Young Whit and the Shroud of Secrecy

by Phil Lollar

  When he emerged at the top of an embankment, he called out, “McDuff! Don’t bother coming home, you worthless mutt!”

  A voice startled him. “Can I have him, then?”

  Johnny whipped around to see two boys, one hunched over McDuff, petting his back, and the other in a rickety old wheelchair. The latter offered a faint smile.

  “I wouldn’t mind so much,” Johnny answered, “but my sister would have a fit.”

  The boy in the chair nodded. “Let me guess, since your dog is dressed like Sherlock, you must be Watson.”

  “No, but like Watson, my first name is John.” He stuck out his hand. “John Whittaker.”

  “I’m Steve.” He slowly opened his hand, and Johnny noticed the weakness in Steve’s grip as the boys shook. His arms were very thin, as was the rest of his body. “This goof petting your dog is my kid brother, Paul.”

  Paul clarified, “I’m only yew tears younger.”

  “Yew tears?” Johnny asked, confused.

  “Two years,” Steve corrected. “He gets his words mixed up sometimes.” He studied Johnny carefully. “Hey, aren’t you the guy who solved the Confederate gold mystery?”

  Paul piped up. “Yeah! I thought I recognized you! You must be real smart!”

  Johnny reddened. “Oh, uh, I had lots of help.”

  “Maybe we can solve a mystery together! You workin’ on anything right now?”

  Johnny shook his head. “No, no mysteries.” Which isn’t entirely true, Johnny thought, but they don’t need to know that.

  Steve sniffed as if he were McDuff searching for squirrels. “Do you smell something burning?”

  “My experiment!” Johnny ran back to the fire. Paul pushed Steve’s wheelchair in pursuit, trundling behind Johnny on the worn but uneven path, the bumps jostling Steve around like a rag doll.

  “What are you cooking?” Steve asked when they arrived.

  “Some stuff I need to make me glow in the dark. I’m making my costume for All Hallows’ Eve.”

  “You mean Halloween,” Paul corrected, raising his head from McDuff, who was happily licking his face.

  Traitor, Johnny thought. “No. My family doesn’t celebrate that.”

  “Boo tad,” Paul said, again twisting his words around. “I get a pillowcase full of candy every year. It lasts for days.”

  “I don’t mind. I don’t care much for candy,” Johnny said.

  Steve gaped at him. “Seriously? What kid doesn’t like candy? It’s an American institution. Like baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie.”

  Johnny shrugged. “I like ice cream sodas.”

  “Well that’s something, I guess,” Steve said with a grin.

  Johnny stirred the experimental potion. Paul walked up beside him and gazed into the steamy pot.

  “That looks about as good as the food my Aunt Patty cooks. Which is bretty pad.”

  “It’s not for eating,” Johnny said. “After it cools down, I’ll lather it on my skin. Then I’ll stand outside in the sun. Once it gets dark, I’ll glow for hours. Just a few more ingredients, then it should be done.”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” Steve replied. Then, pointing at Paul, he added, “Hey, you don’t have any potions that’ll make him better looking, do ya?”

  “Sorry.”

  Paul rose up nobly. “How could you improve these gugged rood looks?” He giggled. Then, cocking his head, he clarified, “I mean . . . rugged good looks.”

  Johnny looked more closely at Paul. Truth be told, he resembled the drawing of Humpty Dumpty in Charlie’s Mother Goose nursery rhyme book. Nice, but definitely not handsome.

  Johnny picked up his backpack, pulled out a couple of paper bags, and offered them to Paul. “You want to add the last few ingredients?”

  “Sure. What are they?”

  “Sulfur and potassium nitrate. They help light stuff up. At least according to the book I read.”

  “Nifty,” Paul said.

  Johnny handed him the bags. “Don’t put in too much. Just a little bit of each should—”

  But Paul had grabbed as much as each hand would allow and tossed it all into the pot.

