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The Path of Consequence
The Path of Consequence
The Path of Consequence
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The Path of Consequence

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When Jack discovers Tor's first message in an old Bible, the weekend that began as a wedding celebration for a friend turned into a week-long trek toward an unknown end. The path would take courage and absolute determination, testing loyalties, faith, and endurance. In this intriguing novel by John Richardson, characters and readers alike learn about Tor's "seven talents" - what it takes to overcome obstacles and discover a successful, fulfilling life.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateDec 29, 2011
ISBN9781465961990
The Path of Consequence
Author

John Richardson

John Richardson is based at the Open University, UK.

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    The Path of Consequence - John Richardson

    The Path of Consequence

    A Novel by John W. Richardson

    Meedeeah Publishing

    The Path of Consequence

    John Richardson

    Copyright John Richardson 2011

    Published by Meedeeah Publishing at Smashwords

    The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

    This ebook is licensed for you’re your enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others please, purchase another copy for each reader.

    Prologue

    Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.

    Matthew 13:45-4

    Chapter 1

    It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, the light from the upper windows diffused across the family room floor. I was running the vacuum for its weekly journey through the maze of hallways and rooms in our house, the familiar drone of the TV in the background. Dog toys were no match for the powerful cleaning machine, as a small squeaky bone was sucked into the rotating brushes.

    Suddenly I heard something over the whir of the vacuum; the phone. Clicking off the motor, I ran for the kitchen–wondering why I respond so instinctively to such mechanical insistency. Caller ID showed an 805 number. Someone from out of town.

    Hello?

    The return greeting sent me back to high school: Hey Jack; this is your friend Paul.

    Paul Montero. Thoughts of dirty carpets gave way to visions of junior high with all its comedy, the bold adventures of high school, and Paul always in the middle of it. He was one of the best friends I ever had, and over the last couple decades we’d kept in touch through reunions and family jaunts to the central California coast.

    Last time I saw him was more than two years ago. Time for another reunion? Or maybe he just discovered my number as he cleaned out his wallet. But he sounded suspiciously happy for a mere reunion call.

    Jack, he said after a moment, Alexis and I are getting married!

    Hey, that’s great, I said. Not a big surprise… hadn’t Paul thought about marrying Alexis a while back?... and definitely a good move.

    We’re putting together a wedding reception up in Central California, in San Luis Obispo, over Labor Day weekend. You and Bridget will come, won’t you?

    This would be Paul’s second marriage, and now that he was over 40, probably a pretty good thing. Alexis was a striking German brunette, and they seemed happy together. Paul would be crazy to let her slip through his fingers.

    Alexis picked out an interesting ring with seven little diamonds in it. It’s called a sevante and it came from the little town of Inebnit in Switzerland. The shipping and insurance are killing me, he said with a sigh. We talked a little while longer and I assured him we would drive up.

    * * *

    While Bridget and I cleared our calendars and made reservations for a four-day trip, I told her about the ring. Always a fan of unique jewelry, Bridget logged into a Swiss jewelry company online and found a picture of a sevante–an unusual setting of five diamonds forming a circle around two center diamonds. The unique cluster was like nothing I had ever seen. Alexis would be one lucky woman to have this beautiful and unusual ring.

    In fact, it reminded me of a pendant she’d worn the first time I met her, a year ago. I’d gone to visit Paul, and found he’d started dating the woman he hired to help at his art gallery. Smart, charming, and business-savvy, Alexis not only expanded the gallery, but got to know many of the people in San Luis at the same time. As we walked past shops and restaurants, everyone waved to her or stopped to chat.

    With her flair for fashion, Alexis was hard to miss in the college town. But though I later failed at describing to Bridget exactly what Alexis’ clothes looked like, I could still see the sun glinting off a stunning pendant hung on a chain around her neck. A number of different stones sparkled in the light, forming an artistic 7. Each stone was unique.

    When I asked about the pendant, Alexis fingered it and gave a slight shrug. It’s an amazing find, isn’t it? Made by a unique artisan up in the little town of Cambria.

    Something about this ring is similar to that pendant, I thought. What was it? The repetition of the number seven? Something about the design? Whatever it is, how curious that two pieces of jewelry could be worlds apart, yet so alike.

    Bridget had already moved on to other things, calling for reservations for the famous Union Hotel in the quaint little town of Cambria, about 30 miles north of San Luis Obispo. Bridget preferred Cambria over San Luis as it was near the ocean and had many interesting shops and restaurants.

    Got it, she said, hanging up. As a bonus, they’ve booked us for the room with a legend and a secret.’

