The Ghost of Poplar Point

by Cynthia DeFelice

  “Okay,” he said. “Except how will you know when it’s the right time?”

  “I won’t,” Allie answered. “I have no control over these pronouncements, remember? We just have to hope one will pop out so we can record it.”

  “What if it doesn’t?” Dub asked.

  Allie shrugged. “If my ghost doesn’t make me talk, I’ll just babble something.”

  Dub nodded. “It could work. But Janelle might be a problem. What if she tells her father about you horning in on ‘her’ part?”

  Allie shrugged. “She might. But the way I see it, we’ve got nothing to lose. And if all goes well, we’ll have the words we need on tape.”

  Nine

  Dub left for home, and Allie said good night to her parents and went upstairs. On the way to her room, she stopped to see Michael, who was in bed, surrounded as usual by his Galactic Warrior figures.

  “Hi, Mike,” she said, curling up beside him. She didn’t want to remind him of the girl they had both seen during dinner, since he seemed to have forgotten about her. But things were happening too fast for her to keep up. She was worried that if she went to sleep, she’d have another upsetting dream that Michael would share.

  “How about if I sleep in here with you tonight?” she asked.

  Michael nodded, his face lighting up. “I’ll tell you a story!” he offered.

  Michael loved to spin tales about what the good guys and bad guys in the Galactic Warrior universe were doing. Allie usually listened willingly, amazed at the way he was able to keep track of the personalities and secret powers of so many different characters. She got them all mixed up, no matter how hard she tried to pay attention. Whenever she asked a question to clear things up, Michael would answer patiently, “Because Claw-Girl is a good guy, Allie, don’t you remember?”

  “I’m going to tell the story tonight,” Allie said.

  “Okay,” said Michael. He liked hearing stories as much as telling them. “Will it be good guys against bad guys?”

  “Absolutely,” said Allie, stalling for time. She had the vague idea of telling Michael a story that would help him not be afraid if the ghostly figure appeared again, or if a terrifying dream came to both of them in their sleep. She just had to think of how to do it.

  “And a battle?” Michael asked. He loved battles.

  “Wait and see,” Allie teased. Then she began: “Once upon a time there was a boy named Michael.” That was always a safe start.

  Michael sighed contentedly and waited to hear more.

  “He was one of the good guys,” she went on, “and he had superpowers that no one knew about, not even his parents.”

  Michael smiled at this.

  “The only person who knew was his big sister, Allie. It was their secret.”

  Michael giggled. “What were his secret powers?” he asked.

  “Michael saw things nobody else could see. From far, far away, with his super vision, he could see people who were in trouble—”

  “Like the crying girl,” Michael said matter-offactly.

  “Yes,” said Allie. She spoke carefully, trying to make a game of it, knowing that Michael had no way of understanding that the girl he had seen was dead. “Since he was a good guy, Michael wanted to help the girl who was scared and sad.”

  Michael nodded solemnly.

  “So he listened when she talked, even though he didn’t understand the language of the planet she came from.”

  Michael nodded again, and Allie felt herself growing inspired.

  “Sometimes Michael saw the people who needed help when he was sleeping. They sent him dreams showing why they were sad and scared. This was when Michael’s secret powers came in especially handy.” She glanced at Michael, who was listening intently.

  “Because then,” she went on, “Michael told Allie all about what he saw, and then she knew how to help the good guys battle the bad guys.”

  “Michael and Allie are a team,” Michael said.

  “That’s right,” Allie agreed. “So you need to be brave if a bad dream comes, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Michael. His eyes were blinking and trying to close. “Is that the end?” he asked in a sleepy voice.

  “Yes,” Allie whispered. “Good night.” Then she added softly, “Sleep tight.”

  She could hope, anyway.

  Ten

  Allie’s wish for Michael to sleep peacefully was just that: a wish. Several hours later she woke from a dreadful nightmare, startled and sweating, to find him thrashing and moaning beside her. Quickly she shook him awake and gave him a reassuring hug.

