Finding Israel - Chapter 1

This is a new idea I gained after reading about the 1950's uranium boom in the Southwest... Moab was actually named the "uranium capital" at the time, and thus when I pieced together the snipits of what I've read, heard, and seen, a detailed story about a prospective family grew in my mind. The first chapter of fictitious Gilad (my stand-in name for a Moab of the past) is called "Tamarisk Whispers," named after the tree that flourishes along the banks of the canyons I've visited. Though not native, it grows and expands like a poisonous weed, choking the once barren shores of the desert rivers, adding the beauty of the color green but stealing from the purity of the land - hence reminding me of the weed we like to call humanity.



Tamarisk Whispers


They left the farm in March, before the rains came. It was the husband’s idea, as he was the entrepreneur of the family and always made the financial decisions, though his wife usually objected. But this time she let him. This time, she knew he would not listen, so she saved her breath for another battle. It wasn’t as if they had much to lose, she reasoned.

So they left – the man, the wife, and their two daughters – for a different life in the West. It was a gamble; the Second War had ended only a decade before, and the husband had little more than rumors of success to guide him. But he believed, as many others believed, that he would be different. He would be able to find the riches his predecessors had missed, because he was more intelligent. He was more able, he assumed. More skilled and deft for the job. The Atomic Energy Commission would understand that, and when he sold his claim, he would be a wealthy man.

Now Mabel, as the wife was called, found his quest to be nothing more than a silly dream, but she loved her husband and wished to please him. Thus she went without question, dutifully telling her daughters to smile when they cried for their losses of cows, chickens, and a few family dogs. They will be happy here, she told them. Farm animals don’t like the desert heat. What she did not succeed in doing, however, was keeping Ruthie, the youngest, from smuggling a basket-bound cat into their already cramped Ford. Neither mother nor father knew of the pet until they had stopped to rest on the first evening.

It revealed itself with a whimper from its tiny home when the pickup was finally parked, then proceeded to scratch at the basket cover. Luckily, Mabel found the tiny kitten before her husband. She picked it up and determined the sex, though it struggled at first and mewed for release. A girl, she thought. Poor, manly Hunter was destined to be surrounded by a league of females. She cradled the little white cat and shushed her cries until she could find some water. Skillfully, she dipped her fingers into a flask and gave their dripping nourishment to the kitten. Tiny beads of the fluid crept down her skin and into the little one’s mouth – Mabel understood how to do these things as only a mother could.

As it thirstily lapped up the water, Hunter came from behind her.

“What is that?” he asked.

She held the kitten before him and whispered so the children would not hear.

“Ruthie must have brought her. You know how she loves them.”

Hunter stared at the squirming, pitiful body without commiseration, then reached for it.

“I’ll break its neck and toss it in the field. It will be quick, and Ruthie will never have to know. A kitten can’t survive where we’re going. It would be torture to take it.”

But Mabel withdrew from her husband. She pressed the little white form to her breast and told him no. She would let the cat live.

“You don’t know what you’re doing. That kitten will die no matter what you think. Now, hand it here before Ruthie or Ida finds us.”

“I said no, Hunter.”

“Fine,” he answered, without too much anger. “But when you see it crying for food and drink, when you see it swollen from a scorpion’s bite, you will regret your decision.”

And so Hunter, being a good man, let his wife keep the kitten. For the remainder of the journey, they fed it what they did not consume – flecks of bacon or boiled vegetables, though the husband was weary of feeding it any meat. He knew they may not have enough of it once they reached Gilad, and was hesitant to rouse the cat’s carnivorous appetite. Of course, with the leftover bacon and hidden scraps given by Ruthie, his attempts were useless. By the fourth day, the kitten craved meat just as much by taste as by instinct.

Then on the fifth day, they reached the Four Corners region. The land was now harsh and dry; dusty reds and oranges painted the earth with their ancient fire. Mabel was silently astounded; she had grown up on the green coasts of Georgia where humidity and heat were one, and the endless fields were fruitful and blessed with summer rains. But here, there were no signs of rain that she could see, and the ground bore shrubs and cacti like unwanted sores. It aggrieved the land to support even the smallest amounts of life, and the emptiness stretched on to the horizon. It was beautiful, yes, but she couldn’t understand the dryness, the hollowness she felt when she stood on the side of the road – the air seemed to steal the moisture from her very lips. It made her miserable, but still she did not tell Hunter this, because she loved her husband and wished to please him.

