The Bequest

Prologue

Angela and Anna Thatcher clutched their stuffed animals as their father pulled the blanket up to their chins. He then sat lightly on the edge of the bed.

So, Angel, what will you dream about tonight?

Angela bit her lower lip and absently scratched the head of her teddy bear, Timothy. Her eyes settled on the little still flame within the globe of the oil lamp that hung on the wall. Maybe knights and good dragons, Papa, the kind that have fires in their mouths, she finally replied to her father’s often-asked question.

Harrison Thatcher chuckled. Ever since his daughters were born, just four years earlier, he had told them stories. It made no difference to him that for most of their short lives they had no idea what he was talking about. He was a natural story-teller and he found a captive audience in his young daughters.

These days Anna paid little attention to his stories. Watching floral patterns and pastoral scenes appear on a silk canvas under the magic of her mother’s cross stitching needle was much more fascinating. Or recreating her four-year-old interpretations of family life in the miniature doll house her father had built.

But her fraternal twin Angela sat spellbound as her father told her the kinds of tales he had always loved, of Knights of the Round Table, of dragons, of Odysseus, of Richard the Lion-Hearted; the kind of stories he had enjoyed on his own father’s knee or on the lap of his old English grandmother. Of course, it wouldn’t do to read The Illiad and The Odyssey or Ivanhoe to four-year-olds, so he constructed his own edited versions that sometimes bore little resemblance to the original story.

Harrison’s wife, Martha, gave up months ago trying to convince him that he shouldn’t fill their daughters’ heads with such nonsense, even if it did seem to run in the family. He loved telling a good tale and to his way of thinking there were certainly worse things that could occupy a child’s mind in post-Civil War Tennessee. Whether she comprehended his stories or not, Angela always stared wide-eyed at his animated versions of the old classics until sleep overtook her on her father’s lap. And that was reward enough for him.

On this Saturday night sleep had not come. Angela had listened to her father retell the battle between the knight and the dragon from The Faerie Queen, and she wore a worried expression when the story was finished.

Well, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any good dragons, said her father. If you dream of any tonight, you be sure to tell me what they’re like.

He studied his daughter’s face for a moment, then asked, Did you like the story tonight?

Yes, Papa. That was a very bad dragon. I was scared.

Well, just remember, no matter how bad they are, there’s no dragon been born that can whip up on a good knight. And how about you, Anna? What will you dream of tonight?

Anna stroked the scruffy collie, Franklin, that she cradled in her arms and said, Last night I dreamed I was so small and I was living in my dollhouse and all my dolls were talking to me and we had tea. I want to dream that again.

That’s a fine dream, too, Anna and I hope you get your wish. And now it’s time for these little princesses to say their prayers.

The girls folded their hands on top of their stuffed animals and closed their eyes while Harrison bowed his head. In unison the girls recited, Dear Jesus. Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Thank you for Mama, and Papa and Timothy and Franklin. Good King, good God, Amen. After a moment’s hesitation, Angela added, And please send a good dragon to keep the cyclops from our house tonight. Amen.

Harrison, whose mind usually drifted during his daughters’ memorized prayers, started to attention.

The cyclops? he said as Angela opened her eyes.

Yes, Papa, Mr. Burger said it might come.

Harrison frowned at his daughter. It was true, of course. Frank Burger had said that when he stopped by that afternoon. Had said it more than once, in fact. His stomach grew uneasy at the memory and he took a deep breath to calm it.

Is it coming, papa? Angela asked. Did mama see it out the window?

My little girl doesn’t miss much Harrison said to himself. Martha had gotten up three or four times from her chair by the fire this evening to peek through the closed curtains. He didn’t think Angela had noticed. Harrison remembered he was frowning and gave his daughter what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Somebody was not sleeping during her nap time.

I heard him say it, too, papa, said Anna.

Harrison nodded and reached down to gently pull the blanket back up over Timothy and Franklin. Don’t worry. No one-eyed monsters will be visiting our house tonight. I promise.

Papa, what’s a scawalag? asked Angela.

A what?

A scawalag. Mr. Burger called you that.

Ooohh, a scalawag. Harrison gave his daughter a faint, sad smile. Well, I guess a scalawag is someone who teaches Negro children.

Oh. Angela gazed once more into the light from the oil lamp as she mulled over her father’s answer. So a scawalag is good?

