Loyal Readers: Tom threatened to "unfollow" me if I didn't post something to this blog soon, so, to avoid the pain of rejection, I offer what might be Chapter 1 of Relampago: City of Lightning. If you picked this up in the bookstore, would you keep reading?
Relampago: City of Lightning
When Burt Leclair arrived at Relampago the fire was extinguished, but for a thin line of flame smoldering along the road, contained by a trench the BLM fire crew had just finished digging. Smoke rose from a patch of scorched brush that appeared to have ignited near the Garden of 100 Demons and spread in an alarming vee shape along the hillside. Sheriff Joaquin Tafoya stood at the point of origin with his arms resolutely folded across his barrel chest and Burt’s brother Rudy, stooped and wiry, mirrored the posture like a shadow in weak sun.
Burt approached cautiously. “How do, Joaquin. Looks like you saved the day again.” It was the third fire in as many months and Burt searched Tafoya’s face and posture for clues about his mood.
Tafoya responded curtly, “I was just explaining to Rudy that I’m getting calls from the County about this place. So many fires, it’s hard to blame it all on nature.”
“Well, it is the City of Lightning,” Burt said.
Rudy Leclair had built Relampago, the City of Lightning, at the mouth of an abandoned mine in the Majuba Mountains of northern Nevada. He had conceived it as a kind of spiritual refuge, a retreat center for those who were not interested in casinos or outlet malls or simulated Wild West towns. Starting with a small butte that covered about half an acre of rocky land, he constructed a few small buildings, gardens, and a picnic area and excavated the mine’s collapsed tunnels with just a shovel and whatever building material he could scavenge to create a labyrinth of shrines and grottos where one could make wishes or pray for cures.
At the mouth of the mine he built a Welcome Center and Museum from homemade adobe bricks and discarded lumber. He lined the roof with old tires, each one bearing an inscription painstakingly calligraphed on the tread. Prayers, toys, bits of furniture, and glass adorned each surface, inside and out. Mirrors and shiny fenders sent communications into space, inviting spirits to the spot.
From inside the museum one could view elaborate assemblages of ordinary objects arranged to convey messages received by Rudy from the desert. Some had environmental themes with apocalyptic overtones, but the majority were cheerful, if difficult to comprehend. Beneath the museum, Rudy had transformed the mine into a network of grottos, each one celebrating the emotional life of the land with dioramas and displays inlaid in the walls. One could wander through The Alley of Thirst or linger in the Grotto of Unexpected Visitations or puzzle over big questions in the Vast Palace of No Doubt.
On the butte behind the museum, lawn dwarves and statues of St. Francis raged a bloody battle. A herd of cows constructed of saw horses and worn planks oozed red foamy wounds. Half a silver dinghy lay buried in the sand, which was painted a Mediterranean teal, and the outstretched plastic arms and legs of the drowned reached from beneath the blue ground for rescue. Relampago, the City of Lightening, was an apocalyptic earth ship; headquarters for an army of angels that could arrive at any time.
Burt slapped the sheriff on the back and said, “Let’s take a look at where that fire started.”
“It started with the match your brother lit to burn that pile of trash over there,” Tafoya snapped. “I’m telling you Burt, he’s a menace.”
Burt nudged him forward and began walking toward the hillside. “Let’s see before everybody gets all worked up.”
“You gotta do something,” Tafoya said, softly. “He’s getting, you know, different.”
“He’s always been different.”
“He’s gonna hurt somebody. It’s wet now but he sets a fire this summer and the whole canyon will go up. You gotta bring him to town. Get him some supervision.”
Burt faced Tafoya. “Get him locked up, you mean.”
“He don’t have to be locked up. Get him in a group home. In Lovelock or Winnemucca.”
“Rudy don’t do so well with groups.”
Tafoya approached a pile of smoldering rubble -- a few charred objects nestled in a wreath of braided sage. Some of the contents had incinerated while others remained intact. A stuffed Snoopy, three eggs, and a copy of the Bobsey Twins at the Seashore had survived the conflagration. Clearly, a portion of Snoopy’s plaid scarf had blown off into a patch of rabbit brush to set the hill ablaze.
“This is where the lightning struck,” Tafoya said. “Convenient that it hit this little offering.” He kicked at the objects, scattering the soaked debris around the hill. “Next time, I’m gonna arrest him. And then he won’t go to no home.”
“There won’t be a next time,” Burt said. “I promise.”
On the porch, Rudy performed deep plies and waved his arms in front of his face as if gently shooing away gnats. This dance, part of a system of movements, had come to him during meditation when he realized his body was aching to pray without ceasing. From then on, he rarely walked more than a few steps without inserting a spin or little Celtic hop and it wasn’t long before people began to yell, “hey Baryshnikov!” when they saw him on the street. He accepted the nickname without rancor.
“Rudy,” Burt had snapped, “don’t you know they’re making fun of you.”
“Baryshnikov is a fine dancer,” Rudy had replied.
On the porch, Burt interrupted Rudy in an extended sun salute. “Stop dancing, and tell me what’s going on.”
“Something’s out of balance. I have to make offerings.” Rudy struck an archer-like pose and then balanced on one foot while holding an imaginary bowl above his head.
“Well stop it. Make water offerings or something.”
Rudy came back to a standing position and considered the proposal. Finally, he nodded, “Fire out of balance needs water. Perfect. One day you’ll take over Relampago.”
“Relampago is all yours, brother,” Burt said. “I don’t have nothing to do with it.”