Thus Mabel followed the man as he requested, hoping his delusions would end in a few short months. Uranium was a hard element to find, despite what the government wanted the miners to believe, and she knew that they had little chance of success. Even if her husband managed to find a claim, a sample, anything – surely he would understand that he was only going to harm himself. What was the point of wealth for an unhealthy man? Radioactivity had proven its ferocity in the years before; there could be no good from it. Yet she followed Hunter, and her daughters learned from her example to comply. They would be home soon, wherever home turned out to be.

The old truck took them farther into the desert, further away from civilization. By the seventh and final day, they reached a turnoff that plunged into a dusty valley. A river wound through what looked like a town, and settlements dotted the surrounding territories. It was primitive, but not too archaic; electricity and plumbing were used in all the finer motels and restaurants. Finer, naturally, was hyperbole used in descriptions for any visitors who came for the beauty and not the prospect of money. Though when the visitors came, they usually were not disappointed for at least a few days. It took some time for the stark heat and general lack of society to goad their early departure.

The family pulled their car with all of their belongings to a gas station, where Hunter checked their supplies and reevaluated the solidity of the decrepit and borrowed trailer that was soon to become their home. He grunted while he paced around the two-person configuration, deciding that it would have to do. The benefits of his sacrifice would make up for their present poverty soon enough. He checked the hitch and tightened the ropes that held their only property, then went inside the station to inquire about what to do next.

He stepped in through the door to find the only attendant on duty, dyed blue underneath the buzz of fluorescent lights. But it was a dark blue; the man’s skin was tanned and leathery from years of sun and wind. He looked tired, though not from a need of rest but from a life of repetitious ways and unanswered longing. He was from a different era, where Gilad meant peace, but so far he had found none within his quiet existence.

Hunter approached the man slowly; he was a fragile sort of person who did not care for worldly conflict. It was not as if this blue man seemed unfriendly to him – just aloof and somewhat tricky, so he decided first off to avoid any problems. He cleared his throat and spoke to the man, gently at first and with a hint of submission to give up any of his authority.

“I’ve come to establish myself and family,” he said, then continued, “Can you tell me who I should see?”

The blue man looked at him and snorted, unconsciously flexing his shoulders and neck in response to his newfound authority. Still he was not threatening.

“There is a claims office downtown. They’ll tell you what you need to know. But you’d better listen to them, the Department of the Interior doesn’t appreciate unwanted squatters on private land.”

His voice was thick and dry like his flesh, while his eyes were a sun-bleached and bloodshot yellow that hinted of cataracts. Hunter wanted to step back, but he stayed erect and processed the information. The downtown the man was referring to, he knew, was no more than a single street, lined with shops and eateries and bars of which mothers would be hesitant to take their children. Rightfully so, not for the dangers of the company the young might find, but for the rudeness and circumstance they might witness. No one here would harm another, but their conduct was enough to make the pure or refined in society repulsed. Though this is not to say it was the men’s fault they behaved poorly. Victims of their own misfortune, they acted as they felt without remorse or understanding of the standards elsewhere. Hunter knew this, for he had read of these people and these places. It was the life he was ready to assume, and as a good father he would keep his daughters away.

The blue man watched Hunter and waited for a response, a thank you or a similar request. But Hunter remained quiet long enough to irritate the man.

“Anything else?” he dryly inquired.

Hunter rubbed his chin and reached into his pocket, where he withdrew a good sum of money.

“If you so happen to put in a few good words for me tonight, I’d very much appreciate it. If not, I’ll pay for the fuel and be on my way.”

The man stared at the folds of green and raised a suspecting brow, but his own selfishness let him question no more.

“Just know that you will find no ally in me. Good words, maybe, but no friend.”

“That’s all I need.”

Hunter paid the man and left the station, where his family greeted him in the most tired, yet pleasing of ways. Ruthie was asleep, the kitten curled between her thighs, and Ida was leaning against the back door window with heavy lids. But Mabel, pretty and copper-haired Mabel, sat perfectly awake. Silent and calm, she waited for her husband with the bluest of eyes and the palest of skin, beautiful and soft and willing.

