KTL- PART 2

Brother Thomas

KTL
KRAAL’S OF THUNDER AND LIGHTNING
continued……..

By Brother Thomas

© 2008-2009 by T-Ray Larsen

[ROUGH DRAFT – UNEDITED]

The KTL:  Heber Camp/4 (continued)

The trek to Heber took two days.  A drone in the sky seemed to be occasionally tracking our progress through the mountains and I supposed it had been following me for some time and was responsible in some way for allowing Captain Alvarez and his Task Force to find me when and where they did.

Really, it should have only taken eight or so hours to reach our destination—if a straight march—but the Task Force bivouacked several times along the route accomplishing other objectives to which they’d been assigned.  I was just one of their “tasks” on the list and gathering from the shoptalk overheard, their all-round mission included “rounding up strays”, general re-con and mapping of the Wasatch Front wilderness area and any “survivor enclaves”; all pertinent to an apparently intensifying agenda denoted under the broad rubric “post-event assets consolidation”. 

I assumed the “event” in question was that commonly known as “the day the city stood still.”  By “assets” they meant all the scattered groups and lone wandering, hiding individuals who’d fled nearby cities (and some afar) seeking safety in the hills.  While anarchy and confusion had followed the “event” and similar “events” and catastrophes nationally, globally—those laudable, lovable innate human qualities of adaptation, creativity, work, etc., went immediately into action spawning all sorts of new communities and survival endeavors … which the government was now clearly eager to reign in and control.

I thought of our own burgeoning efforts—we of the KTL—and worried about the plans we had made for new construction and development; the hours spent in design and discussion by lantern-light in our longhouse; the spirited and lively talk around the central fire, where the village “night-owls” gathered to commiserate and wonder over things to come; or, of my chief architect Barlok and I sitting on the grassy mountain-slope in the soft, golden glow of a setting sun impervious to our miniscule plights … looking over blueprints he’d made … moments of excited childlike creativity … . Dreaming of new, bold adventures with reborn purpose, as if free … and fettered by nothing more than the elements and their rounds and the pleasantly surprising malleable limits of our strength, spirit and ideas … still breathing, yearning, even in  this apocalyptic flux … .

Seeing now, however, the insistence and breadth of the central government’s contrary will … and their “blueprints” … it was becoming increasingly clear that continuing with such hopeful plans—at least at our present location—were bound to be disturbed and that the whole camp would have to be moved, if we were allowed to persist as a community at all.  I needed to find my family … and horses.

All of it saddened me.  Though many had lost everything they’d owned and were separated from loved ones, most of the member or our little clan had discovered a vibrant, freshly-spirited new mode of life, hard as it was, and didn’t want to go back to the harried, materialistic, consumer-driven existence they had labored under before.  Our goals were simple and subversive in no way to the government.  We only wanted to make our way, self-sufficient, healthy and safe—find and rehabilitate those lost in the recent chaos; basic mortal concerns imbued with a resurgent spiritual purpose as many recognized “signs of the times.”  We should be no threat or trouble to anyone … unless, possibly, their purposes included denying us of ours.

I was always kept at a base camp, under guard, so I don’t know what Capt. Alvarez and his men accomplished or found during their several hours-long forays into brush.  I knew from my own scouting expeditions that no communities existed along this particular route to Heber.  They did find a couple who were camping nearby and ordered them to “register” themselves by weeks’ end at the FEMA command center located in Midway, which sat on the outskirts of Heber Valley.  A pack of stray dogs we encountered, once pets, but now gone wild, were neutralized (unnecessarily, I thought) by the Task Force.  A lone deer was shot and dressed, which we ate the evening of the second day.

All in all, however, the FEMA Task Force fellows were decent and business-like to me as we wended our way, besides the tedious running joke of threatening to lose or brake or use as firewood Greybeard.  All were amused by my concern for the stick and let me know it.  But hey, it was a good stick and had served me well!  And I expected it would again.

Ced stayed with us as he expected a payoff at the end.  He mostly proffered small-talk, wanting quickly to gloss over the matter and I dropped it, nodding occasionally but mostly keeping quiet as he yammered about his new plans for the future.  I knew he was making a big mistake.  There was no future as he was imagining it—for while he expected now that “things will eventually get back to normal” and “all this doom survivor stuff” was a “waste of time” … in fact, the world had irreversibly changed in the past couple of years.  I recognized in Young Ced the deep stages of long-term shock and a post-traumatic stress state of delusionary hope. 

