Sweet Karoline

by Catherine Astolfo

  Dembi reacted to Miriam's speech by continuously shaking his head in disagreement.

  "I know where the gold is," he said.

  Miriam gave me the kind of indulgent smile that parents might when their child says something cute but clearly erroneous. I smiled back.

  "I will show you, Triplet Anne. Let's go on a field trip."

  Thus I find myself traipsing through the bush a couple of hours later. Miriam stayed behind just in case Memé needed her. I wonder how she can do it. The thought of that emaciated half-dead creature and that dark fusty room makes my skin crawl. My sister is a saint.

  For the hundredth time, I nearly trip on a twisted clump of grass and weed under my feet. Vryheid must have been buried for a long time. I recall what Miriam said about our birth mother's life of abuse and neglect. No one paid much attention to what happened in Vryheid. Prejudice, I wonder? Or simply years of isolation and separation? Maybe both.

  I am beginning to be interested in my roots at last. Won't Vera be proud? I feel a rush of anger toward my parents. At thirty-three years old, I ought to have known about my background. I should've had the right to visit my birth mother, especially now that she is dying. Does my mother/aunt know that her sister is on her deathbed? Has she enjoyed updates from Karoline? Am I the only one kept entirely in the dark? I trip again, this time nearly stumbling to my knees. I have to pay attention. I spend the rest of our walk with my head down, watching my feet.

  A few minutes later Dembi indicates a small footbridge. A relatively newer structure, it was constructed over a section of the river that narrows to only about ten feet across. Possibly built by Johnstons in the 50's or perhaps by Larue. The way my brother bounces over it, the little overpass was obviously very well built.

  We follow the Grand on the other side for what feels like hours before I see the first indication of past human habitation. Rocks that are no longer haphazard appear alongside the roots and weeds that have grown up and around them. These stones are hand squared and placed, the foundations of a home or church or even a fortress wall.

  Dembi stops and points back across the river. In the distance I see the rambling rooftops of his home. The farmhouse is very close to Vryheid, just over the river. It only feels like miles away without a bridge at this point to traverse the rapids and the wide expanse of water. We had to go quite a long way to reach the narrows and then back again.

  We step out from the curtain of maples and evergreens to a comparatively clear space. Now I see the shape of the former village. A small center street forms a circle with several pathways leading out from it, like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. The ruins are mostly indistinct. Piles of rubble, brick, rock and rotted wood that nature is using for planters.

  As we trudge along in the heat I notice the rustle of other feet frightened by our advance. Small animals have taken over where humans left off.

  When I finally look up, released from the tentacles of untended land and tree trunks, I don't know how I could have missed the structure. It's almost as much a shock as the library in Ephesus when Karoline and I traveled to Turkey. Perched on one of the pathways that rises slightly into a small hillock, the building would once have been quite imposing as it looked down upon the village.

  The pointed spire is still erect, although a great number of stones are missing. The old church was built with local rock, sculpted and evened, cemented together with some kind of mortar. Grey, white, black, even reddish stones give the walls an artistic appearance. Although the sizes of the rudimentary bricks are not precisely the same every time, the lines of larger to smaller follow the building upward in neat little rows.

  Small wooden wheelbarrows would have gathered rock from every path of ground hereabouts. I imagine the hands picking out the right size, scraping and shaping them to fit, layering the church higher and higher. How had they completed the steeple, I wonder? With ropes and scaffolds and ladders? It's impressive even in its ruination. A former beauty queen with the last vestiges of her glorious stature still visible.

  I never could understand why people spend their precious time and resources on churches. Here in the wilderness it seems even more ludicrous. All the little huts and structures that housed, protected and provided for the people were trampled underfoot, while this place clung emptily to a deserted hillside. It's ironic, I think.

  There had once been a door to the church. Pieces of thick wood still cling to the framework, oak I guess, fragmented in shards. Possibly done in by rain and wind, or hacked away by human hands. It might've kept someone's fireplace going. If there had been any pews, they likely disappeared for the same purpose. The inside is empty. Our footsteps echo on the stone floor, the sound reverberating back to us from the high ceiling.

