The Lost Kingdom

by Matthew J. Kirby

  Well, to begin with, I thought it needed to be more snakelike, with a coil and more curves. So I began drawing the slide and curl of a snake, adding scales and a tail and a forked tongue flicking the air. Then I drew lines where I thought it could be cut, but in my nervousness I misjudged and ran out of snake at eight pieces. I had failed the test.

  I tried to cover it up. “It’s all wrong, Mr. Franklin. I’m sorry.”

  But Mr. Franklin slipped it out from under my hands. He pulled out his spectacles and wrapped them around his ears, and then studied my drawing, rubbing his chin.

  “I can try again,” I said.

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Franklin said. “What you’ve done is quite good. I’ll just make this headpiece represent all of New England together, and perhaps combine some of the others. It’s a striking image. Thank you, Billy. I will print this in my gazette one day soon.”

  I was surprised at his approval, but I welcomed it. “Thank you, sir.” And though my mother had always cautioned me against the sin of pride, I allowed myself a small transgression.

  My father nodded. “Very well done, Billy.”

  And when he said it, I sinned a little more.

  Mr. Franklin pulled off his spectacles and regarded me with narrowed eyes. “I think you may be right, John. Billy seems to have a keen eye, and a keen mind as well. I think he would be a valuable addition to our society of philosophers.”

  Society?

  “Have you been persuaded?” my father asked him.

  “I have,” Mr. Franklin said. “But I think we should find out if Billy is willing to rise to the challenge.” He turned to me. “Are you prepared to accompany your father into the frontier, lad?”

  I stood up as tall as I could and was surprised to see that I was almost as tall as Mr. Franklin. “Yes, sir.”

  “It will be perilous,” Mr. Franklin said.

  “I am prepared,” I said firmly.

  Mr. Franklin nodded. “Then welcome to the expedition.”

  My father clapped his hand on my shoulder, and in my excitement, it felt like the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  Mr. Franklin gave me a wry smile. “Don’t thank me until you make it back home safely.” He turned to my father. “Have you told him where you’re going?”

  “Not yet,” my father said. “Until moments ago, he did not even know I thought to bring him.”

  Mr. Franklin nodded. “Then we should tell him, shouldn’t we?”

  “Have you heard of Prince Madoc, Billy?” Mr. Franklin asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “He was a Welsh prince, and according to legend, he sailed from his kingdom across the seas and landed in the Americas nearly six hundred years ago. Centuries before Christopher Columbus or Jamestown or Plymouth.”

  “Is that true?” I asked.

  “It would seem to be,” my father said. “If the rumors can be believed.”

  “What rumors?” I asked.

  Mr. Franklin sat in one of the chairs, leaning forward with both hands on his cane. “Several backwoods traders, and a few missionaries, have reported encounters with Welsh-speaking Indians out in the frontier, beyond the Ohio Country. It would seem there is a lost Welsh kingdom somewhere out there.”

  “And we mean to find it,” my father said. “That is the purpose of the expedition you are joining.”

  “Why do you want to find it?” I asked.

  “Allies,” Mr. Franklin said. “The French want the Ohio Country. Badly enough, I’d wager, that they will soon attempt to take it by force. War is imminent. If England can secure the support of Madoc’s kingdom, between us we can squeeze the French out. This expedition is a diplomatic mission.”

  “And a scientific one,” my father said.

  Mr. Franklin nodded, his eyes closed. “Of course, John.”

  “Mr. Franklin?” I said.

  “Yes, Billy?”

  “What did you mean when you said I was joining a society?”

  “Ah, the American Philosophical Society,” Mr. Franklin said. “Your father and I founded it ten years ago. It is a group of philosophers, each interested in a different aspect of the natural world. Your father is the Botanist. We have a Mathematician, a Mechanician, a Chemist, and others. Each philosophical branch has a seat. We even have an Electrician. You will make their acquaintance soon enough.”

  “And what is your branch, sir?” I asked.

  My father chuckled. “Mr. Franklin does what Mr. Franklin wants to do. His seat is … malleable.”

  Mr. Franklin tipped his head. “I won’t disagree with that.”

  “And what does the Society do?” I asked.

  “When we started,” my father said, “we wanted to create a forum for sharing knowledge among the colonies. We corresponded with New Yorkers, Marylanders, Virginians. But within a few years, it became obvious that we needed to adjust our mandate.”

  Mr. Franklin cleared his throat. “You see, Billy, the Philosophical Society is now a secret society. It was once our custom to disseminate our discoveries and insights for the greater good of all mankind. But as the French and Spanish began to make threats against the colonies, we realized we had a much larger duty and purpose. So seven years ago we ceased operating publicly and became what we are today.”

  That aroused my curiosity. “And what is that?”

  “Patriots,” he said. “Philosophers and patriots.”

  My father agreed. “We use our knowledge and discoveries to secure the safety of the colonies. We protect them, though they are unaware of us.”

  As my father spoke, the image of him shifted in my mind. He grew in stature and mystery. There were things about him I didn’t know, had never suspected. He had always been admired as a botanist, but I had no inkling that he belonged to this group of important men.

