Buried Dreams

by Brendan DuBois

  "Another little history lesson, I'm afraid. You see, all the great Viking sagas mentioned Leif Eriksson discovering a new world, the place he called Vinland, where he established a settlement. But there's a problem with that site up in Newfoundland, even though it is a legitimate Viking settlement. You see, wild grapes never grew that far north. Vinland has to be farther south. Not Newfoundland."

  Again, I looked at the rock. Some of the scratches looked like letters. "A Viking rock? This?"

  "In a way, that's what the old histories of the town state. Supposedly this was found near Weymouth's Point, south of where you live. Thorvald was supposedly killed while exploring Vinland, and his body was buried where he fell."

  'Who killed him? The Indians?"

  "The same. Though the Vikings called them skraelings, an insulting term meaning wretch or something. So about a hundred years ago, this rock was found near Weymouth's Point, and those scratches on top of the rock are supposedly Viking runes, marking the burial spot of Thorvald, here, at Tyler Beach."

  Out on the fields, some kids were still playing with their kites.

  "Some story," I said.

  He laughed. "Yeah. Some story. And it's all crap. If those are runes, then I'm the pope. Best I can figure it, some land developer in the late 1800s came up with the tale, to help move some beachfront property. That's the story of the rock, though the town museum is too polite to say anything about it."

  I thought about the first time I had met him. "So if the Vikings never came here, why are you out searching? Looking for something else?"

  He looked at me and there was something in his eyes, something haunting, like a man seeing a dream from a very great distance, a distance he wasn't sure he'd be able to cross. "I never said the Vikings didn't come here, Lewis. I'm sure they did. And I'm going to find the evidence. Just you wait and see."

  Back in my spot in the pew, I folded my arms as the priest continued the funeral mass. Rain continued to spatter against the stained glass. I found that my eyes kept on turning to the casket, not more than a handful of feet away. In that box and on the cushions were the remains of a man who had traveled the world, and loved and laughed and had lost, and through all of his days, had always fought to reach his dream.

  Always.

  An inadvertent encounter at the center of town one day, after I picked up at my mail at the post office, led to lunch at the Common Grill & Grill. After lobster rolls and chips for the both of us, I said, "Okay. Vikings. Why do you think they came here?"

  He took a swallow from a Diet Coke. "They had to come somewhere south, didn't they?"

  "Sure. But why New England? And why New Hampshire? We've got the shortest coastline in America. It seems the odds would be against it."

  "I agree," he said. "Lewis, look. When I joined the army, they found out I had an aptitude for numbers. So I crunched numbers for the army, all thirty years that I was in their service. And when I came out of the service, I came back home to Tyler, crunched numbers again as an accountant. Had my own little firm. Me and the wife. More numbers, more crunching. Pretty dull, don't you think?"

  "Seeing how terrified I am every April 15, I can see how it wouldn't be that dull."

  He smiled, reached back, and pulled out his wallet. "But all those times, I had a dream I was following, a dream I had when I was a little kid. Look." From his wallet he retrieved a folded-over piece of white paper, which he handed over. I pulled it apart and saw a blurred photocopy of what looked to be a coin.

  "All right," I said. "A coin. What about it?"

  He put a finger on the paper. "That's a coin that was found up in Brooklin, Maine, in an excavation of an Indian camp near Blue Hill Bay. It's a Viking coin, minted between 1067 and 1093 A.D. Get that? About sixty-five years after the Viking settlement up in Newfoundland, a Viking coin found its way down to Maine."

  "Maybe it got there through trade," I said. "Doesn't mean that it fell out of a Viking pouch on the Maine coastline."

  "True," Jon admitted. "Except for one other thing. You see, I've seen another coin, just like that."

  "Where?"

  "On Tyler Beach. Right after a storm."

  I looked in his eyes, to see if he was joking, but there was nothing humorous in that gaze. "All right. When?"

