700 N. Washington, down town Minneapolis

Savage lands and the untamed conquest lusting in every man’s veins like a dry thirst.  It drives him forward.  It drives him on in wariness forcing prudent matters.  Take heed and sleep with one eye open the devil may laugh a vigilant charm.  Out here a man has his wit and his dignity.  That is all he has to keep himself alive.
Out here a fella has to know the difference between friend and fro.  Out here a man learns he depends only on himself.  Out here, even the natural world is the  deadly of enemies.
And for those who dare risk and venture forth, their stories, truth be told, are of legend.

May 1938

Dust will follow a car when it drives over an open dirt road, especially on a flat country area.  Brown haze lifts in the wind from behind the speeding silver couple like a veil in yellow morning.  Two-lane tire tracks jitter the car like a washboard causing the loose hood to rattle.  This is not a country car.  It does not belong out here.
The driver wipes the sweat from his brow and fingers at the tightness of his collar stretching out the simple gray tie so he can swallow again.   He goes over in his head what he has been saying to himself repetitively for the last two thousand miles.  He made the right choice. There is no turning back.  He sees her tears and erases them from his mind.
The small town of Wazu lays twelve miles behind.  His eyes fire a mad sparkle in the rear-view mirror.  He is young and handsome by his own narcissistic definition.  The baby fat he never was able to shed growing up still thickens around his neck.  A thin crooked wild smile cracks across his scarred right cheek and pulls his lip out of line.  The mark has been with him since a child and by now he has forgotten to notice it when he sees his reflection.  He’s told so many fabricated stories of this scar, where it’s from and who did it, that he has forgotten the truth.  Or more so, he doesn’t want to admit to himself the real cause of the scar.  Sometimes, it is best to remember our fathers for their good qualities and leave it at that.
He glances to the passenger seat.  They’re still there.  They’ve been there since he left New York three days ago, their blank white pages laughing and fluttering in the wind every time he opens the window to smoke a cigarette.  He taps the cover of the notebooks in anticipation.  He has done the right thing.  He has made the right choice.  Marriage or no marriage, there are plenty of women in the world and he’ll find another if she isn’t there when he gets back.  A novel, a true-hearted golden gem of a novel, that doesn’t come around every man’s life time. ‘Carpe diem Chet, Carpe diem,’ his buddy Ben would always tell him.  This time he actually listen.
Static radio cuts in and out of stations.  It’s impossible to get good reception this far out in bumble fuck nowhere away from any major city.  Not since Chicago did anything good play on the radio anyways. Chet sharply twists the chrome dial to the off position deciding to listen to the country silence and his own taunting doubt.
What the hell was he doing? Had he really followed through with these plans?
The silver coupe hums along through the unforgivable northern plains of Montana like a shiny dug beetle crawling desperately through a desert.  Golden rays glisten off the fancy car now choking it self and threatening to over heat.  The parched lands of these parts barely capable of sustaining crop are beginning to sprout green vegetation.  The onslaught of summer is still two months away and Chet begins to wonder why any sane man would choose to live out here.  This is not God’s country.
Squinting against the sunlight he watches with a fierce eye for the small signpost that will signal his next turn.  He is close and his heart knows it beating loudly inside his chest.  All his troubles and efforts will come down to this in the small drab nowhere of Regina, home of the man, the shadow walker, the ghost of the hills, the Con himself.  He has finally made it half way across the country and four packs of cigarettes later to find out if all his efforts were worth such tales.
Rotting wooden fence lines the road into Malta.  Not much here but a couple boarded up buildings and a dirt road leading through down town main street.  Cow skulls bleached in the sun along the rooftops.  Awnings over wooden sidewalks, a scene straight out of the black and white western films, Sara would have hated it.  Too dirty and savage she’d say.
He tried to picture the country as it had been fifty years earlier; a hundred. The sheer size of it overwhelmed him, a flat and open range with mountains climbing to the heavens.  He was used to the bustling streets of city life with the horizon constantly blocked out by rows of tall black buildings and smoke.  Around these parts there was more sky then any man could dream of.  He could drown in the ocean blue above.
This vastness out here, this enormous expanse of flat open ground was intimidating and unsettling.  The quiet country life slow moving and unchanging he thought.  A man could really learn who he was out here.  Chet lit up another filter-less cigarette tossing the empty pack to the passenger seat where Sara usually sat, pretty and smiling in her white dresses.  It bounced off the white leather seat and fell to the floor next to his ivory colored fedora.