Well I don’t think this scalawag is so bad. Now I think we’ve had enough questions for one night.

Harrison lightly kissed his daughters on the forehead, rose from the bed, and put out the lamp. His silhouette lingered in the open doorway. Remember to tell me about that good dragon in the morning.

Harrison dropped his long, thin form into the oak rocker near his wife where the knight and dragon recently did battle and gazed for several minutes into the dying fire. Angela thinks a one-eyed monster is going to visit us tonight, he said finally.

Martha looked up from the wood violets that slowly blossomed to life, one by one, on the cross-stitched pillow case. A one-eyed monster? She drew a deep, worried breath. Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t stir her up so with your tales. ‘Specially at times like this. Isn’t it bad enough that that cedar chest . . . She caught herself and glanced nervously at her husband who regarded her with knitted brows. I . . . I’m sorry Harrison. I know you’ve done the best you can with . . . that.

Harrison nodded, but the scowl remained. We’ve been over this before Martha. Grandmother’s chest is staying.

Martha looked down at her needle and whispered, I know.

Harrison regarded her for a moment longer, his expression softening. Yes, well . . . at any rate, it’s not my stories exactly that Angela was referring to. She was talking about a, um, cyclops. It seems she, actually both of them, were awake this afternoon when Frank stopped by, and heard what he said. Angela took him quite literally.

Martha nervously resumed her stitching. Couldn’t Frank be exaggeratin’? It’s not like you’re takin’ anything from white students by teachin’ those Negro children. You’re not hurtin’ them at all.

Harrison gazed at the rifle standing next to the window nearest the door. Believe me, that’s not the way their parents look at it.

Frank had left the rifle at the house before leaving. He was a good man, Frank Burger, and Harrison counted himself fortunate, in spite of their differences, to have the deputy sheriff as a friend. A Tennessee scalawag in 1868 needed friends—every one he could get. Even so, their conversation that afternoon had a familiar and ominous ring to it, and they both knew why.

Besides, said Harrison, chuckling grimly, Halloween is still two weeks away,

Martha looked up. It was her turn to frown. You shouldn’t make jokes.

Harrison shook his head and sighed. You’re right. I’m sorry. He leaned forward and reached for the poker near the fireplace.

No, Halloween was not funny at all.

Nine years earlier his father Charles had been a prominent lawyer in the nearby town of Porter. The fame of his law practice was exceeded only by his reputation as an abolitionist.

Harrison’s father had been rarely vocal in his support of abolition. But then south central Tennessee was not known as a haven of tolerance in the 1850’s when it came to expressing one’s views against slavery, and people were sensitive to any abolitionist talk. By the autumn of 1859 sensitivity had given way to the whip and the noose in some parts of Tennessee.

Sometimes people simply disappeared.

Charles had been seen leaving his law office around 6:30 that Halloween evening. No one ever saw him alive again.

And now, here he was: Harrison Thatcher, scalawag – at least in some people’s eyes. Why was he doing it – endangering his family by teaching negro children? Was it because he was truly concerned with the educational needs of a disenfranchised segment of society? Or was it because he felt a need to defy the status quo, as his father had?

Well, there’s another one finished, said Martha as she held the pillow case up for inspection. After a moment she folded it neatly on her lap and then glanced over at her husband. I guess I’m off to bed. Are you sure you don’t need me to stay up with you tonight . . . Harrison?

A solitary cinder rolled into a darkened corner of the fireplace and glared at Harrison like a fiery red eye. He stabbed absently at it for a moment with the poker until it occurred to him that Martha had spoken. What? Oh, uh, no, I’ll be fine, I’m sure.

Martha studied her husband briefly, You’d better go out and get some more wood on that fire if you plan to stay up then.

Yes. Yes, you’re right . . . more wood. He returned the poker to its rack, picked up the rifle by the window, and stepped out the front door into the cool evening air.

Mid-autumn nights such as this always made him glad he had decided to settle away from town when he returned to Porter after the war. Even with the light from a half moon, the stars were endless, and a man could sit on his porch and gaze at them for hours on end. They always seemed to him like fairy dust, spread across the canopy of night by an ancient wandering wizard.

