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Recaptured from Oblivion

By Cindy M. Amos

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St. Benedict’s Abbey had never looked so immaculate under the roving eyes of God. Karch Riley wheeled the ancient garden cart across the lush east lawn as he searched for evidence of the need to reseed later this fall. Labor Day took on all semblance of sweated brow and achy shoulders since he hadn’t been graced with the day off. Atchison remained a real kiln during Indian summer, especially without a breeze. He shoved the cart up the chip-bark path and headed for the riverbank to unload.
Bordering Benedictine College off the abbey’s south entrance, evidence of the freshman class could be found in every planting bed. He’d cleaned up snack food litter and discarded trash for two hours to start his day, and now he would end it with this haul—gleanings from the vicar’s favorite flowerbed. He passed under the canopy of trees flanking River Road, welcomed by a band of shade.
The Missouri River cut away at the town’s eastern edge, rightly dubbed “The Big Muddy” by the Lewis and Clark expedition centuries earlier. If loitering to watch the river’s mesmerizing flow counted as a crime, he’d confess to be a repeat offender. A languid ribbon of slow-rippling water, the river had someplace to go. In their case, opposites did attract, which prompted a smile. Stuck on campus between two set-in-stone benchmarks, he had nowhere to go. Still, the water held a caress and somehow kept up his spirits, despite the stifling circumstances.
After a check for traffic along River Road, he pressed the cart forward across the asphalt toward his final destination. Once he dumped this load of garden culls, he might head into town for the last few hours of the festival at the riverwalk. With any luck, he could grab a bite to eat and not have to suffer his own cooking. Pride not in food vanity. Although his best friend Jonathan’s warning held a trace of truth, his hunger overruled such logic nine times out of ten.
The second he bounded off the pavement, a figure moved ahead, half hidden in the shade. Karch released the cart handles and stood erect to better evaluate the situation. Slight and stealthy, the individual preferred lurking in the woodland to a face-to-face meeting. More freshman antics. Someone had too much spare time on their hands. “Should I pretend to not see you? I’m the harmless gardener on my way to the compost pile.”
A slender arm reached around from behind a hackberry tree and clutched at its ribbed bark. Next, a shoulder appeared. “I’m just resting from an overly long jog,” the woman replied. “There’s a breeze off the river through your path.”
He wiped his brow. “Yeah. It feels good, doesn’t it? If you step out, I promise I won’t haul you in for trespassing. I’m Karch Riley, chief gardener at St. Benedict’s Abbey.”
She crept out of hiding. Only her athletic shoes gave any hint of color. Blonde with fair skin, she made quite the contrast with the woods. “I’m Lolo Henley—of Bittersweet Crafts.”
“Aha, an escapee from the festival, no doubt. I’m hoping to head down there after work.” He gestured to the ancient wheelbarrow and let a slight smile brighten the encounter. Since he hadn’t spoken to a member of the opposite sex in several months, maybe he could attempt to make a better impression.
“I don’t think…I’ll be going back today.” She stepped closer and shrugged.
“Right. It’s too hot, for sure.” He glanced south down River Road and caught sight of a truck advancing at a slow rate. Heads hung out of the windows on both sides of the cab. “That’s odd. Looks like somebody may have lost something.”
A frantic expression pinched her face. “Please—you have to hide me.”
“What?” Too cooked by the sun to be quick-minded, he regained his grip on the cart and wheeled it further up the path.
“No, really. I’m in danger from something I accidently witnessed down on the river. Can you hide me? I’m too exhausted to run any further.”
“Get in and burrow under. I’ll dump you over the riverbank into a cage I staked for the compost.” He tipped the rim of the cart down so she could climb aboard. The risk of trouble seemed to compound when the truck began to honk its horn. He spied the lime green treads of her jogging shoes and reworked a redbud limb to cover the clue.
“Hey, dude,” a man called from the roadside. “Are you deaf? We want to know if you’ve seen a woman up here. Blond hair wearing a white shirt. We really gotta find her.”
“Oh? Who is she to you?” He looked over his shoulder, intent on continuing his haul.
The ruffian rubbed his bald head and smiled. “She’s my sister…and our momma wants her to come home.” The ring on his finger glinted with a shard of deep emerald.
“Dude, please tell your mother I apologize for not keeping tabs on your sister, but it’s been a long day and I have a cold shower waiting for me. As we’re fond of saying at the abbey, fare-thee-well.”
