“They’re only half my ancestors,” Katie said. “The other half of me is Scottish, and they were among the first settlers of Mercyville.” She didn’t like the way he implied that her Native American heritage was something not to boast about. Granted, with a mother who was full-blooded Cherokee, Katie had learned a healthy respect for ancestral lore, but she had always been more fascinated with the Celtic side. In a college paper, she once put forth a theory that there were strong reoccurring themes in Cherokee and Celtic lore. Her mother and father had encouraged her research.
“That’s hardly important,” Mr. Durgan said. “We do not wish to upset the community with heretical nonsense. That is all.”
Katie’s face grew warm. She glared at the key in her hand, rising from the chair. So it was to be slavery now, was it? Wasn’t there something in the state employment laws about forcing staff to work on government projects on their own time?
“Oh, and I will hold you responsible for that key and the contents of the sub cellar,” Mr. Durgan said. “Should anything untoward happen to anything, I will order your immediate termination as an employee. You have until Friday morning to set up a display. Good day.”
Katie clenched her jaw, heading for the door. She wanted to spit every bit of venom she could muster against him for all his insults. Not a real writer! Your native ancestors indeed! Those statements burned as much as this onerous task. Yet she knew there was nothing she could do. She needed this job. Her parents had left her a pension and the house, just as they had settled a comfortable sum on Sally for her years of service.
But her father had apparently not foreseen the rise in costs for three funerals and the inheritance tax when he set up the fund. Most of the money went to maintaining the house, which had needed some repairs over the last few years. Her attempts to sell it for a smaller place were quelled by a nasty housing market. Even towns like Mercyville saw the results of a recession. What little income she had as a library paraprofessional was all the support she got.
Katie thought about selling off some of the antiques, but most of these were mother’s ancestral effects. Things a museum or a collector would have killed for could not be sold without explicit permission of the Eastern Cherokee Nation. No chance of that, for though she had inherited the items, the best the Council would allow was for her to donate them to the Cherokee Museum of History. All she would have gotten out of that would have been a nice little plaque.
She was still frowning when she returned to the desk, pocketing the key in her skirt. Lonnie assisted a patron with locating a book on the shelves. Mr. Maxwell of the Reference Department was trying to show someone how to use the Reader’s Guide. At least none of them were close enough to see Katie’s sour expression. She went back to the desk, collecting her catalog cards, and trying once more to sort them.
Not fair, she thought. How could she let herself be used this way? Mr. Durgan’s file on her was nothing more than his personal dislike of her, a dislike she had never fathomed. She hadn’t gone out of her way to pick fights with him, but from the first day he came, he’d treated her with rude and sullen indifference. He’d been a college librarian before coming to Mercyville, which must have been quite a step down for him. Maybe that was it.
Why? She hadn’t had a better life than he. She only tried to do her job...
She was aware of a shadow falling over her. A patron, like as not. “Can I help you?” she asked, not raising her eyes as she settled one card into its proper slot.
“Actually, I think I’m beyond help where you’re concerned,” a friendly voice said.
“Oh, really?” She glowered at the tall frame of the young man now leaning elbows on the counter. “And why’s that?”
Dan Gilly grinned in response. Blue eyes in a fairly handsome face peered at her from under short dark hair. He pushed back the brim of his deputy’s cap. “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “Because the sight of you is so intoxicating.”
“Been sniffing auto fumes again, I see,” she said in a dull voice.
“Did I do something wrong?” Dan asked.
Katie grinned, shaking her head. “Why do men always assume they’ve done something wrong when a woman gets a little irritated with life?”
“I guess because men are usually to blame for women being so irritable,” he said. “Uncle Jim gave me the afternoon off. What say we drive the long road to Knoxville and take in a movie and dinner?”
“No can do, Deputy Gilly,” Katie said. “Heap big chief give me dirty work.”
“Dirty work?” Dan frowned and whispered, “Is Mr. Constipation on your case again?”
