by Nathan Roden
Wow.
Twelve
The McIntyre Family
Branson, Missouri
“Nora! He’s reading your diary,” Charlotte squealed.
“All right, Charlotte,” Nora said, “We’ve established that you are in charge of stating the obvious. So now you have two talents, the first of which was to frighten this young man half to death with your painting.”
“That was not my fault,” Charlotte said as she stomped her foot.
“I was minding my own business when he came flying through the window. He could have killed—he could have… broken her.”
“I have had just about as much of this room as I can stand, Dallas!” Arabella screamed.
“When is someone going to get us out of here? After we have been overrun by these— these— Ahhh!” She fluttered her hand toward the young man. She crossed her arms and whipped herself around to face the wall.
“I’ve yet to reacquire the ability to levitate, Arabella,” Dallas said, to Arabella’s back. “If you are able to, then we will be more than happy for you to scout the area for us.”
Arabella did not turn around. She did make sure that everyone knew that she was displeased.
“Do you think that if I were able to levitate I would remain inside this tiniest of dungeons with all of you? Puhlease!”
“That’s what I thought,” Dallas said. “We may well be captive here until such time as the castle is reassembled. Until then—Nora! What are you doing, girl?”
Nora was sitting next to the young man as he turned the pages of her diary. She stared at the young man’s face.
“He is so handsome, Father,” Nora said, without taking her eyes off of the young man.
“Stand up here, Nora! This is unacceptable behavior—“ Dallas scolded.
“Oh, stop it, Dallas,” Elizabeth said, stepping between her husband and her daughter. “What harm is she doing? Let her dream, for goodness sake.”
“It doesn’t seem…“ Dallas started, and then he laughed. “It just doesn’t seem right. Of course, it never seemed right when we were alive, now that I think about it.”
Elizabeth punched her husband on the arm.
“Yes, and you have treated her the same way for five hundred years.”
Thirteen
Wylie Westerhouse
Branson, Missouri
“Wylie! Wylie Westerhouse! Where are you?”
A little late aren’t you, Quentin?
I wasn’t really mad. How could Quentin have known that I would be stupid enough to get myself trapped in his castle? Besides, I would never have discovered the diary any other way. The diary is… well, it’s the most magical thing I’ve ever seen. It will end up in a museum under glass and behind ropes where the likes of me will never be allowed to touch it again.
So, what was I going to do with it? Legally, it’s the property of Quentin Lynchburg. What would Q do with it? It doesn’t seem right that it end up in the possession of complete strangers.
I wondered what became of Nora McIntyre. Maybe she just grew up, got married, had a sack full of royal babies, and forgot all about this book.
But I didn’t think that likely.
This diary expressed the intimate thoughts of an intelligent young lady. Most of the entries were daily. I imagined that the diary was rarely far from Nora Elizabeth McIntyre’s reach. Five hundred years ago there were few distractions to cause a young lady to lose interest in such a record. You can trust me on facts like that. I carried a solid “B” average in World History.
“Believe it or not, Quentin, I am a prisoner of your castle,” I yelled through the window. I heard the ladder moving outside, and a few seconds later, Quentin’s face appeared in the window.
“Wylie? How long have you been in here?” Q asked.
“I don’t have any further travel plans, so I’ll just be staying the one night. Do you take Master Card? The accommodations were clean, if not comfortable. I’m considering two-and-a-half stars on Trip Advisor.”
“Good Lord,” Q said. “Let me find another step ladder and we’ll get you out of there.”
After Quentin’s face disappeared from the window, I returned the diary to its hiding place inside the wall. I put the stone back into place and packed some mortar dust around it. It would probably require tools to remove it again.
As I stepped down to the floor of the trailer, several pickup trucks full of men were unloading at the site. Twenty-three men watched the approach of a Hummer stretch limo. The limo was a mystery. I knew that it didn’t belong to Quentin because I saw one of his Aston Martins.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“Well, none of these local craftsmen know our project foreman, so I decided to provide him with a grand entrance to establish his position of authority.”
“So that’s Mc— Mac- something?” I said.
“Yep. Brian McAllen. He’s done everything I’ve asked in expert fashion. I want him involved in every step of the reconstruction.”
Q introduced himself around the job site. He shook hands with Brian McAllen, and then he hugged him. This was obviously not the greeting that McAllen was used to getting from his employers. I thought it was sweet.
Quentin has more resources than I do, but I had still spent several hours trying to trace his lady friend—the infamous Blair from Georgia. Searches for the name “Blair” along with the location “Georgia” led me down rabbit trails to nowhere. I thought about mentioning these results to Q but decided against it. What good would that do, besides making me look like a stalker, or a busybody, or someone incapable of minding his own business?
Q introduced Brian McAllen to the rest of the crew. Brian invited them all into the office trailer to go over prints and plans. Quentin walked over to me.
“Sorry to hear about Mr. Plimpton and the store, Wylie. I can talk to some people—“
I was tired, sleepy, and more than a little irritable, and I didn’t feel like discussing what Q was about to bring up.