He knew the constellations by heart; had learned them from his father, in fact. He unconsciously sought out the Big Dipper. He followed the line formed by the two stars at the far edge of the dipper until he found Polaris, which was the end star of the Little Dipper’s handle. Between the two wound the tail of Draco, the dragon, whose head was locked in fearsome battle with Hercules. That image had always been one of his father’s favorites.

His father. What had happened to him those nine long years ago? Without thinking he let his eyes drop to the heavy shadow of trees just beyond the barn. Was he there? Would he walk out of the forest gloom into the welcoming embrace of his son? It was a scenario he had played out many times since Charles disappeared. His father would walk around the next street corner, or be the man on horseback riding over a distant hilltop, or be the next knock on his door. Even now he couldn’t help but look, but he looked without expectation, and after a moment turned toward the wood bin on the porch.

As he did, a movement caught his eye and his head snapped back in the direction of the woods. Harrison squinted intently through the blackness, his vision barely able to slice through the gloom.

Nothing.

And yet he was sure he had seen something, a glimpse of white. Could it be his . . . No! He knew better. A slight breeze sent a chill coursing through his tall frame. He nervously fingered the cool barrel of Frank’s Winchester. His friend had been right.

They were here.

He was sure of it.

His first impulse was to turn and run back into the house. But that was no good. They might attack the house itself and endanger his wife and daughters. He would have to face them eventually. He would stand where he was. It was the best way.

Another movement of white caught his eye, this time at the corner of the barn nearest the woods. A tall figure draped in white from head to toe stepped from the barn’s shadow into the pale light of the moon. An apparition from haunted childhood dreams, the ghostly figure lingered near the barn and regarded Harrison with eyes that peered through two dark slits. A light wind ruffled the figure’s loose white sheet. A shroud for the dead, Harrison thought.

Other forms in white appeared from the woods and from around the other corner of the barn. They advanced in his direction. Five, seven, a dozen of them at least. Men, not ghosts. Men dressed in sheets and gowns of various shades, though all looked gray in the feeble moonlight. A pointed cap adorned with crude drawings of crosses, hearts, crescent moons and other indistinguishable figures rested on the head of each man.

The Klan.

Flesh and blood. Harrison knew they were nothing more.

The first figure he had seen, dressed all in white, stepped in front of the rest. In his right hand was a coiled bullwhip. Good evenin’, nigger lover, a rough voice sneered. I’m the Grand Cyclops and these here are my Ghouls. It kinda looks like you were expecting us, so I guess you know what we’re here for. The bullwhip uncoiled and dangled in the dirt by the speaker’s feet.

Harrison took a deep breath, the Winchester resting across his left arm. I know you’re trespassing on my property, and you can all leave. Now.

Brave words nigger lover. You gonna shoot us all, is that it?

Tell you the truth, I don’t want to shoot anybody. But I will protect my home and my family.

The Grand Cyclops turned to his fellows and laughed. Hey, ain’t this a brave skunk of a scalawag we got here. The Ghouls joined in the laughter.

Yeah, he’s a brave nigger lover. He’s a smart one, too, I’ll bet. Fillin’ them little colored heads with any kinda learnin’, why I bet you gotta be ‘specially educated to do that. More laughter.

Yeah, but you gotta wonder just how bright he really is. I guess he forgot what happened to his old man.

Harrison swung the rifle around and pointed it directly at the Grand Cyclops. What do you know about my father?

The Grand Cyclops casually inspected the leather handle of his bullwhip. I know that if you don’t lay off teachin’ up at that colored school, well, who knows, you might just magically disappear, too. Poof! Right into thin air.

Harrison raised the rifle to his shoulder. The mention of his father and the notion that these men before him might have been involved in his disappearance enraged him. You might look like ghosts in those costumes, but I bet you bleed just like anybody else. If you know anything about my father’s disappearance you’d better talk now!

See fellas, I was right. Why he’s gettin’ braver all the time.

I said what do you know about . . . Something behind him creaked loudly. Harrison turned and was nearly bowled over by a large costumed figure who had crept onto the porch from around the side of the house. When the porch protested under his weight, the Klansman broke into a full run and dove toward Harrison. A whip cracked as Harrison sidestepped his attacker, and the Winchester was ripped from his hands.

In a moment the Klansmen were on him, throwing him from the porch into the center of the yard. Before he could struggle to his feet a Klansman’s boot caught Harrison square in the abdomen, and he crumpled in a breathless heap.