“I have to arrange a display celebrating the centennial of our founding father’s disappearance from the face of the earth,” she said. “Exciting, eh?”
“Right,” he said. “Oh, well. Can I drive over to Newport and bring you dinner?”
“I think so,” she said.
He grinned again. “Catch you later then,” he said, and leaned far enough over the counter to quickly kiss her. “Pizza or Chinese?”
“I’m not a cannibal,” she said. “Make it pizza.”
“One large veggie,” he said, tipping his cap and heading for the door. And as he left, Lonnie came sauntering over to lean against the desk beside Katie.
“That boy’s got it bad for you, Katie,” Lonnie said.
“Oh, he’s okay,” she said.
“Chump,” Lonnie said and pushed Katie’s shoulder. “What did Durgan want?”
“I have to set up a display by Friday that won’t curl the hair of the MacGreeley sisters,” Katie said. “Which means I get to crawl about in some moldy sub cellar no one’s seen the inside of in ages. He even made me keeper of the key...”
She paused and glanced towards the chair where Crazy Tom usually sat.
The old tramp had vanished from sight.
TWO
The morning disappeared before Katie could count it. She rushed through lunch at the Mountain Laurel Diner, devouring her pimento cheese sandwich and soda at a record rate while seated in a booth whose green cushions matched the rhododendron leaves of the potted plants. Sated, she hurried back across the town square to the library. Crazy Tom sat on the stomach of the Indian statue, looking up at the head angel as Katie passed. His grassy gaze suddenly flicked towards her with a curiosity as fresh as a child’s. She ignored him and walked on. Besides, Sheriff Cannon was approaching the old tramp, intent on getting him off the statuary before the MacGreeley sisters complained.
Katie had hoped to get things cleared away from the door and leave herself plenty of time to explore the lower depths before the library closed at five. Luck just didn’t seem to be on her side today. As soon as she entered the main cellar, the first obstacle awaited her. Maintenance had moved a large number of old boxes and furniture around—something she suspected they did just to look busy—and had completely blocked the way to the door. Secondly, she learned they had left for lunch just before she got back and would not be available to move the obstacles from her path for another hour. Great, she thought. By the time they get back, they’ll be wanting to crawl into the storage bins and take their naps, and I won’t be any closer to finishing the display than getting to look at the door. Frustrated, she sat in one of the chairs consigned to being a roadblock, and flipped through an old volume of newsprint she had borrowed from the historical collection.
Most of the news was the gentle prattle written in 1895. Tucked among ads for Munyon’s Remedies, Royal Baking Powder and Paine’s Celery Compound were articles concerning the donation of the library to the townsfolk of Mercyville. As she carefully turned the fragile pages of The Old Oak Tribune, she scanned a number of line drawings. The artist had been rather skilled, and it was easy to recognize the gargoyles that ranged along the guttering. The decorative stained-glass windows looked like they would have belonged in a cathedral in Great Britain, and indeed, the article mentioned of the fact that they had been imported from MacKenzie’s ancestral estates
in Berwickshire, Scotland. The rendering of their knotwork pattern was beautiful to Katie. Were it not for the fact that she might add damage to the already browning pages, she would have been tempted to trace them with a finger. She envied the artist, who had also drawn a sketch depicting the keys being passed from the hands of a gentleman who strongly resembled his portrait over the main desk to a thick-set man dressed more like a lay preacher than a magistrate. She glanced at the caption.
Reverend William Arthur MacGreeley receives the keys to the house of Thomas Lachlann MacKenzie.
Reverend MacGreeley was as well-known now as he’d been then. The great grandfather of the present MacGreeley sisters, he had also been the man credited with removing the Presbyterian influence of his earlier ancestor from Mercyville and embracing the Southern Baptist tradition. As a hellfire evangelist, he blasted the wages of sin with deadly vengeance. It seemed strange to see him smiling cheerfully at MacKenzie, especially since Katie remembered once reading a whole series of MacGreeley’s letters in the historical collection in which he accused MacKenzie of all manners of paganism. Those would certainly get a few hairballs disgorged in this town if I were to put them on display, Katie mused.
