Saltar's Point

by Ott, Christopher Alan

  “Oh that’s okay, happens all the time.”

  “I should be more careful.” Ellie handed the last book to the librarian who stood up and eyed Ellie. A look of recognition crossed her face, darkening the lines that had etched themselves into her skin over the years.

  “My God Ellie Pritchard, is that you?”

  “Well actually it’s Ellie Jackson now.”

  “Of course, of course. I heard all about the wedding and knew that you were back in town. I was wondering when I would run across you, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened until now.”

  “Well I’ve never been much of a library patron.”

  The elderly woman emitted a small chuckle. “That you haven’t my dear, that you haven’t.”

  Ellie smiled in spite of herself, recalling the way Beth always repeated phrases as she spoke. It seemed nothing had changed, then again in Saltar’s Point things seldom did.

  “Well then, what brings you out today?”

  “Oh well,” Ellie didn’t know where to begin, “just doing a little research is all.”

  “Well it appears you’ve bumped into the right woman, research is my life, maybe I can help you?”

  Ellie remembered the way the old woman was always willing to lend a hand to those who needed help. It seemed as though Beth Little was as stagnant as the town she resided in, unchanging and undaunted. She wore the same conservative floral dress that she had worn so many years ago. Her hair, now completely gray, was pulled back in the same bun which she had always worn. Wire rimmed glasses and worn black pumps completed her image, adhering to the stereotypical image of a small town librarian.

  “I don’t think so, I’m doing a little research on local lore, boring stuff you know.”

  “Honey, what’s boring to most people is my life’s work. What have you got?”

  Ellie weighed her options. She wasn’t sure she was willing to let the kindly old woman in on her bizarre undertaking? She might think she was crazy, especially if she told her that her inquiries were spurned by foolish dreams, but what did she have to loose, and what did she care what one woman thought about her anyway?

  “I was curious about Talcott manor, and the man who built it.” She threw in a side comment, just to let Beth know she wasn’t crazy. “You know, just curious about the history of the town I live in.”

  “Well George Talcott was an interesting man, and the Talcott manor is an interesting place, so I’ve been told. I’ve never set foot in there, but it has always piqued my curiosity. Why don’t you come with me and we can sit down in one of the quiet study rooms. I’d love the chance to catch up with you, if you’re not too busy that is.”

  “No, I’m not too busy. Why not?”

  “Very well then, follow me.”

  Beth led them through a pair of doors marked “employees only” and down a narrow hallway to a small room with an oak table and four small wooden chairs. She motioned hastily for Ellie to take a seat and then closed the door behind them.

  “I thought we were heading to a study room?”

  Beth cackled once again, it had an unsettling quality for such a harmless little old lady, Ellie thought to herself. “Why we are dear, this is the faculty study room, where we do all of our best thinking. It used to be a general study room but now we keep it all to our lonesome. Now make yourself comfortable while I go and fetch us some hot lemon tea.”

  And with that Beth Little vanished back down the hall and slammed the door shut behind her once again. Ellie peered around the room, it too was unsettling. The matted carpet was stained and crunchy beneath her feet, the last defense against countless cups of coffee, tea, and soda cans that had been carelessly toppled onto the floor over the years. Even in the so-called employee’s lounge crude graffiti scrawled on the desktop and on the walls. Half hearted attempts had been made to scrub away the markings with ill effect, leaving nothing more than smudged yet still legible bawdy haiku that rang true on some perverse poetic level. Her eyes were drawn to it with the insatiable appetite of curiosity that is human nature.

  She thought he meant marry her

  Instead he meant to bury her

  Whew, that kid was a little creepy. Ellie turned her attention to the lone poster in the room. It was a drawing of a studious owl with the words “Learning is Fun-Damental” written below it. Those cheesy posters hadn’t changed from the time she was a schoolgirl. Her thoughts were interrupted by Beth opening the door and returning with two piping hot cups of tea as promised.

