Daniel Plainway - Or The Holiday Haunting of the Moosepath League Read online

  “Is there anything the matter?” asked Martha when he returned to the carriage.

  How could she know in this dark? he wondered. “I only wish they were still here,” he said.

  “I wish you wouldn’t come.”

  “It’s all right,” he said, patting her knee through the throws wrapped about her. He covered himself up as well as he could and shook the reins, hoping that he didn’t appear to be in a hurry. “Something hot when we get home,” he suggested.

  She looked at him in the dark but could see nothing of his expression.

  The horse, surefooted and undaunted by the prospect of ghosts, pulled them past the hedges and through the guardian pines to the road home.

  2. A Voice Before Dawn November 28, 1896

  Lydia O’Hearn was not too proud to half dress herself beneath the covers, a practice she had observed, on cold mornings, since her husband first brought her to his farm in Veazie. Sean O’Hearn used to laugh and make her laugh whenever she hauled her things on in bed, sometimes with the blankets over her head. These days, without her husband to help warm the sheets (a warming pan was not the same thing by any stretch), there was all the more reason to snatch her clothes and scramble into them beneath the covers on a morning like this. It was dark, with the curtains closed against the chill, but when she did climb out of bed, she could see her breath in the room.

  She hadn’t been too avid about farm life, or country life for that matter, when she arrived with Sean thirty years ago; she hadn’t been too avid about the life when he died twenty-two years later, but she stayed, and she ran things with the help of her daughter, Emmy, and son-in-law, Ephias Ostertag, and somehow had developed some fierce feelings for it all. Her other children-those who survived the rigors of life to become adults—had separated like geese that fold away in flight to light upon their own fields or ponds. One of these, her son Wyckford, had returned for a time, and she was glad to know, rising that morning, that he was there to help fill the house again.

  Once dressed and on the landing above the front hall stairs, she looked out the octagonal window that Sean had put in for her as a birthday present the year before he died. It faced east and was often her first view of the day. a hint of dawn shone through the single frosty pane this morning, with what Lydia considered to be a lack of conviction.

  She didn’t know why, but it occurred to her that she should write to Mister Walton. Then she remembered that she had dreamed of this man she had never met and that he had been telling her about Bird’s mother.

  Once she had said good morning to the dog, Skinny (a fat black animal of amiable disposition), it did not take her long to shake up the coals in the kitchen stove and get some kindling blazing; with two large sticks of wood and the flues and drafts open she had the firebox roaring and the oven ticking. She put the kettle on and rattled some pans so that everyone would know that Mother was up. Closing the damper, she could feel the heat from the stove almost immediately. There was paper, pen, and ink in the cupboard drawer, and she arranged these on the table, set a chair by the stove, and opened the oven door. The light in the kitchen was yet pretty dim, but she could see to compose a letter.

  Dear Mister Walton, she wrote. He was all but a stranger to her, and yet because of everything he had done, particularly what he had done for her son Wyckford and for Bird, she had no difficulty addressing him as Dear Mister Walton with all sincerity. She paused only to wet her pen, before continuing.

  You will be pleased, I know, to read that Wyckford has improved greatly since I wrote you last. The cold weather gets into his wound, and he still has difficulty moving his arm more than an inch or two, but he is not in such constant pain and is able to face the day with more hope.

  Hope was the important notion here. Wyckford had been shot in the shoulder last October, and the bullet had done untold damage. Lydia’s hope was that her son would be able to work again; she knew that a man unable to wield some sort of tool to make a living was not much valued by society and soon despised by himself. Wyck’s own hopes were more specific, and less likely. For several years, during the warmer months, he had played semiprofessional baseball in Portland, and uppermost in his mind was the fear that he would never again be able to swing a bat.

  Lydia heard small footsteps on the stairs, and she put down her pen to wait for the attendant feet to enter the kitchen. After a quiet interval a head of brown hair and a pair of brown eyes, three feet or so from the floor, peered around the jamb. There was the look of humor in those eyes, a little mischief even, which pleased her. “I hope you’re not in your bare feet,” she said, knowing that he was.

