“C’mon,” Ruthie whispered. “Phoebe’s ledger is in the big cabinet.”
She rushed over to it, more excited than ever to show Jack what she had found behind the curtained doors. Ruthie pulled the drawer open, grabbed the key she had found there and slipped it into the lock above, in one fluid gesture. There lay the ledger on the middle shelf. “Let’s go out to the porch.”
The French door to the porch was still open from their last visit.
Outside, the thick and heavy air enveloped them. Birds chirped and a moist breeze blew gently. The sweet scents from the garden filled their noses and they sat down on the warm white planks of the porch floor. As long as they stayed on the porch, they were invisible to the world around them. Ruthie untied the leather strings of the old volume.
Jack looked on as she read out loud:
Secret and complete record of elixirs, balms, extracts, curatives and potions, penned to perfection by Phoebe Monroe, of the Gillis family, of Charleston, commenced in AD 1840
The book was filled with recipes of all sorts, including drink concoctions, like teas, to cure colds and aches. Ruthie recognized some of the names of plants. Entries were dated. Phoebe was as thorough as a chemist and filled dozens of pages with her formulas.
“You can buy stuff like this in health food stores,” Jack said when they saw references to echinacea and Saint-John’s-wort.
There were soaps made from lavender and lotions made of aloe vera. The qualities of arnica flower, blood-root and olive and castor oils were all described in detail.
Toward the end, just after an entry for hay fever relief, Jack said, “Hey, what’s this?” and pointed to a notably different sort of entry. There were no flowers or herbs involved in this one. It started with these words:
Observations, properties, the growth formula
Following was a list of common metals—lead, pewter, copper, tin, silver and gold. Phoebe had added notes of what looked like experiments she’d performed. She described heating and melting metals in different combinations over a high flame.
“It seems like she was trying to mix these metals,” Ruthie said.
“It reminds me of what we read in Christina’s book—about alchemists!” Jack added.
“Look at this note,” Ruthie pointed out.
The following combination produces effects on scale. Is it just perception? A trick of the eye? Or …
They followed to the next page and saw that the subject had jumped to the middle of a recipe for a treatment of infant colic made from chamomile and lemon balm.
“Something’s missing!” Ruthie said. She flattened the pages to see that deep in the spine crease, the telltale ragged edge of a page having been torn out.
“Man, just at the most important page!” Jack complained. “I wonder what happened to it.”
“You know what I think?” Ruthie began.
“I think so,” Jack replied. “The tag—you think she knew something about its magic?”
“She must have!” Ruthie opened her messenger bag. The metal slave tag was shining so brightly that even in the dark bottom of her bag she could see the number 587. “It’s really glowing!” She lifted it from the bag and the light reflected on her face. It pulsed and glinted wildly.
7
VOICES
“WHY IS IT DOING THAT? What do you think it means?” Jack wondered.
“I don’t know. I don’t hear anything, do you?”
Even though the last time she’d held this book nothing magical had happened, Ruthie hoped it would be different this time. She wanted to hear a voice from the past, just as the magic had delivered the voice of Christina, Duchess of Milan, reading from her book in room A1. She and Jack sat quietly for a few beats, imagining every bird that chirped in the trees as the beginning of the magical sounds they had heard before.
“Maybe you should turn a few pages,” Jack suggested.
Ruthie thumbed through, waiting for something to happen. But no magic bells sounded. She heard no far-off voice speaking to her. The ledger was filled with interesting information about all kinds of plants and their medicinal and therapeutic qualities. But apparently, it was not filled with magic.
Ruthie turned to the back of the ledger to show Jack the spiral notebook that she’d found tucked there before, the one she had given Phoebe when they’d met her in the garden.
“Wow. Look how old it’s gotten.” He felt the yellowed, brittle paper. “We only gave it to her a few weeks ago!”
“I know; it proves we really went back in time out there,” Ruthie said, and pointed off into the garden.
Jack paged through it.
“It looks like she used it before she wrote in the ledger. See—she’s practicing her handwriting.” Ruthie noted row after row of letters repeated in lowercase and capitals and then words, written over and over until the script was perfect. Every page was filled.
“She sure put it to good use.” Jack looked up toward the garden, hearing something. Ruthie heard it too.
“Remember, no one can see us here,” Ruthie whispered.
“Right.”
They listened and realized they were hearing someone singing. It was a man’s voice and it was coming closer. They looked through the carved balustrades that supported the porch railing and saw a man walk into the garden. His clothes were worn, though not tattered, and he carried a small shovel and a basket. They couldn’t quite make out the words of what he was softly singing, and half the time it turned into a hum as he bent down to work.
Then they heard another voice joining in. It was a young female voice, and soon they saw whom it belonged to; Phoebe came into the garden.
