Fiddler's Green, Or a Wedding, a Ball, and the Singular Adventures of Sundry Moss

by Van Reid

  Sometimes astonishment simply wears a body out.

  Sundry wished he could have gotten off at Bowdoinham Station just to stretch his legs and stop in at Jonas Fink’s General Store and Post Office and discover how Hercules was doing or to look in at Johnny Poulter’s smithy and hear how the young blacksmith fared in his wooing of the lovely Madeline Fern. These were tales he had brushed shoulders with a week or so ago, and he took in what he could from his window, only recognizing one of the loafers who held up a porch post at the corner of the store. Sundry was not one to leave a post himself, and he sat back and waited out the short stop without revealing his curiosity or impatience.

  His curiosity was more easily satisfied from the train window when they came to Iceboro. With help from the surrounding towns, the community had done an extraordinary job of cleaning up after fire had destroyed one of the icehouses there; still, there was the great hole left in the midst of the houses and storefronts and churches. There was much talk about the fire on the train, and someone a few seats back seemed to have heard or read a good deal about it, and pretty accurately. Sundry said nothing about his involvement on that awful night, but he did have a piercing memory of Mister Walton’s collapse on the street in the midst of the firefighting and was glad enough to quit this station and move on.

  Maven slept, and Burne Ring lay with his head against the glass, the countryside and towns speeding by without his notice. As they approached Gardiner, Sundry could no longer see the man’s eyes, peering from beneath heavy lids, and he began to have small hope that the man was actually on the mend; sleep seemed such a healthy thing for someone so sick and weary.

  “I have been looking for a dowser,” said Mr. Normell without preamble.

  “Have you?” said Sundry. It might have been the most common sort of statement for the complete lack of wonder in his voice.

  “I have,” said the man. “Without success.”

  “I’ve dowsed before,” said Sundry.

  It was Mr. Normell’s turn to conceal any apparent surprise. “Have you?”

  “About that much,” said Sundry, holding a thumb and forefinger an inch apart. Melanie was looking at him with the curiosity and wonder that he and Mr. Normell had not betrayed. “Dowsing is a way of finding water under the ground,” Sundry told her.

  “Do you dig?” she asked, which was a sensible question.

  “You use the stick from an apple tree or a crab tree stick,” he replied, which didn’t sound sensible at all. “The stick has a fork in it, and you hold it out, like this.” He positioned his hands so that he looked like an awkwardly rendered cowboy in a dime novel, invisible six-guns drawn and ready to fire. “Then you walk around till you feel a tug at the end of the stick, and that, presumably, is where you’ll find water.”

  “How does it happen?” asked the little girl. “What tugs on the stick?”

  “I’m not sure anything does,” said Sundry. Like many a veteran dowser, which he certainly wasn’t, he didn’t know if he really believed in it or not.

  “Oh, something tugs!” said Mr. Normell with more excitement than he had previously revealed. “Certainly, it does.”

  “To be honest,” admitted Sundry, “I don’t know very much about it.”

  “Oh, something tugs,” said Mr. Normell again.

  “I’ve tried it only a time or two.”

  “If you have the gift, that’s all you need.”

  “My mother’s Uncle Cedric has the gift, I guess,” said Sundry.

  “Oh? Where is he?”

  “Norridgewock.”

  Mr. Normell turned his head forward and nodded slowly. “The gift does seem to run in families.”

  “I learned it from Uncle Cedric years ago, when I spent summers up at his farm. Two or three times when I was there he was asked to find water for someone. He’d let me walk around with the crab tree stick after he had already found something to see if I could feel the pull. Then, the last time, I think, he let me go first.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “I did,” said Sundry in a matter-of-fact way. “I think.”

  Mr. Normell took on an entirely separate appearance from his former cheer and looked as serious as Sundry could have imagined him. “Would you allow me to hire you?” he asked.

  “To dowse?” Sundry laughed softly. “I don’t think you’d get your money’s worth.”

