Thomas hadn’t believed slaves went willingly back into slavery until his father had explained it to him.
“If you’ll recall your history, Thomas, you’ll remember that the incredible history of the Underground Railroad actually began in Canada,” his father had told him. Slaves who had reached Canada in the very early 1800s and established settlements there returned by the thousands to this country in order to free others. They came back for their families; they became secret “conductors” on the Underground Railroad system. And they returned to bondage hoping to free masses of slaves.
“But slaves continued to flee by whatever means,” Mr. Small had said, “with or without help. Upon reaching the Railroad, they might hide in our house in Ohio, where they would rest for as little as a week. Some of them were given rather large sums of money and returned again to slavery.”
“What would slaves need with money?” Thomas had wanted to know.
“Even a fleeing slave needs maneuvering money,” his father had said. “He would need food and shelter and the best and safest way for him to get it was to buy it from freed Negroes.”
“But the slaves connected with the house in Ohio were going back into slavery,” Thomas had said.
“Yes,” said Mr. Small. “And after they were caught and went back, they passed the hidden money on to other slaves, who would attempt to escape.”
Still Thomas couldn’t believe slaves could successfully hide money on themselves without having it found.
Some slaves did have their money found and taken away, his father said. It was dangerous work they were involved in. But others managed to return to bondage with the money still in their possession.
“Remember,” his father had told him, “the slaves we’re talking about weren’t ordinary folks out for a peaceful stroll. Many had run for their lives for weeks from the Deep South. They had no idea how far they had to travel and they were armed with little more than the knowledge that moss grew only on the northern side of trees. Any who managed to get as far as Ohio and the Underground Railroad line had to be pretty brave and strong, and very clever. Most of them were young, with a wonderful, fierce desire to free themselves as well as others. It was the best of these who volunteered to return to slavery. They were hand-picked by Dies Drear himself, the abolitionist who built our house in Ohio. He alone conceived of the daring plan of returning numbers of slaves to the South with sizable amounts of money hidden on them.”
“He must have been something!” Thomas had said.
“He was a New Englander,” Mr. Small said, “so independent and eccentric, most Ohio abolitionists thought him crazy. He came from an enormously wealthy family of shipbuilders, and yet his house in Ohio was fairly modest. To give you an idea how odd he was,” said Mr. Small, “his house was overflowing with fine antiques, which he neither took any interest in nor sold for profit. All the furniture remained in great piles, with just enough space to get through from room to room, until the house was plundered and Drear was killed.
“But when his plan to send slaves back to slavery worked,” said Mr. Small, “there grew among freemen and slaves an enormous respect for him. You know, they never called him by his name, partly because they feared he might be caught, but also because they were in awe of him. They called him Selah. Selah, which is no more than a musical direction to raise the voice. And yet, Selah he was. Selah, a desperate, running slave might sigh, and the name—the man—gave him the strength to go on.”
Selah. Freedom.
Thomas sat so quietly in the car with his eyes closed, he appeared to be sleeping. But his mind was full of thoughts about what else his father had told him was in the report from the Ohio foundation. The report went on to say that three slaves whom Dies Drear had hidden for a time were caught in an attempt to reach Canada. In truth, they were headed south again, but because they were captured on the northern side of the Ohio River they were believed to be fleeing to Canada. Their hidden money was discovered. Two of the slaves were killed by the bounty hunters who caught them. That same week, Dies Drear was murdered.
There had been pages and pages of the report from the foundation. Thomas recalled his father poring over it until very late at night, often jumping up and stalking about the room with obvious excitement. Then his father had made a trip to Ohio. He was gone three weeks, nearly ten days longer than he had intended. While he was gone, Thomas found the report and read it.
Thomas smiled to himself, his eyes still closed. He had discovered something in the report that his father hadn’t mentioned. There was a legend that came with the house of Dies Drear. The report made light of the legend, but when Thomas read it he was at once frightened and pleased. The legend was that two slave ghosts and the ghost of Dies Drear haunted the house to this very day.
Right away Thomas had made up his mind that the two ghosts had to be the two slaves killed by bounty hunters. And the two ghosts had then killed Drear in revenge for their own deaths. But if all this were true, Thomas was faced with a problem.
Why would two slave ghosts haunt a house owned by the man they had murdered, who himself haunted the very same house?
Deep down, Thomas didn’t believe in ghosts. But when night fell, when he was alone in the dark, he feared he might see one. And if there were haunts in the new house, he wanted to be sure he had everything straight in his mind about them.
That way they won’t ever scare me, he thought, sitting in the car. That way I’ll know how not to get in their way.
When Mr. Small returned from his trip to Ohio, he wouldn’t talk to Thomas about the house.
“Is the house really haunted?” Thomas had asked. “Did you hear the noises and see the flashing lights?”
“I thought I told you to stay out of my study!” his father had fumed. “I didn’t give you permission to read that report. Besides, there are no such things as haunts.”
“But is it true no one has lived in the house for more than three months in the last hundred years?” Thomas had asked.
“It’s true,” his father had to admit. “The house hasn’t been lived in for very long at any time.”