Perhaps it was a mistake inducting him into the Fjorder fraternity and expecting so much so soon (his was the first defection I knew of from my fledgling “end times” monkish order and it made me worry about the others.)  Were my expectations too high, too austere, too self-denying?  Yet, he had asked for it, and I was in dire need at the time for stalwart believers willing and able to be set to task, left alone and trusted.  “Many are called, few are chosen” rang in my mind.  Those “chosen” must be able to die to self, expect trial and isolation—some real suffering living on faith alone at times … to make it finally to that day of perfected redemption.

The dawning day was beautiful and lifted my spirits.  Sunny, blue, crisp, with a few storybook fluffy, floating clouds, as we spilled from the mountains into Midway, overlooking Heber Valley, its town and the surrounding encampments.  Smoke trailed wistfully from chimneys, scattered campfires ringed by tents, and even clusters of teepees.  Calm and pastoral it looked from a distance.  But I knew distress and anxiety were also awakening with the morning and would rove the premises as insistent companions to the inhabitants, demanding a large share of the day’s attention.

Seeing the small forms beginning to mill, the beasts in the fields nearby, a few moving cars, trucks, a pack of bicyclists, some ranging dogs, several circling hawks—life stirring yet again, young and old under the ancient rising sun—I was struck with a piercing pain in my gut, my heart.  It was a pain fresh, renewed with the waking light.  Oh how I missed my family!  To hug my wife, grapple my sons, laugh and talk and eat together once again—what I would give to have them beside me in that melancholy moment!

Were they safe?  Were they separated?  Were they worried sick over me, wondering whether I lived and if so, in what condition?  They knew I had been caught in the city when the bomb exploded, and they surely knew of the madness and violence that quickly ensued.

Many times, with hope cresting in my breast a little more with each nearing step, had I descended into that valley of gathered refugees, searching for my own, but only to be disappointed. 

“I’ll leave your hand unbound.  Don’t try ducking out on us, though.  You’re not free to go until you’ve been debriefed.” Alvarez said. 

I wasn’t under arrest, I’d been told, merely “detained”.  The formalities of Miranda and due process had long been shunted under “emergency measures”.  Might was right in the new reality, as far as the government was concerned and no one bothered any more to challenge the arbitrary use of force, since the constitution had been put on hold.

The FEMA command center, newly constructed, sat on the border of where Midway met Heber city proper.  That is where we were headed, as we filed down now paved neighborhood streets, curious residents here and there peering through parted curtains, blinds, watching us go by.

I couldn’t see them at first on our approach, but as we neared and rounded the complex I let out a chuckle.  I’d seen them before in photos on the internet; I’d even blogged about them.  Hundreds of modular, “cells” Alvarez assured me one of which had my name on it, stacked in a field adjacent the command center.  Upon arrival at the front doors, the Captain dismissed his men instructing Ced and I to remain.

“The stick,” I implored watching it strapped to the pack of one of the departing men.

“Good grief,” Alvarez guffawed, but then retrieved it, adding, “I’ll keep it for you … ” shaking his head, perplexed and a obviously a little irritated over my attachment to the simple item.

As we entered the lobby where two military police stood by observing Ced asked, “Do I have to stay in those units?”  He meant the modular cells.

“No,” Alvarez replied, “you just need to fill out some paperwork and we’ll get you on your way.”

In discussions over the past day or so, we’d learned that buses still operated, though under federal control, as was all public transportation now, and a line ran through Heber which Ced was to take back to his hometown.

My disappointing young religious and I then stood, waiting for several minutes, not speaking, in the foyer while Capt. Alvarez went and conducted the business of our arrival at a bullet-proof glassed receptionist window.

As Ced was escorted one way and I another he laughed nervously and said, “Hey, I’m sorry man … I just feel led differently now … and … ” he trailed off with a shrug.

“Indeed … it’s different,” I replied, feeling simultaneously stung and sympathetic.

THE KTL: Encounter With The Red Light/5

Apparently, certain officials were on their way to conduct my “debriefing”.   In the meantime I was held in one of the double-bunk modular jail cells, most of which, I found interesting, were filled judging by the noise of the inmates surrounding my unit. And, it seemed, nearly every couple of hours, there were new arrivals which, I surmised, alluded to a current aggressive round-up of some sort well underway.

My cell was the on the second story of three stacked and I shared the small room with a young man—Chinese—still in the uniform of the PLA Special Operations Force (Chinese People’s Liberation Army).  Upon seeing him I felt my worst fears were confirmed—that  Chinese military were on our soil and close enough to the Wasatch mountains to be detained, for whatever reason.

