Caddo’s Murmur, Tapes Unearthed

Dana and Clara hunt Lunara’s Beatles tapes in Buckeye Hollow

Caddo's Murmur, Tapes Unearthed


Clara's eyes flicked up, and her voice hushed low, threaded with hope and dread. "Think we'll find her truth here?" Dana scuffed her boot, gravel skittering across the pavement like scattered thoughts. "Library's got old papers. Might tell what Mama kept close." Clara nodded, humming All My Loving, Paul's bright ache echoing from a jukebox at Maxine's last night, a song their Mama sang by the firelight, her voice soft as moonlight on the Caddo River. Lunara's presence lingered; it was woven into the Ouachita's whispers, urging them to dig into her past--a past tied to secrets they could barely grasp.


They walked to the Garland County Library, its heavy doors creaking like the old Mena cabin where Mama raised them. The air inside smelled of dust and faded ink. The library was a quiet refuge off Central Avenue. Dana sifted through the old, brittle newspapers, smudging the old '60s headlines with her fingers, each one a glimpse into Mama's hidden years with the Beatles. Clara pored over a book on Ouachita lore, her brow creased like the Caddo's ripples under starlight. A librarian, hair pinned tight as a storm cloud, dropped microfiche by them. "Chasing ghosts, girls?" she asked, smirking sly. Dana met Clara's eyes, a shiver passing like Eleanor Rigby's strings, lonely and cutting through their grief for their Mama. They'd grown up with Lunara's stories, her guitar strumming Beatles tunes late into the night, but never the full truth of her ties to George Harrison.


A 1970 article stopped Dana's breath: a blurry cave, likely Buckeye Hollow's, with talk of strange lights dancing in the dark, no word of "The Shadow," but it felt tied to Lunara's secrets, lingering like a ghost in the hills, Clara leaning in, whispering, "Lights like Strawberry Fields Forever, twisting and strange," Dana nodding, John's dreamlike wail curling in her head from a diner's radio, a thread to Mama's hidden days, recalling Lunara's old vinyl, that song spinning late at night, her Mama's eyes distant, as if seeing a world only she knew, the memory tightening Dana's chest, a mix of love and loss, picturing Mama in that cave, maybe hiding something precious, her hands steady despite the weight of her secrets, the article's faded ink hinting at whispers of music, of tapes, of a woman who knew too much, Dana's fingers trembling as she traced the newsprint, feeling Lunara's presence in the Ouachita's pulse, Clara flipping through her sketchbook, pausing at a rough drawing of Mama, her profile sharp against a cave's mouth, "She was there," Clara murmured, her voice soft as pine needles falling, the sisters sharing a glance, their grief a silent chord, the library's dust settling around them like time itself, Dana imagining Lunara slipping through Buckeye Hollow's shadows, her guitar case heavy with more than strings, perhaps guarding George's tapes, defying a darkness that stalked her, the article a fragile clue, pulling them deeper into Mama's mystery, "The Shadow" hovering close, its chill seeping through the hills.



The library's scraps fueled their questions but offered no clear path. They wandered to the edge of Bathhouse Row, where the thermal springs hissed, their heat a faint echo of Mama's warmth. Dana kicked a loose stone, watching it roll toward the street. "Mama knew somethin'," she said, voice rough as gravel. "Somethin' worth hidin'." Clara nodded, her fingers tracing the sketch of a hill, its lines jagged like her thoughts. "She loved And I Love Her. Sang it to us as kids." Paul's tender chords seemed to hum in the air. Recalling a memory of Lunara's gentle hands, that are now lost to time Dana's heart ached, torn between cherishing those moments and fearing what Mama's secrets meant.


They sat on a bench, the springs' steam curling around them like a shroud. Clara's spoke and broke the silence. Her voice was soft but heavy. "Remember Mama's guitar case? She kept it locked as if it had more than strings inside." Dana nodded, picturing in her mind the worn case back in their old Mena cabin, its leather cracked but sturdy. "Bet it's tied to George," she said, her voice low. The idea felt right, like a key turning in a rusty lock, but it brought no comfort, only more questions about "The Shadow" and what it wanted.
They lingered, the Ouachita hills watching silently, their peaks sharp against the fading light.


At the Pancake Shop, their pecan waffles sat cold, steam fading like hope. Clara traced the rim of her mug. "I'm so tired, Dana. Like I'm So Tired--John's voice dragging through my heart." Dana felt it, too; the song's weight was heavy since facing the cave, where Mama's shadow seemed to watch. She'd heard Lunara hum it, her fingers pausing on her guitar as if the song carried her own exhaustion from a life of secrets. Clara's eyes drifted to the window, where Hot Springs' neon flickered. "Mama used to sit like this, quiet, like she was carrying the world." Dana nodded, the memory of Lunara's far-off gaze cutting deep. She shoved her chair back, the wood scraping loudly. "We gotta go back to Buckeye Hollow. Mama's truth is there, with that "Shadow."


They stopped at a Mena diner, its jukebox humming faintly, the air thick with grease and coffee. An old waitress eyed them. Her apron was stained. "Are you Lunara's girls?" she asked. Dana froze, with her coffee mug halfway to her lips. "She used to come here, talkin' 'bout music and caves." Clara's breath hitched, her fingers tightening on her sketchbook. "Caves?" The waitress shrugged. "Said she hid somethin' precious. Never said what." The words landed like stones, heavy with Mama's past, hinting at the tapes and maybe "The Shadow's" reach. They left, the diner's bell jingling behind them, their resolve steeled but hearts heavier.


