Kali's Regress



  KALI’S REGRESS

  Book 2 of The Bruinduer Narrative

  By

  J. Mark Boliek

  Copyright © 2015 J. Mark Boliek

  All rights reserved.

  Published by:

  Edited by: Rosanne Catalano

  Cover Art by: Lauren Gallegos

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Kali’s Regress

  Book 1: The Mahogany Door

  For:

  Mychal

  Always,

  Mark

  1 Kings 3:16-28

  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

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1

  One winter’s morning I found myself shuffling down the empty beach wrapped in a fleece jacket with the cool white sand tickling the bottom of my feet.

  I have always loved the beach during the winter, though I’m not totally certain why. Maybe it’s because there are no vacationers around that time of the year or maybe it’s because the fresh air whipping around the sand and across the waves, filling your nose with the smell of salt, and turning your thoughts inward as you snuggle in your coat. I really do not know, but I knew I was happy to be finishing my stroll and heading to the next destination on my self-appointed rounds, Warhead Dale.

  The newspapers called it “the Citadel by the Sea” less than four years back, when the most damaging storm this coast has seen since Hurricane Hugo hit. That uncommon northeaster, now affectionately known as “Northy Nick,” churned across our region, damaging quite a bit of property, turning some higher ground on our coast into swampland and some swampland into a sandy beachfront. The brutal storm then unexpectedly hung around, right off of our shoreline, for a full eleven hours until it finally dispersed, leaving its wake of destruction.

  During that tempest I was fortunate enough to be telling a very old tale to a group of twelve-year-olds. The tale featured some old friends of mine: Michael Peterson, JT Davis, Kali Logan, and our Citadel by the Sea.

  Unbeknownst to me and my dedicated young band of story listeners, old Northy Nick had a far more horrible aftermath in town than at the house. After my grandson James and I escorted our last guests through the iron gate on the morning after the storm, we surveyed the wreckage left around the grounds of Warhead Dale and quickly concluded that no major damage had been done, except maybe a few broken windows—if you consider that major. In the following week or so, we called workers to come and mend the grand old mansion’s minor bruises. By then, we had begun to understand the beating our town by the sea took.

  Athens Eden sits in a little nook on the coast and juts out into the ocean on a peninsula of sorts. Small barrier islands protect its cobblestone roads and quaint shops from the rising seas. But Northy Nick could not have cared less about those little defenders. He decided, in no uncertain terms, to rip inlets through some of the islands' dunes and then to eat away at the remainder of the coast. One of the beaches he devoured just happened to be next to Warhead Dale.

  Call it divine intervention or what you will, but the white sands off the old house’s back deck were spared any destruction. A strip of beach about three quarters of a mile to the north was not so fortunate. Old Northy Nick decided that sand needed to move, making a new basin to the fresh water river that flowed from the west. That one act of damage caused a huge ruckus in our booming, rustling little town.

  You see, the water table beneath the New Cape River provides the town with fresh water. The town’s government feared that the new basin created by the storm would cause sea water to empty into the river, making the water table, over time, brackish and undrinkable. They acted fast. Councils in a sordid spectrum of capacities met in gyms and municipal buildings throughout the region in order to come up with an idea for correcting the little problem Northy Nick had left us.

  I remember vividly standing in front of the town council and stating that I felt that we should leave what nature had given us and accept the fact that our fresh water now needed to come from a water table further up the river. We could easily have moved our water stations further west, where the water, not as tainted, would be easier to treat and, in some ways, more abundant.

  By my calculation, it would have been cheaper than what the council did do.

  I believe that people try to keep things the way they are. For some reason, if something bad happens, no matter what it might be, people blame bad planning or lack of preparation instead of the actual event, whether it be random or designed by powers beyond their control.

  Surprisingly, a majority of the council voted that the town should spend many thousands of dollars in “repairing” the new basin created by Northy Nick. A team of engineers came out, assessed the issue, then, in turn, requested bids from other companies that had the wherewithal to tackle the problem. I am disheartened to report that the so-called solution was to dredge the ocean floor some three hundred yards out and literally blow sand to build the beach back up, creating a sort of dam to keep the ocean out of the basin. There is only one problem: You can’t keep the ocean out. For nearly four years, they had been dredging and trying to keep Northy Nick’s basin filled.

  On this cool winter’s day, I decided to walk on the Athens Eden beach to survey the latest attempt to arrest the sea.

  I know my descriptions are not very flattering, but the ocean had already eaten away a quarter of last month’s dredging by then. Obviously nature was taking back what belonged to it in the first place. I still believe that moving the water stations would have been easier.

