"I just can't believe it. And nobody knows how it started?" Merritt was stunned. Jazz's voice was hushed and solemn as though they were discussing a close relative's sudden death.
The two women continued to discuss the little known about the cause of the catastrophe that had devastated the Cherokee village. It was Jazz who mentioned it this time, the sequence of terrible events that seemed to follow the bikers wherever they went. Of course that's what everyone was talking about now. No group had ever attracted such a long streak of awful luck, if that's what it was. There was speculation that they had fallen under some kind of spell or hex, some cursed nemesis. And though most shook that off as foolishness no one had a more reasonable explanation.
"So now what?" Merritt asked.
"I don't know. Everyone's still walking around in a daze, not knowing what to do or how to help or whether we should just leave...Merritt, you should see it. It would break your heart."
There were long spells of silence when neither could find words. "Well, I don't know what to do. Of course, first I have to tell Shorty. This is going to be terrible, to have to break news this shocking to him. I mean, I know it's been a long time since he's been home - if that's what he still considers it - but of course he'll be devastated. We were going to leave tomorrow but he might want to go ahead and take off now..."
"Merritt, how well did you say Jeremy knows this guy? Are you sure this is something you want to do? You've got to admit, after everything that's happened you don't want to take off on a bike with some crazy person."
"No, Jeremy's known him all his life. He and his daddy went to school together...he's cool." But even as she spoke the words a small measure of concern nagged at her. Jazz was right. Everything that had touched them since they left had brought about disastrous results. But then she shook the feeling off. "Good grief, Jazz, we must be getting old! We never questioned things like this before!"
"I know. But maybe we should have. Maybe we've just been lucky up to this point."
They talked for a few more minutes and Merritt gave Jazz her new cell phone number. "I'll check in with you later after I talk to Shorty...but in the meantime if y'all decide just to leave Cherokee, call me, okay?"
"Yeah, I'll let you know what happens. But Merritt, listen. Just...this Shorty..." Merritt heard her sigh. "Just be careful, okay?"
Merritt dropped the phone back in her bag and walked into the bedroom where Jeremy was getting dressed. He glanced up at her and smiled; then seeing her face asked "What's wrong?"
"Can you call Shorty at your dad's? I need to tell him something."
*********************
Many people, both Cherokee and guests, noticed the woman who spent so much time talking to the police in the barren area surrounded by debris, some of which still smoked in the ashes. Other men joined them, some in suits with notepads and cell phones. In time they saw one of the police officers take the woman by the arm and help her into the cruiser, shut the door and drive away. And then information began to travel, becoming confused and innacurate as it passed from mouth to ear but still relaying pieces of the truth as they knew it. And the word was that the fire had been deliberately set, set by someone no one knew, neither locals nor bikers, a wanderer, a stranger, who'd dropped into their midst just long enough to ruin their lives and then disappear.
Would this knowledge make a difference? Would this restore what the Cherokees had lost? Would it mend the anger that burned within them or rebuild the faith lost? No, Viper's group was not at fault, no offense or negligence on their part at all. They simply had the awful misfortune of being there to witness the ruin.
But now what? Should they just leave, move on, as though nothing had happened? It was not, after all, their home. It was not their motherland, their haven. They were simply passing through. Should they stay and try to help in whatever way they could, physically, financially, emotionally? They were not Cherokee; they did not belong there.
These were the questions that couldn't be answered. The bikers didn't know what to do and the people of the village were too reeling and disheartened to guide them. And so the day passed, from the sunrise that glaringly magnified the utter destruction of what had occurred to the sunset with the shadows mercifully dulling what lay around them.