Rumors had been rife, in the 90s and early 2000s that Chinese militants were seen in uniform and with equipment just over the Mexican line with other reports placing them also in the north in the rugged ranges along the Canadian/U.S. border.

Chen spoke no English but our short time together confirmed for me that the concerns about a communist military invasion of the country—long derided as “wild-eyed right-wing conspiracy-theory”—in fact, had been correct all along.

When I was pushed into the cell and first saw Chen, the two bunked cots, the stainless steel basin, small window and single toilet … my first thought was … time to fast.

I’m funny that way.  A little prudish, a bit Victorian where many in the modern times seemed to revel in the demolishing of all personal barriers—privacy, modesty, manners, civility.  It was just my nature, and like the upright British and other 19th century colonialists who strove to maintain a certain decorum even in the midst of the wildest adventures and accompanying “savageries”, I was not partial to letting it “all hang it” as it were.

I thought of Lewis and Clark with his portable desk he managed to pack all the way from St. Lewis Missouri, pulling it out to do journal notes, plant and animal and geographical data … in the harshest of conditions, on the plains, in a mountain meadow, surrounded by predator and vermin …  but which he finally lost as his pack horses tumbled down a ravine on the treacherous Wendover Ridge along the rugged peaks of Bitterroot Range, Idaho.  Kipling—a man of his place and  times, called it the “white man’s burden”, though I knew that it was any man or woman’s burden, of any race, who found themselves striving to support some shred of human nobility, of the inner spirit, made in the image of the God of law and order, where fallen creation seemed intent on devolving into vulgar relativism and anarchy.

Besides, had I not already written, in foresight of this moment, of the efficacy of “cellular austerities”—how to make the most in the highest sense of a deprived, captive situation?  what had I always imagined and suggested to do, if found such a scene?

Invest in the austerity!  Some penitents, deliberately sought a domicile, purposefully, because of the benefit to spirit, where pleasure and accommodation are scarce or wholly absent.  I would make current duress an opportunity to expand in spirit, while the flesh was mortified.  And this meant a certain glee in accepting the stark, bare walls and deprivations … as an immediate chance to … fast, pray, contemplate … and if they would allow, some scripture for reading.  And—.

“Can I get some needle and thread,” I shouted to the guard as he shut and bolted the door.  My knee-high buckskin moccasins, which I had made, needed some mending.

I then turned and faced the young, dour soldier reclining on his bed looking at me with wary, cold, black eyes.

“Zdrastvuite,”  I said with a smile and saluted him.  It was Russian, which I knew a little—had learned it in fact, years ago, anticipating just such a moment.

He didn’t respond but was clearly startled and apprehensive.

Always a voracious reader, I’d learned from many hours as a young man when studying Russian communist doctrine and history, that all of the Kremlin’s vassal states and political satellites, allies etc., were encouraged or forced to learn Russian as a base language—the preferred parlance of the militant side of the global revolution.

“Glavny vrag … . Amerikanski … da?” I grinned, baiting my new mate.  “Number one enemy is the American” I had said.

The faintest sign of relief cracked his well trained face, but quickly crossed with suspicion.

“Vwee Ruski?” he asked cautiously.

“Nyet, tavarish,” I shook my head “but a friend to all, who seek the truth,” I added, still using Russian.

He wasn’t sure what I meant by that and said nothing.  Likely, judging by the reticent and questioning look he kept, he assumed I was some sort of agent placed there to monitor and report on him.  Such was the culture of totalitarian countries where none were to be readily trusted but all social interaction was intended to further “the cause”, otherwise even in the most natural interactions one was trained to be suspect and on the alert for “subversion.”

“Gavroo po-Angliski?”  (Do you speak English, I asked.)

He shook his head.

I was disappointed.  I couldn’t remember enough Russian to speak with him much further and find out the things that his presence in my country, in this place, implied.

Throughout the rest of that day I learned the fellow’s name was Chen.  He wasn’t interested in trying to communicate much more than that.  Through intuition and an adept reading of his involuntary body language I understood there were other soldiers like him apprehended and that it had happened nearby.  The main consolation I took was that the FEMA Task Forces had, in fact, considered Chinese military worthy of apprehending; whereas, I wouldn’t have been surprised if instead I’d found that the PLA were actually managing and staffing the ranks of the emergency agency.

