Three Adventure Tales

by Ruth Chew

  When the wagon reached the house, the man pulled hard on the reins. “Whoa!”

  The horse stopped. The man and the woman climbed down from the wagon. Now the children saw that the man was wearing baggy knee breeches and the woman had skirts down to her ankles.

  Sarah tried not to stare. She thought the man and the woman were also trying not to look too hard at the clothes she and Timothy wore.

  The woman came forward and held out her hand. She was not young, but her cheeks were still pink and round. And her eyes were bright blue. “I’m Vrouw Maarten,” she said.

  Sarah shook hands. “My name is Sarah Standish. This is my brother, Timothy.”

  Vrouw Maarten shook hands with Tim. “You must be English,” she said. “Do you live in Gravesend?”

  The only Gravesend Timothy knew was Gravesend Bay. He was sure she didn’t mean that. “No,” he said.

  The man was opening the big front door of the barn that stood beside the house. Timothy ran to help. The man unhitched the gray horse. Then he tied him to a fence post where the horse could munch the rough grass that grew beside the road. Timothy helped push the high-backed wagon into the barn.

  Vrouw Maarten walked over. “Hendrick,” she said, “I see you’ve made friends with Timothy.”

  Sarah was following close behind the plump housewife. Vrouw Maarten turned to her. “This is my husband, Heer Maarten. Hendrick, this is Sarah.”

  Heer Maarten had a kind face. It was brown and wrinkled. And the blue of his eyes was faded from the sun. When he took off his hat Sarah saw that his blond hair was turning gray.

  She was going to hold out her hand. But Heer Maarten bowed to her. So instead of shaking hands Sarah made the little curtsey she had learned for the dance festival in school. It was hard to curtsey when she was wearing jeans.

  Timothy was looking into the barn. He pointed to a row of small holes up near the eaves. “What are those for?”

  “For the birds to come in and out by,” Vrouw Maarten told him. “See, they have nests up there under the roof.”

  Sarah stepped into the barn and craned her neck to see better.

  “It’s nice to have company,” Heer Maarten said. “Come inside. Jannetje and I have just come from church.” He led the way into the house.

  While Heer Maarten and his wife went into the back room to change out of their best clothes, Sarah and Timothy sat down at the long table. Timothy looked at the floor. “There’s sand on it,” he said. “I didn’t notice that when we were in the museum. Everything’s different.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “Don’t you see what’s happened?”

  Timothy shook his head.

  “We’ve gone back into the past,” Sarah said. “It may be three hundred years before our time. This is the way the house looked in the picture.”

  Timothy thought about this. Then he asked, “How are we going to get back where we belong?”

  “I wish I knew,” his sister told him.

  Vrouw Maarten came back into the room. She was wearing a white apron over a blue dress. “Sarah,” she said, “I don’t mean to be rude. But I can’t help wondering how you children came here. You are very welcome. Still I know your mother must be worried about you.”

  Sarah looked into Vrouw Maarten’s blue eyes. “I’m not sure how we got here,” she said. “And I don’t know how to let my mother know where we are. If you want me to tell you what happened, I will. But you won’t believe me.”

  Vrouw Maarten looked hard at Sarah. Then she turned to Timothy. “What do you have to say?”

  Timothy had a feeling they were in trouble. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I pushed my way into your house.”

  Vrouw Maarten frowned. “Just a minute,” she said. She went to the door that led to the back room. “Hendrick, come here.”

  Heer Maarten came into the big kitchen-living room. He had changed into soft leather shoes, and he was smoking a long-stemmed pipe. “What’s the matter, Jannetje?”

  Vrouw Maarten sat down at the long table. “The children have a strange story to tell. I’d like you to hear it, too.”

  Heer Maarten smiled at Sarah and Timothy. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I was young once myself.” He sat down beside his wife. “Now let’s hear all about it.”

  Sarah swallowed. She knew Heer Maarten would think she was lying. Tears came into her eyes. Vrouw Maarten reached across the table and patted her hand.

  “It seems a long time ago,” Sarah started. “But I guess it hasn’t happened yet. We had just finished lunch when Mother thought it might be a good idea if we went to the park for the afternoon.”

