Northern Minnesota, three years later

Palisade Head loomed above Lake Superior - 350 feet of shear volcanic rhyolite rising straight out of dark, cold water. A stiff on-shore breeze tossed Erlan Jacobsen’s hair as he backed his heels over the cliff’s edge. He sucked in quick breaths that tasted of wet stone and lichen. Between his legs, he could see jagged teeth of rock in the troughs of waves far below.

A web of nylon straps anchored his rope to the top of the cliff: a big quick-draw locked into a 3” crack, a pair of chocks wedged in a thin fissure, and a strap of webbing looped over a boulder. It was a good set. Any one of the anchors would stop a fall, and with all three he was safe as a baby in a bassinet.

Erlan tried to sit back in his harness, ease a few more inches over the edge. Douglas Teaufrie sat on the boulder, ready to belay, and pretended not to notice Erlan’s struggle to convince his hind-brain he wasn’t about to die.

It helped to look out at the horizon. To his left the lake shore dwindled into mist back toward Duluth. White pines raised gnarled limbs above the shadowed treetops, reaching into the bright June sunlight. Erlan swallowed. Still couldn’t work up any spit. To his right, Shovel Point tilted into the surf, a wedge-shaped shadow blocking the view further north.

Erlan sat back, heart pounding, until his butt hung out over that vast empty space. “Okay Turf,” he said, “lower away.”

Teaufrie let the rope slide through his belay tool, and Erlan walked down the face. Going over the edge on a top set was the worst. Now that he had committed it was all good, and his feet danced down the stone. They’d already marked the rope at the proper length, and Turf stopped Erlan’s descent just above the splash of the waves.

Erlan worked his taped fingers into a vertical crack, squeezed them against the sides as he leaned out, forced his boot-toes into the same crack, and took his weight off the rope. “Climbing,” Erlan shouted, and started up.

After forty feet, Erlan noticed an old cedar clinging to a narrow ledge barely deep enough to collect some soil and provide a living for the gnarled tree. He detoured off route and called for tension on the rope so he could sit in his harness and inspect the tree for old time’s sake.

An Eastern Red Cedar, only five feet tall, but it was old, stunted and twisted by the harsh conditions. Not a likely candidate, but Erlan ran his hands over the boughs anyway, looking for signs like he had when he was a kid, smiling at his own foolishness.

A rush of air tossed Erlan’s hair as a shadow flitted across the cliff. A large black bird landed on a flake of stone nearby, cawed at him, and began to tap on the rock face. Erlan ignored the distraction, running his hands along the cedar’s boughs.

The bird cawed and flapped into the air directly above him, its wings buffeting his head.

“Hey!” said Erlan. He ducked and looked up at a large, battered looking raven. An ugly scar twisted down its back, denuded of feathers, that ended in a notch out of its tail.

The bird landed on the rock and began to peck again. A pattern of taps and scrapes like dots and dashes. An old feeling trickled through Erlan’s guts, a mixture of dread and excitement. There was only one person in the world who might train a bird to use Morse code. Somebody he hadn’t seen in years.

“Where’s the old man, Herald?" Erlan called to the bird, "What does he want now?"

The raven bowed, a quick movement of its entire body, like a warrior acknowledging a challenge, and tapped out its message again. Erlan translated the code using half-forgotten memories.

"Moss is dead. Long live Moss."

The feeling in Erlan’s gut curdled. "One of the children?"

"The Alderman is dead," tapped the raven. " Long live the Alderman." The big bird lowered its head for a moment, then leaped away from the cliff face, beating the air with powerful strokes of its wings. It caught the wind blowing up the cliff face and quickly soared away.

The raven dwindled to a black speck. Erlan finished his inspection of the cedar, his mind running on inertia. No unusual temperature variations, no odd mists, no prize to bring home to his crazy father. And now...

Erlan shook his head and started to climb again, no longer concerned with making the challenging route they’d planned for today. He traversed sideways to an easy chimney that got him within yards of the top, but now he was under a bare face with nothing but tiny flakes to cling to. Erlan called for rope and bailed out via a beginner route loaded with bomber holds that took him 10 feet further off route.

“Wimp out much?” said Turf as Erlan’s head appeared far to the side of the belay point.

"We’ve got to pull the set-up." Erlan swung a leg up.

"Why? Weather coming?" Turf looked around at the gorgeous sky, not a cloud in sight.

Erlan walked back from the edge and pulled loose the knot on his harness. "I’m off belay. Can I borrow your cell?”

“Belay off.” Turf dropped the rope and dug in the pack beside him. “If you had your own phone, you wouldn’t have to beg for mine all the time.”

“I don’t look as good as you wearing a leash.”

"Up yours." Turf tossed him the phone. “What’s going on, anyway?”

“I think my father is dead."

“No way,” Turf said, his voice skeptical.

“One of his birds just told me,” Erlan said.

Turf stared at him, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he said, and started coiling the rope with quick jerks of his long arms.

#

Five hours later they pulled up at Erlan’s apartment in Minneapolis. Cell coverage was spotty up north and Turf’s phone battery had died before they reached anyone on the drive down, but the light blinked on Erlan’s ancient answering machine. The tape hissed and crackled behind his mother’s voice as she gave the details with a clipped precision far from her usual dreamy tone.

Keylor Moss had crashed his motorcycle on County 8 a few miles away from Branch Headquarters. Burial was this Sunday afternoon at 2 PM. She wanted Erlan to bring a van for some things his father had left him.

The two young men stood in silence for a moment, listening to the whir as the answering machine rewound. Turf cleared his throat. “It’s after three,” he said. “You’ve got less than a day to get to Montana.”

Erlan shook himself. “Guess I won’t sleep.” He dug around in the closet and turned up his road leathers. He’d sold his Harley to make tuition last year, but there would be something for him to ride out west. They’d expect all the family in the procession, even the bastard son.

Turf dropped Erlan off at the nearest U-Move center. Erlan rented the only thing they had available, a twenty-foot long behemoth that could move a four bedroom house.

"You know,” said Turf, “if you had a car like a real man, I could have stayed up north climbing."

"I prefer to rely on the kindness of assholes." Erlan pulled his gear out of the back of Turf’s battered Wagoner and tossed it in the cab of the van.

"I might have been able to hook up with Gym Lil." Turf leaned against the side of the jeep, not offering to help.

Erlan just looked him.  Lily Banks was an oral surgeon with a laser focus on climbing Everest.  She was only hanging out with scruffy rock bums to get some ropes training.  Not to mention she was married to a professional hockey player.

"Okay,” said Turf, “her facial expression was kind of ’Don’t come near me, you disgusting perv,’ but her body language clearly said she wanted to ride me like a plushy bronco."

"You’re having imaginary conversations with women’s bodies now?" Erlan asked.

"I like the way they talk."

Erlan laughed.  If anyone had a shot, it was Turf.  He had this easy-going, teddy bear vibe that women found irresistible for recreational sex, but not right for long-term relationships.  He was known as One Night Stand Rain Man.

"Sorry I screwed up your weekend," said Erlan.

"Sorry about the old man." Turf pushed off from the side of the car. "You sure you don’t want company? We could climb some routes in the Beartooths while we’re out there..."

"No, thanks. I’m only going to be a couple of days."

"Yeah, right.” Turf climbed into the jeep. He shook his head and started the engine. “Watch your back, my friend."

Next Chapter: Funeral