Storms and Scarabs

by H. R. Hobbs

  “Do you think I could have it?” Mitch asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

  “I don’t see why not, but you’ll—”

  Mitch interrupted, knowing what was coming next. “I know, I’ll have to ask Dad,” he grumbled.

  She smiled. “Yes, you’ll have to ask your dad. Where did you find the pictures?” His mom pointed to the photos beside Mitch.

  “They were in the trunk, too.”

  “Let me see.” Mitch’s mom looked at the photo on top. “I’m not sure who this is, but he sure looks like your dad, and you.”

  Mitch looked at the picture over her shoulder. It does?

  She shuffled through a few more. “Your dad would probably like to see these.” She tucked them into the back pocket of her jeans. “Now, how did the cleaning go? Or did you get sidetracked snooping through your grandfather’s stuff?”

  Mitch pointed to the two full bags of garbage, relieved they’d at least done that. “We filled all the bags you gave us.”

  “Good job! I think that’s enough for one day.”

  “But—” the boys said in unison, wanting to continue their exploration of the trunk.

  Mitch’s mom held her hand up. “You’ve had enough dust and moth balls for one day. Besides, young boys should be outside playing. Bring the spyglass. You can finish up here another day.”

  The boys grumbled under their breath but did as they were told. They left the key in the lock of the trunk, grabbed a bag of garbage, and with Mitch’s mom carrying the spyglass in its box, followed her downstairs.

  The first thing Mitch was going to do was check the journal. He was certain Pops would have mentioned it somewhere.

  Chapter 5

  After getting kicked out of the attic, Mitch took Brock to check out the treehouse his dad had built when he was Mitch’s age. His mom had mentioned it to him a few times since they’d moved, but Mitch hadn’t wanted to do anything that might make him like the farm. But since Brock’s mom wouldn’t be back to pick him up for an hour, it seemed like a good idea.

  He was surprised to see that it was still in good shape—he’d expected it to be a heap of rotted wood. Even the boards that had been hammered into the old willow tree to make a ladder didn’t budge as they entered the treehouse through a hole in the floor. They’d grabbed a broom from the barn and knocked down the cobwebs. Leaves had blown in over the years and covered most of the floor. Under one pile, they discovered what looked to be a wooden toybox. Inside they’d found an old cap gun, some rocks, and other junk.

  “I think my family might have a hoarding problem.”

  “I told you that the first day I met you,” Brock said as he pulled back on the hammer of the cap gun. “But this is pretty cool. Let’s keep it.”

  They kept the cap gun and threw the rest out.

  It felt as if they’d just got there when Brock’s mom arrived to pick him up. Before Brock left, they made a plan for Brock to come over and visit another day.

  It wasn’t until supper that night that Mitch had a chance to ask his dad about the spyglass. Actually, it was his mom who brought it up. Thankfully, Alyssa was at a sleepover and couldn’t stick her big nose into the story.

  “Ray, you’ll never guess what the boys discovered while cleaning the attic today.”

  His dad looked at him. “What treasure did you discover, bud?”

  Mitch wasn’t certain it would be considered a treasure, but he described how he and Brock had found the spyglass and pictures, careful to skate around how he’d taken the journal the week before. He father continued to eat as he told the story.

  “So,” he finished, “I was wondering if I could keep it?”

  Mitch had a hard time reading his dad. His expression never seemed to change. He could be mad as heck and you’d never know it.

  His dad considered his request and then asked, “I’d like to have a look at them.”

  Mitch got the box and the pictures from the counter and handed them to his dad. Ray flipped the latch and took out the spyglass.

  “I’ve never seen this before,” he commented as he studied the outside. “Where did you say you found it?”

  Mitch hadn’t said, but he told his dad, “We found it in an old trunk. It was under a bunch of clothes.”

  His dad picked up the spyglass and extended all the sections.

  “Doesn’t look like it works,” he said, pointing it in different directions around the kitchen.

  “I think it’s broken,” Mitch said.

  His dad studied the outside. “It looks like there are symbols of some kind under all this tarnish.” He turned the spyglass over. “I’ve never seen anything like it. No idea where it came from.”

  “We found the key to the trunk in the pocket of a Navy uniform that was hanging on a clothes rack. Was it Pops’s?”

  A look of confusion came over his dad’s face.

  “Your grandpa wasn’t in the Navy.”

  Now it was Mitch’s turn to be confused. Who did the uniform belong to then?

  “If Grandpa wasn’t in the Navy, then who went to England?”

  “It could have been your great-grandpa. He settled here after the war. But I don’t remember Dad ever talking about my grandad being in the Navy . . .” His dad’s forehead creased as he thought.

  “Was Grandma’s real name Mary?”

  Mitch’s question jolted his dad out of his thoughts. “No, Beth is your grandma. Her full name was Elizabeth, but everyone called her Beth. Mary was your great-grandma. How do you know about Mary? And how did you know your great-grandpa went to England while he was in the Navy?”

  Too late, Mitch realized he’d said too much. He had no choice now but to tell his dad about the journal.

  His dad noticed the guilty look on his face and prompted: “Mitch?”