  The building has an eerie feel to it. It's cool and musty. Birds perform a constant cacophony of sound from the cupola. Now that we have intruded, the sound escalates. They flutter up into the empty spiral complaining all the way. Rudimentary stained glass windows filter the sunlight, casting patches of red and purple over the floor. A white stone altar stands in the center of the room, a bit grayish with age, but the rock from which it was carved is still smooth and stunning. I cannot at all imagine how they hauled this enormous piece into the church where it could be shaped into a table of worship. Maybe it was the reverse and the church had been formed around the boulder.

  It's amazing how the structure has survived. I wonder when it was constructed.

  "This church was built in 1837," Dembi recites as though reading my mind. "The same year as the school. Look."

  He leads me to a wide flat stone in the front corner of the church. This is obviously the cornerstone he mentioned. As Dembi told me before, the only writings left are the four numbers etched deeply into the rock. A faint outline of some other dedication has faded into the stone. Invisible ink.

  "This is fascinating, Dembi," I say and he grins.

  He is pleased to show off his knowledge. I am glad that I've earned his trust so quickly. Must have something to do with looking exactly alike.

  We turn around to a spot in the middle of the building, tucked under the obese legs of the altar. It would have been very difficult to see on my own. Here in the floor is a flat square stone. Set into the cement, it's carved all around the edges into a slight recess. A tripping hazard if it weren't surrounded by the altar. With its handle-like dip in the rock it looks exactly like a lid, which, as it turns out, is almost correct.

  Dembi expertly puts his hand under the small lip and shoves. Though it appears to be quite heavy the stone moves easily. My brother is obviously accustomed to its weight. He pushes it sideways. The lid disappears halfway into the rock with a screeching sound as it scrapes across the ancient ridge. A giant cigar box carved from stone.

  I see nothing but black inside. Dembi reaches down and reverently pulls out a leather book. It's a large square, barely fitting inside the hole. Jammed with papers, parchments, notes and other pieces that might, at one time, have been tiny pictures. My brother opens the first page. He proudly displays the title written by hand in ink. Fancy letters speak of the days when cursive writing was an art.

  "The History of Vryheid," it proclaims, "as recorded by the Johnston Family on behalf of the Church of Freedom and the residents herein."

  Dembi smiles at me. Holding on to the book tightly, he allows me to see its contents, dappled in the afternoon sun as it slants through crannies and openings in the walls.

  "Mrs. West doesn't know about my book," he says. "Only Memé, Miriam, Other Anne and Triplet Anne. Memé showed it to me. She said not to show anyone but family, so I won't."

  "Good for you. Can we look at it together?"

  "Yes." He is solemn and reverent as he closes the book once more.

  "Let's sit over here with our snacks."

  Miriam packed peanut butter on crackers, soda (they call it pop), and cookies for our trip. I'd thought I couldn't eat another thing after that enormous breakfast. However, once we sit on a flat e
dge of the altar I discover that I am hungry. I can't remember the last time I had peanut butter or crackers but the salt is tasty on my tongue.

  The diet soda is thirst quenching but makes us both burp. Dembi laughs until tears roll down his cheeks and I join him. The next burps are even louder, until the cans are empty. The sounds echo and re-echo through the deserted church.

  Dembi immediately becomes the serious historian once more. "This is called the introduction." He points to a long paragraph that follows the title page.

  "This book will be kept as a record of our journey in freedom," I read. "On August 10, 1799, a group of fifteen slaves founded the village of Vryheid. Chief Joseph Brant, who brought us from slavery to Brantford in 1781, has granted us our freedom from this day forward. We are no longer slaves. We work the land for John Morey. In exchange we have been granted this territory whereupon we may build our homes and gardens."

  Dembi gently turns the page for me. The paper is thin and delicate. Under a less careful touch it might have crumpled like a dried leaf.

