Francesca of Lost Nation

by Crosby, Lucinda Sue

We negotiated another right turn, and the roadbed leveled out.

  “I don’t think this is the way,” I ventured, carefully marking “right turn.” I could feel a new tickle of worry in the pit of my stomach.

  “There’s a pond around here somewhere,” Francesca said. “At least, there used to be. Keep a lookout on your side.”

  We never did come to that pond, but we did stumble across the burned-out shack. It had once been a three-roomer, made of rough-hewn mismatched wood. The foundation had shifted with time, and the blackened south wall, which was all that still stood, aside from the rock chimney, had a definite tilt to it.

  There was something about that place that made the skin crawl up the back of my legs. It gave me a feeling of dread mixed with a sense of loss. It may have been because you could see right through the few boards left intact or the way they creaked as they swayed back and forth or the sight of Babe’s hackles rising along her neck — but all of a sudden, I didn’t want to be there.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t investigate too closely,” I said hopefully.

  Francesca looked hypnotized. She put her hand to her temple as if trying to push some idea forward.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “There is something …” she began.

  Now, my neck was tingling.

  “ … something here. No. Someone.”

  “Who is it?” I whispered.

  Her hand slipped to the place where her throat met her chest. “There’s a flood of painful memories washing over me,” she said, squinting with concentration.

  “Do you think there are ghosts?”

  That’s when we heard a clicking noise from somewhere behind us. As I whipped my head around, my heart leapt into my throat. But it was only a ground squirrel chattering curses at us from a nearby tree.

  Francesca started to laugh. She couldn’t stop laughing, and that made me laugh. Soon, we had a case of the giggles. Our stomachs hurt from so much laughing that all of a sudden I had to pee.

  “I have to whiz,” I said between gasps of air.

  Francesca reached into the pocket of her windbreaker and fished out a few pieces of tissue. She advised, “Try the Sunoco filling station over there. I hear it’s air-conditioned,” which of course set us off again.

  A good spell of howling laughter will go a long way to ease even the most nerve-wracked mood. By the time I was back in the truck and we were on our way, our visit to the burned-out homestead was fading fast.

  As for Francesca and me, it felt just like old times.

  Chapter 31

  The Past Uncovered

  I

  n the distance, the storm again began inching in our direction. As the wind shifted, that tempest so full of threat and light made its way across the sky, while underneath us, the winding roadway narrowed and inclined ever more steeply.

  Babe lay dozing with her head in my lap. Francesca’s fingertips tapped the steering wheel in time to the radio offerings of one of the Dorsey brothers. I could never tell those two bands apart, even as an adult. The melody was softly swinging in that elegant way the big bands had in those years. I began to nod my head in the same rhythm.

  After innumerable wrong turns, we finally came to the end of the road. The view was breathtaking, with the expanse of Iowa farmland beneath us washed in misty grayness. To the west, hints of sunshine shone down through the curtain of clouds, as though the hand of God was reaching out from the heavens. There was some odd power in the day.

  Francesca’s mood had shifted dramatically. At first, there had been mischief in her eyes … a sliver of wicked curiosity. Now, there was only that same pensive watchfulness I had come to recognize in her behavior of late. Her eyes flickered across the horizon; then, she slowed the truck down and pointed.

  “Do you see something there?” she asked.

  I noticed a dark space secluded behind a strand of strangled scrub. She parked and set the emergency brake.

  Spread out below, the buildings of Lost Nation were already lit against the early gloom. I could just identify Main Street and the grade school.

  Babe broke the somber mood by vaulting out of the car and squatting. Then, she stood and waited for the first set of orders.

  We walked to the natural opening in the rock wall, which proved to be the mouth of a cave. At that exact moment, the rain started to fall in teasing spurts. The storm was just over our shoulders now, and the thunderclaps grew louder every minute.

