Quest

Quest

by: James T. Baker

A novel is a mirror walking down a road.

Michael Ondaatje

Green Hills Press at Smashwords

Nashville, Tennessee

www.greenhillspress.com

Quest: Smashwords Edition

© 2007 James T. Baker

ISBN:0966131746

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published with the services of Grave Distractions Publications www.gravedistractions.com

Cover and eBook Edition Layout: Brian Kannard; Grave Distractions Publications

Also by James T. Baker

Thomas Merton: Social Critic, 1971

Faith for a Dark Saturday, 1973

Under the Sign of the Waterbearer (a play), 1976

A Southern Baptist in the White House, 1977

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness, 1978

Eric Hoffer, 1982

Ayn Rand, 1987

Brooks Hays, 1989

Study Guide for Jackson Spielvogel’s Western Civilization,1991

Studs Terkel, 1992

Nat Turner: Cry Freedom in America, 1997

Eleanor Roosevelt: First Lady, 1998

Abraham Lincoln: The Man and the Myth, 1999

Andrew Carnegie: Robber Baron as American Hero, 2002

Holidays with Sundae: Conversations with my Cat, 2002

Instructor’s Manual for Cannistraro and Reich’s The Western Perspective, 2003

Documents in American Religious History, 2005

Peter Peacock Passes, 2010

Prior Knowledge, 2010

Sex and Bondage in Three Colors, 2010

For more information about James T. Baker's other works,visit www.greenhillspress.com

Table of Contents

Gemini

Epimetheus

Hera

Icarius

Hades

Adelphus

Prometheus

Theophilus

Hephaestus

Athena

Aphrodite

Aesclepius

Zeus

About the Author

Gemini

The man in the Ford pickup truck saw them from two hundred yards off: first as dots of red and blue; then closer as flitting, fluttering pieces of human debris blown along by a rising wind; then as he got close enough to begin slowing down, as boys. The road was straight and flat, and the moon was full above the hot night, and he had good eyesight for a man his age.

He could see by the way they carried themselves, the way they walked hunched forward, the way they glanced over their shoulders at his headlights, the way they hesitated between walking on along the road and breaking for the trees on the roadside, that they were frightened. He could see by the way they kept looking at each other, as if neither of them knew what to do next, that they were not old enough to be on the road at night, even if they were as large as most men. He could see by the way they limped, the way they implicitly deferred with iambic regularity to unseen foot blisters, the way they rocked like toys with warped wheels, that they had been walking for hours, perhaps days, and that meant they were far from home.

At forty yards he began to slow down; at twenty he eased off the road onto the loose dry gravel that spilled toward the ditch; at ten he came to a soft stop. The boys stopped when they heard his tires go silent and stood stock still with their backs to him, caught like thieves in his dusty headlights. The songs of night creatures in the dry trees and shrunken ponds on either side of the road, momentarily hushed by human presences, rushed back to life, overwhelming the quiet mutter of his idling engine. With a sudden jerk the shorter boy started for the dusty undergrowth; but the taller boy caught his arm and wrestled him back, barking at the back of his head until he submitted. They turned in unison to face the truck and its driver.

The man could see that they were smart. The short one was smart enough to know danger, the tall one smarter, smart enough to know it was better to stand still than to run. The man rolled down his window and craned his neck out. You boys need a ride? He used the cold tone he used to address black men. They were white, but they were strangers. They blinked at the light, their jaws set. I say, ya’ll need a ride? This time his tone was softer, the way he spoke to white men. I’m goin’ on ‘bout ten mile if you wonta come. They stared at him in silence. Dust swirled around their legs. The tall one looked at the short one, and the short one shook his head. The man then spoke to them as boys. Come on, boys, git in.

The tall one came, and the short one reluctantly followed him. They came slowly, drawn by warnings to obey elders, repelled by warnings of adult perversions. They moved down the light pipes of settling motes as if in a corridor leading to a hangman’s platform. The man reached across and pushed open the passenger door. One a you can ride up here, he called. Other one’ll have t’git in the back. Again they hesitated, as suspicious as wild animals. Come on, then, the man said with a weary smile. I won’t eatcha. He sat back in his seat and looked up the road and gently raced his engine.

The tall boy pointed to the back, and the short boy left his pipe of light, went around and jumped in, and came to a squat by the back window. The tall boy left his pipe, momentarily blunted the other one as he crossed it, got in beside the man, and shut the door. He didn’t see the pressed blue suit or the grey hair brushed back without a part. He didn’t see the white Stetson sitting on the seat between them. He stared straight ahead, chewing his lower lip. The man did look at the boy, openly and for long, unhidden moments as he drove, and before they had gone two miles he knew what he needed to know. The boy had been a long time without a bath and change of clothes. He was covered with dust. He smelled of sweat and urine.