  “What park, dear?” Vrouw Maarten asked.

  “Prospect Park, the big park in the middle of Brooklyn,” Timothy said.

  “Oh, you come from Breuckelen!” Vrouw Maarten said. “I didn’t know there was a park in Breuckelen.”

  “Hush, Jannetje,” Heer Maarten said. “Let the children tell their story. We’ll ask questions afterward.”

  Together Timothy and Sarah told what had happened to them that afternoon. Much of the time Sarah was sure that the Maartens didn’t know what they were talking about. But Heer Maarten and his wife sat across from them at the table and listened until the story was done. Then Vrouw Maarten got up and walked around the table. She put her hand on Sarah’s forehead just as her mother did when she thought Sarah had a fever.

  “They seem to believe their story, Hendrick,” she said to her husband.

  Heer Maarten looked at the sneakers and blue jeans Sarah and Timothy were wearing. “When I was a boy in the old country,” he said, “we used to gather around the fireside on a winter evening and tell old stories. We knew they weren’t true. But it was fun to think they were. And whatever you believe is true for you.” He smiled at the two children. “I’m going to pretend I believe it, too. Of course, just as soon as I hear that someone is looking for a boy and girl in strange pantaloons, I’ll have to say good-bye to you.”

  Vrouw Maarten was shocked. “Hendrick! You mean you aren’t even going to try to find their parents?”

  Heer Maarten didn’t answer right away. He reached over to feel the zipper on Timothy’s knitted shirt. Timothy showed him how it worked.

  “Of course I’ll ask around, Jannetje. Meantime it’s nice to have children in the house again. Now, how about supper?” Heer Maarten stood up. He walked to the fireplace to knock the ashes out of his pipe.

  Vrouw Maarten spread a white tablecloth on the long table. She showed Sarah where the pewter spoons were kept in a polished wooden box. When the table was set with blue and white plates it looked very pretty. Sarah ran outside and picked a bunch of daisies from a patch beside the front stoop. Vrouw Maarten put the flowers in a bowl in the middle of the table.

  Timothy and Heer Maarten had gone to the barn. When supper was ready Vrouw Maarten sent Rachel to call them. Timothy came running out of a stall in the corner.

  “Guess what, Sarah. I milked a cow! I really did. It’s quite a trick.”

  Heer Maarten came out of the stall after Timothy. He was carrying two pails of foaming milk. “Your brother’s very quick to learn,” he said.

  The milk was stored in a little wooden shed by the spring at the back of the house. Before Timothy came into the house Heer Maarten asked him to take off his sneakers. They were dirty from the barn. Heer Maarten slipped out of the wooden shoes he was wearing. He left them with Timothy’s sneakers on the stoop.

  Heer Maarten put on the soft leather shoes he had left just inside the door of the house. Vrouw Maarten handed Timothy a pair of scuffed slippers. “They belonged to my son when he was a boy,” she said.

  There was a pitcher of water and a basin on a stand in the back room. Beside it was a towel and a bar of brown soap. Heer Maarten poured some water into the basin. He handed Timothy the soap. The two of them washed their hands.

  Sarah had noticed another pair of wooden shoes on the stoop. “Do you always change your shoes when you come into the
house?” she asked Vrouw Maarten.

  “Yes. It helps keep the house clean,” Vrouw Maarten said.

  Sarah looked down at her sneakers. “I don’t know whether these should be indoor shoes or outdoor shoes.”

  Vrouw Maarten smiled. “We’ll decide tomorrow. Now sit down at the table.”

  There was salted beef, sausages, pickled pork, cabbage, beans, corn on the cob, and big loaves of crusty bread with sweet butter. Sarah was sure she had never eaten so much in her life. She could hardly cram down the raspberries and thick yellow cream.

  After supper Heer Maarten and Timothy went to put the horse into the barn for the night. Sarah helped Vrouw Maarten clear the table and wash the dishes.

  When all the blue and white dishes were back on the sideboard, Vrouw Maarten walked over to the bed built into the cupboard in the corner of the room. “You can sleep here, Sarah.”

