"Dad, if you're going to buy anyone's mineral rights, or buy the surface so you can lease it out to wind turbine companies, you're going to have to chum the waters."
"Throw bloody, cut-up fish into the waters? Draw the sharks?" asked Dad, incredulously. "Why would we want to attract the sharks?"
"Because after they've fed, they'll lead us to the live fish," said Tinguely.
"Why would we want live fish?"
"Dad," said Tinguely, suddenly exasperated. "I'm speaking metaphorically."
"I wouldn't if I were you."
"What? Speak metaphorically?"
"Right. Don't underestimate the ranchers and their families. You're not giving them any credit for intelligence. More than one city slicker has found this out, much to their dismay. You're about as city slicker as they come, Tinguely."
"Dad, I don't know who or what it is that you see when you look at me and talk to me, but I'm telling you, it's not at all the way I perceive myself. Give me some credit, Dad."
"Do the people who chum the waters ever get bitten by the sharks they're trying to trick?"
"No. Never," said Tinguely, straight-faced. "When you baited a trap, did you ever catch anything you didn't want?"
"Absolutely." Dad paused. "I learned a lot from that."
"Gotta go. The cowboy said he has some apple cobbler for dessert."
"Thought you were going to spend the night in Amarillo."
"The air is fresh and clear. Amazing."
She clicked "end call" on her BlackBerry.
* * *
Cattle silhouetted against the setting sun. The clouds were spectacular. An antique windmill used to bring water from the aquifer to the surface rattled and creaked in the wind. Cattle moved together. They seemed to move toward the water. Then they moved en masse in another direction. They seemed to be moving away from the rays of orange-pink light shooting across the horizon.
Tinguely, watching them, fell into a reverie. Then blinked. The cattle. Were they moving? Were they retreating? Tinguely could swear they were shuffling slowly, softly—backwards.
Blink.
A look down at the coffee cup. A quick rundown of what she had eaten. Mushrooms? No. Brownies? No. "Herbal" tea? No.
* * *
There was something about the earth-colored farmhouse and the bright white wind turbines set along the fence line in the direction of prevailing breezes that gave Tinguely pause. A face flickered at one of the windows. Wisps of clouds cast specters (or shadows) on the smooth prairie cover. Cattle grunted to each other. When the grass waved in the breeze, the clouds seemed to edge backwards, against the direction of the wind.
Tinguely braced herself. There was something here. It was making her uneasy.
The property was located in the shadow of the old XIT Ranch in the Texas Panhandle north and west of Amarillo. From 1885 to 1912, the ranch encompassed more than three million acres. There were around 300 windmills. 150,000 head of cattle grazed on the XIT Ranch lands. They were tended to by hundred of cowboys.
Ordinarily, Tinguely would not be anywhere near this part of the Panhandle, but supposedly a deep well had been drilled here during one of the booms, and the drill cuttings streamed oil, with strong odor of gas. The operator, Karlton Morrell, who had also owned a large part of the former XIT Ranch, had run out of money. The well cost a lot more than he had bargained for. But it would pay off. He just needed to raise money. So, while he set out to raise money to continue drilling and complete the well, Morrell had done his best to suppress the information. He had hoped to sell his remaining interest in the ranch and then do the completion.
The poor guy never had the chance. His shiny black Ford pickup was found in a ravine. He was nowhere to be seen. In fact, he was never anywhere to be seen from that day on. He disappeared.
"Dead, most likely," said Dad. "Quite a shame. Morrell was a good guy. I always liked him."
The sky was the blue of childhood storybooks. The prairie switchgrass was the straw-gold of memory. The roof was the slate gray of long-forgotten dreams.
* * *
"Say, Chance, what is it like living in a ranch house that was abandoned a hundred years ago?" asked Tinguely. It was dark. It would be a dangerous drive back to Amarillo, due to mule deer and coyotes. Road hazards.
"Nothing I'd recommend for someone like you," he said.
"I can handle myself. I've done a lot of fieldwork. Had to. Geology degree," said Tinguely. There was something about this wizened old cowboy that got under her skin.
"That's why I would not recommend it. If you've ever done anything you wish you hadn't in your life, you're not going to have an easy time of it around here, once the moon's up and the wind carries the voices."
What voices?"
"Coyote."
"That's nothing."
"And the whispers. The whispers that come up from inside of you and swirl around your inner ear."
"Okay, that's enough for me for tonight." Tinguely stood up. "Thanks, Chance. I'm heading back to Amarillo."
"Yup. You are," he said.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It's where you started out, after all. You don't have much choice in the matter, as far as I can tell."
"Well, maybe. You're right. It's where I had my first job." She noticed he had a smooth wooden box in his hand. He stood up and made a motion to give her the box.
"Well, Miss Tinguely, please take this with you. It's a present from the ranch."
"Wow. It's beautiful. An antique cigar box?" The gift was so unexpected that Tinguely was taken by surprise. She was touched. The soft sentiment was quickly replaced by suspicion. "What's inside? A Monkey's Paw? A Death Ruby?"
"Heck hek hek." Chance's cackle was not exactly a laugh. "Just a souvenir cigar box from old XIT Ranch. Thought you might like it."
Tinguely accepted it and opened the lid gingerly, half-expected a bat to fly out. The box was empty. Inside, the wood was burned with the XIT brand.
"Thanks, Chance. You're a nice guy. This was very generous of you."
"Heck hek hek," he laughed again. "Here's a thermos of that coffee you liked so much. Watch out for the mule deer."
She got back to the vehicle. The time: 11:45 a.m. Tinguely checked her watch. Time: 10:45 p.m. In the space of her vehicle, time had run backward. She looked at the second counter. Time was, indeed, going in reverse.
Susan Smith Nash's professional career as a petroleum geologist launched at the height of one of the many oil "boomlets," which meant her formative years were spent coming to terms with the subsequent "busts" (which last much longer than the booms). The boom-bust cycles she has lived through prepared her for the labyrinthine journeys the mind takes when confronted with unexpected shifts in fortune (and in one's idea of reality). It also motivated her to continue her studies, which included a Ph.D. dissertation focused on the use of the use of the apocalyptic narrative by mad messiahs and doomsday cult leaders.
"Monkey's Paw" is excerpted from The Adventures of Tinguely Querer, which is forthcoming from Texture Press. Check out Susan's blog at FringeJournal.com, or listen to her read "Monkey's Paw" aloud.