  “I had a dream,” he mumbled. “Like you said.”

  “I know,” Allie said in what she hoped was a soothing manner. Her own nerves were frayed by the terror she’d felt during her dream, but she didn’t want to communicate her unease to Michael. “You want to tell me about it?” she asked after a moment.

  Michael’s voice was slow and husky from sleep when he answered. “The girl … and everybody … they were running and crying. There were horses. And the girl … she didn’t know which way to go. She was looking for her brother and her mother and father near a tree. It was funny-looking.”

  “What was?”

  “The tree,” Michael answered patiently. “But she couldn’t find them.” He paused and thought for a while.

  “Anything else?” Allie urged.

  “The bad guys were shooting and killing people. Everything was on fire.”

  Allie nodded. Michael was describing her dream exactly. She’d had the sense that the girl and her family and all the others had been taken by surprise, by a force much more powerful than they. Since they were outnumbered and unprepared to fight back, there hadn’t been an actual battle.

  She tried to remember the dream in all its detail before it became indistinct, the way dreams do when wakefulness comes and the real world intrudes. Something Michael had said caught in her mind. The girl had been near a “funny-looking tree.” Allie, too, had seen this tree in her dream. All of the tree’s branches grew upward except for one. Stouter than all the others, it grew downward from the trunk at a peculiar angle. It was familiar, somehow, but she didn’t know why.

  “Are you okay, Mike?” she asked gently.

  Michael nodded. “I was brave,” he murmured.

  “Yes, you were,” Allie said. “Very brave. Now go back to sleep.”

  Allie lay awake, replaying the dream in her mind, as Michael’s breathing settled into a shallow, steady rhythm.

  The girl was the same as the one whose face she’d seen so clearly during dinner. Was she a Seneca Indian? Her hair wasn’t braided, as Karen’s had been in her attempt to look “authentic” for Miss Lunsford. She wasn’t wearing a headband, beaded or otherwise. Nor, Allie realized with growing consternation, had her clothing been made of tanned leather hides. She’d been wearing a dress; yes, definitely a dress, made of blue calico. No moccasins, either. Her feet had been bare.

  Thinking hard, Allie pictured the buildings that were burning. They weren’t longhouses but wooden cabins, much like Allie imagined the settlers had lived in.

  Unable to sleep, she was overcome with doubt that she and Dub were right about the girl being Seneca. Allie felt as clueless and confused as she had the day the ghost first appeared.

  Eleven

  On their way to the opera house the following morning, Allie told Dub about the dream she and Michael had shared.

  “I sure hope we’re not wrong about the ghost being Seneca,” he said. “Have you got the tape recorder?”

  Allie patted the pouch on the front of her hooded sweatshirt. She’d been glad the morning was cool, because the pocket of the sweatshirt was perfect for hiding the tape recorder. She could easily slip her hand into it to turn the machine on without calling any attention to what she was doing.

  “Good. Because it’s more important than ever to get some of those words on tape,” Dub said. “I mean, if it isn’t Seneca you’re speaking, we have to start
thinking about this thing in a whole different way.”

  Dub was right. Allie had to record some of her involuntary utterances so that someone could tell her for sure what language it was, and what it meant. That left her in the same impossible position as before. She had to hope that something provoked her ghost to speak through her again, even if she got kicked out of the pageant. With a sigh, she decided she had no choice but to forge ahead with the plan, such as it was, and see what happened.

  Nervously she approached the director in the front of the auditorium. “Um, Miss Lunsford, could I talk to you for a second?” she asked.

  “Certainly, Allie.”

  Allie began the apology she had practiced on the way to the theater. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about my outburst yesterday. It’s okay with me that Janelle has my—has the part. I don’t mind playing another Indian girl.”

  Miss Lunsford’s eyes grew soft and she smiled. “Thank you, Allie. That was very sweet and very mature of you. To be honest, I didn’t blame you for being upset. But I can’t have rehearsals being disrupted like that.”