  Sarah peeked behind the curtain. The bed was a high shelf with a featherbed and goosedown pillows on it.

  Vrouw Maarten pulled a low trundle bed from under the shelf. “This is what my son used to sleep on,” she said. “I hope Timothy will be comfortable in it.”

  There were clothes of all sizes folded away in a big wooden chest in the back room.

  “These were worn by my son,” Vrouw Maarten told Sarah. “I’m saving them in case I should have grandchildren.” She smiled. “My son was married last year. He has a farm in Flatbush.”

  “Flatbush!” Sarah said. “That’s not far from where Tim and I live. I mean from where we will live.” She stopped. “I’m not sure what I mean.”

  Vrouw Maarten changed the subject. “This is what I was looking for.” She held up two linen nightshirts. “I’m sorry I don’t have a nightgown that will fit you, dear. I never had a daughter. But you seem to be used to dressing like a boy.”

  Sarah and Vrouw Maarten went outside. Timothy ran out from behind the barn. “Come and see the baby chicks, Sarah.”

  After Sarah had looked at the chicks, she and Timothy sat on the front stoop of the house with Heer and Vrouw Maarten. The birds twittered in the summer twilight. It began to get dark. There were fireflies flashing in the peach trees around the house. Heer Maarten stood up. “Time for bed,” he said.

  Sarah thought Timothy would object to wearing a nightshirt. But he thought it was funny. “And it’s cooler than pajamas,” he said. He jumped into the trundle bed and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  For a long time after the candle was out Sarah lay awake in the cupboard bed. She wondered if her mother was worried about her. Then she remembered that in all the stories she had read about people going back into the past, time had stood still until they got back.

  “If that’s the way it is,” Sarah said to herself, “it’s not even time for supper at home.” She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  Soon after breakfast next morning a farmer drove his horse and wagon down the dirt road to the gray clapboard house. Sarah and Timothy helped Heer Maarten and the farmer unload four sacks of corn from the wagon. The men carried the sacks to the millhouse.

  Vrouw Maarten took Timothy and Sarah to see how the corn was ground. Neither of them had seen anything like the big round millstones. They stood and watched while Heer Maarten poured the kernels of corn through a hole in the upper stone.

  “The grinding will take a while, children,” Vrouw Maarten said. “Why don’t you go and dig clams?” She gave them a round wicker basket and two long-handled spades. Then she walked back to the house.

  Timothy and Sarah left the mill and walked across the beach. The surf slapped against the shore. High overhead in the blue sky sea gulls swooped and screamed. Now and then a gull dived down to grab a fish from the water.

  Sarah and Timothy dug and dug in the white sand. They made a big hole in the middle of the beach. But they didn’t find any clams.

  “Let’s build a sand castle, Sarah.” Timothy took off his sneakers and rolled up the legs of his jeans.

  Sarah slipped out of her sneakers, too. The warm sand felt good between her toes. She set to work to pile the sand into towers.

  Timothy began to dig a moat. “I’m getting water,” he said after a while. “Oh, rats. Now the sides are caving in.”

  Sarah looked up from the pointed turret she was trying to make. Suddenly a cold chill ran down her back.

  Someone was leaning over Timothy—someone with straight black hair held in place by a strip of beaded leather. Except for a small leather apron and moccasins, he was naked.

  It was an Indian. And he was holding a long knife!

  Sarah felt as if she were frozen. She couldn’t move or speak. Then the Indian stood up straight and looked at her. Now Sarah saw that he wasn’t much taller than she was. He was only a boy.

  “I never saw anyone dig for clams that way,” the Indian boy said. “I don’t think you’ll get any.”

  Timothy looked up. He was so surprised that he dropped his spade. “Who are you?”

  “I like to call myself Beaver,” the young Indian said.

  “I’m Tim. This is my sister, Sarah.” Timothy stood up.

  “Beaver,” Sarah said, “will you show us how to dig clams?”