  "Look, last names." Dembi turns the page, as engrossed in the list of inhabitants as though he's never seen them before. "Slaves did not have their own names. But when they were freed by Chief Brant, he let them pick a name."

  There are fifteen owners neatly printed in a straight column, along with their laneway or location and how much land they occupied. Surnames and first initial only. No listing of wives or children, so there may have been quite a few more actual residents. Many of the monikers were obviously chosen to reflect the chosen (or given) professions, such as Miller, Butler, Cotter, Smith. One of the landowners is C. Johnston. He had a parcel of forty acres and a laneway named after him. Our forebear must have been someone of prominence, as he owned one of the largest tracts. Plus his family was responsible for keeping the records.

  The next part of the journal is entitled 'Our Life Before Vryheid'. A Johnston who was taught to read and write must have copied down the accounts of any resident who wished to participate, which appear to be most of them. Some quotes are a mere sentence long, while others fill a paragraph. The writer was well educated, for the spelling and grammar, although reflective of simpler English, are correct. He has also added some observations of his own beside the quotes.

  "I was a slave to Chief Brant and his wives. I worked in the kitchen. Most of them were quite mean and gave cruel punishments. They hit me with spoons or knives if they did not like my cooking. I have scars here to prove it."—("Note: This writer concurs that there are indeed scars on the woman's forehead and upper arms.")

  "I was kidnapped by the Indians from my master's plantation. They put me and some others in the hold of their ship and took us up the river to Brantford. My life was much better. I worked hard but I was treated fine."

  "My wife is Indian. We met when the Chief brought me from the United States of America to Upper Canada. Brant was happy when a Negro and an Indian joined in marriage. He threw us a feast. I have always worked on his land. We have a family and good food. Now we have our own land and freedom."

  The accounts go on and on. Stories of kidnapping. Disgusting conditions of slave ships cutting the work force in half. Bodies thrown into the sea like garbage. Working on the plantations from dawn until dusk, fed only with cornmeal. Very little clothing. Descriptions of children running naked in the searing sun. The huts they lived in are described as tiny mud hovels where adults and young ones alike slept in cramped corners.

  The journal makes me sick. I shiver. A couple of centuries between my actual birth year and these poor souls' made all the difference. I don't want to know this history. I don't care to picture the animal existence, horrific abuse and tragedy of my ancestors' lives. What purpose does dredging up all this stuff serve?

  I have no idea how much Dembi understands. His fascination is clear. That aside, does he really understand what horror he is witnessing? And if he does, is this really any good for him?

  I am rapidly losing interest when my brother suddenly becomes even more animated. He turns to a page on which a diagram is sketched in fine blue pen. As I peer more closely I can see that it's a map.

  "Gold." Dembi looks up at me with bright, excited eyes and begins to read. "We the residents of Vryheid hereby promise to safeguard the future with the burial of our treasure within our boundaries."

  First, I am astounded at how well Dembi can read, albeit very slowly. Often lingering over the syllables of a larger word. Or has he memorized the passage? Maybe he switches to another part of his brain, an undamaged area that can mimic another's words. Second, I am amused, excited and intrigued by the mystery of this treasure. Buried within the boundaries of Vryheid. What if we can find it? What if it really is Chief Brant's gold?

  I look through the open door onto the little patch of village that I see from here. I am astonished that I am actually sitting here in this old church, birds muttering above us. I feel as though I am a little girl, back in Bell Canyon, racing through the trails with Karoline and Giulio. I feel free and alert, light and happy.

  Dembi calls my attention back to the book by tapping insistently on my arm. I smile at him and decide to indulge him. After all, I can be as much fun as Karoline.

  The trouble is, this map is virtually useless. The lines it forms bear no relationship to the tangled, tree-choked area before us. If the gold was already discovered a century or so ago, or even more recently, the finder would have been wise to keep that quiet. Its discovery wouldn't necessarily be common knowledge. On the other hand, Dembi said only he, Memé, Miriam and Other Anne knew about the book. Maybe this map to its whereabouts had been just as lost as the gold itself.