He drove through down town Malta wondering if he had missed something.  Quiet subtleness in every corner, a dusty red tricycle on its side, its big front wheel spinning with neglect, an old rocking chair swaying itself in the breeze with Russian Thistle stuck to one of its curved rudders.  Boarded up windows, closed shades, vacant shops that use to be full of life.   Not a single soul around.  Slowly Chet kept driving.  Had he come all this way for nothing?  The cigarette butt flung from his nicotine stained fingertip with disappointment as he made way for the last twenty-mile stretch through ‘no-man’s’ land to Regina.
Dust clouds followed the silver coupe as Chet floored the gas pedal.  His daddy’s shiny rich car now coated in a thick blanket of gray soot.  The Chevy Fangio Coupe would no longer be welcome back in New York City.   Country wind flutters in the open window cooling across Chet’s pudgy face.  He fixes his small round glasses upon his button nose and slicks back his oily hair smiling again feeling alive for the very first time in his life.  It didn’t matter what happens, the adventure itself is worth everything he said out loud.
There, pounded like a nail driven into a stone the sign protruded like Excalibur along side the dirt road.  Chet let out a excitement of glee.  It sounded like stepping on a duck.
‘MAGNA CARTA’ the sign read.
His tires hissed and rattled over the wooden cattle guard at the fence line.  Twin lines of wire stretched tautly from post to post until they disappeared in the distance. Ahead of him the heavily rutted road led up a slight rise. At the top he stopped and gaped at the vista before him. The land fell away in to a large bowl of a valley.
A musty yellow dog of indeterminate breed appears at the gateless opening of the fence like Cerberus, Dante’s three-headed guard dog with its tongue drooling.  The dog blocks off the front yard of the white trim house bracketed by two identical barns built of weather-graying wood. They stand tall and dark like foot soldiers. A fence wraps around the drab house with ivy planted under the bottom rails.  Her vines showing small light green leaves twist and twine around the entire fence.  Flaking paint chips peal off the side of the house.
Chet eases off the clutch and idles slowly down the hill stopping several feet from the fence and shutting off the engine.  The silver couple whistles and clunks to a quiet sleep. The curious dog walks forward stiffly sniffing and sits in front of the car with a hard menacing glare at the driver. They don’t get too many strangers in these parts and definitely no city folk this far out from anywhere.
Unsure of what to do and unwilling to risk the intentions of the dog Chet sat wrapping his sweaty palms around the black steering wheel with a unsure smile and white knuckles on his chubby hands.  Both him and the dog sit motionless for what feels like hours listening to the ticking and cooling of the engine.  Steam seeps out the radiator.
A narrow porch runs along the front of the house supported by posts wrapped in the same kind of vines that entwine and cover all the fences. Five wicker chairs with faded blue cushions are lined up on the porch along the side of the house as if ready for interrogation and inspection. From somewhere behind the barn to his right there is the sound of splashing water, then the soft snicker of a horse.
The dog snuffles lowering its head and lies down in the dirt as if already board with the new comer.
A middle-aged man in tattered blue overalls walks around the corner of the shaded barn with an arm full of firewood. A thin piece of straw protrudes from his lips.  He slips between the rails of the fence pausing briefly, eyes flicking from the car to the dog and back to the car.  He grins and continues on his way disappearing behind the carriage house with his heavy load. A moment later he reappears in the front doorway without the bundle of wood.
“Buster!” The man shouts and the dog’s ears twitch.
“C’mere, mutt!”  The dog turns his head slowly toward the voice.  His ears now fully erect.
“I said c’mere!” The insistent tone seems to lift the dog’s hindquarters. With a final malignant look at the driver he slowly trots over to the man at the porch.  It is clear that ‘Buster’ takes his job seriously as a watch-dog.
“Get up on the porch and lay down,” the man orders pointing a sharp index finger.
Buster reluctantly waddles himself up the three steps of the porch, circles four times in one spot, looks up at his master with innocent obeying eyes and plops his butt down making an ever so subtle content moan.  His heavy golden ears flop back over his head drowning out the world.  This has probably been the most excitement Buster has seen since yesterday’s rabbit hunt.
The thin tall man in blue overalls motions with his right arm for Chet to approach.
“You can get out now,” he shouts pocketing both his hands into the overalls.
Chet hesitantly opens his door.  It lets out a loud long un-oiled hinging creak.  Cautiously he steps out of the silver coupe dabbing the sweat from his forehead with a baby blue handkerchief.  His jittery black polished penny loafers don’t get traction on gravel driveway and he falters for an uncertain moment.  This car has been his home for the last three days and now he is in a very unfamiliar place without knowing his bearings.  His hands shake as he leans against the roof of the car.  Is it excitement or fear pumping through his veins?
“You city folk don’t know how to stand on your own damn two feet does ya!”  Shouts the man from the porch half laughing to himself.  “State your business Sir or be on your way.” He sniffles the snot in his nose and spits to the side.  “We don’t get many visitors about these parts.  We don’t like em’ either.”