  There was a loud and blinding flash that seemed to completely engulf Paul’s head. A cloud of fumes hung over him, hiding him from sight. Both he and Johnny coughed and spat, and with ears ringing, Johnny called out, “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” Paul said, sounding dazed. He cleared his throat, and after a few seconds the cloud dissipated. Johnny covered his mouth, while Steve laughed uproariously.

  “What?” asked Paul.

  “Umm . . . you didn’t have eyebrows and eyelashes before, did you?” Johnny asked, thinking that if Paul didn’t look like Humpty Dumpty before, he sure did now.

  Suddenly Steve’s laughter stopped. “Paul! Your hair’s on fire!”

  “Aaaaahh!” Paul panicked, running around in circles, batting his head as if he were swatting at a swarm of bees. But the effort did more to fan the flame than extinguish it.

  “The river!” Johnny yelled. “Douse your head in the river!”

  Before you could say Jack Robinson, Paul ran to the riverbank and jumped in, dunking his head beneath the water.

  Unfortunately, the damage was already done. When Paul emerged, Johnny and Steve saw half his hair had been singed off. All that remained were tiny curls, shriveled up at the tips that broke off when Paul touched them.

  “I’m so sorry!” Johnny said.

  A goofy look spread across Paul’s face, and he said, “It’s not your fault. Besides, I’ve been needing a haircut.”

  “Well, I’d say your experiment is a success,” Steve said, laughing. “Paul’s proof that your concoction does make people glow!”

  At that, all the boys laughed.

  “You look kind of like Curly from the Three Stooges,” Steve cackled.

  “Nifty! He’s my stavorite fooge! Nyuck! Nyuck!” Paul said.

  Johnny doused the campfire and poured his elixir into a bottle. Then the boys made their way home, laughing and chatting as if they’d been friends their whole lives.

  Once they were out of sight, an older, disheveled black man with a round nose, a worn overcoat, and a tan hat covering tufts of frizzy gray hair emerged from behind a large white oak tree. He walked up to the firepit and spat in the embers.

  He looked over to the mound. “It’s a good thing they didn’t find you, Rakia,” he said aloud to the mound. “If they had, I’d have had to take care of ’em.”

  He sat, removed his hat, and scratched his gray head with a dirty hand. “I jus’ got you buried, girl! I suppose I’d best move you somewheres else, though. But where?”

  He climbed onto the rock mound and looked around. Through the tree line, something caught his eye: the top of the Provenance Town Hall clock tower. He shook his head. “No, not there . . .” He thought for a long moment and then muttered, “But maybe . . . Yup. That’s the place. I’ll dig ya up and bury ya there instead. No one’ll find ya there!” He grinned, exposing his missing teeth. “I’ll do it tonight. There’s no moon tonight.”

  He spat again. “A fella can never be too careful.”

  Chapter Three

  It was early afternoon the following Monday, and Johnny’s last class had just ended. As he did most days after school, he wandered down to the basement, where Ben Huck, the school janitor and handyman, worked. Johnny was pleased and relieved that Ben had gotten his job back after he’d been arrested while helping Johnny with the Confederate gold adventure. They had become fast friends.

  Ben sat at his workbench, staring at a piece of machinery. Johnny crept up beside him and said, “Trying to control it with your mind?”

  Ben started, put a hand to his chest, and said, “Boy, you tryin’ to get this piece of machinery wrapped upside your head? Don’t scare me like that!”

  Johnny laughed and held up his hands. “Sorry!”

  Ben chuckled along with him. “School’s out already, huh? Seems like you sixt
h graders ought to have a longer day. You got lots to learn.”

  “You can’t learn it all in a classroom,” Johnny countered. “So what are you working on?”

  “Not working yet. Just ponderin’.” Ben held up the mechanism. “These are the internal mechanics of an electrical school bell. I love the simplicity of this machine and the innovation that created it. I’uz wonderin’ whether I might be able to utilize the technology in other ways.”

  “Like what?”

  “I ain’t sure yet. But . . . it’ll come to me eventually.” Ben’s powerful, scarred hand maneuvered his screwdriver between the striker and the contact. “So simple, but so ingenious.”

  “Sort of like me!”

  Ben peered over his spectacles. “Yeah, only humble.” They chuckled again.

