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Luke wasn’t sure how it happened, but somehow he and Margaret McDuffy were going to the prom together. He really hadn’t planned on going at all but Margaret had mentioned it off-handed several times while they were working on the mural. Things got twisted around until it seemed he asked her. He didn’t mind really and she’d be devastated if he tried to back out now. Besides, he genuinely enjoyed her company and they were certainly spending a lot of time together. The mural had turned out to be a tremendous job, taking many hours to complete, especially since the rest of the co-called artistic committee were less than dedicated. Luke had managed to spend some time after school and as it neared completion, he was surprised how professional it looked.
One morning about two weeks before the prom, Margaret waited for him outside the art room, looking very red-faced and breathless as she always did when she was nervous about something. She began blurting out her request as though she had rehearsed it many times. “My Aunt Betty is insisting that she meet you before we go to the prom. She wants you to come over for supper some night soon. Anyway, don’t worry, I already told her you’d probably say no.” She paused then to take a breath, finally allowing him a chance to say something.
“Yes, I can come over and give her a chance to look me over,” he said, grinning.
Margaret was shocked, obviously surprised he actually said yes. Arrangements were made for him to come next Friday night. “But remember,” she kept saying, “you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
_ _ _ _
On the appointed night, he was more curious than nervous. The elderly Miss McDuffy had quite the reputation around the community for being difficult at times. Everyone gave her credit for at least attempting to raise her grandniece since infancy after her parents were killed in a car accident. The fact that the girl had always been a bit strange was believed to be the aunt’s fault because of her refusal to accept modern changes in fashion and attitudes. My goodness, everyone whispered, she didn’t even let the poor girl shave her legs.
Luke was aware of all this as he made his way to their place that night. The McDuffy farm bordered the Winston’s place along the southern ridge. Luke knew of a path that led up the bluff to their backyard. Thomas teased him that he took the shortcut through the woods because he didn’t want anyone to know he was seeing such a ugly girl. Luke ignored him. He knew the rather plump, round-faced girl was no Miss America but he liked talking to her and was not at all put off by her aunt’s request that he present himself for her inspection.
Margaret was in a state of sheer befuddlement when she answered the door, more red-faced than usual. She was perspiring so heavily that her glasses appeared to be steamed over. Luke grinned, trying to reassure her as she ushered him into the kitchen. Miss McDuffy instructed him to sit down across from her at the kitchen table so they could talk while Margaret finished supper.
The young girl bristled. “Aunt Betty, why don’t you go sit in the living room?”
“Oh no, this is fine,” said Luke. “We can sit here.”
“She’s just nervous, ya’ know,” Miss McDuffy whispered. “She’s afraid I’m gonna say somethin’ foolish. Well, I’m an old lady so I’ve got an excuse, don’t ya’ think?”
Luke liked his hostess immediately. It was easy to see where Margaret got her short, angular frame and those bright, intense eyes.
They had baked fish for supper because Miss McDuffy believed in the old ways. “If we were supposed to give up meat on Fridays for all those years, I don’t see no reason to stop doing it now,” she said. After the meal, Luke helped Margaret clean up the dishes while the old lady asked him blunt questions about his family and background.
“Well,” she said, “that old house finally got what it was built for – a family with a whole bunch of kids.”
“Really,” Luke asked. “What makes you say that?”
“Cause I can remember when that house was built like it was yesterday. I was just a little girl and I was very interested in the watching them put up such a grand house. Me and my brother, Freddy, would sneak over there – probably the same back trail you took comin’ here tonight, Luke. We’d go over there and just watch ‘em for hours. Old Cap’m Weatherly brought in the best carpenters and materials upriver from St. Louie. I can still see him pacin’ back n’ forth with his hands clinched tight behind his back. He saw to every detail. To be sure, his house was going to look like those big plantation houses in the South. And it was beautiful all right, but it never brought him the happiness it was s’pose ta. Talk was, the place was doomed since the day he first laid eyes on it. Some even said he was in league with the devil himself so he’d never find any peace – not in that house anyway.”
“The devil? In my house?” Luke gulped.
“Yes, you see, that place already had a history by that time. Different people owned the place since the time of early settlement in these parts, but no one ever made a go of it. There was always some kind of trouble so it was sold a lot. But in the spring of 1905 – I remember that exact date because that was the year I started school – three families of Fox Indians arrived from a reservation out West somewhere. When they got here they said that the land, the place at the top of the hill where the house is now, had been some kind of special holy place for their tribe for generations, right up to the time their people got chased off the land. They were supposed to be direct descendants of the old chiefs or somethin’. I guess they worked and saved for years until they had enough money to buy the place. And that’s what they did.”
“Indians brought our land? So what happened?” Luke settled into a chair across from his host.
