The Legend of Safehaven. R. A. Comunale M.D.
The Legend
of Safehaven
R.A. Comunale, M.D.
MOUNTAIN LAKE PRESS
MOUNTAIN LAKE PARK, MARYLAND
ALSO BY R.A. COMUNALE
Requiem for the Bone Man
Berto’s World
Dr. Galen’s Little Black Bag
Clover
The Legend of Safehaven
Copyright © 2011 R.A. Comunale
All Rights Reserved
Published in eBook format by
Mountain Lake Press
Converted by
ISBN 13: 978-0-9846512-6-9
Cover design by Michael Hentges
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
To Nancy and Bob K., the true legends of Safehaven
PROLOGUE
Recollection
Mama and Papa died for us.
Sandoval and Felicita Hidalgo sacrificed themselves one night on a storm-tossed ocean so that my brother, my sister, and I, Antonio Galen Hidalgo, might live.
Federico Edison and Carmelita Nancy do not believe that I remember, but I do.
God help me, my son, I remember it as clearly as I see you now: Papa held Mama tightly, whispering his words of love, as the waves overwhelmed them in a never-ending echo within my soul.
I remember the first time I saw the bear-sized man—my Tio Galen—and his friends, Tio Edison and Tia Nancy. I remember the night of the second hurricane. It was on Bald Head Island. The three of them carried us to safety in the old lighthouse, as the fierce storm raged around us. They fought for us, when the government sought to take us away and return us to Cuba, even though our dear parents had perished to bring us to a safe land. And they brought us to the mountain in Pennsylvania, which became our home and the place where we grew to adulthood.
Now, my son, I hold you in my arms. One day, when you are old enough to understand, I will teach you these things about myself and about your grandparents. Then you must remember my words, for you are my immortality. When I am gone, you must carry them. You must remember the three Old Ones, your Abuelo Edison and your Abuela Nancy, and especially your Abuelo Galen.
Someday I will tell you this again, my son—my beloved Galen Antonio Sandoval Hidalgo—I will tell you…
CHAPTER 1
Genesis One
“He’s seeing ghosts again.”
He heard them whispering from the kitchen doorway.
You don’t know how right you are, my friends.
He continued to stare, as the procession of wraiths filed past him: Papa, Mama, Leni, Cathy, June, his schoolmate Dave, all his friends—and all gone now.
Galen lay slumped in the big easy chair in the living room overlooking the mountain vista. It was a cool August evening, and the flames licked the inside of the fireplace glass door like undersized tigers, as he stared blankly out the large picture window.
Edison and Nancy had often seen him sitting there, reliving a past only he could perceive. It had been three years since he and the children had moved in with them—three years in which they had tried their best to understand what continued to plunge him into darkness.
Far removed from his longtime home and medical practice in Northern Virginia, Galen now sat perched high and isolated in the hills of north-central Pennsylvania, Everything he had agonized over and sacrificed to achieve during the last forty years—all had symbolically gone up in smoke along with his past dreams of wife, family, and children of his own.
Ashes where once hope and dreams had been.
He sensed his friends watching him, though they went to great lengths not to disturb him or broach the subject of his fitful sadness. They did not realize this was how he had always managed to drag himself out of the past—by embracing it before letting go.
Could he do it now?
The philosophers had it wrong. The only true immortality is in the hearts and minds of those who follow you in life. They carry your memory forward in time and remind the world of who you were, what you were, and why your life really mattered.
He knew Nancy and Edison felt the same way. Both had accomplished so much during their lives. But now, all three of them had found renewed meaning for their existence in children who weren’t remotely or genetically their own. Maybe the kids were meant to be surrogates, tossed up by the Fates to confuse, confound, and perhaps fulfill their remaining years.
For the children, for their future, Galen quickly sold the house that had served as his home and workplace for four decades. He would miss the sounds of the nighttime creaking, so resembling his own joints, and the distinctive groans of the plumbing, which like his own, would need replacement to restore full function.
Most of the furniture, the knickknacks, the framed photos on the walls, the objects of value only to him, the books and magazines, went to new homes. His patient files were either reassigned or incinerated. His part-time secretaries—his lifelines and support system—finally entered retirement, satisfied that their charge was delivered into a life that did not require their constant attention and protection.
What he treasured—those holy relics of his loves and friendships—were the only possessions he carried to his new home in his ancient red Jeep Wagoneer.
Now, all that remained was what he and Cathy had called their secret hideaway.
He had joked many times with his beloved second wife that he really needed a Fortress of Solitude, just like the one Superman used as a refuge whenever he wanted to restore himself. And Cathy, dear Cathy, had taken him at his word.
* * *
“Tony, look, it’s in today’s paper. This could be what you’re looking for.”
She laid the Sunday Real Estate section in front of him and pointed to a small ad:
For sale by owner: Mountaintop acreage
He phoned the seller that very day and drove immediately with Cathy to the outskirts of Front Royal, Virginia, near the northern terminus of Skyline Drive. Nestled in one of the valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains, watered by the north and south forks of the fabled Shenandoah River, the Civil War town overflowed with history.
The property owner, a retired pharmacist, met them at the local roadhouse/cafe renowned for its sweet apple cider and fresh donuts. Over servings of both he showed them the plat for almost 60 acres he had decided to sell.
They followed his red pickup truck, climbing the winding dirt road, past the apple orchards, to the very top of Blue Mountain. They saw POSTED signs of the Virginia Fish and Wildlife Service, as they approached the crest along a rutted dirt road almost impassible except for trucks and jeeps, and stopped in front of a gigantic oak at least six feet in diameter. They got out and walked toward the owner, who was lovingly patting the big tree.
“See, here it is folks, untouched since the