The Heavenly Oak Read online

  The Heavenly Oak

  Philip Bauer

  To my sponsor Ron Tewksbury

  Contents

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Heavenly Oak Copyright © 2017 by Philip Bauer

  Trifecta Publishing House

  Vintage Hill Press - Imprint

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  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means now known or hereafter invented, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, Trifecta Publishing House.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

  * * *

  Published in the United States of America First Printing: 2017

  E- Book

  ISBN -13: 978-1-943407-24-8

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  Print

  ISBN -13: 978-1-943407-25-5

  * * *

  Trifecta Publishing House

  1120 East 6th Street

  Port Angeles, Washington

  98362

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Editors: Elizabeth Jewell, Diana Ballew

  Cover Art by Rae Monet

  Formatted by Monica Corwin

  One

  Christopher

  "I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more." Isaiah 43:25

  The drive home was like every other. I was preoccupied. The endless meetings and phone calls were hitting me in waves throughout the day. I was buoyed by the knowledge: It was Friday. I had two glorious days with no one asking anything of me.

  The early spring rains were now a regular topic of conversation. The long hard winter had finally given up its grip. The drive-time announcer told a grateful audience the weather would be clearing up for the weekend. The windshield wipers were trying to keep up with the increasing downpour.

  Reaching for the radio dial, I searched for an oldies station. I tried to remember the call letters and number of that new classic rock station I wanted to try.

  Hearing the screeching of brakes, I immediately looked for the source of the ominous sound. Scanning left, I saw drenched, running pedestrians who tried to escape the deluge. Straight ahead was clear. The new radio station began blasting out its new format. The Joe Walsh guitar solo couldn’t overcome the invasion of glass, crunching metal, and screams that came from a place deep within me.

  I know now why people say that everything seems to be in slow motion. The braking sound I had heard came from a pickup truck hitting my car from the rear. As my head smashed through the windshield, I wondered why my airbags didn’t work and if I would ever smell the sweet fragrance of freshly baked bread again. The sound of my mother’s laughter, my first taste of ice cream, the games of kick the can, prom night, weddings, funerals; faster and faster the images flashed through my mind.

  Sights and sounds that had been long forgotten were now vivid and alive. Random bits of information, both vital and ridiculous, flooded in. “Why didn’t I ever tell her how I felt? The rain is going to wreck my suit. I loved the long walks I took with my dad before he died. That science project deserved an A, but Mr. Lange didn’t like it. That’s what I get for washing the car. I was leaning against the coffee table as everyone cheered my first step. Mom taught me how to draw. My newspaper is probably wet on the front porch. When I touched her hair for the first time, I knew that I had finally met ‘the one’. Did I remember to call back that customer about his order? Is there life after death?” These were my competing thoughts as I saw the approaching pavement. Mind-numbing pain and the sound of shattering bone greeted my landing on that rainy Friday in late April.

  Sticky moisture on my face gently woke me from a deep slumbering sleep. The shock of the last twenty seconds at the intersection of Pennington Avenue and 38th Street was slowly rising to the surface. It seemed as if it had happened long ago, to someone else, and yet it was still fresh in my mind.

  Is this it? Twenty-three seconds stand between life and death? The sirens were quickly on the scene. Glass in my eyes prevented me from opening them. The pain was incomprehensible. People surrounded me, yelling and shouting orders. I knew they were trying to help. I was talking--yelling, really--and yet no one seemed to hear me.

  “One, two, three,” they yelled, as I felt myself being lifted. Blacking out is a term I had heard all my life, but it didn’t seem to apply to my current state. I knew my brain wasn’t allowing my body to feel the pain, but I didn’t expect to be awake through all this. The sirens started up again, and this time they weren’t as loud. The urgency and desperation I had first felt, to stay, to hang on, to go on, was now becoming increasingly irrelevant. The louder they yelled at me to "stay with us," the less I felt like I needed to.

  Describing what came next as sleep is an understatement. I felt an overwhelming need to slumber, to curl up with a good book on a wintry day and doze off, that feeling you get when you want to drift into an afternoon nap after Thanksgiving dinner. They were desperately trying to keep me awake, but I was joyously retreating into a warm cocoon.

  The moisture on my left cheek was not my blood; it was dew on the abundant clover that I saw when I opened my eyes. Now the sirens were replaced with the songs of birds singing in a tree somewhere close. Lying there, I felt a comforting, gentle breeze. My logical mind told me to be afraid, but that wisp of fresh air settled my nerves and took away all my brokenness.