The old lady paused a minute, gathering her thoughts, remembering things she hadn’t thought about in years. She turned her mind back to a time when she was a small child, running and playing in the endless woods. “Those poor people were mistreated and blamed for everything that went wrong in the whole county,” she continued. “They were snubbed and ridiculed so they mostly kept to themselves. They were called heathens and all sorts of awful things. Us kids were forbidden to go near the place. But me and Freddy, well, we didn’t have any idea what any of that meant and we made friends with the Indian kids. Ah, they told such great stories and taught us wonderful things about the woods and the wild animals -- things my dad didn’t even know.” Once again her voice faded as remembered the little Indian children’s stories why the timber wolf cries so or why the leaves on the trees turned upside down when the rain is coming.
“Anyway, those three years they were here were bad times in these parts. Bad floods ever’ spring, real hard winters. Some of the folks got it in their heads that the Indians were somehow to blame – that their strange chants and dances were evil. People started saying the Indians were aimin’ for all the farmers to fail so they’d be forced to sell. And then new Indian families would buy up more and more land, until pretty soon this town wouldn’t be no place for decent Christian folks to live any more.” Miss McDuffy struggled to find the words to explain to these young people, born in a different age of scientific technology, how people 60 years ago could be so desperate and frightened that they could blame their misfortunes on something so mysterious.
“So, when Cap’t Weatherly landed in town one day and announced he was here to buy that same land the Indians had, the people acted like he was their deliverer. He was really something, so handsome with all his fine ways and pockets full of money. He had his new bride along --a frail, pretty young thing from down South somewhere. He said he had been piloting on the river for twenty years and had often noticed that rocky hilltop shinin’ in the sunlight when he came around that sharp bend in the river north of your place. And he knew the bottomland around here was the best there was. So when he decided to leave the river and settle down, he knew the perfect spot. He wanted many children so he planned to build a grand mansion. He had such wonderful plans.”
“But the Indians wouldn’t sell. Wouldn’t even consider it, which of course, infuriated the Captain. So, him and his wife took up residence in town and spread his money around. He paid the merchants to stop doing any more business with the Indians. The rumors became more vicious than ever, probably started by Weatherly himself. They blamed ever’ thing on those poor Indians, from the mayor’s arthritis to babies being stillborn. Well, that next spring, one of the Indian children died and two of the families went back to the reservation. Maybe they were planning to get more money or supplies, I don’t know.
“They left one family behind? By themselves?” Margaret asked. “Knowing this town, I bet there was trouble.”
“Yep, there sure was. That spring, my father and some of the other farmers were missin’ cattle. They were sure the Indians were stealing ‘em so they called a town meetin’. I was afraid for them Indians and I laid awake, waitin’ for my dad. He came back late and his words were slurred. I knew he’d been drinking. The next day in school I heard that the Indian man had been beaten real bad but he wouldn’t admit to stealin’ no cattle. When I asked my papa about it, he looked me straight in the eye and said he had nothin’ to do with it. And then he spanked me hard for bein’ so disrespectful to 'im. Never could figure out why he did that – the spankin’, I mean. It was the only time he ever did that.”
“The next night the church burnt to the ground and human remains were found. It was ol’ Charlie Dorfmann, the town drunk. He probably wondered in there to get out of the rain since his woman wouldn’t let him in their house ‘til he was sober. The town went crazy. They said the Indian did it. Ol’ Charlie probably did it hisself but nobody said nothin’ about that. By the next night, people were out of control -- they came on our yard with torches and big talk. They yelled for my father to go with ‘em but he said no. He’d had enough.”
“So they went over there, hollerin’ and screamin’ for the Indian to come out. And when he didn’t, they burned down his barn and were aimin’ to torch the cabin, too. They dragged him out and hanged him – right there on that big oak tree by the bluff. His poor wife and three little boys were standin’ there watchin’. Can you imagine such a thing?” She shuddered as though the whole horrifying spectacle had just happened yesterday.”
“Oh, my God, Aunt Betty. They hung him? How come I never heard this story before?”
“Because most of the people around here were ashamed. It was cold-hearted murder, it was. His poor wife signed over the deed in return for some money and a guarantee of safe passage for her and her three children out of town and back to the reservation. Captain Weatherly got the land and started building his big house. His wife was sickly – couldn’t tolerate this climate very good, I guess. She was never able to give the Cap’t any children. She lost three sons – some folks said they were like the three little boys who watched their papa hang that night. She died in childbirth with the third baby. After that the Cap’t went rantin’ and ravin’ crazy. That big ol’ house never hardly had no lights on anymore and the servants told stories of how the Captain saw demons and ghosts.” She stopped then. There were more stories about the captain and his house but then she remembered that her young guest now lived there. “ ‘Course, I never did believe any of that. Anyway, one day the Captain just up and got on a riverboat docked in town and was never heard from again.”