  On the beach side of Warhead Dale, a wooden boardwalk ran from the porch and out across a pile of rocks, dumped there to prevent erosion. The eastern sun peeked over the horizon, blazing an intense yellow reflected on the home’s wall of glass windows. I shielded my eyes, turned toward the ocean, and admired the strokes of gold, violet, and orange painted by the sun. I dug my toes into the soft, chilly sand that was good for my knees and breathed in a healthy dose of salt-laced air. I imagined a council somewhere voting to try to keep the rays of the sun at bay and chuckled as I exhaled.

  I stood there for maybe three minutes, admiring God’s handiwork. Then I felt a small hand rest on my right shoulder. It felt quite relaxing in one sense, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t startled. I wheeled around as fast as my old bones would let me.

  Standing about three wooden steps up above me was a familiar, beautiful young lady. Her long, thick brown ponytail had lighter highlights and her eyes sparkled with a brilliant green.

  “Oh.” The young lady squealed and snatched her hand back. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Her voice tickled the air, resonating the way voices only do at the beach. Her features were striking, as was the touch of sadness in her distant eyes. She tucked her hands in her blue and gold hooded North Bank High School sweatshirt and reluctantly smiled. I hated to see such a labored smile on someone so young and pretty.

  “Don’t worry, my dear. I am just out and about seeing what trouble I can get into,” I replied. I wished I could speak more eloquently. Instead, I asked the obvious question. “What can I do for you?”

  The young lady looked to the left, then right, then behind her. She seemed no
t totally certain why she stood there, but she gulped and, in a very hollow voice, said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Taken aback, I had to admit that I did recognize her, but I did not remember her name.

  “It’s okay,” she continued. “I really didn’t expect you to remember me, since it has been so long since I’ve been here. My family moved away from the beach about two and a half years ago.”

  She fiddled her hands in her sweatshirt’s pockets. “I was here during the big storm when you told the story about Bruinduer.”

  The memories of my day of storytelling when Northy Nick blew in flooded my mind. My grandson James had just opened Warhead Dale for the public to enjoy. He had worked hard for a long time to renovate the old mansion that once belonged to the Davis family, only to have the grand opening ruined by a storm with a bad temper. But it only took a couple of months to repair Northy Nick’s damage, so my grandson reopened the home to an even larger fanfare in the spring.

  After the storm, word of my tales of Bruinduer spread like wildfire, not only through our region, but across the country. Since then, hundreds, if not thousands, of children had come to the citadel by the sea to walk its corridors. They looked for nooks in the old house they could get lost in or tried in vain to find the inner room in the basement, the room that housed the mahogany door.

  “Are you JM’s daughter?” I asked.

  “Who?” the young woman asked.

  “JM—you know, the man who wrote the book?” Looking back, I wish I had never asked that question, because, as I looked at her with hopeful eyes, tears began to fall from hers.

  “No, I’m sorry, but I’m not his daughter. I think I should just leave.” She turned around, hung her head, and took a couple of steps back toward the house.

  When I told the story of Bruinduer four years ago, one of the children’s parents wrote a book about JT and his friends’ adventure through the mahogany door. That book was probably the biggest reason that Warhead Dale had become a popular tourist spot.

  For some reason, I thought she might be his daughter. It was an innocent mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. And now I felt bad.

  “Wait,” I called to the young lady, who paused. “I apologize for my rudeness. I am an old man and my memory sometimes is not what it should be. Please give me a second chance.”

  The young lady glanced away from me and sniffled. She wiped her nose with her bare hand, then turned around. It was devastating to see her emerald eyes reddened.

  “Please,” I began. “Take a walk with me.”

  My flip-flops would have to wait another few minutes. I took her delicate, shaking hand and guided her down the last few wooden steps onto the beach.

  “The sand feels really good beneath your feet. Especially if you kick off your shoes and roll your pant legs up.” I smiled encouragingly, then chuckled, but I could see that she felt more restless than anything. Something hid deep in the pretty young lady’s mind.

  She did as I suggested and we walked toward the ocean. Despite the awkward silence, I did not open up with the obligatory, “Penny for your thoughts” line. Instead, I told her a little more about the beach and house I loved so much.

  “You know,” I began as she wiped her nose one last time. On her face, I could see that she agreed that the cool sand felt nice on the sole. “Warhead Dale is more than a house and this beach is more than a strip of sand. It’s a lifestyle.”

  The young lady chuckled.

  “Well, it’s true.” I liked her smile.

  “Once, Warhead Dale was the only house on this beach. You see, not a whole lot of people used to come to the coast for vacation. There were many reasons for that, but one of the largest was the threat of storms. I’m not talking about the nice, soaking thunderstorms of the late summer; I’m talking about hurricanes and nor’easters. Those monstrous storms can leave a frightful impression on the minds of vacationers who want to relax. Old Northy Nick a few years ago is a perfect example.”

  The young girl nodded, her shoulders loosening.

  “Though I am not surprised that the beach and the ocean lure people in the end. The beach is one of those places where folks can find answers to questions that percolate in their thoughts as they sit in their offices, cubes, or desks.