At that moment the front door flew open and Martha’s screams cut through the night air: No, no! Harrison! Leave him alone! Leave him alone you monsters.

The Klansman who threw himself at Harrison from the porch grabbed Martha’s arms and pulled them tightly behind her back. Hey, we got the scalawag’s woman, too. We can have a little fun with her once we’re done with her nigger lover. How ‘bout it?

Let go! Let go you animal! Martha shrieked.

Ferget your fun. You just hold her ‘til I’m finished, said the Grand Cyclops. We came for the scalawag and that’s what we got.

Aw c’mon. She’s a feisty little thing, a nice little reward for comin’ out here.

The Cyclops cracked his whip, You’ll get a reward right across your back if you don’t do what I tell ya.

Let go of me, Martha screamed as she slammed the heel of her shoe into her captor’s shin.

The Klansman bellowed in pain, You filthy little witch, and threw her toward the porch. Martha stumbled, crashed headfirst into the steps and fell senseless to the ground.

The Cyclops turned toward Harrison. Now teacher we’ll deal with you. Strip him down and tie him to the barn door! Several of the costumed figures roughly dragged Harrison to his feet and proceeded to rip off his coat and shirt. Harrison struggled until a Klansman’s fist crashed into his left eye. He nearly went down again, but his assailants held him up until they had him stripped him to the waist.

The Cyclops cracked his whip again. Get him to that barn door. Let’s see if we can get the nigger teacher to scream like his old lady.

The Klansman circled the barn door, leering and hooting, as Harrison was tied to the latch. Harrison struggled to his feet and pulled weakly at the ropes that cut into his wrists. Crack! A streak of fire burned down his shoulder. Harrison cried out and slumped against the barn door. Hoots and cheers rang out from the Klansmen.

Harrison pulled himself upright again. With eyes closed and teeth clenched, he braced himself for the next jolt of pain. Crack! Harrison’s head crashed into the barn door and he fell to his knees.

C’mon nigger lover. Get to your feet, cried the Grand Cyclops. Only two and you’re down already. We got a long way to go. Get him up.

As he struggled to his feet, Harrison instinctively turned as two Klansman came forward. He stopped suddenly as his gaze fell on the house, and on a little girl, his little girl, silhouetted in the light of the open door. Angela, no, he said weakly.

The Klansmen as one turned toward the house. Angela’s arms slowly rose above her head. Hey looky here, will ya, said one of the Klansman, The littlest scalawag of all. Angela’s arms stretched to their full length and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

Suddenly, a gigantic shadow from above fell across the entire barnyard, and the air was rent by a hideous scream. As the Klansmen looked up, a winged creature descended from the night. Scales covered the creature’s body. The head was like that of a reptile, and smoke issued from its nostrils.

Flapping enormous bat wings that ended in hooked talons, the creature descended with a shriek between the house and barn. Huge clawed feet thundered to the earth and the creature raised its massive body to full height. Its wings stretched wide, with one protectively enveloping the roof of the house. Below, standing on the porch, a very small girl stared in delight, hands clapping. The creature roared again, and the Klansmen broke for the woods, screaming in stark terror. The beast lowered its head and flames exploded from its nostrils, burning a molten trench behind the Klansmen as they stumbled in blind panic from this nightmare that had dropped from the heavens.

The Klansman that had assaulted Martha tripped over a large rock. As he struggled to free his feet from the entangling robe of his costume, the creature walked, vulture-like, feet pounding the earth, over to where he lay. The beast roared again and the Klansman shrieked in horror, his scream choking in his throat as he stared into the blood-red eyes.

Then silence.

Harrison slowly raised his head. At the sight of the creature he had fallen to his knees, unable to stand. He had struggled feebly against the ropes, but had no strength to break free. He had simply cowered at the barn door, unable to do anything else, eyes hidden from this thing that had descended from the night.

But now all was quiet. Harrison’s head pounded and his back felt on fire. He cautiously surveyed the barnyard. A large smoldering trench had been cut, or burned, into the ground just beyond the barn. Between the trench and the woods a robed figure lay on his back, still. Large claw prints in the dirt led from the robed figure back to the house, where his wife lay motionless near the steps.

