Days 130 and 131
Writing exercise – use the following with new similies incorporated into the story:
His face was worn, like a … , The sky turned stormy, as though it was … , She was … as a … , He felt miserable as a …
…
I had been warned that the weather could change instantly, but I believed that to be an exaggeration.
Why?
I had been told that while the place I wanted to visit was once an old alluvial gold mine with some very interesting geological structures as well as an archaeological site that had the remnants of buildings dating back to what was believed to be an ancient advanced society, it was also owned by a mysterious old man, some of whom thought him to be a ghost whose permission had to be sought first before going there.
An old man, no one seemed to know his location.
It only added to the intrigue that surrounded the area.
Numerous newspaper reports suggested that it was Dargeville’s own Bermuda Triangle, where cell phones ceased to work, where apparitions could appear, of an old man, or a young girl dressed in period costume, where strange weather could erupt at any moment.
In my mind, something was going on there that someone didn’t want anyone to discover.
I’d stopped in at the diner, one of seven shops on a short main street that boasted a drapery, a hardware store, a drug store, a gas station, and a sheriff’s office. The opposite side of the road was a park, one that had just the bare minimum of maintenance.
Dargeville was literally a one-horse town. There was a horse hitching bar, and a horse was tethered to it. There was no sign of the owner, or anyone else for that matter.
Herb, the cook, the waiter, the server, in the diner was behind the server, and I could feel him watching me from the moment I stopped the car, till I walked into his diner.
The pie holder on the counter was empty. No, ‘only Dargeville can make such delicious apple pies’ apple pie was going to be tasted today, a slight disappointment.
“Where are you headed?” was his opening gambit.
“The gold fields.”
“You need permission. Old man Dargeville doesn’t like intruders.”
“Where can I find him then?”
“That’s just it, you can’t. He domes, he goes, but no one knows exactly where he is.”
“Where was he seen last?”
“Here. Three days ago. Took the last of the apple pie.”
We both looked at the empty pie holder. I could see several crumbs that had been left behind.
“Pity,” I said. “It was the other reason why I came here. Nowhere else can I find him.”
The man waved his hand, “Out there, somewhere.”
“No pie, and no old man. What does he look like?”
He looked at me thoughtfully, thinking perhaps, correctly, I was not going to leave that easily.
“Old, dusty, bushy-bearded, battered hat. Sometimes he drops a line in at the river that’s at the end of the park, that way.” He pointed across the street and along the road. “Past the gas station.”
There was a sudden crack of thunder, followed by a few more rumblings.
Odd. The sky had been clear, except for some distant clouds.
“Time to move on, before the weather sets in. You don’t want to get stuck here; the motel is not a place I’d recommend you stay.”
Very welcoming. Not!
I shrugged. “As you say, not a place to be stranded. Thanks for your help.”
When I stepped outside and looked up, the sky was the same as it had been all morning. It made the thunder I’d just heard … Or was it my imagination?
I looked back to see the man in the diner on his cell phone. Perhaps he was telling the old man that I was coming. Or someone else.
…
I checked the riverside fishing spot at the end of the park, almost opposite the gas station, and indeed it showed signs that someone had been there very recently, a roll-your-own cigarette still burning through the last of the tobacco.
The call had been a heads-up that I was coming to see him.
So, the old man did exist. I decided to go ahead and visit the site, and took out my notebook to find the page with the instructions on how to get there.
Along the road I was on, for a further five miles where there was a rusted sign with a skull and cross bones and Hazardous materials written under it.
Five miles up the road, I found the sign, almost hidden behind overgrown bushes, very faded. More words, freshly painted, were added under Hazardous, ‘to your health’. Beside it was a drawing of a man with his head cut off and blood spurting out of the neck.
Someone had a sense of humour.
It was a further two miles up a track that sometimes disappeared except for tire ruts. I was glad I brought the off-road SUV. At precisely two miles, I stopped. I had to. A brand-new steel wire fence and gate had been erected, blocking the way.
Previously, from all the reports, there had been no fences or gates.
Another crack of thunder had me looking up, and there was a change. The sky turned stormy, as though it was a roiling witch’s cauldron, clouds swirling and shades of grey from dark to light changing almost like an electronic display.
I could smell rain in the air. The wind picked up and swished through the trees. Another crack of thunder, this time coming after a bolt of lightning that wasn’t far away.
On the gate was a sign. “Trespassers will be shot”, with several bullet holes above and below the words to emphasise the fact.
It did make me think twice before I got a weapon of my own, and then while searching for a way over the fence, I found a pedestrian gate about thirty yards along to the right, that wasn’t locked.
Curious. Just on the other side, I found an almost burnt-out cigarette, the same as that at the fishing spot. Whoever had been there was here.
There was a worn track on either side of the fence, so I followed it carefully. It was one of those wooded areas where you always had the feeling someone was watching you. The scrub was dense but not very high. There were trees, but sparse in number.
Long before I reached it, I could hear a river, or creek perhaps, but the sound of running water.
A few minutes later, I reached the edge of a clearing, and on the other side, away from where the track led, I saw a girl, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, not of this civilisation, dancing. She was the epitome of a summer’s day, so brightly dressed and so carefree.
She had neither seen nor heard me coming. I stayed and watched for a few minutes, and then she disappeared into the woods. I thought of following her, but it was off mission. The weather was holding off, but it might not last. I continued on towards the river.
Coming out of the woods, noting I had been following the creek for about three hundred yards, before me were the ruins of several structures that looked to me to have been built of mud bricks, and part of a much larger structure. The whole area back from the creek was paved in stones that made up a very sophisticated design.
It looked a bit like a town square, built around a well, and on the other side, what looked to be the ruins of a temple. What the gold miners made of it was anyone’s guess, but very few of their writings included anything about any ruins.
Further on from that was a seat, and there sat a man with his back to me. Battered hat, dusty clothes. I walked towards him. He didn’t turn around, as if he were expecting a visitor.
I stopped when I was alongside the seat, and then he turned to look at me. His face was worn, like that of an old leather chair, from years of exposure to the elements. I wondered if he felt as miserable as he looked.
He sighed. “I knew you’d come.”
“Hello, gramps.”
…
© Charles Heath 2025
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 