Chapter 1

 

I'm crazy. Crackers. Outside my bloody mind.

I suppose there are better things to think when returning to a place from your past, but I had set my mind against enjoying my late return to the Merrill Homestead.

My outward mood might have been bitter, but part of me secretly hoped that things would be better. After all, the feature advertisement for the museum’s reopening was that the homestead was a stop on the Underground Railroad. Maybe I could finally uncover more information on the Merrill family and what they had done. Even so, some breakthroughs had already been made.

After my departure from the Homestead after high school, the historical board began doing more research on the dismissed claims of Underground Railroad activity at the homestead. A year went by before the best proof was found, thanks to online archiving, in an 1858 letter written by an African pastor in Canada on behalf of members of an escaped slave family who came through the Nebraska territory in the false bottom of a wagon. It told about how they stayed hidden for a night in a smokehouse. Beneath the smokehouse was a root cellar, accessed by a trapdoor, though they did not go down into it. The wife of the homestead had visited them and brought them cornbread in the smokehouse and they continued on their way, crossing the Missouri river into Iowa the next day. The letter also described Clara Merrill’s brother, Gil Ezra, and other of the well known abolitionist John Brown’s men who were around Kansas and Missouri at the time. It wasn’t much, but this, along with the description of the smokehouse and river crossing, was enough to leave little doubt in skeptic minds that the Merrill homestead was indeed a stop on the Underground Railroad.

I had used this information as a springboard for my Nebraska history class, when I decided to write my term paper over John Brown’s first lieutenant in his Abolitionists' Army – Gil Ezra. While most of my research was centered in the raid at Harper’s Ferry, Virginia, I did find one letter, sent by Ezra out of Iowa that somehow ended up at the Kansas state historical society, that recounted a skirmish that took place literally in the Merrill’s backyard between abolitionists and local men. The description was vague, and in reply to another letter, so I knew more information I might find would probably be local, if any had survived to the 21st Century at all.

But I tried not to get my hopes too high. I studied the cluttered museum just long enough to see that no one was present among the numerous stacks of taped cardboard boxes. I let myself into the kitchen, irritably leaving the door to slam behind me. Here I hitched up my back pack and adopted a morose game face that would cement the fact to any observers that I did not want to be there. I told myself it was because the damage done by impolite tourists and busloads of fifth graders was permanent and still haunted me at night. But, deep down, I knew the source of my defensiveness.

Four years later, and it still hurt.

Josh.

"Ah, Miss Irving?"

I turned toward the office door. A man who I instantly assumed to be my new boss stood there in dress pants and shirt with the cuffs rolled up. He was tall, middle-aged with rusty brown hair and a few extra pounds around the middle. I didn’t recognize him from town.

"Sophie," I said, holding out my hand. He shook it briefly. Too briefly.

"Melvin Greer. I've heard great things about you. This way." He turned into the office and walked toward the desk. I noticed everything had been re-furnished with modern decor in black and silver. Not a wood grain in sight, not even fake particle board. His padded office chair made an irksome squishing noise as he lowered himself into it. He continued, "Had nothing but good news from the previous owners."

I tilted my head to the side and furrowed my brow. "Non-profit foundation?"

"Yes, well, the board members. All wrote you great recommendation letters. Said you were the best tour guide around."

I began wondering if I wasn't just a way to keep the views of the board included in the new ownership. Not that I wanted my position to be the great result of some undercover museum conspiracy. I didn't know what to say, so I simply said, "Thank you."

"What else did you do, besides tours?"

"Oh. Well, I locked and unlocked, helped with displays and inventory, cleaned and fixed artifacts, researched."

"Ever use a cash register?"

"Um. Yes." Josh and I even named it Wally.

"Good. I know this is short notice, but you're hired for the season. Abolitionist's Cave is happy to have you."

"Uh... Abolitionist’s Cave?"

"Surely you know about the Underground Railroad."

"Well, yes, but…"

"And if you read any of the historical newspaper articles, you will know that the name change isn’t a lie, by any means."