Suddenly his eye caught a movement in the shadows near his wife. Harrison closed his eyes tightly against the pain in his head. He then blinked once, twice, not sure if he was seeing things. But no, a young woman now knelt next to Martha, examining her. Then abruptly she placed her hands on Martha’s head and spoke softly. Harrison strained but could not make out the words. After a moment she removed her hands and rose. She looked toward Harrison, then the house. Finally she walked over to where he hung from the door latch.

She was young – beautiful, Harrison thought as a fog crept through his senses. She knelt and smiled. Martha will be fine now.

Who . . . who are you? Harrison said weakly, his words thick on his tongue.

Without answering, the woman stood and gazed toward the house. Amazing, she said, her voice quiet yet full of wonder. After these hundreds of years, the dragon has finally returned, and . . . summoned by a mere child.

Just then Angela crept from out of the shadows, Timothy clutched between her two hands. Daddy?

Angel, Harrison said weakly, Angela, what . . . what did you . . .

"I wished for him. The good dragon, Daddy. He came."

Harrison blinked at his daughter, and then passed into blackness.

Chapter 1

July 1924

Where can that boy be?

Thirteen-year-old Will Moore stuffed one last wad of newspaper into the small opening of a cardboard box, upon which two others were precariously stacked. Four other boxes of various sizes had been stacked behind those, roughly in the shape of a square. Will looked up at his friend Henry Granger, who paced the alley in front of their cardboard creation. I don’t know, Will said. Maybe he got pinched.

Aw, his Pa’s got enough boxes in that shed to build a skyscraper. Why should he care if we borrow a few?

Will stood up and ran a thin hand through his straight, brown hair, then slowly circled the cardboard edifice. His dog, Batty, followed close behind. Batty was so-named because of his large ears. As a puppy they gave him the appearance of a bat, especially when he opened his mouth and revealed his incisors. He was a curious mixture of German Shepherd and some variety of spitz, with a tail that curled over his back. He was definitely one-of-a-kind.

You sure we can get more boxes on this anyway? Will asked.

Just leave it to me, Henry replied. We gotta make this look like the real thing.

The real thing in this case was St. Andrew’s Catholic Church, which had burned to the ground the previous night. Will was the first in his house to see the flames, four blocks away, flaring into the night above neighboring rooflines. He burst into the study, advised his father of the inferno, then shot out the front door before impediments such as questions or injunctions to stay in the house could be uttered. Excitement like this was rare in Montrose, Indiana, even if it was the county seat, and he wasn’t about to miss it.

Even so, by the time he reached the scene, the entire wooden structure was engulfed in flames. Firefighters had given up the battle and now aimed their few hoses at neighboring houses to ensure the fire didn’t spread. Townspeople stomped and swatted at red hot ashes that fell everywhere. His father, mother and seventeen-year-old sister, Teresa, pulled up breathless, gaped as one at the flaming spectacle, then ran to assist the others.

Henry, along with Fred Stockton, had found Will minutes later. The three exchanged short excited words of amazement, and then gazed in awe as the flames licked the skeletal remains. Something crunched, the skeleton shifted, and St. Andrew’s fell flat to the earth in an explosion of sparks.

It was a wonder to behold and the next day Will and Henry thought it only fitting that such a momentous event be re-created while it was still a fresh memory. Besides, it gave them an excuse to burn something – always a worthy pursuit.

A major hitch had developed in the early planning stages when they realized that neither of them could scrounge up much in the way of highly flammable building materials. Fortunately, they were well-acquainted with a potential supplier who, at the unthinkable hour of 9:30 a.m., had at last made his way out of bed.

Fred Stockton was what his mother called stout. His friends used less tactful adjectives. Bed and the breakfast table were things he was not easily separated from. His mother was always happy to whip up a mountainous stack of pancakes or a couple plates of fried eggs and bacon long after Fred’s father and 19-year-old brother Kenny had gone to work at the grocery. So it could be as late as 11:00 a.m. before the world caught a glimpse of Fred Stockton.

When the hour had finally arrived, Henry and Will nearly dragged him off his front porch. When they informed him of their grand scheme, he was not readily convinced that he was the supplier Henry and Will sought, especially when he considered his father’s wrath if he were caught. It had taken considerable effort to instill in Fred’s mind a vision of the previous night’s inferno re-created in miniature that adequately eclipsed any fear of parental retribution.

