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The Secret of The Sky
The Secret of The Sky
The Secret of The Sky
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The Secret of The Sky

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"When a stick is broken, it cannot be made whole again." —a Modoc Indian saying

Long ago, visitors from the stars came to Earth and landed in an isolated valley in a place that would later be called Northern California. They came on a cosmic version of a walkabout, a rite of passage that pitted a young alien against the brave Modoc Indian tribe.

Things didn’t go the way they planned....

Now they come again. On a lonely winter night in that same valley, the city of Sconchin falls under siege by aliens on a mission of revenge. In a single night of chaos, it falls to the town’s young people to piece together the unfolding events and develop a plan to save their lives and the life of their town. In this edgy science fiction tale, classic themes mingle with new surprises to create a thrilling story of survival.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherDavid Teves
Release dateDec 14, 2018
ISBN9781370422081
The Secret of The Sky
Author

David Teves

My name is David Teves, and I am a storyteller. That's it, plain and simple. My writing falls under the domain of magical realism: sci-fi, horror, fantasy. I was born on the island of Kauai, in the Hawaiian Islands, the youngest of four children. In the 1950's we moved to California to the town of San Leandro across the bay from San Francisco. A lot of people claim they were a sensitive child, but I grew up thinking that the world around me was not real, and I lived my life as if I were a stranger to it. I dabbled with writing when I was young, but lacked the spark to think I might be able to do it reasonably well or that something might come of it. I married and raised two children. Then one day in the late 80's, almost out of nowhere, I began writing "A Matter of Time". My goal in writing has always been to create a thing of beauty. Even though many of my stories are dark, I have attempted to infuse in them a sense of wonder in this mysterious world. And with the writing I was no longer a stranger to life. Through the power of words, I was alive at last. It is my hope that you will enjoy my writing. It is up to you to decide if it is worthy. All I can tell you is that my heart and soul are in it--for good or for bad.

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    The Secret of The Sky - David Teves

    Also by David Teves

    Available in paperback or Kindle editions at Amazon.com

    A Matter of Time

    The Secret of the Sky

    Unexpected Pleasures (short story collection)

    The World War II Diary of Manuel Lemes

    Edited by David Teves

    The Lady of the Rose

    The Dreamers

    The Mystic

    The Hunters

    For Trish

    THE SECRET

    OF THE SKY

    A Novel by

    DAVID TEVES

    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

    incidents are either products of the author’s imagination

    or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events

    or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

    Copyright © 2018 by David Teves

    "When a stick is broken,

    it cannot be made whole again."

    MODOC INDIAN SAYING

    TABLE OF CONTENTS

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 13

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15

    Chapter 16

    Chapter 17

    Chapter 18

    Chapter 19

    Chapter 20

    Chapter 21

    Chapter 22

    Chapter 23

    Chapter 24

    EPILOGUE

    CHAPTER 1

    Sconchin Valley, California

    Friday, February 27, 5:07 PM

    Clutching the steering wheel so tightly his fingers were bone white, Charlie Adams suspected he might never make it out of the old green truck alive.

    Goddamn, he swore.

    The blinding rain made the worn windshield wipers all but useless, and as he navigated his way back down the narrow two-lane road, it seemed to be turning into a river. It had been foolish to go there alone, but it was too late for misgivings now. He wished like hell he had just gotten drunk and passed out in front of his TV as he'd done a thousand nights before. It might have been the first time in history that getting drunk saved a life.

    Goddamn, he swore again.

    Charlie chuckled nervously and licked his lips. Yes, a whole quart of Jack Daniels would do him fine right now. It would help him forget that the next few minutes might very well be the last minutes of his life.

    He peered over the dashboard and looked up at the treetops. He supposed it was the sturdy sugar pines that had given him a reprieve. The thick, needled branches prevented the beam of light from disabling the truck. Or even worse, he thought with a shudder.

    Charlie glanced into the rearview mirror, fearful of what might be sneaking up from behind. He was tempted to pull over and hide in the wet, dark forest and use the foliage and rain to protect him from harm, but he knew in his gut that the second the truck rolled to a stop they would be on him like flies on shit. His only chance was to make it to the county road and into town. They wouldn't follow him all the way there—would they?

