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From the Novel THE MASONIC PROPHECY by J.R. Hairabedian

Montana was where Johnny grew up and was home to the Rocky Mountains.

Some say it was the best hunting ground in the United States. Known for

the Great Indian Wars and where the buffalo once shook the world. There

nature’s beauty had made its way into man’s heart. A solemn isolated space

federally protected, put aside that God’s grace shadowed in men.

Johnny lived on a reservation. Every morning his father woke him up before

dawn. When the sun begins again he would look upon the mountains.

There he would see Peck’s Peak. The place his Grandfather’s song crossed

into another world. He was seven when it happened. Nobody ever talked

about it anymore, but for Johnny his Grandfather never left. He knew one

day when old enough his Grandfather’s spirit would be put to rest. On his

sixteenth birthday Johnny set out to take the mountain.

The fresh wool still smelled like sheep and made him itch. He leaned back

and stretched his neck. The mountain’s base was gray and wet. Made

without tree or bush, the mountain funnel where no place at the bottom gave

view to its top. Not far, climb up its slopes, back to center and sheer straight
up again. The gray ran into moss, slime pitched light green fluorescent in

the morning sun.

The snow’s skin melted from those rays and the cold wind turned it to ice.

Brighter than a mirror the white cut in and out and then again to blind the

best path. Towering for what looked like miles it tears the blue sky to grow

higher. Johnny pictured he was staking into a giant ice man with many

deformed arms that drew him to hang upside down. His leather gloves froze

hard and his finger tips burned. The flat side of his axe sparks the needle

stakes he pounded into the mountain’s side. He dared not stop; he could not

slow or the wet sweat that dripped and warmed his face would freeze in the

chill from the wind. Breathe deeply in, the cold biting at his chest. Each

step smooth and his pace to pound, stick, reach, pull, lean and step again

gave dance to the song he hummed. At last he could see the three horns that

hold Peck’s Peak. They tear through the ringed clouds that never go away.

Turning to soak the view where crystal blue skies and pillows of clouds

fluffy and soft call to him. He wants to push off, let go and float asleep. He

hears his Grandfather say where the air is thin death is not far. He rolls his

eyes away and shakes his head to wake. Drops of sweat snap to freeze and

fall to blow with the wind. It was his Grandfather who taught him the

technique of “Thought Flash Movement”. You picture in your mind your

body in the place you plan to move it to…already there before you move.

Then you move as fast as you can.

The result intensifies all – speed, strength and precision. For safety he

hammered each stake twenty feet apart. His foot touched that count and his

hand was in the bag. His mind and body as one, every move’s end over laps

his next. He runs his line through its eye and then pulls down to test. Over

secure his foot had taken the first of the next twenty and the stake comes out.

His body weight shifted unexpectedly and his right leg twisted. He claws to

hold flat as his foot slides out. It’s too late and the wind pulls him away.

One hand pulls the line slack and the other grips to withstand the weight.

When the slack of the twenty foot of line snap tight, the wind had drawn him

level to his last stake. His roll has turned to a spin. A twentieth of a second

later and he is slammed into a wall of ice. Dangling, he has nothing to grab

and nowhere to place his foot. Only his safety line holds him. The only way

is that he must pull himself up the rope. He hangs there a minute staring up,

then down, straight down. The hands and arms of the ice man he climbed

over are now waiting to shred him apart. He tries to climb up and then gives

up. I am cold, he thought, and his head hurt. He is too weak; maybe later.

He hangs there just staring down.

The sun’s reflection shines hot and he welcomes the warmth. He thought if

too weak to climb up he would freeze dead come night. There to remain

hanging for all his people to see.

What shall I be – a frozen statue of shame and failure? A trophy, a frozen

Indian made to be worn like a stone on a necklace. What, just a piece of

jewelry worn around the neck of the Ice Man? How long my punishment?

All snow is gone come September. That’s when the Eagles return here to fly

high, he thought. Yes, they will come to free my spirit. Yes, they will

rescue me and feed upon my flesh. Yes, I shall become the Eagles. He then

became happy and didn’t care if he died. He yelled loud and it echoed out

and down the mountain bouncing into the valley.

“Yes, I will stay here. I shall become the Eagles.” Again and again he

repeats it, and again and again echoing and echoing out into the valley

below. Then a clear but very soft voice speaks to him, “You shall not die

here.” He looks around for the person who came to help. There was no one

around. Again he hears the voice soft and clear. “You shall become an

Eagle. You shall be many things. You shall not die this day.” Johnny snaps

his head left, right, up and down, and doesn’t see where the voice comes

from. He didn’t want to know, nor did he ask. Rather it scares him silly and

he knows where the power of superheroes comes from. He feels his first
rush of adrenalin. Hand over hand, quicker than bees on a bear, and faster

than a fox can catch a jack rabbit, Johnny shoots up the rope. Once at the

top he stands to look down for the voice.

Johnny took the mountain that year. He never found his Grandfather’s

remains; he wasn’t supposed to. The men in his family had climbed the

mountain for generations, not as a tribal custom or ritual but to feel it.

Johnny brought that power back home again. The feeling of death was gone

too. When asked of his Grandfather he would say, “He has become Eagles

and flies high in the sky.” Memories of that cold day come and visit him

sometimes. When the air is so fresh you can taste it. A breath so cold it

bites to hurt. A taste he remembers of sweat, pain and cold; one sweet with

mountain air and victory.

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