Thistle and Twigg

by Mary Saums

I didn’t want to start wrong here. It didn’t fit. I didn’t want to lie. Still, I knew no good would come of being frank about my government work with Phoebe at that moment. Perhaps later, but now my worries about Cal’s land and these new disturbing finds filled my mind.

  One thing became clear as we walked home together. I now had a most worthy charity for my emergency fund, one solely dependent on me, one that would require much more than my money. It needed my protection. Its very survival depended on the actions I would take for its future, and I would see it done. I touched the bullet casings in my pocket as threats I hadn’t considered before began to form in my mind.

  When we walked up onto my porch, we saw something propped against the front door. It had been set inside the screen. I slowed my steps as I approached, but quickly recognized the familiar yellow and red photo-processing logo.

  A sticky note had been attached to the packet. It was from Riley. The note assured me these pictures were mine to keep, and that if I should need any further assistance, he would be most happy to oblige. At the bottom, he’d scribbled his phone number. I smiled, wondering what he and his entourage had captured on film.

  Phoebe looked at the first picture. She gave it a dismissive wave and said, “I’m taking a shower. Don’t forget, tonight is when I meet Bernard for dinner.”

  “All right, dear.” I took the photos to my desk and turned on the banker’s lamp.

  I couldn’t deny Riley’s results. Definite patterns of color, colors not on my walls or floors in the present world, seemed to hang in the air in certain shots. Riley was right in calling them “auras” for they glowed in the photos. Some had a fixed look, oblongs and rectangular shapes that seemed more solid than others. For example, the area near my fireplace in the front room where Riley got his first reading had an orange rust aura shaped in a rough square. It extended across the rug to the fire screen and up as high as the top of the mantel.

  A few smaller areas, such as that by my phone, had a greenish cast and ranged in size from say that of a quarter to that of a shoe-box. These were not the most interesting. The Hot Spot by the bay window of the den certainly held the most wonders. Here a virtual rainbow of colors swirled about the glass, the bookcases and other walls, and filled the center of the room, though there the colors were not so vibrant.

  One photograph taken in the upstairs hallway showed a small circle of blue on the wall, but what caught my interest was the top of the picture. A narrow swath of blue and green hung down, much fainter but definitely there. It hung like a vapor over the height and width of the attic door.

  I replaced the photos in their packet and set them out for Phoebe to see. She would enjoy looking at them when I wasn’t watching her, of course. After she left to meet Bernard, I had a light supper and went upstairs, intending to lie down until I heard her come in again.

  I settled down under the bed covers at last, with thoughts of the day moving farther into the background in my mind, submerging and getting more quiet as they mixed together with the night sounds outside the window and the creaks and sighs of the house.

  A little pop across the room made my eyes flutter open for a moment, long enough to see my grandmother’s table inch forward. I’m tired, I told myself. My eyes are playing tricks on me.

  Just then, it wobbled again and rocked to a stop. It’s only a rickety table that would fall over at any rate unless I take more care in setting it up properly. My eyes closed halfway, noting as they did so the table’s slight but decided scoot to the right.

  My eyes snapped open, fully awake now. I lay still. The house was completely silent. As the moments passed, the table remained as it was. I remembered the wave of Sarah’s hand over the table and wall, and the soft blip of her device as it passed over them. The photo Riley took there, if I remembered correctly, showed a small dash of green. I waited a bit longer, then threw back the covers. I put on my robe and slippers and was downstairs in a flash.

  In my previous occupation, I used a pair of Russian night visors on occasion. They should be far superior to the out-of-date pair Riley wore. I unlocked the old trunk in the den and quickly found them among the other specialized supplies I’d used when at work for my former employer.

  The table had remained where it was, so far as I could tell. With the lights still off, I set out the visors, a notebook and pen, and one other tool, a special camera with features conducive to night work of a sensitive nature.

