by H. R. Hobbs
Mitch’s dad chuckled. “They’re right.” He waved to Mitch, who was still hanging back just inside the door. “Come over and meet Hank, son.”
Hank turned to where Mitch was standing. The man’s friendly gaze unfroze Mitch’s feet—not a mummy not a mummy not a mummy—and he moved forward. When they shook hands, Mitch noticed the smooth texture and firm grip. Hank may be ninety-one, but he had the liveliness of someone much younger.
“It’s great to meet a young whippersnapper like you,” Hank said, pumping Mitch’s arm up and down. Confused, Mitch turned to his dad for an explanation, but he just winked. Hank let go of Mitch’s hand and rested his own in his lap. “Your dad tells me that you’ve found some of your great-grandpa’s treasures.”
“Oh! Yeah, I’ve got them right here.” He placed the wooden box and journal in Hank’s lap. “He says that you know a lot about the First World War and might be able to tell us a little about Great-Grandpa George.”
Mitch noticed a tremor in Hank’s hands as they brushed over the items.
“Tell me what you know so far.”
Mitch sat on the edge of the bed and began to tell Hank everything they’d discovered about his great-grandpa. He told him about what his great-grandpa had written in the journal about his horrible trip overseas on the boat, how they trained for the war, and finally about how his great-grandpa came to own the spyglass.
When Mitch had finished, Hank didn’t say anything. Again, Mitch looked to his dad for direction. His dad lifted his hand slightly, as if to say Give him a minute. Mitch relaxed and waited for Hank to speak.
“I can see how finding these items would peak a young boy’s curiosity.” Hank paused. “Let me tell you a little bit about how I came to know what I know.” He paused again and took a moment before continuing.
“Your great-grandpa and my dad, Bud, enlisted at the same time. They had the crazy idea that enlisting would be an adventure.” He snorted to himself. “I’m sure, looking back, they realized they got more than they bargained for. But that’s the naivety of youth. No consideration for the consequences of their actions and thinking they will live forever.”
Hank stopped. He pulled a handkerchief from the front pocket of his shirt and wiped his mouth.
“I’m not sure how brave they were. But I’m sure they took comfort in having their best friend along. My dad never talked a lot about their time over there when I was a kid. He was too busy farming and trying to feed his family. The only time I ever heard him talk about it was once when your grandpa Grant and I eavesdropped on a conversation between our fathers. We were playing in the living room when we overheard them talking about the war. They were talking quietly. We really had to strain to hear everything. But I know they talked about when their boat was torpedoed and George went missing.”
At Hank’s words, Mitch’s eyes lit up. He glanced at his dad.
“I remember,” Hank went on, “my dad asking him about what happened and your great-grandpa not really answering. In fact, I can remember George saying, ‘For your own protection, Bud, I can’t tell you.’ Now, to a young boy like me—remember, I was probably your age at the time—this was very intriguing. Especially when my dad kept pushing for more information. Your great-grandpa slammed his hand down on the table and shouted, ‘Enough questions!’ I think my dad finally figured out George wasn’t going to talk about it. He came and got your grandpa and they left shortly after. So, a couple of days later, my dad and I were out cutting hay and I casually asked him to tell me about his time in the Navy.”
“What did he say?” Mitch couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice.
“Well, he didn’t want to tell me much. But he told me about his training and the trip across the Atlantic. George had terrible seasickness.”
Mitch remembered that part from the journal, unfortunately. Gross!
“While they were at sea, he told me, their ship was torpedoed. My dad was able to swim ashore, fortunately. But he never mentioned what happened to your great-grandpa.”
Mitch felt disappointment well up in his throat. He’d convinced himself that Hank would have some answers for him.
“He didn’t tell me any more, and I didn’t press him. I could see that the memory of that time bothered him.”
Hank stopped there. He took a sip of water from the glass on the table beside him.
“Luckily for you, I didn’t forget about it.”
Mitch’s head jerked up at Hank’s words.
“What do you mean?”
“Years later, that conversation and your great-grandpa’s words to my dad—‘For your own protection I can’t tell you’—still haunted me. So, after my dad passed, I went and talked to George Howell.”
“You did?”
“I did. By this time, nearly forty years had passed, and he was getting up in years. I thought I may not have many chances to get answers to my questions. Probably like you did about coming to talk to me.” He gave Mitch a knowing look before continuing. “I went to see George while he was still living on the farm. Ray, I think you were a teenager at the time. You stopped in to check on your grandad while I was visiting. He was living in that little house next to yours.”
Ray nodded in agreement. “He moved into that house when my parents took over the farm.”
“At that time, I was doing some research on my family and there was a huge gap where my dad was away at war. So, I asked George if he’d help fill in some of the missing pieces, and he agreed.”
Hank’s hand trembled as he wiped his mouth again.
“By this time, the whole community thought your great-grandpa was a bit different. He’d become a bit of a recluse, never leaving the farm. So to say he had some reservations about talking to me would be an understatement.”
At this point, one of the nurses came into the room and Hank stopped.