  'When I was kid. Thirteen years old. Even back then I was interested in history, and I did a lot of beachcombing, especially after big storms. This one was some unnamed nor'easter that came through, and I dug around and looked around, and found this same kind of coin. Right here in Tyler Beach."

  I folded up the piece of paper, handed it back to him. "Where is it now?"

  He shook his head. "Blame it on greed, blame it on stupidity, blame it on a younger brother. I brought it home and my parents didn't think anything about it, but my younger brother, Ray, he said I should sell it. To a coin collector, down in Newburyport. And whatever money I got, I could buy some model airplanes or some damn silly thing. You see, Lewis, money was always tight when I was growing up. And maybe that's why I was good at numbers, keeping track of every spare penny or nickel. But we didn't have an allowance, didn't have much of anything. So we rode our bikes down to Newburyport and got a whopping ten dollars for that coin. I thought it was wonderful, and even back then, Ray was a sharp one. Demanded two bucks for a finder's fee or something."

  "Did you know it was a Viking coin when you sold it?"

  "Hell, no," he said, his voice loud enough to cause the other patrons to look around at us. "It was only years later, when I saw a story about the Maine coin, that I realized what I had found. But by then it was too late. The coin dealer had died, his store closed up, his records gone who knows where. Still blame Ray, years later." A furtive smile. "Even now, he's a wheeler-dealer. Runs an antique store up in Porter, manages to sell some things from me that I do find in my searches, old English and American coins, mostly. But I had that evidence, right in my hand, Lewis. Right in my little hands, and I know that they came here."

  "You're going to need more than just a coin," I said.

  He nodded slyly. "Oh, I've got a couple of leads. Just you wait. A couple of things I'm checking out."

  "But where ---"

  He interrupted me, saying, "And speaking of checking things out, I think you should spring for the check. Don't you have an expense account or something?"

  I picked up the check. "I certainly do."

  Now the service was winding down, and I looked again at the sparse congregation, searching for that particular face of Ray Ericson, whom I had met exactly once, and who was the sole surviving relative of Jon Ericson.

  And who wasn't here. At his brother's funeral.

  'I turned around, faced the front, where the priest was making the sign of the cross over the mortal remains of one Jon Ericson.

  Perhaps feeling guilt over having stuck me with the check, or just feeling lonely, Jon invited me to a bachelor's dinner at his small home in Tyler. It was a traditional Cape Cod, set off one of the side streets that came out of High Street, one of the main avenues from the small downtown to the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. Inside it was neater than I expected for a bachelor ---- my own home sometimes has piles of newspapers, magazines, and books on the floor that involve a lot of tricky footwork, going from one room to a next --- but when I pointed that out, Jon just laughed and said, "Army training. Always have to be neat."

  Dinner was steaks on an outdoor grill, mashed potatoes ---"my own secret recipe," he said, "sprinkle some grated Parmesan cheese through it" --- and a salad, and for dessert he took me into his office.

  There the neatness was cluttered up by homemade shelves along the walls, the shelves clustered with bits of stone, old coins, and barnacle-encrusted brasswork. "My collection," he said, motioning to it before sitting behind a wide oak desk "Such as it is. Stuff that either I didn't want to give to my brother for sale, or stuff he thought wouldn't move."

  I looked along the shelves, picking up some of the coins, rubbing the smooth metal, wonderin
g what it must have been like to have the coins safely in one's pocket or luggage and then to fall desperately into the cold waters of the Atlantic, off the coast of Tyler, drowning within sight of safety. The coins felt old, the compasses and brasswork felt old, the whole damn room felt old. There was a smell to the room, as well, of dust and salt and things kept underwater for a very long time before being brought up to the surface. At his desk, Jon switched on a green-shaded lamp and reached behind him, to a crowded bookcase. He took an old volume out, the leather binding cracked and worn, and opened it up to what looked to be a familiar page for him.

  "Come here, let me show you something," he said. I came around to his side of the desk and looked down at the book, which was opened to a woodcut illustration, showing an open field, with raised mounds, with men using teams of horses and plows to break through the mounds.

