Outcast by Gary D. Svee

don’t know what to expect. So much myth surrounds this storied land that I think it may be nothing more than a giant rock painted by a master. This Sistine Chapel of a country urges mankind to dream of Eden, where all men and women are equal, where one’s lot in life is determined not by bloodline but ability .
    We have all been standing on the decks, each wrapped in a jacket or blanket to ward off the North Atlantic winds, each watching for the blur on the horizon that will become our home, and then from the masthead, a shout: “Land ho.” So quickly did everyone rush to the bow that I thought the ship might be overcome by our weight and plunge us into the depths of those icy waters .
    And then we see her, her torch raised to light the world, and I scramble to my room to pull the words from my Bible where I have left them. I rush back on deck, and as we near the statue, I read aloud Emma Lazarus’s words. I doubt that any more than half of the people there could understand what I was saying, but they could read the meaning on the faces of those who could .
    Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame ,
    With conquering limbs astride from land to land
    Here at our sea-washed, sunset-gates shall stand
    A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
    is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
    Mother of exiles. From her beacon-hand
    Glows world-wide welcome, her mild eyes command
    The air-bridged harbor that twin-cities frame
    â€˜Keep ancient lands your storied pomp!’ cries she
    With silent lips, ‘Give me your teeming shore;
    Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me
    I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’
    This polyglot of people bound together by their dreams of a new life in America roared their approval. Hope swirled around the ship, riding the winds with seagulls, and we moved toward the dock like prodigal sons coming home at last .
    Standish read the lines several times, remembering how he had felt when he first rode into Montana, seeing the vastness of a sky bigger and bluer and more beautiful than he had imagined possible. His quest then was not so noble as Bele’s. He had come seeking not freedom and equality, but gold. Still he had been touched. Somehow this land had reached into him, broken down the walls surrounding his heart.
    But as he read on, he began to see a growing disillusionment in Bele. Immigrants were not embraced by earlier immigrants. The same class system that pervaded Europe existed in America, the difference being that class was established by wealth and not bloodline.
    Bele had ranged from one menial job to another barely making enough money for food, clothing and shelter. Still, though his belief in America dimmed, it did not go out.
    Then came the news from the doctor. A killer had invaded Bele’s body. A dryer climate was called for. He must leave the mugginess of the coast. Leave for what? With what? Then Bele had seen the advertisements in the paper. Free land for the taking. The rich prairie of Montana for anyone willing to create his fortune from it.
    Bele had sold his father’s watch, solid gold it was, and used the money to board a train for Montana.
    Standish sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Bele had found a home. He must have been mystified by the beauty of this place. There was virtually no chance of making a living here. Still, he had planned a long life here on the shoulders of the Rocky Mountains. The effort he had put into the water system and the cooler proved that.
    Enough, Standish thought, he would return to the mystery of Klaus Bele another time, tonight perhaps. He tossed off his covers and the cold sucker-punched him, leaving him gasping. He pulled on a pair of pants refrigerated overnight by the cold, slipped into his shirt and boots and stumbled toward the stove. He dropped kindling into the stove, poured on a little coal oil and dropped a lit match on his creation. Poof , the fire started. He shoved a few larger pieces