Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  Applause sounded down the empty streets, the faint tick of a baton, then the opening bars of Bizet’s Overture to The Fair Maid of Perth. Music emanated from the hall, as if it were a great brick bandstand; and across the small alley the employees of the Maine Hotel listened through their own open windows to the concert’s first selection.

  There was no one to see the large dark form padding its way down the back street from behind the Northey Square Livery Stable. Had there been, they no doubt would have conjectured about the presence of a medium-sized bear in the middle of town.

  Students of the Moosepath League have attempted to trace Maude’s path from the eastern shore of the Sheepscott River to the front entrance of Damariscotta’s Lincoln Hall. Maude’s path from the river to the hall was later discovered, from muddy paw prints, and a lay-down was found on the banks among a stand of birches. It is generally agreed that the bear was sleeping when her sensitive ears caught the first piece of the evening’s entertainment. Possibly the noise of the instruments put her in mind of the small orchestra that traveled with Colonel Cobb’s Wild West Show.

  At any rate, her paw prints indicated that she did not linger at the foot of the stairs, but lumbered with her rolling gait up into the lobby, like any other patron of the arts. The ticket taker was in the office, counting the receipts; the manager was in the balcony.

  There is some disagreement concerning the amount of concert that Maude took in before she was observed, sitting placidly at the back of the hall with her hind feet splayed out before her. Some people swore that they had heard a cowlike sound during the applause for the waltz, but they thought at the time it was the tuba player tuning his instrument.

  It was time for the guest speaker, and the master of ceremonies appeared on stage from behind the curtain. “Many of you have heard,” he said, “or even read about the Ascensionist movement, and there has been much discussion concerning it and its adherents. The belief in physical of ascension before the moment of death, the deferment of personal distinction through the dropping of Christian names for single initials, and the use of spontaneous singing in their rituals—these and other unusual aspects of this movement may seem strange to us; but the people of this grand state have long enjoyed a reputation of open-mindedness, and I know that it is an interest in new things that has drawn many of you here tonight.”

  He paused in his speech and squinted past the footlights to the back of the room, then shook his head. “And so, I ask you all to welcome Mrs. R., who will answer questions for fifteen minutes after her talk. Mrs. R.”

  Mrs. R.—a small, birdlike woman—came from behind the curtain amidst polite applause. “Thank you for your kind welcome,” she said. “Let me tell you of my dream of ascension that first taught me . . .”

  There was a polite silence as she leaned forward slightly to squint beyond the footlights. “ . . . tell you of . . .” She leaned further and shaded her eyes. Now curiosity got the better of much of the audience, and people were craning their necks to see what had caught her attention. There was a collective gasp in the back of the room; then Mrs. R. said something in a small voice and fell in a heap upon the stage.

  The next moments were filled with great confusion. Some people stood to see what had happened; others continued to look to the back of the room for the source of the woman’s agitation. Several men appeared from behind the curtain or climbed onto the stage from the audience. “She’s fainted!” came the call. “Water, bring water!”

  “A bear!” shouted someone. There were several screams and a panic among the back rows. People were climbing onto their seats, or attempting to crawl over their neighbors—anything to get away from the back of the hall.

  “A bear?” said Mister Walton. He stood, an odd thrill running through him. Thump—that man of action—had run halfway up the aisle in the direction of the stage; he then turned about in a sudden change of mind and came to a halt after two strides.

  More screams echoed from the lofty ceiling, and a commotion of movement and shouting filled the air.

  “Good heavens!” Eagleton was saying. “It’s a bear!”

  “A bear?” said Mister Walton again.

  Sundry, standing on his seat several places down, could see the round ears and broad back of something making its way down the center aisle.

  “Sundry?” called Mister Walton.

  “As I live and breathe, Mister Walton!”

