Wonderland Creek

  “The trail? Where? I don’t see a trail.”

  “You’re the most argumentative, suspicious person I have ever met. Trust me, there’s a trail here. Climb on . . .” He linked his fingers together to make a stirrup and motioned for me to put my foot into it. I did what he asked. Once again, I didn’t make it all the way up, and Mack had to give my rear end a final boost. I would have complained, but he was grimacing and massaging his wounded shoulder so I knew the maneuver had hurt him more than me. He secured the files beneath his jacket, handed me the worthless rifle, then climbed onto a fallen tree trunk to boost himself up. He barely had enough strength to crawl on. Belle probably would have knelt down to help him if he had asked her to.

  We rode in silence for a while before stopping at the edge of a narrow clearing. Mack waited, looking all around before venturing out of the woods. “What’s wrong?” I whispered.

  “Nothing. This is where we cross the road.”

  We continued on through the woods. I no longer cared about the wildcat. I just wanted to get home so my insides would stop wringing like a load of laundry. I knew we were close when I heard rushing water and the wonderful, familiar sound of Wonderland Creek. We followed it downstream until Belle carried us up the steep rise to Mack’s cabin. I was almost home.

  We both climbed off, and I helped Mack put Belle’s saddle and bridle on her. I performed my balancing act on the porch railing to climb on while Mack stroked Belle’s shoulder, telling her what a good horse she was. Then he looked up at me.

  “Thanks, Alice. I really appreciate your help.”

  His jacket hung open, and when he reached up to rub Belle’s muzzle, I noticed a dark stain on the inside of his shirt, above his heart.

  “Mack, your bullet wound is bleeding again.”

  He touched the spot and winced. “Maybe a little. It’ll be fine. Let’s hope this was our last trip to the mine.”

  The path seemed a little brighter as Belle and I followed the creek into town. Was I getting used to the dark or was dawn about to break?

  At last I was home. Belle trotted into her shed like a thoroughbred racing to the finish line. I ducked just in time. I removed her saddle and gave her a little extra grain for her hard night’s work. As I crossed the backyard to the house, I happened to look up. The clouds had disappeared, and I glimpsed the Milky Way like a river of sparkling lights shimmering across the sky. I couldn’t recall ever seeing it so clearly, so magnificently before. The world looked glorious and beautiful to me as every cell in my body hummed with life.

  “Wow!” I breathed. I was glad to be alive, to be safe.

  To be home.

  I walked in through the back door, relieved my ordeal was finally over, and saw a dark figure huddled at the kitchen table. I let out a cry and retreated backward toward the door.

  Lillie lifted her head. “You okay, honey?”

  “You scared me half to death! What are you doing in the kitchen? It’s nearly dawn!”

  “I been sitting here praying for you and Mack and Belle. What’d you think I’d be doing all this time?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Well, someone’s got to keep those angels watching over you. Did everything go all right?”

  “Yes. Mack thinks he found what he was looking for.”

  “Good. Let’s go to bed, honey.” She started to pull herself to her feet.

  “Wait. Before you do. You never told me why those men killed Sam and your daughter.”

  She stared at me as if she didn’t understand my question. “You want to hear that story now? Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “No. I don’t want to wait. You never finish any of your stories, Lillie. You’ll forget by morning, and I’m wide awake now. I’ve been pondering death all day and worrying about it all night, so I want to hear the story right now.” Lillie sighed and settled back into her chair. I was too wound up to sit. I understood how Belle must feel when she starts stomping and snorting.

  Lillie took a moment to think, as if paging through a book to find the place where she had left off. Her voice sounded frail and sad as she told her story.

  “Sam was trying to help the colored folk in our town,” she began, “just like Mack was trying to help the miners. Them plantation owners didn’t pay their sharecroppers a fair wage, and they charged too much for rent and all them other things folks need from the store. Sam stood up to them and asked them to be fair to us. The men in the white hoods didn’t like that, so they come after Sam, hoping to scare him out of town.”