    What legend? I asked. Any chance the room has a good view?

    Indeed it does–of the Santa Rosa Creek, in fact. As for the legend, the bed and breakfast is one of the most historical homes in Cambria; the last known residence of writer Marcus Nevas before he disappeared in 1967. They said to look on their Web site for the rest of the story.

    As Bridget took the mouse from me and clicked off the special sevante ring Web page, I noticed her nice but quite ordinary wedding ring. The one I picked out, of course. She never seemed to mind, never said anything, but her intense interest in custom jewelry always made me wonder if she wanted something better or different. Maybe in Cambria….

    His last paragraph was found hand written and left on the side table in the room, she said, reading from the B&B’s Web site. When the hotel was restored in the ‘80s and converted it to a B&B, they framed a reproduction of the letter and hung it on the wall in the room–now called the Estrella Room, after Nevas’s lost love; she left the little town of Cambria for San Francisco in 1967.

    Final words, missing people, and lost loves. What could be better for a weekend away?

    * * *

    A month later we started our journey to Cambria at 4 a.m. on a cloudy Friday morning at the end of August. Bridget had packed the car the night before for our early departure. This drive up the coast was always a challenge, taking hours on most days to get through Los Angeles. Hopefully we were early enough to beat rush hour.

    While Bridget slept, I sipped my coffee, leftover from our fast food breakfast stop and listened to the muted sounds of early morning talk radio. The newscaster on the 50,000 watt blowtorch called KLA predicted a chance of wind and rain over the weekend, but the road ahead was clear and dry. The miles rolled along quickly and by 6 a.m. we had left downtown behind us.

    As we headed down the pass from the L.A. basin into the little town of Camarillo, breaking sunlight teased the early morning mist, which in turn played leap frog with us all the way up the coast, sometimes covering us in shadow and sometimes breaking away, exposing bright rays of sun. Despite the early morning and sub-par coffee, it felt almost magical.

    As we drove through the eclectic town of Santa Barbara, the mist broke away completely, revealing two islands off the coastline as we crested a hill. Rigs of offshore oil wells dotted the water.

    Waking up, Bridget looked out over the ocean. What islands are those? she asked.

    The Channel Islands. Some people even refer to them as America’s Galapagos. Maybe we should tour them sometime.

    Sure, one of these days. She replied as she fell back asleep. The drive continued through the rolling hills of the central coast and wound through the little Scandinavian town of Solvang. The brown hills slowly gave way to acres and acres of vineyards-producing some of California’s best wines. Further along we passed through San Luis Obispo, a cheerful college town where the reception would be, and then we entered Route One to finish our trip.

    The next 30 miles were amazing, with some of the most gorgeous scenery imaginable. Then we passed a huge rock just off the coast in Morro Bay, wound our way up the two-lane high-way, and arrived in Cambria. As we pulled into town, Bridget came alive and was awed by of the charm of this little city by the ocean.

    Huge trees throughout the town gave the feel of a mountain hideaway rather than a coastal retreat. Quaint restaurants, antique stores, and art galleries surrounded the town center.

    We soon found our hotel a short distance out of the center of town. As we pulled into the Cambria Union Hotel, I gave Bridget a thumbs up. This was one enchanting place. In the midst of a forest of huge trees was a charming 1800s clapboard house, painted a pretty blue color. Out back the Santa Rosa Creek meandered past a clapboard guest house. We entered and checked in with a young girl at the desk.

    You’ll be in the Estrella Room, she said, pushing a key across the desk. That’s upstairs in the backyard guesthouse -- originally a workshop with living quarters above, home for many years to the local writer Marcus Nevas…before he disappeared in 1967, that is.

    Is the room set up the way he left it? I asked.

    We restored the room, she said, nodding, "making it a replica of the way it was back in the 60s. You’ll find a special copy of Nevas’s last book on the table.

    And a framed print of his last paragraph on the wall, right?

    Right, she said, nodding again. You must have been studying the website.

    So why not the ‘Nevas Room?’ I asked. Why Estrella?

    Read that last paragraph, she said. You’ll understand.

    * * *

    Muted green wallpaper, a four poster bed, and antique wooden furniture filled the spacious room, including a table by the window overlooking the creek, and a large oak armoire near the bed. For a B&B, this was an interesting mix of old and new. Most of the room looked like it was from the early 1900s, but the narrow, simple bedposts and the square enameled table clearly marked them from the ‘60s.

