The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  Will shook his hand and released it before turning to me. “Rob, Ashlynne Rothschild. She’s from Florida, working here at the paper for a few months.”

  Rob Matthews smiled, sending crinkles around almond-colored eyes. His hand shot out as naturally as if we were old friends seeing each other as we always did. Out in the woods. Surrounded by swaying trees. Overgrown shrub. And, somewhere close by—did I mention?—dead people.

  I slipped my hand into his and felt the dryness, the calluses along the base of his fingers. A workingman’s hands. “Nice to meet you,” I said, pulling back as quickly as I could without seeming rude. I waved away pesky creatures buzzing around my face.

  Robert nodded once. His eyes sparkled and his mouth broke apart in a picture-perfect smile. “You, too.” He returned his attention to Will. “Man, you’ve got to see this,” he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder and turning him around. “I’ve been trying to get some of this thinned out back here. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it once I get it all cleared, but it needed to be done.”

  Garrison and I followed behind. I flipped open my notebook, clicked my pen, and started taking notes, straining to hear as Rob continued.

  “Right here,” he said, pointing to the ground, “is where I noticed the first stone.”

  We stopped, gathering in a circle around a lump of granite in the ground.

  “I didn’t think a whole lot of it,” Rob continued, “until I took a few more steps . . .” He pointed to our left. Sure enough, another stone marked the spot. “And then,” he said, drawing us along with his words, “I came up on this.”

  A larger flat piece of granite rose out of the ground at the base of a thick pine. “That’s when I realized what all this was.” Rob squatted and we did too. He pointed and we followed the line of vision his finger provided.

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said. “You can actually see the outlines of graves.”

  “Some have sunk about four to six inches, I’m thinking. Others deeper than that.” He looked over at me. “Be careful where you step, now.”

  “Okay,” I mouthed.

  Will looked up at Garrison. “Did you get some shots?”

  Garrison held up a Canon with an impressive lens. “Got ’em, Boss.”

  The backs of my thighs burned. I stood and, as if on cue, so did the men.

  “How many would you say there are?” I asked, keeping my voice at a whisper. Somehow where we stood now seemed sacred. Like a church. Hallowed ground.

  “I’ve counted close to fifty. Maybe sixty.” He looked over his shoulder to a ridge in the landscape. “I haven’t even gotten over there yet.” Then to Will, “Like I was telling Garrison earlier, I found this last night. I would have called then, but figured by the time I got to the house and y’all got here, it’d be around dark-thirty.”

  Dark-thirty?

  He sent a shy smile my way. “I wouldn’t want to be out here with all these graves after dark, would you?”

  “No,” I said. “I sure wouldn’t.” Creepy enough in the middle of the day. Interesting, but creepy.

  Garrison meandered to the ridge. “Will, come check this out over here.”

  I followed close behind the paper’s layout guy, too enthralled by what we were witnessing to care if Will and Rob came or not. But soon enough, I heard the twigs and pinecones crackle beneath their feet.

  “Whew,” I said, waving my hand in front of my face.

  Garrison turned. “What is it?”

  I frowned. “I walked into a spider’s web I think.” I hoped. I turned to look at Will. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

  One side of Rob’s mouth slipped upward. “Why? You think one just touched you?”

  Will laughed. “Don’t tease with her, Rob. She’s a city girl.”

  Rob brought his hands to his hips. “Never grew up playing in the woods?”

  He had that right. I gave a playful shake of my head.

  Garrison cleared his throat, I suspected to get us back to the task at hand. “Right here . . .” He pointed to the ground. “Rob just told me this was the main road back in the mid- to late 1800s, all the way up to the early 1900s.”

  I took a step forward and peered to my left. Then to my right. It was obvious; the path below was a well-worn path. Rob came up beside me, his shoulder close to mine. “If you listen, bet you can hear carriages carrying pretty ladies and high-fashioned gents up and down this road. Heading to social calls. To church.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, flexed his elbows out as he came up on the balls of his feet.

  “Before the Civil War?”

  “Before. After. That was the road used until somewhere around the 1920s. It was also a trade route. And if you look”—he hopped onto the path, landing with both feet, keeping his hands inside his pockets—“you can still see the ruts.” He poked at the ground with his foot.

  “Did you get a shot of that?” I asked Garrison.

  He grinned so wide his beard seemed to grow. “No, ma’am. But I can.” He stepped onto the path, walked a few paces to the left, then turned and said, “Stand right there, Rob.”

  Will stepped up to the other side of me. I turned my head slowly, knowing full well he was staring at me. “What?” I whispered.

  “Since when do you ask Garrison to do anything?”

  “Since I saw a good photo op,” I answered, keeping my voice low. “Am I right or am I right?”

  “You’re right,” he whispered back. “But don’t make a habit of it.”

  “Well, you’re the one who wanted to bring me along . . .” Okay. I got it. I could ask about trees, but I could not suggest a shot.

  One hundred and seventy-nine more days . . .

  “There’s more,” Garrison said, interrupting me. He pointed toward the higher ridge. “Over that lump of dirt there, there’s a ditch. Rob says this was part of the road from the Revolutionary War.”

