Prologue
Present day…
Spring came earlyin western North Carolina this year, bringing rain showers in the evenings and cicadas buzzing in the early mornings. Dawn crept over the horizon as an old Ford truck, half blue and half rust, made its way through the twisting curves of Route 129, the famous piece of road known as the Tail of the Dragon. The vehicle was slower than the tourists on motorcycles, who were roaring through the sharps turns and switchbacks. More than one person raised a middle finger at the creeping vehicle, but the driver ignored them and kept moving. No one noticed when the truck disappeared onto a dirt road behind one turn. Few knew of the road’s existence. It was difficult enough to find even if you did. It was rough and narrow and didn’t appear to lead anywhere. The grade got steeper, and the road got tougher and tougher to navigate. Finally, the bulky vehicle couldn't go any farther.
The door squeaked as it opened and Brick climbed out. He looked tired and worn, far different from the man who led the Dragon Runners MC. It took him three tries to wrestle the truck’s stiff door closed. The bang resounded in the quiet woods. He didn’t drive it often, preferring to be on his bike. In fact, the only time the vehicle moved from the garage was for his present purpose. Brick fought to get the rusty tailgate down. He pulled out two flimsy-looking ramps and carefully backed a four-wheeled ATV from the bed to the ground. He transferred several full brown paper grocery bags to the rack on the front of the four-wheeler and turned back to the truck. With a groan, he climbed up and lifted a large oblong object covered in thick painters’ tarps and duct tape. He strapped it to the back of the ATV, started the sturdy little vehicle, and continued into the woods, following a barely discernable path. He drove for miles, occasionally stopping to check a mark on a tree or rock to make sure he was going the right way. The sunlight thinned as the canopy thickened. At one point, he had to stop and wait for a black bear to move off his path. They stared at each other for several long minutes, the bear not moving. Brick had his rifle close at hand if the fearsome creature decided to become a problem, but the furry animal finally grunted and ambled away.
It took around three hours for Brick to find a rough log cabin in a small mountain valley. It was like taking a gigantic step back in time to when settlers first crossed these mountains in search of new lands. There was no electricity or plumbing, not even a generator. The cabin was a small, one-room basic structure. Three or four feral cats lounged around the front, and a thin stream of hazy smoke floated from the narrow stone chimney. A primitive-looking stone potter’s wheel sat in front under a lean-to extension, along with a work table. A rain barrel, dark with age, sat to the side.
The wood plank doorway opened and a wizened, bent old man appeared in it. He was dirty and crusty-looking and could have been anywhere from around Brick’s age, mid-to-late sixties, to over a hundred years old.
“Didna think I’d be seein’ you this quick again.” The man’s voice was full of gravel, as if seldom used.
“Didn’t plan on making another trip like this, but sometimes things change.”
Brick untied the bungees holding the object on the back of his vehicle and heaved it over his shoulder. He grunted under its weight as it bent to hang double over his back.
“Cold house, or you got a load ready?”
The wizened man let out a guff. “Gotta load ready. Gonna fire soon, but I gots room. C’mon.”
He shuffled off on a well-worn path at the side of the cabin. Brick followed, his muscles protesting at the weight he carried. “I need to bring a barrow up here for this.”
The old man paused ahead. “You got more comin’?”
“Wasn’t plannin’ on this one. Just can’t lift no more like I used to.”
The man continued down the narrow path until it came to another clearing, this one manmade. It was a flat circle of hard gravel about twenty feet in diameter with a squat stone-lined pit in the middle. To the side and well away from the gravel circle sat a haphazard pile of dried wood logs and sticks. Behind that an unnamed stream flowed, making its way to one of the mountain creeks that eventually emptied into a river. Brick lowered the object to the structure and moved a few large rocks at its bottom. He cursed and his face turned red at the effort it took to bury it under the heavy stones, but he got it in all the way.
The old man had taken a folding knife from his pocket and shaved a stick into a mass of thin, curling wood threads. He then pulled out a set of flints and squatted next to the pit. He struck the flints, sending a spark to the middle of the threads, and puffed at them until they caught fire.
Brick watched the procedure. “Don’t see why you won’t let me bring you some matches. Quicker ’n makin’ a fuzz stick every time.”
“Ain’t bothered ’bout no matches. Cain’t ’member last time I used ’em.”
The old man pushed the burning fuzz stick into the opening and watched it until it caught the other wood on fire at the edge of the tarp. He replaced the rocks and stood up as straight as his bent back allowed him. The fire in the kiln would be kept burning for several days, cooking and hardening the carefully crafted pottery inside. The heat would vary a bit but remain stable enough as long as the fire was stoked and more fuel added when needed. Temperatures reached and stayed high for the duration of the bake. The man used a wood combination and burning method to keep the fires virtually smokeless, and the tiny bit that escaped was dissipated by the overhead canopy of trees. Maybe it was the careful planning or just dumb luck that no one had discovered this tiny homestead.
He checked the vent hole that fed air to the fire pit burning underneath the giant oven as he moved around the area. He always stayed with it as it burned, feeding the flames until the masterful creations on the inside were completed. All the materials for the pottery were gathered from the woods and surrounding area. The glazes were made from the ash produced in the kiln and other natural dyes the old man gleaned from the land. Brick always found it ironic that the crudely built oven that helped to keep his club safe also produced such beautiful art that helped support the town. The pottery pieces were sold all over the world through Psalm’s shop, and people paid a fortune to own one. Tambre had a whole collection of the stuff in her living room. Brick couldn’t imagine what Taz thought when he viewed the row of plates across his fireplace.
The man tucked another log underneath the kiln and stroked his fingers over the side. “Startin' to heat up. Was it right?”
Brick’s mouth tightened. “Yeah, it was right.”