“Well, if the house isn’t haunted,” Thomas said, “who or what was it caused people to run away? And why would two slave ghosts stay in that house with the ghost of the man they had murdered!”
Thomas’ father had become furious. His voice had been quiet, but filled with rage. “People are so full of superstition, they aren’t able to see the truth when it practically stares them in the face!” he had said. “Quit talking about ghosts. Don’t ask so many fool questions. All old houses have ghost legends, and they are all poppycock!” He had retreated to his study, slamming the door behind him.
Mr. Small made a second trip to Ohio, still not sure if he would rent the house of Dies Drear. This time he was gone five days. When he returned, he had the lease in his hand. He was in high spirits. He hoped someday to buy the house, he told Thomas and Mrs. Small. At last he made them a full account of his trip, the house and all its history.
“No,” whispered Thomas. No, his father hadn’t mentioned the legend.
Now why didn’t he tell the legend to Mama? he wondered. Or does she know about it, and he didn’t mention it in front of me, hoping I’d forget about it?
Thomas stared out at the steady rain and the mountains, which were no longer familiar. Again he smiled to himself. His father had to be hiding something.
There’s something in the legend I’ve missed, Thomas told himself. At least there’s something more to the story of the two slaves killed by bounty hunters, and Dies Drear’s murder. Papa meant to hide it from me by not letting me get at that report. But I know I remember most of what there was in it. It must be that whatever Papa means to hide from me isn’t written down. It’s something you would have to put together from what is written down. When he got mad at me and slammed the door, I must have been close to finding out. I just didn’t ask the right question.
“Papa,” Thomas said. “Pap
a.” He propped his brothers one against the other behind him as he once again leaned forward on the front seat. “Tell again about Mr. Pluto, Papa,” he said.
Thomas was interrupted by Mrs. Small awaking and stretching. “Where are we now?” she asked.
“Getting closer,” Mr. Small said. “Outside of Bluefield.”
“You mean Bluefield, West Virginia?” Thomas asked. “How many more hours until we reach the Ohio River?”
“Just be patient,” Mr. Small told him. “You’ll see the Ohio River in about three hours if we don’t stop too long.”
In Bluefield they stopped twenty-five minutes for lunch. Once they were on their way again, Thomas leaned forward to talk to his father.
“We were going to talk about Mr. Pluto,” he said.
“Now, Thomas, he’s told you enough about him,” said his mother.
Mrs. Small didn’t like hearing about Mr. Pluto. No matter how often Thomas and his father kidded her, she really didn’t like hearing about anything that had to do with the house of Dies Drear.
She won’t like it, Thomas thought. She hasn’t seen it, but she doesn’t like it at all.
“I want to be sure I know what Mr. Pluto looks like before I run into him,” Thomas said. He had tried making up a picture of Mr. Pluto from what his father had told him. But that was hard; never had Thomas heard about anyone quite like Pluto.
Thomas’ shoulders jerked nervously; he cocked his head to one side as he did always when he was about to listen hard. “Please, Papa,” he said, “tell about him.”
Mr. Small sighed. “I might as well,” he said. “We still have a long ride ahead of us.”
Mr. Small started talking and Thomas listened, letting his long arms dangle over the front seat.
“As I’ve told you, he’s the caretaker of the new house,” Mr. Small said. “Pluto isn’t his real name, but another name for Hades, the Lord of the Underworld. Well, Hades had cloven hooves.”
“I know that,” Thomas said.
“Mr. Pluto has been lame in one leg for as long as anyone can remember,” Mr. Small said. “I have no idea how old he is. Neither does the foundation, which hired him years ago. He’s spry, although that isn’t quite the right word to describe the way he gets around. He’s a big man, with white hair and a beard. I believe he has the most piercing green eyes I’ve ever seen. With that beard and hair and those eyes, it’s no wonder he’s known as Pluto. Otherwise,” Mr. Small added, “he’s harmless enough, and takes fine care of the place.”
“The dream!” shouted Thomas. “It was him!”
“Thomas, please!” said Mrs. Small, holding her ears.
The twins began yelling, too, and Thomas had to hold them for a moment before they calmed down.
“I had this dream,” Thomas told his mother and father. “Mr. Pluto was in it, but I didn’t know it was him until just now!”
“Pluto knows many of the secret recesses of the house,” his father was saying to Mrs. Small. “He was kind enough to show them to me. I’m glad we’re keeping him on as caretaker—Thomas, I want you to be nice to him, no funny business. He’s an old man with quiet ways about him. You could even say he’s a bit secretive and strange. He rides around in a two-wheeled buggy drawn by two horses, one bay and one roan. He has a black, too, that he switches off with the other two. He’s lived all alone on that property for such a long time, I’m sure he wouldn’t know what to do without it.”
“Does he live in our new house?” Thomas asked.
“No,” said Mr. Small. “No, he lives on the other side of the hill from us. You’ll be surprised by his house and the way he lives.” He was about to say more, but seemed to change his mind.