The truck nosed into the path, but couldn’t get far due to its narrowing width. One of the riders made a sarcastic remark directed at him. Tension made time screech to a halt.
Karch labored forward with the cart, taking pains not to let it wobble. The additional weight registered in his shoulders, but he refused to let on. It lent him comfort to walk between prey and predator, as though God somehow ordained the intervention. Peace fortified his stance and he glanced ahead to gauge his progress. In ten seconds, he would need to dump the load and backtrack to face the watchful hoodlums.
Jonathan’s favorite evening vesper came to mind, so he cleared his throat to make an attempt at coded message. “Now the day’s end draws nigh, the sun falls from the sky, and my soul waits for thee. Oh, Father let it be, a time for you and me.” He ended on a low note, barely a whisper at best. With a sudden jerk, he upended the cart and emptied the contents into a cage anchored above the ever-flowing Big Muddy.
As he headed back toward campus, he tried to remain calm and collected. The muffled grunt he’d heard as she landed in the bin grated on a tender spot, but for now, the tough-guy bluff had to continue. Three men dressed in black T-shirts waited ahead in the cab. The front plate advertised a popular beer label. He chose to pass on the driver’s side to get a better look at the guy while his heart rate hit overdrive. “Say, can I convince you fellows to skedaddle before I have to get the police involved? This is private property—St. Benedict’s all the way to the river.”
The driver, a thin-faced man, laughed. “We know you monks don’t carry phones.”
He dropped the cart handles and rubbed his shoulders, making a show of his muscles. “Well, how about that.” In a smooth slide, he produced his cell phone. “But I’m the gardener—not a monk. So let me ask again real nice. Would you like to leave of your own accord, or should I call for an escort?” He touched the screen to make good on the threat.
The bald passenger leaned over the guy in the middle. “I told you, she ditched the road back at those gas storage tanks. I vote we shove off and double back to check. Time’s a-wasting here at this dead end.”
A tense few seconds ticked by. To aid Baldy, Karch stood the barrow up on its front wheel and dumped out a few residual weeds. That should prove beyond a doubt—he didn’t have what they were looking for. Only when their transmission clunked into reverse did he exercise enough bravado to draw a breath.
The truck wheeled around to face south on the pavement, though the driver still gave him the stare-down. “Not a monk,” he said in a mocking tone, “just the lowly gardener.” He spat out the window as a parting insult and let the truck creep back down the road.
Duty led him back across the road, a confused crossing of obligation comingled with guilt over the abandonment. Should the riffraff be keeping watch in the rearview mirror, he would give every appearance of retiring to the abbey. After a cleansing shower, he vowed to return. With any luck, Lolo would still be waiting for him. For some unknown reason, his pulse kicked up a notch at the possibility.
~
Like a taint, the scene under the bridge replayed in Lolo’s mind. A rabbit in an electrified cage wouldn’t feel as jittery as she did. Hopeful for emancipation, she’d wiggled up in the cage earlier and tried to gain a foothold to leverage out. Instead of birthing freedom, the anchor pins loosened and the entire cage sagged toward the river. In no mood for a dunking, she froze in place and evaluated her present trouble.
Three men of dubious intent had placed her here, and yet another male stranger might lift her out. Though her rescuer had denied being in the brotherhood at St. Benedict’s, his caramel-rich intonation of evening vespers led her to think he well could be a sanctified saint. If not, God had wasted prime vocal abilities on a mere gardener. Her skin crawled when something wormed across her shoulder blade.
Musky scents of botanical waste distracted her analytical progression. The acrid smell of fermenting orange peels overwhelmed the rest. On the far bank, a night heron croaked his displeasure at some element of his habitat. Tucked into the compost bin, she held the niche of a pack rat, a hording one at that. A leopard frog twanged its stretched-rubber call from a crevice on the near bank. The nocturnal had taken charge without due ceremony while the river relented to twilight in liquid silence.
A soft footfall echoed beside the pit. “Lolo? Are you still here? It’s Karch.”
“Yes, but let me warn you. The cage is sagging under my load.” Before she could explain further, two delving hands rattled the leaf litter over her head and sought out her shoulders. She reached up for him and clamped his bulging biceps.
“Good, hold on and up you go.” He grunted with the pull and retrieved her from the compost bin in no uncertain terms.
Lolo slammed against his muscular chest like awakening from a dream. The sensation proved surreal as her equilibrium spun out of control. She pressed a cheek to his sternum and squeezed her eyelids closed. “Whoa. Stop the merry-go-round.”