  “I am quite sure that I would,” said the portly fellow. “I am struck by a sense of”—Mr. Normell searched for the words—“your abilities,” he finished.

  “I’d be glad to take a stab at it, but unless you’re going to Brownville, I’m afraid it will have to wait.”

  “Brownville,” said Mr. Normell. “No, no. Not Brownville.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” said Sundry. “I’m going to travel with Mel—” Here he struck the first snag of his previous untruth. “Mailon and his father,” he amended, “and help them find their relatives in Brownville.”

  “Not Brownville,” said Mr. Normell again, and regretfully. “I’m going to China.”

  “Don’t you need a ship for that?” asked Melanie.

  “No, no, my dear boy.” The man chuckled amiably and took off his spectacles to wipe them with his handkerchief. “I am going to China, Maine. It’s a town, northeast of us at the present moment.”

  “Oh,” said Melanie.

  “China,” said the man again. He replaced his spectacles on his nose, then nodded to Sundry and repeated, “I’m going to China,” as if the young man might not have heard him.

  “I see,” said Sundry.

  “Very near the border of Albion,” said Mr. Normell.

  “They are near one another?” said Sundry.

  “Oh, yes,” said the man. He held his hands together, as if in prayer. “Very near. Dutten Pond,” he added. “China and Albion, right through the middle.” He held his hands together again, then shot one hand through the imaginary border he had created.

  “I’m surprised you couldn’t find a dowser,” said Sundry. “I thought every town had one or two.”

  Mr. Normell pursed his lips and nodded once again.

  “Next stop, Farmingdale!” called the conductor as he came into the car and walked past them.

  “China,” said Mr. Normell again.

  33. A Bad Juncture Between Stops

  The car took on more passengers than it lost as they neared the capital. In Farmingdale, two women came down the aisle looking for a place to sit, and Mr. Normell, who had occupied a brace of seats by himself for some miles, quickly rose and offered the ladies the bench facing him. The portly man smiled and attempted to engage the women in conversation, but they proved reserved, or perhaps they were unhappy to find themselves across the aisle from someone as obviously ill as Burne Ring. Maven’s snoring, too, sometimes rattled the window next to him.

  At Augusta’s South Station, west of the Kennebec, the car thinned out, and when they came to the second station across the river, it thinned out some more. Here the train took on water and coal, lingering longer than at some stops. The women across the aisle rose from their seats, chatting between themselves, though loud enough for their neighbors to hear that they were stepping out for some air. They did not come back, and Sundry suspected that they had changed cars.

  He hardly blamed them. Burne Ring shivered in his sleep, and Mr. Normell asked an attendant to find a blanket for the man. While they waited, talk ran along several cheerful subjects, and Sundry thought the portly fellow did his best to engage the child, asking him what he thought of Portland’s ball team and had he ever ridden a bicycle. Mr. Normell had attempted driving one some years back and had a story about the adventure that made Melanie smile.

  “That must have been some mule,” she said.

  “His hind quarters were some powerful,” said Mr. Normell with a hearty chuckle. “And I believe those were the very words of his owner.”

  “Were you hurt?” asked the little girl.

  “M
ostly my pride,” admitted the man. “The bike was not to be recovered, however, and went back to the shop to provide some small parts for future generations of wheeled vehicles and more astute riders than myself.” He grew quiet of a sudden, and a serious expression overtook him. The attendant returned, and Sundry leaned from his seat to tuck the blanket about Burne, but the man continued to shiver violently.

  “I need something,” said Burne.

  Sundry was startled by the voice, which was shuddery and overloud. He knew the sort of something Burne needed—or wanted. The Sparks had been giving him small beer in small drafts—sips, really—by recommendation of a long-retired doctor who resided down the street from the tavern, but Sundry had no idea where to get the man a drink.

  “I need some medicine,” said Burne again.

  “Does he have medicine?” asked Mr. Normell, then said, “Ah, yes,” when Sundry gave him a significant glance. “I did wonder.”

