“I’m sorry. I’ve been in town a week and no one I’ve met has even read Thoreau. He’s a historical figure, a tourist attraction, maybe even an icon, but no one in Concord knows his work. They know he’s famous but they don’t know why.”
“There are some folks hereabouts who study his work. They understand the significance of the way he combined human life and the natural world. He was the first nature writer.” His fine, dark hair hung over his left eye, giving him a youthful look. He was in his early thirties, but when he smiled he looked younger. “A few of us rogue Bay Staters still read him. Crusty single men with no prospects.”
The man had a sense of humor in his flirtations. “I don’t think I’ve run across any of those.”
“You might just have one in your sights.” That grin again. The one that said “don’t take me seriously but at least laugh.”
“My lucky day.” My humor was rusty from disuse, but Joe was the most interesting person I’d met in Concord. A park ranger who read Thoreau. “Why do you read Thoreau?”
“I didn’t study literature, but I loved it. Thoreau was a significant influence in my decision to become a ranger. He was a conservationist before anyone even knew what the word meant.” Leather, probably his gun belt, creaked as he put his elbows on the table and leaned into the conversation. “He wrote about and demonstrated the importance of individuals in challenging the system. He understood the hardships and appeal of walking a different path.”
He had me and I didn’t want to resist. “He was far ahead of his time. He was a visionary and a conflicted man.” I caught myself and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Oh, crack the door of my favorite topic and I’ll lambaste you with talk.”
“A dissertation is too much hard work to write about a topic that fails to ignite your passion.”
Finding someone to discuss my thesis topic was like stumbling on a hundred-dollar bill on the street. “What drew you to Thoreau, other than the obvious location, location, location?”
He chuckled at my imitation of a realtor. “I greatly admire Thoreau’s independence. His willingness to live alone and deny himself the comforts of a relationship so that he could fully experience nature.”
Perfect! This was exactly the rendering of Thoreau that had been taught in high schools and colleges for over a hundred years. “And what if he wasn’t alone?”
A crease touched the place between his eyes. I liked the way his black brows winged up to a peak and then tapered. Expressive.
“What do you mean he wasn’t alone? Folks accept that he visited with his family and his friends. But his journals—”
“It’s just a question. What if he wasn’t alone? Would you discount his experiences if you found he’d had a companion at Walden? A girlfriend or something like that?”
His finger absently traced the handle of his mug. “I’d have to think about that. It would make him a fraud, wouldn’t it? To pretend to be alone to experience the solitude and self-exploration? It’s like he’s selling one thing and living another.”
“A fraud? That’s pretty judgmental.” His assessment made my gut clench. I didn’t want to discredit Thoreau or his work. Would that be the reaction to my revelation?
“It would change everything.”
I nodded agreement, but waited for him to continue.
“Why would he lie about such a thing?” he asked.
“Perhaps his family objected to the relationship. Or if he was living in sin, the weight of community disapproval would have far offset any value of his writing. Or maybe he was protecting his companion from public censure.”
He sat up tall. “I don’t believe there was anyone at Walden but Thoreau. That kind of secret couldn’t have been kept for nearly two centuries.”
“A conspiracy of silence.” Despite the anxiety that his words provoked, I grabbed a pen from my purse and wrote that down. It was the perfect title for my dissertation.
“Do you have evidence that Thoreau had a companion?”
Before I made any public confessions, I needed solid verification. I took a good long look at him. Aside from his obvious handsomeness, he had a sense of humor and a lively intellect. I didn’t want to answer his question, so I asked another. “If your love is literature, how did you become a ranger?”
For the first time, he looked a bit uncomfortable. The skin around his eyes tautened, and he looked down. “It’s a long story.”
“I’m a good listener.”
“Another time. You’re the stranger in town. Let’s hear about you.”
“Egghead doctoral student. Poor childhood, dysfunctional family, scholarships, and here I am.” The waitress brought my sticky bun and coffee and I inhaled the delicious aroma of roasted coffee and cinnamon.