With that task accomplished, Fred had wriggled himself through the hedge that separated his house from Henry’s to acquire the needed materials. He was appalled when Henry informed him that the first load had not been nearly enough. Nor the second. It was on Fred’s third box run that they now waited.

I sure hope those sticks of whatever it was you stuffed into this thing don’t blow us to kingdom come, Will said. I sure ain’t gonna be close when you touch a match to it.

Aw, don’t be a baby. I told you I found ‘em along the tracks and they’re prob’ly just flares. It’ll add a nice touch when this thing goes up, you’ll see. Now where is that . . .

Just then four cardboard boxes sailed over the hedge. Then a head and two arms plunged through a small opening and came to an abrupt stop. Fred dug his feet in and lunged forward, arms flailing, but the branch that snagged his suspenders would not let go. Gingerly he turned, grasped the branch, and shook it mightily. To no avail. A twig had firmly wedged itself into the clasp of his suspender.

Will and Henry ran over to offer assistance. At least that was Will’s intent. Henry snatched up the boxes and said, It sure don’t figure how a little branch like that can hold up a lard cake like you, then ran off to his soon-to-be-incinerated creation.

Henry Granger was what most adults in the neighborhood called a tough. He was a few months younger than Will and Fred but had inherited the big-boned build of his parents, an asset he readily used to his advantage in most social situations. He was loud, free with his insults, and as subtle as a hatchet on a chicken’s neck. Will was not often an object of his derision, in spite of his slight build, but Fred was picked on relentlessly. Apparently, in Henry’s thinking, thin was less objectionable than fat. Still, he was loyal to his friends and had stood up for Will more than once in tight situations.

C’mon, get me outta here, Fred yelled. Batty, interpreting Fred’s struggles to be part of a game, dashed back and forth barking through the hedge.

Yeah, I’m tryin’, Will said. Hold still so I can unfasten this thing.

Fred did, and scant seconds later was free from the entangling shrub. How’d that thing get in there anyway?

I don’t know, Will replied, but you better hitch up your drawers before they fall the rest the way down. That’d be scary.

You guys gonna help with this thing or not? Henry yelled from the alley.

Fred leaned toward Will as he fastened his suspenders. What’d he say he stuffed into that first box?

Some sticks of something he found along the train tracks. He said he couldn’t make out any writing on ‘em.

With the fear of indecent exposure alleviated, Will and Fred walked back to the alley. Henry had already stacked the last four boxes into another square behind the first two. C’mon, c’mon. Get some windows cut in those boxes and stuff ‘em with paper, and then she’ll be ready to burn, he said, barely able to control himself. Will and Fred whipped out pocketknives and set to work while Henry gently poked a cross fashioned out of two sticks tied together with a piece of string into the top of the first tower of boxes.

Why’re you puttin’ a cross up there? Will asked. St. Andrew’s didn’t have one.

How do you know?

It didn’t. Trust me.

"Well, this one’s gonna have one. Makes it look more like a real church."

Will didn’t know why exactly, but something about having a cross atop a replica of a church they were about to torch bothered him. But he knew that arguing with Henry was a waste of time, so he said nothing more and returned to stuffing newspapers.

OK, OK, that oughta be enough, cried Henry. Let’s set a match to this thing.

Will nudged Fred with his elbow. I don’t know about you, but I think I’m gonna stand back from this thing a bit.

Aw, you babies, Henry said as he fished a box of kitchen matches out of a pocket of his overalls. At least there’s somebody here with guts enough to light this thing, or this’d all be a waste, wouldn’t it. Henry struck a match to the side of the box and touched the sputtering flame to a shred of newspaper that dangled through a crude doorway gouged in the front bottom box. In spite of his bravado, he quickly backpedaled until he was several yards from the burning structure. The loosely stuffed papers ignited quickly. Tongues of flame soon danced out of windows and up the cardboard belfry. In short order the fire blackened the walls of the bottom floor and the entire structure was on the verge of imminent collapse. Henry turned back to Will and Fred, Hey, you guys ain’t gonna get the full effect clear back there.

That’s OK. We’ll just stay right here, said Will.

Aw, you . . .

BOOOMM!

