Shawn Underhill
The Earthkeepers
***
Although the character Lobo is fictitious in this story, he is inspired by an actual wolf of the same name, who truly was the leader of The Outlaw Pack. You can learn about the real Lobo and his Outlaws in the book Wild Animals I Have Known by Ernest Thompson Seton (free download on Amazon) or by the documentary The Wolf That Changed America.
For very young children, the true story of Lobo might be disturbing and parental discretion is advised.
For those with political minds, Lobo’s true story might provide excellent raw materials for bickering and arguing. From there you may proceed as usual into your true arena of expertise, where you may easily expend much time, money and verbal gas, and in the end reach no clear or practical conclusion of any use to anyone or anything.
The Earthkeepers does not depict the dramatic events of the real Lobo’s life in any way. He is merely referred to as the forefather to a fictional character.
This author intends no ill will toward any living persons named Chuck.
Enjoy!
***
Prologue
I can’t tell you about the Earthkeepers without first telling you a little about myself. And if I’m going to tell you anything interesting about myself, I also need to tell you a little about my home. One won’t make sense without the others.
Back in the 1870s, about a hundred years before I was born, there lived a young couple called Luke and Martha Dewfield. They made their home in a little northern New England town called Maple Grove. The town was surrounded by hills and the hills were surrounded by mountains, and one of those hills was called Raccoon Hill. There Luke and Martha owned a big colonial farmhouse which looked out over sloping hayfields and a sprawling apple orchard and the little village of Maple Grove itself. At night Luke and Martha could see lantern and candle lights glowing in the windows of all the houses in the village below, and they spent many peaceful summer evenings in their rocking chairs on the porch, admiring both the lights in the valley and the starry sky above.
One late summer evening as the Dewfield’s were rocking in their chairs, the sun had just set below the mountains when they were startled by a sudden disturbance in the dark. The sounds seemed to be coming from up the road a short distance, but from where they sat rocking they couldn’t see what made the sounds.
“Barn doors and bootstraps,” Luke said, puffing on his pipe. “Something’s happening up the road, wife. Sounds like quite a commotion.”
“Sure does, husband,” replied his wife, sipping her tea. “Maybe you ought to see about it.”
So Luke took a lantern and walked down the road to see what he could see.
Just into the cover of the trees and out of sight from the house, he came upon a horse-drawn carriage that had suffered a broken a wheel. The passengers had all climbed out of the carriage and were standing about in the road, seemingly quite upset. They were a family of four, and not a family Luke recognized from anywhere nearby. They were wealthy city folks for sure, he realized, with many pieces of luggage piled onto the carriage, likely traveling home after spending the summer at some grand mountain hotel to escape the heat of the city. Realizing that the night was quickly getting darker, and that carriage wheels were rarely fixed in darkness, Luke could see no alternative but to offer them a place to stay till morning.
“Kind sir,” said the gentleman of the family, “I’ll be frank.”
“And I be Luke,” said Luke.
“No, no, no,” the other said, adjusting his spectacles for a closer look at Luke. “Frank is not my name, dear fellow. Frankness means complete honesty.”
“I believe it does,” Luke agreed with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Master Luke,” said the gentleman. “What I’m trying to say is, being no more than strangers to you, my family and I are pleasantly astonished by your kind offer.”
“Haystacks and huckleberries,” Luke burst, being astonished by their astonishment. “What sort of man would leave a family out of doors all night? Why, we can put the hosses in the barn and the peoples in the house, with food and room to spare.” By saying hosses he was of course referring to horses.
“Your generosity,” replied the astonished gentleman as he shook Luke’s hand, “will not go unrewarded.”
So the family, the driver and the horses all went home with Luke and were made comfortable for the night, and in the morning they couldn’t stop talking about how well they had slept, how beautiful the house was, how fresh the breeze blowing off the mountain smelled, how wonderful the view was, and how the sun sparkled on the church steeples and the bell tower in the valley below. In general they had fallen in love with everything about the place, and when their carriage was repaired and it came time for them to go, they were sorry to leave so soon. But before getting back on the road, the gentleman of the family insisted on paying Luke and Martha very generously for their hospitality. Luke tried to refuse him, but the thankful gentleman refused all of Luke’s refusals.
As the carriage rolled away, Luke stood turning the money over in his hand ponderously, and that’s when he had a very bright idea. “Honey bees and hot tea!” he exclaimed. “Listen here, wife. We could make the house into an inn, with plenty of rooms for plenty of folks to enjoy these views.”
“An inn made of our home?” gasped Martha. “Cornbread and crumpets, man! Of all the loony ideas. Most folks pass right through Maple Grove.”
“Because there’s no place to stay in Maple Grove,” he answered. “Bouncing bears and buttered bread, wife. We might as well be the first. Sure beats being the second or third.”
“All right, all right, husband,” Martha conceded. “If you can build an inn, I’ll help you run it. But that money in your hand won’t do it. You’ll have to see the banker.”
So Luke went to see the banker, and the banker sat bolt upright and said something like, “Banknotes and bribes! An inn here in Maple Grove? Why, there’s no place else for travelers to stay. I’ll say, this strikes me as a novel idea. Why didn’t I think of it?”
