Troy nodded. “I can check with Vital Records on Monday and see if they have any marriage records on her in the past few years. She couldn’t have been more than twenty or so.”
Cam felt better just knowing that they would find Sarah’s people. She walked home in the dark and slept a dreamless sleep.
Sunday passed rapidly. Cam spent the morning raking out the dead leaves from the garden, and in the afternoon opened the shop to a small crowd of customers. She barely gave any thought at all to the events of the afternoon before. By the time she had closed the shop for the evening, she was ready to collapse. She started a fire in the enormous old fireplace, and flopped onto the couch. She had managed to get rid of quite a few of the old bloomers, to a college student who did re-enactments. She also acquired a crate of old maps. Some were a bit water stained, but many were very ornate and in good condition. If they were put in good frames, she thought, they would look nice hanging in someone’s office. She had received these in exchange for a pallet of wooden Coca-Cola crates.
She unrolled one of the maps, spreading it out on the coffee table. It was a map of Colonial-era Virginia. Cam was fascinated. Half of the state wasn’t even populated at that time, and West Virginia wasn’t even in existence yet. She found Haver Springs, which was just a crossroads settlement at that time, and Bedford County. She was about to roll the map back up when something caught her eye. A few inches above Haver Springs was an area marked “MacFarlane’s Ridge.” She wondered if it was where the unfortunate Sarah had come from. She called Troy Adams and explained what she had found.
He laughed. “MacFarlane’s Ridge has been nothing but an empty mountainside for years. The last of them moved out of there about half a century ago. But I’ll call around and see if anyone up that way has heard of her.”
“Thanks, Troy,” Cam smiled into the phone. He really was nice, even if Alice misguidedly thought they should be romantically involved. “By the way, have you ever heard of a place called Faeries’ Gate?”
“No,” he replied. “Was that the place that the girl said she was looking for?”
“Yeah,” answered Cam, “but I think it may have just been in her head, poor thing.”
He promised to call as soon as he heard anything.
True to his word, Troy Adams showed up in front of Granny’s Goodies as Cam was unlocking the door the next morning. There was already a fair amount of people on the sidewalks.
“You have a minute?” he asked, politely helping her stock a shelf with old books. She had dug out a collection of early editions of Agatha Christie’s mysteries.
“I always have a minute,” she grinned, “but all of my minutes seem to be occupied. Can we work and talk at the same time?”
“Sure. Actually, I was going to call you back last night, but it was late.” He leaned across the box of books. “Remember I said I thought Sarah’s name sounded familiar?”
“Yes! Did you find out who she is?”
“No,” he admitted. “But there’s some interesting stories connected with the MacFarlanes and the Ridge. Local legend and folklore.”
Cam shook her head. “I lived here for nine years before I went away to college, and I don’t remember any of the local legends.”
Troy laughed. “You were a teenager, so you probably weren’t paying attention. I, on the other hand, have lived here all my life, descended from a long line of local mountain folk, spent two years at Bedford Community College, and took an entire semester on local history.”
A crowd of women had come in, all bright colors and sparkles, like a great group of plumed exotic birds. Cam moved past Troy. “Hello, ladies! What can I help you with today?”
One of them blinked her aquamarine eyelids and glanced around doubtfully. “You got any geese?”
“Geese?” Cam repeated.
“Yeah, you know. The big see-ment ones you put on your front yard and put cute li’l dresses on em. That cute feller Mr. Sinclair up the street said I should come see you if I want a goose.”
Cam shook her head regretfully. “I bet he did. Unfortunately, no, I’m afraid Mr. Sinclair was mistaken. I have no concrete lawn geese.” She brightened up. “I do have some nice hogshead barrels that people like to use as planters.”
“Nah, I don’t wanna plant nothing. I just need a see-ment goose.” The woman waddled away, back to her friends, who were pondering a pile of old National Geographic magazines.
“So anyway,” whispered Troy, “you want to hear the story or not?”
Cam nodded, watching the women. She could have sworn she saw one of them slip something into her coat. “Why, certainly, officer!” she exclaimed loudly.