  I snapped a few frames as a reminder of the table’s position then wrote approximate distances and a brief account of events so far. I opened the visors and held them up to see an incredible sight. Just as in Riley’s picture, the color green was present. Now a much larger aura spread and pulsed around the table. Seeing it moving, not static as in the photographs, but swirling and dancing before me, took my breath away. Tiny speckles glistened in the eddy. Whether bits of magic or merely dust motes, I couldn’t say

  With amazement, I noted the feeling that I was in the presence of a personality, not as in the photos that conveyed residual energy. They had the feel of something left behind, like the faint scent of perfume that lingers in a room after everyone has gone. Here, to my mind, was the source of such an imprint.

  Quickly, I jotted down my thoughts while I tried to absorb the reality of them. Not easy, even for one such as I who believed in ghosts. Was it this easy for everyone to see the colored auras? Or was it my “gift” that enabled me to see? I set the notebook aside once again, and took up the visors to sit and ponder. One thing became clear on this viewing, something I hadn’t noticed before. Most likely, I was in a small state of shock and unable to take everything in at first. Now in the visors, it was apparent that the green cloud centered on a section of wall where it met the floor, the same spot where I’d placed grandmother’s table originally.

  I moved the table out of my way and got down on my knees. Yes, this close, the color deepened. On zeroing in, I now could also see a dark vertical line, about three inches long, from top to bottom of the baseboard. I reached out. The line was a cut in the wood. About six inches away was an identical one.

  My fingernails weren’t long enough to be effective. I grabbed my pen but found it useless as well. I sat a moment and thought. I had plenty of tools downstairs, but what did I have up here? My Leatherman. I kept one, the size of a large pocketknife, in my purse. It is made along the line of a Swiss Army knife, with eight or ten tools that fold into the handle. I unhinged the knife blade and put it to the wall. It worked.

  Paint and age made my task perhaps a little harder, but once I traced the vertical cuts with the blade, the baseboard was easily pried away. I imagined jewels stuffed inside, or bundles of old cash. What I found was much more astonishing.

  It was a letter. One single, handwritten page. Not so very interesting, you might say? That was my first thought. After reading it, however, I thanked heavens above that I didn’t have a prior heart condition and was in stable mental health. There was no doubt whatsoever that what I held in my hand was the most shocking thing I’d seen in a lifetime. It was a letter from a woman long dead. And it was addressed to me.

  twenty- seven

  Phoebe About Town

  Iane was sound asleep when I got back from my dinner date with Bernard. He took me to Muscle Shoals to a real nice restaurant where we had wine served right at our table. I still can’t get used to that. All the counties around here were dry for most of my life. No liquor, beer, or wine could be had until a few years ago. I’m not one for drinking, but I sure do like the nice, new restaurants we have now.

  The next morning, Jane and I had a lot to do in town. She needed to go to the bank. She said she’d stop by my house to see how things were going later.

  I was amazed at how fast they’d been able to get the wall up in my kitchen. I walked through the house to make sure the paint in all the rooms were what I wanted. Not twenty minutes later, I heard Jane’s car pull up in the drive.

  “That was quick,” I said. “I didn’t e
xpect you here for another hour.”

  “I’m quite surprised, too,” she said. Her face was flushed pink and she looked like something had upset her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. That is, I’m confused really. I’ve come from the bank. When Mr. Roman came out to meet me in the lobby, he was very nice as always, but he didn’t ask me to his office. I was baffled, and he fidgeted and talked nervously. Before I could ask, he told me the bank was experiencing a problem with my loan. When I asked what sort of problem, he practically shoved me out the door saying he’d be in touch.”

  “The nerve!” I said. Poor Jane. She looked like she was about to cry. I’d be upset too if some little penny-ante nobody did that to me.

  “I tried to ask why but he wouldn’t give me a chance. He just pushed me through the doors and said good day.”

  “And you doing him a favor? You don’t need him anyway. The little twerp.”

  Jane had something else on her mind. “Do you think the lawyer’s office is open this early? I think I’d like to stop in to see about the document Shelley was preparing. Maybe she could shed some light on the situation. It isn’t that I’m anxious, you understand, to take over.”

