Where Lies Hope

If you know where to look, and if you are one so inclined as to search, you will find them.  They are though not where one would expect to find them and are thus generally overlooked by even those few who have been out to where they lie, those few who have inadvertently stumbled upon their final resting place; for they do not inhabit the small but crowded field where the others of their day now reside but were placed, with purpose and intent, apart.  And it was not for any reason light or trivial that this placement was so made as their parents, specifically their father, with intent to soothe the increasingly troubled soul of his wife, chose this particular plot.  The love of a mother for her children is great and the duty of a man to his wife no less.

Before the shadows that ultimately consumed rose from the depths which desperate men plumbed, Baird’s Holler promised a boom near unprecedented in the infant mining communities deep in the mineral rich mountains of central Arizona.  Down a lost detour off the now nearly vanished trail history remembers as the Senator Highway, this forgotten town had sprung forth in the last pine forests at the back of the Bradshaws before that range gave way to the high scrub desert emblematic to the imagery the territory most brings to mind.  Unlike so many of the other towns that sprang up like mushrooms only to wither, stunt and fade, Baird’s Holler boomed and boasted, by the end of the town’s second year, over a thousand residents living up and down Bajazid Creek and its tributaries.

It was into this bucolic scene that Hugh Goff moved his young wife and their two year old son.  Goff had worked for a year in Baird’s Holler as an engineer with the Mortenson Mining Company helping to establish what would be the largest single operation during the days of the boom prior to sending to the young territorial capital for his family.  Goff had laid claim to a small plot of land on one of the more secluded of the small canyons that wound from the convergence of the three creeks which anchored the town.  Here, up past the Spotted Jackal… (who could ever give reason to the names prospectors chose?)…Goff had built for his bride a small, comfortable house.  Such was his love that he could not endure even one night within a common house for his wife and so he had held off sending for her until her new house was habitable.  Baird’s Holler, even so young, had already developed a reputation for rambunctious drinking and brawling and the brothels were plenty and plentiful.

To the credit of the citizens of Baird’s Holler, the steam released by the miners was balanced by the establishment of many civic minded organizations and projects.  A mission was established which shortly was dominated, to the astonishment of the Irish priest, by parishioners with whom he had no common language.  A Baptist church and a church for the Methodists sprang up in opposition to each other at a crossroads.  The Latter-day Saints were quickly erecting a temple of stone in Deseret Grove; a place which in no way at all resembled a grove.  The Pentecosts were not content to limit their faith to a barn, a house or a church but instead that outspoken minority preyed on the common houses, public places and even, gallingly, public houses and others with less repute.  On Saturdays, if you listened close, a ram’s horn could be heard from up past Miller’s Strike.  Of the small but significant population of Chinese laborers living in the town, the great majority of the citizens of Baird’s Holler would have been at a loss, even if they would have deigned to give thought to such an idea, where and when and for why that community chose to meet.  It was noticed though, and commented on by many, that none could recall seeing any Yavapai, or for that matter any local Indians ever even in the region.  This, the townsfolk all agreed upon, was a good omen.

Hugh Goff had done well.  His wife was pleased with her new house and with the love and devotion which built it; and accordingly, nine months later the Goff family increased by another son.  Life on the frontier is expectedly difficult but Baird’s Holler proved more forgiving than most such towns in that the flood of ore had attracted, along with all the usual elements which flow in the wake of a mine striking rich, a small but close knit collection of families.  A young mother need not commiserate with silence her toils and joys but had many a ready ear with which to share.  And thus two more years passed for the Goffs and for the town, both of which by that time had yet again increased.

In the backwash of the boom, barely noticed at first, floated the remains of things men preferred not to dwell on.  As the riches extracted from the Bajazid creek environs outshone and outweighed that of even the most successful neighbors, tragedy followed in equal amounts.  From lone miners boasting strikes unparalleled one day and vanishing the next, to violence in the bars, streets and brothels far beyond the expected levels such a raw, booming town might safely claim, a level of fear and fatigue began to permeate the very soil and soul of the community.  Sermons spoken from pulpits excoriated the excesses apparent, those of licentious living and lustful behavior and greed while their coffers clinked in the very currency so condemned.  A gallows had been erected behind the new courthouse and no small number of cold murderers and thieves had made its acquaintance; but still that seemed not a deterrent. In the bunkhouses and around the many campfires that dotted the deeply wooded canyons, superstitions were taking hold and tales one wouldn’t feel safe uttering loudly were whispered of things thought glimpsed in the depths.  The civic minded continued to hold their parades and their picnics, games and competitions still were held with equal élan; just something underneath gnawed at the fragile felicity.  Still, optimism reigned as ton after ton of rich ore fueled the passions that challenged men to live at the edge of the world.

