The Mirk and Midnight Hour (17 page)

“Who does the lair belong to? Really.”

“Some rich man from New Orleans had it built for his hunting lodge. He named it Carter Hall, but Rush and Laney and I always called it the Lodge. The owner didn’t use it long, and it had already been abandoned for years when we found it. Many a happy day we spent there. We were careful to never mention it around grown-ups for fear they’d order us not to go inside again. It really wasn’t the safest spot to play, but we didn’t care a pin for that.” I hitched up my skirt and stepped into the pool to drag the canoe ashore. Seeley took off his own boots and jumped out. Bathtub-warm water caressed our calves and ankles.

We replaced our boots and climbed up out of the little gulch, using fern-sprouted stone ledges that almost seemed planned for such a purpose. Something grew on them that released a wild, wet, heady scent when we crushed its leaves beneath us.

For just a moment, at the top, with the forest so tangled and overgrown even this early in the summer, I worried that I wouldn’t remember the route. But when I stopped thinking and thrust through the dense undergrowth, somehow the right way beckoned. Perhaps there remained a nearly invisible thread of path that I unconsciously recognized.

“Sorry,” I said after I accidentally let a plumy pine branch whip back into Seeley’s face. “It makes you admire the first settlers, doesn’t it? If they left the rivers behind, everywhere they went was like this. When we used to come here, Rush always carried a scythe to cut through at the beginning of the season.”

“Let’s bring one next time and I’ll use it.” Seeley chopped at some vines with the side of his hand.

He trotted ahead now, jumping over clumps and darting here and there. I was glad his red cape was easy to follow from a distance. I could only hope we weren’t wallowing in poison ivy and picking up ticks.

“Wait!” I called when he got too far ahead. “You don’t know where to go.”

He paused impatiently, his cheeks flushed and his body tense with eagerness. Suddenly the way was easier and I stopped in my tracks. We had stumbled on a clearing, with wild grasses trampled down all around and with only one great tree left standing near the middle. It had grayish bark, a twisted, gnarled trunk, and very prominent aboveground roots. Nearby, a wide ring of stones circled the blackened remains of a huge bonfire.

An eerie sensation crept over me. This evidence that people, not long ago, had lingered on this spot made me uneasy. On our many
trips here in the past, we had never met another soul. Bushwhackers, deserters, and other dangerous flotsam and jetsam of war all came to mind.

“Who could have been way out here?” I whispered. “And lit such a gigantic fire?”

Seeley’s eyes grew large, and I realized my voice had taken on a spooky tone. I hastened to reassure him. “Probably hunters. Hunters tromp around everywhere.” Except why would hunters need such a big cooking fire?

And then the words of Miss Ruby Jewel echoed—“They dance around a bonfire at dead of night in the middle of the woods.” The VanZeldts. Even though Shadowlawn was over a mile away, it was still the closest habitation. This might even be Shadowlawn property since the doctor now owned many acres stretching along the river.

My disquiet mounted as we approached the Lodge. The route was too effortless to lead to a building abandoned for years; a path had been cut through. Had someone taken up residence?

The structure still stood two stories tall, although the roof had caved partially in. A sapling grew where the roof was missing, and vines shrouded the windows. I blew out my breath in a little sigh of satisfaction. No one could be living in this ruin. Clearly the place was as empty as it had been on that long-ago day when we first discovered it.

It looked much more derelict than I remembered, and every bit as romantic. There was something both frightening and beautiful in the decay. Built of half-timbered plaster and bark-covered logs, these walls had been erected in no typical local style. Instead, the
Lodge reminded me of some haunted, fairy-tale manor house. Its eaves were low-pitched and its windows (amazingly, mostly intact) were diamond-paned.

A bird flapped up out of the dark hole gaping where the chimney had tumbled down and broke the spell. Seeley shuffled his feet and tugged at my sleeve. “Look!” he cried, pointing. “Ears!”

Grub-white, half-circle lichens clustered in the rotting center of a log in the wall. They did indeed resemble a garden of grotesque ears feeding on the old wood.

He plucked two and held them up against his hair. “I’ve got ears in the back of my head.”

“That’s supposed to be ‘eyes,’ ” I said, wincing at the sight. “ ‘
Eyes
in the back of your head.’ You look … disgusting.”