He grinned at her, and she watched the shifty woman replace what she had taken. The whole gaggle of them left abruptly, clucking and chattering. Cam turned back to Troy. “Fire away, oh great officer of local legend and lore!”
“Okay, so here’s the deal. The MacFarlanes were part of a group of maybe half a dozen close families that came over here from Scotland about ten years after the Jacobite Rising of 1745. There were also some Murrays, a couple of McGregors, the Kerrs and some others.”
“Is this when your family came here?” she interrupted.
“No. My ancestors didn’t get here until much later, right before the Civil War. You want to hear this or not?”
She nodded meekly.
“So this fellow Ian MacFarlane marries one of the Duncan girls, she has a kid or two, and then she gets kidnapped by Indians!”
Cam’s eyes widened. “I can’t believe you remember this much about something you learned back in college.”
“I didn’t. I had to go dig out my old notebooks and look it up. And besides, I wasn’t in college that long ago. So, the missing girl’s sister makes the husband go after his wife. He never finds her. About a year later, his brother, who is a pirate or something, tells him about an Indian he met. The Indian admits to being one of the guys who took Ian’s wife, so of course, the pirate beats the tar out of him trying to find out where she is. The Indian tells him – are you ready for this? He tells him that the girl escaped from their tribe a few months before, and the last place they saw her was near the ho’a tehewenna, the Faeries’ Gate!” Troy stepped back, obviously pleased with his own storytelling ability.
“So what is this Faeries’ Gate, then, Mister Smartypants?” Cam asked skeptically.
Troy sighed, “I don’t know, but that’s not the point.”
“What, exactly, is the point?”
“The girl, the one who disappeared, her name was Sarah MacFarlane!”
Cam laughed. “And just how do you know all this stuff?”
“Joke if you want. At least part of it is true. Mollie Duncan’s letters to her brother-in-law confirm it. They’re held at the county archives for historians. We did a field trip there in college.”
Cam nodded to some more customers. “I can’t believe you became a cop instead of a museum curator or a park ranger or something. It’s a great story, but it really doesn’t help us figure out who that poor dead girl at the morgue is.”
He shrugged. “I know. I just thought it was an interesting coincidence, that’s all. I mean, the part about Ian, and Mollie.”
“Look, Troy,” said Cam gently. “That girl was delusional. She wasn’t quite right in the head. We don’t even know if Sarah was her real name, and we never will.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
He left then, and Cameron spent the rest of the day busily selling, buying and trading old dusty things. Her great catch of the day was a box of old ship’s pulleys, which she hung jauntily from the ceiling with some fat hemp rope and some netting. Finally, it was over, and Cam decided that at the end of Antique Week she would close down for three days straight and do nothing but sleep. As she locked the front door, the bay window’s contents caught her eye. What was it the girl had said? Something about the sword, and the journal in the display case…
I saw Da’s sword, and Mollie’s boo
k…
Cam unlocked the case, and picked up the journal carefully. It was old, but was in good condition after years wrapped up in oilskin in a trunk. She had never given it any thought, had never even read it, just knew that it had belonged to someone in her family long ago. She had always meant to read it thoroughly, but had just never gotten around to it. She opened the book gently.
The shrill ring of the telephone startled her.
“Granny’s Goodies,” she panted.
There was silence on the line.
“Hello? This is Granny’s Goodies, can I help you?” Cam could hear the soft breathing on the other end. “Oh, good Lord, Seth? Is that you?”
Still nothing.
“Well, okay. Thanks for calling, Seth, and have a nice evening!” she sang cheerfully. Hanging up, she shivered. How in the world did he find me here? Turning on the answering machine to field any other intrusions, she got back to the journal.