  The birds sang louder now with a chirping melody. I expected pain from what were broken ribs only seconds ago. No pain, but also no answers to the nature of my surroundings. Sitting in the clover, I felt warmth on my face. I got that spring-fever feeling I used to get as a kid when the first sunny day finally arrived. The hands that shielded my face from that awful landing now touched the deep green grass surrounding me. I found myself on the side of a hill, overlooking a deep valley. Looking out, it seemed I could see forever. The greens were vivid, and the flowers bright, with colors I had never seen.

  The huge rolling basin was filled with an abundance of trees and large expanses of green and yellow pastures. A babbling brook sprang from a rock just a half mile or so down the hill. The water ran eagerly down the valley into a lake that shimmered with gladness at each new drop of its splashing friend. All the beauties around me appeared to understand each other: the brook and the lake, the birds and the wind, the warmth of the sky smiling down on the flourishing hillside. There was an overwhelming feeling that a newcomer was in their midst; it was a somewhat bewildered new neighbor sitting halfway up a magnificent precipice
.

  A childish notion came over me. It had been years since I had rolled down the side of a hill just because I felt like it. My grandmother had a hill behind her farmhouse that I used to love to roll down. The faster I rolled and the dizzier I became, the more I wanted to get up and do it again. Smiling broadly, and without hesitation, I lay down on my side and started to roll toward the meadow below. The softness of the green grass and the smell of the fresh air filled my spirit as I laughingly rolled down the hill. The meadow was approaching quickly as I giggled my way into its lap. I lay at the bottom, wondering if I should get up and do it again. My laughter echoed throughout the majestic crevasse before me.

  The thought of sharing this event suddenly came to me. My Laura adores flowers and long walks. She would love this. My big brother, Johnny, would enjoy this, just like when we were kids behind grandma’s house. Where were my family and friends? Did they know I was here? I expected to miss them, but instead, I felt a sense of peace that they would be along when they were supposed to be and that there was no hurry.

  I thought it must be a dream, but I prayed I would never wake up. There was no logical explanation for what was happening, but I knew I didn’t want to leave this place of peace.

  I climbed back up the summit toward the place where I had first arrived. The higher I ascended, the more spectacular the view. It was as if I could see the whole world from here. Looking forward, I noticed a tree. A mighty oak sprawled its limbs across the very top of this mount. It was a rugged thing of beauty, beckoning me to bask in its shade at the top of the world.

  Two

  It was obvious that this oak was no ordinary tree. The majesty of its huge trunk and leafy branches comforted me. Walking around the massive trunk, I felt the rough bark against my hands. Circling around the back of the tree, I looked out over another scene of breathtaking beauty. There was so much to take in that I almost missed what was right in front of me. A rope hung down from one of the tree's mighty arms, and on the end was an old tire. I remembered the tire swing at my childhood home. Simple things, like rolling down hills and tire swings … how could I have forgotten those joys?

  Grabbing the tire, I started to climb the tree. I was finding it difficult to climb with one hand while holding the tire with the other.

  It was then that I heard a voice asking, “Do you need some help?”

  Looking up into the tree, I saw a man holding out his hand and smiling. I was startled and yelped. Dropping the tire swing, I fell to the ground. A huge burst of laughter came from the man in the tree, shaking the branch he was sitting on. The fall didn’t hurt; the clover had welcomed my landing. Propping myself up on my elbows, I strained to see the man in the tree. His laughter was contagious, and I soon found myself joining him. The swing made its way out to the end of its journey and was returning to the tree at a rapid pace.

  “Look out!” said the voice.

  I jumped up and turned just as the tire swing hit me in the chest and knocked me back down. Apparently, this was too much for the man in the tree. His merriment knocked him off the large branch and onto the ground. We were both snickering at my calamity, as the tire swung back and forth above our heads.

  “You have got to watch out, that swing will get you every time,” he said with a smile.

  He stopped the swing, sat down, and leaned against the tree. I joined him, and we looked out over the valley in the shade of that mighty oak. We sat in silence, just listening to the birds singing their melody from the branches above our heads.

  “You hear that song they are singing?” he asked, as he turned his head to look at me.

  Gazing upward into the leafy canopy, I nodded.

  “That’s your song. They just came up with it today. Do you like it?”

  Closing my eyes, I listened, as all the birds sang the beautiful refrain.

  “I told them you would,” he said, with a sense of pride you would only see from a loving father.

  “Who are you?” I asked, looking into his friendly eyes. His face was familiar, and yet I was sure I had never seen it before. His dark wavy hair and the pleasant smile quietly assured me without his saying a word.