  "Viking ruins? Like the ones up in Newfoundland?"

  "That's what I'm thinking," he said, a thick finger tracing the old illustration. "This is a history of Wentworth County, written in 1850. There’s this drawing and a two-paragraph reference, talking about a farm in Tyler that had these odd mounds on top of it, and how they were plowed under so that the farmer could expand his fields. Thing is, the Indians in this part of the world never had any structures like these. And this illustration looks exactly like the mounds up in Newfoundland."

  "And who was the farmer back then?"

  He sighed. "Damned if I know. I've gone through old newspapers, journals, microfilms, books, deeds, and about anything else with a written word on it. Not one of them ever mentions a farm in Tyler and old mounds on them that were plowed under. Not a single one." He tapped the illustration with his finger. "But there it is. The problem is, where's the location? There were scores of farms in Tyler at about that time, and you know what the development around here has been like. Chances are, that old farmland is under a parking lot or an office complex or the Interstate, for all I know. Still... those mounds and that coin, Lewis, are the best evidence I have about the Viking settlement here."

  I kept quiet. Jon quickly broke the silence. "I know what you're thinking. Some evidence. One illustration in an old book, and the memory of a young boy that he in fact found a Viking coin, nearly a half century ago. But that's what I have." He closed the book and then looked out to the dark corners of the office, where the table lamp didn't illuminate. "That's what I have. A brother who I can hardly stand, and an ex-wife who got tired of traveling and tired of my tales, and who's living in Oregon. And a dream I won't give up on. Not ever. Not ever."

  So I joined the procession, flanking the casket as we went back down the center aisle. The organist was playing some sort of recessional tune, and the sparse congregation stood up as we made our way to the open double doors. Again I looked around to see if Jon's younger brother had snuck in during the service, though I knew the chances of that happening were quite slim indeed.

  Just before going outside, the church cloth was removed from the smooth metal top of the casket, replaced by the American flag. The men from the funeral home worked in the quick, spare movements of those who deal with the dead and the grieving week after week. I grasped one of the metal handles as we lifted the casket up, the metal cart underneath pulled away and folded up. We stepped out onto the wet steps, and I looked out to the parking lot, knowing that no, I would not see Jon's younger brother out there, for now Ray Ericson was more than just a brother, he was a suspect.

  For three nights ago, I had gotten an excited phone call from Jon Ericson, saying he had finally found it, the evidence that Vikings had lived in our town of Tyler, and it seemed that Soon after that, Ray had gone to Jon's house, where two shots from a 9mm pistol were fired into the back of Jon's head as he sat at his old desk in his old room.

  The rain was cold on my face, as we wrestled the casket into the rear of the coach.

  Chapter Two

  The first and only time I met Ray Ericson I went to see Jon after borrowing a book of his about the old lifeboat stations that were sprinkled up and down this stretch of the New England coastline, one of which eventually became the building that's my home.

  There was a car parked in the driveway that wasn't Jon's --- a small blue Dodge Colt with dented rear bumper --- and when I went up to the door, I could make out shouting from inside. Just as I reached the cement steps leading into the front door, the door flew open and a short man tumbled out, built like a fireplug. He made it to the lawn, standing and swaying, and then fixed a bleary gaze in my direction. His bald head was wide and built close to his shoulders, his face was covered with stubble, and he wore a short-sleeve lime-green polo shirt that exposed his arms and the elaborate tattoos on both limbs.

  "What the hell are you looking at?" he demanded.

  "I haven't the foggiest idea," I said.

  This answer seemed to irritate him, for he reared back and tossed a punch my way. I moved quick but not quick enough, and the punch grazed my shoulder and right ear. I stepped back and swerved, and when he came at me again, I got around his punch, stuck out a foot, and pulled him past me. He fell to the front lawn with a satisfying thump. I was deciding my options when Jon was next to me, looking down at the man, who was breathing hard, face very red, as he rolled over on his back.