  “Here you go my dear.”

  She placed a cup of the steaming liquid in front of Ellie, who accepted it gladly. Then the elderly woman pulled up a chair and reached across the table to take hold of Ellie’s hands in hers. There was silence for a moment and then Beth shattered it with a direct line of questioning that only toddlers and the elderly seemed to possess.

  “Now tell me child, what is it exactly you want to know?”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  McGinty hung his head over the side railing. The ocean pitched and rolled sloshing the contents of his stomach up and down and making his legs weak. He wiped the sweat from his brow and summoned all of his might not to loose his lunch into the raging waters of the Indian Ocean. It would be a long journey, and he did not need to succumb to the symptoms of seasickness so early. They would sail down the east coast of Africa, around the Cape of Good Hope, and then northward to New York where they would board a train bound for the west coast. It had been only four days since their discovery of the tomb of the Bedouin, and Talcott was determined to make the journey in record time. A large swell raised the hull of the Bengali, a large Indian fishing vessel Talcott had commandeered for a handsome sum to transport them and their precious cargo back to America. The swell raised the fluid in McGinty’s stomach enough for him to loose control over his abdominal muscles and his last meal came spewing up from his throat spilling into the churning waters below, forming an undulating pool of yellowish brown bile atop the raging sea. Food for the fishes McGinty thought as he tried in desperation to keep from heaving once again.

  When the last wave of nausea washed over him and he was once again able to stand up straight without his knees buckling beneath him, McGinty made his way back below deck through the port door and down the cast iron steps to the cargo hold below. Inside it was dark, only a few kerosene lanterns illuminated the massive hold. The putrid smell of fish assaulted his nostrils, making him gag once more and his eyes and salivary glands water. Years of transporting fish had left their mark on the Bengali, permeating the walls and filling the air with the wretched odor of rotting seafood.

  “Talcott?” He called out into the darkness. “George? Are you in here?”

  Only the roar of the ocean answered him. He made his way further back to the recesses of the cargo hold. Talcott had spent nearly the entire time at sea down here, babysitting his precious cargo, as if someone would be able to steal a 1400-pound sarcophagus in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Talcott must have made his way back on deck, to urinate or eat he thought, but when McGinty moved farther into the hold he saw his partner sitting idly by the sarcophagus staring at the marble top with unwavering eyes.

  “George. What are you doing?” Again no answer. “George!”

  Talcott seemed oblivious to his presence, his body sat rigidly still, his breathing nearly imperceptible, and for a moment McGinty thought he might be dead. He reached out and grabbed his shoulder and shook him gently. Talcott whipped his head around and stared directly through his partner. His eyes were glazed over and harbored a far away look that disturbed McGinty deeply. Undaunted he spoke to Talcott as though there were nothing out of the ordinary.

  “The cook has supper on. Better get up top if you want something to eat. These skinny Indian sailors can eat their weight in hummus.”

  The far away look in Talcott’s eyes lessened a bit; McGinty let out a silent sigh of relief.

  “Hummus and curry again?” McGinty nodded. “I am so sick and tired of curry.”


  “Better get used to it, it’s only been three days.”

  Talcott let out a harrumph of indifference. “What about you, you eat yet?”

  McGinty nodded. “Already donated it back to the sea too.”

  “It’s amazing you manage to keep anything down at all, that weak stomach of yours would even kick back vegetable broth.”

  Talcott rose from the wicker rocking chair he had set up alongside the sarcophagus, emitting a rangy squeak. McGinty noticed that his appearance had changed drastically in the past four days. His face was now gaunt and pale, whereas before it had been rotund and flush in complexion.

  “It wouldn’t do you any harm to get some fresh air either.”

  Another harrumph from Talcott followed. “Well I guess if there’s anything you Irishmen know about it would be fresh air.”

  “That and a good pint of Guinness George.”