  The portly fellow leaned around Ephram to get a better view, and soon a familiar ursine face hove into view, “Maude!” shouted Mister Walton, and somehow the sound of her name pierced the chaotic voices and movement to reach the creature’s furry ears. Maude swung her large head in the direction of the gathered Moosepath League and Eagleton half leaped into Ephram’s arms, causing a near chain reaction of human dominoes.

  “Stop!” shouted Mister Walton, catching Ephram with one shoulder and throwing his arm out in the bear’s direction.

  The babble of frightened voices quieted; the press of bodies shifted; shouts turned to hushed exclamations of disbelief. Mrs. R. revived on the stage; she sat up and took the glass of water offered to her, but only gaped over it when she raised it to her lips.

  The general retreat had halted; near silence fell over the hall. The men on stage followed Mrs. R.’s startled gaze. Halfway down the center aisle, a bear was standing on its head.

  Maude mooed in recognition as Mister Walton emerged from the row of chairs. He inched around her, his hand out. “Maude,” he said sternly.

  “Toby!” said Phileda McCannon in a stage whisper.

  The bear let out a groan; her inverted hind feet waved in the air, then she dropped to the floor with a weighty bump and the swish of claws.

  “Maude,” came Mister Walton’s voice. He was several paces toward the back of the room and he beckoned gingerly to her. “Come, come,” he said. He was rather astonished at his own actions, and more than a little relieved when Sundry Moss appeared at his side.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Sundry.

  “I think we are going to walk her from the building,” said the chairman of the Moosepath League. He moved with Sundry to the door of the lobby. “Maude,” he said with some conviction.

  The bear bawled like a recalcitrant child, and a wave of shudders and half-bitten exclamations ran through the crowd.

  “Maude!” said Mister Walton with more severity in his voice. “Come now.”

  The bear shambled slowly, grunting like a farm animal that has been called away from the feeding trough.

  “Come, Maude.” Mister Walton and Sundry were in the lobby now, at the head of the stairwell. The bear fell into her rolling gait, and as she left the hall a huge sigh of relief expressed itself from the crowd like a single puff of wind.

  Mister Walton and Sundry walked slowly down the stairs with Maude two or three steps behind. Mister Walton felt as if he were exercising a dog.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped aside, making room for the bear as she shouldered herself out onto the sidewalk. The sky was gray. Evening had fallen. They paused to listen to the chirp of early crickets and breathe the cooler air.

  Then there came a resounding applause, spilling from the open windows above. Shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!” and wordless cheers punctuated the ovation.

  Maude grinned, happy to hear again the sound of an appreciative crowd.

  “What do we do now?” wondered Sundry, feeling remarkably calm standing next to the large beast.

  “We should wire Sheriff Piper, I think. He will know whom to contact. Perhaps the man from the Wild West Show will have arrived. Come, Maude!”

  They walked down the alley to Main Street, where they rounded the corner. As they proceeded, a ripple of tension swept down the line of horses tethered along the way. A young man, sweeping the door stoop of the Maine Hotel, caught sight of Maude and froze, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

  “Good evening, son,” said Mister Walton easily.

  “Good evenin
g, sir,” said the boy.

  “Where will we find the telegraph office, if you please?”

  “Two doors down,” said the fellow, pointing. The wary snort of a horse startled him.

  “Thank you,” said Mister Walton.

  “You’re welcome, sir.” He peered after them in the twilight as the three companions ambled down the street.

  Sundry could not resist looking back over his shoulder and tipping his hat. “Nice night,” he said.

  55 The Writing on the Wall

  IT IS ONE THING TO HEAR (OR EVEN SING) THE DEEDS OF HERCULES; IT IS quite another to see for yourself as he wrestles the Erymanthian Boar!

  How inspired, therefore, were Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump to see their stout and stouthearted chairman call forth his powers of authority, take command of the situation, and quell the wild nature of a full-grown bear!

  The surrounding crowd was hardly less astounded, and the applause that broke out was spontaneous; half believed that they had witnessed a remarkable act of bravery, and the other half were as convinced that they had seen nothing more than a remarkable act.