She sang in a lilting soprano,
O Mary don’t you weep, don’t you mourn
Some of these mornings bright and fair
Take my wings and cleave the air
And then the man’s voice sang,
The very moment I thought I was lost
The dungeon shook and the chains fell off
Then their voices joined together:
Pharaoh’s army got drowned,
O Mary don’t you weep
Ruthie and Jack looked at each other.
“I’ve heard that song before,” Jack whispered. “It’s old, but it’s on one of my mom’s Bruce Springsteen albums!”
Phoebe was dressed in the same clothes she had worn when they met her before and she was taking direction from the man, pulling weeds and picking plants to collect in the basket.
Soon a woman came along and the two stopped working. They began talking in hushed tones, sheltered behind a large and dense flowering bush.
“Master Gillis says he wants to hire Phoebe out to the Smith family,” the woman said, and then turned to Phoebe. “Do you think you could serve inside? You know what to do?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“And you would do exactly what you were told to do?”
“Yes. But what about you, Pa? Who will help you in the garden?”
“I can get by,” the man said with a deep sigh.
“Will I have to wear one of those tags when I’m servin’ at the Smiths’?” Phoebe asked, a note of protest in her voice. Jack gave Ruthie a nudge with his elbow.
“I s’pose so,” her father answered.
“You will wear it and not a word of complainin’,” her mother added. “You don’t want people thinkin’ you’ve escaped! No tellin’ what they’d do to you.”
“Sally,” Phoebe’s father started, looking around before continuing in a lower voice, “I heard there’s a group leavin’ next month.”
“Don’t be lookin’ for more trouble, Ben,” Phoebe’s mother cautioned.
“But it’s true, Sally. They know the way,” he continued. “Think of it—freedom. For Phoebe, and someday for our grandchildren.”
“I hear those stories, Ben. And I hear that many don’t make it! Then they’s worse off than before.”
“Sally, it’s only a matter of time before we’re separ
ated for good. This may be our only chance. I’ve saved some money; that would help us.”
Phoebe spoke up. “I’d like to try, Ma. I could go to school. I’ve heard children up North do.”
“That’s right, Sally. School for Phoebe! She could make somethin’ of herself and we could work, earn our own way.”
“I’d work real hard with lessons,” Phoebe insisted.
“You’re wishin’ for what can’t happen!” Sally said.
“But—” Phoebe began.
“Hush!” her mother commanded. “I’m not sayin’ we will or we won’t. But I got a bad feelin’ ’bout this. Now we best be gettin’ back to work.” She left them alone in the garden.
“And not a word of what we’s talkin’ about either,” Phoebe’s father warned.
“Yes, Pa.”
They silently filled the basket with lettuce and tomatoes, then walked off and out of sight.
Ruthie exhaled, unaware that she’d been holding her breath. “The tag! It’s Phoebe’s—I knew it!” she exclaimed. “How did it end up hidden in the handbag?” Questions flew about in her head like the birds in the garden.
“I wish we knew exactly what year it is out there right now,” Jack mused.
“Why?”
“The ledger says she started writing in 1840, in Charleston. And it sounds like—from what we just heard—they were thinking about escaping to the North, right?”
“Right.”
“I wonder if they did, if they succeeded.” He added, “Don’t you want to go out there, to help her escape?”
“Yes. But we don’t know the first thing about how slaves escaped.”
“I know it was dangerous; and I wouldn’t want to do something that made things worse for her.” Jack sighed, resigned to these facts.
“It’s so frustrating to just sit here!” Ruthie shook her head.
He touched the ledger. “And how did Mrs. Thorne get this?”
“I’m wondering about something else.” Ruthie stood up. “I don’t understand why the tag is still so alive right now. It seems like there should be something happening with the ledger or the notebook. Don’t you think?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know exactly.” Ruthie opened her palm, letting the light from the tag fill the air. “But look at it!”
“Let’s check around the room again,” Jack suggested.
They approached the French doors and waited until the coast was clear. Then they crossed back into the twenty-first century. Circling the room, they checked the tag’s temperature. It glowed everywhere, but no one place more than any other.
Jack opened the doors of the curtained cabinet to check inside one more time. They couldn’t see the top shelf, but he stood on tiptoe and felt the length of it. “Nothing,” he stated.
Ruthie opened the lower drawer. This time she pulled it farther out and let the light shine in. “Empty,” Ruthie echoed with a shrug. She put the ledger back on the shelf where she’d found it just as Jack grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the room. People had come to the viewing window.
Out on the ledge they stared at the tag that still glowed in Ruthie’s palm. “I feel like we’re missing something,” she said. “We need to know more.”
Ruthie and Jack made their way down the toothpick ladder, intending to head to room A12. There they were, tiny on the floor of the corridor, when suddenly the lights flickered several times and then they were surrounded by complete and utter blackness.
8
DARKNESS
“WHAT’S GOING ON? WHY’D THE lights go off?” Ruthie blindly reached over to grab Jack’s sleeve. He was doing the same thing to her.
“Must be a power failure,” Jack surmised. “Even when the museum is closed, some of the lights stay on. I bet they’ll go back on soon.”