  "We can find the treasure." Dembi grasps my hand as he leaps to his feet. Carefully replacing the book in its alcove, he races out the door.

  I figure, what the hell, it's an adventure, and follow him as quickly as I dare.

  The first place Dembi takes me on the treasure hunt is deep into a clump of trees that's as dense and overgrown as anything I have ever seen. The vegetation is so different from the places I've lived in California. These trees and bushes have arms that wrap around each other to keep strangers out. At least that's the way I feel, as we push our way through to…well, I'm not sure, until my brother bursts into a clearing.

  The trees surround a hill of rock. Their trunks have grown so tall that the mound, which is about twenty feet high, is hidden from sight. The only way you could see this little enclave would be from the air. The hillock resembles an upside-down bowl. Although not very high, it's at least thirty feet in diameter. Maybe it's the top of a mountain that has sunk. Or it fell from an alien ship.

  Dembi leads me through an opening that has either been carved into the earth or is a natural gap. Inside, the cave is fairly light. Tree roots have burrowed through the walls to allow in some of the sunshine. It's cool in here, though, a welcome respite from the relentless sun.

  "This is like a castle!" I say to Dembi and he beams.

  Covered with a red blanket and a pillow, a single bed stands against one rock face. The table and two chairs look as though they might've been here since the 1800's when Vryheid was alive. Etched into their softening wood are initials and symbols that I can't decipher in the gloom. A rocking chair, outlined with gold embossing, sits in one corner. I approach it cautiously, wondering if it will hold my weight. It does, so I rock and observe.

  Dembi has decorated in his own fashion. Newspaper clippings, mostly about historical events, especially concerning Chief Joseph Brant, are stuck to the cave walls. A Canadian flag hangs from a stick poked through the dirt floor. A picture of Miriam and Memé. The latter appears frail but certainly strong enough to be seated in a chair. The picture of Karoline and Dembi makes me stop in my rocker tracks. In this one she is smiling, standing next to her 'brother', clearly on the front porch of the Johnston farmhouse. She almost looks attractive.

  I smile at Dembi, but I want to rip it down and tear it into pieces. Now that I have found my sibl
ings, I feel irrationally jealous of Karoline. Irrational because there is no possibility of her stealing them away from me again. I'm shocked by the ferocity of my anger.

  "Where did you get all your furniture, Dembi?"

  "Miriam and Other Anne helped me." He fusses with the blanket, straightens a clipping or two.

  "Why?"

  Puzzlement and concern on his face, he gapes at me.

  "Why do you need this place? You have your own room at home, don't you?"

  He nods. "This is for resting when I am looking for the treasure," he answers in a tone that says, 'stupid' right after. As if to prove my lack of intelligence, he lifts a gardener's tool bag from underneath the bed and hands me a trowel.

  Off we trod through the woods. Dembi finds a spot and instructs me on how to dig. Half-heartedly, compared to his frenetic actions, I do so. As we work I watch his beautiful face, red with exertion and excitement. Will this be the trio who never betrays you? Ice Queen Anne whispers.

  Once Dembi decides we've looked enough for this day, we replace the gardening bag and make our way back to the church to pick up our picnic things. It's deathly still in the duskiness of the old building.

  "Where are the birds?" I whisper to Dembi.

  "They sleep in the loft," he answers in the same whisper. "Look."

  I gaze upward, following his outstretched finger, and notice the choir loft that runs along the upper edges of the roofline, just before the spire shoots straight upwards. Quite large, at least in comparison to the tiny church, it follows the upper wall on three sides, facing the congregation, above the stone altar. The birds line up along the railings, their heads tucked under their wings, looking like a choir who's become very bored with their own music.

  "There's some big cupboards up there," Dembi says. "I found some old paper in there, too. Other Anne said they're choir stuff."