It was into this slightly unsettled atmosphere that the birth of Hope answered the prayers of Hugh Goff’s wife one cold winter night for a daughter was her secret hope and her prayers had, as she had so fervently petitioned, been answered.  Hope has always been the watchword with a birth on the frontier and thus the christening reflected the spirit.  For six months, Hope grew stronger.  She was active, alert, and most of all, joyful.  Her smile had the power to melt a heart or sweep away any unpleasant news which drifted up from the town or the mines that served it.  Then one day when the monsoon clouds threatened from the south, Hope stopped smiling.  Her expression became dyspeptic and shortly signs of illness became apparent.  The doctor was called for and he called for yet another as he found himself at a loss to explain the child’s condition.  Neither physician was able to pronounce a diagnosis for Hope’s condition was unlike anything they had ever encountered.  The only outward physical symptoms were what looked like a shadow hiding deep in her throat and a cold clamminess to her skin.  Within two weeks from the onset of her despair, Hope, too weak to even grasp her mother’s finger, died.  With his wife weeping, her two sons held close in her arms, Hugh Goff placed Hope’s little body within a small coffin the undertaker had hastily prepared and buried her beneath an oak behind the house he had built for his bride.  A small stone, with proper dates and eternal sentiments, was delivered to the Goffs; a gift from the Mortenson Mining Company and carved by Goff’s closest friend.

Let it never be said that Mrs. Goff neglected her sons for even a day.  The frontier breeds strength and though she had lost a child, she knew that such a fate was all too common and that she had only look to the nearest cluster of cabins and cottages to find similar tales of loss aplenty.  The frontier breeds strength and Hugh Goff’s wife was strong.  She devoted her time and attention fully upon her sons, neglecting without noticing the social circle she had built in her years in Baird’s Holler.  In truth, her friends did not notice too greatly her increased absence and withdrawal from social intercourse as the year had been a hard one and had she not been so enrapt and then bereaved with Hope, she would have noticed that her friends were withdrawing of their own accord.  Still, this mattered not for her life became fully centered within the confines of the house her husband had so lovingly built and at night, under the covers as the two boys slept nearby, she would exchange soft whispers with her husband; dreams of another child began to grow.

It was when the monsoons again gathered in the south and the mushrooms sprang up from the warm, wet forest floor that a different cloud gathered over the Goff household.  A year to the day Hope fell silent, Hugh Goff’s younger son began behaving oddly.  At first it was a general listlessness but by the next morning it was obvious something was wrong.  Again the doctor was called and again his verdict was uncertain; it was as well singular for the other physician had hung himself that winter leaving behind a note rife with cryptic ramblings none could discern.  Terror gripped the Goff household and Hugh was missed at the mine for several days as he attended to both his rapidly weakening son and his frantically hysterical wife.  No outward sign beyond the general clamminess of the skin and a textural change in the pliancy of the flesh was noticeable other than the shadow that dwelt at the back of the throat.  The doctor was perplexed at this for he swore softly to himself upon examination of the shadowy substance under a glass that it bore a strong resemblance to mold spores and based upon this deduction, he ordered Hugh to thoroughly clean and scrub his house to eliminate any possibility of such a spore infection within the home.  This was a project undertaken with extreme vigilance by Hugh though naught was found of any possible source of contamination as his wife had kept their home as immaculate as a frontier household could be kept.  A search of the yard revealed nothing as well.

A week and a half into this nightmare, a new terror visited the Goff household; the eldest son showed signs of a shadow deep in his throat.  He was old enough to fear what he did not know for he remembered the way his baby sister faded away and was watching with the same fear as his little brother withered and soon died.  He knew what was his fate and while he was capable of such expression, he attempted to hold a brave face for the benefit of his mother and his father.  It can be said that it was almost merciful that the illness, this shadow which spread thick in his throat, dulled his senses for whatever pain or discomfort he felt seemed to pass in a growing haze.  His passing, two weeks after his brother coughed up a small, final phlegm of black sludge, was quiet, held tight in his mother’s weeping arms.  Presently two more stones, each carved with care, were placed under the oak behind the house that was built with so much love and promise.

Depression is a demon of singular design; the loss of a child is cruel but of a family, it is devastating.  In the months that followed the passing of her sons, Hugh Goff’s wife withdrew completely from all social contacts and secluded herself within the prison which had been her home.  Once a coalition of well-meaning ladies from her church gained entrance to her house in an attempt to draw her from the darkness she was gathering around herself.  When they made the mistake of trying to justify the deaths of her children as a part of some glorious divine plan, she rose up and thundered defiance to all that small coven deemed holy.  That served as a final break in any further acceptance into the assembly she once coveted as the gate-keepers of certainty are eternally loathe to forgive any such slight to their moral superiority; thus Mrs. Goff was never again troubled by the conditional concern of the shattered circles she once called her own.  Excommunicated, she withdrew further and further under the troubled and caring watch of her husband.  At night, when the last candle had been extinguished and the blankets drawn up tight, no whispered hopes of children to be broke the silence.