You boys been out for awhile, he said. The boy stirred uneasily at the question, but he did not answer. He stared ahead, his long legs rigid, his hands firmly gripping his high knees. Bout a week, I’d say. The boy’s knuckles worked up and down on his knees. They shone white in the light from the dashboard. Am I right? The boy bit deeper into his lip, then quickly glanced over his left shoulder through the back window. He’s awright, your brother, the man said. He meant to reassure but instead caused more fear. Kinda windy back there, but it’s a warm night. My darkies, they ride back there all time, even in the wintertime.

The boy nodded. The racial reference bridged a chasm between two white males. The man smiled and went on. Things must a been bad back there, back in. . .in Texas? The boy caught his breath, and the man knew he had guessed right. He had chosen west over east, and Texas was big enough to be likely. Had t’be, t’make ya’ll come all thisaway. He watched the boy knead his trouser legs. Most boys come by here, they goin’ to Texas.

The boy’s lips parted. We’ll. . .we’ll be stoppin’ now. He raised his arm and pointed. Up there. . .tha’s our road.

The man sat forward and stared. Up where? What road?

That one. The boy’s voice was distant, befogged.

One on the right.

You mean by that big tree?

Yes, sir.

The man took his foot off the gas. He looked at the boy and smiled. You don’t mean that road. It don’t go nowhere. Jus’ makes a big ol’ circle ‘n’ comes back to the highway.

Yes sir, I know it, the boy said, trying to control the tremor in his voice. We live up there apiece.

The man touched his brakes. You do? Whereabouts up there?

It’s about a mile. He sounded desperate. You let us off at that tree, we’ll walk it.

What’s you boys’ name? There was no answer. See, I know ever fam’ly up that road. Bet I know your daddy. What’s ‘is name?

We’re. . . vis’tors. . .come t’see kinfolks. The tree was getting closer. The boy’s hands, still firmly planted on his knees, were shaking slightly.

Kinfolks? I bet I know ‘em. Who? The boy swallowed hard, and the man went on. Wait. Don’ tell me, lemme guess. Who’s got kinfolks in Texas? I know, the Fergusons.

The boy started to reply, to say yes it was the Fergusons, but he realized it was a trick. He knew there weren’t any Fergusons up that road; the man had made up the name. He was caught in the man’s web, like a bug, waiting for the spider to bite him. The man chuckled, nudged his gas pedal, and drove on. The big tree and the dirt road came and went. The boy looked out the window, trapped. Now, the man said, why dontcha be honest? You boys runnin’ away. He cleared his throat and swallowed. You don’ have t’worry ‘bout me tellin’ nobody. Fact is, I might be able to he’p. He paused. Ya’ll need a place t’spend the night. Need food, a bath, some clothes. I live up the road. . .

No.

. . .five, six mile. You’re. . .

No!

. . .welcome t’stay. . .

No! the boy said loudly. No, sir, he said softer, trying to control himself. Soon’s you git where you live, you jus’ let us off. We got a long ways t’go t’night. We don’ want a be stoppin’ nowhere. . .

But I can. . .

No! The boy breathed heavily. He cracked his knuckled on his legs. He sucked at the sharp tips of his thin mustache.

I see, the man said, using a tone he used with white women. Got t’be goin’ on then. Well fine, tha’s fine, you know best. The moon popped out now and then through the trees, casting occasional pools of light on the road. They passed through three of them. I was jus’ thinkin’, though, you ain’t agonna git too far t’night. You’re too tired, too hungry. You’ll jus’ stumble on for a mile or two ‘n’ fall out under a tree. Be better t’git some supper, sleep in a bed, take off at daybreak. He spoke to the boy as he would to a child. I live on up here, nice big house. Got a bedroom where I put up guests, got two beds in it. I live there by m’self now, nobody’d know you was there.

The boy was silent and still. The man reached over and patted his hand gently. When the boy didn’t respond, he moved his hand to the boy’s knee. It was lean and knobby, and it jerked lightly under his touch. He felt the boy trembling, and he felt pity for him. He rubbed a circle on the leg while the boy sat staring ahead. He removed his hand and put it back on the steering wheel. Law know where you are? he asked. He once again heard the rough, raw breath, the brittle flexing of muscles, the brush of the boy’s tongue on bristles. He let the steady rhythm of the tires create a hypnotic trance. Whatch ya’ll runnin’ from?

The boy abruptly turned toward him. We’re not runnin’ from nothin’! he said. We’re lookin’. . .for somethin’ we lost.

"That right? What