his bags, thus allowing Akira to keep his hands free. With a bow to Savage, Akira followed his master into the room and shut the door.
Savage stood watch. Alone, he became more sensitive to the stillness in the hotel. He glanced at his and Akira's suitcases. He turned his gaze toward the silent doors along the corridor, noting photographs on the walls: old, faded images of the cliff-rimmed lake before the hotel had been constructed, of bearded men and bonneted woman in buggies from another century, of long-dead families picnicking beside the lake.
Again he felt troubled. Pivoting left, he studied the top of the majestic staircase. Farther to the left, the lonely corridor went on for at least a hundred yards. Swinging to the right, he assessed the other section of the corridor. But there the hallway reached an alcove filled with antique rocking chairs, then jutted away.
Savage cautiously approached the interruption of his vantage point. At the alcove, he saw that the hallway formed a sharp angle toward the hotel's entrance, then formed
another
sharp angle that continued for a hundred yards along the continuation of the hotel's length. And
this
part of the hall felt even more lonely, not just due to a smothering accumulation of the past but because of an unnerving sense of having been trapped in a time warp, another dimension. Unreal.
Savage's shoulders felt cold.
10
Two hours later, he lay on a sagging mattress in his room, reading a pamphlet he'd found on his bedside table.
The Medford Gap Mountain Retreat, he discovered, had a fascinating history that helped explain the unreality of the place. In 1870, a Mennonite couple who owned a farm in the nearby lowlands had hiked up Medford Mountain, amazed to discover that its peak had a hollow at its tip with an oval lake fed by a spring. The place seemed touched by God.
They built a cabin where the hotel's lobby now stood and invited other Mennonite families to worship this splendor of heaven on earth. Eventually, so many worshipers accepted their request that the cabin required additions, and when outsiders heard of this retreat, the community decided to build another addition and then another to accommodate world-weary visitors who needed a respite and would perhaps find solace in the Mennonite faith.
In 1910, an unexplained fire destroyed the original cabin and its additions. By then, the couple who'd discovered the lake had gone to their reward. Their daughters and sons, committed to the ministry of their parents, had at once begun to rebuild the retreat. But farmers by training, they realized that they needed help. They advertised for a manager and hired a New York architect, who'd abandoned his profession because he couldn't bear the pressures of the city. The architect converted to the Mennonite faith and committed himself to the mountain.
But his big-city intuition told him that the retreat had to be so distinctive, so one-of-a-kind that it would compel the unconverted to leave the soot and desperation of their lives, to journey into Pennsylvania's majestic wilderness, to pay to proceed to the top of a mountain and appreciate a lake that reflected God's grandeur.
He gave each addition a separate design, and as the enterprise prospered, the building lengthened to almost two hundred and fifty yards. Visitors came from as far away as San Francisco, many requesting the same room each year. Only in 1962 had the descendants of the hotel's founders grudgingly permitted a telephone in each room. Otherwise, in keeping with strict Mennonite custom, radios and televisions were still forbidden. God's artistry in nature ought to provide sufficient entertainment. Dancing and card playing were also forbidden, as of course were alcohol and tobacco.
11
The latter restriction had inexplicably been waived on this occasion, for the following morning when Savage escorted Kamichi to the hotel's main floor, three men waited in an enormous parlor, and two of them were smoking.
The
Savage stood watch. Alone, he became more sensitive to the stillness in the hotel. He glanced at his and Akira's suitcases. He turned his gaze toward the silent doors along the corridor, noting photographs on the walls: old, faded images of the cliff-rimmed lake before the hotel had been constructed, of bearded men and bonneted woman in buggies from another century, of long-dead families picnicking beside the lake.
Again he felt troubled. Pivoting left, he studied the top of the majestic staircase. Farther to the left, the lonely corridor went on for at least a hundred yards. Swinging to the right, he assessed the other section of the corridor. But there the hallway reached an alcove filled with antique rocking chairs, then jutted away.
Savage cautiously approached the interruption of his vantage point. At the alcove, he saw that the hallway formed a sharp angle toward the hotel's entrance, then formed
another
sharp angle that continued for a hundred yards along the continuation of the hotel's length. And
this
part of the hall felt even more lonely, not just due to a smothering accumulation of the past but because of an unnerving sense of having been trapped in a time warp, another dimension. Unreal.
Savage's shoulders felt cold.
10
Two hours later, he lay on a sagging mattress in his room, reading a pamphlet he'd found on his bedside table.
The Medford Gap Mountain Retreat, he discovered, had a fascinating history that helped explain the unreality of the place. In 1870, a Mennonite couple who owned a farm in the nearby lowlands had hiked up Medford Mountain, amazed to discover that its peak had a hollow at its tip with an oval lake fed by a spring. The place seemed touched by God.
They built a cabin where the hotel's lobby now stood and invited other Mennonite families to worship this splendor of heaven on earth. Eventually, so many worshipers accepted their request that the cabin required additions, and when outsiders heard of this retreat, the community decided to build another addition and then another to accommodate world-weary visitors who needed a respite and would perhaps find solace in the Mennonite faith.
In 1910, an unexplained fire destroyed the original cabin and its additions. By then, the couple who'd discovered the lake had gone to their reward. Their daughters and sons, committed to the ministry of their parents, had at once begun to rebuild the retreat. But farmers by training, they realized that they needed help. They advertised for a manager and hired a New York architect, who'd abandoned his profession because he couldn't bear the pressures of the city. The architect converted to the Mennonite faith and committed himself to the mountain.
But his big-city intuition told him that the retreat had to be so distinctive, so one-of-a-kind that it would compel the unconverted to leave the soot and desperation of their lives, to journey into Pennsylvania's majestic wilderness, to pay to proceed to the top of a mountain and appreciate a lake that reflected God's grandeur.
He gave each addition a separate design, and as the enterprise prospered, the building lengthened to almost two hundred and fifty yards. Visitors came from as far away as San Francisco, many requesting the same room each year. Only in 1962 had the descendants of the hotel's founders grudgingly permitted a telephone in each room. Otherwise, in keeping with strict Mennonite custom, radios and televisions were still forbidden. God's artistry in nature ought to provide sufficient entertainment. Dancing and card playing were also forbidden, as of course were alcohol and tobacco.
11
The latter restriction had inexplicably been waived on this occasion, for the following morning when Savage escorted Kamichi to the hotel's main floor, three men waited in an enormous parlor, and two of them were smoking.
The
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