37: A Thomas Ironcutter Novel

by David Achord

  He lifted his feet from the ornate box and unlatched it so he could lift the lid. The hinges squealed in protest like tortured banshees, and he shushed them.

  He clasped large hands together and ran his eyes over the contents. This one belonged to his grandfather Errol and contained thick folders of papers and old books on geology and mining. He dug down; there were even sealed packages in a waxed paper and bound with string. He lifted several free and read the notes scribbled on the front in pencil. Some were addressed to Errol’s father, Benjamin, some to Errol, and some just to the Cartwright Estate, with a few dated as far back as 1912, well before Errol was even born. Another was inscribed 1930 and both felt like books, and both seemed to be from a similar source.

  He ran a hand up through his thick, dark hair and left the fingers there, massaging his scalp as he read the notations – they were from the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Being an avid adventure fiction reader, he recognized the name and his interest was immediately piqued. He unwrapped the first package dated 1912.

  “Whoa.” As he suspected, it was a book – but what a book – an immaculate first edition of The Lost World. The gilt and blue cloth-bound book was heavy in his hands.

  Ben didn’t even know Doyle had written the book. He always thought he was well known for his Sherlock Holmes adventures, but thought The Lost World was actually a Steven Spielberg movie.

  He lifted it to his nose and sniffed; he detected a slight mustiness, but overall, the dry attic coupled with the book’s wax paper covering had preserved it over the entire century.

  But why wouldn’t Errol have opened it? he wondered. Maybe because it came before he was born and wasn’t addressed to him? Or perhaps it had been put away and he hadn’t even known it existed?

  Ben opened the book and read the inscription. It was from the great man himself:

  To my good friend, Benjamin Cartwright,

  Your experiences ignited my imagination, and this is the result. Hope we can correspond again soon.

  Your friend, Arthur Conan Doyle

  Ben smiled wistfully; we Cartwrights had friends in high places, he thought and then sighed. The letter told him that Doyle obviously didn’t know that Benjamin died down in Venezuela some four years before the book was printed.

  He carefully began to read pages here and there, picking up the gist of the story – a newspaper reporter, Edward Malone, is sent to interview a professor by the name of Challenger, who claims he knew of a hidden plateau in the South American Amazon that was inhabited by living dinosaurs.

  Ben smiled as he read. In no time, Challenger had convinced a small band of supporters to embark on a perilous adventure to find this plateau, where they certainly did discover creatures from the dawn of time.

  Well, of course they did, Ben thought dryly. He turned the book over in his hands, admiring the fine binding; he couldn’t imagine what the book was worth, but he’d certainly not let it linger in the old trunk any longer. He partially rewrapped it and placed it on the table beside his beer.

  The next package he drew forth was a bundle of letters tied together with age-stained string. He undid the knot and spread them out. He could see they represented earlier correspondence back and forth between Benjamin and Doyle.

  Ben snorted softly. So it was true then, he thought. He remembered his father regaling him with tales of Benjamin, the adventurer’s adventurer who went on many expeditions to remote corners of the globe, with the 1908 one being the fatal last. His wife had to organize recovery of his body from some remote village down in South America at the edge of the Amazon jungle.

  He opened the first letter dated 1906, prior to his ill-fated trip. It discussed his preparations for the expedition he was organizing. He even invited Arthur Conan Doyle to come along and document it.

  He read quickly; there were also meandering discussions about finances, who and what he should take with him, and then the rest settled on more mundane political matters of the time.

  Doyle’s response was to express a keen interest in the expedition, but he politely declined to join Benjamin. However, he did offer to finance part of the trip if Benjamin ran into difficulty raising funds.

  Ben looked at the dates of each letter and grinned – they were dated many weeks, and sometimes months apart, and the time lapse would have represented communication times between continents at the beginning of last century. Today, talking to someone anywhere in the world was near instantaneous and would have been something so astounding that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle might have only entertained the concept in one of his fiction novels.

