The Shack Read online

  “Anyway—” He quickly changed the subject to avoid more questions. “How is Kate doing over there?”

  There was a pause and then a long sigh. When Nan spoke her voice was hushed to a whisper and he could tell she was covering her mouth on the other end. “Mack, I wish I knew. She is just like talking to a rock, and no matter what I do I can’t get through. When we’re around family she seems to come out of her shell some, but then she disappears again. I just don’t know what to do. I’ve been praying and praying that Papa would help us find a way to reach her, but”—she paused again—“it feels like he isn’t listening.”

  There it was. Papa was Nan’s favorite name for God, and it expressed her delight in the intimate friendship she had with him.

  “Honey, I’m sure God knows what he’s doing. It will all work out.” The words brought him no comfort, but he hoped they might ease the worry he could hear in her voice.

  “I know,” she sighed. “I just wish he’d hurry up.”

  “Me too” was all Mack could think to say. “Well, you and the kids stay put and stay safe, and tell Arlene and Jimmy hi, and thank them for me. Hopefully I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay, love. I should go and help the others. Everyone’s busy looking for candles in case the power goes out. You should probably do the same. There’s some above the sink in the basement, and there’s leftover stuffed bread dough in the fridge that you can heat up. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, my pride is hurt more than anything.”

  “Well, take it easy, and hopefully we’ll see you in the morning.”

  “All right, honey. Be safe and call me if you need anything. Bye.”

  That was kind of a dumb thing to say, he thought as he hung up the phone. Kind of a manly dumb thing, as if he could help if they needed anything.

  Mack sat and stared at the note. It was confusing and painful trying to sort out the swirling cacophony of disturbing emotions and dark images clouding his mind—a million thoughts traveling a million miles an hour. Finally, he gave up, folded the note, slid it into a small tin box he kept on the desk, and switched off the light.

  Mack managed to find something to heat up in the microwave, then he grabbed a couple of blankets and pillows and headed for the living room. A quick glance at the clock told him that Bill Moyer’s show had just started, a favorite program that he tried never to miss. Moyer was one of a handful of people whom Mack would love to meet—a brilliant and outspoken man, able to express intense compassion for both people and truth with unusual clarity. One of the stories tonight had something to do with oilman Boone Pickens, who was now starting to drill for water, of all things.

  Almost without thinking, and without taking his eyes off the television, Mack reached over to the end table, picked up a photo frame holding a picture of a little girl, and clutched it to his chest. With the other hand he pulled the blankets up under his chin and hunkered deeper into the sofa.

  Soon the sounds of gentle snoring filled the air as the media tube turned its attention to a piece on a high school senior in Zimbabwe who had been beaten for speaking out against his government. But Mack had already left the room to wrestle with his dreams; maybe tonight there would be no nightmares, only visions, perhaps, of ice and trees and gravity.

  2

  THE GATHERING DARK

  Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.

  —Paul Tournier

  Sometime during the night an unexpected chinook blew through the Willamette Valley, freeing the landscape from the storm’s icy grip, except for those things that lay hidden in the deepest shadows. Within twenty-four hours it was early summer warm. Mack slept late into the morning, one of those dreamless sleeps that seem to pass in an instant.

  When he finally crawled off the sofa, he was somewhat chagrined to see that the ice follies had fizzled out so quickly but delighted to see Nan and the kids when they showed up less than an hour later. First came the anticipated and considerable scolding for not putting his bloodied mess in the laundry room, followed by an appropriate and satisfying amount of oohing and ahhing that accompanied her examination of his head wound. The attention pleased Mack immensely, and Nan soon had him cleaned up, patched up, and fed up. The note, though never far from his mind, was not mentioned. He still didn’t know what to think of it, and he didn’t want Nan included if it turned out to be some kind of cruel joke.

