard Lakota words that day that he had never heard before. "I know what you want, you big mooch"...he said as he got up out of the chair and walked towards her. On the window sill next to the door was a partial box of Domino sugar cubes. He took two and held them out to her in his open hand and she took them with her fat, soft lips and crunched them down...bubbly saliva dripping from the corners of her mouth. "The old man was right...you're just a panhandler...but we both made it home didn't we"...he smiled. He scratched her on her broad forehead and around her ears. She shook her head and blond mane and the string of bells that hung from her neck made a beautiful melodic sound.

"The end"

Thanks for reading my story.

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