  The three men bathed in the ovation—as proud of their chairman’s deeds as if they had performed them themselves. Thump raised his hands in the air and bowed slightly (a mysterious gesture to those who did not know him), accepting praise for the absent Mister Walton.

  “Thump! It is amazing!” cried Ephram.

  “I am agog!” declared Thump.

  All about them islands of conversation ebbed and flowed, while the orchestra leader and the manager of the Lincoln Hall discussed how they would conduct the remainder of the evening. The word came down from the dressing room that Mrs. R. felt too airy to continue, but much of the evening’s music had yet to be performed.

  “Do you know,” said Eagleton, “I must confess to a certain degree of disappointment. Despite having been informed that Mrs. R. would be a religious speaker and not the Mrs. Roberto who immediately came to mind when we first saw the word ascensionist in the same citation, I was half hoping, when the curtain parted, to see that noble lady whom we met upon the field of Freeport.”

  “Ah, well,” was all that Ephram could think to say. Thump could think of less. Clearly they each had been affected (and Thump not the least) by a similar unspoken hope.

  “And yet,” said Ephram, after some thought, “it remains a singular coincidence, to meet two Mrs. R.s within the space of a few days, who each describe themselves as Ascensionists.”

  “It is not a common term,” agreed Eagleton.

  “However separate these two Mrs. R.s are in expertise,” continued Ephram, “it seems almost fateful that we should cross paths with both of them in such a short while.”

  “Indeed,” said Eagleton. “It is deep.”

  “Hmmm,” said Thump.

  “I wish,” said Ephram, “that Mister Walton were with us now. I can’t help but think that he would have sage words regarding this mystery.”

  “How extraordinary,” added Eagleton. “To be drawn away by a bear. And the young man too.”

  “It is, perhaps, a test,” said Ephram, in such a small voice that his friends read, rather than heard, what he had said.

  “A test,” said Eagleton.

  “In the absence of our chairman,” said Thump, “so early in his chairman-ship, we are perhaps called upon to prove ourselves worthy of him.”

  “My goodness, Thump!” said Ephram. “You may be right!”

  “Yes,” said Thump. “We must follow his example.”

  “Shall we?” suggested Ephram.

  “We must . . . act!” Thump turned to the front of the hall and began to press through the crowd toward the stage. “We shall interview Mrs. R.!”

  “Good heavens!” cried Eagleton, as he and Ephram followed.

  “To the backstage!” cried Thump, and all heads turned to see what new excitement had occurred.

  They hurried past the manager and the orchestra leader, excused themselves past the matrons and town fathers sitting in the front rows, and Ephram shouted apologies. Their ascent of the stage was more dramatic than graceful, and their disappearance behind the stage-left curtain raised the level of conversation and speculation in the hall to a new height.

  To this day the immediate backstage of the Lincoln Hall—now known as the Lincoln Theater—affords a challenge to anyone of standard size, and offers no room for flown sets or hidden choruses. The three friends found their progress halted straightaway by an inconsiderate wall. Upstage, however, there was (and is) a door on either side, and they quite naturally spilled through the nearest.

  Thump half ran, half tumbled down a flight of stairs to a little room below, where several stagehands were discussing the evening’s unprecedented events. Ephram and Eagleton caught themselves and each other at the head of the stairs, while Thump attempted to articulate something to the young men.

  “Mrs. R.,” he said uncertainly.

  One of the stagehands hooked a thumb over his shoulder, and following his gesture, Thump saw that there was also a flight of stairs leading up from the stage level. He hurried back to his friends and led the way in a scuffling run up to the stage-left dressing room.

  The term dressing room occurred to Thump just as he reached the top of the stairway, and his sudden check—caused by the implications of this term—precipitated a painful sort of three-way collision, which ended in a tangle of club members upon the floor.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded an angry male voice.