  Little distractions like the ice storm were a welcome although brief respite from the haunting presence of his constant companion: The Great Sadness, as he referred to it. Shortly after the summer that Missy vanished, The Great Sadness had draped itself around Mack’s shoulders like some invisible but almost tangibly heavy quilt. The weight of its presence dulled his eyes and stooped his shoulders. Even his efforts to shake it off were exhausting, as if his arms were sewn into its bleak folds of despair and he had somehow become part of it. He ate, worked, loved, dreamed, and played in this garment of heaviness, weighed down as if he were wearing a leaden bathrobe—trudging daily through the murky despondency that sucked the color out of everything.

  At times he could feel The Great Sadness slowly tightening around his chest and heart like the crushing coils of a constrictor, squeezing liquid from his eyes until he thought there no longer remained a reservoir. Other times he would dream that his feet were stuck in cloying mud as he caught brief glimpses of Missy running down the wooded path ahead of him, her red cotton summer dress gilded with wildflowers flashing among the trees. She was completely oblivious to the dark shadow tracking her from behind. Although he frantically tried to scream warnings to her, no sound emerged and he was always too late and too impotent to save her. He would bolt upright in bed, sweat dripping from his tortured body, while waves of nausea and guilt and regret rolled over him like some surreal tidal flood.

  The story of Missy’s disappearance is, unfortunately, not unlike others too often told. It all happened during Labor Day weekend, the summer’s last hurrah before another year of school and autumn routines. Mack boldly decided to take the three younger children on a final camping trip to Wallowa Lake in northeastern Oregon. Nan was already booked at a continuing education class in Seattle, and the two older boys were back at college or counseling at a summer camp. But Mack was confident that he possessed the right combination of outdoorsmanship and mothering skills. After all, Nan had taught him well.

  The sense of adventure and camping fever gripped everyone, and the place became a whirlwind of activity. If they had done it Mack’s way, they would have simply backed a moving van up to the house and shifted most of its contents for the long weekend. At one point in all the confusion, Mack decided he needed a break and settled himself in his daddy chair after shooing off Judas, the family cat. He was about to turn on the tube when Missy came running in, holding her little Plexiglas box.

  “Can I take my insect collection camping with us?” asked Missy.

  “You want to take your bugs along?” grunted Mack, not paying her much mind.

  “Daddy, they’re not bugs. They’re insects. Look, I’ve got lots of them in here.”

  Mack reluctantly turned his attention to his daughter, who, seeing him focus, started explaining the contents of her treasure box.

  “See, there are two grasshoppers. And see on that leaf, there is my caterpillar and somewhere… There she is! Do you see my ladybug? And I have a fly in here somewhere too and some ants.”

  As she inventoried her collection, Mack tried his best to show attention, nodding along.

  “So,” Missy finished, “can I take them along?”

  “Sure you can, honey. Maybe we can let them loose in the wild when we’re out there.”

  “No she can’t!” came a voice from the kitchen. “Missy, you need to keep your collection at home, honey. Trust me, they’re safer here.” Nan stuck her head around the corner and lovingly frowned at Mack as he shrugged his shoulders.

  “I tried, honey,” he whispered to Missy.

  “Grrr
,” growled Missy. But knowing the battle was lost, she picked up her box and left.

  By Thursday night the van was overloaded and the pull-behind tent-trailer hitched up with lights and brakes tested. Early Friday, after one last lecture from Nan to her kids about safety, obedience, brushing teeth in the mornings, not picking up cats with white stripes down their backs, and all manner of other things, they headed out: Nan north up Interstate 205 to Washington, and Mack and the three amigos east on Interstate 84. The plan was to return the following Tuesday night, just before the first day of school.

  The Columbia River Gorge is worth the trip by itself, with breathtaking panoramas overseen by river-carved mesas standing sleepy guard in the late-summer warmth. September and October can offer some of Oregon’s best weather: Indian summer often sets in around Labor Day and hangs on until Halloween, when it quickly turns cold, wet, and nasty. This year was no exception. Traffic and weather cooperated wonderfully, and the crew hardly noticed the time and miles passing by.

