Listen, p.21
Listen, page 21
Liam cleared his throat. “You are offering me the job?”
“That’s correct. A number of highly qualified people applied, but the recommendation from the state director weighed heavily in your favor.”
“I’m flattered, of course, Mr. Rosberg.”
“We need a decision soon, Mr. Walker. There’s much to be done.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rosberg. I’ll let you know soon, and I am honored to be offered the position.”
Liam spent the remainder of the day organizing his material and packing his bags. Whatever his decision, he would be leaving Atlas for good. He checked his watch. He had an hour to make it to the Castle on the Hill to meet Eden. Though he was anxious to see her again, to congratulate her on her win, he was also saddened that she would no longer be a part of his life.
He stood at his window, as he had done so many times before, and looked out at the Castle on the Hill. It was a stunning achievement in its own way, a palace built of native stone, and under the direction of an Old World architect. It was anachronistic to be sure, so out of place in its prairie home, but it was the anachronism itself that defined it and made it the special place it was.
He checked his watch again. It was time for him to go. He opened the door and looked back at the room he’d occupied all those months. He felt like he was forgetting something, something important. He closed the door and made his way down the stairs. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was there in his head. Perhaps the walk to the castle would clear his thinking about what to do. Perhaps the gods would speak their wisdom.
chapter 38
The local newspaper reported that it was seven o’clock Friday when the service station across the street from the Castle on the Hill called in the alarm. The march wind was blowing hard, as only it could on the plains, and the smell of smoke was on its crest. By the time the first fire truck arrived, black smoke was boiling out of the castle windows and settling into the valley. The sunset had turned the color of blood.
Soon the fire raged out of control, its withering heat scorching the nearby trees and shattering the glass of the castle windows. Broken shards plunged from its heights and onto the backs of the firefighters. Bloodied and beaten, they backed away and then came at it again when the deadly glass rain had subsided.
More fire trucks arrived, more volunteers rushing in from every part of the county, but to no avail. Fed by the winds, the flames licked and soared into the sky, and the castle moaned under the withering heat. The fire rushed upward through the stairwell, and the first spirals of smoke issued from the turret’s arrow loops. One of the fireman thought he saw someone at the turret window, a hand or an arm waving for help, but he didn’t see them again.
The fire truck ladders were far too short and far too few to make a difference. It could no longer matter. More trucks came from the surrounding towns. Students stood on the sidewalk, their hands covering their mouths. Citizens of Atlas watched from their doorsteps, tears in their eyes, as the castle moaned and sobbed under the flames.
A valiant effort was made to save the library, to stave off the fire, to somehow rescue the thirty thousand volumes that had so proudly lined its shelves, but only a precious few were dragged from the blaze, smoldering and left to die on the sidewalk.
As night fell, flames issued out of every orifice of the castle. It was as a dragon with its eyes lit in the darkness. The great stones, so carefully chosen and carved, cracked like gunshots in the night. The castle groaned and moved under under the feet of those trying to save it. It was too late. Even as water sprayed from a dozen hoses, and men risked their lives against the inferno, it was too late.
Sirens filled the valley, a signal for the men to abandon their struggle. They gathered then on the grounds, their faces blackened with smoke, their lips blistered from the heat. And when the roof gave way, flames soared over them, and embers shot skyward in a dazzling finale. A great thundering rolled through the valley and into the hearts of the citizens of Atlas. And as the sun rose the next morning, there was but a skeleton, a hull, left to define what had been the pride and joy of Atlas. The Castle on the Hill was no more.
Men from the city came to dig through the ashes, to determine what had started the fire that had burned the largest and most remarkable building in the state. They poked and shoveled and made notes. Men in suits arrived from the federal government. There was talk of the WPA and how another building might take its place, one less ostentatious, but safer and more functional.
But bodies had not been found, the ferocity of the fire having consumed all in its path. On the third day, Willie Stone, an Atlas photographer, reported that an acquaintance of his, one Liam Walker, had disappeared, leaving with no word, and that he feared he had been killed in the fire. Nor could Eden Sawyer, a local broom factory worker and recent winner of the Smithsonian mural competition, be found. Willie Stone suspected that she and Liam Walker might have been in the turret in the final moments of the fire.