  Ben sipped his beer again and opened another letter, enjoying immersing himself into the minds of great men from over a century past. In this one, Benjamin described what he hoped to find – he had heard tales of a place of great beasts appearing once every decade during the wettest of seasons. And also of a hidden plateau in an unexplored Amazonian jungle that, in Benjamin Cartwright’s own words, would rewrite everything the world knew about biology and evolution.

  “Get outta here.” Ben’s forehead creased – the hidden plateau, South American jungle, rewriting what we know about biology and evolution – he recognized all the basic elements from Doyle’s fantastic tale. He swung to where he left the copy of The Lost World and carefully unwrapped it again. He reread the dedication:

  To my good friend, Benjamin Cartwright – your experiences ignited my imagination, and this is the result, Arthur Conan Doyle had written over a century before.

  Is that what Doyle really meant? That over 100 years ago, Benjamin Cartwright had actually done what he had only described in his work of fiction? He chuckled as he closed the book, placing it back on the tabletop.

  Impossible, he thought, but his interest sparked up more than ever. He reached for the next item in the pile – a single letter on top, once again in the famous author’s handwriting. Ben eased it open and read.

  Dear Benjamin,

  My dearest friend, I write this to your spirit, or perhaps to your heirs. Your passing has wounded me and serves to remind one of their mortality. But you, sir, will now remain the brave and youthful adventurer, forever.

  Your notebook was, and is, invaluable, and so it will be kept with my favorite things in the secret place only we know – under the earth in Windlesham Manor.

  Your friend, forever,

  Arthur Conan Doyle

  Under the earth? He freaking buried it? Ben snorted softly. “Way to go, Arthur.” Ben placed the old letter aside and lifted the next. This one was a larger envelope, dated 1931, and much more formal looking. It was still unopened and sent to the Benjamin Cartwright estate, just like with Doyle’s last letter, confirming they knew that Benjamin was no more. He carefully slid a finger along the gum-line and the ancient glue easily gave way.

  The paper inside was of high-quality fiber. He immediately saw this one was written in a different hand and was from a legal firm representing the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He read down:

  To whom it may concern,

  You may now be aware that Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle has now passed away, and we have been charged with tidying up his affairs. Many items of Sir Arthur’s collection will be kept for posterity, some will be provided to museums, and some he had wished returned to their owners on his demise.

  One such item was to be the leather-bound notebook of the late Benjamin Bartholomew Cartwright of Ohio, United States of America. This notebook was something Sir Arthur valued immensely and always wished to hand-deliver back to its owner, Mr. Cartwright. Obviously, events overtook both parties before this outcome could be satisfactorily achieved.

  Unfortunately, our searches to date have not located the item referred to in previous correspondence. Should knowledge of its whereabouts come to light then this letter will serve as proof of ownership for a Cartwright heir to take possession of the notebook in person.

  Yours sincerely,

  Horatio William Bartholomew, Solicitor of Law

  W
indlesham Manor, Crowborough, East Sussex

  The corner of Ben’s mouth turned up as he looked at the dozens and dozens of large chests in the attic. He held up his hands.

  “And did you ever go and get it, Great Granddad or Granddad?” He sighed and lowered his hands, looking down again at the letter. His brows knitted as he remembered something that now seemed to answer his question – the letter had been unopened.

  “Or perhaps it was never even claimed.”

  He exhaled slowly through his nose and let his mind wander. The thrill of adventure coursed through his Cartwright veins and he let his eyes rise to the stacks of trunks, crates, and chests. But there were so many, it wearied him.

  Ben yawned. “Nah, more likely there was another attempt at communication and probably somewhere in this museum warehouse is old Benjamin’s notebook.”

  He sat in silence for a few more moments, staring into space and watching as the rays of early morning light streaming in through the attic’s dormer windows illuminated dust motes gently floating for an eternity, waiting patiently for the next large body to move through them and whip them into swirling agitation once again. As he watched them dance in the sunbeam, his eyelids began to lower, and lower.