  The little boy, known to them only as Bird, showed himself and his bare feet. Here was the object of Wyckford’s efforts, and the efforts of Mister Walton and many others, the single small life that had precipitated a kidnapping, mortal chase, and her son’s near loss of life. She had quickly grown to love the child.

  “You get over here!” she said in mock anger.

  He grinned as he hurried, socks and shoes in his hands, to the table, where she pulled out another chair. He sat down, and she grabbed up his sweet, scarred little feet and began to rub them vigorously.

  “Oh, they’re like ice!” she declared, which pleased him more.

  This had become a ritual with them, and no one could have guessed who looked forward to it most. When she had chafed his feet warm and dressed them, she got up and washed her hands under the pump—an icy reminder of the day-then pulled down some plates from the cupboard. The kettle was already rumbling. Something occurred to her then, and she said, “I was just about to write Mister Walton about you.” With a thought of what to write next, she sat back down and took up her composition once more.

  Bird seems to enjoy the farm more and more, and even Ephias doesn’t mind him following about while he does the morning chores.

  It was true. Though Ephias Ostertag was the unfortunate picture of a taciturn Yankee (what Emmy saw in the man, Lydia would never know) and though he seemed as stony as a New England field, he had warmed to Bird considerably and hardly growled when the boy accompanied him as he fed the creatures in the barn and milked the cows. But once Lydia’s son was up and about, moving stiffly after another wakeful night with his splintered shoulder, the little boy was Wyckford’s constant companion.

  You will understand, I think, Mister Walton, when I confess to you that it will be difficult to see the boy go, if ever his mother is found.

  Emmy appeared in the kitchen, exchanged good mornings with her mother, and informed the boy that her husband had decided to lie abed and let Bird do the chores. Bird looked game. Ephias was not long behind her, though, and he had overheard his wife’s quip. “He’s already milked some and gathered eggs,” said the man, and this intelligence was meants praise, despite the growl in which it was couched. The man sat down and stretched an arm toward the dog. Skinny made a grunting noise while Ephias stroked her head.

  Emmy returned from the pantry with a slab of bacon, and soon thick slices of the stuff were snapping in the pan and scenting the air with smoke and spice. Ephias sat at the table and packed his pipe, which would hardly leave his mouth the rest of the day.

  “What does an owl in the night mean?” wondered Emmy.

  “Probably that there is an owl nearabouts,” returned her mother.

  “Granny used to say something about an owl at night,” insisted Emmy.

  “A dog howling after dark is not considered fortunate. It’s all superstition.”

  “No, I’m sure it was an owl she used to go on about.”

  “You would hardly hear one during the day, I think.”

  “I’ve heard one three nights in a row,” said Emmy. “He woke me up last night. It’s a strange sound when you’re half asleep.”

  “It’s sitting in the apple tree by your window,” said Lydia. She was surprised that an owl would take up residence at this time of year but said nothing.

  Wyckford came down the stairs. His tread was t
he heaviest in the house, the more so since his wounded side had thrown off his gait. He was a man of some altitude, though no longer the splendid “Hybernian Titan” who had spent so much ink in Portland’s sporting press. He looked gaunt and drawn these days and older than his thirty years. There were strands of gray in his bright red hair. He was uncomfortable with his function (or, more aptly put, his lack of function) in the household.

  Ephias, who said nothing about Wyckford’s presence, was nearly as discomfited as Wyck. Ephias, it was suspected, had always considered Wyckford to be capricious and unreliable; playing baseball, it would seem, was no way for a man to make a living, even for some fraction of the year. The adventure that had led Wyckford to rescuing Bird and coming to physical grief was only a symptom of an irresponsible nature.

  But Wyckford had labored in his time-as a line tender for the railroad and demolishing old buildings to make room for the Portland sugar refinery-and the inactivity of the past month and a half had told upon him as much as the wound that had caused it.

  He might have left, if not for Bird. There was a powerful bond between the redheaded giant and the little boy that had been immediate and hard to explain, but if Bird had unintentionally led him to these straits, his presence was helping to lead him out of them.