    It began less than an hour before. He had just settled back to catch the Kings game on the tube when the damn antenna fell out of adjustment. He sat in his mother's easy chair watching the fuzzy reception, pondering his life and wondering when was the last time he'd watched TV sober. It had been quite a while. Two years next month to be exact. That would be the anniversary of the day Norma said enough to his bullshit, packed her bags and left for good. It was ironic, but on that day he had been too shocked to drink. Looking back, he wished he could have maintained that brief moment of sobriety, but it wasn't long before he renewed his love affair with whiskey.

    A year later, at age fifty-three, he moved out of his cottage in Sconchin and back in with his mother. It seemed like a logical move. Things were not going well in town since the mill closed, and the odd jobs he managed to scramble up took too much time away from the bottle. Besides, his mother was getting old. Living in the country was fine when she was young and had her family around her, but she was alone now and just a hair away from eighty. Her once jet-black hair was gray and thinning.

    Living in the isolated home with only his mother for company was fine with him. Sometimes he felt like he never wanted to speak to another human being again. The only thing that mattered to him was liquor and sports. The rest was just bullshit. That was why he convinced her to buy the fancy antenna.

    Six months later his mother died, leaving Charlie alone to feel sorry for himself. There was no way he'd move back into town. He was content with seclusion, living off his small pension and a modest inheritance, drinking his Jack Daniels neat and scanning the airwaves for a game. More than once he was tempted to look into one of them satellite dishes, but he never got around to it. Probably too expensive anyway. At least watching TV with an antenna was free.

    Charlie was certain he could live this way for the rest of his days, but as the months wore on, he came to the realization that he wasn't really living at all. His life was one dictated by an amber liquid, a life of blurred, drunken drives into town. He'd long been eighty-sixed from the Sawdust Lounge, Sconchin's only bar, so he was limited to weekly visits to Arnie's Liquors to stock up.

    Charlie was a lot of things but wasn't a fool. He'd lived over a half a century on this earth and liked to think he'd learned a thing or two. Like most drunks, he didn't want to admit that he was powerless over alcohol, but the more time he spent alone, the more time he had to understand that life might just be something more than the gap between birth and death. A strange thought began to creep into his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he should try to turn his life around. Perhaps it was time to try sobriety as an alternative lifestyle.

    It had been a typical Northern California winter day: gray, cloudy, and humid. The air smelled heavy with rain, but only a few drops had fallen on the Sconchin Valley. In the afternoon, the temperature began to drop, and Charlie was certain it would soon be raining like hell. If he was going to be cooped up in the house, he was determined to do it in comfort. Ten minutes before the start of the Kings game, he reluctantly got off his easy chair and went out to adjust the antenna.

    The first hint of trouble came as he carried his father's toolbox to the side of the house. He looked up at the antenna. For some reason the motor sometimes refused to rotate the damn thing, causing it to miss his favorite stations down in Sacramento. Maybe that was why that shyster Scott Jessen sold him the setup so cheap. Charlie had neither the knowledge nor inclination to fix it properly, but he could rotate it by hand. Wind and gravity would eventually push the sucker out of alignment so the procedure had to be repeated every few days.

    He pulled up the ladder he kept at the side of the house for such purposes, climbed up, loosened a bolt and began to turn the antenna manually. Suddenly, the sky behind him erupted with a golden flash. Lightning, Charlie thought, looking upward. This was not a good time to be fooling around with seven feet of metal.

    Better hurry, Charlie boy, he muttered. He returned to his work, listening for the thunder that would follow. Funny. It never came.

    Moments later, something else caught his eye. Charlie straightened up and stared. It was odd, but off to the north, a section of the sky was slowly rotating like water cascading down a drain. Then, a dark gray band of swirling clouds emerged from the vortex, weaving out to follow a path along the mountains that surrounded the valley. The rogue clouds moved quickly, shrouding the perimeter of the basin in a shimmering curtain of ominous darkness.

    Charlie watched, transfixed. Once the curtain was in place, a brilliant beam of light plunged from the middle of the vortex toward the ground, moving swiftly south over the verdant landscape. The mesmerizing beam gained speed, and Charlie came to the startling realization that if it maintained its present course, it was headed straight at him.

    Christ! Charlie shouted, throwing down his tools.

    Antenna forgotten, he skidded down the ladder and ran toward the safety of his house. The light caught him mid-way. Charlie's skin began to tingle, his vision blurred. He fell to his knees and covered his eyes and the back of his neck like they had taught him during the atomic bomb drills back in grammar school. Except this was no bomb. He could feel it penetrating his body, making him feel as if every atom was being taken apart, examined, and reassembled.

