Young Whit and the Traitor's Treasure

by Phil Lollar

  Furthermore, Great-Grandfather Thomas must have passed it down to Grandpa Jackson, but why didn’t Grandpa Jackson pass it on to Johnny’s mother’s brother, Uncle David—or even to Harold? Was this journal the reason for the tension between his father and his grandfather about Johnny’s inheriting the trunk? Maybe Grandpa thought there was something in the journal that would upset Harold. If that was the case, Johnny knew he couldn’t show it to his father.

  Still, his father knew all about ancient languages, and what he didn’t know, he knew how to find people who did know—such as one of his colleagues at the university or overseas. Johnny would need his help.

  For a brief moment, Johnny wondered if he should care about the journal at all. So far, uncovering his family’s history had resulted in trouble, pain, and misery. Perhaps he should just leave well enough alone.

  But he knew he couldn’t. This old journal involved him personally. That was his name there, written in his grandfather’s own hand. He had to know what it meant.

  He’d have to take a chance. He wouldn’t give the journal to his father, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give a little part of it to him. Johnny took out a pen and a piece of scrap paper and copied the words above his name in the journal: “Neamhnaid fior pris ... beatha fhada.” He needed to give these words to his father. The question was, how? He’d have to do it carefully to not arouse his father’s suspicions.

  Just then, there was a knock on his door. “John Avery?” His stepmother’s muffled soft brogue floated into the room. “May I come in?”

  John Avery? he thought. She only calls me that when I’m in trouble.

  “Just a minute, Fiona,” he said aloud. He folded the scrap of paper a couple of times and put it in his pocket. He then quickly replaced the journal and the panel, closed and locked the trunk, sat on his chair, and deposited the key in his desk. Finally, he said, “Come on in.”

  As Fiona entered, sure enough, rather than her usual bubbly demeanor, she was far more subdued. Instead of her normal boisterous grin and twinkling eyes, she now wore a halting smile, and her eyes were filled with concern. “You came in and up to your room so fast, I didn’t even get a chance to say hello,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted. It wasn’t working. “Everything all right?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah, sorry about that. I was just thinking about stuff.”

  She nodded. “How did your history presentation go?”

  He looked down. “Well ... not so good.”

  “Aw, but you worked s’hard on it! What happened?”

  He turned away from her. “I really don’t want to talk about it right now, if that’s all right.”

  She nodded. “Later then.” She took a deep breath. “I just got off the telephone with your school principal. He said you’ve been in a fight.”

  He whipped back around to her. The principal saw us this afternoon? he thought. Why didn’t he stop it? Or at least meet me at the water fountain after? He swallowed and said, “L-look, I was just—”

  “And on your first day, Johnny!”

  He blinked and his mind raced. First day? Behind the woodshop? That seems like an eternity ago, and besides, we didn’t fight, and the principal didn’t even see it. So why would the principal call about it now? Unless someone told—Wilson! This has to be his doing!

  Johnny rose from his desk chair and took a step toward Fiona. “That wasn’t really a fight,” he said.

  “He said you threatened a boy with a board.”

  “What? N-no! No!”

  “And that the school janitor had to drag you away!”

  He spread his hands and shook his head vehemently. “No! That’s not what happened!”

  Fiona took another deep breath and clasped her hands together in front of her, fingers intertwined. “All right then,” she said quietly, “tell me what did happen.”

  Johnny stepped back and tried to stay calm. “There was no fight, not really. I just ... got off on the wrong foot with the guy you’re talking about, Wilson. He’s a seventh grader, and he was picking on a smaller kid, Luke. When I defended Luke, Wilson didn’t like it and called me out after school. But we didn’t fight.”

  At least not then, he thought.

  “What about the board?”

  “Boards, actually.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened, and he shook his head again.

  “What I mean is, I used some karate moves to break a few boards to show him what could happen if we did fight. I was trying to prevent it!”

  “And the janitor?”

