Aegolius Creek by Micah Thorp, publishes on September 16 with Type Eighteen Books and is described as ‘a story that leaves readers contemplating our ties to place and family, how we strive for worth and meaning, and ultimately, what—if anything—we can claim as our own‘. In celebration of its upcoming release, Micah has shared the prologue with us today so I do hope you enjoy.
[ About Aegolius Creek ]
Don Karlsson has lived on his family’s Oregon homestead for most of his life. The timber on his land is his greatest asset—planted and replenished by his hand, maintained with his labor and sweat, and harvested for income at his discretion.
After a new species of voles is discovered living in those trees, authorities step in to protect the creatures, and Karlsson fights back. No one can tell him what to do with his property. He enlists the help of his children: Billy, a local who understands his father’s connection to the land; Stacy, a fierce attorney from Boston determined to represent her father’s interests—even if they go against her own; and the beloved and sensitive youngest, Zeke, who organizes local environmentalists to make sure his father does not win.
The impending confrontation engulfs the community and competing interests—local businesses and political groups, infiltrators seeking profit—with the Karlsson family at the center, still trying to reconcile the loss of Don’s wife and their mother, Marlene. Tempers flare, desperate acts are taken, and the courtroom battle spills over into protests and riots, leading to a riveting and stunning conclusion.
[ Extract ]
PROLOGUE
“The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything done in it will be laid bare.”— 2 PETER 3:10
Everything begins and ends in fire. That’s what Mrs. Green told me when I was eleven in her youth Bible study at the Aegolius Creek Community Church. God created the heavens and the earth from a great ball of flame. Which didn’t seem much different than the Big Bang Theory, although Mrs. Green said it was blasphemous to suggest something other than God was responsible for creation. She’d obviously never discussed the matter with Mr. Spence at Crawfordsville High School, who later claimed the only way God created anything was with the laws of physics, and this clearly proved the Big Bang had happened. In either case, it doesn’t matter who was right, because whomever you believe, everything began with fire.
According to both, it will end the same way. The Bible says God will incinerate everything anyway. And if Mr. Spence’s insights into astrophysics are to be believed, it’s the same end result. The sun goes nova and burns the earth to a crisp before absorbing its matter and energy. All of which is to say that if fire is the starting point for everything, it’s also the end. All matter, all energy, all of creation, it all began with fire. And everything created eventually burns. Even those things that last forever. They all end in flames.
***
I woke up when my head bounced off the wheel well in the back of the truck. Tad had said to get some sleep—not a problem after four days in the bush. Jose was driving, which considering his driving record seemed like a bad idea, along with the decision to run alongside the east side of the mountains instead of crossing over and taking a straight shot up I-5.
We drove through the hole-in-the-wall, one-traffic-light hamlets of Chiloquin, Chemult, and Crescent, pleasant enough even in the back of a dirty, yellow pickup. After crossing over Willamette Pass, we followed Highway 58 down to Oakridge and stopped for a piss break. Whenever Pop took me up the mountains to go fishing, we’d stop here at the A&W or the ice cream shop, get a snack, and head to the restrooms in the back. But that was years ago. After the mill shut down, those places disappeared. Jose stopped at a little park on the way into town that had a couple porta-potties.
Then I jumped back into the bed of the truck and passed out. I’d say I dreamed, but I don’t think I did. No one dreams exhausted but if I did, it was of smoke. Dark, thick, deep gray smoke. Which is pretty much like not dreaming at all.
***
Tad seemed surprised when he told us we were moving. The crew was at base camp getting a meal, filling the water truck, and drinking whatever terrible beer had been foisted upon us when we heard him swear several times. Every morning, Tad and the other crew leaders received a report from Central Command, which I’ve heard is in some boardroom in Salem or Eugene. The report relayed our marching orders—where to go, how long the fire lines were supposed to run, and other stuff. Half the time, we ended up ignoring the orders because Tad would see something the “experts” in command hadn’t—standing snags, masses of brush, or another sign no one in Salem looking at satellite photos or weather radar would notice.
Tad had been fighting fires with the Forest Service for almost ten years, about nine years more than the rest of us, so when he told us to do something, we did—even if it was different from the orders handed down by Central Command. Anyone who saw Tad could tell he’d spent years working out of doors. His ruddy face was aged beyond his years, and his thick torso rippled whenever he swung an ax.
Jose bounced up to the truck holding a large sandwich. He never stopped eating—at least, not as I could tell. We could be out digging, running the hose, hacking back brush, or building a line, and Jose did it all with one hand. Tamara said Jose had a metabolic disorder, which made sense given how skinny he was despite the fact he was always snacking on something.
When we gathered, Tad took a minute to guzzle from a bottle of water before he spoke. “Looks like we’re movin’ out,” he said.
Tamara groaned as she flipped her dirty blonde ponytail from one side of her neck to the other. “I was getting used to this place.” She shook her head. “We don’t have this one under control. Why are we moving?”
Tad shrugged. “No idea. Order didn’t say. We’re goin’ to Age-o-lus Crick.” He paused and looked at the yellow slip of paper. “Agg-ole-us Crick.” He paused again. “Og-lee-is Crick.”
I grabbed the paper from his hand and stared at the block typed sheet. “Aegolius Creek,” I said. “Ay-go-lee-us. I grew up there.”
Tad raised an eyebrow. “What the hell kind of name is Aegolius?”
“It’s a kind of owl.”
Tamara took a swig of beer. “An owl? Never heard of it.”
“It’s an owl in Europe. I think.”
She punched my shoulder. “Chris is from a place named after a European owl. Sounds about right.”
They always gave me crap about being in college. It used to bother me. Tinges of self-consciousness and fears of being identified as privileged had gradually given way to acceptance. I was the college kid mixed in with a hardened, blue-collar bunch, the one who used an occasional big word or referenced an obscure name. I was smart but not wise, intelligent but not experienced, clever but green. I’d grown accustomed to the role.
“The kicker is,” I said, “that owl is supposed to be an omen of bad luck.” As the words left my mouth, I realized it probably wasn’t a wise thing to say.
Tad grimaced and Jose turned to walk away.
“Great. We’re going to a place named after a bad omen.” Tamara punched my shoulder again, harder.
“It’s just a name,” I said.
Aegolius Creek – Purchase Links
Amazon UK
Amazon US
[ Bio ]
Micah Thorp is a physician, writer, and lifelong Oregonian. His first novel, Uncle Joe’s Muse, won a 2022 Next Generation Indie Book Award and a Foreword Indies Book of the Year Award. His sequel, Uncle Joe’s Senpai, was published in 2023 and was a finalist for the Foreword Indies Book of the Year Award.
Website ~ www.micahthorp.com