“Dig in.” His hand indicated my fattening treat. “Chief McKinney told me about your strange intruder. Mind if I ask a question or two?”
“Intruder is an exaggeration.” I swallowed a bite of bun and licked my lips. “A child stood on the top step of my porch. There was no attempt to enter the cabin, so I don’t think you could call it an intruder.”
“Did you get a look? Male, female, elementary age, older?”
I pictured the figure I’d seen darting among the trees. “Not high school. Younger, a child. I couldn’t guess the gender. Whoever it was could move quickly in the woods, but that was before it snowed.” I started to describe the tracks and how they stopped at the top step, as if the child had flown away, but I realized he would think I was either lying or crazy. Neither impression was the one I wanted to leave.
“Most of the kids around here are good kids. Only a few bad apples, but keep your eyes open.”
I was learning fast that what Joe left unspoken was more important than what he said. The demographics of Concord didn’t lead to images of inner-city turmoil. “Are you warning me of something? Gangs of white, upper-class children hiding in snowbanks and waylaying head-in-the-clouds dissertation students?”
“No.” Again the charming smile, but he held my gaze. “No Dickensian waifs waiting to steal your mittens. But every community has problems these days. Drugs are rampant, even for middle-class kids. I like for things to run smoothly. If you lock the cabin and stay alert, you can avert trouble. That would be the best for all of us.”
“Thanks for the tip. If I see any kids breaking the law, I’ll know it’s my fault.” I meant to be flip, but it fell flat.
He didn’t react. “That’s not what I meant. Just be aware. It’s the same thing I tell everyone. A lot of tragedy can be avoided if you keep your eyes open.”
What kind of tragedy did he refer to? Somehow, I thought it might be personal. “I’ll do that.” I reached down for my book satchel and my hand brushed the doll I’d picked up in the snow. I pushed it across the table to him. “I found this near the edge of the pond early this morning. There seem to be a lot of children running wild around the community.”
He leaned forward, frowning. “Where?” His fingers grasped my wrist with unexpected speed.
I tried to shake free, but he held on. The expression on his face frightened me. “At the edge of the pond. In the snow. What’s wrong?”
“Tell me how you found it.”
The espresso machine whistled and sputtered as the young barista made a coffee for a slope-shouldered mother standing at the counter. No one had observed Joe’s fingers on my wrist. “Please, let me go. You’re hurting me.”
He dropped my arm. “Sorry. Please tell me where you got the doll.”
His intensity was out of proportion to a doll left in the snow, but I obliged him with the details. “I was walking by the pond and I saw the doll in the snow. No footprints. She was in a clearing as if she’d dropped from the sky. I retrieved her. End of story.”
“What part of the pond?” His tone was more restrained.
I told him, watching his unease build as I spoke.
“Did you see anyone?” he asked.
“No. The doll must have been lef
t during the snowfall. There were no tracks.” But the doll had not been buried in the snow, either. Very strange.
“Tomorrow, will you show me where? If there are children wandering around unattended, I need to know. As I told you, the woods can be dangerous in the winter.”
My morning routine included a hike around the pond. It wouldn’t take long to show him the spot. For all the good it would do. Still, it was obviously important to him, though I couldn’t fathom why. Against my better judgment, I agreed. “Meet me at nine. At the Walden Pond cabin.”
“I’ll be there.” Joe stood up, took his coffee cup to the counter, and left the shop. A cold blast of winter air entered the room as he left.
6
Rain swept in, and a brutal wind coated the roadways and sidewalks with slick ice. My rendezvous with Joe was postponed until better weather. The delay chafed at me. Instead of indifference, I felt something akin to disappointment. Did I want to meet the ranger at Walden Pond? He was attractive, yes. But I knew plenty of attractive men. The problem was that I liked him. Bitter experience had taught me that men were dangerous. Some lessons were so painful, they didn’t bear repeating.
Patrick’s flirtations, and the love Bonnie felt for Thoreau, had awakened a longing in me I’d thought my high school experience had bludgeoned to death. Joe’s smile, the way his dark hair swept over his eye. Would his kiss be gentle or demanding? My body responded, and while I was afraid, I was also enthralled.