  “Well . . . I may have found his old journal in a dresser drawer.”

  “His journal? In a dresser drawer? Which dresser was that?”

  “The one in the attic,” Mitch replied quickly.

  But his dad caught this. “When was this?”

  “Last week. You and mom were down at the barn and Alyssa was gone for track practice. I was alone and thought I’d investigate . . .”

  Mitch’s voice trailed off at the end. He noticed how his dad’s eyebrows formed a straight line across his forehead, reminding him of Pops. Okay, maybe you could tell when he was mad.

  “Where is the journal now?”

  Mitch’s gaze dropped to the table. He mumbled, “In my room.”

  His dad got up from the table and put his dishes in the sink. “Go get it, please. I’d like to have a look at it.”

  He was still sitting at the kitchen table when Mitch came down with the journal. Mitch laid the journal on the table in front of his dad.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I should have told you I found it. I didn’t think you’d care.”

  “I know you didn’t. The thing is, this journal didn’t belong to my dad. It belonged to his father, George Howell—your great-grandfather.” His dad opened the journal.

  “I thought because it said G. Howell on the front that it was Grandpa’s.”

  “Pops’s name is Grant. He was never in the Navy. The G stands for George. It was a family tradition that the eldest son’s name begin with G. Uncle Greg is the third generation to have a name that starts with G. Lucky for you, your mom and I aren’t too much for tradition.”

  “So the spyglass belonged to my great-grandfather? He was in World War I?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know he was in the Navy,” he said while reading the first page. “Dad never really talked about him. It was probably all the wild stories that surrounded him.”

  “Wild stories?” Mitch slid into the chair next to his dad, intrigued.

  His dad put the journal on the table and looked at Mitch.

  “Yeah. My dad never told them to me, but the kids at school would always tease me
about my ‘crazy grandfather.’ Apparently when your great-grandfather came home from the war, he wasn’t quite the same as when he’d left. In fact, there was a time while he was gone that he was MIA.”

  “MIA? You mean a secret agent for the government?” Mitch couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. My great-grandpa was a secret agent!

  His dad chuckled. “No, that’s MI5. MIA means ‘missing in action.’ ”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t look so disappointed. This story is still pretty exciting, even if most of it isn’t true.”

  Mitch gave his dad a sceptical look.

  “According to the story, your great-grandfather went missing in 1914 when his boat was torpedoed.”

  That’s the same year as the first journal entry!

  “The ship sank off the coast of Holland, and they never recovered his body.” His dad took a sip of coffee. “But that’s where the story gets interesting. Six months later, he walked into a town called The Hague.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “No one seems to know the answer to that. He said he couldn’t remember how he got there.”

  “And this is why they said he was crazy?”

  “Well, no. There’s more. He was sent home before the war ended. He came back to the farm and eventually married and had a family, right here on this farm. But there were times when he would disappear, sometimes for months on end, leaving your Great-Grandma Mary to look after the farm and their family. I think that’s why Dad didn’t talk about him much and didn’t let anyone in the attic. He resented that Grandpa George would leave the family to their own devices.”

  “Where do you think he went?” Mitch asked.

  “I have no idea. He could have gone to make some extra money for his family. Or maybe he just couldn’t handle the stress of the farm. I remember he did have a strange fascination with Egypt . . . he was always reading books about it when I was a kid.” His dad stopped for a moment. “It’s hard to say what happened. But it certainly left an impression on your grandpa and the people of Fairview.”

  “Do you think Great-Grandpa wrote about it in his journal?”

  “Could have. Why don’t you read it and find out?” His dad handed him the journal. “But the next time you go snooping around, let your mom or I know. There’s no telling what’s up in that attic. You might follow in your great grandpa’s footsteps and disappear too.” He laughed and patted Mitch on the back. “Deal?”

  “Deal.” Mitch took the journal and headed up the stairs to his room.

  “Let me know what you find out,” his dad called after him.

  “I will.”

  Mitch flicked on the lamp on the nightstand and, ignoring the unpacked boxes, sat on his bed. Leaning against the wall, he opened the journal to the entry about the train ride and started to read, hoping to discover the mystery of his great-grandfather’s disappearance all those years ago.

  Chapter 6

  “Morning, sleepy head,” his mom greeted him the next morning. “You look like you didn’t get a wink of sleep.”

  Mitch yawned. Despite staying up late reading the journal, he was no closer to having any answers about his great-grandpa than he’d had before. His great-grandpa spent most of his time writing about how much he missed Mary. Gross! Reading his great-grandpa’s journal had taught him one thing: he had no desire to spend any time on a ship. At least once a day, George wrote about tossing up a meal due to his seasickness.

  “I was reading the journal.” Mitch poured cereal into a bowl and added milk.

  “And did you find anything out?” his mom asked, loading dishes into the dishwasher.

  “No. He just talked about how much he missed the farm and Great-Grandma Mary.”

  “I’m sure your father already told you, but no more going up to the attic without permission.” She gave him a pointed look over her shoulder. “Okay?”