  “He didn’t drag me off! His name is Ben—Mr. Huck. He’s the janitor I told you about, the one I was talking to the first day. He intervened and stopped the whole thing! We’re friends! I’ll introduce you to him if you want! He’ll tell you the same story. He even saw me defend Luke!”

  Fiona’s features relaxed a little, and she unclasped her hands. “Then why would the principal call with a different story?”

  Johnny sank back down in his chair. “Wilson.”

  Fiona sat on the bed near him. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m in Wilson’s sights now. He’s targeted me. He probably had his folks call the principal with that story.”

  “But why would the principal believe him?”

  He sighed. “Apparently his family has lived around here for a long time. Emmy told me that in the South, that’s a big deal. So, I guess they carry a lot of weight in this town.”

  He decided not to tell her the rest of the story until he had confirmed it for himself. He leaned forward. “Honestly, Fiona, I was just trying to do what’s right, like you and Dad and Grandpa Jackson ... and ... and Mother always taught me.”

  Fiona took his hand in hers. “It is important to do what’s right. And I believe you. I believe your version of the story.”

  He smiled. “Thank you.”

  She squeezed his hand and smiled, then looked concerned again. “Now, I haven’t told your father about this yet. But if this Wilson boy is targeting you, then your father and I should—”

  Johnny jumped up. “Please, no! Don’t tell Dad! It’s bad enough being the new kid without having your folks tell the other kids to stop picking on you!”

  “But Johnny—”

  “Please, Fiona! I can handle this! I am handling it! But if you tell Dad, he’ll just ground me again and I won’t be able to handle it! Please ... don’t.”

  She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “All right, John Avery. We’ll keep this between us—for now.”

  Johnny hugged her. “Thank you!”

  She held the embrace for several moments and then added, “But I want you to know that if you can’t handle it, I will tell your father.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “Supper’ll be in about an hour, love.” She moved to the door and then stopped. “You can always come to us, your father and me. And depend on us. You know that, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “I’m proud of you for standing up to the bully, for doin’ what’s right. And I know your mother would be, too.”

  He felt a rush of affection for his stepmother. His jaw hardened and his eyes watered. “Right now ... I’m just proud you’re proud.”

  Her eyes filled with tears as well. She crossed to him quickly, kissed him on the forehead, and then crossed back and left the room without another word, closing the door behind her.

  Chapter Eleven

  After supper, Johnny went outside and sat on the front porch swing. The heavy rain from earlier in the week had long since gone, and there was a beautiful sunset. He watched how the orange in the clouds gave way to red and even some purple. He’d never seen a color quite like the purple; maybe there wasn’t even a name for it. No painter could ever capture that sunset, he thought, and in a few minutes, it will be lost forever. He closed his eyes and tried to make a picture of it in his mind.

  He rocked gently back and forth for a few moments, eyes stil
l closed. Then he heard footfalls climb the front steps and slowly approach before someone settled in next to him on the swing. He smiled and asked, “How was the dentist?”

  “Okay.” He opened his eyes to see Emmy smiling at him—or trying to. One side of her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. She pointed at it. “I had a cavity. He filled it and thot me with Novocain.” Her tongue wasn’t cooperating fully, either. “I’m not drooling, am I?”

  He smirked. “No.” He looked to the sky again. The beauty had vanished. The clouds had turned sullen gray, and the sun was nearly gone.

  He felt Emmy eyeing him carefully. “Thooo ...” she lisped, “how are you?”

  He turned and looked at her. “You know?”

  She nodded. “We thtopped at the thtore on the way home. Luke wath there. He told me Wilthon and hith goonth went after you.”

  “That they did.”

  “What happened?”

  He made sure no one was listening from the house, then quickly and quietly filled her in on the events of the afternoon, including his conversation with Fiona. He even told her about losing his lunch after Wilson’s gut punches. “I figure you’ll hear about it from someone, so it might as well be me,” he concluded.

  “Wow! Are you all right?”

  “Fine. No lasting damage except to my pride. You were right, I shouldn’t have gotten cocky.”