So Luke and Martha took their loan money and added four big bedrooms to the farmhouse, and out front by the road they hung a sign that read: The Inn at Maple Grove. Below the lettering was carved the likeness of two horses pulling a carriage. And when they stood back to admire their new place Luke breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Ah, newlyweds and nest eggs, wife. We have ourselves one beautiful inn.”
“We do, husband,” replied Martha. “Now all that’s left is to sweep the floors, wash all the windows, dust out the corners, stock the cupboards, wash the linens—”
Luke went inside and made himself a cup of tea. When he returned to the porch and sat in his chair, he could hear Martha muttering “—and chop the firewood, and lug it inside, and stack it by the fireplaces, and clean out the ashes, and stoke up the fires, and sweep up the floors—”
Martha eventually stopped listing chores and also had some tea, and word soon spread about the inn, thanks to the stranded family telling all their friends, and soon other travelers began arriving or sending letters to make reservations. Years went by that way and Luke and Martha eventually had a son named Glenn, and as more and more guests reserved all the rooms, they kept on adding more rooms for them to reserve. By the time Glenn was grown and Luke and Martha were getting old, the place had swelled from a big farmhouse to something bigger than three or four big houses—something similar to a long white castle with pointed window dormers along the roofline, brick chimneys protruding from the roof, green shutters by the windows, and a long porch lined with many rocking chairs. There was even a tower over the grand entryway. Then everyone down in the village of Maple Grove looked up at the inn and saw the lights g
lowing in its many windows at night.
More years passed and somewhere along the way guests started using telephones to reserve their rooms, and in keeping with the times the innkeepers stopped saying things like “broomsticks and beaver dams” and instead decided to turn the hayfields across from the inn into a small ski area. Then more people than ever came to stay at the inn. Guests from Boston and New York and other famous cities traveled all the way up to little Maple Grove to ski, build snowmen, and let their children play in the fluffy mountain snow. From then on, winter, which had always been the slowest season, was always the busiest.
Then at last Glenn Dewfield decided it was time to be married and had not one son but two. The oldest was named Charles and the youngest named Russell. As a boy Charles liked to be called Chuck, and as boys often do after rash decisions, he soon changed his mind. He demanded to be called Charles again but by then it was too late, his nickname had stuck and it was too late to reverse the trend. As it turned out, the older Chuck got the less interested he was in the inn atop Raccoon Hill. But as for Russell, he loved the old place, just as his father and grandfather loved it. He vowed to take good care of it when he grew up.
And so he did.
And then in the 1970s Russell was married, and he and his remarkably beautiful wife, Ellie (who also happens to be one of the best bakers and pastry chefs in history) had a son. That son happens to be me, Ethan, and I’ve just given you the nickel tour of our inn, as well as a brief history of the innkeepers.
To this day the story is chronicled by old photographs hanging on the walls of the grand sitting room. The oldest photos are of course black and white and show carriages parked along the road and horses grazing in the fields below. The newest photos are in color and, with exception to the evolving styles of the cars in the parking lot, look very much as you might expect.
But there is more to the story of my family—details not chronicled by photographs and discussed openly with guests. Within many accounts there are often multiple layers of truth, none more or less true than the other. The outer layers typically become the popular versions of events and the official histories, while the inner layers—the secrets—remain known only to a few.
Now that you know the official story, I can tell you a little of my personal story.
Chapter 1
Twas the night before Thanksgiving, and I was too restless to sleep.
Crawling from my bed, my toes found the cool floorboards in the dark. Standing carefully, I inched toward the rectangular sliver of light highlighting my closed door. I moved slowly to keep the floorboards from creaking, then knelt down gently before the door. Taking in a long breath through my nose, the warm scent of fresh blueberry pie filled my head. It seeped into my room along with the sliver of light around the door, practically calling for me to come devour it. I could picture it downstairs browning in the oven. I could almost taste it.
I’ve always been a bit of a blueberry fanatic. My mother used to joke that one day I’d wake up and discover myself to be as blue as a Smurf. Up till about the age of six I actually believed her. But that’s all beside the point. Neither blueberries nor baking pies had anything to do with my restlessness that night. The true cause was something much less pleasant.
Downstairs my parents were embroiled in a heated conversation. Being that I’ve grown up living at an inn with guests always coming and going, I’d been taught never to eavesdrop. Normally I didn’t. But that night I found it difficult to resist. You see, my aunt and uncle had stopped by unannounced, and Uncle Chuck had hinted at wanting to discuss “business” with my dad. By “business” he meant “things we shouldn’t discuss with Ethan around.” So because of my uncle, I was sent to bed earlier than usual. And of course I was left feeling a little curious about said “business” that was too juicy for my young ears.
The other factor in my banishment was Ginny. She’s a German Shepherd Dog with a beautiful, plush black and red-brown coat. We’re about the best friends that ever lived. Guests at the inn sometimes say we’re “attached at the hip,” and they’re not far from the truth. We spend all our time together. She lays at my feet during meals, by the tub when I’m in the bath, and of course she sleeps right beside me every night.