  Ben was back in the jungle and running hard. He tried to remember if it was the mission in Thailand, the Congo, or even Colombia, but his mind refused to identify it. The only thing he knew for sure was something was after him – not some one, but some thing.

  He barged on as vines tried to snag him, huge palm fronds slapped at his face and body, and he was coated in perspiration, rain, and fear.

  Behind him, trees were being flattened and he tried to accelerate but hit a wall of weird tree trunks that barred his way. He spun and reached for his gun – it wasn’t there.

  Before him, the trees were prized apart and he finally saw his pursuer – he screamed.

  “Jesus Christ!” The sound of the front door bell was like an electric shock and jolted him awake to jump in his chair, beer sloshing in his bottle and onto his groin.

  “Ah, crap.” Ben grimaced and quickly got to his feet, put the bottle down plus the pile of letters, and headed for the steps. He checked his watch – full morning already – and he moved quickly, taking the steps two at a time. He didn’t want his mother woken.

  On the first floor, the doorbell rang again.

  “Argh! Keep your hat on!” He sprinted now, the last dozen stairs to ground floor taken in three giant bounds.

  Out of breath, he reached for the door handle and wrenched it open. “Can you please keep it…?”

  “Well, someone looks out of condition.” Emma Wilson smiled up at him, holding a cloth-draped box in her arms.

  Ben cut off his demand and instead sucked in one last big breath right to the bottom of his chest, flooding his lungs with oxygen. He held it for a second and then let it out in a whoosh. He shrugged. “Yep, and that’s what living the high life will do to you.”

  He stood there staring at her, knowing that the grin he wore was a dumb one.

  He’d seen her at his dad’s funeral, but up close, she looked even better – luminous green eyes, and her brown hair shone with red highlights in the sunlight. Freckles still smattered across an upturned nose and cheeks, and she wore a T-shirt showing off an athletic figure – very athletic; there were corded muscles in her neck and arms. Whatever she was doing was obviously working for her.

  He and Emma had dated for a while and got really close. But he enlisted, their roads forked when he went away, and that was that. Seeing her again, made him feel…good. He suddenly remembered his scar and angled his face slightly.

  She held the box in one hand and reached up to his chin. “Did it hurt?”

  Her fingertips were butterfly-light on his skin, but he still felt their warmth. He shook his head. “Really, I don’t remember a thing. Could have been worse.” He shrugged.

  “Yes.” She dropped her hand. “You kept your looks.” She tilted her head. “I kinda like it. So…” She held up the box. “I made these for your mom; just an orange sponge cake with marmalade jam. It’s her favorite.”

  “Her favorite?” His brows rose slightly.

  She beamed up at him. “Um-hmm. And she also likes pecan cookies and brownies done crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside.” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “If you got back here more often, then you might…” her smile vanished as she seemed to remember. “I’m sorry, your dad… I didn’t mean…”

  “No, you’re right; I should have been here.” Ben waved it away. “Forget it; you wanna come in?”

  “Yes, please. But only if it’s a good time.” Emma shuffled in, now looking a little less sunny than when she arrived. “I can come back.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He gently closed the door and then led her into the living room. “So, how do you know my mom likes orange sponge cake?” He cocked his head.

  “We-eeell, you do know that she does cycle classes down at World Gym, right?”

  He shrugged. “I knew she was exercising, but…”

  “It’s the same gym that I go to.” She lifted her chin. “We kinda ended up hanging out from time to time.”

  “Good for you, the pair of you, and thank you.” He looked her over. “And that accounts for the body of iron I detect.”

  She raised an arm, making a muscle with her bicep. “Dude, this is rock-climbing beef. Ohio is home to some of the best climbing faces in the country. I’m rated 5.11, expert level.”