Burning boxes, flaming tatters of paper, and smoke exploded in all directions. Henry disappeared while fire and debris rained from the sky. A flaming box glanced off of Will’s head. A strand of burning paper attempted to land on Fred’s as he swatted wildly at a hot ash that had blown into his shirt.

Holy moly! Fred yelled.

Good night! Where’s Henry? shouted Will.

The smoke cleared and the last shreds of newspaper settled to the ground. Will kicked a remnant of the steeple aside and took a tentative step forward. Henry had been blown off his feet and now sat, legs stretched before him and hands in the dirt behind, staring at the vacant property that had once been the site of a church. Will cautiously approached until he was beside him. Henry?

Henry sat wide-eyed and his mouth hung open. His eyebrows had vanished and the front third of his hair was singed to various ash-tipped lengths. A smoldering shred of newspaper hung from his shoulder. Ashes covered his clothes and black smudges streaked his face.

Yowwee! Did you see that!? Henry jumped to his feet and danced around the blackened grass. KAABLOOOEY! Ha, ha! Blew that thing clear to kingdom come!

Seeing that Henry lived still, Will and Fred joined in the post-demolition celebration. That was great! Will said. "One box blew clear back and beaned me in the head. I can’t believe you didn’t get your head blown off."

Well, my ears are ringin’, but ha, ha, what a blast that was!

Me and Will was watchin’ and one minute you were there and the next minute . . . gone, and boxes and everything was flyin’ everywhere, Fred added.

Man alive, Will said, examining Henry. Your face really got cooked. You ain’t got no eyebrows left.

Huh? Henry gingerly fingered the two hairless ridges above his eyes.

And you oughtta see your hair, said Fred. Yowwee!

Henry gently ran his hands through toasted hair and the ashen tips broke off and fell before his eyes. Wow!

Sheesh! You’re lucky you didn’t get your face blow’d off, said Will.

Well, I guess that’s the price you gotta pay for a little guts, said Henry with a proud smirk.

I wonder what that stuff was you put in there anyway, mused Fred.

I don’t know. Like I said, I just found it along the train . . .

Boys! You boys!

Will, Henry and Fred turned as one toward the south end of the alley. Standing about seventy-five feet away just outside the gate of a faded picket fence, a woman, just a shade taller than Will, vigorously slapped flour-covered hands on an old floral apron. She was nearly engulfed in a vague white cloud, her face streaked as white as Henry’s was black. After a moment she ceased beating her apron and gazed down at her hands. She gently brushed them together, and then with her right hand, unconsciously made as if to brush back the mostly gray hair on her head. When her fingers discovered that all of her hair was tightly fastened into a bun that sat slightly askew on the back of her head, her hand hesitated and then slowly dropped to her side.

Aw, shoot, Henry mumbled.

The old woman jerked to attention. You watch your mouth Stanley Granger. I heard what you said. Don’t you ‘shoot’ me. Look at this mess! What was that noise anyway? You kids are up to no good, I’ll warrant. Just look at this mess. Lord, what have you been burnin’?

I’m not Stanley, ma’am, and we was just . . .

You was just burnin’ down the neighborhood, that’s all. Her hands beat against the apron again and the flour flew. You’re nothing but trouble Henry Granger and that’s a fact. Wait until Stanley gets home. He’ll hear about this. And you other boys, too. Lord, what a mess. With that, she pushed through the gate and marched back into her yard. A jumbled assortment of apple, mulberry and catalpa trees that stood guard over a long grapevine that ran the length of her back yard soon swallowed her up.

Dang it, if she tells Pa about those boxes he’s gonna skin me, said Fred.

Aw, don’t worry about it, said Henry. Old lady Hostetler’s a dingbat. She’ll prob’ly ferget about it by the time he gets home.

Maybe, said Fred, but I’ll bet she ain’t the only one that heard that thing blow.

Well maybe you shoulda thought of that before you decided to help.

I didn’t decide nothin’. You guys dragged me into this.

Aw, you’re a big fat baby. Why don’t you go home to momma.

Aw c’mon, can it you guys, Will said. Maybe we oughtta get this stuff picked up and get outta here before other people come around wonderin’ what happened.

Yeah, yeah . . ., mumbled Henry, and with that the cleanup began. But as Will bent to pick up the first charred box, he realized he was too late. From the south end of the alley, a man of slight build who looked to be around fifty years old casually strolled toward the boys. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, his hands clasped leisurely behind his back. His shirt was open at the collar and the armpits were already showing sweat from the day’s gathering heat.