  After a moment of silence as Ben continued to tinker, Johnny asked, “Ben, do you think it’s possible to invent things that can make you live longer?”

  Ben lowered the screwdriver and peered over his spectacles at Johnny again. “Now why are you worried about stuff like that? You’re just a sprout.”

  “I’m not exactly worried. Just . . . wondering.”

  “Well, I think people have been inventing things that do that for a long time, actually. New medicines keep folks alive longer. And doctors learn things all the time that help ’em treat patients better.”

  “But I mean inventing something that can just give you long life.”

  Ben smiled and went back to tinkering. “Boy, if you’re lookin’ for a fountain of youth or some science-fiction nonsense, you got a long look comin’. The good Lord’s the only one to decide that.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You suppose? You ought to know.”

  “To be honest, I don’t really buy into that God stuff much.”

  Ben twisted the screwdriver, loosening a bit of the mechanism. “Oh, and why’s that?”

  “My mom died when I was little. I figure if there really is a God, He wouldn’t have taken her from me. I needed her.”

  Ben stopped and scratched his whiskered face with the tip of the screwdriver. “So, you’re sayin’ you know better than God? How do you know what you need, boy? I’m a growed-up man, nigh onto forty years old, and I still got no idea what all I need.”

  “Every boy needs his mother, especially when he’s a kid,” Johnny replied.

  “True ’nuff.” Ben went back to the device. “He do. But we need the good Lord more. I expect your mama would tell you the same thing. Don’t shove the Lord aside. He’s the only one who can make sense of it all.”

  Johnny said nothing in reply, instead turning his attention to a metal device on the floor beside the workbench. “What’s this for?” he asked, pointing.

  “Working on an idea to automatically feed the coal into the furnace. It’s a mighty chore, shovelin’ coal.”

  Johnny carefully looked Ben over. “Did your dad teach you how to do this stuff?”

  “Nah, mostly picked it up m’self. My brain don’t rest much. I got lots of ideas that need figurin’ out. Your daddy help you?”

  Johnny shook his head. “He’s too busy. And he doesn’t really like to work with his hands. He’d rather read books.”

  “Don’t you enjoy readin’?” Ben asked, still tinkering.

  “Sure. But I suppose I’d rather be doing something.”

  Ben shrugged. “I find that doin’ gets a whole lot more productive when it comes after readin’. I wish I’da read my granddaddy’s writin’ more when I was younger—as you know. Learning from them that came before us means we can build off the things they discovered. That way we can start from where they left off. No sense reinventin’ the wheel, boy.”

  Johnny nodded thoughtfully as he watched Ben work. “I wish I could invent something really important. Something that would make a difference.”

  Ben peered over his glasses at him. “Now you know you already made a big difference to lots of folks in this town.”

  Johnny nodded reservedly. “Yeah, but that’s not what I mean. I mean something . . . amazing . . . and incredible . . . and . . . amazingly incredible! Like inventing a . . . a machine that . . . I dunno, does something amazing!”

  Ben chuckled. “Look boy, there’s lots’a ways to make a difference. Some are—” he mimicked Johnny—“‘amazing,’ like inventin’ an incredible machine!”

  Johnny laughed.

  Ben went on. “And some are practical, like buildin’ a car or somethin’ that helps folks physically. And some are ways of just helpin’ folks cope with what’s goin’ on in their lives—like you did. But all of ’em take understanding.”

  “Maybe it’s possible to do all of them at the same time,” Johnny thought aloud.

  Ben’s eyebrows rose. “Maybe you can. What about that experiment of yours?”

  “Which one?”

  “You got more than one goin’? I only heard about that glow-formula thing for your costume.”

  “Oh . . . yeah. I finished it down by the river. That’s where I met Steve and Paul.”

  “Who and who?”

  Johnny slapped his forehead gently. “That’s what I came down here for. Do you know Steve and Paul? Steve’s in a wheelchair.”

  Ben laid the bell on his workbench. “Oh, yeah! Course I know ’em. In a town this small, everybody knows everybody.”

