Morgan's Story

Grandpa had always taken care of Morgan and it didn’t seem fair that he would give his life to California because Morgan was still in need. 

Out of the 40 million known people in the state, nearly half had offered themselves for human sacrifice on the Dragon Tree in Galt because they were losing their homes. Because the California Aqueduct went through their farms and they were not allowed to siphon water as their crops died. 

People needed the prices of food to come down. They needed the dragons. Dragon dung is super nutritious and dragon-fire takes care of the spotted lanternfly and the crop pestilence. Everyone was waiting for more dragons. 

The newspaper exploded with the headline: Linden Man Chosen!

It was like Morgan’s family had won the lottery. Like they would enjoy a long procession to San Francisco to sit at the Widow Chang Anniversary supper and eat the famed dragon soup, which is made from an old dragon but requires the promise of new hatchlings which is accomplished by a human head secreted into a pearl for the Queen. 

This is the balance of nature. 

Grandpa tied the tarp on his truck bed with a trucker’s knot. It cinched in the fibers of the cord until the entire load was taut. The state did not want to make a great, very public display of the way that a sacrifice was supposed to be ready in Galt and quietly strung to the King’s Tree. 

“We all die alone.” 

Grandpa had chosen his favorite things: A picture with Grandma in their prime. A small B17 bomber that flew him in the war as a tail gunner. Grandpa had packed Morgan’s signed soccer ball without asking. This was among his favorite things. 

“Why do you have to leave so early?” 

The King’s Tree was only thirty or forty-five minutes away. The roads were clear all the way to old Hick’s Cemetery which had the highest and oldest Native Oak in the valley. Grandpa said that if a man wasn’t early then he was always late. 

“But isn’t it cold?” 

Grandpa ruffled Morgan’s hair and said that the cold of night was good for the blood. “If a man is too warm then he will feel things he would rather forget.” 

The tree and all of the shackles were very high. There was always a forty foot ladder strung up in the tree for every cycle of the dragon but it didn’t make sense how Grandpa could lash himself alone. 

“Don’t you want anyone to talk with you?” 

It was almost twelve hours to dawn. 

Seemed like a fella might get lonely way up there in a tree. 

Grandpa took out his bandana from a back pocket and averted Morgan's eyes. 

Yes, he would be lonely. 

There’s a certain sound that is made when any grandpa loses his head to the great beast. The way a King Dragon might rend and tear the head from its stand. It’s never been known as a beautiful enterprise. It is not clean like the guillotine nor is it peaceful like a lethal injection. 

This was nature; hear it roar. 

Grandpa choked his old Ford into waking up for one more ride. The truck was too old for seatbelts and smog certifications. Even though the state promised to return any personal property, Morgan wasn’t sure if he wanted to see Grandpa’s truck back at the farm. There were already too many memories. 

For a moment, Morgan thought of taking a plank from the wood pile and hiding a rusty nail under the back tire. He knew his grandpa would be able to fix the flat in less than a half hour. He thought of hiding the magneto wires, he thought of pouring sugar down the gas tank, and he thought of calling the police and saying that his grandfather had become senile. 

No one wanted a sacrifice who would be chewed up and spit out. It is said that the flesh of the indigent, the depressed, and the institutionally lazy were unfit for the mouth of the King Dragon. He would spit them out and another season would pass without the Golden Festival. 

“Don’t you embarrass me son.” 

Grandpa could see Morgan calculating and trying to stop the truth. The truth was that anyone chosen in the north, in the central bastions, and even the south districts had their mortgage paid and one percent of the state's crops per annum. These were usually dispersed through brokers and several companies were formed to offer an early payout for the beneficiaries. 

Morgan was the only beneficiary though his aunt viciously complained that she should get the lion’s share of her father’s estate. Aunt Diane was going to be Morgan’s legal guardian but Grandpa has insulated the boy from losing the farm by a ladder of Certificates Of Deposit, trust accounts, and an Executive Director of his own foundation.  

He got the old truck started, warmed, and ready. Grandpa looked over his land, at the peach tree he had planted when Morgan was born. How it blossomed in the last days of September. The old tractor had rust and Morgan knew every tool in the barn. He was leaving his family with a firm start, good roots, and there was nothing that the State could pull asunder. 