  This morning, however, Wyckford did not linger on Bird, who was sneaking a piece of bacon to Skinny. “Where’s that ax?” Wyck asked his mother, by way of good morning. Someone had given him an ax, hoping that the use of it would duplicate the swing of a bat and bring his arm back to life. Of all the chores that Wyck hated, while growing up on the farm, none had been so onerous to him as chopping and splitting wood. He had spent many an hour contemplating that ax and (not insignificantly) the person (that is, the young woman) who had given it to him.

  “It’s in the shed, I think,” said Lydia. She didn’t think Wyckford should be swinging an ax. It had been too soon since he’d been wounded, and she feared he would do more damage to his shoulder, not to mention the danger of chopping off a toe. Nothing else was said. Ephias didn’t look any happier, lighting his pipe. Emmy did not turn around from the stove. But when breakfast was on the table, Wyck put some food into him.

  He needed help getting a warm coat on, and Lydia couldn’t see how chucking an a was practical or even very smart. Bird was ready to join him and forgo the morning chores, but Wyckford clearly needed to approach this test alone.

  Lydia touched Bird’s shoulder and without a word shook her head.

  Wyckford trundled out into the cold morning, looking ungainly but determined. They did not watch him, except for the little boy. a he stood below the kitchen steps, the man’s breath came in great puffs of steam. Beyond him the backyard was bleak with frost.

  “Ephias,” said Lydia when the door was closed, but Ephias had his coat on already.

  “I can see the woodpile from the barn,” was all Ephias said. He gave a reverse nod to Bird, which was as much invitation as the little fellow had ever gotten from the flinty man. Bird hurried with his coat and hat and followed him out.

  Perhaps it wasn’t so strange that Bird could enjoy the morning chores with Ephias, neither of them ever said very much. Ephias’s lack of words, however, was the weight of rocky fields and broken fences; Bird’s silences were bright, the silences of someone who truly listens, like that of a man in a bird-filled wood. Bird followed Ephias, and Skinny waddled after Bird; they were an odd trio.

  When they were gone, Lydia said to her daughter, “That was nice of Ephias.”

  Emmy was thinking she would cook an apple pie for her husband. “He’ll surprise even himself some days.”

  Lydia didn’t like to think of Wyck swinging an a with his broken shoulder but knew somehow that it was necessary. She thought of the person who had given the ax to Wyckford and decided to ask Mister Walton if he had heard from her.

  “Who are you writing?” asked Emmy. She had the dishes in the sink and was working the pump handle.

  “Mister Walton.” Lydia dipped her pen and considered the letter. The sound of her writing was large in the kitchen.

  Emmy poured some hot water from the kettle in after and nearly had the dishes done before she spoke again. “Tell Mister Walton,” she said, “that the boy is spoken for.”

  3. How the News Was Read in Gilead December 2, 1896

  The Grand Trunk Railway ran through the center of Gilead on its course through the foothills of the White Mountains, and it is there that the train deposited Daniel Plainway on Thursday morning, the second day of December 1896. It had snowed in the night, and a white dust lay over the roofs and porches along Gilead’s Main Street. a sack of mail was deposited in a coach waiting outside the station, and the town postmaster and the porter exchanged greetings and speculations about the weather.

  Daniel was the only passenger to get off this morning at Gilead. He carried a small leather case, which contained certain legal papers, a ham sandwich, an apple, and a change of shirt. “Good morning,” he said to the man in the carriage.

  “Looking for someone?” asked the postmaster. He wore a dark cap, and his large gray mustaches waggled when he spoke.

  Daniel considered the overcast sky as he spoke. “Gerald Pinkney,” he said. Plainway was a pleasant-looking fellow, with wide brown mustaches; he was dressed well, and there was a large gold chain arched across a stomach that was something below portly.

  “Gerald will be up to his uncle’s,” said the postmaster. “What a time he’s had!”

  “So I understand.”

  “Come up with me to the post office, if you can wait, and once I’ve sorted the mail, I’ll take you up. There’ll be a stop or two on the way.”