“Talk to some people about what? I’ve managed to care for myself for the last few years, Quentin,” I said. I was sorry as soon as the words left my mouth.
Q looked at the ground.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that— I want the best for you. You’re a good kid, and I met—” Q made a quarter turn to survey the sight of millions of dollars’ worth of castle parts.
“I met a woman and fell in love at one of your shows. I think about her every day and I don’t for one second believe that it was an accident.”
Q lifted his chin slightly and turned to face me again.
“We’re connected, somehow, you and me. I don’t know how and I don’t know why. But I think we are. Does that sound crazy?”
“Quentin, I don’t know anything right now except that I’ve lost two sources of income within a week. I’m on the verge of losing my band, and unless I give up my dog, I’m getting ready to lose my house.”
“How can that happen?” Q asked. “You were killing it at the Majestic Mizzou. And I heard that you did just as well at the other clubs.”
“Look, Q. I’m not giving up. I just have a lot working against me right now. I’m not running away with my tail between my legs, I just need to pull myself back together for a little while, that’s all.”
“So, you’re leaving town? Where are you going?” Q asked.
“I’ll stay with my Mother for a little while, get back on my feet, and make new plans—”
“Do you know how many gifted artists have said the same thing? Most of them are never heard from again,” Q said.
“Well, I don’t have any relatives getting ready to hand me some land. All I have is the ability to sing a little bit along with some skill at running a music store. Four weeks without an income from those two things and I got no game, Mr. Lynchburg.”
I think I did more harm calling him “Mr. Lynchburg” than I did with the dig about his falling neck deep into wealth.
“You can’t hurt my f
eelings, Wylie. I wouldn’t try to talk you into staying if I didn’t care about you. And I wouldn’t tell you the truth about your future if I wasn’t your friend. I don’t care if it sounds corny—I want all of your dreams to come true. And you won’t hear that enough for the rest of your life. Trust me on that,” Q said. He held out his hand.
We shook.
“Thanks, Quentin. I’m sorry.”
“Brian says they should be rebuilding the turret tower by next weekend. I hope you’ll be able to come and watch,” Q said.
“That reminds me, I have to tell Brian that we can’t work on Sundays. Don’t want to infuriate the Baptists,” he said as he turned.
“I’ll try, Q,” I said.
I showed up thirty minutes late at the store. I rolled my eyes at the scowl I got from Porter Plimpton. He was huffing, puffing, and sweating as he arranged some of the shrinking inventory near the front of the store.
I needed the money from the few remaining days of employment available at Branson Music. Johnny B. and our three other employees were also riding the Out-Of-Business sale all the way to the end. Porter was “generously” allowing us to work any and all hours that the store was open. I’m sure that this decision came from Mr. Plimpton. Mr. Plimpton Senior.
I was so exhausted from last night that I couldn’t see straight. I made a couple of comments about being nauseous and dropped a few hints about maybe having a stomach virus. I made sure that Porter heard me. That did the trick because he tied a handkerchief around his face.
“You’ll be paid for the day. Go home. Now.”
When I got home and opened the garage door into the kitchen, Toby was not there to greet me. Just like before, I found him in the living room at the end of the sofa. He looked up at me, whimpering, with his ears flat against his head. I called his name, and once he jumped off of the sofa he was fine. His ears perked up and he ran to me with his tail wagging. I shook my head as we walked toward the patio door.
Toby celebrated my early arrival by peeing on everything in the back yard. Maybe he sensed that we were about to hold another marathon snooze session in the “big people’s bed”. I was glad that Toby didn’t know that our current way of life was under threat and likely about to come to an end. But I was determined to stay positive.
I woke up about a half hour before sunset, still a little groggy. My circadian rhythm is so far off that it’s not even funny. I looked down at Toby, who was on his back and snoring. Would I trade with him? I’m not sure. On the one hand, Toby doesn’t care if he’s awake or asleep. He can switch from one to the other with no effort whatsoever.
But, on the other hand, he’s dependent on me for his cushy lifestyle. Would I want to be dependent on the likes of me? Let’s change the subject, okay?
I lowered the volume of the television to keep from bothering Toby. I surfed through all one hundred and eighty channels twice before giving up.
I opened the refrigerator and found nothing of interest.
I rarely get bored. But I was feeling restless. I guess that’s what you would call it. Whatever it was, it was the strangest feeling—like I was being drawn…away.
To Boston, maybe; or to my Mom. That would make sense, I guess.
Before I realized what I was doing, I loaded two blankets and two pillows into the back seat of my car. I left the passenger door open and went back into the house.
“Toby! Let’s go for a ride,” I called.
Toby hit the floor running and slid to a stop at the front door until I said,
“Yes. Really.”
It was about a ten-minute drive to the castle. I pulled to the curb a hundred yards or so from the site. I watched one last truck pull away from the location. It was probably Brian McAllen’s. For the next forty-five minutes, I watched as several vehicles drove past the site. Lights were installed on the grounds, for security purposes or for publicity. Film crews from local television affiliates would be showing up over the next few days. News about the reconstruction of a seven-hundred-year-old Scottish castle in Branson, Missouri had spread quickly.