18 November 1774 -
A most Heinous Event has occurr’d, and my sister’s fool husband I hold responsible for her horrible disappearance, for if he had been here as a husband should be, the Fierce Wicked Savages should not have been able to take her. Instead, my dear Sarah is in their hands now, and those of Our Lord, and I have begged Ian’s brother Robert, here from the sea, to assist in a great search. My brother Angus shall stay here to help us ready for winter. I fear she is lost to us for good, though, as she most bravely killed one of them before being taken, with our Father’s sword. I keep the Great Sword in its place over the mantle, as it gives me comfort and reminds me of our brave Father, may God rest his soul. I pray that the Heathens shall not harm Sarah – I could not bear it were she to be injured or shamed.
In the meanwhile, Robert brings news that the troops of Lord Murray, who is Earl of Dunmore and our Governor, have been victorious against the Shawnee at Point Pleasant. Dunmore assures us that this shall bring peace along the frontier, although perhaps, in light of recent events, he did not think to advise the Savages of this. However, a Congress has been formed to organize resistance to the tyranny of the Crown, and I suspect Dunmore shall feel their wrath soon enough. Furthermore, the gentlemen of the Continental Congress have proposed that Massachusetts should form a gov’t independent of the Crown, and withhold taxes, arm their citizens, and establish a boycott of English goods. Boston has formed units of Militia, in which the good citizens of that Town have armed themselves. They are called Minutemen, for they claim that they are prepared to Arm, Assemble, and Fight at a moment’s notice.
Cam leafed through the pages. It certainly sounded as though the author was referring to the Sarah that Troy had told her about. Cam folded back the cover, which had a series of scribbles inside it. She peered intently at the faded brown ink.
Mollie Duncan, it read. Her Thoughts about the New World. Now, that was weird. How had the girl, Sarah, known the book had belonged to someone named Mollie? Cam wished she had paid attention all those years ago when Granny Emily had tried to tell her about the family genealogy. Mind spinning, she raced upstairs with the journal in hand to Emily’s room.
“God, where did I put that stuff?” she muttered, yanking open the drawers of the roll-top desk. There it was! A fat folder marked “Family Tree.” She opened it up and pulled out the contents. A large folded sheet seemed to be the predominant item. She opened it up, and discovered a seemingly endless myriad of lines, names, and dates in Emily’s straight, square handwriting.
In the center, toward the bottom, was her own name, then her parents right above. Peyton Clark and Deborah Cameron, Died April12, 1977, it read. Above Peyton were Granny Emily and her husband, Charlie Clark. Then Granny’s father, Isaac Duncan, Jr., and his father the physician, the builder of the house. Cameron traced the lines back further and further, names and dates getting smaller and smaller, until she got to an entry that caught her eye. Angus Duncan, b. 1746, son of Hugh Duncan. Next to Angus was Mollie, born four years later, and then an entry for Sarah Duncan b. 1755, married Ian MacFarlane, d. 1774. Sarah and Ian had a son, Jamie, born and died 1773, and Hamish, born a year later, the year Sarah had died.
Cameron thought about Troy’s story. The genealogy sheet was wrong, she realized. Sarah MacFarlane hadn’t died in 1774, she had stayed alive after being captured by Indians for nearly a year before she escaped from them. This was amazing, Cam thought. She wondered if Mollie’s journal had anything in it about the Faeries’ Gate. She climbed into Emily’s great four-poster bed and fluffed the pillows. She had a lot of reading to do.
October 1775
Hamish MacFarlane was turning quite red. His chubby fists were clenched tightly and he was screaming like a banshee. The toddler sat in a pile of fallen leaves and howled some more.
“Are ye going to let him keep on like that?” his Auntie Mollie asked his father, who was morosely chopping wood. Ian sighed. Mollie was a bit of a harpy lately.
“I dinna think I can shut him up. He’s very angry, isn’t he?”
“Aye, that he is,” she agreed. “And why d’ye think he’s so angry, hm?”
Ian scratched his head. “I dinna know. Maybe he wants something?”
Mollie threw up her hands in exasperation. “Of course he wants something, Ian, ye great fool! Are ye going to figure out what it might be?”
Ian set down the axe. He was tired and in no mood to play guessing games with Mollie. She was being quite foul to him these days. “Nae, Mollie. Suppose ye tell me what’s ailing him, then?”