Such thoughts unsettled me, and I pushed them to the back of my mind and spent the hours writing, and reading. Comparing and contrasting Thoreau’s written words with Bonnie’s journals left me in a fluctuating state about Henry. Why had he failed to acknowledge my ancestor as an important part of his life? Did he even know of her burning desire for a child? What Bonnie revealed in her journal and what she told her partner could be two different things. Women weren’t always truthful about their needs.
I couldn’t judge Thoreau knowing only one side of the story. It was possible he was selfish, that he didn’t care what Bonnie wanted or needed. I’d learned that truth when I was sixteen. But I refused to tar Thoreau with the same brush I’d used for Bryson Cappett, former classmate and heir apparent of the New England Cappetts. He’d been a brutal teacher in the expectations of love and lust.
Pushing aside my personal past, I put my focus for the day on recreating the 1850s and the life and rhythms of Concord. I’d read extensively about the time period and the area. If I closed my eyes I could visualize the gathering of the intellectuals and the discussions held in various parlors around town.
Emerson’s emphasis on “trust thyself ” flew in the face of the church, which demanded that sinners trust God. In the 1850s, self-reliance sounded like heresy to the religious. Self-reliance was something I’d learned early on, and perhaps it was one of the long tentacles that drew me to the Transcendentalists.
There was no God in the Kentucky where I grew up. At least not around my family. They lured the weak-minded and the helpless into their web of dependence, lining out the crushed oxy for a snort until the victim was truly hooked. Then the price went up and enslavement began. I’d seen a lot of people harvested by the Cahill clan. I still had nightmares about some of the events I’d witnessed.
Eventually, my thoughts were so depressing and the rain outside so cold and relentless, I decided to call it a night. I sipped a small glass of merlot and warmed my feet in front of the fire before sliding beneath the quilts and letting the amnesia of sleep take me.
Come morning, the weather had not improved. The relentless storm made my head throb. I worked sporadically for most of the day, but with little to show for my efforts. At last, I took three aspirin and climbed beneath the quilts and hid from the lightning and thunder.
The second night of the long rain I dreamed of my family, the ones still living in the Kentucky hills and hollers, and those long departed. The whalers. The men who took to the ocean in a tiny sailboat and brought back a mammal nearly the size of their ship. In my watery dreams, I heard the clicking of the whales and watched their amazing grace as they spun and circled, unaware that my kin meant to kill them.
And then I was one of the whales, a calf seeking my mother. I saw her, blood streaming from the harpoons, the ropes pulling her away.
I woke up briny. Sweating and crying. The emotion of the dream choked me as surely as the salt water of the ocean would have filled my lungs. It took a long time to calm my breathing and slow my heartbeat.
Vivid dreams had always haunted me, but I didn’t need to study Jung to realize this last one was fraught with symbolism and personal pain. Like as not, I would never get over my mother’s death and my father’s abandonment. He didn’t leave, physically, but he couldn’t hold fast to me and a bottle. Whiskey won.
The day I’d left for boarding school, he’d stood on Granny Siobhan’s front porch, arms crossed, tears streaming silently. “She’s too sensitive, Caleb. The curse will destroy her. Amberton will teach her the difference between what’s real and what she makes up. It’s her only hope, to deaden the darkness with education.”
Granny was set on having her way, and so I was sent away. The pain of separation would be worth the price. Distance and education would save me.
And my father had said not a word to stop me from getting into the truck with Cousin Willie for the drive to the bus station and the long ride to a place where I fit like a maggot amongst butterflies. I would never forget that he didn’t even try to keep me home. I’d never been out of Kentucky, never had the luxury of high-speed Internet to broaden my horizons. Living in the mountains, nature had been my teacher. I was painfully unprepared for the sophistication of Amberton students.
These wounds festered and ruptured in my dreams. There would be no more sleep for me that night. I turned on the bedside lamp and reached for a book.