    Visions tore through his brain, fragments of buried memories, things he hadn't thought about in years, all rushing through his mind like a video stuck on high speed. Every hidden fear marched forth in a kaleidoscope of images. He cringed with terror and dropped to the ground howling for God to help him. Then, the images changed, and the face of every lover Charlie had ever known flashed through his mind. His emotions leaped from terror to ecstasy in the space of a second. Fear was replaced by an erection.

    As quickly as the frightening experience began, it was over. The light moved on, flying over the top of his gray-shingled house and across the emaciated woods on the other side of Kilgrad Road. Charlie, panting with exhaustion, managed to get to his feet. Was it a hallucination? Is this what happens when you stop drinking cold turkey? He looked up at the clouds searching for evidence of his encounter, but they had once again resumed their random order. His heart raced, and he was reeling from an intoxicating blend of fear and excitement.

    Slow down, Charlie boy, or you'll drop dead on the spot.

    He staggered to the front porch and looked toward the east, searching for the mysterious beam. His house sat on a narrow plateau just below the rim of the valley and offered an excellent view. His eyes scanned left to right starting at the town and moving toward the reservoir below the valley's western wall. Midway, he stopped. Fire? Did he see fire in Foxfire Grove? He blinked and looked again. Maybe it wasn't fire. There wasn't any smoke, only a pulsating glow coming from the clearing at its middle.

    Goddamn, he said.

    Charlie stumbled into his darkened house, barely noticing that the power was out, and grabbed the telephone. With trembling hands, he placed a panicked call to the sheriff's office.

    I tell ya, Lou, I saw a beam of light shooting across the sky, he yelled into the receiver. And I think it landed in Foxfire Grove.

    Charlie heard Lou Wilson whisper his name to Lou's deputy, Lionel Heath. The two lawmen knew about Charlie's bouts with drink and depression all too well. Lou had personally arrested him on a half a dozen occasions for public drunkenness and fighting.

    Charlie suspected that talking to the sheriff would be useless. Considering his past record, his credibility was close to zero.

    Charlie drunk again? he heard Lionel Heath ask in the background.

    As a skunk, Sheriff Wilson replied. Now he's seeing UFO's.

    The power's off all over the valley, Charlie, Lou said. It was probably some kind of surge. Why don't you just sit tight, lay off the hard stuff and wait for the juice to come back on?

    Goddamn you, Lou Wilson, I am not drunk, and this wasn't no damn power surge.

    Well, I don't know what else to tell you, Charlie. I've got more important things on the grill than chasing beams of light. Tell you what, if you're still seeing flying saucers in the morning, give me a call. And with that, he hung up.

    Charlie looked at the telephone angrily, but the feeling quickly passed. He didn't give a shit if Lou Wilson believed him or not. Something strange was going on, and sheriff or no sheriff he was going to get to the bottom of it. Looking at the peculiar glow emanating from the grove, Charlie didn't hesitate for a second. Something primal had kicked in, and for the first time in years, he forgot about feeling sorry for himself and decided to take matters into his own hands.

    He ran from the house, jumped into his ancient Ford pickup, and started down the drive to County Road G10. There, he would connect with Kilgrad Road, which led to the entrance of the grove.

    Foxfire Grove was named after the family that once owned most of the Sconchin Valley. The Foxfires had made their fortune in logging as the clear-cut hills surrounding the valley testified. The forests were mostly gone now, except for the grove's hundred acres of old-growth timber.

    Hollis Foxfire, the last of his family, refused to harvest the grove even when faced with financial ruin. He died broke five years ago. The mill limped along for another two years before it closed for good, and the grove was confiscated to pay back taxes. After much lobbying, the grove was designated as a park, but the money-strapped county had done little with the property except installing a few rickety picnic tables and chemical toilets.

    As Charlie drove, the sky darkened with the coming of evening and the increasing threat of rain, but he didn't notice. He was too wrapped up in his thoughts. The possibility of discovering something totally amazing nestled among the trees in Foxfire Grove rekindled a fire inside him, a sense of adventure he hadn't felt since he was a kid.