He grinned and offered me a set. When I shrank away from the misshapen things, he chased me with them. I ducked and ran into the trees, slowed from the burden of the picnic basket, my flapping black skirt, and my ill-fitting boots. We were snagged by briars and smacked and scraped by branches as we dashed. My bonnet fell back on its ribbons and bounced against my shoulders. The snood beneath was ripped from my hair by a twig. I stuffed it in my pocket, letting my wispy locks fall loose. Finally we ended up, breathless, back in front of the Lodge.

“It’s perfect!” Seeley yelled. “A perfect robbers’ lair.”

I put my finger to my lips. “You’d better hush if you want to surprise the villains,” I said, and then added, “Mr. Heath Blackstock, sir.”

“Aw, villains are always so stupid they wouldn’t even notice
you
clomping around.”

I pretended to thump him on the head, and we stifled giggles.

Mingled with the creepers clambering up the walls were yellow climbing roses. The air was sweet with their perfume and murmurous with bees. I wondered if they were
my
bees. Seeley plucked a bloom and presented it to me. I thanked him and tucked it behind my ear.

In spite of the general decay, the Lodge’s walls still stood straight. I assured myself there’d be no danger for us to enter. The plank door had fallen from the hinges. It leaned over the entrance now. I lifted it out of the way and cautiously poked my head inside.

A clear, dim green light filled the front room. It was as it had been seven years earlier—empty except for rubble on the sagging floor, clinging dirt daubers’ nests, and a pale, ghostly rag of a curtain dangling over one window. It had made us sad that every last stick of furniture had been removed from the place. The staircase had collapsed, which was just as well since I didn’t want Seeley trying to go upstairs into that dark, precarious space. We picked our way through the debris to the doorway opposite. Our movements echoed.

A few sunbeams filtered in through veiled windows in the next room. Yes, there still stood the stumps we had rolled in for chairs, and there—I caught in my breath sharply—

A body lay against the wall.

It was a man, head tipped back and lips slightly parted, with jutting cheekbones and closed, sunken eyes. A scanty blanket covered him to his waist.

“Violet, you’re blocking the way. Let me see.” Seeley squeezed under my arm. “Gosh—is he dead?” he whispered.

Before I knew what my cousin was doing, he had snatched up a broken stair spindle and crossed the few feet to poke the body in the protruding ribs.

“Seeley!” I cried, but watched, frozen, as the man jerked and groaned and his eyes slowly fluttered open. A pulse beat visibly in his throat. Alive, then.

“Who’s here?” he murmured.

I grabbed Seeley’s hand and stumbled backward and would have run out but my feet wouldn’t take me. All I could do was stare.

The man lay on a pallet of pine boughs. Their scent hung in the air, along with a pungent, sharp herbal aroma I didn’t recognize.

He raised himself up on his elbows. His arms were skeletal.
“Are—” His voice sounded hoarse, as if from disuse. He cleared his throat. “Tell me you’re real.”

I could see his face better now, and for a fraction of a second was caught by it. Even so emaciated, with skin like yellowish wax and with a messy growth of dark beard and greasy hair falling every which way, this was a handsome man. The lips were firm, the nose straight, the jaw square. And not old—probably in his mid-twenties.

My mouth had been hanging open. Now I closed it, swallowed, and said, “We’re real, all right. I beg your pardon. We didn’t know anyone would be at this place, and, well, you’re a bit of a shock. We’ll go now.” I tugged at Seeley’s hand. “Sorry to have disturbed you,” I said over my shoulder.

“No. Please, miss,” the man said, “don’t go yet. I haven’t seen another person except—I haven’t seen anyone in so long.”

I turned slowly back around. His expression was strained, but eager.

“Look, Violet!” Seeley cried. He had left my side and trotted across the room to nudge his boot against a mound of ragged clothing stuffed in the blackened hole of the crumbling fireplace. A tattered, filthy blue coat with brass buttons was visible. “That’s a Yankee uniform. He’s a Yankee. Maybe a deserter.”

I should have noticed immediately that the man’s accent was all wrong. “Seeley, come away now,” I said, starting for the door once more.