  "Ray," Jon said in a soft voice. "That's enough. You get along, right now, or I cut you off totally."

  "The hell with you," he said.

  "No, the hell with you," Jon said, arms folded. "I know you want more coins, more artifacts. But I'm doing what's important for me. Whatever I find extra goes to you. But I won't make a change in the way I work."

  Now Ray's mood changed, as he sat up, dirt and a couple of strands of grass stuck to his back. "Jon, c'mon, you know your stuff moves really well, and you know you've got the nose for finding good stuff, really good stuff that can set the both of us up. And what do you waste your time on? Norsemen! Here, in Tyler Beach!"

  Jon said, "The discussion is over, or I stop giving you anything.

  All right? Now, get up, apologize to my friend Lewis, and please leave."

  Well, two out of three ain't bad. He did get up and he did leave, but not one more word was said to either of us. He got into the Colt, the back of his neck quite red, and slammed the door shut. As he backed out of the driveway, slammed the brakes, and then sped off, I said, "Nice guy."

  "Nope. My brother. Definitely not a nice guy."

  "Well, nice tattoos. I especially liked the flaming skull."

  Jon sighed. "One of the many things he picked up in prison. Come on, let's go in."

  Which is what we did.

  I followed the short funeral procession from the church to the High Street Cemetery, driving behind a black Lincoln Town Car that was right behind the coach, or the hearse, if one wanted to be more traditional. The Town Car contained the workers from the Tyler Funeral Home, and I could not imagine what was being said in that dark car as we made our way to the burial ground. The rain was lightening up and my headlights were on. The little parade went up Lafayette Road, whore a police officer in an orange raincoat stood at the intersection of Lafayette and High Street, holding up traffic for a moment, and we turned right, heading to Jon's final resting place.

  The night after meeting his brother, I sat with Jon in his office, as he pulled out a photocopy of an old town map of the beach. He pointed to a little square on the map and said, "Recognize it?"

  "Nope."

  "You should," he said. "It's where you're living."

  He looked around his office and said, with a touch of dismay in his voice, "My house was built in 1953 by the Hanratty Construction Company. It was first sold to Tom Hanratty, the son of Greg Hanratty, the owner of the company. Three other families have owned it since then besides me: the Glynns, the O'Hallorans, and the Peaces. That's the history of this place. Not much, but I know who built it and I know who's lived in it. And you... you've lived in one of the most historical sites in Tyler, and you don't know squat."

&
nbsp; "I know it was a lifeboat station," I said, a little defensiveness creeping into my voice. "And I know it was officers' quarters when Samson Point was a coastal artillery site."

  "Really? Did you know that over time, that lifeboat station was responsible for saving more than two hundred lives from shipwrecks up and down the New Hampshire seacoast? Did you know that one of the officers who resided in your home as an artillery officer became a general in World War I? And did you know that for a while, your house was going to be razed for a bomb shelter, during the cold war, when Samson Point was a radar station looking for Soviet bombers?"

  "No, teacher," I said, trying to keep my voice soft. "I didn't know."

  He took a breath, seemed to relax. "Sorry. I do go on, I know. I get passionate about history, and its mysteries." Then his head tilted some and said, "Speaking of mysteries... When Samson Point was shut down, back in 1963, your house had been used as a record storage area. Then it was transferred to the Department of Interior, and there it sat, year after year, boarded up and dusty. Until you came along."

  "Unh-hunh." Since I had been retired from the Department of Defense (officially, for medical reasons, unofficially, for being the sole survivor of a particularly nasty and illegal training disaster), the question of how I actually got to live in this particular building occasionally came up with friends and acquaintances I've made during my time at Tyler Beach. And I have yet to have come up with a satisfactory reply for any of them. Like tonight.

  "Not much of an answer," he said.

  "Sorry, didn't hear a question there."

  "All right," Jon said, a hesitant smile on his face. "I've always wondered how a house that belonged to the government came to be in your possession."

  "Just one of those things."

  "Really?"