  Talcott emitted a small chuckle as he exited the cargo hold. The small gesture of levity raised McGinty’s spirits. Perhaps his old friend was returning to normal after all. Another large swell crashed against the side of the Bengali, pitching the floor beneath his feet. He put his arms out at his sides to maintain his balance and fought another urge to vomit. As soon as the boat leveled again he plopped down into the chair that Talcott had vacated. He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and the small tinderbox in which he kept his matches, pulling one deftly from inside. The match flared to life as he struck it against the rough edge of the tinderbox. He placed the match to the cigar but before he had a chance to puff the match went out in a small draft of cold wind that blew through the cargo hold. Odd, he thought, there shouldn’t be any drafts down here. The hold was watertight. Shrugging it off, he struck another match and puffed on the end of the cigar until the tip glowed a bright crimson orange. The sweet aroma of cigar smoke filled the hold, battling the sickly smell of fish for dominance in the stale air.

  McGinty leaned back and took another long puff, trying to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. The boat continued to rock back and forth causing the kerosene lanterns to sway and cast dancing light around the cargo hold. He peered down at the sarcophagus, noting the way the light seemed to slip off the smooth marble surface, like drops of mercury from a shattered thermometer. He ran his hand across the top, feeling the glasslike stone beneath his fingertips. It was beautiful he had to admit, in an eerie and unnerving way. He tilted his head back and took another long savory puff from his cigar. When he looked back down he caught sight of the sarcophagus, and the image that burned its way into his retinas made him cough the cigar smoke from his mouth in a long wheezing sputter.

  The top was no longer smooth. Etched into the top were the distinctive five points of a pentagram. McGinty dropped his cigar and rocked backwards as though he had been struck by an unseen force. The lines in the marble seemed to glow the same hue as his cigar tip. He began to feel faint.

  Good God in Heaven, what the hell is this thing?

  McGinty shut his eyes tight and tried desperately to regain his composure. When he opened them, the lid on the sarcophagus was smooth once again.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  “How is it?”

  “Huh?”

  “The tea dear, how is it? Is it to your liking?”

  “Oh yes,” Ellie said, jumping out of her daydream. “It’s quite delicious.”

  “Not too sweet.”

  “Uh, uh. It’s perfect.” She took a long sip as if to prove her fondness for it.

  “I’m so glad to hear that dear. You know a lot of people don’t like their tea sweet, but to me there is no other way to take it.” The elderly woman drummed her fingers against the tabletop. “Now you were wanting to learn a little bit about local history, is that right?”

  Ellie paused a second, trying desperately to find a good place to begin, and wondering how much she should be asking of Beth Little, after all the woman was known to be fond of gossip, and if rumors were donuts she passed them around by the baker’s dozen. The look in her eyes was one of a hungry dog waiting for a pork chop, full of anticipation.

  “Talcott.” Ellie said. “What do you know about him?”

  “Oh yes, now I remember, you wanted to know about George Talcott. My mind does wander so these days. Let’s see, he was from Missouri if I recall, came out here for the timber industry, built the Talcott mansion, and died shortly after. Spun a lot of rumors about himself. Whenever a stranger comes to town and starts throwing money around it gets a lot of people talking don’t ya know?”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  The elderly woman’s eyes rolled up in the back of her head as she thought, almost as if she were trying to read her memories on the back of her brain.

  “Oh let’s see, some people said that he had killed a man back in Missouri and fled out here to escape justice, others said he was suffering from tuberculosis and came out west under the direction of his physician to get some fresh air. Still other’s said he was involved in witchcraft, you know spells, chants, bubbling cauldrons, spooky stuff like that. If you ask me that’s all just a bunch of hogwash, just stories people like to tell through the years. Gives a little town like Saltar’s Point some personality don’t ya know. I never much believed the stories myself, course that’s all they were to me was stories. All this happened before I was born, I’m an old woman, but not that old.”