  I looked at her for a long moment. Fighting injustice seemed to carry a very high price tag. “Weren’t you worried about Mack’s safety when he came back to Acorn to do the same thing and fight for people’s rights?”

  “Sure I was. And even more worried after Hank died and someone stole that book Mack was working on. Mack had been to college, and he could have escaped from this place. I told him, ‘Honey, you need to stay up there in Ohio with your good job. Stay where it’s safe.’ ”

  “Why didn’t he listen to you?”

  “I guess it was on account of the way he was raised.” Lillie smiled slightly. “I taught him to care about other people, like the Good Book says. I taught him to always do what God asks you to do. The Lord made Mack real good at writing, and so he decided to write things to help other people, not to make a pile of money for himself. He don’t run around saying Bible verses all day or toting the Good Book under his arm, but he’s a good man, honey. Just like my Sam was. And God wants us to do good in this terrible bad world.”

  “But if Sam and Mack were doing what God asked them to do, why didn’t He protect them?”

  “Didn’t we talk about this once before? We live in a fallen world. And we’re the ones who made it that way, not God.”

  “I never understood why God doesn’t get rid of all the evil people—like He did during Noah’s flood.”

  “Because the Lord is merciful. He wants to give every last person a chance to hear about Jesus. He doesn’t want anybody to die without knowing Him, whether they’re wearing white hoods or cheating miners. That makes it harder for His children to live in this world, but Jesus said we’re supposed to love our enemies and do good to the people who persecute you.”

  “This is more than persecution, Lillie. They killed your Sam, and they probably killed Hank and shot Mack, too.”

  “Yes, they might kill us. They killed Jesus, didn’t they? But when He comes back someday, all of the evil in this world will be gone for good. Everything will be made new, and I’ll see Sam and our baby girl again.” Lillie struggled to stand and this time I helped her. We walked through the darkened library, then Lillie paused at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Now, if only I didn’t have to worry about my Buster,” she said with a sigh. “It’s been so long since I seen him, and I just wish I knew if he remembers what I taught him about Jesus, after all this time.”

  “But, Lillie, didn’t you tell me that nobody can snatch God’s children out of His hand?”

  Even in the dark I saw her eyes glisten with tears. “That’s true, honey. I did say that.” She climbed up two steps, then stopped to look at me. “See? You learned something while you was here.”

  We climbed the rest of the way to the top and I helped her into bed. She was already wearing her white nightgown. “You still think about Buster a lot, don’t you?”

  “I do, honey. Especially now that I’m getting ready to cross over to the other side. That boy was so young when they took him from me . . . and I just wish I knew for sure if I’ll see him again up in heaven.”

  “I’m sure you will.” I bent to kiss her wrinkled forehead. “Good night, Lillie. And thank you for praying for us tonight.”

  I fell into bed. I was exhausted, but it took me a long time to fall asleep as my mind replayed everything I had experienced. I had never been through such a nerve-wracking ordeal in my life, and I hoped I never would again. And yet a tiny, stubborn part of me whispered that it
had been an exciting night—now that it was over and I was safe, of course. I had lived through a real-life adventure instead of reading about one in a book. My life would seem boring when I got home. What in the world would I do with the rest of my life? I lay awake for a long time, but just before I fell asleep, I whispered a prayer—a real prayer—that God would help Lillie find her son.

  I longed to sleep late the next day, still worn-out after only a few hours’ sleep. But the packhorse ladies would arrive at the front door soon, and they would wonder why I wasn’t up. I got dressed, let Belle out of her stall, and freed the chickens from their coop. Lillie remained in bed all day, so I spent the morning upstairs, working on her folk medicine book. She must be exhausted, too, and I wanted to be near her in case she needed me because I knew that in some strange, inexplicable way, I needed her. I couldn’t bear it if she “crossed over to the other side” just yet.