  “There must be someone at the next stop,” Burne hissed. “There’ll be a tavern or someplace can help me. Just small beer or a drop of rum.”

  Sundry felt out of his depth. It seemed only merciful to find something that would chase away the man’s demons. “I hate to drag him off the train,” said Sundry, “and beat about some small town, looking for someone or someplace to serve him a drink.” He spoke quietly, though he knew Melanie could hear him; he was thinking of her and how unseemly it would be to haul a six-year-old girl to an illegal saloon or a rumrunner’s still.

  “If I may venture a thought,” said Mr. Normell. “It may be that a small supply of medicine is kept at hand by the conductor for the sake of emergency and that if our conductor understood that you are trying to deliver this man and his son to the bosom of his family, he might consider Mr. Ring’s condition emergency enough.”

  Sundry was skeptical but decided he would attempt it. Standing, he swayed as the train negotiated a corner. Uncertainty touched his face as he realized that he was abandoning his post. He shook Maven’s shoulder once, but Mr. Normell touched Sundry’s shoulder and said, “I’ll be here. Let him sleep.” Sundry thanked the man and hurried down the aisle in the direction of the caboose, envying everyone else who seemed only to be traveling between two points and not in the act of delivering a drunkard and his daughter to a set of unknown relations. He realized, too, that he was hungry.

  Sundry found the conductor in the last passenger car, talking with three men who were togged out in wilderness gear and obviously heading north for some hunting and fishing. Sundry stood by, choosing his words before he had to say them. The conductor took his time getting to him, though he caught sight of Sundry almost as soon as the young man pulled up an arm’s length away. Sundry was the smallest bit annoyed by the time the man straightened his posture, gave him a one-eyed peer, and said, “Yes, young man?”

  “I have a sick man on board,” said Sundry, attempting a demeanor that would suggest a need for guarded conversation.

  “Oh? Why didn’t you say so? What’s the matter?”

  Sundry turned his shoulder to the three sportsmen. “Friends, down in Portland, have been drying him out—”

  “I have the authority to toss drunks from the train—”

  “He’s not drunk, he’s drying out—”

  “He’s having the rum horrors, is my guess, and you’re looking for a place to wet him down.”

  “Not at all,” said Sundry. He backtracked and said, “In a word, yes, but we’re trying to get him and his daughter to relatives in Brownville.”

  “Brownville? You have a few miles to go, don’t you?”

  “He just needs the edge taken off.” Sundry had never felt so ill at ease asking for anything in his life. He shifted his feet and came as near to hanging his head as he was capable. His former annoyance had not entirely left him, and he struggled to speak calmly. He thought he had probably come upon a temperance man; the conductor looked at him as if he had two heads.

  “What is it you’re looking for?” asked the captain.

  “A gentleman riding with us suggested that something might be put by on a train for medicinal purposes.”

  “Did he?” The conductor was looking sterner by the minute. “And what sort of train has this gentleman been riding, do you suppose?”

  Mr. Normell was not Mister Walton, but Sundry took umbrage as if the latter man’s virtue had been questioned. “Quite the best, I’m guessing.”

  They considered each other for a moment, and Sundry decided if he wasn’t to get satisfaction from the man, he wasn’t going to give any. The conductor broke the stare first, nodding slightly. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll see what we’ve got back here and then go look at the fellow.”

  Sundry breathed a sigh, and all the annoyance and embarrassment flew out of him. “Thank you, sir,” he said with gratitude.

  “I haven’t given him anything yet,” said the conductor.

  The room inside the caboose was neat and tidy. A stove stood against one wall and a table, bearing a newspaper and a deck of cards wrapped in an India rubber band, occupied the space beneath the single rear window. The conductor had made his decision, and he did not act coy about knowing what he was looking for or where it was. He went directly to a cupboard beneath one of the overhead berths and pulled from it a small brown bottle.