He kissed her cheek and stroked her hair when he got in the truck, then turned to stare at his children. They were attractive, both of them – pale and soft like their mother but with eyes as deep and dark as a winter’s dusk. Their hair was that color of wheat before it dulls and is harvested, their faces were sprinkled with spots as gold as the color of liquid caramel. Something about them was more their mother than he could claim, though each of them possessed his hands. He had always wanted to say it represented his strength, whereas Mabel complained that it was God’s way of cursing her offspring with the most ill-looking of all her husband’s features. Strength, no, her children were blessed with his gift of awkwardness. But secretly, this is what Hunter loved the most in his girls. He loved to look at them and see himself.

They drove for only a few minutes before finding the claims office; it was along the main street just as the blue man had said. The building was brown and made of wood, painted in a way so that back east or in the mountains, it would blend in to the scenery. Here, however, it shone like a beacon of failed assimilation.

He told his family to wait just once more; this would be their final stop for the day. When he was done, they would find a hotel, and tomorrow they would finally move to their stead in the untamed desert. It was that soon and that simple.

Therefore Hunter went inside the office much more confident than he had the station, smiling instead of bowing to his benefactor. The man behind the desk nodded toward him and waited patiently for Hunter to make his demands.

“I’m here to find a claim for myself and my family.”

The merchant pulled out his papers with a pair of dirty hands and inspected the first page.

“You and so many others. You are not unique, sir. There is little land for sale anymore.”

“That is no matter. I only ask for the smallest of land to make a home, and the exploring will be left to my own luck within the charted regions.”

“As you wish,” the agent sighed, and flipped through the pages with the most uncaring of gazes. He paused near the back, and then pushed the papers toward Hunter.

“Here is a map of what is available. There is one left within the Land Bridge District, and twelve in Mesa Quarter. You may sit down to think about it, if you’d like.”

Hunter paused and pulled the pages close to his nose, where he followed the topography with uncertain and juvenile skill. He had the reason of impulse on his side, and chose what any man believing to be superior would choose. He picked the land where no man had camped for at least fifteen miles.

“The Mesa Quarter. Something there. Do I see a creek labeled on the southeastern side? That’s where I want to be.”

The man coughed and pulled the papers toward him where he found the stream and its surrounding sectioned squares. He coughed again, and handed the map back to his customer.

“It will be difficult,” he said.

“But there will be water. All I need is water, and a way to come back to town for supplies. The Mesa Quarter will suit me.”

The man knew not to argue with Hunter; he had overseen the purchase of too many claims to behave differently. So he agreed, and gave his client the title to Mesa Number Six. After a moment, he grunted in anticipation.

“I have five hundred,” Hunter told him, and reached into his pocket.

“It is worth three times that. Fifteen hundred, no less.”

“Seven-fifty.”

“One thousand would be a steal,” the man said through gritted teeth.

“One thousand it is.”

So Hunter paid the thousand, thinking he had won the bargain. What he did not know was that only two days before, a claim of similar size had been purchased by another man for two-hundred and fifty dollars. Instead, he happily went back to his family, his smiling and lethargic family, and told them that it was finished. They would be leaving for the Mesa Quarter at dawn, and there they would make their new home.

At this point, Mabel decided to ask him what she had only been brave enough to wonder for days.

“Will we like it there, Hunter?”

He pressed his lips together and thought. After petting sleeping Ruthie on the head, he looked at his wife and answered.

“I don’t know, darling. I went into this not knowing anything.”

“Then why did we come?” she asked, head down and voice soft as to not challenge his rationale.

“Because I love you. I love you, I love Ida, and I love Ruthie. I want something better for all of us.”

Mabel looked down to her fingers and picked at her thumb, pondered his words for an instant and then responded in the sweetest of tones.

“Of course. I should never have questioned you.”

With that Hunter kissed his wife and smiled at his children, though pensive Ida and unconscious Ruthie were too occupied to acknowledge their father. While Ruthie slept the pains of travel away, Ida simply sat and studied the charred earth in wait of her release. She did not know this land, but she saw the desert as an opportunity to finally help the father she had failed so often before. Though Ida was the oldest, she was not his favorite. She doubted she ever would be.

