Complication

Chapter Eight

Debora was there first. She parked under a dead, bare-branched tree, as far off the road as she dared and waited. She spent more than twenty minutes pacing and scuffing her feet through the dirt until Michael finally pulled up in a cab. Debora almost didn‘t recognize him when he got out. He wore a plain white turtle neck, cargo pants and what looked to be a brand new pair of sneakers. He greeted her and she returned it with a gasp of amusement.

“What?” Michael asked.

“You didn’t need to buy a new outfit for the occasion.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t know what we would be getting into, I wanted to be comfortable.”

“Are those new shoes?”

“No,” Michael said looking down to inspect himself. “I've had these. I don’t wear them often.”

“How often do you wear those pants?”

Michael brushed past her and started into the field, stepping high to trample the tall grass. “The pants are new,” he admitted.

Debora laughed lightly and followed the trail he stomped down. Though it had just rained, the vegetation was brittle and dry, poking and scratching at their legs. Ahead of them was a clump of trees, not enough to be called a forest, but more like an oasis clinging around a drying creek. Michael knew the place well. It was the abandoned Bandolier family leather mill.

The band of the mayoral watch was crafted of Bandolier leather and it was likely that the map in the back of the encasement was as well. It was probably even made on site, which meant that there should be a printing tool left over, a plate or a punch. Debora had come across notes indicating that everything used to make the mayor's replica watch was then recycled for use in other machines. It was possible that whatever was used to make the map could still be in the old mill, buried in the trees that had grown up around it.

The trees were spaced thinly which made walking through easy. At the center of the tiny forest was a deep but narrow stream with dry rocky walls and a sharply cut bottom. A small trickle of water slipped through it, a rare occurrence brought on only when it rained hard enough. Michael knew it would not last.

On the other side of the creek were the buildings of the mill, enough to make a small village, all of them in disrepair. Trees had come up through the floors and proceeded through the roofs. Branches reached in and out of the windows and looked as if they were all that were keeping the buildings standing. A mill wheel hung halfway down into the gulch wrapped with vines.

“So this is the home of your great-great grand-dad,” Debora said.

“Give or take a few greats.”

“Where should we start?”

Michael shrugged and walked aimlessly, circling the old forgotten rock structures. He put both hands flat on a short stone wall that partitioned in a square patch of thorn bushes and briers. The stone felt cold and dry, rough against the soft skin of his palms.

“Did you even know this place existed?”

Michael hoisted himself up and stood on the width of the wall and looked out across the history that stood among the trees. “I knew,” Michael said, “but I have never actually seen it with my own eyes.” He stood on the wall for a while as if remembering a history that he was never a part of, seemingly connecting with a past that he was practically never attached to. “We’ll start over there,” he said, “and work our way across.” He pointed at the building to the far right. “That must be the main house; we’ll save that for last.”

The buildings were still full of machinery and tools. Michael could only guess at their purpose. They saw locked up conveyer belt systems, a long barn with countless hooks hanging from the ceiling and a warehouse with bundles upon bundles of leather stock, damaged and stinking.