  Francesca had checked both flashlights’ batteries before leaving the house, and their beams sprang to life at our touch. I was slight enough to wiggle my way through the tightly spaced bushes guarding the entrance and enter the darkness without stopping or stooping. Francesca, at five-foot-seven, had to bend down and wriggle her way inside, squatting like catcher Yogi Berra.

  Francesca observed, “You’d think these bushes were placed here on purpose. They’re like a wall. For keeping someone out? Or keeping someone or something in?”

  God, it had never occurred to me before that moment; something might be IN THERE! I stopped dead.

  “What is it?” Francesca asked, blowing a spider web out of her face. I was glad I hadn’t disturbed it … I hate spiders.

  “Do you really think there’s something in here?”

  “We’ll never know if we don’t push on.”

  She pushed on, and I had no choice but to follow, though my heart was pounding in my ears.

  Even with our Eveready battery torches, it took a while for our eyes to adjust. Thankfully, Babe was not in a wandering mood. In fact, she was so close to my side, I could feel her breath through my pant-legs.

  When we finally got our bearings, we had arrived in a kind of rounded rock chamber smelling of long-dead-animal bones. I’d smelled some not-so-ancient ones on the farm, and I could tell. In a weird way, the familiarity of that nose-wrinkling odor was comforting.

  In the distance, the sound of dripping water echoed so that it was difficult to tell from which direction it came. We made our way down one side of the rock face, which was crusty with mineral deposits and bat droppings.

  A possum walked over my grave.

  Babe and I followed my grandmother into the deepening gloom relieved only by our two small points of light. We could now barely detect the thunder that churned outside. It sounded like ghostly drums, muted by time.

  There was a thick layer of dust over everything. The spider webs were huge, intricate and menacing, glistening obscenely in the light from our lamps. It was a scene straight from a nightmare.

  The pathway narrowed gradually until we were both making forward progress on our hands and knees. There was still plenty of room to maneuver, which was comforting, because the mere idea of becoming wedged in that place was terrifying. I was not claustrophobic before that afternoon. But since then, I’ve never entered a room after nightfall or even reached into an unlit closet without experiencing a nanosecond of the unforgettable sensation … something untoward was closing in on me.

  Former baseball pitching great Satchel Paige once set down a number of rules for living. Among them was this: “Don’t look back. Something may be gaining on you.”

  “Oh, my God …” whispered Francesca.

  She was crawling directly in front of me. By craning my head to the right, I could see she’d got to an area of the passageway that broadened again. She waved her light around in the darkness in front of her for a moment, then stood upright.

  We’d come to a second cavern, this one the size of a high school auditorium. The plink of water drops was much more distinct.

  “Aaaagggh!” I screamed.

  A figure sprang up to our left. Babe started to howl. Francesca gasped.

  “Wait!” she cried, holding my arm firmly.

  She passed her light across what looked to be an ancient mural carved into the wall. It was a cave painting — immense, full of savage grace, primitive and luminous.

  “Holy cow,” I breathed out.

  We carefully made
our way around the perimeter of the rock wall until we stood at the center of the drawing. Its majesty was unimaginable in that dark place. It appeared out of nowhere, like a miracle, totally captivating us.

  I turned to Francesca and asked if she had known these images were here.

  A muffled thunderclap answered before she did.

  “No,” she responded. There was wonder in her voice as she delicately traced her fingertips along the carvings. “I have read every newspaper and magazine article I could get my hands on regarding the history of Lost Nation, and I never ever heard tell of such a thing.”

  The intricate etchings told the story of a victory in heated battle by one tribe over another. The engagement took place over an entire day, and many were lost on both sides. Some of the figures were prostrate with grieving. Some were on horseback in the thick of the fray. The children from the surviving tribe, it seemed, had been hidden away in this very cave.

  The shapes were crude, but there was a power about them, an energy.

  “It looks like an entire people disappeared from the face of the earth in this battle.”

  “Maybe that’s why they call it ‘Lost Nation.’”

  Francesca was struck by the idea.