Grandpa’s throat was parched and it was not his usual way, but he held out his arms for Morgan to enjoin. The warm scalp came just under his chin. Even with scoliosis, the twisted back let him hug this boy like a man. 

“I love you grandpa.” 

The old man could not produce the words back and it did no good to leave his kin with the example of tears and regrets. Grandpa had no regrets. He did his job and had loved. What is there the more?

*

It was said that the only way the people of California could prove that their sacrifice was approved was that the price of gasoline came down for a day. There were always mean speculations that the dragons didn’t really need the people and that the state was only pretending to keep the crops free of chemicals and genetic seeds. 

Photographers weren’t allowed. In fact the roads from Northern Galt to Sacramento, Lodi, the roads to Rancho Seco and all the backlanes to Rio Vista were cleared. Locals were required to gather their food needs the day before and the penalty for breaking curfew was very severe. Morgan was aware that three communities couldn’t play that day, that the churches were required to meet on Zoom and the sanctity of the last mile was more secure than a presidential caravan. 

In years past, there were problems with allowing the volunteer to take his own route. The only graven rule was that the human offering be ready an hour before dawn while most chose the chill of midnight. 

Grandpa paused before the 7-Eleven on the other side of the street. It was said that one store should stay open for the weary traveler, coupled with a large branding of Chevron. 

Maybe a last meal?

Grandpa had always flown missions with an empty stomach during the war. 27 missions over Germany. The famous drop of the C.A.R.E. packages near Amsterdam. A combination of lightening the load and making sure there was not much in the stomach lining to die like a fool. 

Fasting had the added benefit of wanting to get back to England and enjoy their local breakfast. They didn't serve grits but there was a delicious want for bangers and mash .

Grandpa left the truck running. 

He entered the only 7-Eleven in the land without a clerk. The Chevron pumps were set to free dispensation for the next 12 hours. The cameras were turned off and the lights were arranged so that an Offerer might shop in private. 

All of the fast and ready food had long expiration dates. Pepsi had supplied their rare nitrous soda in a can because it was said to have fewer after-effects than carbonated coke. The coffee was available at the touch of a button to grind beans and percolate a perfect cup. There were fruit smoothies and energy drinks to rouse the dead but there were no forms of alcohol or Tylenol. 

An Offering Sacrifice had to walk to the tree without hindrance, without any painkillers or powders that would deem him unworthy. A King Dragon will not take a bad head in its mouth and put it under its tongue to make a pearl which will bring the Queen Dragon to estrus. 

Grandpa tried to select carefully.

There were rows and rows of products by Hostess, Doritos branded potato chips and every type of jerky ever conceived by a trapper. Try as he might, Grandpa couldn’t find a four ounce box of Cracker Jack. How the little caramelized popcorn goodness was far from his life because his old wife blamed the treat for Grandpa’s dentures. 

“You’re always getting Caramel corn stuck in your teeth.”

So it was. 

Hick’s Cemetery was only a quarter mile away. The moon was just getting lazily awake and Grandpa considered several cups of coffee to pass the time away. He didn't necessarily want to be alert at dawn. It was said that if you stared the King Dragon in the eye he might blow the hemlock from his mouth and make a second pass. 

It was best to be brave. 

“What’s this?” 

Grandpa stared at the King Size bar of Snickers. How long had it been? Seemed like he shared a bar with Morgan when they went fishing. He loved that boy and wouldn’t even use his half to bait any fish. 

There was a certain ailment that Grandpa forgot to put on his application which said he should never eat the Snickers again. He wondered if this could be tasted by the King Dragon, himself. How would he know? I mean, just a pinch of sugar is nothing for the average person for Grandpa it could start a chain reaction and spill out keto acids throughout his body. It annoyed him to keep his A1C at the five-point level but he dared not give his life in vain. 

“I’m sorry son. I’ll remember you from afar.” 

The old man begrudgingly helped himself to a cup of ground Sumatra, taking neither the large cup nor the small. The old man left three dollars on the counter for no reason other than his own pride. He forgot how much these luxuries cost but speculated it was enough after the tax. 

Then he looked left, right, and center. He crossed the street back to his old truck and checked his map. He hadn’t been out to Hick’s Cemetery in years because his people were buried in Sweet-Home near Escalon. He took a sip and the burn on his tongue was very satisfying. Tonight was a good night to die. 