It was on that very day that the inspectors uncovered a man’s bracelet from the stairwell ashes. The name of Carl Martin was still recognizable on the bracelet panel. Not far away, a melted bottle of what appeared to have been thinner fluid, the type often used to clean artists’ brushes, was found.
The inspectors speculated that the fire might have been set by the same Carl Martin. He, too, had been missing since the fire began. Mr. Martin, a studio assistant in the art department, had recently suffered a professional disappointment that might have caused the irrational act of arson. The inspectors surmised that the stairwell, with its natural vacuity, may have trapped Martin when the fire spread rapidly upward and into the castle’s turret.
The fire chief stated that, given the size and temperature of the fire, it was unlikely that any bodies would ever be recovered.
epilogue
Willie Stone stood at the ruins of the Castle on the Hill. Naught was left but its skeleton, its crumbling stone walls and vacant windows. The smell of smoke lingered in the air, and the trees, now burned and wasted, stood with heads bowed in testament to the destruction. He walked to where the cornerstone still sat, though scorched and blackened, and thought about the day he’d helped install it there. He’d heard nothing from Liam or Eden since the fire, and with each passing hour, he was more certain that he stood now before their graves.
A few of the books that had been rescued just minutes before the library was destroyed were stacked in a heap at the foot of the castle steps. One caught his eye: Of Time and the River by Thomas Wolfe. It was the title Liam had mentioned to him once, the book he and Eden used for their messages.
He opened the book and found in it a note that had been lined out.
Meet me tomorrow, Friday, seven o’clock, usual place. I’ve news!
Under that was a reply.
I’ll be there on the money.
And below that, a final entry was left intact.
If you find this, meet me at the depot instead.
The conductor was just putting his step stool into the westbound passenger car when Willie got to the depot.
“Sir,” he said, “could I ask you a question?”
“Make it snappy,” he said. “We’re pulling out.”
“I have pictures here of friends of mine. I wonder if, by chance, you’ve happened to see them?”
The conductor held the photographs to the light. The engine whistle blew the departure signal.
“I saw them,” he said, climbing onto the car steps. “Said they were headed for Washington, D.C. Happy, you know, like the world was theirs.”
“Do you remember when?”
He leaned out the door as the train bumped away. “That Castle on the Hill up there was burning to the ground at the time. I’ll never forget that,” he said, waving off.
acknowledgments
Thanks to Cynren Press and its intrepid publisher, Holly Montieth, for the time, effort, and careful thought invested in the making of this book. Neither war nor pandemic could stop its production.
And thanks to my wife, Nancy, for her willingness to listen to endless chatter about plots and characters and ideas and for her efforts in keeping these things grounded in the real world.
And to my friends—you know who you are—thanks for always being there with kind words and encouragement anytime it was needed.
about the author
Dr. Sheldon Russell is the author of thirteen books and is perhaps best known for his Hook Runyon Mystery Series. His work has twice won the Oklahoma Book Award for Fiction, as well as the Langum Prize for Historical Literature. He’s received starred reviews in both Booklist and Publishers Weekly. The Insane Train was selected as one of the six best mysteries of 2010 by Publishers Weekly. A Forgotten Evil (Cennan Books) won the 2020 Spur Award for Best Western Historical Novel, Western Writers of America. A Particular Madness (Cennan Books) was selected as a Spur Award Finalist for Best Western Contemporary Novel of 2022.
Growing up on a cattle ranch in the Gloss Mountains of Oklahoma has given Russell insight into the power of place and man’s capacity for good and evil. His was a storytelling culture, a culture of humor and of hard times. A passion for narrative and history was inevitable. Russell and his wife, Nancy, a sculptor, currently reside on the home ranch in Waynoka, Oklahoma. Hobbies and interests include reading, collecting books, and gardening.
Sheldon Russell, Listen