“Let me get you to the cart. Maybe a bite to eat would stave off your vertigo. I have just the thing for that particular remedy.” He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and began to lead back toward River Road.
“Is the coast clear? I don’t want to attract unwanted attention.”
“Clear as a bell, and I brought out a stealth-mobile as your rescue chariot. Next to the Pope-mobile, it’s the best defense we have.”
She straightened her spine and tried to keep pace. “Since I started in a lowly wheelbarrow, anything with four wheels would be an improvement.”
He chuckled. “Is that Lolo-on-the-lam talking, or Lolo-the-lucky-lady?”
She blew out a belabored breath and inhaled the scent of soap. Her gardener friend must have cleaned up his act. Locked tight in his protective arm, the improvement grew difficult not to notice. “It smells like we’re making a clean break.”
A pinpoint of light illuminated his palm and reflected onto a cushioned seat. “Your chariot awaits.” His warm tone sealed the invitation.
“Okay, what is this creature?” She reached out and touched the roof support before climbing inside.
“A Cushman garden cart—electric at that. Talk about stealth—even the armadillos won’t hear us coming.” He held her arm until she got settled. “To douse the neon bright of your white shirt, how about tucking into the rain poncho on the back of my seat?”
“Fine. Are we going to run the gauntlet of River Road in this contraption?”
“Yeah, it has a range of ten miles—give or take—with a full charge. We’re not more than two miles north of the Riverwalk, so I could make the trip two or three times.” He rounded the front of the vehicle and dropped into the driver’s seat.
Lolo salvaged the poncho and draped it over her head, tucking the excess between them. When something moist struck the back of her hand, she sniffed the distinct smell of a disinfectant. After rolling the square wipe over her hands, she reached back and swabbed the itchy spot over her right shoulder blade. “Ah, that’s more like it. I hope the night doesn’t have to end with a bath in Calamine lotion.” Without any cue, the cart lurched forward.
A meek whir from the wheels accompanied the motion. A light breeze stirred. Karch nudged her shoulder with his. “Free a hand from the poncho so I can pass you something to eat.”
“Ooh, in-flight meals—that’s a real retro delicacy.”
“My friend Jonathan slipped me this carry-out after my brief explanation of our search-and-rescue mission. He’s pretty handy, highly discrete, and not always aligned with the vicar’s latest edict, which has saved my neck more than once.”
A paper carton came to rest in her palm. She worked the tab open and inhaled the contents. “Chinese food?”
“Mandarin hot-and-sour vegetables on rice noodles. Use these chopsticks.”
She cleared her other hand in time to receive the slender utensils. A counter to her lightheaded condition, she plunged them into the carton and withdrew the first taste. Pausing short of her mouth, she blessed the food and made one last attempt at conversation. “So, damsels in distress are forbidden by the vicar?” In a nervous volley, she landed the slick noodles in her mouth and let the Asian flavors explode on impact. After the salty soy sauce dissipated, something bearing a sour after-kick lit the sides of her tongue.
The driver blew out a weighty breath as he navigated by the weak light of the rising moon. “Damsels in general are forbidden by the vicar. And that, in a nutshell, is why I’m a gardener—and not a monk.”
She tapped his arm with the chopsticks. “Here, take a bite.” She dipped into the container and produced a dangling heap of noodles for him. In a slurp, they disappeared. “Well, you sing like a monk, so I’m guessing you’re not too far off the mark.” She took another portion and quelled her own hunger. This time, a trace of ginger lent some zing.
“If I can just last out until the new regime takes over St. Benedict’s, Jonathan thinks he can get me ordained. Still, that’s a big if.”
She let the unsettled matter ride the night wind as she alternated two more helpings between them. After her hunger abated, she relaxed a stitch. She traced her hair with a palm and discovered a leaf wedged into her ponytail. “Man, my shoulder blade is on fire.”
He groaned under his breath. “I found some poison ivy along the creek bed over by Mary’s Grotto yesterday, but I tried to cull most of it out from the composted clippings.”
“Maybe I’m wearing guilt by association then. I’ll use the wet wipe on it again after we’re done eating.” She took another bite and savored the slick hot-and-sour sauce.
“If you think you could trust me, I’d like to know what you saw at the river earlier that might have provoked the unholy trio to pursue you like rabid dogs.” He swerved, but caught part of a pothole with the left tire.