  Halfway through the morning I turned a page in Lillie’s notebook and found a folded piece of paper stuffed between the pages. I unfolded it carefully and saw that the elegant handwriting, penned in ink, was not Lillie’s:

  May 2, 1855–

  Charley Hammond sold to Edgewater Plantation, Midlothian, Virginia.

  August 5, 1860–

  Buster Hammond sold to Alfred Drucker, Thornburg, Virginia.

  I stared at it in amazement. I thought I knew what this piece of paper was, but I was afraid to believe it. I carried it into Lillie’s bedroom as if carrying a living thing, afraid the seventy-year-old note might disintegrate in my hand. She slept half-sitting up, propped by pillows and swaddled in the quilt to keep warm. She opened her eyes as I approached.

  “Lillie, what is this? I found it in one of your notebooks.”

  “Let me see . . .” She reached for it with her spindly, wrinkled hand. “Oh, my. This is from my old missus on the plantation. This is the paper she gave me all them years ago, telling me where Charley and Buster was sold to. See here? August the fifth—that’s the day they took my Buster away. I remember that awful day like it was yesterday.”

  My heart skipped with excitement. Could this clue help us find Buster? That’s what I had prayed for before falling asleep!

  “Is that your last name?” I asked. “Hammond?” I had never heard anyone call Lillie by her last name and realized that I had no idea what it was.

  “No, honey. Hammond was Massa’s name. All the slaves on them plantations had the same last name as their owners. But when we was set free, a lot of folks didn’t want that name no more. They took new names for themselves. Some of them chose Lincoln—we thought the world of Mr. Abraham Lincoln. I took Sam’s name when we got married.”

  “You never told me what happened when you and Sam went looking for Buster after the war.”

  “I didn’t? Well, we found the plantation where he was sold, but Buster wasn’t there no more. The Drucker family lived in a little town near Fredericksburg, Virginia, called Thornburg. Massa Drucker still owned the land, just like it says here. But the house was gone, burned to the ground when the army marched through. Massa Drucker mighta known where Buster was, but it didn’t matter because he ain’t talking to no colored people. Says he’ll shoot us dead if we come on his property. Sam and me went to the colored town and asked around, but most of the Druckers’ slaves was gone. A lot of them headed out West where they was supposed to get twenty acres and a mule.”

  “But Buster couldn’t have gone out West by himself. He was just a boy, wasn’t he? How old would he have been?”

  “Twelve years old when the war ended. The colored folks told us that when the Yankees came through, everybody starved. Some tried to follow the army, and boys like Buster mighta worked for some of the soldiers, shining shoes or cooking for them—anything to try and stay alive.”

  “Did anyone remember Buster?”

  “A couple of the old-timers remembered him from plantation days. Nobody knowed what happened to him, though. We searched and searched, but Buster was long gone.”

  I didn’t let Lillie’s news discourage me. I now knew some possible last names for Buster and I knew the name of the town where he had lived after he was sold. How far could a twelve-year-old boy travel on his own?

  I was so excited about discovering this information that I couldn’t wait to see Mack on Thursday and tell him the good news. I had to ride my usual route first, but when I finally arrived at his cabin, I dismounted and waited on the porch steps for him to appear.

  I leaped up in excitement the moment Mack rustled out of the bushes. “Good news! I found out Buster’s last name and the name of the town where he went after he was sold. He might have adopted his new master’s name, Drucker. Or he might still go by his old name, Hammond. Lillie said he may have changed it to Lincoln after the war, too. But how many people could there possibly be named Buster Hammond or Buster Drucker? I figured it all out, and in the 1900 census he would have been about forty-seven years old. He’d be seventy-seven in the 1930 census, which means he’d be about eight-two or eighty-three today. Goodness, Mack. We’d better hurry!”

  I was so excited as I babbled on and on about Lillie’s son that I didn’t notice how quiet Mack had been. “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?” I finally asked.

  “I have bad news, Alice.”

  “Does it have to do with Buster?”

  “No. That’s good news about him. But I have to go back to the mine.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Weren’t the files any help to you?”