  “The Philosophical Society,” I whispered.

  “Yes,” Mr. Franklin said. “And now you are one of us, trusted with the knowledge of our existence. I hope our trust is well placed.”

  I swallowed. “It is, sir.”

  “Our enemies surround us,” he said. “A fact about which you are now all too well aware.” He turned to my father. “How soon can your team be ready?”

  “We’ll need at least a week,” my father said.

  “Let us hope that is enough.”

  Shortly after that, Mr. Franklin had my father’s crates loaded onto his wagon and returned to Philadelphia. We watched him trundle down the lane, and then we went to work weeding in the upper kitchen garden. As I moved down the cabbages, I came across a spot where the produce had been trampled, the place where the French spy had crouched. I froze.

  My father bobbed up and down along a nearby row of carrots, with clutches of weeds in his hands. When he saw me, he stopped and came over, then noticed the ruined vegetables. “It’s all right, son.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “They found what they came for. They won’t be coming back.”

  “Are you certain?” I asked.

  “Yes. You’re perfectly safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  I wanted him to still think me brave. So I smiled and nodded.

  He let go of me, and we went back to work.

  “Having said that,” my father lowered his voice. “Best not to tell your mother about the expedition just yet.”

  “She doesn’t know?”

  “She knows I am leaving soon. She does not know you’re coming with me.”

  “Oh.” If my mother decided she did not want me to leave, then I would not be leaving. “How will we convince her?”

  “We will do nothing,” he said. “I will speak with her when the time is right.”

  “Do you think she will allow it?”

  “I will do my best to convince her.”

  Over the next few days, I spent a great deal of time with my father in the garden. “To help me, you’ll need to know the proper labels of things,” he said, and he began instructing me in
the classifications of the great Swedish botanist Linnaeus, taken from my father’s cherished copy of the Genera Plantarum. “You must first understand what is known if you are to recognize what is unknown.”

  He taught me the Latin names of plants, and the way he recited them, they sounded like a prayer. But as I repeated them to myself, they struck my core like an arcane incantation. Rhododendron maximum. Ursa leguinium. Panax quinquefolium. They felt to me like keys, the real names known only by a few, and with this initiation, I could now unlock their secrets and power.

  But what I enjoyed even more about my time in the garden was making drawings. My father wanted me to practice. He gave me my own paper, ink, and quill, and a board that rested on my lap as I sat in the dirt and the mulch. Each day, I would simply wander until I found a flower, a shrub, or a tree that I wanted to know better, and I would spend the afternoon drawing and figuring it out.

  “That’s a beautiful picture,” my mother said, two days after Mr. Franklin had come.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It is called Kalmia angustifolia.”

  My mother laughed, a gentle, flowering sound that belonged there in the garden. “You remind me of your father out here. But I prefer to call it sheep laurel,” she said. “Its common name.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that sounds like what it is, not what a group of botanists have decided to call it.”

  I looked at the Latin label I had written beneath the drawing. And below that I added Sheep Laurel. I looked up at my mother.

  She gave me an approving nod. “Now we know what it is.” Then she looked over her shoulder. “Your father has recently involved you a great deal in his studies.”

  I focused my eyes on the drawing so I didn’t have to look into her eyes. “Yes, he has.”

  Did she know about the expedition?

  “The two of you out here,” she said, “lately, I suspect some conspiracy between you.”

  I looked up. Her mild expression unnerved me. “What — what do you mean?”

  “Your father and the Society have done much for the protection of Pennsylvania.”

  “Society?”

  She smiled. “Has he told you where you are going?”

  I swallowed.

  “Your father has determined to take you, hasn’t he?”

  “I, uh —” What was I to say?

  “Your father is as easy to interpret as a Puritan sermon, Billy. And you are no better.”

  She knew. Of course she knew, and it was best to be forthright with her. My father had not spoken with her yet, so I resolved to ask her permission, myself. If I was old enough to accompany him, I was old enough to do that.

  I laid my drawing board aside and got to my feet. “We are going in search of the lost kingdom of Prince Madoc.”

  “The Welsh? In the frontier?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She laid the flat of her hand against her chest, touching her neck.

  I mustered the arguments for my case. “It is time for me to begin a trade, and I would like to follow after Father in his business. The journey will be dangerous, but I will be careful. I must go out into the world eventually, so —”

  “Yes, you must.”

  “I must?” Her agreement surprised me. But I wasn’t exactly sure what we agreed upon. “Are you giving me your blessing to go?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She brought her hand down. “You are certainly old enough. And I know your father would do his utmost to keep you safe. I only wonder if this is really what you want.”

  That wasn’t the objection I’d been preparing for, and I took a step forward. “It is what I want.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  She looked down at the drawing I’d laid aside. “Your brother James is a farmer. Moses and Isaac run an apothecary in town. I’ve watched you for years as you’ve watched your father, and I just want you to know you don’t have to follow his trail. You are like him in so many ways, but unlike him in others.”

  “I want to follow him.”

  My mother studied me, and I had the feeling that she didn’t quite believe me. But a moment later she smiled. “Then I am pleased for you, and you have my blessing. You leave soon, do you not?”