  “Thank you,” said Daniel. “I would like that.”

  The use of the carriage seemed a strange formality since the post office was but three or four doors up. Daniel was a little surprised when they stopped, but he got out and gratefully caught the smell of coffee as he stepped inside. Mr. Beals, the postmaster, called to his wife-the post office took up the parlor of their house-and she met Daniel and hurried of to get refreshments.

  Several people wandered in to watch the sorting of the mail, and Daniel greeted each of them. He stood in a corner with his coffee, leaving the straight-backed chairs for the elderly folk. There were six or eight of them before long. They were interested in him and curious to hear about the town of Hiram, where he hailed from, some forty miles away as the crow 13 flies. Only the parson among them had ever stopped there, though one old fellow thought he had passed through, years before, on his way to his brother’s. Several of them remarked that Gerald Pinkney had had quite a time, and Daniel said that he had understood this to be the case.

  Talk was not much different from what one might expect to hear in the post office back home; Daniel knew the familiar tones, the voices quiet and measured in the converted parlor. The Bealses kept track of the talk while they sorted, a process they lingered over. The day was young, and the mail was a high point for most of these folk; there was no need to rush things.

  A good deal had been happening in town. Mr. Garnish had discovered a perfectly good turnip in the garden behind his house that he had previously overlooked. “Frost never got to it,” he explained, several times.

  Evidently something like this had happened before; someone said to Mr. Garnish, “You have a rare gift for finding harvest out of season.” Those in the room looked to Daniel, as if for outside comment.

  “I’m often amazed at how many people have rare gifts,” he said.

  “And do you have a rare gift, Mr. Plainway?” wondered an elderly woman.

  “I could whistle before I was three,” he answered, and this seemed to satisfy them; the conversation moved on to other matters.

  Mrs. Feeney had lost a button off a coat sleeve, and the cat had knocked it beneath the stove. She was waiting for her granddaughter to come by and fish it out for her. She showed the wanting sleeve to her audience, and talk fell upon her granddaughter, wh
o was well thought of.

  “I like a child that smiles,” said Mr. Garnish.

  “She’s a nice girl,” admitted Mrs. Feeney, who allowed others to forward most of the praise.

  Daniel was not surprised to discover, through further conversation, that Mrs. Feeney’s granddaughter was twenty-two, with a child of her own. He had the pleasant sensation of not having gone anywhere at all, unless it were back to his own youth.

  “What’s doing in your neck of the woods?” asked Mr. Trace.

  “Neck of the woods!” said Mrs. Feeney, as if she’d never heard such talk, and in front of a stranger! “Edward!”

  “Well, sir,” said Daniel easily, “we have a fellow down our way who is looking forward to a grand harvest of Christmas trees.”

  There was a “You don’t say!” and at least two “Good heavens!” and other such exclamations.

  “Where’ll he sell them?” wondered Mr. Garnish.

  “Oh, he’ll head for the coast,” said Daniel, “drop off a few along the way, and do the main part of his business down at Portland. Ten cents a foot, right out of his wagon.”

  The old folks were delighted. In their lifetime Christmas had been transformed from a day during which people celebrated by firing off a few guns to a majestic holiday of holly and fir boughs and visits from Santa Claus. Only twenty years before, many churches were still debating the propriety of celebrating what was considered a pagan holiday, but even the parson, sitting with them, smiled to hear of all those Christmas trees.

  Mr. Garnish admired (what he considered) the pure Yankee cussedness of it. “Selling little trees!” he said. “They’ll be selling rocks out of their yards next.”

  The light outside had increased or changed in some way, so that Daniel could look out the parlor window and see between two houses across the street. a narrowed vista of distant mountains rose above the river valley of the Androscoggin.

  “Mrs. Feeney,” said the postmaster. He had a single bit of mail in hand. The elderly woman brightened to see it, and she hurried over. Two or three others among them were blessed with a letter or a package, and soon Mrs. Beals was left in charge of things and Daniel was ushered out into the chill.