And get her fired as well. She sighed, flipping more pages.
Eventually Henry Bales and his assistant Bud Humes arrived, picking their teeth. They took one look at Katie and traded humorous glances as she closed the old volume of newspapers. Nearly two hours had passed without her realizing it.
“You’re late,” Katie said, fixing them with a cool stare. Bud, always the shy one, and generally the least able to comprehend more that simple instructions, flushed and ducked his head. Henry merely grinned, flashing a gold tooth.
“No, we ain’t,” he said. “We been moving trash out back.”
“You were supposed to be down here an hour ago to move this stuff so I could get to the door,” she said. “Mr. Durgan won’t like it if I don’t get in there and start working on my display.”
“Ah, don’t get all het up, girl,” Henry said. “We’ll get it moved for you.” He demonstrated by picking up a small box and set it aside. “Ain’t it time for break now, Bud?”
Bud raised his idiot grin and nodded.
“You will go on break when you finish moving all this stuff, and not one minute sooner,” Katie said. She stood and raised her chin, wishing she were a little taller so she could glare down on someone for once.
Henry didn’t look pleased to hear that. “We got rights, you know,” he said.
“So do I,” she assured him. “I was supposed to leave at noon today, but Durgan’s hot to have this display, and since he might not take too kindly to hearing that you two have been coaxing old Mrs. Manning into giving you loans out of the petty cash drawer, I think you need to give my demands some serious consideration.”
Henry’s face darkened. Bud looked more anxious.
“No wonder Durgan thinks you got an attitude, girl,” Henry said. He pulled the toothpick from his mouth and flicked it so it spun past Katie’s head and out of sight. She managed not to flinch in disgust. “Come on, Bud. Let’s clear the little lady a path to the door and then go take a break.”
Bud nodded, following Henry’s example as the older maintenance man heaved furniture and boxes aside. Katie seated herself for the duration. Her normal instinct would have been to help them, but she still wore her work skirt. Besides, they got paid to do this job, not her. She had gone out of her way to help in the past, but if Henry continued to give her an attitude for an attitude, she wasn’t going to lift a finger for him. Instead, she went off to fetch a flashlight, a lantern, and some gloves.
It took them about an hour to clear a path she could use. Silently, Henry set the last carton aside. He passed her a look that would have frozen gasoline on a hot day and gently cuffing Bud’s shoulder, started away. Bud bobbed his head and followed, but he did tip an imaginary hat to Katie before departing. She sighed and turned her attention back to the door.
Solid oak, by the look of it. The banding of iron showed rust, as did the lock and handle. Katie pulled the key from the pocket of her skirt, pushing it into the keyhole. At first, she met nothing but resistance, like the lock had frozen, but with a little work she loosened it enough so that in the end, the key turned. She heard a click that echoed within a hollow space. Bricked over, indeed, she thought and clasped the handle, giving a push.
For a moment, the door stood firm. She put a shoulder to it and shoved—gently, because the last thing she wanted to do was have it fall in and throw her down any stairs there might be on the other side. Several thumps were required, but at last, the door opened with a huff and a groan of metal hinges, and the sound echoed out of a dark silence. Katie paused, throwing the beam of her flashlight through the opening.
A hallway greeted her. At the far end, she perceived the mouth of an archway and wide stairs. The air here felt cool, like in a cave, and smelled nothing like what she had expected. Fresh air circulated from somewhere. She frowned, letting the beam play on the stone walls as she made her way towards the stairs.
At the head of the stairs, she paused long enough to light the lantern. A greater circle of light washed out to reveal the stairs and the slant of the ceiling. Strange, she thought. No dust. How could that be? The air here did seem to have a chilling tingle to it.