“I’ll warn you though,” he said. “Pluto walks as agile as a cat. He came upon me while I was in the cellar. I hadn’t heard him or seen him coming, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.”
“Does he really look like the devil?” Thomas asked.
“Oh, anyone can startle you in a house as old as that,” said Mr. Small. “I don’t think there’s a straight angle in the whole place. All the ceilings are amazingly high. But Pluto’s no devil. He did try to convince me not to live in that house. He was serious about it, too. He knows the legend, and I’m sure by now he believes it.”
“Are there a lot of old people?” asked Thomas. “I mean in the town—old ones who remember everything and talk a lot, like Great-grandmother always did?”
Mr. Small was silent a moment. “You are going to miss her, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yes,” said Thomas, “I guess I will miss her.”
“I’m sorry she wouldn’t come with us,” said Mr. Small, “but she has that right to end where she began. Anyway, it’s time you learned about young people. You are already wise in the ways of the old.”
“I like old people,” said Thomas. “They never need to know what you are carving out of wood or even why. They just wait until it’s done and then they say it’s good.”
Mr. Small had to laugh. “You don’t like to be bothered, do you? You have to be free. Well, there was a freeman’s community in the town even during slavery. Many slaves probably settled there. There are young people and there are old ones who remember things.”
Thomas had a jumble of thoughts he couldn’t quite make come clear, so he began to ask question after question about the town. They had driven a long way before he did catch hold of what he was after.
“Papa!” he said suddenly. Mrs. Small raised her head from her pillow and looked around at him.
“Papa,” Thomas said, “whatever became of that third slave?”
Mr. Small stiffened over the steering wheel. He looked straight ahead, gripping the wheel with both hands.
Thomas held his breath for a second, then blew a silent whistle through his teeth.
His father began speaking so gravely and in such a low voice, Thomas had to lean very close to hear. “When we get where we’re going… . Now listen closely,” his father said, “because I don’t want to tell you again. You are to speak to no one about the foundation’s report on the house of Dies Drear, do you understand? And nothing about the three slaves. Don’t even think about it, and speak of it to no one!”
Thomas sat back with his brothers, watching the bleak West Virginia landscape through the rain that right-flanked them in dull, white sheets across the highway.
So the third slave is the question, Thomas thought. I have found that much out.
Thomas’ eyes grew heavy with fatigue. His brothers played happily around him. As he fell asleep, his mind curled around one thought.
But what is it? What is the answer?
Chapter 3
THOMAS DID NOT wake in time to see the Ohio River. Mr. Small was glad he didn’t, for through the gloom of mist and heavy rain, most of its expanse was hidden. What was visible looked much like a thick mud path, as the sedan crossed over it at Huntington.
Thomas lurched awake a long time after. The car went slowly; there was hardly any rain now. His mother spoke excitedly, and Thomas had to shake his head rapidly in order to understand what she was saying.
“Oh dear! My heavens!” Mrs. Small said. “Why it’s huge!”
Mr. Small broke in eagerly, turning around to face Thomas. “You’ve waited a long time,” he said. “Take a good look, son. There’s our new house!”
Thomas looked carefully out of his window. He opened the car door for a few seconds to see better, but found the moist air too warm and soft. The feel of it was not nice at all, and he quickly closed the door. He could see well enough out of the window, and what he saw made everything inside him grow quiet for the first time in weeks. It was more than he could have dreamed.
The house of Dies Drear loomed out of mist and murky sky, not only gray and formless, but huge and unnatural. It seemed to crouch on the side of a hill high above the highway. And it had a dark, isolated look about it that set it at odds with all that was living.
A chill passed over Thomas. He sighed
with satisfaction. The house of Dies Drear was a haunted place, of that he was certain.
“Well,” Mr. Small said, “what do you think of it, Thomas?”
“It must be the biggest house anyone ever built,” Thomas said at last. “And to think—it’s our new house! Papa, let’s get closer, let’s go inside!”
Smiling, Mr. Small kept the car on the highway that now curved up closer toward the house. In a short time they were quite near.
At the base of the hill on which the house sat, a stream ran parallel to the highway. It was muddy and swollen by rain; between it and the hill lay a reach of fertile land, lushly tangled with mullein weed and gold wild-flower. The hill itself was rocky and mostly bare, although a thaw had come to the rest of the land and countryside. At the very top of the hill Thomas noticed a grove of trees, which looked like either pine or spruce.
The house of Dies Drear sat on an outcropping, much like a ledge, on the side of the hill. The face of the ledge was rock, from which gushed mineral springs. And these came together at the fertile land, making a narrow groove through it before emptying into the stream. Running down the face of the ledge, the springs coated the rock in their path with red and yellow rust.
Thomas stared so long at the ledge and springs, his eyes began to play tricks on him. It seemed as if the rust moved along with the spring waters.
“It’s bleeding,” he said softly. “It looks just like somebody cut the house open underneath and let its blood run out! That’s a nice hill though,” he added. He looked at the clumps of skinny trees at each side of the house. Their branches were bare and twisted by wind.
The House of Dies Drear Page 2