The Joshua Tree Prophecy

By Lucas Boulderguard

First Light

On the first morning—when I first laid eyes on flesh—I woke in a cold sweat and wrestled with a peculiar feeling as if I had just fought my way out of a bad dream. An eerie stillness hung over the house and howling carried from the pasture. I propped myself up on my elbows and stared out the window. The trees stood still. Not so much as a leaf crinkled.

Shoving my morning wood between two moist thighs, I climbed out of bed and lumbered to the window. My eyes fell upon a white birch towering into a golden sunrise. Though my gaze had passed over it every day of my life, its magnanimity struck me for the first time. I saw it as something drawn reverently on parchment and handed down from chief to tribe; I saw it as something pilgrims sought out in the wilderness; I saw it like my mother saw the Joshua Tree—something that stands alone and marks the arrival of travelers. For the longest time, I watched the tree as if it might suddenly burst into flames.

After a while, a diesel engine broke the silence of our sleepy street, tires crunched across gravel, and headlights shown in the driveway of the house next door. The Spellburg Place, as it was called by folks in town, sat empty for the better part of a decade. Boarded windows, an overgrown lawn and a rusty FOR SALE sign near the curb. A few times each year workers from a holding company performed just enough maintenance on the property to keep it from becoming condemned. But no one—not a single perspective buyer—ventured a tour until a yellow box truck squeaked to a halt in the driveway.

Three figures huddled behind the dark windshield. One woman. Two men. As far as their features were concerned—whether they were young or old—remained hidden from me. They idled for a minute, leaning close to each other, perhaps talking out their plan, until at last the driver's door sprung open. A skinny blonde forty-something slid down from the cab. She stalked around to the front bumper, glanced up and down the driveway, and then turned her eyes toward the field. For nearly a minute, she stood still and watched. Then, she craned her neck toward the cab and nodded.

The man seated in the middle shimmied across the seat and slipped out the driver's door. His feet hit the ground and he slung the door closed behind him. He glanced up and down the driveway again, as if to reconfirm the woman's observations. With one hand, he reached back to the truck, and checked the doorhandle. Apparently locked.

The gentleman glided to the front of the truck and paused beside the woman. Tall and lean, bordering on lanky. Curly dark hair and glasses. His tight-fitting T-shirt revealed wiry muscles and chest definition. He had spent some time in a weight room, but his build did not lend itself to bulkiness. His black boots, his camouflage pants, and his confident swagger suggested he was no stranger to the phrase "move or I will move you." He shifted his weight and twisted toward the truck and a bulge beneath his T-shirt became evident. He packed a holster on his right hip.

"What the hell..." slipped out my mouth. For the life of me, I failed to see why anyone would pack heat on moving day—if that's what I was watching.

The woman put her hand on the gentlemen's shoulder and whispered into his ear. Something about the way she touched him and her maternal body language suggested to me that I was watching a mother speak with her grown son. She spoke and he nodded. She glanced up the driveway and he looked out over the field behind the house. She nodded, then he nodded, and they circled to the passenger door of the truck.

They stood like secret service agents, flanking the door of the President's limousine—only their nondescript truck was hardly a luxury convoy vehicle. With wide stances and bent knees, they hovered near the truck, as if they could pounce at the slightest movement.

The woman reached up with her hand and tapped the glass of the passenger window. The door jarred open and an inexplicable charge passed through the air as if lightning had struck nearby. Clasping the door with one hand, she pulled it open enough for the passenger to reach his hand out.

A powerful hand with prominent veins and fingernails that gleaned white waved and turned. He cupped at the air in the same manner that one may test out the water of a stream. A moment later a sandal-clad foot slid past the bottom of the open door. My stomach dropped like I had sped over a small hill.

From the scarce bit of him that I saw—a hand, a foot, and a few strands of brown hair that caught breeze—I knew that I wanted to see more of him. Something about him intoxicated me. He dropped down to the ground, crouching as he landed. He held his place for longer than seemed natural, like a bizarre yoga pose. Held up by his forearms, his elbows tucked into his sides. He kept his back straight and his legs slight bent. His clenched butt and muscular thighs nearly ripped holes in his threadbare jeans. His light blue hoodie hugged his trembling back as he swayed from side to side.

"Shit..." was the only thing I could say. Ripped, lean, and nearly animalistic in his poise, I ogled a gorgeous specimen of hunk. He shifted his weight forward, until his entire body weight suspended from his arms. His legs hovered above the ground as he held a plank pose. He curled one leg under his chest and then the other. Gently he lowered both feet between his hands, shifted his weight onto his feet, and slowly unfolded his body. He straightened his legs, brushed dust from his jeans, and lowered the zipper of his hoodie.

The blonde woman and her son drew near him as if to protect him, but something told me he needed little protection. He drew in a deep whiff of air through his nose and, like a wine connoisseur, he seemed to relish a rich bouquet of aromas. He stood still for the longest time. His shoulders rose and fell as he practically drank the morning air. His chest puffed out like an opera singer as he savored one last whiff of air.

"Well?" The blonde woman asked.

He raised his arm to shoulder level, turned his wrist, and raise a thumb and two fingers toward the sun.

"You're sure?"

He opened his eyes and two intensely blue irises stared directly at me. He grinned, licked his lips, and then his rich baritone voice broke the silence. "I never been so sure of anything."

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