  “History says that our forefathers took their anglicized name for this town straight from an Indian term. I wonder … if this has something to do with Tom Blackfeather’s mythology about this area.”

  It was about that time that I noticed something on the cave floor. I trained my light on it, but I still couldn’t make out what it was. I moved closer and squatted. I poked the flashlight around and made a terrible discovery: a pair of trousers, one shirt, two thin blankets. Someone was living in this place.

  Suddenly, Babe began to growl. Within the space of a heartbeat, four things happened.

  “Francesca! Someone has been here!”

  We heard a noise like a footfall. Francesca doused her light at the same moment she put her hand carefully about the dog’s muzzle.

  “Ssshh.”

  In a second, we were in total blackness, with only the sounds of distant thunder and dripping water for company. Francesca knelt and again blew softly on Babe’s nose.

  “Ssshh,” she cautioned, more softly this time.

  We heard another footfall. It was louder, unmistakable, thanks to the acoustics of the stone.

  I could feel Babe trembling with some terrible emotion. Was it fear? Or loathing?

  “I know you two are in there.”

  It was a dry, hoarse voice. I had only heard it once before, and I wasn’t about to forget it. It belonged to the Scarecrow.

  Francesca placed one finger across my mouth in a plea for silence, something she didn’t have to do twice. I was sure the frightening intruder could hear my heart pounding against my ribs. I placed my hand against my chest in a vain attempt to quiet down the throbbing there.

  The Scarecrow’s voice had drifted in to us from somewhere near the mouth of the cave. He hadn’t yet come to the crawlspace. I wondered how familiar he was with the layout.

  “You can’t hide from me in there forever,” he menaced. “In a way,” he went on, “having you stumble across my little refuge makes my life a lot easier. You will never leave this place.”

  A thousand questions flew through my mind in the space of five seconds. Before I could form any of them, Francesca bent down and whispered gently and slowly into my ear.

  In answer, I shook my head firmly, NO.

  She gripped my wrist with her fingers and twisted my arm around to my back, pushing my body away from hers in the process. I cupped my hands around Francesca’s ear. “I will not leave you,” I breathed.

  It was little more than a sigh.

  Her grip grew stronger … became vise-like. She was hurting me. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

  “You can’t get away from me, you know,” called the raspy voice with maddening reasonableness. “I’ve been watching you. Waiting for you. I never dreamed you’d come to me. You belong to me now.”

  We heard a sandpaper cough. Nearer, nearer.

  “Since you can connect me to this place … I’ll have to take some action. I find the idea somewhat intriguing. Perhaps that will be some consolation.”

  Nearer, nearer.

  Francesca grabbed me by the ears and whirled my head around. She whispered, urgently and oh-so-softly, that I would have to go for help. Then, in an instant, she had Babe’s bandanna off the dog’s neck and tied it loosely around her snout. “No growling. Stay. Stay, girl,” she whispered.

  As Francesca inched her way around the edge of the rock wall behind us, she reached into her pocket for her pistol. I heard a soft click as she opened it.

  “Damn. No bullets,” she sighed, just audibly.

  I stood there for a moment and screwed up my courage. I realized that I was going to have to slip by him somehow. My legs felt like jelly, and I prayed for the strength and courage to do as my grandmother asked.

  It was up to me now, whether we lived or died.

  Chapter 32

  Facing Fear

  I

  dropped to my knees, then down onto my belly. I began to snake around the cave, staying as close to the rock walls as possible. As I neared the space where I hoped to God the small opening was situated, I could hear the Scarecrow’s faint stirrings as he crawled toward me.

  When I felt the wall give way to my right, I backed up about 10 feet and stopped dead, easing my breath carefully in and out. I kept the rest of my body still as stone. With my breath coming back at me from the ground, I felt the tickle of something delicate brush across the tip of my nose and stifled a scream.