As he reached the bare spot where the church once resided, he removed a white handkerchief from a rear pocket. He ceremoniously unfolded it, and then removed a straw boater from his balding head and lightly mopped his brow. Rather warm morning for a fire isn’t it boys? He asked the question seriously and in a voice that was deeper than his small stature would have indicated, but his eyes twinkled and the right corner of his mouth turned up slightly as though he suppressed a grin.

Will looked sheepishly at his friends and then said, Yeah, but we’re done now, Reverend Yoder. We’re just cleanin’ up.

Uh huh. Kind of a messy fire wasn’t it? Boxes all over . . . and I was sure I heard something go ‘boom’ a minute ago. Did you hear it?

Uh, yeah, Will replied. We heard that. He looked again at his friends and cleared his throat. Must’ve been somethin’ in one of those boxes somewhere. Do you guys know what that was?

No, we don’t know what it was, Henry offered truthfully, hoping that his ignorance of the exact nature of the explosive substance would lead to his exoneration.

Right. Reverend Yoder gazed at each of them in turn and then said, I don’t know what you boys were messin’ with just now, but I hope you don’t have any more of it. You’re gonna get yourselves blown to pieces. Your Pa may be a doctor, Will Moore, but he won’t win that congressional seat he has his eye on if he has to take time off from campaigning to put you and your friends back together again. He wiped his brow once more, replaced his hat, and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. Glancing at the sky he said, It’s going to be a warm day today boys and I’d like to get my walk finished before I die of heat stroke. So why don’t you fellas get this mess cleaned up so I can be on my way.

Under Reverend Yoder’s watchful eye, Will, Henry and Fred quickly gathered up the charred remnants and stuffed them into one box that had escaped the blast unscathed. Just leave that in the alley for the trash. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly once more. And don’t worry, your folks won’t hear about it from me. Now Mrs. Hostetler? . . . yes I saw her lace into you boys. Now that may be a different story.

He looked at them a moment longer as if deciding whether or not to ask them what they had really been up to, but simply said, You boys stay out of trouble now, you hear. He turned, and with hands once more behind his back, sauntered back down the alley.

C’mon, Henry said, before the rest of the neighborhood stops by. He and Fred headed through the Granger yard toward the Moore residence. Will started to follow but stopped suddenly. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Reverend Yoder hesitate in the alley and stare at something on the ground that had caught his attention. As Will watched, Reverend Yoder bent over and picked up a small charred cross made of two sticks tied together. A slight wisp of smoke curled out from one end. He examined the object briefly, turned it over in his hands, then stared into the distance as though deep in thought. Will felt a lump grow in his throat.

After a moment Reverend Yoder looked down at the object once again. With the cross dangling loosely from his fingers, he turned the corner at the end of the alley and was gone.

Chapter 2

Will sat on the back step to his house awaiting the inevitable. Batty, recently returned from parts unknown following the explosion, sat at his feet.

Henry's prediction regarding Mrs. Hostetler's memory of the church-burning incident was proving to be uncomfortably inaccurate. At least Stanley Granger's arrival from work in his noisy Model T was enough to stir up some spark of remembrance. As soon as he exited the vehicle and slammed its door shut, Mrs. Hostetler, still wearing the floury apron, marched down the street shouting, Stanley Granger! Stanley Granger, I have something to tell you about that no-good boy of yours. Even though the Grangers lived two houses over and into the next block, Will heard every word.

Meanwhile, Stan removed his cap, pulled out a handkerchief, mopped his balding head, perused the neighborhood, lit a cigarette, spat in the dirt and otherwise exhibited body language intended to convey his distaste at hearing more bad news about his son. His hints were wasted on Mrs. Hostetler. As Will watched, she waved her arms and pointed repeatedly to the alley behind the Granger house. Stan finally held up his hands to indicate he'd heard enough, even though Mrs. Hostetler clearly wanted to point out more of Henry's character flaws.

In a way Will felt sorry for Mr. Granger. Henry’s father was a big man, gruff and not highly educated, though he apparently possessed other attributes that qualified him to be elected Exalted Cyclops of the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan. Will’s mother said the gruffness was