  Ellie knew all of this and she wanted Beth to cut to the chase, but didn’t want to push her. She had to choose her questions carefully or Beth Little would begin asking questions of her own.

  “What about archeology? Was he into archeology?”

  “Oh heavens yes. That’s what started a lot of the witchcraft rumors. Folks said he brought back something evil from Egypt or one of those other African countries. I can’t keep ‘em straight anymore with them always changing governments and names, too confusing for an old lady such as myself. Anyway I’m getting off track here; other people said that he built the mansion full of trap doors, secret passageways, and dungeons. Never been in it myself so I don’t rightly know. Never got around to it ‘cause I thought I might visit it during my farewell stop, with it being the town mortuary and all, but I guess that all changed with Porter’s passing.”

  Ellie took a long sip of tea, trying to act as casual as possible. “What about a business partner, in archeology? Did Talcott have one?”

  “As I recall yes, an elderly gentleman by the name of McGinty, some big shot professor who used Talcott to fund some of his expeditions. Not much was known about him around here, quiet fellow, kept to himself. Died even before Talcott if I remember right.”

  Ellie forced the next words from her throat. “Did he have any children, a daughter perhaps?”

  The following silence seemed like an eternity to Ellie although in reality she knew it couldn’t have been more than three or four seconds.

  “Yes, I believe he did. A young daughter, a teenager I think. She was a scandalous one around these parts. Practiced the oldest profession if you know what I mean. Although I can’t say I blame her, wasn’t much a young lady could do back in those days and after her father died she didn’t have much choice.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Oh my, you’re really testing this old memory of mine today. Let’s see, I believe it was Sonja, no that’s not it.”

  “Sofia?”

  A bewildered look crossed the librarians face. “My word yes. Sofia I believe it was. Now how on earth would you happen to know something like that?”

  “Just a lucky guess. Thank you Beth, you’ve been quite helpful.”

  Ellie pushed back from the table and stood to leave, gathering her purse over her shoulder.

  “Oh dear, leaving so soon?”

  “I’m afraid so. I just remembered I have something I have to straighten out with my grandfather.” The last word stung her tongue like acid.

  “But you haven’t even finished your tea.” Beth Little said, but it fell on deaf ears. Ellie had alr
eady slammed the door shut behind her. Kids, she thought to herself. They just don’t have good manners any more.

  The fire and brimstone that spewed from Ellie’s mouth would have put a Pentecostal preacher to shame.

  “And just when the hell did you plan on telling me?”

  Cletus was silent for a moment. “Ellie, sometimes there are things that a man does in his life that he is not proud of.”

  “And I suppose lying to your great niece is one?”

  “I never wanted it to come to this, I was only trying to protect you.”

  “Protect me! Protect me from what,” Ellie spat, “the truth?”

  “Ellie sometimes in a small town you have to protect those closest to you from the truth. Had you known it would have been very difficult for you.”

  “More difficult than this?”

  The tears welled up inside of Ellie’s eyes and began rolling down her cheeks one after the other. Cletus took the dishrag off his shoulder and began defensively to wipe down the bar. Bernie’s was empty and Cletus thanked his lucky stars for that, in her emotional state he doubted that a few patrons would keep Ellie from pouring out her feelings. She plopped down on the nearest barstool and rested her head in her arms as she sobbed on the counter. Cletus hesitated a second and then placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, praying that she wouldn’t pull away. She didn’t.

  “Ellie,” Cletus began. “I loved your grandmother very much, but she wasn’t well. She got pregnant by some drifter and I spent my whole life taking care of her and your mother. Gave up a family of my own so I could do it, and you know what?”

  He placed a hand beneath Ellie’s chin and lifted her head until they were square eye-to-eye. “I’d do it all over again, and do you know why?”

  Ellie shook her head. “Because you became my family. I love you as though you were my own daughter, let alone granddaughter, and I still believe to this day that what I did was the right thing to do.”