  The Scarecrow, although a bag of bones, was taller than either Francesca or me, so it took him some time to navigate the second passageway. After what seemed like forever and a day, I could tell he had reached the mouth of the great cavern. I prayed that Francesca’s timing was as perfect as always.

  My heart began to pound. My mouth went dry. I inhaled and exhaled in slow, quiet whispers, my nose covered by my right hand. He stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes. I think I was actually behind him by then, and slightly to the right.

  In the pitch dark, I felt as though I was in a vacuum. He turned first in my direction and then away from me in an effort to get his bearings. I heard the sound of a match being struck on the cave wall and saw the small leap of a flicker of flame. As he brought the match close to a nub of candle, Francesca hurled her flashlight. Thank God for her dead-eye aim! Both the match and the candle fell from his grasp, and the Eveready shattered to pieces at his feet. He cursed.

  “You bitch.”

  He bent down and began to brush the jagged bits away from his body. To do this, it was necessary to move slightly farther away from the opening. He was still muttering to himself, and when I felt his total concentration on the task at hand, I slithered by.

  There were some small shards of metal and glass in my way. I felt them dig into my hands and knees as I crawled gingerly and soundlessly over them. They stung like crazy, but I persevered.

  Behind me, the Scarecrow’s voice started up again. It echoed all around me.

  “I can find you in the dark, old woman. And when I do …” His voice faded out.

  That stretch of cold, hard rock was the single longest and most difficult distance I have ever traveled. I felt whispery, creepy things coming into dreadful contact with my skin. Because my nose pressed almost into the stone, the pungent odor of animal droppings was more powerful than ever. I felt the tickle of blood dripping from the cuts on my hands and knees. But my soul was still back in that dark place with Francesca. What was the Scarecrow doing to her now? Was she all right? Was she alive? How in blue blazes would I be able to get help in time?

  After what seemed like hours, I was able to stand up. I switched on my Eveready and dashed outside into the downpour. Thank heavens the truck was still there! Mud oozed up and sucked at my shoes as I ran across the open field. It suddenly oc
curred to me that I was going to have to drive in the rain and in the dark. I took a deep breath and hurled myself into the cab. Oh, God—he’d taken the keys with him! Now what? Think … Think …

  I remembered Matt had insisted we keep a spare key under the floor mat. I ripped up the rubber and felt frantically around. YES!

  I switched on the ignition and … nothing.

  Stay calm. Stay calm … Don’t flood it. Step by step.

  I recalled everything Francesca and Matt had taught me.

  Prime her up, put her into neutral, turn the key, ease the gas down … The roar of that engine was as welcome as Sunday company.

  I held down the clutch and found what I thought was first gear. I stepped on the gas hard enough to create a rooster tail of water—but I was in reverse! I rammed the brake to the floor and stopped about ten feet from the south edge of the plateau. My face was dripping, a combination of cold sweat and rain. Tears were coming, too, which would make my misery complete.

  No! No! Get a hold of yourself! Think! Breathe! Drive with your heart the way Francesca would.

  Suddenly, the driver’s door opened, and I felt a hand grabbing for my shoulder. The Scarecrow had come after me. I recoiled and screamed in horror and somehow managed to struggle out of his grip. I pushed in the clutch and threw the gearshift into first. I snaked my body back and forth, using my free foot to kick at my attacker. The tires spun for a moment, then caught traction. The truck lunged forward, and I left the Scarecrow behind in a spray of mud.

  I began to honk the floogle horn as I started back down the mountain. I hadn’t got more than a few hundred yards when I was met at the first fork in the road by Greely Clack in his rattle-trap. He threw himself out of his cab and waved his arms frantically for me to stop. With a shudder and a last skid, I brought the truck to a halt.

  I was sobbing now, uncontrollably.

  “HE’S GOT HER! YOU’VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING!”

  Greely opened my door, shoved me aside, and sat beside me. He threw the truck into reverse and started driving back toward the cave. He was yelling something at me, but with his head out the window, and in the roar of the storm, it was impossible to make out.