“He’s wearin’ a wet clout, ye fool, and his arse is getting cold, and I expect he doesna’ like it much,” she yelled.
Ian shrugged. “All right, then, Mollie. If he’s wet, then ye should change him, should ye not?”
Mollie folded her arms across her chest. “Nae, Ian, I should not. Do ye know why?”
Ian got the feeling he was expected to answer a certain way, but wasn’t quite sure where the trap was. His brother Robbie once warned him about this. Rob had said that sometimes women asked you a question when they already knew the answer.
“Why, Mollie?” he asked warily. “It is the woman’s job to mind the bairns.”
She leaped at him then, screaming, “But he’s your son, Ian, nae mine! I take care o’ him and you all day long, like a bloody serving wench, and ye can’t even be bothered to see if your own son has a dirty clout on! What will ye do if I ever leave here, Ian? Who will take care of the two o’ ye then?”
Ian was startled by this outburst. Why on earth was Mollie so upset? And what did she mean, leave? “Are ye plannin’ on going somewhere, then, Mollie?”
She threw a clump of wet leaves and sticks at him, scooped up the squalling boy, and stomped off towards the house, grumbling under her breath.
October 28, 1775 –
I feel I can take this no more. Ian ignores his own son and leaves him in my care constantly. I know the poor man is saddened by the loss of our Beloved Sarah, as am I. Yet it has been a year and he is so forlorn. I fear wee Hamish is a reminder to him of Sarah, and he refuses to pay mind to the boy. Ian needs something to divert him, and I have suggested he consider joining the Bedford Militia, if only to get him out from under my feet.
A Second Continental Congress has been formed in Philadelphia, and our own Mr. Jefferson has advised the local Militias that a Continental Army is being assembled. General Washington of Fairfax County shall be in command, following his brave service in the Wars on the Frontier. Angus has left us to join the delegates in Philadelphia and assures us that he will send word as soon as he is able.
Perhaps when Robert returns to spend the winter with us I shall ask him to speak with his brother.
Robert is an interesting man. I find it so strange that he and Ian can be brothers and yet be so unlike one another. Ian is passive and mild, and perfectly content to sit and watch others do things. Rob, on the other hand, attracts attention merely by his charismatic presence. Where Ian is stocky and fair, Robert is tall and dark, with a tangle of coal-black
hair that he wears in a Ponytail, as men of the sea are wont to do. He is moody, though, and sometimes brings to mind a great silent storm brewing off in the distance. Rob and Ian spent two months last year searching for Sarah, even going as far west as Point Pleasant, near the Ohio River. Sadly, they encountered no one who had seen her, and thus concluded that she had been kidnapped by a Renegade Band of Indians. Rob was very irritated with Ian when they returned to the ridge, and I am sorry to say they went for several days without speaking any more than a “pass the salt, if you please.” When I asked what was wrong, Ian simply replied, “I was ready to come home, and he wasn’t.”
In truth, I am fascinated by Robert, and I am pleased that we formed a sort of friendship during his visit. Ian tells me Rob was married once, to a childhood sweetheart named Meg. Meg was wild and impetuous, with eyes like sapphires, and one day just a few months after they married, while Rob was working at the shipyards, she left their small house near the River Clyde and did not return. By the time Rob realized she was missing, his beloved wife had been gone for several hours. A search ensued, but Meg was never seen again. There were horrible rumors and speculation, that she was dead, that soldiers had kidnapped her, even that Rob himself had killed her and hidden her Body away! Finally, after several months, a young lady who was a friend of Meg’s blurted out that she had run off with a wool merchant from Inverness, and that the merchant had killed her in a fit of rage only a few weeks later, upon finding her in a Compromising Position with one of his customers.
Ian tells me that for a long time, poor Rob held onto the hope that his Meg would return some day. After learning of her death, he went back to the yards where he and Ian had worked since their boyhoods loading the Great Tall Ships. He spoke to some friends on the wharf, including a Captain Ramsay, and was promptly given a position on Ramsay’s ship. He sailed out of Glasgow that very day, and never returned to the little house on the Clyde.
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