Shroud of Shadow by Gael Baudino Read Free Book Online Page A

of everything. ”
    “ But . . . ”
    “ I can do better by myself. ”
    It had been coming for a long time. George knew that. The fights, the sulks, her crying jags and his temper . . . The signs had been obvious. But he had, in a most human fashion, lied to himself as much about the inevitability of the split with Tina as about his inadequacies and fumbles on the job.
    He had sunk his final check and most of his savings into a diamond engagement ring, but when he had come home in the middle of the day, Tina had been loading her belongings into her tiny car. Another man might have pleaded with her, might have gone so far as to grab her arm, show her the ring, force her to stay in the shabby little living room with delusions of making up and happy sex in the back of his mind. Another man might have become enraged at the affront to male pride and prerogative. He might have slapped her around a bit, or he might have killed her. It was, after all, 1980. Things like that happened.
    But George had instead stood in the middle of the asphalt parking lot as Tina had driven away. He had not even told her about the engagement ring. He had waved good-bye, that was all, but he had known that she was not looking back. Tina was not one to look back.
    Afterwards, in the backwash of silence left by the countless arguments now forever ended, the apartment had turned stale, the sounds of radios and stereos and televisions drifting in from other units altogether too loud, too oppressive. George had endured it for three days, and then he, too, had left . . . and he had not looked back.
    He did not know where he was going. He knew only that he was heading west, into the mountains, following the 747 that hung in the top half of his grimy windshield like a promise of something better, a promise of spring for the world. He was, perhaps, looking for the spring. He was looking for the promise. Denver went on, pollution, politics, traffic and all, as ancient and weathered as a half-rotted Burma Shave sign; but George, following instinct—or, rather (though he did not know it), following something like instinct, something that was appearing in the world for the first time in half a thousand years—was looking for the New Season.
    Highway 6 took him out through Golden where the Coors factory sent plumes of steam slanting westward into the air: even the breeze and the weather seemed to have decided to go in the direction of the seasons and the sun. Beyond Golden, the highway shrunk to two lanes and wound along beside Clear Creek, but George kept driving, still wondering where he was going, but looking at—and, in a way, beginning to dimly appreciate—the trees and the sky and the sharp road cuts, veined with a hundred minerals and colors, that stood up before and then fell away behind his rattling van.
    And perhaps because he had so thoroughly lost himself in the trees and the thoughts of the 747 and the vague and inexpressible visions of newness that were swimming unaccountably up from depths in his mind that he did not know he had (that, at another time, might have terrified him), he found himself suddenly veering off the highway and onto a dirt road.
    He was heading up a steep slope before he realized it, the engine laboring in low gear, the sleeping bag and box of food he had tossed onto the bare metal cargo deck sliding aft with a rush and a clatter. There were no signs telling him not to trespass, nothing to indicate what lay ahead.
    Up, down, around, gravel skittering from beneath four bald tires and branches scraping against the windows. Sunlight filtering and flickering through new leaves. Aspen now: gray green trunks, a few pastel buds. The pines here were tall, straight, and, surprisingly, the land appeared unspoiled by the refuse that normally characterized a wilderness so close to the city. This place seemed bent upon putting on a good face, opening itself to George as though an old friend had met him at the porch of a mansion, thrown