She followed the stairs down until they opened out into a chamber with a low ceiling. Furniture had been crammed inside without any real thought of where it was placed. Looks like my attic, she mused. What could she possibly find in this that would make a worthy display? Apart from furniture that predates my grandmother’s time and spiders the size of small dogs? She made a face, moving among the rows to wave light about her. A silver candelabrum, tarnished but otherwise clean, sat on the corner of a roll top desk. Where are the spider webs? This place looked like someone dusted it on a daily basis. They just didn’t polish anything.
The roll top desk seemed as likely a place as any to start. She settled the lantern high enough to keep the light out of her eyes and pulled on her thin, white preservationist gloves and a dust mask. An expert should be looking at this stuff, she inwardly lamented. Something she was not when it came to furniture and old documents. She shook her head and reached for a drawer handle.
Locked. Figures, she thought. No way her key would fit this tiny hole. She tried all of them, then the roll top itself. At least that moved, flipping back to reveal a set of small pigeonholes and drawers. These didn’t appear to have locks, and she was quick to open them, shining her flashlight inside just in case mice were nesting there—or spiders. The second one revealed a set of small keys. These, she eagerly tried in the drawer locks, and to her delight, they worked as well. She turned them and drew open the drawers now with renewed enthusiasm.
Herein lay bundles of letters, sheaves of paper that looked so old and fragile, Katie was almost afraid to touch them. Steeling her courage, she lifted them out as carefully as possible, setting them on the flat of the desk, and gently tugged on the ribbon. The bow slid free, letting the packet spill apart. She picked up the first and lifted the fold.
Elegant handwriting greeted her, and she recognized it at once, having seen the replica of the signed deed giving the house to Mercyville to know the sight of something written in T.L MacKenzie’s hand. She scanned the words, noting the date to be somewhere around 1875, twenty years before he disappeared. It appeared to be little more than notes.
The tree is looking well this year.
Must remember to send Conn a note concerning
that manuscript he found in Melrose Abby. He
says good horses in Berwickshire are getting
harder to find.
Must remind him to be cautious about the cave.
Katie refolded the paper and set it aside. She glanced over many others, losing track of the passage of time. They were pretty much the same. MacKenzie apparently loved writing eloquent notes to himself. And poetry. There were several shea
ves that revealed interesting snatches of what looked like ballads. She poured over them with the love of a folklorist, getting lost in the rich history they held. MacKenzie was a master of language. He filled his writings with fairy lore and folk tales as profound as anything Yeats had ever produced, some of which she recognized. Others seemed to be riddles, and still others were sonnets of love.
Dark green the color of her eyes
do look upon me.
Dark green the color of the robes
she folds around me.
Dark green the bower wherein
she lies beside me.
Dark green the beautiful Queen
who dwells under Eildon Hills.
Katie made a face. Eildon Hills stirred vague memories as a place she’d read about in some ballad or legend. She put that sheaf aside. Her stomach rumbled, and she started to glance at her watch when she realized something was glimmering inside the drawer. She took the flashlight and shone it at the object, the beam of light revealing the metal decorations on a leather book.
“And what is this?” she said to herself, hunger quickly forgotten as she reached for the book.
It was heavy, and as soon as her gloved fingers brushed the binding, she felt a faint tingle, like static. Suddenly, bluish crackles of sparks danced across her gloved hands. She gasped, pulling the book out and sitting it on the desk, and as soon as she let go, the little flickers of miniature lightning died.
“What in the...?” Katie reached out and touched the book again. Little fireflies of light glittered. She pushed the front flap back and gasped as pale paper took on a faint bluish glow.
Katie shook her head. It must have been a trick of the shadows. The paper couldn’t be luminescent—unless it was burning. Or painted with phosphor. She touched the surface, and the glow seemed to pass to her hand. She drew it away and watched the pale gleam waiver on the glove, and then die.
Angels of Mercy Page 2