  “Oh, I understand perfectly. You just want to know what to expect, right? That’s only natural. You want things to be set.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  We went downtown on the square to the Hannigan and Wade offices. A cool blast of air-conditioning hit us when we stepped into the reception area. It was decorated like George Washington lived there, which is so tacky but sure is popular with rich lawyers and doctors. Nobody was there except the receptionist, a young girl with a bob cut who was new since the last time I’d been in there.

  “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

  Jane stepped forward. “I hoped to speak with Shelley Barnette if she’s available.”

  “I’m sorry. Shelley is out of town for a few days. Could someone else help?”

  “Oh, dear.” Jane and I looked at each other. “Did she perhaps leave a document for me to pick up? For Jane Thistle or Cal Prewitt?”

  “No, not with me,” she said, as she looked through papers on her desk. She went to Shelley’s office but didn’t find anything there either.

  Jane said, “I’m sure Mr. Wade will be very busy today, but if you could leave him a note to call me when it’s convenient, I would appreciate it.”

  As we walked out, I told Jane, “You’d think Shelley would’ve let you and Cal know she was leaving town. Or brought it out to your house before she left.”

  As always, Jane made excuses for somebody else. “I’m sure she would have done so if she could,” she said. “I imagine it was a family emergency that called her away so suddenly.”

  “I guess.” She dropped me off at my house again. I think old Roman at the bank had made her want to be by herself for a while.

  twenty-eight

  Jane and the

  Strange Letter

  So far, the day’s events had not been pleasant. I returned home to sort things out in my mind. The mysterious letter I’d found the previous evening lay on my desk. I picked it up and read it again, still finding it hard to believe that a woman I’d never met and who had passed away over a year earlier, long before I even considered moving to this house, had written it to me. This is what Miss Ina Genevieve Hardwick had to say:

  “Hello, Jane. Or is it Jean? My hearing isn’t what it used to be. Boo will have helped you find this. Forgive the histrionics but I’m afraid someone else will find it and throw it away. I suppose I’m also concerned that if you simply found this note in an ordinary manner, you’d dismiss it and think I was crazy like most folks around here do. It hasn’t ever worried me because I knew no one understood.

  “You do, otherwise Boo (whose real name is John but he seems to like his nickname better) wouldn’t have let you find it. He’s a wonderful boy He won’t ever bother you. He’s shy and only wants to help. I’m putting the newspaper article about his death in this envelope so you’ll know”

  I unfolded the yellowed clipping. What Phoebe said had been true. This was the boy who had found the missing girl’s doll, the boy who’d been shot in my front room by the fireplace.

  “Around here,” the letter continued, “they said Boo wasn’t right in the head. I’ll tell you this, he’s right in the heart. There’s never been a more loving, gentle person on this earth. You’ll think so, too, before long.

  “He stays in the dining room mostly, or in the attic. It’s full of old family things up there, though who knows if anything will be left for you to find. I hope there’s something left, for Boo’s sake. He loves being close to the old trunks up there. He also loves flowers so I’ve always kept something blooming by the bay window where he sits. He appreciates little things like that and will leave a gift for me every now and then.

  “He never killed that girl. He couldn’t have. He loved children and would rather die himself than see any harm done to anyone, especially a child.

  “I hope you’ll be happy here. I see very dangerous times ahead, but you’re strong and highly qualified. I understand that you’re going to take care of everything. That Cal can be stubborn. Good luck and all the best.”

  I refolded the clipping inside the letter. She knew Cal well.

  My resolve hardened. I could let nothing deter me, not even a stubborn old man who still held something back. If he wasn’t telling me something vital, and I let him keep his secret to the detriment of himself or his land, I would never be able to forgive myself. Cal must be made to trust me fully It was time for us to have a serious talk.

  WHEN I’D WALKED WITHIN SIGHT OF CAL’S HOUSE, Homer trotted up from the other direction. He’d come through the meadow, for his legs and belly were covered in white dandelion seed fluff.