In a note of desperation the man said harshly, “Don’t leave!” His voice softened. “Please don’t leave. I won’t hurt you. I’m wounded. Can’t even walk. I would never harm you. Please, please don’t go yet.”

I hadn’t realized he was injured; I had thought he was only resting.
Now I saw that the stains on the uniform in the fireplace were stiff, clotted blood. Also, a sickroom smell—an odor I recognized from my work at the hospital—lurked under the other scents of the place.

He was the enemy, but an enemy helpless and hurt is entirely different from an enemy in health and power. I set down the basket.

Even if I didn’t know what to do next, Seeley did. The Christian thing. “My name is Seeley Rushton,” he said, and knelt at the man’s side. “And I own Panola Plantation. That’s near Richmond.”

“I was”—a slight tremor passed over the soldier’s features—“yes, I was in Virginia last summer. Beautiful country.”

I stiffened. Was he remembering the men he had killed and the homes he had ransacked in the beautiful country?

He raised a hand for Seeley to shake. “I’m Thomas Lynd. Lieutenant Thomas Lynd of the Fifth Connecticut.” He turned to me. “And you are Miss Violet?”

How did he know? Oh yes. Seeley had said my name a moment ago. I nodded slightly. “Violet Dancey from Scuppernong Farm, just upriver.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Dancey.” Lieutenant Lynd looked back at Seeley and said seriously, “Seeley Rushton is a good name, but I was expecting you to say Heath Blackstock, because of that daring cape of yours.”

Seeley flushed with pleasure. “You know the Heath Blackstock books? I made my mother buy me every new one that came out.” His eyes grew larger and his jaw dropped. “Wait! Your name … You said your name is Thomas Lynd. Did you …? You wrote them! You wrote my books?”

The soldier answered, “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“I can’t believe it,” Seeley said with an expression of wonder. “I can’t believe you’re right here.”

“You only ‘suppose’ you wrote them?” I asked, puzzled.

“It seems so many ages ago, it’s hard to believe it really was me,” Lieutenant Lynd said.

“Will you write more?” Seeley asked, wriggling with delight. Evidently this man was his hero.

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

I hadn’t been aware the character came from a book. How … 
interesting
that a real, published author was here in the Lodge.

“Can I see your gun and your sword?” Seeley asked enthusiastically.

“I’m afraid I don’t have them anymore. Actually I don’t have anything anymore but what you see here. I didn’t even know my uniform was over there. It’s unwearable, isn’t it?”

“Completely,” I said. “Someone’s taking care of you, aren’t they?” A tin water pail with dipper, a small covered cast-iron kettle, and a bucket (probably serving as the chamber pot) clustered beside him. I didn’t wait for his answer. “Where were you injured?”

“ ‘Where’ as in geographical location or ‘where’ as in part of my body?” Lieutenant Lynd gave a wince that might have started as a smile. “Probably both, eh? It’s hard to collect myself. To rightly recall.” His voice was deep and quiet. He drew his hand down his face, making it appear even more haggard. “It happened after the battle near Shiloh Church. Up in Tennessee. Perhaps you’ve heard about it. Terrible, terrible losses on both sides. So ironic that
shiloh
means ‘peace’ in Hebrew. Anyway, I made it through that nightmare,
but three of us rode a little ways south afterward to—to look things over.”

“To spy!” I cried sharply, holding back the tremor in my voice.

“No, miss. Forgive me for contradicting, but if we’d been spying, we wouldn’t have worn uniforms. We went just to look things over, trying to stay out of everyone’s way. We weren’t far from some northern Mississippi town—didn’t even know the name. We’d gotten off our horses to drink at a sweet little spring. Next thing we knew, a popping noise sounded and a bullet whined past my ear like a giant mosquito.” At first he spoke slowly, with pauses between phrases, but gradually the words poured out faster and faster. “Never saw who did the shooting. Something knocked me flat, and when the gunfire stopped and it was silent for a while, I dared look around. They’d left us all for dead. Wheeler’s face was in the spring, with the back of his head missing and red spreading out in the water. He died just like that. Never raised up at all. I remember thinking,
Dash it! Now we can’t get a drink
. Imagine that—thinking such a thing with my good friend not ten minutes gone.”