  “I AM … well, let’s just leave it at that,” he said.

  “You are who?” I asked.

  “No, not who, I,” he said.

  “I’m confused.”

  “I know, but it’s okay,” he said quietly.

  “Am I dead? Is this the end?”

  He stood and stretched. “It’s only the beginning.”

  I stood next to him, and he put his arm around my shoulder.

  “This is overwhelming. I have a million questions!” I said almost pleadingly.

  “I knew you would; that’s why I made this place for you. It was meant to put you at ease so we could have a chance to talk.”

  “Wait a minute, you made all this for me?” I asked.

  He squeezed my shoulder and said, “Well, first of all, there are no minutes here, but yeah, I made this for you.”

  I asked again, “Am I dead?”

  He stepped away, looked me up and down with a smirk, and said, “You look very much alive to me.”

  “Former things have passed away,” he said over his shoulder as he started to walk down the back side of the hill, signaling me to follow. When I caught up to him, I saw that he had on hiking boots, faded jeans, and a white cotton shirt. I was surprised that I was no longer in my suit. I was now wearing my favorite jeans, hiking boots, and a new shirt that felt tailor-made.

  “’Who shot JFK?’ That’s what you want to know,” he said.

  Surprised he could read my thoughts, I said, “It seemed important, until you said it out loud.”

  He was obviously amused. He looked at me and said, “Oh, Christopher, I am so glad you are here.”

  As we walked down through the grass and flowers, I looked up to see the source of the warmth on my neck and face. I noticed there was no sun, just a beautiful, bright blue sky.

  We came to a dirt path that was cut in the grass.

  “This way,” he said.

  We walked side by side, and the small rocks crunched under our feet.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “We have some work to do,” he said.

  He gave me a playful jab in the ribs and took off running along the trail. I scampered after him, noticing that I wasn’t getting winded. The harder I tried, the faster I ran, and the more energy I had. The path ran along a ridge and into a clump of trees between two hills. He disappeared around the bend. I struggled to keep up with him. The trail narrowed as I came around the bend. He was out in front running backwards and smiling.

  “We are almost there!” he yelled.

  He turned and ran quickly into the trees. The birds followed him, singing and chirping happily.

  Running after him, I was reminded of the countless hours I played hide-and-seek as a child and how it never got old. That same youthful exuberance was with me now as I rustled through the low-hanging branches along the shady path. Suddenly, I came to a clearing in the woods. He was sitting on a log. In the middle of the expanse, surrounded by tall trees, sat a wooden barn.

  “This is where we begin our work,” he said, standing as I approached. He embraced me. “I am so excited for you to get started.”

  He opened the barn door, and the birds flew anxiously to their perches in the rafters of this ancient structure. The first thing I saw was a stable with a magnificent white horse in the stall. The animal whinnied and shook his mane as we approached.

  “This is Regal,” he said, gently stroking the white mane.

  Regal blew air from his nostrils. This made him laugh. He promised the white beauty they would go riding soon.

  The stall was clean and neat. A royal robe of purple and gold hung on the wall behind the horse. Next to it were two crowns; one of thorns, the other, a royal crown fit for a king.

  “That robe and shiny crown look like they have never been worn,” I said.

/>   “They haven’t … yet,” he said. “That other crown, I wore only once a long time ago. I keep it up there to remind me.”

  The large barn was cut in half by a floor-to-ceiling wall. The front section was the stable. We walked to the back of the stable toward an ornately hand-carved door.

  Regal whinnied again as if to say, “Don’t forget about your promise.”

  “I won’t,” he said over his shoulder as he closed the door behind us.

  I stood in silence taking in the massive room. The floors were polished oak. On the right was a workbench that filled the full length of the wall. Woodworking and wood-sculpting tools and equipment lay neatly on the counter. In the middle of the room was a perfectly built round table with clay-sculpting equipment. Moist clay was laid out on a large white cloth. It appeared as though a project was about to start. Light shone through a large window on the back wall, letting in the beauty of the dense woods beyond.

  On the left side of the room with his arms folded, he leaned against an elongated drafting table. The angled table was built all along the wall. There were several blueprints and plans spread open across the workspace. Additional stacks lay on shelves above the handmade desk. There was a beautiful golden compass, a long wooden ruler, and some freshly sharpened pencils placed neatly near the papers. On the back wall, under the window, sat two brown leather chairs and a coffee table. The sitting area was set off by the most intricately sewn, multicolored area rug I had ever seen.