  “That’s the one you told me about,” I said, wanting to see more. I took a step onto the muddy incline leading to the other road. The slick sole of my shoe made contact with the mud; my backside soon followed. I felt my spine fold like an accordion, heard it crack. “Oww!”

  “You hurt?” Will stepped next to me, his question sounding more like an admonishment than concern.

  But Rob dashed toward me, reaching for my outstretched hand. “Hey, are you okay?” He pulled me up easily, righting me.

  I held one hand up, showing that I’d managed to hold on to my notebook. With the other, I brushed my hand against the back of my jeans and felt the dampness. I grimaced, knowing they were smeared with the same red mud staining Rob’s shirt and his Bobcat. “I’m fine.” I dared to look into his eyes, afraid I’d find amusement. That there’d be laughter at the klutzy city girl who couldn’t walk in the woods without falling down. But his face only wore concern. “I’m fine,” I repeated. “Thank you.”

  Will walked past me, shaking his head. “Wrong kind of shoes.”

  “I know.”

  We crossed the path to the ridge and peered over. Deep in a ravine stretched another road—or, what had once been one—now obscured with scrawny trees growing from its soil. Along the borders, sturdier pines and oaks stood like brave soldiers.

  “That was a road used during the Revolutionary War?” I asked, nearly breathless.

  “You bet,” Rob said next to me. “The Overmountain Men used it to get to the Battle of King’s Mountain, which was a major victory for the Patriots.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said. I turned to look at the lay of the land behind us. “Could it be that these are the graves of Patriot soldiers?”

  “Or Loyalists,” Rob said. He smiled at me again, as though he were genuinely happy to have me there. “You know about the Overmountain Men. You like history?”

  The same question Will Decker had asked me earlier, but this one came with a smile. And, if I knew tones of voices, an invitation.

  “I like learning about new things,” I said.

&
nbsp; “You don’t say. Well, how about—”

  “Rob,” Will interrupted, “let’s see if we can’t run to the hardware store, get some irrigation flags, and start numbering these graves. From here I can see about six rows, maybe running ten graves in length.”

  “Far more than that,” Rob said, leaving my side to join Will. “You’re not counting that area over there.” Their voices faded as they walked away from where Garrison and I remained. Whatever Robert Matthews had been about to ask me had been forgotten.

  “Hey, Garrison,” I said. “Can you get a good shot of the road below from up here?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I looked back to see how far Will and Rob had gotten out of earshot. “Would you do that for me?” Then, as an afterthought, I said, “Please?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “I’m right on it.”

  I felt a smile rise from my toes. These were words I was accustomed to. They weren’t from Will Decker, but they’d do.

  For now.

  11

  See what you can find out about Native Americans in the area,” Will said as we rambled back to the newspaper office. “Look up Overmountain Men. See if there’s any record anywhere of even so much as a skirmish near Rob’s place.”

  I took notes as fast as my pen would jot. While I mentally wondered if today should not have been the day for me to work on the magazine, this brought too much excitement to ignore. “What about Civil War battles?”

  “No.”

  My skin prickled, knowing good and well if he had thought of it, I’d be writing it down. “And why not?”

  “Because none of the Civil War battles were fought around here. No where around here.”

  Oh. Well, that made sense.

  “Then what about slaves?”

  Will didn’t answer right away. Although his hat’s brim shadowed his eyes, I could still see his eyes remained focused on the road.

  “Will?”

  “Slaves?”

  “Yeah. North Carolina had slave owners, right? Ergo, slaves? Could those graves belong to slaves?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Could be.”

  The air in the truck’s cab changed, as if a wall had been built, brick by brick.

  Frustration grew inside me as easily as I had allowed my own defenses to drop. How was I supposed to prove myself to my family, by proving myself to William, if he constantly shut me and my ideas down? “What’s wrong?”

  He returned to his silence, forcing me into it. I stared at him as long as I dared, then turned to the front of the truck. When we pulled into the newspaper parking lot, Will turned off the truck and said, “I’ll call the historical society. See what I can find out.”

  I had a sudden vision of the grave discovery and its historical implications as the cover story of the magazine’s first edition. “When do you think I’ll have all the information to write the piece?” I asked, trying to keep an innocent tone in my voice.

  “You?” He opened his door. I opened mine.

  “Yeah,” I said over the truck’s hood. “It would be a great cover story for Hunting Teas.”

  Will snickered as he shook his head. “You might want to learn the name of the magazine before you think about writing for it. Besides, before it makes a great story for the magazine, it will make a great story for the paper.” He continued toward the door. “Besides, this requires someone who knows how to write about Testament and North Carolina. Our history.”

  I followed right behind him, determined—for once—not to shrink in the face of rejection. “Will Decker! I know how to write. I’ve been writing full-time since I got out of college and joined the illustrious staff of Parks & Avenues.” Not to mention my work on my alma mater’s newsletter.

  “And I’m sure you’re quite good at it.” He swung the door open, stepping back to allow me to enter. “When it comes to your people and your history.”