They drove on, Hunter eagerly looking for the cheapest place to park for the night. It was already late afternoon, and he was eager to finish his journey and perhaps visit a bar to unwind. After all, it was his night of victory. He had done it; he had left his house, father, and farm for a different life – a better life – if only he worked hard enough. And Hunter planned on working hard. He felt the promise the barren earth hid beneath its crust; he knew he could find its treasure. He was unlike the others, no matter how often failures found those who followed the same path. He would be famous, and if not famous, rich.

He eventually pulled the truck into a dusty lot with a few other equally dusty cars and bade his family out of the vehicle, where they all went into the office together.

“Hello,” said the attendant, a short but thin man. He extracted a key from his brown leather belt and slid it across the countertop.

“You’ll be needing a key to the showers. Would you like to rent some cots? A tent to cover them?”

Hunter walked up to the counter and took the keys into his thick fingers. He eyed the man with a favorable countenance, then asked him for more than simply rent.

“How much for two cots, some bedding, and tent and tarp to cover it all? They won’t be returned.”

The tiny and tanned man – possibly Indian – bit one of his nails. He evaluated the family and turned back to Hunter.

“How much do you have?”

“Twenty-five. No more.”

“Fifty?”

“No.”

This time the bidding went much better; Hunter was given his items for the original amount. It was fortunate, as he only had ten more inside his pockets. The rest would have to come through checks, and those he was willing to save for more opportune times. He would only pull out his reserves when necessary.

The family took the supplies back to the truck where they set up a sort of camp, a welcome relief to the daughters who had slept each night cramped in the truck while the parents had rested in the trailer. But this was soon to end; when they set up their home in the Mesa Quarter, Hunter told them, the girls would get the trailer and he and Mabel would have the tent and tarps as lodging.

By sunset they were finished with their meager housing, and Hunter called his family to him. He requested the girls take a walk, and they agreed to follow. They wandered away from the other campers, pursuing their leader as he led them across the desert crust. Finally, he led them up an outcropping of stone that overlooked the encampment and town, where he sat down and place Ruthie on his lap.

“Look at this. Isn’t it amazing?”

He pointed to the falling rays of sunlight that painted the redrock an electric orange and bloody magenta, next motioned to the clouds that billowed and sailed like the fiery ships of the stars. The moon rose just above the cliffs to the east, glowing a brilliant yellow that dripped and waved like the melted wax of a letter seal. The air itself prickled with the intensity of the refracted spectrum, and the soft, warm breeze that combed their hair seemed to breathe with condolence. The towering cliffs, the thrusting mesas all sparkled with eternity, and for a moment the silence screamed with the splendor of creation. Then the day gave up her last beams of light, making sure she would not be forgotten.

The four travelers slowly went back to the truck, and sooner or later everyone was showered and ready for bed. The talk among them was small, as the journey had been tiresome and uneventful. But the women knew, though the promise of wealth was small, that their patriarch had led them somewhere lovely. They were thankful for it, and hence drifted off into sleep with a certain tranquility they previously lacked.

Upon sunrise, Hunter gathered them quickly and gave them rations for breakfast before going off to purchase food for the next week. When he returned, he loaded the goods into the truck and ate the remainder of the bread and eggs vigorously. By the next half hour, the family had loaded their possessions and left.

The travel to Mesa Quarter Number Six was long, but not so terrible as Mabel had expected. It was only ten miles from Gilad, though fifteen miles from the next squatter in any other direction. The area itself, while enclosed by two fins of Entrada Sandstone, was open enough for her to feel at ease, and the little hidden spring delivered them a tiny stream dotted with vegetation. It was a remarkably attractive stead, wonderfully warm, and the dry air no longer seemed to Mabel a burden. Tiny beetles and legions of ants paraded across the pebbly sand; miniature reptiles crawled along the stone walls. It was so different than she ever could have imagined – almost alien – but she liked it.

Within a few hours, they had set up a house of tent and tarp, stakes, screens, and their trailer. It was not exceedingly sturdy, but it would survive for now. It was only March, and for the family winter was an issue to be dealt with in the future. Consequently Mabel decided that the best way to spend the remaining day was not to spend it at all; she chose to watch her children as they explored the graceful terrain. Reclined against a sheet of rock, she watched the girls run through the crevices of stone, watched them laugh as they splashed in the pearly stream. They ran between the boulders; they poked at the lizards. And as the stunted tamarisk trees whispered in delight, as they groaned in the awakening of another warm spring, she felt at last she could be happy here.