*

The rusted tailgate groaned as he released the latch and stretched his arms into the back of the truck. He wanted to enjoy each memento one at a time after lighting the torches. There was a special spot to park right next to the Dragon’s Oak but he wasn’t sure if he had parked between the rows of white painted rocks. There was also a circle of white painted rocks around the old tree. Everything else was darkness. 

Someone had removed the speed bumps years ago and so people could speed to their destiny but Grandpa took his time. There was a tiny reflective arrow which pointed to the left at the fork. Everyone else would have to go around the circle of the main cemetery because the municipal lights were off. From a great distance off, Grandpa could see the mourners of Northern California light their torches on Mount Diablo. It was the largest peak to the west. 

Grandpa took off his old straw farmer’s hat and saluted the mourners on Mount Diablo. It was said that vendors weren’t allowed but people simply gathered to give comfort to the sacrifice. They came with cell phone lights, old catholic candles; some came with home made torches made out of linen wraps. Everyone came on their own accord and sometimes arranged themselves into human words. 

They might spell out: H O P E

They might arrange themselves into little words like: T H A N K S

Through every season, the good people of San Francisco, Redding, Stockton and Sacramento would gather so that the Sacrifice in Galt didn’t have to feel it was for nothing. 

It was probably the only self-staging festival without musicians. The fanfare had no admission cost and the Bureau of Land Management had flattened a ten acre patch of ground so that people had parking. The tour busses had to drop their loads and park in neighboring Danvile. Drivers would hike back to the memorial if there was time. 

Grandpa was honored and decided he would climb the Valley Oak without his old hat, a sign of respect. The trick was to make sure he got his arms in the fetter ropes which were established because an old dragon lost the Offering one year. It is better to keep the person in place. 

“Let’s see..” 

He offloaded the remote control B17 first. Even at 1/300th scale it was a magnificent model of the plane he flew known as Bad Egg. Grandpa has flown with the best of J-Squad and included figurines in this craft so that he could explain each part of the bomber to children at air shows. He also had to use a Dremel tool to release the plastic sphere for the ball tail gunner. This usually swiveled at thirty degrees to each side with double barrels. He wasn’t sure he actually shot much at those speeds but it was a sure fire way to keep his bomber from being butchered. 

Good times? 

Good times. 

He would be able to see the model plane way up in the tree. 

The rest of the keepsakes were for his own benefit. He took them out slowly and touched the frame with filigree. He had to stare at Grandma Evelyn for a time because his memory became a blank unless he really concentrated on the lines of her face. The way her smile at middle age seemed so joyful and content it was hard to imagine that was the first year their crop failed and he had to go to work in the city. 

Grandpa remembered the year they brought Jenny to college and dropped her bags at the door. Grandma Evelyn said they would keep her room just the way she had left it. Grandpa slipped a hundred dollars into her bags and joked that ‘them boys better stay away’ because he had just bought new buckshot. 

They didn’t stay away. 

Morgan was the happiest accident he ever knew. He couldn’t imagine leaving this world for anyone else. When Jenny died, it was like the old man was blessed with a new life. To become a father figure again at nearly sixty.

He sniffled to himself and got mad because feelings were private. He didn’t want any old stray dogs to see him get emotional, to see him get weak. A real cowboy would have asked to be strung up between two trees if there were time. There was never enough time. 

*

Grandpa gave himself a little rest in the cab before realizing it was only two hours to dawn. He didn’t figure there was much to do up in that tree but think too much. He didn’t want to think too much. 

He got out of the cab and stretched into the night. Some of the torches were still lit. Some had gone out in the breeze. He searched in his pocket and looked up just in time to see something moving in the dark. 

“Get out of here!” 

He looked down for a pebble to throw, expecting only a dog. There were no pebbles of a medium size so Grandpa took one of the white painted rocks which he thought wasn’t too big. 

The old man smelled the air. 

There was a slight light to the west. Diablo Mountain still held its charms but he could not tell which demon had come to fight him in the night. 

“You hear?” 

The old man’s eyes were failing. His spectacles were not just for near-sighted but for far-sighted. Something called bifocals. He thought to feel around in the truck to find them. He wasn’t climbing a tree with glasses on a chain. He wanted to feel whole. 

Grandpa called out a warning in the dark and he was not aware that Morgan needed one more teaching. The boy yelled “TIMBER” just as the tree came down in the wrong direction. 

There were no organic foods that year.