    He was on the county road less than five minutes before making the hard left turn onto Kilgrad Road. Charlie swore as the old truck hit the first of a dozen potholes, bouncing the truck off the ground. He ignored the potholes, sensing that time was growing short. He had spent a lifetime missing out on opportunities, and he was determined not to miss this one. Hell, even if no one believed him, he would know the truth, and that was one satisfaction he could take to his grave.

    The rain began just as the line of trees came into view. Charlie squinted out the streaked windshield as he passed the tangled barbed wire fence that marked the beginning of the grove.

    Entering the dense band of trees was like driving into a tunnel. Charlie flipped on the headlights and slowed on the narrow, twisting road that led to the clearing. He knew the grove well, having played there as a boy. He glanced around at the thick shroud of trees, wondering why the Foxfire family had held onto this piece of land even when their fortunes began to wane. Over the years he had heard tales whispered over too many beers on lonely winter nights. Tales of strange happenings in Foxfire Grove and the family itself. He never paid the stories much heed. The Foxfires had been an odd lot, plain and simple. In Charlie's opinion, most rich folks were.

    The clearing was as odd as the grove itself. As far as Charlie knew, the huge circular patch had always been barren except for a carpet of pine needles and deer shit. Some said that the grove had been used by the Modocs to make blood sacrifices that had poisoned the land forever. Others claimed that the Foxfires had cleared the trees for a mansion that had never been built. But if this story was true why hadn't the trees grown back? In Charlie's entire life, the clearing had never changed.

    Charlie drove as quickly as he dared, but as he neared his destination, he found his curiosity fading. Doubts crept into his mind. What the hell was he doing out here alone in the dark and rain?

    Power’s probably back on, Charlie boy. Go home and catch what’s left of the game, his mind pleaded. Better yet, break open that bottle of Jack you've been hiding from yourself under the kitchen sink and forget all this happened.

    Charlie licked his lips and considered turning around, but he stubbornly continued forward, hunched over the steering wheel, ignoring the thick drops falling from the swaying trees.

    When his wheels clattered across the narrow wooden bridge that spanned Crooked Pine Creek, he knew his goal was near. Ahead of him, the sugar pines were backlit by a bluish light that transformed the graceful branches into the claws of monsters. He reduced his speed, slapped off his headlights and made the final turn to enter the edge of the parking area.

    Sweet Jesus, he whispered, as his eyes tried to focus on the source of the light glowing through the rain-splattered windshield. Charlie had no idea what he expected to see. A flying saucer, maybe like the one in The Day the Earth Stood Still, perfectly round and silver, a marvel of an alien technology? Hell, he wouldn't have been surprised if he had seen that huge, metallic robot standing in front of it tall as a pine.

    But that wasn't what he saw.

    His first thought was that it was in the shape of a bell, but then he wasn't so sure. Its shape defied a frame of reference. It was half the size of the clearing itself. Its edges shimmered, making it difficult to define. It had no distinct color, yet it was every color of the rainbow, all at the same time. The light it emitted wasn't so much a glow as it was an aura that registered more in the deep recesses of his mind than his eyes. It was hypnotic.

    The air thickened, and a loud, roaring blast of sound rolled from the object. Charlie jumped in his seat with shock and surprise. He swore he saw radiating sound waves rushing toward him.

    Oh, shit, he cried, grabbing his head. His ears rang, and flashes of color screamed behind his eyes. His nostrils filled with the pungent odor of scorched metal and paint. The truck began to rock back and forth, and a voice deep within him warned that he was about to be trapped.

    Charlie peeked at the hovering blob with watery eyes. It was beginning to rotate on its axis, spinning faster and faster, edging straight toward him, casting a mesmerizing spell. He acted purely on instinct. If he were to escape he would have only one chance, and that chance was now. With one enormous effort, he forced his mind to clear.

    Charlie slammed the truck into reverse and crazily backed out of the parking lot, scrambling for the safety of the trees. Along the way the truck scraped against a guardrail, taking out the right-hand mirror and a rusted chrome strip, but he managed to navigate the corner, turn the truck around, and careen down the narrow road.

    You should have minded your own business, Charlie boy, he said

    To make matters worse, the rain was getting heavier, making his worn windshield wipers useless. As he crossed the bridge, he turned on the lights and caught a glimpse of muddy water skating over its surface as the narrow creek choked with rain.