The only problem with Ginny is that she despises my aunt and uncle. In return they like her even less. It’s funny because over the years Ginny’s met hundreds of people and has never had a problem with anyone. Chuck and Palleta are just that special—the type of people that openly admit their lack of fondness for kids, dogs, cats, birds, and just about anything else other than themselves. The only animal my uncle has ever expressed admiration for is a piranha, and that was only a passing comment.
With all that in mind, what got us sent to bed early is this: I was in the kitchen after dinner, staring into the oven, mesmerized by the sight and scent of two blueberry pies baking, and as usual Ginny was sitting at my side. That’s when Uncle Chuck entered the room with his “business” proclamation, looking all proud in his fancy suit and shiny shoes—like he was a real estate agent to movie stars. He straightened his tie and started across the kitchen. It would have been fine if he’d left me alone, but instead (I’m sure to antagonize Ginny and thus get us sent away) he reached out and ruffled my hair as he passed me—like we were old buddies or something. Ginny always keeps a close eye on him, so the second he reached for me she curled her lips up, gave him a nasty snarl. When he touched me she made a lunge in his direction and snapped her jaws. And that’s when our night officially ended, with my father promptly ordering us both upstairs.
It wasn’t really that Dad took my uncle’s side in the matter. He didn’t blame Ginny a bit for snarling. In fact, I think he might have cracked a thin smirk right as Chuck jumped back and started complaining about “that vicious animal.” The truth was, even if my uncle hadn’t antagonized us, it was just easier on my parents to keep us separated from my uncle as much as possible.
***
Kneeling by my door in the dark, I strained to hear the conversation from the living room.
Uncle Chuck, I guessed, would be on the couch, leaning forward aggressively and wringing his hands greedily. His expression, whether he was happy or otherwise, was typically that of someone who just got a whiff of sour milk.
As for my parents, Dad would be in his chair by the fireplace, rocking casually, and Mom would be on the other side of the fire, twirling her hair and struggling to keep from laughing at my aunt’s leopard printed, extremely high-waist pants.
Palleta herself would probably be sitting rigidly on the couch, gazing at her reflection in her compact mirror, likely smearing on way too much lipstick. She’d smile her forced smile at her reflection and be pleased, when in fact she resembled a horse bearing its teeth.
“I don’t know,” was the first clear statement I heard my father say. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Doesn’t make sense?” Uncle Chuck returned. “Russell, it makes perfect sense to those of us with keen business minds. Unlike yourself, we’re not tied up in knots by silly notions of sentimentality. Land is an excellent investment for men of wealth.”
“So why would I sell it,” Dad shot back, “if it’s such a wise possession?”
“Because,” Uncle Chuck answered slowly, “you are not a man of wealth, Russell. Far from it. You’re in over your head here. You know it, I know it, and so does Albert Schwindler.”
My father laughed softly and said, “The Schwindler’s have always been jealous of this place since the very beginning. That’s something else we all know.”
“Huh,” Aunt Palleta gasped, then giggled her obnoxious giggle. “Jealous!”
“I’m not laughing,” Uncle Chuck said. “Take my advice, little brother. You would be very wise to accept this generous offer. Even if they were jealous, that was a long time ago. The Schwindler family was very successful long before their relatives loaned our relatives the money to build this inn, and they will continue to be successful long af
ter this place closes down and our family name is Mud.”
My uncle’s cold statement gave me an instant sinking feeling. I understood that sometimes other people wished they could buy our inn, but I didn’t understand why the inn might possibly need to be closed. Were my parents poor even though we lived in such a beautiful place? The idea of it made my stomach go all fluttery.
“Enough,” my father said next. “I’ve heard enough. I wouldn’t sell anything more than a chocolate cake to the Schwindler’s. They have their banks and investments and a big new ski area to worry about. They don’t need our place.”
“It isn’t a question of needing,” my aunt said, then gave another of her famous giggles.
I could picture my mother having to look away from my aunt as she giggled to keep from wanting to strangle her.
“That’s right,” my uncle agreed with his lovely bride. “They don’t need anything.”
“Then why are we discussing it?” Dad said. “This is the third time in two years you’ve come after us about this. It’s getting a little old, Chuck.”
“I’m trying to save you,” Chuck said firmly. “You’re sinking slowly but surely. The world around you is changing, and you’re sitting here clinging to the past. You fail to understand that people these days want theme parks and thrills, not some drafty inn out in the sticks.”
Aunt Palleta giggled again.
“We’re booked nearly full for Christmas, and half the winter so far,” My mother put in, trying to sound optimistic.
“We’ll be as busy as one-armed paper hangers in no time,” Dad said.
“It’s no good,” Uncle Chuck snapped, in the typical way he always disregarded my mother. “You have no mind for the future. Your expenses will continue to rise, and your idea of keeping prices low will be the end of you. Take the deal while you can, Russ. The Schwindler’s will pay you a steady, dependable salary to care for the old place. That means no more struggling to survive slow summers and working yourself ragged all winter. The initial contract I’ve drawn up will be for five full years. You’ll get to live here without having to carry the full burden yourselves, and at the end of the contract you can always renegotiate for a raise.”
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