And then I saw the doll.
Someone had taken it from my coat pocket and set it on the foot of my bed, legs splayed wide. Propped against the footboard, Barbie stared at me with blank, lash-fringed eyes. Her red, red lips formed a pout. For a terrifying second I thought she would rise and stand on her own. She would walk toward me on legs with no knee joints, pointed chin and breasts aimed at my heart.
A terrified yell caught in my throat and I kicked the covers, sending Barbie flying across the room. I threw back the quilt and ran to pick her up off the floor. In an instant she was in the fireplace. Her hair caught first, and then her features began to melt. An awful stench came from the burning, blackened mass of fabric and molded vinyl.
Her long, tapered legs were the last to burn.
7
“Aine, darling, are you ill?” Dorothea came from behind the desk and pressed a cool hand to my forehead. “You’ve caught a fever, I think.”
I’d awakened in full light to discover the cabin stinking with the smell of burned plastic. I remembered throwing the Barbie on the fire, but I couldn’t remember why. Something to do with whales and harpoons. All I knew was that the images were borne in a fever. My throat felt like I’d swallowed glass, and something resembling a cement block had lodged in my sinuses.
“You don’t have a doctor here, but I can recommend Dr. Frederika Wells. Excellent general practitioner. She’ll fix you right up.”
“I don’t go to doctors.” It was true. Dr. O’Gorman didn’t count. He was a friend. Nine years had passed since my last appointment with a regular doctor. My health was excellent and I had no need of intrusive medical practices. Besides, I didn’t trust the modern medicine men—or women. The profession had lost touch with the combination of mind, body, spirit that I believed kept things in balance. My only concession was an occasional visit to Dr. O’Gorman for my tension-related migraines. I’d started seeing him after the Cappett incident.
“You’ve got a temperature of at least a hundred and one. Maybe higher. You’re congested, coughing, and only going to get worse. Best take a positive step and seek medical help before you
get pneumonia. Think about it this way. Spend an afternoon waiting on the doctor now or three weeks recovering from a lung infection.”
Dorothea had a way of putting things. “Can you call her?”
“I can.” She beamed, having won the argument. “I’ll call a cab to take you. I’d do it myself but I can’t leave the desk. It’s a good thing the sky is clear. A bit of sunshine, some antibiotics, a steroid shot, and you’ll be right again in two days.”
With that cheerful prediction, I climbed in the cab and rode to the doctor’s office, which was, thankfully, only a few miles away.
Petite and animated, Dr. Wells seemed more suited to a perpetual cheerleader than a doctor. Ten minutes into her exam, I realized she was nobody’s fool. She had read and memorized my chart.
After a steroid shot, prescriptions, and an admonition to get in bed and stay there, she freed me. Her intense scrutiny left me feeling vulnerable. Back in Kentucky, the doctor was called only hours before the undertaker. I suppose a healthy fear of medical practitioners was a good thing for a population that couldn’t afford to pay for treatment.
I returned to my cabin and piled up in bed with my cough medicine, orange juice, and books. Iron bands locked my chest, restricting breathing. The cement block in my sinuses refused to budge, and a rattling cough made me fear I’d suffocate. Another dose of cough medicine eased me into sleep.
I found myself on Walden Pond, wandering the woods on a lush spring morning. It could have been 1850 or 2050, I couldn’t tell by the soft hush of the forest and the beauty of the pond. Whatever the time period, the area was untouched by man, and the magnificence of nature was mine alone.
My hands traced the peeling bark of a plane tree, the smooth skin unlike any other. Energy hummed, emanating from the core of the tree. Behind me, someone coughed. I turned to find a bearded man dressed in trousers, braces, and a long-sleeved shirt.
“You should be in bed,” he said. “A cough can be dangerous.”
He proved his point with a wet hack that left blood on the palm of his hand when he tried to stifle it. He examined the lung hemorrhage with curiosity, then wiped his hand on his dark pants.
The Seeker: A Mystery at Walden Pond Page 4