  “They were an enormous help. I spent all day yesterday and today reading through them. But I’ve never been inside the mine, and I need a layout of the main shafts and where Hank’s accident was in order to make sense of everything. I promised you that I would finish my work in a month’s time and come out of hiding so you could go home, and I want to keep my promise.”

  “I know. But you can’t go back there, Mack. It’s too dangerous, especially if they’ve figured out the files are missing. Why not talk to some of the miners who worked there during that time? They should remember the layout, shouldn’t they?”

  “Yes . . . except that all of those miners think I’m dead.”

  “Oh. That’s right.” I sank down on the porch steps to think. “There must be some other way to get that information.”

  “Maybe you can talk to Ike Arnett. He worked in the mine before it closed. Is he still courting you? Are you close to him?”

  My cheeks flushed, betraying me. My love life was none of Mack’s business.

  When I didn’t reply, he added, “Didn’t you say Ike suspected that Hank’s death wasn’t an accident?”

  I had to respond. “He’s hardly courting me. There’s no place to go courting in Acorn, as you well know. Do you expect me to be another Mata Hari, pumping Ike for information between fervent embraces?”

  “Who’s Mata Hari?”

  “Didn’t you see that movie a few years ago with Greta Garbo and Lionel Barrymore?” Mack gave me a blank look. “Mata Hari spied for the Germans during the Great War. They made a movie about her life.” He was shaking his head. “Never mind. What do you want me to ask Ike—assuming that I decide to do it?”

  “I need to know the layout—where the active shafts were in relation to the site of Hank’s accident. See if Ike can describe the two areas, how close together they are.”

  “I’ll try. But in the meantime, what about finding Buster? Lillie isn’t going to live forever, you know. We shouldn’t put this off much longer.”

  “I’ll send the information to my friend in Washington. Do you have time to wait while I write a quick letter?”

  “Of course.”

  He disappeared into the cabin and came out a minute later with a small notepad. He sat down on the porch step, and when he reached inside his jacket to pull out a pencil, I saw him wince. I noticed the same dark stain on his shirt that I had seen the other night.

  “Mack, is your wo
und bleeding again?”

  “Just a little. I may have overdone it a little on Tuesday night.”

  He looked pale to me, and I reached out to feel his forehead. “You’re running a fever!”

  “I’ll be fine.” He pushed away my hand and continued to scribble his letter. “What were those names again?”

  “Buster’s first master was named Hammond. His new one was Drucker. And tell your friend to try looking for Buster Lincoln, just in case. He would have been born around 1853.”

  “And the town?”

  “It’s called Thornburg. Lillie said it was near Fredericksburg, Virginia.”

  I waited while he wrote some more. “I don’t have an envelope,” he said after signing his name. “If I give you the address, can you find an envelope and mail it for me?”

  “Sure. And I’m going to ask Lillie to fix you something for your fever, too. In the meantime, you need to get some rest and take it easy.”

  He folded the letter and went back inside the cabin to rummage around for his friend’s address. I didn’t know where he was hiding all of these things, because every time I had peeked into the cabin, it had appeared to be abandoned.

  “Here,” he said when he emerged again. “And please try to get some information from Ike soon, okay?”

  I looked at the address when I got back to the library and saw that it was a woman’s name, Miss Catherine Anson. I felt a little prick of something that might have been jealousy. Who would have believed it? Mack had a sweetheart? The only affectionate female I’d seen him with was Belle.

  The next morning I went to the post office to mail Mack’s letter. I didn’t tell Lillie what the letter contained, afraid of disappointing her if we couldn’t find her son. I used my return address in Illinois to alleviate any suspicion in the post office that Mack had written the letter. This time, the elderly gentlemen of Acorn were playing chess instead of cards. I bought a stamp, affixed it to the envelope and asked the postmaster to mail it, and once again my entire transaction took place without anyone speaking a word to me. How long did an outsider have to live in Acorn before people got over their suspicion?