“How are you doing, Hank?” she asked, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m fine. Just reminiscing about the old days with Ray and his son here.”
“Well, just don’t play yourself out. You don’t want to make yourself sick by overdoing it.” She gave Mitch and his dad a warning glance and left.
“Nurses,” Hank muttered. “Always telling you what to do. I made it to ninety-one, but they think I’ll somehow wander right off a cliff. Now, where did I leave off? Oh, yes. George agreed to meet with me. It was during that time that I learned the details of the warning he’d given my father all those years ago.”
He took a sip of water.
“Over the course of about five visits, George told me a tale that I can barely believe even now.”
Mitch leaned in to hear what Hank had to say next.
“According to George, a number of things happened all at once that changed his life forever.” Hank coughed. “It seems that when the Cressy—that was the name of the ship. When the Cressy docked in The Hague, the boys had two days on leave.”
“Yes, he wrote about that in the journal,” Mitch told Hank.
Hank nodded. “Well, from what I can remember, George bought a spyglass at an antique shop. He thought it might be a good gift for Mary. He explained how fascinated he was with it at the time.”
Mitch’s heart started to race at Hank’s words.
“That’s what we wanted to show you.” Mitch pointed to the box in Hank’s lap. “The spyglass is in that box. We found it in an old trunk in the attic.”
Hank’s hands shook as he flipped the latch on the box. He made no move to pick it up.
“It’s okay,” Mitch reassured him. “You can pick it up. Everyone in our family has tried to figure it out.”
“I can’t believe it,” Hank whispered as he turned it over in his hands. “I’m ashamed to admit that I never really believed some of what your great-grandpa told me. He never showed me the spyglass. Said it was in a safe place and it needed to stay there.”
“What did he mean by that? ‘Needed to stay there’?” Mi
tch’s dad asked.
Mitch looked over to see that his dad was just as intrigued as he was. He hadn’t heard this story either.
“He never came right out and said it, but I guessed that the spyglass coming into his possession and the torpedoing of their boat and his disappearance afterward were all connected.”
Hank extended the three sections of the spyglass and put it up to his eye.
“It doesn’t work!”
“We know,” Mitch replied. “We hoped that you might be able to help us figure that out.”
Hank looked through it again. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t have any answers for you.”
“Did Grandad tell you what happened to him when their boat was torpedoed?” Mitch’s dad asked.
“He said that he really didn’t have any memory of what happened. I didn’t really believe him at the time. Anyway, after the boat was torpedoed, the next thing he remembered was walking through a village and finding out that six months had passed.”
“Six months?” Mitch broke in. “And he didn’t remember anything?”
“Not a thing. All he had was the clothes on his back and the spyglass. He thought it was the very next day after their leave. It wasn’t until some villagers stopped to talk to him that he found out how much time had passed.”
Hank put the spyglass back in the box.
“So, why do you think all of this is connected?” Mitch’s dad asked.
“Well, the way George talked about the spyglass . . . it wasn’t until our last meeting that he even mentioned it. He was very reluctant to talk about it.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“As I said, the rest of the community always thought he was a bit different. I remember there were times over the years when he disappeared and then, after some time, he’d come home again. No one ever knew where he’d go on his little ‘jaunts’—that’s what people called them. But I think it may have had something to do with this spyglass.”
Mitch was having a hard time following Hank’s logic. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, it was a comment he made that last day we met . . .”
“What did he say?” Mitch asked.
“He said something along the lines of ‘I wish I’d never bought it. It’s nearly destroyed my life.’ Then he looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Never tell a soul what I’ve told you.’ ”
The click of the latch echoed ominously in the room. Nobody spoke.
Finally, Hank cleared his throat and said, “That’s the last time he spoke about it. The next time I went to visit, he wouldn’t talk about it. He told me it was for my own protection. No matter how hard I pleaded, he refused. I’ve kept that secret all these years, knowing your family probably still had the spyglass somewhere on that farm. I think your great-grandpa would want me to warn you, Mitch. There was a reason why he wouldn’t tell me the story behind it. I’m sure he’d want me to protect you for the same reason. I can’t go to my grave thinking I put you in harm’s way.”
Hank handed the diary and box back to Mitch.
“That’s all I can tell you. But I never forgot that conversation.”
The nurse came into the room again. “Okay, folks. I think Hank has had enough visitors for today.”
It was then that Mitch noticed the grey pallor of Hank’s face—worse than when they’d arrived. And his hands seemed to tremble more as he stuffed his handkerchief in the pocket of his shirt. Mitch worried that their conversation was taking its toll on Hank.
Mitch and his dad stood.
“It was great to meet you, Hank,” Mitch said, and Hank took his hand and patted it.
“You too, son.”
“Take care, Hank.” His dad shook the old man’s hand. “And thank you for speaking with us. At least now we have a little more to go on.”
“It was my pleasure,” Hank replied, leaning back in his chair. “If your grandad was right, Ray, you and your boy might want to put that back where you found it and forget all about it.”
“We’ll think on that.”
His dad draped an arm over Mitch’s shoulder. They started to the door. It wasn’t until they got to the truck that either one of them spoke.