“And let me tell ya’ somethin’, Luke, I’ve lived here all my life. And I’ve seen people come and go. That place was sold time after time. ‘Course, so have a lot of other farms around here. But one thing I know for sure ‘cause I seen it with my own eyes – that next spring when all the trees leafed out, nothin’ grew on that branch where they hung that poor Indian. It was deader than a doornail, but the rest of the tree was fine. The Captain ordered it cut off. But you can still see the scar on that tree.”
_ _ _ _
Luke repeated the tale to his family late that night. The younger ones were already in bed and Matthew had gone into town for a couple of drinks after supper. They sat spellbound as he told of the Indian families forced off the land and the building of this house by some seedy, mysterious riverboat captain. They tried to deny it but the story left them feeling uncomfortably cold. Even Sonny seemed restless and uneasy as he listened.
“C’mon, lets go see it,” whispered Mack, grinning. He made it sound more like a challenge than an invitation.
“Mack!” Johnny cried. “It’s dark out there!” They were all suddenly aware of the whining winds and creaking timbers.
“Nah, come on!” pushed Mack. “You guys aren’t scared, are you?” He grabbed the flashlight and out. The others followed him, staying close together. They knew exactly which tree Miss McDuffy was talking about. When they stood beneath it, they gazed up at the massive thing with renewed amazement. Mack scanned the trunk with the light and there it was – a knarled scar where the fabled branch had been.
“Look!” Thomas said. “You can see a Indian’s head, like on those old nickels.”
“Oh, come on!” they all groaned. “That’s going a bit far. You’re seeing things.”
A gust of wind seized the tree and its branches seemed to bend toward them. All of them fairly ran back to the safe haven of their kitchen. They sat around the table for a long time. No one seemed to be in any hurry to go upstairs to bed.
“But you know what?” Andrew said. “Sometimes I do feel a sort of presence here, but it's never frightened me.”
“Sure,” added Luke. “I’ve read stories about this sort of thing. Ghosts don’t have to be bad. Maybe our ghosts are of the friendly variety.” Everyone laughed, though a bit anxiously.
“At least this explains some of the weird questions we’ve been getting around town,” Mack said after a long period of silence. “You know, like, ‘Heard any strange noises?’ or ‘Seen any ghosts lately?’ I thought they were just trying to give us a hard time.”
“Well,” Andrew remarked quietly. “Regardless of what anyone says – ghosts or no ghosts, it’ll take a lot to get our father out of this place.”
“Yeah, ghosts,” Mack called, talking toward the ceiling as though addressing unseen spirits. “You got quite a fight on your hands if you think you’re gonna scare off our old man!” Everyone laughed again, this time a little more easily.
But everyone lingered around the table late that night and when they did finally go upstairs, they went in pairs.
_ _ _ _
Much later, when the wind was full of night noises and the moon shone so brightly that any passing cloud cast an especially dark shadow across the house on the hill, a solitary, statuesque figure stood at the edge of the bluff. The half naked phantom defied the cold night air, his long dark hair whipping wildly in the wind, standing unafraid and unyielding, until the wind quieted and the clouds no longer interfered with the soft shroud of light glowing upon this place.
_ _ _ _
It’s amazing how, in the warm reassuring light of day, a tree is merely a tree, and the frightening sounds of the night are washed away, nearly forgotten. At breakfast, Luke told Matthew an abbreviated version of the story Miss McDuffy had told him the night before. It sounded much less mysterious over eggs and bacon. Matthew laughed, of course, saying he had picked up inferences of the storied legacy of their new home. He dismissed it all as harmless, small town folklore. But he did take his second cup of coffee outside and sat beneath the old oak tree. The others followed him, gazing up at it as it swayed harmlessly in the gentle breezes. They sat perched on the felled logs, sister trunks of their infamous tree.
“Wonder how old it is,” Andrew asked. “It had to be a sizable tree sixty years ago so it has to be over a hundred years old.”
“If this tree could talk.” Matthew sipped his coffee. “Think of the stories it could tell.”
“It felt like it was talking last night,” Mack said, laughing.
So another tradition began. On warm mornings, with already a couple of hours’ work done, Matthew would lead his troupe to the rocky place. They’d share a few quiet moments of respite under the matronly tree. They would sit and plan the day’s work and survey the fruits of their labor of days gone by. Matthew never grew tired of gazing at the fields that stretched before him, acres of freshly plowed ground that they had painstakingly cleared and tended. Straddling the rough, splintery perch, he felt like a king on his throne, surveying his kingdom.
He was getting more and more impatient for the planting to begin. Sonny explained that even though much of the preliminary work was completed they still had to wait for the soil to warm, a purely natural phenomena that could not be altered or rushed by Matthew’s money or his persistence.
Chapter 20
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