  The engine whistle blew, and the conductor took a step or two before realizing that he had other duties to fulfill. He almost put the bottle in his coat pocket but seemed to think this was courting an embarrassing situation, so he went to the cupboard, put the bottle back, and said, “You sit down and stay put, and don’t be touching that bottle. I’ll get the station-man to call the all aboard and be right back.”

  Sundry looked uncertain, but the man repeated his order to stay and left the caboose. Sundry’s stomach growled. He sat down at the table and read a line or two of an item in the newspaper without taking any of it in. He had finally decided to hurry back to Burne Ring and his daughter when the conductor came through the door, saying, “There. No one boarding.” He returned to the cupboard and snatched the bottle from it. Sundry thought the man resisted looking to be sure nothing was gone from it, but barely. The conductor found a cup behind another door and led the way out.

  Sundry breathed easier. If he had had time to think the business out, he would have realized that his troubles would not be solved by a shot of whiskey; but he had passed some of the burden on to this older man, and he was glad to be rid of it. They moved through one Pullman, then the other, and Sundry thought for a moment that he had miscounted cars, but there was Maven’s telltale cowlick marking the spot. The other seats were empty, and he peered ahead, wondering if Maven’s snores had finally driven them to other seats.

  “All aboard!” came the call from without. Sundry caught a glimpse of the stationman walking the platform. “All aboard!” The train gave a lurch forward.

  The conductor slowed his pace and turned. “What’s the problem?” he asked. “Which is he?”

  Sundry pushed ahead of the man and crossed into the next car, hoping to get a glimpse of the little girl sitting in her boy’s coat and knickers, dangling her legs into the aisle. The train was chugging slowly forward, gaining speed.

  “I thought you said the second car,” said the conductor.

  The engine let out a shriek, and steam fell past the windows. They were moving out of the station. Sundry reached the first passenger car and knew immediately that Burne Ring, Melanie, and Mr. Normell were not in it. “They’re gone!” he said.

  “What?” The conductor stood in the doorway, casting his eye over the puzzled passengers—ten or twelve people who had looked up from their newspapers or their conversations or a doze.

  “They’re gone!” said Sundry again. He hurried past the conductor once more and walked the aisle of the second car as if they had been hiding under the seats. “They must have gotten off at the last stop. But you said—” Sundry thought about this for a moment. “No, you said no one was getting o
n.”

  “Some people got off,” said conductor, “and there was a fellow I thought might be yours, looking sort of ill, but you said he had a daughter.”

  “Maven!” Sundry shook the sleeping man’s shoulder, and Maven Flyce came to with a snort and a start.

  “Oh, my!” said Maven. “Is it Brownville?”

  “Maven,” said Sundry. “Did they speak to you?”

  “What? What? We’re still moving.”

  “You did say a daughter?” said the conductor.

  “Yes, I did,” said Sundry.

  “Where are the Rings?” asked Maven Flyce.

  “Well, this was a boy,” said the conductor. “Knickers and an old coat.”

  “Was there another man with them?”

  “Yes. A plump, nice-looking fellow. They were carrying bags and marching into the station house liked they belonged there.”

  Sundry watched as Vassalboro rolled by.

  “I thought the kid was kind of a brat,” the conductor said, “pulling on his father like that when the old man didn’t look so well. He was giving the both of them a fit.”

  “My bag,” said Sundry, for he realized it was gone from under the seat.

  “What’s happened, son?” asked the conductor. He knew the look of a predicament when he saw one. Maven Flyce pressed his nose to the glass, as if he might see the missing people running alongside the train.

  “I don’t know,” said Sundry, “but I’m going to have to change trains and do some backing up.”

  “Hayden Corner is the next stop. We don’t always make it if there isn’t a flag out indicating passengers to board; but HI signal the engineer, and we’ll let you off.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I thought you said a daughter,” said the conductor.

  Sundry nodded slowly and to himself. “Yes. I’m afraid I did.”

  “Don’t feel you have to help me find the Rings, Mr. Moss,” said Maven Flyce for perhaps the fifth time while they were standing on the platform at Hayden Corner. “It’s a shame to miss your trip to Brownville.”