  “In five days.”

  She nodded. “Then your father and I must talk about preparations.”

  “He may be angry with me for telling you myself.”

  She laughed her gentle laugh. “How can he be? You told me nothing I had not already guessed.”

  The next few days passed quickly. We packed the provisions my mother worked hard to prepare. Hard biscuits, dried fruits, smoked and salted meats, though not in great quantities. We expected to do some hunting and fishing along the way. We also prepared several of my father’s special crates for specimens. I remembered Mr. Franklin had said my father wouldn’t be able to collect on this expedition, but apparently he planned to anyway. He filled another box with his tools and instruments, and one with my supplies: paper, bottles of ink, and a bundle of quills. All of this we loaded onto our wagon.

  I hardly slept the night before we were to leave. Anticipation tossed me in my bed, and my younger brother’s snoring across the room made it even harder to keep hold of the little sleep I found. I was awake when the pale light of the setting moon vanished from the room. I was awake when a brief rainstorm came through and broke the day’s heat. I was awake for the screeching of a distant cat fight somewhere on the farm. I was awake when the first cock crowed, and upon hearing it I gratefully rose and dressed.

  Downstairs, I found the kitchen empty and cold. I was the first one up, and in the dim dawn I coaxed the cooking fire back to life. I sliced myself some bread and spread it with butter from the crock. Then I sat near the hearth and held my bread out to let the flames breathe on my arm and melt the butter.

  Something shifted above me, waking up the floorboards, and some moments later I heard footsteps on the stairs. I stood up, thinking to greet my father. But my mother walked into the room, still adjusting her house bonnet.

  “Billy, you’re up.”

  “Good morning, Mother.”

  “Your father will be down in a few moments.” She tied on her apron.

  When my father came into the room, he wore his gray wig, the one that made him look older and more distinguished. My mother made us a breakfast of mushed oats mixed with milk. But instead of honey or molasses, she sheared some rare sugar from the loaf to sweeten it. My father watched her, and I watched him watching her. Perhaps it was the firelight, but there was a glow in his eyes that he never had for anything or anyone else. Not even his plants.

  “Both of you, eat,” she said, busying herself with things that didn’t need doing. She poked at the fire and then straightened the stack of firewood. She wiped off the table twice. And then she got out a broom and began sweeping even though I remembered my sister Lizzy doing it the night before.

  My father left his food and went to her. He put one hand on her back and took hold of the broom with the other. He gently pulled it from her hands, set it aside, and then he gathered her into his arms. I looked down at my oats, a little embarrassed.

  “Everything has been taken care of,” he said. “James will tend to the farm, and Isaac and Moses said they would try to come out to help as business allows.”

  “That’s not it,” she said. “It never is. You know that.”

  My father sighed. “All shall be well. Haven’t I always come home safe and sound?”

  I looked up.

  “But this isn’t like your other expeditions,” she said. “The dangers —”

  “Are no greater nor worse.”

  My mother pushed back to arm’s length and looked up at him. “That’s not true.”

  “The dangers are merely different this time.” He pulled her back in. “We shall return safely. You shall see.”

  They stood together for some moments. I stared at my food again, and for me the kitchen
held an awkward silence. I was still hungry. I took a bite, and only after it was in my mouth realized that my chewing was the loudest thing in the room. So I just swallowed it all down whole.

  A moment later, my mother took a deep breath and said, “It’s time.”

  My father nodded.

  “I’ll gather everyone. You and Billy collect your things.” She left the kitchen.

  I got to my feet but then hesitated. My father looked at the space before him where my mother had been, arms at his sides. He appeared vulnerable in a way I hadn’t ever seen him. I waited.

  He stared.

  “Father?”

  His back straightened. “Yes, Billy. Let’s be off.” And he left the kitchen.

  I followed him to the stable, and together we led out the horses and harnessed them to the wagon. My father pulled on his wide-brimmed hat and we went around the house to the lane, where my mother had collected my siblings. My father embraced each of them. “Mary, Lizzy, Ann. Be a help to your mother. Johnny, you help James when he asks for it.”

  I shook my brother’s hand and hugged my sisters. Then I hugged my mother.

  “Keep to your path,” she said. “Whichever you choose.”

  “I will,” I said. “I promise.”

  My father embraced her one more time and kissed her.

  “Farewell,” he said. “Come, Billy.”

  And with that, we climbed up onto the wagon and started down the lane. I knew the rest of my family would be waiting and waving behind us, just as I had always done before. I resisted the urge to turn and look back at them, and instead watched my father’s forward gaze, intent on the horizon.

  “Do you know that we always wave to you?” I said.

  “I do.”

  “But you never turn to look.”

  “One good-bye is sufficient,” he said.

  I frowned, and he saw it.

  “Partings are not a talent like your drawing,” he said, his voice softening. “They do not get easier with practice.”

  His answer took me aback. All these years, all his expeditions, I had thought him cold and indifferent to our farewell ritual. But that wasn’t true. A prolonged good-bye was simply that much harder for him.