  “Let me ask you a question. What did you think I was going to do here for six months?” I tried to keep my voice low. “Run behind you with a notebook and a pen? Bring you your coffee? Hang that hat you can’t seem to go without on a hat rack?”

  “I never asked you to bring me coffee. Or hang up my hat.” He jerked it off his head as though to prove his point.

  “I’m sure you will before the day is over.” We were halfway down the hall, both unable to keep our voices from rising. And mine, in spite of Gram’s constant voice inside my head reminding me that if I were not careful, I’d find myself in the mailroom. Or worse. “The coffee,” I said, trying to regain control. “Not the hat.”

  “William.”

  The baritone voice stopped us. We both turned to where Shelton Decker peered around one of the office doors.

  “Hey, Big Guy,” Will said, though he stayed perfectly still. “You decided to come in a little early today.”

  “Mr. Decker,” I said.

  “Can I see you in my office?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.” William started toward him. His back muscles flexed.

  “You, too,” Shelton said, looking at me.

  I felt like I’d been called up to the principal’s office, not that I ever had been. But I’d heard about it. Read about it. Seen it in the movies and on TV. “Yes, sir,” I said, repeating Will’s words.

  We stepped into a small office, sparsely furnished, and barely decorated. Another room Bobbie hadn’t gotten to, apparently. Or, perhaps, wasn’t allowed to put her touch to.

  Shelton Decker closed the door behind us, walked around to his desk and sat. Will and I, on the other hand, hadn’t moved since we’d stepped into the room. “Sit. Sit,” he told us, indicating two chairs on the opposite side of his desk.

  We did, both choosing the same chair. I adjusted, taking the other.

  “Now then,” he said, pushing a few pieces of paper aside. He picked up a pen and clicked it several times. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Nothing, Big Guy. There’s no problem.”

  “Didn’t sound like it from in here.” He brought his attention to me. “Ashlynne? Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  I sighed. Chewed on the inside of my lip a second or two. Sighed again and tried to weigh out my choices. Option one: tell him the truth. Ask Shelton Decker to make Will Decker let me play the way I wanted. With a few choice words, I’d have the story we were on for the magazine, rather than Will for the paper. And wouldn’t that make for a grand first edition of the newly reprised publication.

  Option two: take the same road his grandson had chosen. Say nothing and hope the gesture would encourage Will to let me play.

  “Nothing,” I said. “We’re just trying to decide the best way to write this piece we’ve been out getting the initial story on.”

  “And what piece is that?”

  I looked at Will. He placed his hat at the end of his lap near his knee. “Big Guy, Rob Matthews found some unmarked graves over on his land last night.”

  “Unmarked?”

  “There are stones,” I said. “But nothing saying who is buried in the graves.”

  “You don’t say? Hunh.” Then to Will, “How many are we looking at here, son?”

  “I’m venturing about a hundred.”

  Shelton Decker tapped the pen several times on a legal pad. “What’s your strategy?”

  It was Will’s turn to sigh. “I’ve asked Ashlynne to do a little research for me. Look up Native Americans in our area. But I’m leaning toward another thought.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ferguson ran through this area just before the Battle of King’s Mountain. I know that much from every local history class and Boy Scout field trip.”

  My eyes slid from Will to Shelton Decker and back to Will.

  “Right, right,” Shelton said. “Go on.”

  “What I want Ashlynne to find out,” he said, smiling at me, albeit forced, “is whether or not any skirmishes before King’s Mountain took place near here.”

  I cleared my throat. �
��I also wondered about slaves. Could Rob Matthew’s land be a place where slaves had been buried?”

  Shelton’s brow shot up. “Could be.” He tapped on the pad a few more times. “Will, call the historical society.”

  “I had already planned on it.”

  “And the courthouse. See what’s there. But here’s what I want you two to do. I want you both to research it and I want you both to write it up. One for the magazine and one for the newspaper. Let’s let the two publications play off each other a little. And, for heaven’s sake, let’s make sure we don’t rush here.”

  I sucked in my breath in anticipation as Will exhaled in exasperation.

  “And call Rob. Tell him not to go spouting off, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve got to be careful. If we say too much too fast, we’ll have every ghostbuster and soothsayer out there descending on his property. Not to mention any number of rights activists.”

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  “Yes, sir,” Will said. “Is that all?”

  “For now.”

  We both stood. Will stepped back so I could walk to the door ahead of him. When I reached it, I looked over my shoulder at Shelton Decker and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Decker,” I said.

  He nodded. “See you at the story meeting, children.”

  “See you, Big Guy.”

  I turned to leave, but Shelton Decker’s voice stopped me. “Ashlynne?”

  Both Will and I looked back.

  “Yes?” I swallowed. “Sir?”

  “You seem to have a little something on your ‘get-along.’ ”

  I ran my hand along my backside. “Yes, sir,” I said with a frown. “Mud.” I looked at Will. “I need better shoes, apparently.”

  William gave the faintest grin as we started back out the door and for that briefest of seconds, I felt his approval.

  “And William?”

  We looked back again. “Yes, sir.”