  Each of the members attempted to help his friends to their feet, despite that a body should himself be on his feet before performing this kindness. A good deal of confusion was had concerning who was helping whom, and the outcome was that Thump fell over (or was knocked down) several times again before solidly regaining his feet. Continued bewilderment was the result of the three gentlemen brushing the dust from one another’s shoulders; Eagle-ton had his hat knocked from his hands, and Thump accidentally cuffed Ephram on the side of the head.

  “Who are you?” demanded the voice.

  As one the three men straightened up and regarded the pair before them. The frail and fey Mrs. R. sat upon a short bench looking alarmed; the man standing before her was bald, mustachioed, and irate.

  “Do pardon us,” said Ephram to the man.

  “We are,” said Thump with obvious pride, “members of . . . the Moose-path League.”

  Eagleton stepped forward. “We are acquaintances of Mrs. Roberto.”

  “I know no Mrs. Roberto,” said the man.

  “She is an ascensionist of another sort,” explained Ephram.

  “What is it that you want?” demanded the man. “My wife has had a very frightening experience!”

  “Ah, yes,” said Ephram, his hat over his heart. “Our condolences.”

  “Mrs. R.’s carriage is here,” came a voice from down the stairwell.

  Mr. R. took his wife’s hand gently. “Come, dear,” he said. “You!” he directed toward the three men. “Stand aside!”

  They did. Mrs. R. rose tentatively and allowed herself to be led to the stairs. Mr. R. turned a glare upon the three members as he passed them. Then the couple was down the stairs and out of sight. A small round of applause drifted up from the hall as Mrs. R. and her husband moved through the audience. Soon the orchestra could be heard, tuning up again.

  “This has been inconclusive,” stated Ephram.

  “What could it all mean?” wondered Eagleton.

  “It is all very uncertain.”

  “Perhaps we were meant to wait for Mister Walton after all.”

  This dialogue was conducted during a general and circuitous investigation of the small room, a sort of unhurried caucus race, during which they noticed many signatures and dates upon the walls. Eagleton stopped to peer at a name, scribbled in ink at eye level; he could not read it. Other graffiti boasted the titles of familiar speakers or musical talents who had prepared themselves in this space. “It has been a rema
rkable day,” said Eagleton, and he could be said to have indulged in understatement here.

  Ephram sat upon the short bench and thought: A moose, red flannel underwear, shell heaps . . . a bear; and of course, Mister Walton, gloriously taking each situation in hand; yes, here is grand understatement! He respected Eagleton for it.

  Thump continued to stalk the room like a caged lion.

  Eagleton peered down at a low table at the end of the bench; there was an inkwell and a sheaf of writing paper. He opened the drawer in the table and found writing implements—several pens, a small brush, a bottle of ink. He took no more than a moment or two to settle his mind upon his next course of action. He opened the bottle of ink, selected the brush from its brethren, and scanned the walls for a spot that was more or less clear of writing.

  Ephram leaned back on the bench and watched him. Thump ceased his pacing and stood at Eagleton’s shoulder, making noises of approval.

  Eagleton worked with utter concentration. He did not pause or reflect until he was finished; and when he was finished, he stood back to take the measure of what he had done.

  Some, of course, wonder to this day why a more specific date was not attached; but they are, perhaps, missing the point. The single record of the year is a statement in itself—in fact, a statement of a state of mind. One day alone was not enough to encompass what they had seen, and what their recent experiences meant to them.

  The omission of Sundry’s name disturbs others, but Eagleton can be excused for this, considering the circumstances of the day. He was perhaps thinking that the three of them and Mister Walton formed a quadrumvirate of charter membership.

  Nevertheless, it stands there to this day—on the wall of the stage-left dressing room of the Lincoln Theater, in Damariscotta, Maine:

  THE MOOSEPATH LEAGUE

  1896

  M.E. C.E.

  J.T. T. W.CHAIR

  Thump could find no words. He patted Eagleton’s shoulder.

  Ephram spoke for them all quietly, saying only once, “Bravo.”