Arcadia Falls - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rand Johnson is a nature writer and photographer whose work has appeared in a variety of national and regional periodicals. A legislative aide to then-Congressman Albert Gore,Jr. he was later the managing partner of a New York law firm.

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PROLOGUE
The boys emerge from the dusky tangle of the orchard and into the dazzled wash of the meadow, skippers rocketing from the sea of grass before their sneakered feet; the dark-haired one tall for his twelve years with a gravity of aspect emphasized by black-framed glasses, the other blue-eyed and fair. Around them, wildflowers nod beneath the industry of the bees whose sonorous murmur fills the air.
The sun is hot and the boys have removed their t-shirts, shoving them carelessly into the back pockets of their jeans. Though it is summer, school has let out only the week before and their torsos are pale, with fragile skin barely softening the awkward protrusion of eager bones.
Look, a hawk, the dark one says suddenly. He stops and points at the sky. A red-tail, I ll bet.
His companion raises a hand to shield sun-challenged eyes.
Where? I don t see it.
Over there, by that cloud. The big one.
Oh, yeah.
Maybe it will call. Then we ll know.
They watch in silence as the hawk circles on a rising thermal, growing ever smaller until it is a mere speck in the blue translucence, as much imagined as real.
I guess it s not going to, the blonde says finally. He makes ready to move.
The other lifts his hand in restraint.
Wait.
Rigidly attentive, they do.
And then it comes - a breathy scream, wild and defiant, evaporating into the infinity of the summer sky.
The boys exchange satisfied grins.
A red-tail, the dark one says.

What s that?
They have come to a stunned halt, staring at the wooden stake that has sprouted from the meadow soil bearing a bloom of pink plastic.
The dark one frowns and shakes his head.
I don t know.
Look, there s another. The blonde points. Over there, too.
I ll bet they re gonna build something."
You think?
A grim nod.
What?
How would I know?
Oh, man, - the words drawn out in complaint - That sucks.

The sign looms over them, blocking the sun. On the lawn in front of the farmhouse, a bulldozer sits insensate.
Houses. They re going to build houses.
It says farms.
It says urban farms. That s just what they re calling it - Urban Farms. See, it says residential - and look at the picture. It s gonna be a development, like Hartwick Estates.
I wonder how many.
The dark one shrugs, silent.
You think they ll tear down Mrs. Mears house, Frankie?
They tore down the Hartwick place.
What about the fort?
The dark-haired boy glances disdainfully at his companion, but says nothing.

It is Frank who strikes first.
He kicks at a stake, knocking it askew.
They stare.
He kicks it again. It tilts crazily, almost free.
Again - and the stake sails end over end and disappears, swallowed by meadow grass.
They look at each other - then break apart, racing from stake to stake, ripping them up and tossing them aside in a frenzy.
Energy spent, they come together, washboard chests heaving.
They ll just put them back, Robbie says.
In reply Frank turns and strides toward the house.
Where you goin ?
But Frank doesn t answer.

What are you gonna do?
Frank has uprooted one of the sharp-edged stones that line the neglected remains of Mrs. Mears iris bed.
You ll see.
Robbie watches as the other boy climbs into the cab of the bulldozer.
We ll get in trouble.
So leave then.
Robbie frowns but does not move. Frank raises the stone with studied ceremony, pausing dramatically at its apogee, then slams it down hard onto the control panel in a splash of shattered glass.
Robbie stares aghast - then whirls to get a rock of his own.