THE  CAVERN  OF  DEEP  HARMONY

A MARSHALL SINCLAIR STORY, BASED ON A RUSSELL-RELATED

CHARACTER I CREATED FOR "A STRONG TOWER"

By Jo Anzalone

Marshall stood on the porch of the bed and breakfast smelling the scents that came toward him off the lake. Though it was still morning, someone was already waterskiing. He heard the motor of the small boat then a yell followed by a splash as the skier lost his balance.  With his toe, he found the edge of the porch, stepped down onto the top step and sat, leaning his left shoulder against the railing post. The bed and breakfast faced east and so the morning sun was on his face, warm despite the late October chill in the air. He wasn't wearing his dark glasses,

didn't see any need for them.

A large furry body came and sat beside him, pressing close to his right side. Smiling, he slid his arm around the back of the big German shepherd. "Seems like a fine morning, Wadsworth," he said, turning to rub his cheek in the soft fur of the dog's neck. He'd planned on writing more this morning, but the thought of sitting at his desk in the second-floor room he was renting was not nearly so inviting as the sound of crisp leaves rustling in the wind. "You up for a walk, boy?"

Yes, that was a much better idea. Not only would it blow any cobwebs out of his mind, the male protagonist in his book was currently walking through a large forest. It would be legitimate research, it would! He'd left Wadsworth's harness lying on a white wicker chair just to the right of the main entrance of the house, so rose, followed closely by the dog, and picked it up, fastening it easily with long years of practice. They had been a team for three years now and had gotten to the point where each seemed to understand exactly what the other was thinking. Wadsworth was a big shepherd, nearly 120 pounds, and a bright golden color with a perfect black saddle. Not that Marshall knew about the saddle. What he knew was how broad and deep Wadsworth's chest was, how sleek his fur felt under stroking hands.

It had been an adjustment at first, getting used to Wadsworth after so many years with Mellow, the female yellow lab he'd had since his undergrad days at Northwestern University. She'd gone to Boston with him during the time it took to get his PhD in American literature at Harvard, had been with him as he'd begun teaching at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh.  Then had come the day when she'd bumped him hard so he fell to the side, taking the impact herself of the motorcycle that had come roaring out of the small alleyway. For two months he'd tried life without a guide dog, something in him not ready to bond with a new animal.  But he found his life circumscribed without a dog, without the greater freedom one gave him, and soon was back at the Seeing Eye in New Jersey being introduced to the young shepherd he named Wadsworth after Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, a poet whose work he loved.

He'd knelt on one knee beside the dog, feeling unsure as memories of Mellow flooded him. Then a large and very wet tongue suddenly licked up the full side of his short, neatly-trimmed beard and with no further thought his arms had gone around the furry neck. They had been inseparable ever since.

Harold Malone came out the door just as Marshall finished attaching the harness. "Headin' out somewhere, are you?"

"Thought Wadsworth and I might take a bit of a walk this morning, Harold.  There are woods not far behind the house, aren't there?"

"Yep. Pretty big section of them, actually. You feel ok about going in them alone?"

Marshall smiled. "Not alone, Harold. Wadsworth's going with me."

Harold was not familiar in dealing with a blind person and to him the idea of going into woods you could not see was beyond comprehension.  "Well, I wouldn't go too far into 'em," Harold suggested. "There's a wide, fairly flat path starts just behind the parking area. If you stay on that and don't go too far, you should be ok."

"Thanks," Marshall replied genially, used to the over-concern of the sighted.  Marshall, though, didn't know the meaning of the word 'hesitation'. He'd been born blind so that was simply the way the world was. He saw no need for fear in venturing forth and had, indeed, created untold grey hairs on his mother's head with all his boyhood adventures. Now at 36, he was a mature, confident man, widely-traveled and completely comfortable in his world.

Harold stood on the porch watching the closely-linked man and dog going down the main walk, make a sharp turn to the right and head toward the parking area. Wadsworth walked just to Marshall's left and slightly in front. Harold still couldn't get used to the sight of the quick, sure stride of the blind man. "But why the heck he wants to go walk in the woods...." he muttered to
himself. After all, he couldn't see the brightly-colored autumn leaves or the billowing white clouds in the blue sky above them. What was the purpose in it? He shook his head and went back inside to see if  Martha, his wife, needed anything before he left for the store. He and Martha had run this bed and breakfast, the Morning Glory Inn, for 25 years now and Marshall was the
first blind guest they'd ever had.