    Marcus Nevas’s framed last paragraph hung on the wall near the door. I scanned it, then read through again more carefully. Here was a man writing to his lost love, with amazing passion in his voice. You could feel his anguish as he asked a woman named Estrella to come back into his life.

    The paragraph ended with, If the waters of life are not enough to keep you here, I too will depart.

    The pen then trailed off the page as if the writer had fallen asleep–or given up. What happened to this man? According to reports, he just vanished. His old Ford pickup was left on the property and Nevas never returned.

    What was it like to live here in the ‘60s? The main house had a Victorian feel to it, but the guest house was more like a mountain cabin. Rustic, a slight smell of wood from the rough hewn boards that crisscrossed the ceiling.

    This was my kind of room, with masculine furniture, exposed wood and simple but classic furniture. Bridget, I noticed, wasn’t as satisfied.

    She opened our suitcase and started unpacking. No encouraging sounds of Did you see this? Instead, silence; and quick, jerky movements as she emptied our bags. She looked up and caught my eye.

    I don’t like it, she blurted out. I wish we would have picked a room in the main house.

    We both knew the place was full, so I didn’t say anything. We’d just have to make do. There’s got to be something here that she likes…. I looked around. No; this was a man’s room: plain and simple.

    Maybe that’s why Estrella left him? I said, trying to get a smile out of Bridget. She just nodded, looking tempted to follow the lost love.

    I sat on the couch to wait for Bridget, and picked up Trees by the Sea, Nevas’s last book, about the Cambria area before the town had a growth spurt in the late ‘60s. Nevas seemed to be a naturalist… and judging by the black and white photos, a somewhat daring adventurer.

    This was a man who loved the outdoors and would do almost anything to keep his coastal town from becoming another strip mall. He loved the people of Cambria, and he hated the commercial developers.

    Nevas documented Cambria’s one weakness: a water shortage. The main creek dried up every summer. Without it, the town was dependent on deep wells that would go dry from time to time. Nevas wanted the town to thrive, but without water, you could not build or add on.

    According to the book, huge developers came in and wanted to dam up the creek and build a gargantuan apartment and shopping complex. The town’s people loved the rustic village the way it was. They wanted the water, but not the development.

    Bridget closed the suitcase and shoved it under the bed. I put the book down, deciding I could learn of the town’s fate later. Right now I needed to try to cheer up my wife.

    But then another book caught my eye–an old one with a torn cover and a picture of a faded rose. Tucked away on the bottom shelf of the end table, it had the simple title of Roses.

    Perfect; Bridget loves gardening…especially roses. Maybe this will make up for the room. For my part, I hate the thorns and tolerate my wife’s horticultural hobby as long as I don’t have to mess with trimming them.

    Hey, Bridget, I started to say, pulling out the book. Then I saw the author was none other than Nevas himself.

    With a side glance, my wife snatched the book out of my hand and soon forgot about the rustic room. Jack, there’s a special rose that grows only in a cool coastal climate found mainly along the central coast of California…called an ‘Estrella’ rose!

    We looked at each other and blurted in unison, Named after Nevas’s girlfriend?

    Just then a bell clanged loudly outside. It was 3 o’clock, and time for afternoon hors d’oeuvres. Might as well head over for a little wine, conversation, and get to know the other guests.

    Bridget closed the book and tucked it under her arm. Let’s go, she said, and I followed her briskly down the stairs to the back patio of the house.

    * * *

    The owner of the B&B, Kathleen Barnhart, met us on the patio with a smile. Enjoy some cheese from our local dairy and some delicious Redstone wine from the local vineyard, she said, as she passed us two tall glasses.

    Kathleen was a short, middle-aged blond woman with a quick step and a hint of an accent. Our room may be rustic, but her hospitality wasn’t. From the patio you could see into a gourmet kitchen with a huge stove and an array of copper pots and pans. The treats and the wine were spectacular. Kathleen was also apparently a great chef.

    With the wind blowing through the Cottonwoods along the creek bank, we found seats in a small circle of chairs on the back part of the patio, sipped our wine and met some of the guests. Marge and Dick from Monterey, along with Bruno and his new wife from New York, were seated comfortably in the tall wooden chairs.

    Bridget, still keenly aware of the rose book she had brought along, soon excused herself to read. But as she stood and turned, her shoe caught my chair, throwing her forward. She managed to catch herself, but the book toppled out of her hand and landed with a thud beside my chair.

    As I bent over to pick it up, I saw that the old cover had fallen off–and inside the cover were pencil-drawn diagrams with measurements and a scribbled title: The waters of life.