  “Where’s Cal, boy? Are the two of you out playing?” Homer looked me straight in the eye, hopped a few steps toward the forest, then made an abrupt turn to see if I followed. “All right, love, I’m coming.”

  Once past the meadow and across the stream near the spring house, he led me on a trail I had not been on as yet, east into the woods, then north and straight to Cal. He sat in a small clearing on a bed of evergreen straw underneath a pine tree. His back was turned to me as I approached. Across from him was a single boulder about three feet high. Homer and I weren’t particularly quiet, yet Cal sat motionless, whether not aware of us or not concerned, I couldn’t tell.

  Homer went ahead to Cal’s left to lie at the foot of another tree. He made himself comfortable on a patch of bare ground. As I got closer, I could hear Cal speaking softly. A small plume of white smoke arose before him. I stopped several feet behind him. He was chanting a native song or poem in Cherokee. The smoke came from a shallow clay bowl about the size of a plate in which sage or some other herbal grass burned.

  Still he hadn’t noticed me. His eyes remained closed as tears fell down each cheek. He had cleared the pine needles away in front of him and had drawn a circle in the dirt. On either side of the burning sage, Cal had drawn symbols, the meanings of which I couldn’t guess. One had a diamond shape, the other had squiggly lines around a circle, like the sun, with other starlike shapes surrounding them.

  I was at a loss as to what to do. Should I leave him to what was so obviously private? Another thought came to me: Why would he be here performing a ritual when the great ceremonial hall was so near? It was only then I noticed that the boulder on the other side of the circle also had drawings. I stared, as entranced as Cal, at the ancient carvings of spirals and stick men that dotted the rock’s surface. Was there no end to the wonders of this place?

  Cal’s chanting changed into a more poetic rhythm, slowing between phrases. He whispered the wonderful musical words that mixed with the burning sage in the air. It felt like more than a recitation, almost a creation, for the words seemed to rise and blend with the smoke as if they were something physical that moved into the wisps, as much a
part of this place as a leaf floating in its last dance to rest on the forest floor.

  His eyes cleared but he said nothing, only stared. Homer got up and walked quietly to us. He lay down at my feet, his paws extended across the circle drawn in the dirt so that he lay half in and half out. Cal’s shoulders shook with the wheezing of shallow breaths.

  I squatted beside Homer. Cal couldn’t be comfortable. “Do you need to stand? What can I do to help you?”

  His voice was so weak I could hardly hear. He looked stunned to see me. “It’s you. It can’t be you. I didn’t believe them.” He sat staring at me, then at Homer who scooted farther inside the dirt circle so that his front paws touched Cal’s leg, his face intent on sending comfort through a steady gaze to his master. “And you, too, friend?” Cal rested a hand on Homer’s back as he looked up. More tears followed.

  “Did you get the money?” he asked, once he’d composed himself.

  “No,” I said. His face fell. He covered it with his thin, mottled hands, listening as I told him of the problems with the bank and the bank manager’s sudden odd behavior.

  Cal shook his head, wiped his eyes. “They’ve got to him somehow.”

  “Who, Cal?” He didn’t answer. “Someone is threatening you,” I said. His look told me I was right. “Someone who might have had these.” I reached in my pocket and brought out the shell casings I’d picked up.

  “You went to their camp?” he said, his weak voice a mix of pain, a bit of anger, and defeat.

  “Whose camp? Cal, tell me what’s happening. Let me help you.”

  “Can’t help without the money” I assured him I had it without the bank’s assistance and would arrange to get it in cash. This seemed to calm him a bit. “It needs to be quick,” he said heavily. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to asking anybody for anything.” His voice weakened to a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  He pulled himself together, sighed, and told me what happened. “A man came to me. He wanted to use part of my land for a couple of weeks, offered me good money, and promised I wouldn’t know he’d ever been there, that he’d clean up good. It was for a training camp, like. What did he call it? Survival skills for yuppie types.