Atlantis Chronicles: Prince of The Olympics

April 30

At last Michael was able to get on the computer- the end of the month, with all of its household bill paying and family bookkeeping, had priority over his research. On the “Network Magazine” site, under

‘upcoming episodes,’ he found an airing date for “Mountain Miracles:” May thirtieth. Michael explored the “Network Magazine” site some more. Buried in the ‘Links’ was the blog that Gene had mentioned: “Rick Delby’s Miracles in the Olympics.” Michael scanned it quickly and printed it when he came to Guy’s face. On the blog was an artist’s sketch. The caption under it read, “Manny / Manuel / Manning: A Composite of Descriptions of the Olympic Healer.” Scrolling back to the top, Michael began reading in earnest:

’In 1958, I was among a handful of searchers that caught up with Brandon Cross, a teen that had been missing in the Olympic mountains for nine days. Brandon was in surprisingly great condition for being

on his own for so long with virtually no wilderness training (according to his parents). He was well hydrated, in great spirits, warm, and well rested. Brandon spoke of a young man that had been instrumental in his good luck. “Manny” had seen to his wounds, fed him, lit a fire, and kept him company for much of the time. The mysterious Manny had stuck around for over five days, and went so far as to teach Brandon how to construct a special log that burned particularly warm in the wind. Brandon built one of these logs for us, and I took copious notes.

The log was ingenious. It was constructed of plants and minerals gathered from the alpine shrubs of the Olympics, with one exception, a phosphorus paste that is rich in carbon. I could not tell you where

that was gathered from, though I won’t doubt the possibility that those ingredients are also from the Olympic peninsula. Two of the searchers were doctors, both of whom examined Brandon once

we got him off the hill. Brandon seemed perfectly fit, though this story contradicted that. He said that at one point, his exhaustion made him careless. He fell off a cliff. He complained that his leg,

his shoulder and a wrist had pained him. One of the rescuers, Dr. Darren Taylor, convinced Brandon to x-ray the shoulder, just in case there was some ligament damage. The x-ray revealed that there had been a severe separation, yet it was months along in its recovery. Brandon assured us that no such injury had

occurred before his hike into the mountains. Further x-rays revealed a fractured bone in his wrist and multiple fractures in his left fibula were all months along the road to recovery. Today, when I think of Brandon, the picture that I have in my mind is the boy that hiked with us out of the hills, with plenty of ease and energy.’

Michael examined his own notes about what Guy had said about Brandon. “Learned English from a boy named Brandon that he came across in the mountains.” Michael noted Brandon’s name. He’d try and find him on the web later. He returned to the blog.

’In 1990, five days of freezing rain hit the west side of the Olympic National Park. A group of five friends had gone into the Quinault rain forest along the north fork of the Quinault River for a weekend

excursion. In the rain forest, the ice from the freezing rain doubled the weight of each branch, causing many boughs to break and fall. Temperatures dropped into the teens, or lower, which is very unusual for a temperate rain forest. It was dangerous, if not impossible for these hikers to safely navigate their way back down the paths and hillsides- if they could not even find the path among the fallen branches and

debris.’

’Enter a chap named ‘Manuel.’ His arrival ‘coincided’ with a spike in the temperature around the camp. He also brought some dry logs. Three days with Manuel had certainly changed the chances of survival of this small group of friends. By the fourth day with Manuel, the thaw had started around the forest, and these friends were able to hike down the hill, leaving Manuel. When they left the little valley they were in, they saw the extent of the damage. Whole trees had fallen over with the added ice weight. In exposed areas, some had split open as the water deep inside expanded as it froze. Once back

at their cars, it was hours before one of the cars thawed enough to start. According to Dr. Susan Henderson, “There generally are no ‘warm pockets’ in a storm that brings freezing rain. The survival of five people for six days in those temperatures without extensive signs of frostbite is miraculous!” Oh, the descriptions of Manuel are amazingly similar to those of Manny! The log technology was the same.

Michael turned in his notebook to the list of Guy’s abilities. He added “may be able to change extreme weather and temperatures,” after all, the freezing rain didn’t totally stop until the fourth day. He continued.

’In the late fall of 2001, park ranger Gene Sartonni, came across an extensive log jam on the head waters of the Elwha River. Calling it in, Gene, found out that with work crews stretched so thin, it could

be as long as three weeks before that log jam could be removed. Unfortunately, the fall rains were well past due at the time. Gene pulled out a hand winch, and a length of rope to try at least to reduce some of the threat of the jam. Gene had rigged his winch to a nearby fir when headquarters lost contact with him. Gene’s brother, Tony, and another ranger, Jordan Jackson, headed after him immediately. What they found was an unconscious Gene resting comfortably in the arms of a passerby named ‘Manning.’ After getting Gene airlifted to the hospital, Jordan Jackson found that the fir, an eight-ton tree, had been moved! It had actually fallen onto Gene!