Perhaps there was hope after all, that the entirety of the government was not compromised lock, stock and barrel.

Nevertheless, I believed from my studies and a few intriguing encounters over the years, that the U.S. would be militarily attacked and invaded by the Russo-Chinese partnership …  and this new encounter with Chen only added to my anxiety over finding separated loved ones, friends, and guiding the peoples of the KTL to a better place of protection and safety.  Time was short and getting shorter, by all appearances.

George Washington’s “vision”, I believed, was authentic, and soon to come due.  The “red light” was here and on the move, part of it sitting in my cell:

“Then my eyes beheld a fearful scene. From each of these continents arose thick black clouds that were soon joined into one. And throughout this mass there gleamed a dark red light by which I saw hordes of armed men. These men, moving with the cloud marched by land and sailed by sea to America, which country was enveloped in the volume of the cloud. And I dimly saw these vast armies devastate the whole country and burn the villages, towns and cities, which I had seen spring up.

     As my ears listened to the thundering of the cannon, clashing of swords, and the shouts and cries of millions in mortal combat, I again heard the mysterious voice saying,

‘Son of the Republic, look and learn.’”

George Washington, bitter winter, Valley Forge 1777.

As the evening hours settled in, I lay on my upper bunk and just listened to the ambient noise of the compound.  General prison-like noises—shouts, doors opening and closing, guards talking, walking by … a passionate harmonica player wailing some blues, imagining himself in a film no doubt … and one time I thought I heard a voice afar, sporadically, tentatively calling “E.V.” … then more hushed from a different location, “E.V.”  Could that be Newell in one of the cells?  No, because it was moving, and sounded as though coming from the perimeter.

A lukewarm dinner of vegetable soup, piece of bread and a fruit juice box was delivered just after dusk, which I gave to Chen, except for the juice.

Then I went to the Yeshua Hoop—the mind and spirit of my Master—to see, hear … open to receive any impressions about my concerns … Running Snake, Sky Watcher, boy Thumper … how, where were they?

An image flashed before my minds’ eye which I caught and it brought me unease.  I could not “see” them at their intended destinations.  None of them seemed to be where I’d hoped they’d have well arrived by now.  Something had intervened.  That was all I could grasp, except that—and this encouraged me somewhat—I could feel them close by.  Maybe they knew of my plight and were working on a means to free me … . I did not press the issue, in the spirit, and just settled in for a night of reflection, worship and praying … for all associates and even enemies … silently, within myself.  “Cellular austerities”—practicing what I had preached, now up close and personal.  Every deprivation is an opportunity to further subjugate flesh while expanding in spirit, if one determines it so.

Oh what a pittance is he who manages to conquer kingdoms and lands from land to sea, but cannot subdue the self’s mortal passions … .

Next morning, I was taken to an interrogation room, pleased to see no implements of torture but a few chairs and a desk.  I chatted with the guard who brought me, a clean-cut young man who had served a Mormon mission in Hong Kong and was fluent in Chinese.  He helped translate for Chen, I learned, and for a few other Mandarin speaking prisoners also held in detention.  He wouldn’t elaborate much under my casual questioning as we waited for the interrogators to arrive but I found out one intriguing fact.  Chen was a defector.  Chen was seeking asylum.  More than that, my guard friend would not divulge.  I was pleased to know that as bad as things had gotten in the country, it was still a beacon of hope for those seeking freedom.

The door opened and two men entered.  One was in a suit, WASP-ish, resembling Ward Cleaver.  The other was a newly familiar smirking face, with jaws tight upon seeing me—Dodge!

“Thought we might meet again,” I smiled.

Dodge looked disgusted and didn’t answer as the two sat in the chairs across the desk from me.

“What’s your real name?”  Mr. Cleaver asked brusquely leafing through a file folder he’d brought.

“I go by Eagle Voice.”

“Your real name, please.”

I leaned back and thought for a moment, then said, “You know, generally I’m a little put off by white guys running around with traditional Indian names … but a friend—a genuine Cherokee medicine man gave me the name Eagle Voice … and … I was honored, and so … that’s the name I’m using.  My real name is waiting in heaven.”

Dodge snorted derisively, impatiently muttering, “Oh, for God’s sake—”

“Exactly,” I replied.

He then burst from his chair, reaching across the table and grabbed my by the throat.

“Look you piece of sh—”

“Whoa … save it … ” the suited man said, pulling Dodge’s arm back, leaving me choking and clearing my throat.

[to be continued …..]