The path, as Harold had said, was indeed wide and its dirt felt firm and solid enough under Marshall's feet. The warm sun on his back disappeared as he and Wadsworth entered the forest itself, though he still felt it now and again as they passed through areas where the trees thinned a bit.  The air was almost heady with the powerful scent of rich soil and fallen leaves. From time
to time a puddle lay on part of the path, but Wadsworth led him carefully around those, not breaking stride. There had been a heavy downpour for much of the night and the leaves had that particular wet smell that thick layers of them lying on a forest floor can have.

Utterly trained, Wadsworth merely eyed the scolding squirrels they passed and even the quiet peering of half-seen deer that paused in their foraging to watch with wide, alert eyes the man and dog.  Marshall felt relaxed, enjoying himself immensely, letting the forest scents wash over and around him, listening to the sound of his own footfalls, Wadsworth's breathing, the
brushing of leaves against each other.  The woods were full of birds. He'd learned to recognize them all and paused, smiling, lifting his head up as several Canada geese streamed past over-head, honking to one another. Autumn had its own particular sounds.  He was especially pleased when the fallen leaves were dry and crisp and crunched delightfully as he walked through them.  Not today, though. The forest was just beginning to dry a bit in the morning sun.

He began to put himself in Morgan Kent's shoes as he walked. In his novel, Morgan was walking through a Virginia forest, but there were many similarities. As was so often the case with him, he soon lost himself in line after line of descriptive phrases that he would later write down.  He was thinking so deeply that he failed to notice Wadsworth was guiding him more carefully, that there were more roots, more rocks in a severely narrowing path.

The dog led him around a large rock half-blocking the path then not only stopped completely , but turned himself broadside across Marshall's path. "What's up, boy?" he asked, jarred out of his reverie, the dog's side pressed against his knees.

What he could not see was that during the night's downpour, a usually small stream had been deflected from its path by a fallen tree and come tumbling down the slope, washing away the path completely just before the trail made a sharp turn at the edge of a deep gully. He pulled Wadsworth slightly to his left and felt ahead carefully with his right foot. The ground was saturated with water and as he let his weight come forward a bit, the edge crumbled into the gully. Even as he felt himself falling, Marshall remembered to let go of Wadsworth's harness so he wouldn't pull him down, too. He fell in a collapsing mess of mud and loose stones, wet leaves and shale, crying out once as his left shoulder impacted a large branch. He sort of bounced off that, his right hip coming down against the side of the gully, then he literally turned head over
heels and ended up flat on his back atop the mud and rocks at the bottom.

He lay there, his whole body vibrating from the shock of it. Mud and grit was in his eyes and, worse, his mouth. His right arm seemed trapped under something heavy, so he lifted his left hand to wipe the mud away from his face. The movement brought a sharp pain slicing through his shoulder and he dropped the hand, sinking his teeth into his lower lip to stifle a moan.
But it was his mouth that was his most immediate concern. As he'd landed, a flow of mud splashed over him and into his mouth. His teeth and tongue were coated with it and bits of it kept trying to slide down toward his throat.  Using his tongue, he tried to push some of it out, managing somewhat but not enough so that he could call out.  He stopped then and just
listened. Wadsworth was barking frantically some distance above him. From the sound, he figured he must have fallen at least twenty-five feet.  The sound moved back and forth and he could tell that the dog was trying to find a way down to him.  "Wa...," he tried, but choked.

More mud and loose rock slid down the side of the gully, half-burying him, and a continuous stream of cold, muddy water flowed under and around him.  He pulled hard on his right arm, suddenly afraid his face would be covered if more soil should slide, but he was completely immobile. The sound of Wadsworth's barking seemed to fill his world as he lay there trying to breathe. Silently he willed, "Get help, boy. Go get some help!"

ON TO PART 2

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