Joanne grew up in Bellingham, Washington. At various times and universities, she studied music, math, business administration and commercial fiction, earning a couple of degrees and a certificate. Joanne has been an engineer with The Boeing Company for twenty-plus years, and an active member of RCWG since its inception. She lives in Renton, Washington.
Currently, Joanne is hard at work on her first novel, a literary suspense centered around the world of a troubled priest in the midst of questioning his faith. Scroll below to read the gripping, opening scene.
Joanne welcomes your comments. Write to her at: joannekuhns@yahoo.com
Father Sean walked around fallen branches, too exhausted to care if he stepped in another mudhole. Most of the search crew were further ahead, and two had been sent up the ridge to assess how much daylight was left. Rain trickled down his coat onto his pants. With each step his boots seemed heavier, the forest grew darker.
The trees blurred through the water spots on his glasses. He knew Arthur was just behind, the only one who had stayed with him. He tried to increase his pace, but his legs refused. Sliding his backpack off, he shook his head as Arthur came toward him. “I’m sorry, I can’t go on without a short rest. If I could sit for just a moment.”
Arthur cupped his hands . “Hold up, wait for Father Sean.”
There were faint shouts ahead as the call went up the line, halting everyone. Sean felt a pang of guilt at stopping the progress, but had no energy to spare for embarrassment. He looked around and spotted a huge, inviting tree. Perhaps there was dry ground underneath its branches, if only his legs would carry him to it. He felt Arthur’s strong arm supporting him and somehow they made it to the tree. Leaning against the trunk, he lowered himself to the ground, hoping his knees wouldn't buckle. The parka and turtleneck had kept out the cold but not the fatigue. He wished that he could sleep for a minute, two minutes. Brenda with her curly blond hair, giggling, running down the main aisle, choir gown billowing. What would coffee hour be like without her stealing all of the chocolate cookies?
They would find her and she would be fine. Alive.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He felt Arthur sit next to him, heard backpack zippers open and close, and tried to shake away lightheadedness. The smell of strong coffee revived him enough to see the steaming cup Arthur held out for him.
“Here Father, drink this.”
He took a swallow and felt the hot liquid warm his mouth, his throat, his chest. It was Trout’s special brew of coffee, he’d know it anywhere. Another drink, and he stretched out one leg, wiggling his toes inside the boot. “Thank you.” He watched as Arthur rearranged the contents of both their packs. Arthur had a very comforting presence, even when he said nothing. He would do well as the new priest.
Sean sighed. It was time for him to get up, if he rested too long it would be worse than not having rested at all. “I think I can continue now.” A breeze swayed the branches above. “And it’s getting dark, so I suppose I must continue.”
Arthur shook his head. “Take all the time you need.” He nodded in the direction of the other searchers. “We’re not that far from our starting point. Some of them may already be back at the cars.” He picked up a pine cone and threw it.
They had completed the circle, and had nothing to show for it. No bits of clothing, no tracks. There had been other searches with the same results. With each day, perhaps even each hour, the likelihood became smaller that Brenda could survive. He had come on today’s search because it seemed the last chance of finding her alive. That was the only way he wanted to find her.
Arthur set the packs aside and pulled off his glasses. “I wish we had found her. Each day is harder on her family.”
So even Arthur had given up hope. Sean felt a chill and drank more coffee. “Last year we had a search much like this, for a young boy. Robby Travis. We found him on the third day.” He stared through the trees, remembering Robby’s mother’s low crying. The sound had pierced his soul and he felt it again, the terror, the void. He pulled a handkerchief from an inside pocket and cleaned his glasses as he took control of the memory. “The weather was much like today’s, also. Rain, after a bitter cold spell.”
He listened as the rain splattered on bushes and leaves, grateful for the temporary refuge under the tree. “Last year, when we found Robby, the Sheriff asked me to walk at the front as we brought his body out of the forest to the parking lot, where the family was waiting. He thought it would be comforting for them to see their priest first. I unzipped my coat enough so that my collar would show.”
Sean met Arthur’s patient gaze for a moment, then focused on his boots. “I received a note a few weeks later from Robby’s mother. She thanked me for helping with the search and with the funeral. But she said that every time she saw me in my collar, all she could see was the muddy field and the line of people carrying out her son.” He rubbed his hands together. “She’s never come to church since then.”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said softly.
Sean felt Arthur's gaze focus on the turtleneck he wore today in place of his collar. The wind picked up again and he closed his eyes to let it clear his mind. He relaxed and felt a raindrop on his face. Turning his head, he could still pick out the sound of the river, running higher and faster than normal.
Here.
He kept his eyes closed, wondering why Arthur was whispering. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
I am here.
Calm came over him as he looked in the direction of the whisper. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it - male or female, young or old? He rose, no longer tired. With slow, sure steps he walked deeper into the forest, making his way around the undergrowth. Sean stopped, unclear which way to go.
Arthur caught up, breathless. “What are you doing? You’re heading back the way we came.”
Sean put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Listen.” They waited, but there was nothing. “I thought I heard ...” The river, the wind, the rain. No voice. “Perhaps not.”
“Maybe you did.” Arthur walked on ahead. “Brenda? Brenda?” Silence greeted his calls.
Sean sighed. “I don’t think it’s any use. It seems my ears are deceiving me.” He shook his head and gestured for Arthur to join him. “Let’s return to the others before it gets any darker.”
Arthur halted his search of the bushes. “If you’re sure.”
Sean motioned for Arthur to lead the way. As he attempted to follow, a blackberry vine caught on his wool pants and he began extracting himself thorn by thorn.
I am here.
The memory of last year’s search for Robby descended on him with force. The same darkness, rain, and cold, the desperate hunting through brush, across streams. And the same voice. His stomach became unsettled. “Arthur? Arthur?” was all he could get out.
He took a step backwards and the vine ripped away from him, leaving only a few scratches. He kneeled on one leg and let his head droop, hoping to quell the sickness.
“Are you all right?" Arthur stood over him. "What happened?”
“I think she may be nearby after all.” He took a deep breath and focused on a distant spot. His head cleared again and he was drawn to the place, half crawling, half walking. Rummaging in the leaves and branches, he searched in vain for something, anything. She had to be here. He turned around to see Arthur, apparently stunned into silence. Sean looked at himself, on his hands and knees in the mud, at the bidding of an imagined whisper. He pulled himself onto a wet log and did his best to appear normal.
He had gone mad, that was all there was to it. He was delirious.
Feeling dizzy, he straddled the log to keep his balance, only to find his pant leg caught up once again in blackberry thorns. He gently pulled at the vine, and saw that something else was caught. He pulled it loose, turned, and held it up for Arthur to see.
A tangle of blond hair.
Arthur hurried to him and they looked in all directions for her. Many yards away was a mound covered with dirt and leaves. As Sean stepped near it, sorrow gripped him and he made the sign of the cross. The rain had washed away some dirt from the mound, revealing Brenda’s lifeless fingers.
© 2006 Joanne Kuhns