  He reached out to squeeze her arm. “I’m impressed.” He grinned. “But I’m afraid mom’s asleep right now. Hate to wake her as she hasn’t been sleeping well of late.”

  “No, no, it’s okay.” She held up a hand, while still cradling the box. “I thought I’d drop this off, see how she is. Maybe say hello to the prodigal son while I’m at it.” She looked up into his face as she held the box out to him. “So, how are you holding up?”

  He bobbed his head as he accepted the box from her. “I’m good; feeling a bit guilty for not being here, but, good.”

  “Don’t feel guilty.” Emma’s eyes glistened. “No one could have expected…this.”

  “Yeah.” He scoffed as he stared at the box she had given him. “Like, who knew the guy was even sick? I’m betting he didn’t either.” He pulled in a cheek. “Mortality; one minute you’re here, and then next, you’re not.”

  “Big Barry was a great guy. And he and your mom proved that love could stay strong forev…” She looked up. “She’ll miss him.”

  “We all will,” Ben said and motioned to a sofa. “Get you a coffee?”

  “Sure, cream, no sugar,” Emma said as she eased down on the broad couch.

  Ben headed to the kitchen where he opened the box. He was blissfully assailed with the smell of fresh baking.

  “Mmm, maybe a slice each as well.”

  The coffee had already been made so he poured a couple of mugs and placed two slices of cake on a plate – two small and the other doorstop size.

  Emma beamed when she saw him bring the cake. “Good boy. Maybe it’ll become your favorite too.” She took the cup and broke off a small piece of cake and popped it in her mouth.

  “So, how long do you think you’ll hang around this time? Ohio, I mean.”

  “Hadn’t really thought about it. A few days, I guess. I’ll make a call on it after I see how mom is getting on at the end of the week.” He shrugged. “Maybe longer if she needs me. Not much going on at home right now.”

  Emma’s eyebrows turned down, but there was a slight gleam in her eye. “Um, no one at home for you to miss?”

  He half smiled. “No Miss Right, and not even Miss Right-Now.” He sipped his coffee. “Since I got out of the military, I’ve been doing some freelance security and advisory work, but I thought maybe next year I might go back and finish my studies.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember. The animal lover.” She nodded. “That’s great.”

  “And what about you?” he ask
ed as he bit off half the cake wedge and pushed it into the side of his mouth.

  “I have a small business running rock climbing classes, adventure tours; that kinda stuff,” she answered.

  “You were always the maths whiz. And weren’t you studying economics?” he asked quickly.

  “Yeah, but how many economists get to spend their day outside, every day?” She lifted her chin. “Have you ever sat amongst a field of wild flowers in spring? Just the bees and birds talking to you, with the warm sun on your back and the mountain peaks lined up before you?”

  He shook his head. “No, but you make it sound like a dream. Seems like its captured your heart. And speaking of that…what about you? Any Mr. Rock Climber in your life?”

  “Not really. I mean, no.” She laughed. “Hey, maybe I’ve been waiting for you to come back.” She laughed again, but this time her cheeks reddened.

  Their eyes locked for a moment, and Ben almost fell into them.

  “Ben, is that you?”

  He turned at the sound of his mother’s voice.

  “Down here, Mom.” He stood up. “I better…” He thumbed over his shoulder.

  Emma also got to her feet. “Yeah, you better.” She brushed crumbs from her jeans and headed for the door. She jammed both hands into her back pockets.

  Ben opened the door for her and she turned back to him.

  “A few of the old gang are getting together tonight to throw back a couple of beers, have some ribs and a few laughs. Why don’t you come along?”

  “Um.” His first instinct was to decline. But looking down into those eyes made it impossible. “Sure, where and when?”

  She grinned. “When, is 7pm. Where, is across town; I’ll pick you up at quarter to seven, deal?”

  “Deal.” He reached out a hand and she took it. This time, he felt the calluses on her hand and he turned it over. “Oh yeah, these really are rock-jock hands.”