After the parade of curious drive-bys was over, I pulled my car closer. I wasn’t sure if there would be a security guard but I didn’t want to find out. No more jail for me, thanks.
It looked like the rear wall was the first to go up. The front and main view would face the country club and golf course. That made sense to me. That would position the turret tower so that archers could hold off a frontal assault of renegade golfers. I pictured them shaking their clubs above their heads and running out of breath halfway up the hill. They would be easy prey for arrows while they were bent over and hyperventilating in their ridiculous pants and their bowling shoes with spikes on the bottom.
Obviously, I’m not a golfer.
What the heck was I doing here?
Toby seemed to be wondering the same thing. He soon got bored and jumped in the back seat. He curled up on top of a blanket.
There was something comforting about the construction site. Maybe it was the sense of history. Maybe being close to something that old made me feel less… temporary. Less fragile.
Those walls had been through seven hundred years of assault—even if that assault was only the wind, rain, snow, and time itself. They were worn and weathered and had now survived being torn apart and moved halfway around the world. Pieces of the castle stood alone in the dark in a new world. It was proud and majestic, and as determined to persevere as it had ever been because it knew nothing else.
I found comfort in the strength of those walls. I needed to be in the presence of something that knew nothing but to stand.
Fourteen
Nora and Charlotte McIntyre
Branson, Missouri
“Nora. Nora!”
Nora opened her eyes and looked around. She was certain that she had heard Charlotte calling to her in a whisper, but Charlotte wasn’t— where was she? None of them had been outside the turret room for days.
“Nora. Outside.”
Nora stood, and then kept right on rising up to the window.
At last, she thought, exhaling in relief.
A return to some form of normalcy.
Nora floated through the window, careful to avoid the rest of the sleeping family. Arabella stirred, which caused Nora to stop and change direction. They would all be aware of their new freedom soon enough. Nora wanted to celebrate with her sister for a little while before having to face Arabella’s attitude.
Nora and Charlotte hugged, and then held hands as they spun in circles. They were barely able to control their delight with being released from confinement. They fell to the ground and gazed up into a clear, star-filled sky.
“I feel safe here,” Charlotte said, “Is that wrong?”
Nora paused.
“I don’t know, but you know what Father and Mother will say. I feel safe as well—much safer than I expected to feel in a place called Misery.”
Charlotte propped herself up on an elbow.
“Why would this place be called Misery? It is so peaceful here—and beautiful.”
Nora sat up and looked around.
“It truly is. Look, Charlotte. There are lights back there, beyond the back wall. Take my hand and stay close to me.”
“Nora,” Charlotte said, “Mother and Father will be furious if they find us wandering around alone.”
“We won’t go far. And they won’t awaken for hours yet.”
The girls crept around the edge of the castle wall. They marveled at the assembly of tools and equipment.
They stopped in front of the construction office trailer. Beside the door was an enlarged photograph of the castle. The photo had been taken just before the deconstruction began. A sign next to the photograph read,
“Castle McIntyre Relocation Project. From Scotland to Branson, Missouri in One Hundred Days. Brian McAllen, Foreman. Quentin Lynchburg, Owner.”
“Miss… oo…“ Charlotte said, attempting to decipher what she was reading.
&
nbsp; “I don’t know what that word is, Nora, but unless there is a completely different method of spelling here, I don’t think that says Misery.”
“I don’t think so, either. We’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. It is lovely here. I think—“ Nora had been looking around, but stopped suddenly.
“What…what’s the matter, Nora?” Charlotte asked, stepping closer to her sister.
“That carriage,” Nora said, pointing. There was only one vehicle in sight, parked next to the curb not far away.
“What about it?” Charlotte asked.
“I— I thought I saw something move inside of it,” Nora said.
Charlotte relaxed.
“Well, of course, Nora. Would you be surprised to find a night watchman here? The McFaddens used to hire a night watchman when they were going to be away, don’t you remember?”
Nora laughed and loosened her grip on Charlotte’s hand.
“You’re right, of course. Do you remember that dreadful skinny old man who stayed with us while the McFaddens were on holiday in Paris?”
Charlotte giggled.
“We shouldn’t have tortured him so, but he made it too much fun. I have no idea why someone like that would volunteer to stay alone in an old castle. He was frightened out of his wits before the sun went down.”
“I know you’re here, you ghosts!” Nora said, imitating the old man’s voice.
“Get away from me, you foul, unclean spirits!” Charlotte said, in her own version of the old night watchman’s voice.
“He carried that broom for the entire week, waving it through the air!” Nora squealed, as the girl’s continued to laugh together.
“As if a broom was the most fearful weapon that a ghost could imagine. ‘Oh, the bristles! Please, Mister. No.’ What in the world was he thinking?” Charlotte said between giggling fits.