  “That doethn’t mean he had the right to punch you!” A bit of spit flew out of the droopy side of her mouth. “Thorry. When’s thith thtuff gonna wear off?”

  “You need a bib?”

  “Very funny. You really think Wilthon had hith folkth call the principal?”

  “Makes sense. You said it yourself, family line is a big deal around here. You saw how Mr. Greeley acted after my report.”

  Emmy nodded thoughtfully. “He wouldn’t even look at you.”

  Johnny shrugged. “Maybe the principal believes I’m a traitor from a line of traitors, too.”

  Emmy rolled her eyes. “That’th thupid. You’re not a traitor.”

  “No, but my great-granduncle may have been.”

  “You really think he did what Wilthon thaid he did?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, but I’m gonna find out.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll start by taking Wilson’s ‘suggestion’ and look it up. First the town records and then the library’s newspaper archives. Wanna help?”

  Emmy glowered. “You have to athk? Of courth! I told you, your mithchief bug hath infected me.”

  Johnny had a thought. “If that’s true, there’s another bit of mischief you can help me with, if you’re game.”

  She blinked. “Good grief! How many thingth have you got going on here?”

  He shrugged. “Too many. But this is more of a mystery than mischief.”

  Emmy’s eyes brightened. “You mean like Therlock Holmeth?”

  “If that helps you, yes. Are you in?”

  “Abtholutely!” she exclaimed, but then she looked a bit worried. “What do I have to do?”

  Johnny smiled and pulled from his pocket the paper with the strange words on it. “My father knows a lot about old languages. I want you to give this to him and ask if he knows what it means. If he says he doesn’t, ask if he knows anyone who does.”

  Emmy’s eyes narrowed. “Thoundth thimple enough. Why can’t you do it?”

  “It’ll just be easier if it comes from you. Trust me.”

  Emmy looked at the paper, then at Johnny, and nodded. “Okay.”

  Johnny nodded back. “Good. Follow me.”

  They went into the house and through the kitchen to the den. Harold sat in a comfortable chair, smoking his pipe and reading a book. He looked up as they entered.

  Johnny spoke first. “Dad, you remember my friend Emmy from across the street?”

  Harold nodded pleasantly. “Yes, of course. How are you, Emmy?”

  She tried to smile. “I juth came back from the dentitht.”

  “Oh! Hope it wasn’t too painful!”

  Emmy shook her head. “Juth numb.”

  “What can I do for you?” asked Harold.

  “Emmy has a question.”

  Harold smiled. “How may I help you?”

  “You know a lot about old languageth, right?”

  “I know something about them, yes.”

  Emmy held out the paper. “Well, I wath wondering if you could tell me what thith meanth?”

  Harold took the paper, read it, and pulled on his pipe for a long moment, frowning. Blue-white smoke rose from the bowl. He looked up at Emmy and said, “No, I’m afraid I can’t. Where did you get these?”

  Emmy gulped. “Uh, out of an old book I found. In the library.” Harold studied the words and took another pull on his pipe. Emmy continued, “Do you know anybody who might know what they mean, Profethor Whittaker?”

  “I may, Emmy.” He looked at her again, and his smile returned. “Let me see what I can find out.” He folded the paper and put it into his pocket.

  Johnny chimed in. “Thank you, Father.”

  Emmy nodded. “Yeth, thank you very much.”

  Harold nodded and went back to his book. Emmy and Johnny walked out of the den, back through the kitchen, and out the front door. When it was closed, Johnny motioned for Emmy to follow him, and they moved away from the house.

  “Whew!” said Emmy. “Why do I feel like I juth got the third degree?”

  “Welcome to my world,” Johnny replied with a grin.

  “Think he bought it?”

  “I dunno, but you were great! Thanks for doing it!”

  “Thure! It wath fun! Tho, tomorrow after breakfatht, right?”

  “Right!”

  She turned to go but then stopped. “Johnny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think the wordth mean?”