  The foursome stopped at Multnomah Falls to buy a coloring book and crayons for Missy and two inexpensive, waterproof disposable cameras for Kate and Josh. They then decided to climb the short distance up the trail to the bridge facing the falls. There had once been a path that led around the main pool and into a shallow cave behind the tumbling water, but, unfortunately, it had been blocked off by the park authorities because of erosion. Missy loved it here, and she begged her daddy to tell the legend of the beautiful Indian maid, the daughter of a chief of the Multnomah tribe. It took some coaxing, but Mack finally relented and retold the story as they all stared up into the mists shrouding the falling cascade.

  The tale centered on a princess, the only child left to her aging father. The chief loved his daughter dearly and carefully picked out a husband for her, a young warrior chief of the Clatsop tribe, whom he knew she loved. The two tribes came together to celebrate the days of the wedding feast, but before it could begin, a terrible sickness began to spread among the men, killing many.

  The elders and the chiefs met to discuss what they could do about the wasting disease that was quickly decimating their warriors. The oldest medicine man among them spoke of how his own father, when aged and near death, had foretold of a terrible sickness that would kill their men, an illness that could be stopped only if a pure and innocent daughter of a chief would willingly give up her life for her people. In order to fulfill the prophecy, she must voluntarily climb to a cliff above the Big River and from there jump to her death onto the rocks below.

  A dozen young women, all daughters of the various chiefs, were brought before the council. After considerable debate the elders decided that they could not ask for such a precious sacrifice, especially for a legend they weren’t sure was true.

  But the disease continued to spread unabated among the men, and eventually the young warrior chief, the husband-to-be, fell ill with the sickness. The princess who loved him knew in her heart that something had to be done, and after cooling his fever and kissing him softly on the forehead, she slipped away.

  It took her all night and the next day to reach the place spoken of in the legend, a towering cliff overlooking the Big River and the lands beyond. After praying and giving herself to the Great Spirit, she fulfilled the prophecy by jumping without hesitation to her death on the rocks below.

  Back at the villages the next morning, those who had been sick arose well and strong. There was great joy and celebration until the young warrior discovered that his beloved bride was missing. As the awareness of what had happened spread rapidly among the people, many began the journey to the place where they knew they would find her. As they silently gathered around her broken body at the base of the cliff, her grief-stricken father cried out to the Great Spirit, asking that her sacrifice would always be remembered. At that moment, water began to fall from the place where she had jumped, turning into a fine mist that fell at their feet, slowly forming a beautiful pool.

  Missy usually loved the telling, almost as much as Mack did. It had all the elements of a true redemption story, not unlike the story of Jesus that she knew so well. It centered on a father who loved his only child and a sacrifice foretold by a prophet. Because of love, the child willingly gave up her life to save her betrothed and their tribes from certain death.

  But on this occasion, Missy didn’t say a word when the story was finished. Instead, she immediately turned and headed for the van as if to say, “Okay, I am done here. Let’s get going.”

  They made a quick stop for some brunch and a potty break at Hood River and then got right back on the road, reaching La Grande by early afternoon. Here they left I-84 and took the Wallowa Lake Highway, which would take them the final seventy-two miles to the town of Joseph. The lake and campground they were headed for were only a few miles beyond Joseph, and after finding their site they all pitched in and had everything set up in short order—perhaps not exactly the way Nan would have preferred, but functional nonetheless.

  The first meal was a Phillips family tradition: flank steak, marinated in Uncle Joe’s secret sauce. For dessert they ate the brownies Nan had made the night before, topped with the vanilla ice cream they had packed away in dry ice.

  That evening, as he sat among three laughing children watching one of nature’s greatest shows, Mack’s heart was suddenly penetrated by unexpected joy. A sunset of brilliant colors and patterns played off the few clouds that had waited in the wings to become central actors in this unique presentation. He was a rich man, he thought to himself, in all the ways that mattered.