  “I know,” Allie replied. “I was wondering something. Remember you asked me to do some research on the Seneca language? Well, Dub and I did. Would it be okay if I added some Seneca words today during Janelle’s speech? Then we can see how they sound.”

  Miss Lunsford clapped her hands together enthusiastically. “Allie, that is a wonderful idea! Good for you—and Dub.” She peered toward the rear of the room and said, “There’s Janelle now. We’ll tell her.” She called, “Janelle! Would you please come here for a moment?”

  Janelle approached and stood before Miss Lunsford without a glance at Allie. After Miss Lunsford had explained about the plan for Allie to add some Seneca vocabulary to Janelle’s speech, Janelle was silent for a moment. Then, in a low, flat voice, she said, “I think you’d better ask my father.”

  Allie couldn’t believe her ears. Miss Lunsford seemed taken aback as well. She said, “When your mother gave me the script, I told her that artistic changes might be made as we go along. We talked about improvisation. She seemed to understand that theatrical productions usually get tweaked during rehearsals.”

  “But you’d better check with my father,” Janelle said.

  Miss Lunsford raised her eyebrows, then said, “Allie, would you excuse us for a moment, please?”

  Allie walked over to join Dub, who had been watching the whole exchange anxiously. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Unbelievable!” Allie fumed. “I apologized, and Miss Lunsford was cool with it, but not Janelle.” Here Allie paused and adopted a prissy, falsetto tone. “She said, ‘You’d better ask my father.’”

  Dub made a face.

  “Like father, like daughter, I guess.”

  The seats around them had slowly filled with the other kids, and Miss Lunsford called for order. Janelle, eyes downcast, took a seat in front of Allie and Dub.

  Miss Lunsford quickly explained to the group that Allie would be inserting some Seneca dialect into Janelle’s opening speech. Surprised and relieved, Allie elbowed Dub, murmuring, “Good for Miss Lunsford. I wonder what she said to the Indian princess to keep her from running to her daddy?”

  “Shhhh,” said Dub, but he elbowed Allie back with a smile.

  “Let’s do a quick run-through of the scene where the settlers and Senecas first meet,” said Miss Lunsford. “Places, please.” Dub wasn’t in the scene, so he stayed put while Allie, Janelle, and others got up. Allie took her place, reached into her pocket, and pushed the RECORD button. It was a ninety-minute tape, which meant she could record forty-five minutes on one side before turning it over.

  Now, instead of fearing another outburst, she was worried that one wouldn’t come. But as Janelle stumbled through her lines about the Senecas welcoming the settlers and offering them food, Allie felt the unmistakable presence of her ghost. And when Janelle finished speaking, Allie gave a speech of her own. She had no idea what it was she’d said, or whether it had been in Seneca or not, but Miss Lunsford was smiling.

  Then, later, as they went through another scene in which Janelle spoke of the friendship between the two groups, Allie again spoke out, this time in a fairly long, impassioned speech. Luckily, the timing of both outbursts was perfect, and instead of being angry, Miss Lunsford appeared thrilled with the result.

  After rehearsal, when Allie and Dub were alone at last in the alley behind the opera house, she rewound the tape and pushed PLAY. The voices of the other cast members were muffled, but every word that Allie had spoken was just as clear as a bell.

  Twelve

  Allie curled up beside Michael in his bed again that night. She was afraid to let herself drop into a deep sleep for fear that she—and Michael—would dream. His valiant attempt to be brave the night before had made her heart ache, and she wanted to protect him from the horrible visions as much as she could. So she spent the night drifting off, waking with a start, tossing and turning, and starting the whole cycle again.

  Michael bounced up in the morning full of excitement about their visit to the longhouse at Ganondiyo. But Allie could only groan, roll over, and bury her head under the pillow.