  The Indian smiled. He picked up a spade and walked across to where the waves were lapping the edge of the beach. There he pointed to the wet sand. Sarah saw a little spurt of water. Beaver dug the spade into the place where the water had spurted. Up came a clam. It fell off the spade. Timothy made a dive for it. But the clam dug its way down into the sand before he could catch it.

  Sarah ran to get the wicker basket. Beaver was already digging up another clam. As soon as the Indian pulled up his spade, Sarah shoved the basket under it. A fat clam fell into the basket.

  Timothy began to dig with the other spade. Sarah was kept busy moving the basket from one to the other. If she wasn’t quick the clam would escape. They lost more than half the clams they dug up. But there were so many in the sand at the water’s edge that soon the basket was half full.

  “It’s my turn to dig, Tim,” Sarah said. She handed Timothy the basket and reached for his spade.

  The Indian laughed. “My people taught your people how to dig clams a long time ago. But you act as if you’ve never done it before.”

  Sarah spotted a little geyser. She dug her spade into the sand and came up with a clam. Timothy held the basket ready. Sarah tossed in the clam. Beaver stopped digging and watched her. When the basket was almost full, the Indian went to a pool left by the tide on the beach. He fished out a tangle of wet seaweed and crammed it into the basket with the clams.

  “This will help keep the clams fresh,” Beaver said. He put the lid on the basket and helped Sarah and Timothy drag it into the shade beside the millhouse.

  “Whew! It’s hot!” Timothy wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I wish we could go swimming.”

  Beaver stared at him. “Your people never go into the water,” he said.

  “That’s what you think.” Timothy pulled off his shirt and wiggled out of his jeans. He waded into the surf, wearing only his undershorts.

  Sarah watched her brother splashing in the cool water. She wanted to join him. But she didn’t like the idea of having to go around in wet underwear.

  “Do you like to swim, Beaver?” she asked.

  There was no answer.

  Sarah turned to look for the Indian. She couldn’t see him anywhere.

  Just then she heard a shout. Heer Maarten came running across the beach toward them. He was very excited. “Tim,” he called. “Come out of that water this minute!”

  Heer Maarten was sure that going into the ocean was likely to give Tim a fever. Timothy and Sarah tried to explain that they often went swimming and it never did them any harm. But Heer Maarten wouldn’t listen.

  Timothy’s wet undershorts were spread on a beach plum bush to dry. He put his jeans and shirt and sneakers back on.

  Vrouw Maarten invited the farmer to stay for
lunch. It was all ready in the house. They all went in and sat down. The miller’s hair and eyelashes were dusty with flour.

  “Did you find many clams?” he asked the children.

  “Not at first,” Sarah told him. “But then someone came along who showed us how to dig them.”

  “Oh, didn’t you know how?” the farmer said. “I thought everybody did.”

  “The children come from over near Flatbush,” Heer Maarten explained. “It’s all forests over there, you know.” He patted Sarah’s hand to tell her to be quiet.

  “Who showed you how to dig the clams?” the farmer asked. “There’s not another house for miles.”

  “An Indian boy,” Timothy said.

  “Oh.” Heer Maarten thought for a minute. “There aren’t any Indians living around here nowadays,” he said. “But some of them still come to get shells. Years ago they were always down at the shell banks making wampum.”

  “What’s that?” Timothy asked.

  “Dummy!” Sarah said. “That’s Indian money.”

  “It’s little purple and white beads made from shells,” Heer Maarten said.

  Vrouw Maarten interrupted. “We’d better hurry and finish eating. The tide is coming in.”

  Everybody stopped talking and rushed to finish lunch. Sarah wanted to help clean up after the meal.

  “We’ll do it later, Sarah,” Vrouw Maarten said. “There isn’t time now.”

  The farmer and Heer Maarten carried the bags of cornmeal from the mill to the wagon.

  The sea was much higher on the beach now. It was crawling in a circle around the sand dunes.

  Sarah went to take Timothy’s undershorts off the beach plum bush.

  The miller and his wife stood beside the dirt road and waved to the farmer as he drove away.

  “Why did he have to leave in such a hurry?” Timothy asked.

  Heer Maarten pointed down the road that led across the salt marsh. “Look.”