    Chapter 2

    I stared at the diagrams, puzzled. They formed a square, like a huge box. Measurements along the edges were 70 feet by 60 feet. Notes in shorthand at the bottom of the page meant nothing to me. A name was crossed out numerous times.

    As I looked closer I could almost make out the first name, but the last name was totally scratched over. Perhaps…Charles something…. I could not make out even the first letter of the last name. Not sure what I had stumbled upon, I figured I might want to keep it to myself for the time being.

    Putting the cover back on the book, I stood up as well. Guess it’s about time to see what we can find for dinner. Nice to meet all of you; I’m sure we’ll see you again. Just as we stepped off the patio, Kathleen walked by and saw the book in my hand.

    You’ll be careful to leave things where you find them, won’t you? she said. We don’t want them getting lost.

    Of course, I assured her. We’ll put it back in the room.

    * * *

    Bridget, what do you think? I asked her after we’d closed the door to our room. I removed the cover and showed her the diagrams.

    The water of life? she asked. Like in his last paragraph framed on the wall? Leaning in for a closer look, she said, The ‘e’ in the words water and life is different from anything I’ve seen before.

    She was right. The other letters were rounded – as we’re used to seeing – but the little e’s were completely square. This handwriting was almost like it was from another country, except that it was only the e’s that stood out.

    I took a pencil and made a rough sketch of the diagrams on a sheet of paper, put the cover back on the book, and the book back on the lower shelf for safekeeping. Bridget and I got dressed for dinner and headed out to find a good restaurant in town, deciding to walk and do a little window shopping along the way. But as Bridget paused to look at displays, questions about our recent discovery kept pace with me.

    Were the diagrams something important, or just a construction project someone had sketched out? Was Nevas involved? Was this tied to what he’d written about the waters of life in his last letter?

    As we entered the downtown area, the town clock hit 6 o’clock and the sun was starting to set over the hills. In this quaint town, free of chain restaurants or other franchise businesses, everything was privately owned, with unique names to match. Each business had its own color scheme, complete with distinctive architecture and ambiance. Each one invited the meanderer to come inside and explore.

    Since we wouldn’t see Paul and Alexis until Sunday, now was the time to do that exploring. It was Friday night and tourists filled the roads, sidewalks, and restaurants.

    We smelled Antonio’s Bakery before we saw it, the aroma of fresh pizza tempting us to a less-than-healthy dinner. The garden patio seating was nearly full, the voices and laughter of the diners a pleasant addition to our stroll. We walked further, passing more storefronts and restaurants.

    Bridget popped in and out of the shops while I took a few digital photos, trying to capture the balmy summer evening. When the road made a slight bend, we came upon the most curious shop yet. Or at least, the most curious window display. Featured prominently in the window of an antique store was an old Brownie style camera on top of a shabby Bible. The sign next to it was the more remarkable part:

    Must be bought as a pair

    $500

    Why was this old camera and funky old Bible so expensive? It was my turn to go exploring.

    I grabbed Bridget’s arm and we stepped inside. As I headed directly to the display window, a tall woman approached. Her reserved smile, pile of curly brown hair, and wire-rim glasses screamed intelligence.

    Hello, I’m Gretta, she introduced herself. May I help you find something?

    I pointed to the camera – one of many things in the window -- and asked, Why is that so expensive?

    Her response surprised me as much as the price. Oh, you don’t want that, she said quickly. It’s a special camera…only a discriminating buyer would know its value.

    May I see it?

    Her reluctance equaled my interest, but she picked it up and delicately placed it in my hands.

    As I inspected the camera, it looked like most any other 1950s brownie camera. It had the telltale chrome bezel, fixed focus lens, and black metal body. The camera still had a roll of film in it, and the initials T. H. inscribed on the back.

    More intrigued, I asked to see the Bible. She took back the camera, and handed me the well-worn book. I opened the small leather Bible that looked like it might be from Scandinavia or other European country. The edition was printed in English and had many ink and pencil markings throughout. The cover had a square cross on it, and old papers were folded inside the back cover.

    Opening the front cover I found an inscription, The secret is in the walk, signed by someone named Tor. Now I was intently curious…who was this Tor person and why was this camera and Bible $500? And why did they need to be sold together?

    What do you know about the Bible and camera? I asked.

    Gretta shrugged. A local woman brought them on consignment. She was adamant that they be sold together, and that the price is $500.

    I looked at Bridget. She raised her left eyebrow, standard code for, Exactly what are you getting us into now?

    Chewing the inside of my lip, I tried to make sense of it. This just doesn’t add

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