  “You know, now that I think about it, that is exactly what brought me back here many years ago. It was the perfect place to walk, look at the vastness of the ocean, feel the brisk wind rip through my hair, and think. I never really missed it until I’d been away for so long.” I glanced out at the crystal morning ocean. The ocean always looks its best when the sun first comes up.

  “This leads me to a question that has been bugging me for a bit.” I looked down at her over my right shoulder. She was tall for her age, which I guessed to be sixteen. Her ponytail was starting to come loose from the wind. She smiled and crossed her arms, because I think she knew what the question might be.

  “What am I doing here?” the young lady guessed abruptly, cracking another perfect smile. She looked back up toward Warhead Dale, then down at her feet as we made our way to the edge of the ocean. She flicked bits of sand with her toes.

  “Hmm,” I said. “Actually, I was wondering what your name is.” I grinned at her. “But now that you bring that other question up, you can answer that one, too.”

  There was a long pause, but I waited. That was another good thing about being at the beach. Time just doesn’t seem to matter there.

  “My name is Brandy and I don’t know why I came out here.” Her voice cracked as she broke the silence. “Well, I do, but now that I think about it, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. I mean, you probably have better things to do than talk to me about anything.”

  “Well, Brandy, I’m sorry you think that way. I apologize if I am off the mark because I am such a bad judge of people’s moods, but you appear to be someone who is dealing with a very serious issue. I would love to talk about it with you. I may not be able to fix your problem, but I will listen.”

  “I don’t know how to begin,” Brandy started. She took a deep breath and sighed. “I got some news last night that I just don’t know how to deal with. I’m so angry. I left my house, jumped in my car, and drove. I drove all night and, for some reason, ended up here.”

  I was taken aback again. “Well, what news did you get? I mean, that is, if you want me to know.”

  A tear fell from her cheek. I could see her struggle with the words as her throat seized her voice, but, with a little extra effort, she got the words out. “I found out that I was adopted.”

  My heart fluttered. Now I knew why my earlier question about whose daughter she might be caused a negative reaction. I felt even worse for asking it, but I took a deep breath.

  I let her calm her nerves a little before I spoke. I could only imagine what might be going through her brain. I hoped I could help.

  “I think I ended up here because, like you said, a question kept popping up as I was lying in my room. I don’t know why I had to find out the answer or why I even thought about it, but I waited for everyone to go to bed and came here. I drove for, like, eight hours to get here, because this is the only place I know I can get the answer.”

  My first thought was that I needed to contact Brandy’s parents to let them know that she was okay. I would do that, but my second thought was curiosity. I wanted to know what made this young girl drive eight hours to Warhead Dale. What answer was she looking for and to what question? I could only guess at that point, but, as Brandy explained, I realized why she looked familiar. I even remembered the tug.

  “Four years ago, my dad brought me here and, by chance, you were telling the story about the mahogany door and JT and everything, like I said. At the end of the story, I remembered that you said that Kali left, but you never said where she went. You also said that if we had any questions that you would answer them when you finished.

  “Well, the morning after we slept over, when we were leaving, I remember asking you a coupl
e of questions, but I never got the answer to one. I don’t know why, but that’s the question that kept bothering me last night. It was weird, but after I found out about being adopted, I got real mad at my mom. I could feel my temper boil. I yelled and cursed and said all kinds of bad things, but, even while I was lashing out at her, that one question kept entering my thoughts.”

  That night of Northy Nick was still very fresh in my mind. People say that, when you get older, you remember more from your younger years. I think this case might have been an exception since I was still dealing with the aftermath of that storm as the incompetent town council tried to hold the ocean back.

  “I can guess the question you want to ask me,” I started. “And I actually remember the exchange as though it was last week. I would also like to say that you have grown very much since the last time I saw you; you have blossomed into a very pretty young lady. I apologize that I did not recognize you before and for my insensitive question about being JM’s daughter. I can only imagine the pain that must have inflicted. Please forgive me.”

  Brandy nodded her head and swallowed.

  “But, if you don’t mind,” I continued. “Will you humor this old man and please ask your question again? I remember two and want to make sure that the one you ask is the one that I will wholeheartedly answer.”

  Brandy stopped and turned toward the ocean. I took a few steps past her and did the same. She rubbed her arms, then brushed the hair from her now tattered ponytail out of her eyes. I could see her confidence growing as we stood in the cool sand beyond Warhead Dale. Even if Brandy couldn’t understand her conflicted, angry feelings about the discovery of her adoption, she would get the answer to the question that she drove eight hours to ask. I felt honored that she had.

  In a very clear voice, the question danced across the sound of the breaking waves and the crisp, cool breeze of a winter’s morning at the beach. “At the end of the story you told four years ago, they all came back from Bruinduer. Of course, I already know what happened to JT, but what did happen to Kali?”