Chet tries to swallow.  It dawns on him he hasn’t spoken to anyone in the last 1200 miles.  His eyes     quickly flicker to the quiet notebooks on the passenger seat as if he has already forgotten why he’s traveled all this way. “I’ve come to see Mr. Carta,” he squeaks in a rusty fancy English tone.  All that classy higher learning has really paid off.
“I’m Carta.” Mocks the man.  “You city boy come to see me?”
Chet filters his stubby fingers through the strands of greasy hair that have fallen over his brow.  He slicks them back and over to one side.  Momentary confusion and disappointment prune his face. He expected to find a man much older somewhere closer to ninety, leather skinned and aged like a fine wine.  Someone mythical with a glowing aura as if from the films themselves, but the man before him, standing like a drooling fool on the porch, dressed in his faded blue jean overalls and candy cane striped shirt, seemed no more than forty-ish and half a gimp.
“Mr. MAGNA CARTA?” Chet asks resettling the small round glasses on his rosy round nose.
“Oh, him.” Said the man stepping forward tipping his cowboy hat back and allowing the shade to withdraw from the features of his face.  Sunlight glowed upon his long protruding nose.  “I’m Eldon. One of his kinfolk.”  He smiled out of one side of his face still chewing a blade of grass wheat.   “I wouldn’t let him hear you be callin’ him by his full name Son. He don’t like that very much. Prefers Magna. I’d remember that, if I were you.”  Eldon stood there rolling on the heals of his tattered boots.  His toes tapped the ground every time he went forward.  “What you want with him anyways?” He asked Chet.  “Mr. Magna don’t like them city folk coming around bothering him none much these days no more.  He just about thought ya’ll be about done un-nestling an old dying man by now.  You sheriff anyways?”
Buster suddenly seemed to grab interest in the newcomer and current conversation once Magna’s name was mentioned.  He stood on all fours waging his stubby yellow tail happily and panting with a big fat pink tongue drooling saliva on the sun-bleached porch boards.  He let out a light bark of excitement.
“Uh, well…” Chet stuttered. “No…No… I’m not a cop.”  He managed to mutter walking forward and fiddling with his fedora at his plump belly.  “I’ve come a long way Sir.” Chet searched the light fluffy white cotton clouds looming overhead and stared back down at the dry earth.  “Aldon?  Did I say that right?”
“Eldon.” Chet was corrected.  “Eldon Carta.”
“Well Mr. Eldon Carta,” Chet meekly smiled as he stepped up to the porch.  Buster let out a low growl.  “I’ve traveled three days and damn near over two thousand miles all the way from the world famous New York City.  I’ve come all this way to talk with the legendary Magna Carta.” Chet said placing his wrinkled hat on top his thinning hairline.
“He don’t like that name.” Eldon reminded Chet.  “Why you want to talk to the Magna anyway?” Eldon wrinkled his puzzled face forcing his eyes to squint into the sun.  “He don’t done nothing wrong.”
“I’m a writer.” Said Chet.
Eldon shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the house. “I’ll see if he’ll accept a visitor.  I doubt he be caring much for them Tele’ films.  Man of his Character don’t have much time for mindless entertainment.”
Standing there like a dry turd wondering if he put all his monkeys in the wrong barrel Chet lit up a cigarette to calm his nerves and sweats.  The sun was high noon by now and beating down on Mother Earth without embracing grace. It hadn’t occurred to him that there might be a good chance he’d be turned away. What would he do then? He’d spent most his savings on the preparations and the trip out here.  He might have enough to get himself back to Chicago where he could train the rest of the way crawling back to Sara, begging forgiveness.  There was always Daddy he could try and reach, but that wasn’t an option he wanted to consider and quickly shook the thought from his head.
He tugged at his collar again loosening the knot of the gray tie and undoing the top button of his shirt.  He spun in a slow circle searching the horizon and inhaling deeply the gray smoke of each drag from the cigarette.  With his left hand he pulled the tie in a sharp snap from his sweat stained collar.  He let it drag along the ground before tossing it in the back seat of the coupe.
Outside the valley the heat lay thick and dry, yet here a gust of breeze touched his face, sweet and with the scent of water. Chet noticed the rows of corn undulating south of the nearest barn and lush pasteurized lands stretching far to the north.
Chet ran his index finger through the thick dust on his car door.  It left a clean streak of silver like a tiny bullet.
The screen door of the small house opened with a wisp and a screech.  Eldon Carta stepped onto the porch still wearing a half smile.  Somewhere inside he must have taken off and left his hat.  Long shaggy blond hair ruffled handsomely over his face.  For some reason he no longer looked like a moron.  His heals clinked to the floorboards making Chet’s heart skip beats with anticipation. He wore a wide grin and waved his hand. “C’mon in, city boy. The old man said he’d speak wit cha.”  Eldon flung the piece of grass he’d been chewing and spat over the railing.
Buster let out a raspy ‘woof’ and snuck inside the open door.
Chet finally exhaled dropping the white cigarette butt in the driveway and crushing it beneath his toe.  He checked his wristwatch.
12:15

On the cusp of a river, flowing, moving, collapsing, knowing…
Awake and free from
The long and winding trail to no-where.

Oh, in the wind,
The sent of clean air,

On a field of dry grass.

There is a skull waiting.