  “They seem nice.”

  “They’re two peas in a pod. Seems like if one gets an itch, the other starts scratchin’.”

  “They must not go to school here. I hadn’t seen them before.”

  Ben shook his head. “They don’t. I’m not sure where Paul’s schoolin’, but there’s a place in Durham that takes on kids with physical ills—that’s where Steve goes. And make no mistake: That boy is bright. And talented! He can draw like nobody’s business. You say you met ’em down by the river?”

  “Yeah. Paul sorta helped me with my glowing formula experiment.”

  “Whadaya mean, ‘sorta’?”

  A sheepish look crossed Johnny’s face. “Well . . . let’s just say I know now to never let another kid add ingredients in my experiments for me. I mean, I thought everyone knew to be careful when you’re combining combustible elements.”

  “Uh-oh. What happened?”

  “People look really different without eyebrows and eyelashes.”

  Ben snorted, stifling a chuckle.

  “Paul won’t need a haircut for a while, either.”

  Ben threw back his head and busted out in a deep-throated laugh. Johnny joined him.

  Then Ben stopped, suddenly serious. “You know, you probably shouldn’t hang out down at the river by yourself. Drifters stay there. Ain’t safe for kids.”

  Johnny’s smile faded. “I’ve never seen any thereabouts. Though I did see some empty cans littering my favorite spot there.”

  “Well, like I say, you best not go by y’self, y’hear?”

  Johnny nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Ben’s smile returned. “Good. Now you should get on home. Your folks’ll be wonderin’ about you.” He turned back to the mechanism.

  Johnny stood up and walked to the door. When he got there, he stopped and looked back at his friend. If there was one thing Johnny had realized since he’d moved to Provenance, it was that he could trust two people: Emmy and the man in front of him, puttering on that school bell. Ben had helped him, encouraged him, advised him, and even gone to jail for him. He should be able to tell Ben about his latest mystery with the journal and the cloth, right? “Ben . . .”

  Ben turned and peered at him over his spectacles again. “Somethin’ else, boy?”

  Johnny opened his mouth . . . and then closed it and sighed. “No. Nothing. Thanks for the talk. See you later.”

  Ben smiled. “Bye, now.” He turned back to the workbench.

  Johnny opened the door, stepped out of the room, and closed the door softly behind him. He had never felt more alone in his life. He desperately wanted to trust somebody with his news of th
e cloth, someone who could help him make sense of it. But who?

  Chapter Four

  The sun had just set as Professor Karl Mangle pulled into the garage behind his house at 236 Custer Avenue. His mind was still spinning over his discovery that the phrases Harold Whittaker had asked him to translate several days ago were actually from an ancient journal describing the cloth that held incredible power. Mangle’s belief that the cloth existed had been validated, and that knowledge consumed him. He had given up hope years ago, but now, perhaps . . .

  Whittaker had said that the paper with the phrases on it came from an old book he’d bought about the history of Scotland, but Karl knew that wasn’t true. First, Harold claimed he couldn’t find the book when he went to look for it, but Whittaker was the most organized person he’d ever met. He never misplaced anything.

  Second, Harold was a bad liar. He obviously had little practice in the art of deception, which Karl supposed made sense for a professor of theology. Whittaker exhibited all the telltale signs: looking away, crossing his arms, and leaving the room. And then when he returned, that fake expression of surprise and frustration that he couldn’t find the book was enough to nearly make Mangle erbrechen, or “vomit.” No, either Whittaker had possession of the journal, or he knew the person who did.

  Mangle exited his car, grabbed his briefcase from the backseat, and made his way through the gathering darkness toward the house. The chill of winter spiked the air as he slogged through the fallen leaves on the driveway. Every autumn he wished that he didn’t have such massive trees in his yard. Trees, like dogs, shed too much. He would have to spend a full day raking up and bagging all the leaves littering his property. He pondered chopping down the oaks and replacing them with something from the pine family. Yes, they shed needles, but unlike dogs, they didn’t shed too much.

  He entered through the back door to find his wife, Frieda, pulling a tray from the oven.