    The sky lit up. It wasn’t lightning. The light was searching for him, throwing down a deadly beam through the tangle of trees. He pounded the steering wheel in frustration. It was crazy to have hoped he could make it back to town. That damn flying saucer will be on him the second he emerged from the trees. He had to act quickly. There was no other choice.

    Forty yards from the border of the grove, Charlie Adams skidded the Ford to a halt and threw open the door, thankful the dome light had died years before. He reached behind the seat and pulled out the heavy red toolbox he kept for emergencies. He fumbled open the lid, yanked out a hammer, and slid the toolbox across the floorboard until it rested against the accelerator. Then he put the gearshift into drive. Charlie jumped out, slammed the door, and watched the truck roll forward. The road was long and straight. If he was lucky, the truck might roll a hundred yards or more before one of the potholes pushed it into the pasture. That should keep 'em busy for a while, he hoped.

    A chrome metal flashlight had been in the toolbox for years. Charlie pushed the switch and prayed the batteries were still good. They weren't. Ain't nothing goin' to go my way? he wailed with frustration, hurling the flashlight into the darkness.

    Charlie looked around, trying to get his bearings. He felt like a kid again, sneakered feet running through the ferns and trees of the grove, chasing 'coons and trying not to get bit by Foxfire's dogs. Back then, he spent endless, lazy days exploring the grove's peaceful mysteries. He knew it then like the back of his hand. But it had been forty years since he had last roamed it. Could he remember the shortcut back to his home in the darkness and rain?

    He glanced back toward Kilgrad Road just in time to see the Ford veer into the pasture. Before it came to a stop, it was hit by a light of such brilliance that its old, rusted body glowed as if it were new. There was a creaking noise and the ancient truck began to rock back and forth on its springs. Then, hesitantly at first, it floated off the ground toward the awaiting light.

    Goddamn, Charlie croaked, backing into the cover of the trees. This was not the time to gawk. He knew in his gut that the danger was far from over, and every second he wasn't running was a second more the light had to find him.

    Charlie tried to let his feet do the thinking, hoping that navigating Foxfire Grove was like riding a bike; you never really forget, even after forty years, even in the dark. All you have to do is find Crooked Pine Creek, Charlie boy, he told himself.

    The creek meandered through the grove, eventually emerging a quarter of a mile west of Kilgrad Road, flowing into a cement culvert below the county road. As a child, Charlie often cut through the tunnel, using it as his private passageway to and from the grove.

    On the other side of the road, Crooked Pine Creek was joined by another, smaller stream that descended from the hills northeast of the valley. There, the two streams joined currents, eventually emptying into Modoc Reservoir five miles west.

    It was this second stream, jokingly called the Sconchin River by the locals that Charlie would follow. He thought back and imagined the trees growing along its bank that had once offered cool protection from the summer heat. Were any of the trees still there? Would they once again protect him on this rainy, dangerous night?

    Charlie walked quickly but carefully through the forest. He could hear the creek off in the distance, its swollen current echoing through the grove, making it difficult to locate. Shaking with fright, he skirted the rim of trees, avoiding open areas, his eyes searching for hidden dangers.

    From above him, he heard a grinding, twisting noise. Through an opening in the branches, he caught a glimpse of his pickup being hurled to the ground. It fell in a heap, its balding tires exploding on impact. The truck rolled on its side like a wounded elephant. Above, the light roared like an enraged animal, and the beam plunged down to resume its search.

    Charlie wondered if it could see him through the trees. What alien probes were tracing his steps, his very heartbeat? Fear welled inside him. He turned and ran blindly, dodging tree trunks and branches as best he could, flying through the forest with frenzied abandon until his foot caught on an exposed root and he plunged face first to the ground. Stunned, Charlie lifted his head and shook it. His cheek felt like it was on fire, and he was soaking wet. He had a vision of blood cascading down his torn face, but when he reached out to lift himself from the ground, he touched running water. He had fallen in the creek.

    Charlie cried with relief and rolled on his back, rubbing his bruised face and panting from exhaustion. But when he opened his eyes, the nightmare returned. He could see the light, now lower, moving silently above the treetops, changing shape, changing colors, searching for him.

    Oh, God. I'm gonna die.

    Charlie forced himself to focus on the surrounding woods. He wasn't sure how far he had run, but at least he had found the creek. Using it as an escape route would be risky, especially the open ground between the edge of the grove and the county road, a distance of at least a hundred yards. The grazing land surrounding

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