  By the time supper was cleaned up, night had fallen. The deer—routine day visitors and sometimes a serious nuisance—had gone wherever deer go to bed down. Their shift was picked up by the night troublemakers: raccoons, squirrels, and chipmunks that traveled in roving bands looking for any container left slightly open. The Phillips campers knew this from past experience. The first night they had ever spent in these campgrounds had cost them four dozen Rice Krispies Treats, a box of chocolates, and all their peanut butter cookies.

  Before it got too late, the four went on a short hike away from the campfires and lanterns, to a dark and quiet spot where they could lie down and gaze in wonder at the Milky Way, stunning and intense when undiminished by the pollution of city lights. Mack could lie and gaze up into that vastness for hours. He felt so incredibly small yet comfortable with himself. Of all the places he sensed the presence of God, out here, surrounded by nature and under the stars, was one of the most tangible. He could almost hear the song of worship they sang to their Creator, and in his reluctant heart he joined in as best he could.

  Then it was back to the campsite, and after several trips to the facilities, Mack tucked the three in turn into the safety and security of their sleeping bags. He prayed briefly with Josh before moving across to where Kate and Missy lay waiting, but when it came Missy’s turn to pray she wanted to talk instead.

  “Daddy, how come she had to die?” It took Mack a moment to figure out whom Missy was talking about, suddenly realizing that the Multnomah princess must have been on her mind since they had stopped earlier.

  “Honey, she didn’t have to die. She chose to die to save her people. They were very sick and she wanted them to be healed.”

  There was silence and Mack knew that another question was forming in the darkness.

  “Did it really happen?” This time the question was from Kate, obviously interested in the conversation.

  “Did what really happen?”

  “Did the Indian princess really die? Is the story true?”

  Mack thought before he spoke. “I don’t know, Kate. It’s a legend, and sometimes legends are stories that teach a lesson.”

  “So, it didn’t really happen?” asked Missy.

  “It might have, sweetie. Sometimes legends are built from real stories, things that really happen.”

  Again silence, then, “So is Jesus’ dying a legend?”

  Mack could hear the wheels turning in Kate�
�s mind. “No, honey, that’s a true story. And do you know what? I think the Indian princess story is probably true too.”

  Mack waited while his girls processed their thoughts.

  Missy was next to ask, “Is the Great Spirit another name for God—you know, Jesus’ Papa?”

  Mack smiled in the dark. Obviously, Nan’s nightly prayers were having an effect. “I would suppose so. It’s a good name for God because he is a spirit and he is great.”

  “Then how come he’s so mean?”

  Ah, here was the question that had been brewing. “What do you mean, Missy?”

  “Well, the Great Spirit makes the princess jump off the cliff and makes Jesus die on a cross. That seems pretty mean to me.”

  Mack was stuck. He wasn’t sure how to answer. At six and a half years old, Missy was asking questions that wise people had wrestled with for centuries.

  “Sweetheart, Jesus didn’t think his Daddy was mean. He thought his Daddy was full of love and loved him very much. His Daddy didn’t make him die. Jesus chose to die because he and his Daddy love you and me and everyone in the world. He saved us from our sickness, just like the princess.”

  Now came the longest silence, and Mack was beginning to wonder if the girls had fallen asleep. Just as he was about to lean over and kiss them good night, a little voice with a noticeable quiver broke into the quiet.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Will I ever have to jump off a cliff?”

  Mack’s heart broke as he understood what this conversation had really been about. He gathered his little girl into his arms and pulled her close. With his own voice a little huskier than usual, he gently replied, “No, honey. I will never ask you to jump off a cliff, never, ever, ever.”

  “Then will God ever ask me to jump off a cliff?”

  “No, Missy. He would never ask you to do anything like that.”