The tip of a noodle strayed down her airway, so she coughed. Thinking it might sound like an admission of guilt, she tried to find a credible starting point. “I had a vendor’s craft booth down on the riverwalk. Business had been fairly steady until the dinner hour approached. When all the attention shifted to the food trucks, I closed up and took a stroll toward the bridge.”
“Along Utah Street?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’d made it halfway down to the water’s edge and found a rock to perch on, so I took a breather. After scanning the riverbank, I spied a gathering on the east bank near Atchison Bend. Two pickup trucks held beds full of long pine boxes. After the occupants gave some kind of military gunfire salute, I figured the boxes must have been coffins for a mass burial. Still, something didn’t seem right about the whole thing. Then, they stashed the rifles and went to the other truck, where they repeated the same rites.”
“Test-firing the guns—not giving a military salute,” he replied in a low tone. “Sounds like somebody’s running a gun shipment, and you can bet it’s illegal. Otherwise, why would they bother chasing little ole you?” He nudged her and blew a breath in her direction.
“Curse my curiosity. Why can’t I stay at the festival with everyone else and line up for a corndog like a good girl?” She folded an arm against her stomach to keep it from quivering.
“I’ll take another bite of noodles—if there’s any left.”
She dug into the carton and served him a heaping helping. Somehow, the shift to helpmate took the edge off her apprehensions. The stench of gas marked their passing of the fuel tanks. “I grow bittersweet vines and craft them into wreaths, swags, and garlands. Let’s hope they didn’t make that connection, as I attend every craft fair and fall bazaar in a three-county area. This time of year gets super busy for me.”
“Sounds creative. Do you have a farm nearby?”
“Henley Acres, along the highway south of town. We have a small apple orchard, a grape vineyard, an organic garden, and my bittersweet vines.”
“What? No pumpkin patch?”
She snickered. “No, my mom really put her foot down over that invasion of privacy. After today, I’m siding with her. Privacy equals protection.”
The vehicle slowed discernibly as the lights of town peeked through the trees ahead. “Lolo, if you’re ever near our campus, the chapel is a sanctuary to all. Its doors are always open to God-seekers and man-fleers alike. Since God sees the heart, he always manages to get at the crux of a matter, despite our best intentions to hide specifics.”
Though his statement carried a hint of invitation, she sensed a deeper truth had been spoken. She might need sanctuary, despite not frequenting that north part of town. Settled by the resonance of his voice, she came to grips with returning to her truck. At least she had the display broken down and stowed. “Under normal conditions, I would invite you to join me as the festival winds down, but since I’m keeping a low profile, that’s a postponed offer, for sure.”
When the rounded cusp of a riverfront park opened before them, the tires reported the paving stone surface. “Where do I head for your ride?”
“Go right and turn down the first alley. Vendors get premium parking privileges, in case they have to haul unsold merchandise after a long day. My truck is copper-colored with a matching trailer.”
“Which speaks of bittersweet vines—one of my fall favorites.”
Undone by the comfort lacing his tone, Lolo squirmed for separation. As they pulled up behind the rig, she lifted the poncho and let the evening breeze bring some cooling relief. Parting began to have a jagged feel to it, like she needed to say something more than a simple thanks. “Listen, Karch. Had it not been for you, I don’t know how their hunt might have played out. I plan to dig in my heels at the farm and not come into town until this blows over. Fortunately, we have the Hillsboro craft fair in two weeks, so I can dodge the locals for awhile.”
He picked at her neckline and produced a tiny weed flower. Cornflower blue with four even petals, it was a masterpiece in miniature. He held it to her for possession. “May the rain always come in time for your garden. May the wind always steer your boat toward its hopeful destination. And may your heart always bend in the direction of God Almighty, to make tomorrow a more blessed place to dwell. Goodnight, Lolo. Take care.”
She pinched the tiny flower from her new gardener friend, one who seemed more monk-like than a common dirt-digger. That made the rising impulse to kiss his cheek all the more inappropriate. Instead, she doffed his chin with the flower and let the night breeze launch their separation. She clicked open the lock and slid into the cab.
Even though the seatbelt chime tried to redeem a normal driving routine, the feeling of breached security left her on edge. She started the truck and pulled away from the curb only to notice a handsome gardener watching over her departure. The impulse to leave a kiss flashed to mind, so she blew one into the rearview mirror, about as noncommittal an act a fleeing girl could muster. She lost her orientation for a split second, forgetting the way home.

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