They lingered there by the Caddo River before heading back to the Hollow. Its current rippling like hope under the stars. the water's murmur a soft echo of Lunara's voice, pulling Dana and Clara into memories of their Mama sitting on these banks, her hair catching moonlight as she strummed her guitar, maybe planning where to hide those tapes, her eyes fierce with a love that shielded them even now, Clara dipping her fingers in the water, her eyes distant, saying Mama loved this river, said it sang to her like Paul's voice in that song, her voice trembling with the weight of loss, opening her sketchbook to reveal a drawing of Lunara, her face framed by the river's flow, eyes soft yet sharp, whispering she drew it last night, how she sees Mama now, Dana's throat tightening, the image a lifeline to Lunara's spirit, her heart thumping, torn between hope and fear, picturing Mama here, her fingers tracing the same ripples, her secrets heavy but her resolve unbroken, maybe whispering to the river about George, about the tapes, about a darkness she couldn't name, the sisters sitting in silence, the river's song blending with their grief, Clara clutching her sketchbook, its pages smudged with charcoal, as if drawing Mama's face could keep her close, the Ouachita hills looming dark, their peaks like sentinels guarding Lunara's truths, "The Shadow" pressing close, a chill they couldn't shake, as they climbed into the truck, the road ahead winding dark through the pines, the air thick with sap and memory.



Buckeye Hollow's cave gaped open. It was like a secret hiding in the Earth. Dana's flashlight sliced the dark, bats fluttering overhead in the damp air. Clara gripped her backpack, breathing quickly as the cave's cool breath brushed against their skin like a living thing. Dana's boot crunched stone, her pulse spiking at the thought of "The Shadow"--may be tied to Mama's past with George, maybe something darker. The tunnel narrowed, its walls grazing their shoulders, the air thick with wet rock and time. Clara's light caught a crevice, roots tangling over it like a veil, hiding Mama's truth. Dana's fingers trembled with the weight of what they might find. She was a mix of dread and longing.


"Here," Clara whispered, her voice as thin as a reed. Dana knelt, down brushing cold metal with her fingers. There was a tin box, rusted and sealed tight. They pried it open, revealing tape reels with labels that were faded but still clear. Dana read aloud, voice echoing off stone. "Let It Be ... Naked. Don't Let Me Down." John's raw cry pulsed a warning in the cave's dark. Clara lifted another, eyes wide. "A Hard Day's Night," she said, tracing John's name. The tape felt heavy like it held Mama's heart, a piece of her life they'd never known. Dana's hands shook, the weight of Lunara's secrets pressing down, a burden both sacred and terrifying.


More boxes hid in the crevice, stacked like Lunara's buried truths. With The Beatles. Magical Mystery Tour. Sgt. Pepper's. Dana's mind flared with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, Paul's voice a burst of color, bold as Hot Springs' neon lights. Clara held Let It Be and Blackbird's wings beat in Dana's chest, its label was a spark of hope. It reminded her of Lunara's late-night hummin'. Eleanor Rigby's ache clung to Clara's heart, the tape's weight mirrorin' her grief for their Mama. Each reel was like a fragment of Lunara. It was a puzzle they were only beginning to piece together.


They counted eight albums' tapes, each a piece of Lunara's hidden life with the Beatles. And I Love Her nestled in a tin, its chords almost humming in the cave's silence, a song Mama played to soothe them through stormy nights. Strawberry Fields Forever felt like a dream Dana could touch, John's voice winding through their memories of Lunara's stories, her tales of music and mystery. Clara found a note, ink faint but sure: "To Lunara, for safekeeping--G." Dana's breath caught. "George. Mama hid these here for him." Clara's eyes glistened, voice soft as pine falling. "Was 'The Shadow' after these tapes? Or after her?" The question hung, heavy as the cave's dark, unanswered, a weight that pressed on their hearts.


They sat in the cave's mouth with the tapes cradled in their arms. The air cool was heavy with Mama's presence. Dana traced Don't Let Me Down's label. Clara's fingers lingered on Eleanor Rigby, its loneliness a mirror to her heart, thinking of Mama's quiet moments by the fire. The cave was listening. Its silence was thick with Lunara's secrets. Dana's mind spun--why'd Mama hide these? Was "The Shadow" a person, a force, or just the weight of her past with George? Clara broke the silence, her voice a whisper. "Mama knew somethin'. These tapes were her charge, but 'The Shadow' feels too close." Dana nodded, her throat tight, the weight of their find both a gift and a burden.


They hauled the tapes to the truck. Knowing that their arms were full of history, with the weight of Mama's life pressing down. Clara paused at the cave's mouth, eyes far off. "Think 'The Shadow' knows we got Mama's tapes?" Her voice trembled like Eleanor Rigby's strings in the wind. Dana didn't answer, just fired the engine, the road to Mena stretching dark and quiet. The tapes rattled in the back, a chorus of John and Paul's voices, a lifeline to Lunara's past. Back in Hot Springs, they'd sat by the Caddo River, its current gleaming like Let It Be's hope. Now, in the Hollow, that hope felt fragile, the tapes solid as Ouachita stone, but 'The Shadow' lingered--a cold knot in Dana's gut, tied to Mama's deal with George. Clara hummed, "Blackbird," soft and sure, as they drove into the night, the Ouachita hills watching silently, pulling them toward whatever waited beyond the ridge. Their adventure still unfolding before them.


Written by Noisy Wren, 25 -- All Songs
For The Beatles Musical Extravaganza Week Three