It was the on the night of the first hard snow of the season when Hugh came home from the mine and found his bride sitting listless before the dwindling fire.  She did not respond to him as he spoke to her while stoking the fire though that was not odd being she often kept quiet when spoken to these days.  It wasn’t until he wrapped her blanket tighter around her that fear gripped his heart; his hand had brushed hers and his shudder reflected the cold, soft, clammy feel of her flesh.  With horror he looked into her eyes and saw they too now held a texture not dissimilar to that of damp mushroom with the pupils, unreflective pinholes.  Carefully he opened her mouth and tears immediately flowed in great, heaving gasps as he saw not just a shadow but a distinct mossy growth fully spread throughout her mouth.  Without a word, Hugh Goff reached above the mantle and took down the shotgun.  He leaned forward, his tears falling on her hands, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.  Then he stepped back and squeezed the trigger.  

There are some things which are too great to bear.  The shot entered just above the left eye and removed a whole quarter of her skull.  To his horror, Hugh saw no blood, no bone, no brain in the trail of the blast for such a horror he was braced.  A substance the consistency of smashed fungus clung to the wall and Mrs. Goff, with no change of expression, simply blinked.  Without a wasted motion, Hugh drew the pistol all men carried for personal protection in this town slowly turning to rot and placing it to his temple, fired.  Yet there are some things which must be borne even when nature itself screams out in protest for the bullet, though fatal, was not immediately so and from the pool of his blood on the floor, Hugh Goff saw, through dimming vision, the skirt of his wife’s dress move.  Then, unmistakably, he felt himself pulled and lifted and then released as the room blurred and spun.  Before his sight fully failed, before his senses ceased him, he saw his wife above him, her head a shattered nightmare, leaning down as to if to kiss him goodnight.

The storm had been unusually hard for so early in the year and allowances were made for those who might not be able to escape their doors but after the fourth day, a delegation was sent from the Mortenson Mining Company to check on the Goffs.  The four men, all close to Hugh, forced a door that showed no sign of having opened since the night of the storm.  They found Hugh and his wife lying together on the covers of the bed.  Her head revealed her fate and the shotgun on the floor the reason.  His head as well told his fate and the frozen trail of blood from the floor to the bed his tale.  What shook their nerves was the blood on her sleeves and the question of how it must have gotten there when her own wound, and her remains on the wall, revealed none of her own.  Most unsettling of all, in the center of Hugh’s forehead, shaped in the perfect bow of a woman’s lips, a faint black dusting of mold hinted of one last act.  

Together the party went and roused the sheriff and informed him of the tragedy at the Goff residence before heading in silence to the mine.  In the wake of the sheriff, curious townsfolk drifted.  The human heart is always drawn to that which it fears most and the more morbid, the greater the draw.  When the four men returned from the mine, small kegs dragged on sleds behind them, a small line had formed outside the house and one enterprising local politician was selling entrance in notes and gold dust at the door to the eager vultures waiting.  The men from the Mortenson Mining Company pushed their way to the door, cursing and condemning and threatening the shameless huddle that didn’t withdraw quickly enough.  As the barber was rushed from the house it was discovered he had taken with him a small and meaningless treasure.  Enraged, the man who had carved the stones for the children demanded the barber return the stolen item.  The barber refused with a slur intended for the pair lying in state.  The crack of a pistol responded and the barber collapsed in the snow, dying but not quickly and with no one, not even the sheriff, moving to avenge or render aid.  With his intention clear, the Mortenson man indicated to the fat, pale, quivering and very compliant politician to hand over his profits.  Then the men from the mine went inside and together they soaked every inch of that little house once so full of love and life with kerosene, leaving the ill-gotten gains of the politician at the foot of the bed.  The immolation was complete.

The ground where that little house stood today is just a flat spot buried under a blanket decades deep of decayed pine needles and oak leaves.  No sign of the house remains but a loose pile of rocks where a chimney might have been.  No artifacts remain; no broken glass, no shards of china, no shapeless twists of rusted metal.  Nature takes back its own and on the Bajazid, nature has its own hunger.  Just this flat spot untouched by new growth remains, and an oak old enough to remember when there was hope.  And when the monsoons threaten from the south and the soil is wet with fresh fallen rain, in the shadow of that old oak tree, there you would find them; three moss encrusted stones carved with loving care bearing names, dates and eternal sentiments, and pressing through the soft soil around them, like claws grasping in vain, bright orange growths of fungus.