  “I know, Mom.” He ducked his head and shovelled cereal in his mouth. His mom didn’t have to remind him. His dad had made that clear last night.

  “I doubt you’re going to find anything in there about his disappearance or the spyglass. It’s probably just some souvenir he picked up in one of the ports he visited.”

  The spoonful of cereal stopped in midair.

  Mitch had been so caught up in his great-grandpa’s story that he’d forgotten about the spyglass. That was another mystery that needed to be solved. Were the two things connected? Did the spyglass have something to do with his great-grandpa’s disappearance all those years ago?

  He slurped the milk from the bowl and dropped his dishes in the sink with a clatter.

  “What’s the rush?” his mom asked as he raced up the stairs.

  “I just have to check something out,” he called back to her.

  Mitch grabbed the journal from the nightstand where he’d left it and started reading again. Then he came to a sentence that had him sitting straight up. His great-grandpa had just arrived in port and was excited to go ashore while on leave.

  March 30, 1914

  Our first day on shore for more than two weeks. It’s hard to walk, as my body still thinks it’s rolling on the ocean. We only have two days here, so we decided we are going to see as much of The Hague as we can. The first thing we did was to find a decent breakfast. No oatmeal today, just eggs and bangers (that’s what they call sausages over here). It was the best thing I’d eaten in days. We took some time to explore the town. There was a tiny shop we discovered that sold antiques. The rest of the guys weren’t too interested, but I’m going to go back tomorrow. There was an interesting spyglass in the window that may come in handy on the ship.

  March 31, 1914

  Today is our last day of leave. The rest of the guys are sleeping late, hoping to get some extra shut-eye before we have to be back at the ship. I couldn’t sleep, so I’m having one more delicious breakfast before the antique store opens in an hour. As I finish my coffee, I listen to the people chat around me. They talk about their families and the war. Mostly the war. They notice me, and some ask where I’m from and why I’m here. I give them vague answers that they seem happy with.

  At the stroke of ten o’clock, a man in tweed pants and suspenders shuffles down the street. He’s carrying a bag that I assume is his lunch. A fedora is perched on top of what looks like a bald head. At the door to the antique shop, he digs a key out of his pants pocket and opens the door.

  I’m out of my chair and throwing a few bills on the table. When I arrive at the shop, the man is behind the counter hanging up his hat. The bell over the door jingles. He seems surprised to have a customer so early.

  I check to see if the spyglass is still in the window. He comes over and notices what I’m looking at. Picking up the box from the window display, he hands it to me.

  That’s how he got the spyglass! Mitch jumped off his bed and ran downstairs, but there was no one there. His mom must have gone outside. Needing to share his discovery with someone, he raced out the door. He spied his dad’s truck parked down at the barn and ran towards it.

  “Dad!”

  His dad turned when Mitch called his name, his hand resting on the door of the truck. “I was just going to check the cows. What’s up?”

  Mitch bent over and held his hand up for his dad to give him a minute to catch his breath. He gulped in mouthfuls of air. When his breathing settled, he straightened.

  “I think I found out where Great-Grandpa George got the spyglass!” The words came out all at once.

  “You did? That’s great! Why don’t you hop in the truck and you can tell me all about it on the way out to the pasture?”

  Mitch knew what his dad was up to. This wasn’t the first time his dad had asked him to help him with chores on the farm. Up until now, Mitch had always refused, and his dad hadn’t said anything, but Mitch knew it hurt his dad that he wasn’t more interested in the farm—which was the very reason Mitch did it: to punish his dad for bring
ing them here. But today, he was too excited to share what he’d discovered to reject his dad’s invitation.

  “Okay.”

  The old truck had belonged to Pops and was nearly the same age. The sides were dented, and rust was slowly starting to grow in the creases. The floor and seat were covered in tools and empty pop bottles. The interior of the truck was like his dad’s tool box/garbage can. Mitch cleared a spot for himself and hopped into the cab. Mitch had to hang on to the window frame as the truck bounced and jostled along the grass-lined trail behind the barn.

  With both hands on the steering wheel, his dad quickly glanced at him before looking back to the road. “So, tell me what you found out.”

  “Well, Mom and I were talking about the journal and if there were any clues about George’s disappearance or the spyglass. I thought maybe the two were connected.”

  “And are they?”

  At that moment the truck went over a huge bump and they both grunted as they lifted off the seat and came back down again. Mitch smiled at his dad and rubbed his head where it had come into contact with the roof of the cab.

  “I’m not sure about that. But I did some more reading in the journal and it tells about where he got the spyglass.”

  His dad stopped the truck at a barbwire fence. “And what did it say?”

  Before he could answer, his dad was out of the truck and opening the fence. Mitch got out too and watched his dad lift the wire over the post and pull the fence out of the way.

  “Why don’t you drive it through and then I’ll close the fence.”

  Is he serious? Mitch had never been allowed to drive the truck. The only thing his dad had let him drive was the quad. Mitch ran to the driver’s door before his dad could change his mind. He put the truck in gear and eased down on the gas. When he’d passed the fence, he stepped on the brake, put the truck in park, and scooted across the seat.