Call of the Plantation
Levi Turner is returning home after thirteen years to a place he never wanted to see again. Can he resist the Call of the Plantation? This is a deep woods, remote rural America story about coming to terms with family, the past, and one nosy, opinionated neighbor determined to help.
Enjoy this excerpt from the first page:
Towering pine trees jealously shrouded the asphalt tunnel forged by Levi Turner’s truck headlights, dark sentinels relieved only by the rhythmic blink of roadside reflectors and a rare flash of yellow caution.
Moose crossing.
No self-respecting moose walked roadways at night when they could bed down in a meadow somewhere, and Maine was filled with lakes and lowlands. When fog rolled in off the Atlantic, it stretched unhindered all the way to Baxter State Park before slamming into the base of Mount Katahdin.
A drop of rain splat the windshield.
The truck radio crackled to life. Sibilant white noise was replaced by an indiscernible mix of French and English, reminding Levi as nothing could that he was back in The County.
Splat, another raindrop.
Forty miles west of New Brunswick and only seventy-five miles south of home.
He ran from the place thirteen years ago, but no amount of time or distance would erase that designation as long as his childhood memories were interred here. Much as a blemish leaves a pock mark in the skin, Linwood Plantation scarred his soul, and he couldn’t excise the remnants of those wounds.
“Come if you have to.” Terse words from a terse man.
Did his father want to see him or not? He could never tell. His sister Savannah said they were alike, neither one able to communicate with the other. Levi told her to practice her Pop psychology on someone else, which was a nice way of saying she should mind her own damn business.
The rain established an erratic pattern. He countered it by turning on the windshield wipers.
Blink, another reflector.
Swish, another swipe.
French Canadian music sang backup for American English news. Poor reception and linguistic soup.
The truck engine hummed. He turned the defroster on. Air hissing from the dash completed the discordant symphony.
“Are you sure you want to make the whole drive in one day?” Savannah had asked, concerned as only a big sister could be, though eleven months age difference between them hardly qualified her for the title.
He should have listened for a change. If he had followed I-95 to Houlton, he could be sleeping on stiff sheets in an impersonal motel room potentially used by three hundred and sixty-four strangers in the last year. Instead, he was hunched over the steering wheel, staring through the windshield at bright headlights reflecting back at him from a mirror of heavy rain. On a road leading away from the twenty first century.
A wooden cross loomed up from the gravel shoulder on his left.
Would death ever stop hunting him down? Or was that guilt?
Guilt either festers and boils beneath the surface until it destroys the host or explodes from every orifice, making casualties of innocent bystanders. In his case that bitter gall was nurtured by the United States Marine Corps, deployed against foes both foreign and domestic, and pumped through his veins until he was the toughest, meanest version of himself he could be.
Getting out of the Corps and back to the wilds of American backcountry had restored his equilibrium for a while. Until that call from The Plantation.