BOOK ONE: His Sun

JUNE

From a future time, Claire St. Onge remembers the way it all went. She speaks.

So you've heard about us before, doubtlessly, how this tiny world, our home, our "chez nous," cradled in the lap between two mountains, got blasted straight out into the eye of America. Yes, America, what one of our adopted teenagers here calls "The Land of Panicked Mice." But really it was us, the family of the Settlement, who were the mice, the outside world a hale and majestic foot, the triumph of that foot set in motion by one small hand.

At 7:33 p.m., a message left on the answering machine of theRecord Suncolumnist and feature writer, Ivy Morelli.

"Hello. I'm not going to tell you my name. I'm sure there's the possibility of retribution by the individuals involved if you choose to proceed with this. There are several of us who are worried about what we see as very serious abuses to children at the so-called school located on Heart's Content Road near Promise Lake in this town ... Egypt. We're aware of others who have voiced concern to authorities and to one or two other newspapers. We are furious about the lack of even an eye blink of interest shown! Unreturned phone calls. Passing the buck. Rudeness. Treating us like we are crazy. Like we are crazy ...

At 7:59 p.m., on the same evening, on the same answering machine of the same Ivy Morelli.

As before, the caller doesn't introduce himself, though it is clearly a different voice. Voice tells of the "school" in Egypt. Voice is dull, weighted by a sort of weary grief. "... and we're talking here, ma'am, about children who are beaten, worked like animals, who have easy access to drugs, who are probably sexually abused, live in improper sanitation ... and the parents ... whenever anyone has seen them, seem like they are in some kind of trance, probably high ... or, you know, could be victims of fanatical religious brainwashing. We all know these things happen. Waco, for instance. We're all grown up, aren't we? Of course, none of us would dream we'd get it right here in Maine. But here you have it ..."

Next day, a different voice. A woman, a firm-sounding woman, not one to let things slide.

"... and we know of a woman who has a grandson in this so-called school. A thirteen-year-old who hasn't even learned to read yet! And she says that he hasn't even been pushed to do so. She doesn't want to reveal her name, either, but I'm sure there are plenty of others who will talk if you were to investigate. The place is a work camp, a prison for children. And there are guns. So you see what kind of people we are talking about here. We know about other calls you have received concerning this situation so we know you know there's something going on at that place. If you could state in writing that you would not reveal our names, we'd be more than happy to meet with you in person. One of us will call again. Thank you very much ... CLICK."

Ivy Morelli listens to the snippet of dial tone before the next recorded message. She is picking at the rough weave of her skirt, frowning.

Claire St. Onge in recollection of that summer.

Always there were crows. Came for the cracked corn I spread on the broad sill of the big windows to my tiny sunroom, my morning room. Two chairs, some baskets, and a toadstool-shaped table, which is only big enough to hold a cup of coffee and a book. It is carved and streaky with grain and time. Looks like a relic.

One of the crows must have been a lost pet. Very chummy. And had had his tongue split or whatever cruel thing it is that is done. The first time I heard him, I thought it was the tinny voice of a small radio. I found he'd gotten in through the kitchenette door, and claimed a bedpost. The crow's voice was urgent, "Church at ten!" He cocked his head. "Church at ten!"

Another message on Ivy Morelli's machine.

"Hello. I am calling in reference to the Home School, a sort of military compound situation on Heart's Content Road in North Egypt, on land owned and lorded over by a fellow named Gordon St. Onge. It is an urgent matter and I hope that one of us is able to connect with you soon.

I am unable to reveal my name, phone, fax, or e-mail for the reason that there are probably enough firearms in that St. Onge place ... and explosives to eliminate fifty government buildings ... so taking care of a few concerned citizens like us would be nothing to them ..."

Ivy jots down a few words and slashes across the soft pink lines of her reporter pad.

This man's voice is a different voice from those who have called over the last few days. And yet equally indignant. And she knows that those who have called her editor, Brian Fitch, or reporters in other departments here, have all been indignant, even a little discomposed.

Brian tells her, "Just keep on trying to nab somebody at DHS and the supe of the SAD, which Egypt is in. You know, Ivy, nothing goes into print without the official lowdown first ... 'less you can charmingly get inside that compound and tape the grunts of laboring children and the crackings of the whips." Brian flutters his eyes. "Meanwhile, good luck reaching some living breathing officials who know anything or want to spill it. There's something here. But. We servants of the news shan't be allowed the crumbs until we grovel a bit first." He turns away, then back. "Jesus, this whole country gets fruitier by the minute. This might be real."

Claire St. Onge speaks.

When the call came last night, a few of us were there in Gordon's kitchen. As he took the phone, we could tell by the way he held his shoulders, and how his face iced over, that the person on the other end was danger. When he hung up and said it was a Record Sun reporter, I felt the blood stop in my arms and jaws. He had, yes, agreed to an interview! He had always warned us of the commercial mainstream press. Now he became all gooey and helpful as he said goodbye. One of Gordon's many selves. A traitor, even to himself. And to us. He'd be taking us down with him, right?

Claire St. Onge again.

And then on another morning on my white-picket gate, hopping left, then right, the crow. "Oh nooo! My floors!" and "Oh nooo! My floors!" he ranted.

This morning with the iris beds in head-spinning sweetness, he swept down, his wingspan always a little jolt to me, making the sun blank out like a missed heartbeat, and there on the sill he admired the cracked corn feast. But he didn't eat. Arranged his classy black suit of feathers, did one high-stepping turnabout, and said into my eyes, "The ending was lousy."

When Ivy Morelli shows up at the St. Onge property to get her story.

Dark windshield, dark glasses, dark "modified bowl" haircut tinted with violet clipped to a hot edge at the nape of her neck. Thudding beat of the radio. Gas pedal to the floor, fixed there rather continuously by the flabby little plastic heel of her dress sandal. The all-American driver. The race! The win! Time ticking in the blood. The engine straining to please. And Ivy Morelli wears a little stripy dress, her mouth set hard, the hard...