“I can’t see at all, can you?” The access corridor didn’t even have an exit sign anywhere to light the way.
“Here we go,” Jack said, opening his cell phone for light.
“Why didn’t we think of this when we were up in the duct?” Ruthie asked.
Jack shrugged. “We didn’t really need it; we just had to go forward until we saw the light from the other side.”
So like him, Ruthie thought. Complete—but predictable—darkness didn’t bother him in the least!
“Do you see the climbing chain?” she said, anxiously squinting into the corridor. She knew from past experience that the possibility of coming face to face with mice and aggressive cockroaches was real.
“Not yet.”
They moved onward, staying shoulder to shoulder. Finally they glimpsed the battery at the end of the chain and ran toward it.
“We’re going to have to climb up to the ledge without light. I don’t think I can hold the phone and climb at the same time. Do you?”
“No. I think I need both hands.” That was confirmed before Ruthie had climbed a few feet, her hands and feet groping for the loops. She misstepped and found herself dangling in the dark more than once.
“Shh. Do you hear something?”
They listened and heard an announcement coming from the gallery.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a power failure. We are closing the museum early. Please proceed upstairs.” The message was repeated several times.
“Darn!” Jack groused. “Now we won’t be able to find out why my coin is heating up!”
“It would be too hard to explore in this pitch black anyway, even with your cell phone light. We’ll have to come back,” Ruthie stated. “We’d better hurry!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!” Jack answered. After a few more inches he had reached the level of the ledge. “It’s happening again! The coin is heating up in my pocket!”
But they didn’t have time to stop and investigate. Not without some major explaining when they returned to the galleries.
“Proceed upstairs,” the voice from the gallery repeated.
They scrambled up and through the duct until it seemed like they should be close to the end. Ruthie felt like a sleepwalker in an unknown landscape. With every step she worried her foot would find thin air at the vent. Ruthie said, “Jack, your phone. We need to see where the edge is!”
He opened the phone just in time—they were inches from the edge.
“That was close!” Jack said.
“Please proceed to the exits,” the voice from the gallery repeated.
“I think we should drop the key and grow now,” Ruthie suggested after they’d climbed down a few feet.
“Okay. Can you grab my hand and drop it?”
Jack maneuvered just so to be right alongside Ruthie. They each had one foot in a loop of chain while the other foot dangled. Ruthie held the yarn tightly with one hand. “Grab my wrist and don’t let go!” She reached for the key in her pocket with her free hand.
Ruthie tossed the key to the ground as they pushed off from the chain. They hurtled downward. In the total darkness the fall felt longer than the six feet it was, and more dangerous. Ruthie imagined this was how deep-sea divers must feel in the inky depths near the ocean floor. And she couldn’t quite judge when her feet would hit the ground. After only a few seconds they did, with a thud.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
“Yeah,” Ruthie said. Then she remembered something. “The ladder! We left it on the other side under the South Carolina room!”
“We can’t go back for it. We’ll just have to risk leaving it,” Jack answered.
“I guess you’re right.”
While Jack used the light from his phone to search for the key, Ruthie continued to feel for the yarn chain (her phone didn’t have a flashlight function). It didn’t take long to find because they hadn’t landed far from it. She started by winding it around the battery, then gave several tugs to bring the whole length through the vent. She wound it as fast as she could and plopped it in her messenger bag.
“Got it,” Jack said, picking up the key.
He held
out his palm and in seconds they were slipping under the access door. They found Gallery 11 in eerie, silent darkness. The only light came from the red glow of the exit signs. There was no one in sight. They got big again and rushed to the staircase.
Up in the lobby guards were shepherding the last of the museum visitors to the Michigan Avenue doors. One guard saw Ruthie and Jack coming up from the lower level.
“C’mon, you two. Let’s hustle!”
“What happened?” Jack asked.
“A tornado, just west of the city. Blew out a major transformer,” the guard explained. “A large area of the city’s without power.”
As they arrived at the big glass doors they could see that it had rained while they were inside. Down in the street, streams of water rushed along the curbs into the storm sewers, but the sky was now bright blue. Police officers stood in the intersection, guiding the cars, because the traffic lights were out. Typical of midwestern weather, the storm had come and was now gone as though nothing at all had happened.
On the bus ride back to Jack’s house, they both texted their moms to tell them where they were. Ruthie thought how odd it was to have been deep in the museum—actually, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—and unaware of the storm raging outside. “Jack, what do you think would happen if we were back in time and something happened to the Thorne Rooms?” she asked.
“You mean like a tornado or a fire or something?”
“Yeah. Do you think we’d be able to get back?”
“I never thought about it. Kinda scary. But it’s really unlikely.”
“I know, but still.” Ruthie saw out the bus windows that the signs that were usually lit up during the day—the neon signs that said Open, for instance—were dark. “Must have been a bad tornado.”
The Pirate's Coin Page 4