That was consistent with what the doctors found with Gene’s injuries. Gene had two fractured vertebrae, four cracked ribs, evidence of a punctured lung with its accompanying internal bleeding, but each injury seemed as if they had been healing for months. There was also evidence on site of external bleeding, but no signs of any open wounds were found on Gene’s body at the site.

Gene’s guardian angel, ‘Manning?’ also happens to fit the descriptions of ‘Manuel’ and ‘Manny.’

Michael looked over his notes. He’d talked with Gene before, but didn’t recall Guy’s apparent strength. He added that to his notes.

’Whatever his true name, it appears that there is evidence of at least one miracle healer that, at least occasionally, spends time hiking around Olympic National Park. At this point, his abilities seem

nearly limitless. Healing broken backs, changing the weather, lifting trees, nothing seems beyond the healer’s ability. My question now is, could those abilities have a limit? Could he cure an illness? How

about a disease? How about a birth defect? How about aging itself? These abilities, turned on himself, might allow him to defy time. Is it any wonder that there are reports of his miracles spanning five decades.’

Michael checked back in his notebook. “age: over one-hundred twenty years, that would put his birth at or before the eighteen-eighties, provided Atlantean years are equal to our own.”

‘Anthony Sartonni, the forest ranger’s brother, who had met the healer, is full of questions. “In healing the body’s cells so rapidly, can they (the cells) stand up to healing instantaneously? God gave us the ability to heal from injuries, but we do it slowly. Can the cell walls of tissue healed so instantly, weaken or rupture? Will my brother Gene be taking out the garbage one evening next week and have all this restructured cells start to unravel?” This is an interesting point. Are these miracles permanent? Unfortunately, Brandon Cross was killed in Vietnam just five years after he was healed. We cannot use his case as an example. The medical community all agree that every medical treatment has its side effects. What are the side effects of instantaneous healing? Without further study in a lab situation, we won’t know.’

Michael pondered. Was it a good thing to heal like he had seen Guy do? Were there consequences down the road if it was done to you? He thought of the doe. He was sure that she would prefer to be up and about with her fawn than to have died at the side of the road that night. Maybe, the dow would prefer to live even another week with her fawn, than to have died that night. He thought of his Grandpa Howie. When he had first been admitted to the hospital with cancer, all he talked about was getting

out and finding new fishing holes. By the third day, everyone was tired of his complaining. When Michael asked why he kept talking about fishing, Grampa said, “Michael, someday you’ll know that to

simply be alive in a hospital bed isn’t the trick. To spend your life going to the places you love and doing the things you love, that is the trick. You’re allowed only so much time, so, love every minute of

it!”

Michael decided instant healing was a good thing. He added the fate of Brandon to his notes.

’Is this healer living among us? Does he live in your neighborhood? Was he at the restaurant that you visited last weekend? Where does a person with such abilities spend his time? Where did he acquire this knowledge? Who are his friends? As a twenty-year-old volunteer, I first became aware of the Olympic miracle man. Now, at age eighty-three, I am more intrigued than ever, and more desperate. Could he become my friend? My doctor? Personally, I wouldn’t mind a little dose of his ‘fountain of youth.’

-Rick Delby

Gene was absolutely right. He wasn’t overreacting as Michael had thought earlier. The park will soon be having more visitors. Many of them could be old or sick. And all of them will be searching for Guy. His trip to Guy’s suddenly looked like it would be much more difficult.

May 17

He dropped his backpack to the floor, and unzipped his coat, then found Bill, his mom and Jason all huddled around the newspaper at the kitchen table. Mom wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Michael! How . . .” but Mom stopped Bill by placing a hand on his arm and with a shake of her head. She stood to face her son.

“Michael? We need to talk. There is a very disturbing article in today’s paper. You should read it before we go any further. Jason, this is a private matter.”

Jason quickly frowned as he stood, then ran a finger across his neck while he nodded to Michael. He walked off to the family room and the TV. Michael rolled his eyes, and took off his coat as he walked across the kitchen to get the paper from his stepfather. It was a typical wire news article covering one column of the front page.

“Woman Convict Found Dead Near Park.” was its headline.

“Is this the one?” Michael asked as he pointed it out.

“Yep,” nodded Bill, “read it please.”

There was no photo associated with the article. Michael read on.