  The moon was visible now. Johnny gazed up at it and at the few twinkling stars in the sky and took a deep breath. “I really don’t know. That’s what I’m hoping to find out.” He looked at her. “That, and a lot of other things.”

  Chapter Twelve

  To Johnny’s surprise, Harold didn’t mention the words or Emmy at breakfast the next morning. Johnny had expected to be grilled about them, and he had tossed and turned for several hours before he went to sleep the previous night, wondering how he would respond if his father asked.

  He had finally decided the best thing to say was that he got the words from the trunk—which was true, though not the whole truth—and hope that would stop further inquiry. Though the trunk was a source of tension between them, Harold never pressed him about it, he supposed out of respect for Grandpa Jackson.

  If pushed on why he had Emmy hand over the words rather than simply do it himself, the explanation was a bit trickier. He was honestly trying to avoid hurting his father’s feelings. They had built up a bit of goodwill between them when Harold handed over the Whittaker Family Bible (though Johnny was still curious about the pages Harold had extracted from it). He didn’t want to wreck that by bringing up the trunk and, if pressured, by having to tell his father that the rest of its contents were none of his business. He knew if that happened, Harold would hand back the words and refuse to help him at all, not to mention ground him for being disrespectful.

  Johnny knew he could probably build up a lot of goodwill with his father if he just gave him the journal—and the whole trunk, for that matter. So why didn’t he? He had to admit, he was sorely tempted to do so. But he always came back to the same conclusion: Grandpa Jackson had given the trunk to him. Grandpa could have easily given it to Harold if he’d wanted Harold to have it. But he didn’t. Something about the trunk was meant for John Avery Whittaker, and for him alone.

  Harold not only didn’t mention the previous evening’s events, but he finished his breakfast even more quickly than Johnny, told everyone he had some work he needed to tend to, kissed Fiona and Charlie, patted Johnny on the shoulder, and took off. Johnny was cautiously o
ptimistic. Perhaps the ruse had worked after all. He could always hope.

  He finished his own breakfast, put his dishes in the sink, told Fiona he was going to spend the day doing research, and then bolted out the door to meet Emmy and get some information about his great-granduncle.

  They didn’t have to look very hard. At the town hall records department, when Emmy asked about G.W., the clerk—a gaunt man with a haughty manner and sizable hands—simply pointed a long, thin finger at the large wall behind them. On it was painted a colorful, collage-type mural of notable events in Provenance’s history: its founding, community development, colonial times, involvement in the Revolution, and, of course, its place in the “War of Northern Aggression,” as the description beside the mural put it.

  The famed 26th North Carolina Regiment was represented, and beside it was a depiction of two men in Confederate uniforms, one on the ground bleeding from a head wound, the other standing over him with a pistol and a look of mixed cowardice and greed. On the ground next to him was a Confederate army payroll box, open and overflowing with gold coins.

  “That’s the traitor and thief, Lieutenant G.W. McClintock, standing over the brave Captain Thaddeus Knox,” said the clerk in his North Carolina twang, with an air of authority. “McClintock tried to steal the gold, and Knox stopped him. They struggled, and McClintock shot Knox in the head.”

  Emmy glanced at Johnny, but he stared at the mural, jaw clenched.

  The clerk continued, “Of course, there is a bit of artistic license in the painting. The gold wasn’t with them when they struggled. They had buried it earlier.”

  Emmy turned and looked at him. “Buried it? Where?”

  “And why?” Johnny added, still staring at the painting.

  “‘Where’ is on the grounds of the old Granville place,” the clerk replied. This revelation caused Johnny to finally turn away from the mural and look at Emmy. She gaped back at him, incredulous.

  The clerk went on. “If you look closely at the painting, you can just see the spires of the mansion in the distance behind them.” They turned back to the mural and leaned in. Sure enough, there were the spires rising from a clump of trees just behind G.W.’s head. “As for ‘why,’” continued the clerk, “to protect it, of course.”