David pushed harder. The timber gate groaned, and then budged. He slipped into the field and pocketed the key. Cliffs beamed in the morning light over pines climbing the hill. Somewhere at the cliff base would be the lost cave. David followed the rock wall until it met the corner of the barn. Its red tile roof and grey stones displayed their centuries. He entered, leaving the door open for light, and creaked open the sole window’s shutters. Mustiness of grain and animals ran strong. Amazing, he thought, that Dad owned this property for years without our knowledge.
When David arrived yesterday in the village of Marcilhac he had searched out the leasing sheepherder, Raphael. He told David that his father also passed away recently and acknowledged that his family always felt blessed by the arrangement. His herds grazed both on his own plateau land above the cliffs as well as on this rich leased valley plot.
David had been raised as much French as American in his home state, Oregon. Dad and Mom often spoke their native language and taught it to their children. They told of the land that time forgot, the Célé valley where they had grown up, hidden in the plateau descending from central France’s GrandMassif. David was born there only months before his parents left after the war for the United States. He often wished his parents had physically introduced him to their roots, but they never returned. He had wanted to explore the medieval villages, meet local craftsmen, walk fields bordering the river, hike trails that climb to the plateau, talk to sheepherders, visit the grotto Pech Merle and view firsthand Europe’s oldest artwork, murals scratched and burnt onto walls 25,000 years ago.
David’s course had included Oregon State University, marriage, Willamette Valley farming, and raising a family. Mom had died unexpectedly when he was in his thirties. Even when their youngest daughter left home five years ago, France still seemed unreachable to David and his wife, Francine. Nor had his siblings made the voyage… always too much responsibility, too little money and time. Now finally in France at age sixty, he still felt unable to be a tourist.
Only three weeks earlier Dad had handed him a map and the key with his dying wish. He told David of this family property. Then he described its cave with prehistoric art, its lost opening now covered with scree. His eyes misted as he pleaded David’s promise to pursue his dream and legacy. It seemed long ago, but only three weeks had passed since Dad’s death and David’s pledge. He still felt like he was spinning in a free fall.
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