‘Shelton, WA(UPA) The body of Mariam Granger, a convicted drug trafficker, was discovered Wednesday on the Dry Creek hiking trail near Lake Cushman. She had gone missing April 26 from her work release program in Port Orchard, and was 28. Ms. Granger had been the subject of an extensive manhunt. Authorities spent eight days covering access points around the state with the hope of finding her. She was in the fifth year of an eleven year sentence for possession and sale of narcotics. She had lived in the Seattle area for seventeen years, but was originally from Foresythe, Colorado, a small mountain community. Mariam was in the fifth week of a seemingly successful work release program at a Port Orchard clothes manufacturer when she did not return to work after lunch. Continued page A-8.’

Michael looked toward his mom.

“Keep reading, Dear,” she said. Michael found page eight and continued.

‘Department of Corrections spokesperson, Derrick DeGroot reported that her body had been moved to the site, about four miles west of Lake Cushman, but currently, authorities have no leads as to where the murder occurred, or how the body was transported. The body was in excellent shape, but for two wounds, one to the thigh, the other to the torso. The murder weapon has not been found. DeGroot stated that Mariam Granger’s body was fully clothed. But those clothes themselves are an item of interest. The clothes were made from animal hairs individually woven together, a process that would take months for Ms. Granger to complete. It was believed that the hairs themselves were a mixture of bear, mountain goat, and possibly beaver and elk, all animals of Olympic National Park.” Those that may have seen, or have any knowledge of Mariam Granger, or the condition of her body, please call the Mason County Sheriff’s hotline at 555-3110.’

“This is about Guy, isn’t it?”

“Michael, the clothes that I washed for him were made from hairs. He told me so himself! He even said that he had made them himself! I have never seen, or even heard of anyone else weaving clothes from animal hair! Those have to be his clothes on that woman.”

Michael thought of the entire community of Atlanteans living in the park. He had no idea how many there were. Of course other Atlanteans would probably make their clothes that way. Chances are that Guy had not killed Mariam Granger. But what could he say to his mom without saying too much?

“Mom, I just know that Guy didn’t do it!”

Marie stood, her face straight. “It’s no longer our concern. I have given a statement to the hotline about what I know. I expect you to do the same.” Michael and Bill watched as she walked up the hallway to her room. The door closed quietly behind her. Michael looked back to the article in stunned silence for a few moments.

“Yah know?” Bill began solemnly, “I sure admire her. Your mother knew how much this would hurt you. She knows that you and Guy are kind of . . . well . . . you get along well, I guess. But, she insisted on telling the sheriff what she knows. She says that truth has no chance if people are always hiding it.” He stood. “Don’t hold it against her too long. She’s doing what she thinks is right.”

X

It’d been twenty years since Chris Haner was up at his Grandma and Grandpa’s upper meadow. After Grandma died a month ago, Mom had come over from Seattle to settle the estate. She had asked him to come up to Grandma’s ranch this time, to move some boxes out. Now it was late Saturday afternoon. Mom, his sister, Ruth, and his own wife, Hannah, had chased him out of the house while they boxed up more. Chris had grabbed a flashlight, his Grandpa’s old .22, and went for a stroll. Memories of Grandpa and Grandma were all over the lower buildings, so Chris, who never had handled loss very well, started climbing.

At the upper meadow, Chris walked toward the north exposure, toward the best view of the Pacific. The colors were breathtaking. The sun had just set behind a neighboring ridge, leaving the indigo sky to

illuminate the ranch. The few clouds shone from brilliant orange to a dull violet as they neared the opposing horizon. Far below was the highway 101, the few cars and trucks nothing but specs. Out past the sea stacks, a cargo ship crawled its way east, toward Seattle, or maybe Vancouver. The wind on the exposure was strong, but warm. There was a lot of promise for a nice summer. A little to Chris’s left, where the meadow disappeared up the hill, he found a small wooden cross, and a flat basalt stone. Their

combined messages dropped Chris to his knees. On the cross, Grandpa had carved Whitney’s name with the router from his shop, he recognized that handwriting over all those years. Then tears came, as the memory of that morning flooded back. He examined the stone through teary eyes. The message carved into it was in an unfamiliar, almost childlike hand, but it looked fresh, as if the message had been just recently added. It was carved, maybe even burned, into the stone. Sobs now came, with the realization of the message on the stone. “She gladly gave her life so that he would live.”

X

The forceful knock brought Michael to his senses immediately. He was at his desk, notebook open. The news article was there too. Bill opened the door.

“Michael? The state police are in the dining room. They’d like a word with you. Your Mom’s talking with them now.”

“Oh! Okay. I’ll be down in a sec.” Michael stood, tucked in his shirt, then stepped toward the door. He stopped, returned to his desk, tucked the article into his notebook, and stashed it under some

books on a shelf.