“Do you think what he said is true?” Mitch asked.
His dad started the truck and pulled out onto the street.
“It seems a little farfetched, son, don’t you think? My dad never mentioned a word of it to me. I’m pretty sure he didn’t know anything about it.”
It was silent inside the truck as they drove through town. Mitch replayed what Hank had told them over and over in his head. Something had happened to his great-grandpa after his boat had been torpedoed. But what? His great-grandpa claimed he didn’t remember where he’d been for six months. But was that the truth? And why did he keep disappearing all those years later? The journal only went up to the night before the torpedoing of their boat. But somehow it and the spyglass had both made it out, unscathed, with George. Maybe people were right and his great-grandpa was loony.
Mitch sighed. With nothing more to go on, the mystery of the spyglass wasn’t going to get solved.
His dad pulled the truck into the driveway and turned to Mitch.
“I know you’re disappointed we didn’t get any more answers, Mitch. But some things in life will always remain a mystery. It’s best if we return Great-Grandpa George’s things to where we found them.”
Mitch knew his dad was probably right.
But this was one mystery he couldn’t let go of.
Chapter 9
Mitch rubbed his eyes as he made his way downstairs the next morning. He hadn’t got much sleep. He tossed and turned most of the night thinking about the journal and spyglass. Just as dawn was breaking, he fell into a troubled sleep. He dreamed he was walking by himself in the desert. Each time he reached the top of a sand dune there was another to take its place. Sweating and thirsty, he finally collapsed in the sand . . . only to have bandaged mummy hands break out of the dune and grab him. That’s what had woken him up.
He couldn’t help but think they were missing something. There was a reason his great-grandpa had kept a broken spyglass for all these years . . . but what? If the spyglass was useless, why wouldn’t he have given it to Pops? Or Mitch’s dad? He had bought it as a gift for Mary. But something told Mitch he’d never given it to her. That was strange. There had to be more to this story than George had told Hank.
“What’s the matter with you?” Alyssa asked as she poured cereal into a bowl. “You look like you were run over by a truck.”
“Nothing,” Mitch grumbled into his own bowl, not looking at her. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”
“They went down to the barn. Something about getting some pens ready for your pigs.”
“They aren’t my pigs,” Mitch shot back. “I don’t even want the things.”
“Sounds like you’re getting them anyway. Besides, you have a lot in common. Like the way you eat.” She gave him a disgusted look as he shovelled cereal into his mouth.
Mitch stuck his tongue out at her.
“Exactly,” she answered.
They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence. Mitch put his bowl in the sink and went back to his room.
The spyglass box lay next to the pillow on his bed. He opened the box and took it out. The morning sun shone on the dull brass, making the symbols clearer. Mitch rubbed the tail of his pajama shirt on the metal, removing some of the tarnish. He rubbed harder, but nothing more came off. Leaving the spyglass on the bed, he went down to the kitchen and started rummaging through the cupboard under the sink where his mom stored her cleaning products. If his dad was going to make him put it back, he might as well get a good look at it.
Alyssa was still sitting at the table.
“What are you looking for?”
Mitch ignored her question and kept looking. He’d seen his mom using some kind of paste to clean the silver tray she�
��d unpacked. Maybe that would work on the spyglass too.
“Mitch! What are you looking for?” Alyssa came over to stand by the cupboard.
Not having any success, he finally told her, “That cleaning stuff Mom used to clean the silver tray.”
“It’s not down there, you doofus. She keeps it in her room to clean her jewellery.”
Grabbing a rag out from the cupboard, Mitch headed for the stairs.
“It’s on her dresser,” Alyssa called after him. “What are going to do with it?”
“Polish my jewellery,” Mitch answered from the top of the stairs.
“Jerk!”
Mitch found the cleaning paste easily and took the container back to his room. It took him a minute to find something in his unpacked boxes to pop the top off the tin. Sometimes a jackknife came in handy.
The paste smelled horrible. Mitch wrapped a corner of the rag around his finger and dipped it in, like he’d seen his mother do. He then started rubbing the paste onto the spyglass. He watched in fascination as the symbols began to appear. The first one looked like an eye. Another was like a game of tic-tac-toe. Mitch frowned. He had no idea what they meant. They didn’t look like any of the hieroglyphs they’d studied while learning about Ancient Egypt. Maybe Brock had learned some at the museum exhibit. He rubbed a new spot and found parallel wavy lines. Water, maybe? Or wind?
Mitch spent the next half hour uncovering the symbols on the first section of the spyglass. They didn’t make any sense. There were arrows and lines and dots and shapes, but no two were the same. He polished the first section to a shine and was just about to start on the second when he heard his parents talking downstairs.
“Mitch!” his dad called up to him. “Come down here for a minute.”
Mitch huffed in frustration. “Coming!”
He laid the spyglass and rag on his nightstand and went downstairs.
His parents were at the table having coffee. Mitch sat down and waited.
“What’s up?”
“Your mom and I have got the pig pen ready to go. I thought maybe you’d like to come with us over to Jeff Clark’s.”