  Soon her mother was calling up the stairs to say that Dub had arrived. He’d ridden his bike over, just in time to have a second breakfast with Allie and her family. Allie dressed, threw some water on her face, and joined them at the kitchen table. When they’d finished, Mrs. Nichols left for the shop, after complaining good-naturedly about missing all the fun.

  “Did you bring the tape?” Dub asked before they got into the car.

  Allie nodded. Although she didn’t really know what to expect from this visit, she felt excited—now that she was awake. At least they were doing something.

  On the drive, Dub and Michael chatted about Iroquois and Seneca weaponry. Michael was thrilled to hear that he might see war clubs in addition to spears and bows and arrows.

  At Ganondiyo, they went first to the Visitor Center, where they were greeted by a woman who introduced herself as Ronnie. She was dressed in shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  Michael examined her carefully and said with disappointment, “You’re not an Indian.”

  “Michael!” Allie scolded, embarrassed. She looked apologetically at Ronnie, who just laughed.

  “I am of the Seneca nation,” she told Michael with a smile. “I belong to the Bear Clan.”

  Michael’s eyes grew big at this.

  “You can’t always tell us by the way we look,” she whispered to him playfully.

  Then she told them that since it was a slow morning, she’d take them right out to the longhouse for a tour. As they walked along a trail cut through the sunny meadow, Ronnie explained that the plants that grew by the side of the trail were ones that had significance for the Seneca. They were used for healing, for flavoring food, and for fashioning tools, clothing, and shelter.

  While Ronnie talked, Allie became aware of the prickly sensation that signaled the presence of her ghost. She hoped this was a good sign, one that maybe she and Dub were on the right track, after all. Either that, or the ghost was trying to let her know she was wasting her time …

  They stopped outside the longhouse, where Ronnie explained that, as much as possible, it had been constructed using traditional materials. The frame was made of hickory poles lashed with strips of hickory bark, but some man-made material had replaced the elm bark that was no longer available.

  “My people have always been adaptable,” she said, smiling again. “That is why we have survived.”

  Inside, Ronnie gave them a few minutes to explore on their own, saying they could touch anything they wanted, as long as they were respectful. They all stood for a moment, gazing around with interest.

  The longhouse was about the size of two school classrooms placed end to end, Allie figured, only the ceiling was higher. Both sides were lined with upper and lower sleeping platforms covered with bl
ankets and furs.

  Michael immediately climbed onto one of the lower platforms and burrowed under a buffalo hide. Allie and her father both glanced at Ronnie, who nodded to let them know that was okay.

  There were fascinating objects everywhere, and Allie and Dub began examining clay pipes, snowshoes, sleds, canoes, paddles, and lacrosse sticks. Allie showed the sticks to Michael and her dad, since they had a goal set up in their back yard and often played lacrosse together.

  Mr. Nichols practiced cradling and made a pretend pass, but Michael had discovered something of even greater interest. On one of the sleeping platforms lay a collection of weapons, including flint knives with bone handles, bows with arrows, spears, war clubs, and muskets. Entranced, Michael picked up and scrutinized each object.

  Dub joined him. “Hey, I didn’t know Indians had guns,” he said.

  Overhearing him, Ronnie explained that by the late 1600s, when Ganondiyo had been a thriving village, the Seneca had had years of contact with Europeans, and had adapted many of their tools and materials, including muskets.

  She then said she would begin her talk, and that they could ask questions at any time. She started with a string of words that sounded, at least to Allie, very much like the ones Allie had been spouting during rehearsals. Dub must have thought so, too, because he met her glance with a slight nod.

  “I was speaking to you in my language,” Ronnie explained. “I introduced myself with my name and my clan, and told you I am a person of the High Hill, or a Seneca. I welcomed you, giving thanks for your good health. I wished you peace and wished for peace between our peoples.”

  Allie, Dub, and Mr. Nichols each murmured a greeting in return, and Ronnie went on to explain about life in the longhouse. Meanwhile, Allie sensed a strong emotion or agitation coming from her ghost.