Seated at the dining room table were a man in a gray state trooper’s uniform, and a woman in a black uniform. Mom had tall glasses of ice water sitting in front of them.

“Michael, I am Detective Tim Roberts from the Washington State Police, and this is Officer Wendy Sanguinetti from the Washington Department of Corrections. Would you mind if we asked you some

questions?” Tim had the body of a super hero. His neck looked bigger than Michael’s thigh. Even the woman had larger shoulders and bigger biceps than Bill did, and he had worked in construction for over

twenty years. Michael thought for a second, and decided to relax. After all, he was not the one in trouble here.

“All right.”

“Okay.” said the Deputy. “I would like to thank you for talking with us on this matter. As we were telling your mother, the more pieces of the puzzle we have, the clearer the picture. Do you know anyone by the name of Mariam Granger?”

“No, just what I read about her in the paper.”

“Do you know the whereabouts of Justin Mitchell?” he continued.

“No, I don’t know who that is.”

“Randall Freeman, a.k.a. ‘Riverboat’?”

“Sorry. Don’t know him, either.”

“Tell us about Guy Mann.” Michael noticed that the woman was watching him closely as he answered each question.

“I met Guy three weeks ago, when my friend Don and I were up on Forest service road 2880 doing some fly fishing. We were there on Senior Ditch day. It was all strictly catch and release. My Grandpa

Howie taught us . . .”

“You said Don? Don who?” interrupted Officer Roberts.

“Don Chessman. He’s been a friend of mine since third grade.” He wrote down Don’s name on a tiny notepad sitting in front of him at the table. The little pencil he used looked absurd bouncing about his huge fingers.

“Anyway, we found Guy out hiking in a rainstorm up there, just about the same time as Don hit a deer with his truck. Don knocked his head pretty good in the accident. I don’t think he even remembers meeting Guy.”

“Do you have an address, or phone number for Don?” asked the Deputy.

“For Don? Sure, but as I. . .”

“How about for Guy?”

Michael shook his head. “I only know that he lives up above Happy Valley somewhere.” Mom got up, and found the family address book. She pointed an address out to Tim. Again, he scribbled in his tiny pad.

“How was he dressed, this Guy? Did he have a backpack?” Tim continued.

“Well, after the accident, all three of us were soaked and covered with mud. I drove down the hill with Don and Guy both asleep. When I got here, Bill and I took off their muddy clothes and put them in the laundry room in the basement. Don was awake when his folks got here. Guy was out for a while.”

“You didn’t take an unconscious friend that had been in an accident to the hospital?” asked Officer Roberts.

“I suppose I should have insisted,” Mom confessed, “But after talking with him, he seemed fine.”

“How about the clothes?” Officer Roberts asked.

“All I know is that they were wet and covered with mud. Mom was the one that was asking how to wash them. He wore mostly my stuff while he was here. He even had my stuff on when he left.”

“And when was that?”

“Ah . . . April 27. It was a Saturday. He and I went to the Olympic park visitor’s center in Port Angeles. We spent over an hour up there, then we parted ways.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“I think he was going up to Hurricane Ridge. I wanted to get back here, so I had to catch a bus.” After a few seconds of writing, the Deputy continued.

“Did he meet with anyone he knew, or talk with anyone while you were with him?” Michael thought for a moment. He had gotten away without really lying so far, but he sure didn’t want to bring Gene’s name up.

“Well . . . not really. Not unless you want the name of the little girl on the bus. I think her name was Rayne.”

For the first time, the woman, Officer Sanguinetti, spoke up,

“Michael, you and your mother seem like ‘nice’ people. The type of person that helps whenever they can . . . that treat other people nicely . . . that don’t take what isn’t theirs . . . and that don’t like to lie, unless there’s a really good reason. I’d like you to think about this next question . . . Is Guy Mann also a ‘nice’ person?”

“Giving!” Michael answered immediately, almost interrupting the end of the question. “Beyond nice. Guy would give you anything if he thought it could help you . . . his time, his clothes, his sweat. He’s way beyond the ‘nice’ sort.” Officer Wendy held Michael’s gaze.

“Mariam Granger was a taker,” she continued, “I’ve learned that by working so closely with her these last two years. She, and those like her, are constantly on the lookout for ways they can take whatever you have. She and Guy may have had the same tailor, but he didn’t harm Mariam.”

She stood, grabbed her hat and jacket. “Do we have what we need Officer Roberts?” He stood too.

“Uh, yeah. Thank you, Michael,” he said. “Thank you too, Marie. We’ll show ourselves out.” Mom walked over to Michael and hugged him.