It was true, they weren’t lying. The Ashford Tribune had published an article in the late 1800’s about alleged places in town where fugitives, runaway slaves, and war criminals had taken refuge before and during the Civil War. It was where the rumors about the Merrill Homestead had surfaced in the first place, and it had for a long while been the only evidence. But it was weak evidence, as most of the article contained pleas from the property owners for interested persons seeking to uncover wartime secrets to stay away. They claimed that even if people had hidden at their residencies at one time, everyone involved was either long gone or dead by then. At any rate, even though the family no longer owned it by then, the Merrill’s homestead, because of known relation to abolitionist Gil Ezra, received the most speculation in town. References to a "black den" or "abolitionist’s cave" on the property were made throughout the article. Of course, there had been other, even less-nice terminology, but luckily the new name for the Merrill Homestead was also the least offensive.

But Melvin didn’t want to talk about any of that. "We've finished a replica of the cave," he said proudly. "We hope it will draw in a lot of sight-seers."

"I see." I reached around for my backpack. "If you’re interested, I have done a little research myself…"

Greer clapped his hands once and rubbed them together, cutting me off. "Very nice, it might have to wait until after the grand opening,"

"I… Oh."

He got up, his chair issuing the same annoying sound, and headed toward the door. "Come out to the gift shop, we're trying to get it in order."

I followed him out into the main hall of the museum where a corner was packed with various boxes and bags of merchandise. A woman in flip-flops, capri shorts and pink tank top had appeared and was shifting through one of the boxes. Surrounding her was a very pungent scent of perfume that was reminiscent of a peel back sample in a fashion magazine I had sniffed once at the doctor’s office. She looked up when she heard us coming. Her face was covered with a good layer of foundation and several pastel colors were smeared across her eyelids, cheek bones and lips. To finish the look, her brown hair showcased thick, long blonde streaks of highlights and was permed within an inch of its life. Still, she couldn’t have been any younger than Greer, whose rusty locks had silver speckles under the studio lights of the museum.

Mel introduced us. "Tiffany, this is our tour guide, just hired."

The woman stood up. "Hi!" Her voice was high pitched and over excited. "I'm Tiffany. Mel's assistant."

"Sophie." I put out my hand.

She took my hand with her manicured one. If I could give her credit for one thing, her handshake was better than Mr. Greer's.

I could tell that small talk with me was at the bottom of Greer’s want-to-do list, as he busied himself unloading a plastic bag of gift items. So I took a step forward and began examining the various items being put on display.

Key chains, lip gloss, plastic swords, toy cars, and mood rings.

I wanted to ask what any of this had to do with the first homestead in Nebraska but I bit my tongue. No one was talking, so I pursued my research again. "I wrote a paper about Gil Ezra, an abolitionist and brother of the woman who lived in the cabin. He was here, several times…"

"Yes, thanks to him we dug the cave." Greer was hanging wooden slingshots on a rack.

"It wasn't really a cave," I mused out loud. I wasn't really trying to make a point, just voicing my thoughts. "It was more like a root cellar... or a tunnel, I guess." I started having better feelings about the cave. Perhaps it could serve as a truly educational experience. I continued, "Gil Ezra had to have dug it himself… he didn't have too many followers before 1855. Really, probably one of the few stops on the Underground Railroad in the whole Nebraska Territory."

"Underground Railroad in Nebraska.... And the cave is underground! Tif, make a note to print that in the pamphlets."

The better feelings vanished. "That's not what I meant. I mea–"

"Oops!"

Tiffany dropped a box from the top of a shelf and an array of neon bright bouncy balls cascaded onto the dark carpet like Fourth of July fireworks on a night sky. Greer started a clumsy retrieval, but I was less than eager to join the hunt.

"Do we have books?" I asked after my sight had failed to find any.

Tiffany climbed down by Greer and motioned. "Over in that corner somewhere."

I made my way over boxes and nudged away every bouncy ball that dared cross my path until I reached a small bookshelf in the corner. Lying on top of the short stack of books was a wooden rubber band gun. I picked it up. "Very authentic."

Greer had heard me. "Kids'll buy them by the truckload."

"And what will they learn about the Underground Railroad?"

He stood up from his chase of the elusive bouncy balls and held up the palms of his hands. I could tell I was pushing his frustration limit. It didn't take a great deal. Still, his voice managed to stay polite.

"You're the tour guide. Take your research and work it into the tour. You have my permission."

Tiffany stepped in between us and held up a bag. "Where do you want the inflatable guitars?"

I felt a twinge on the side of my face and realized how tight my jaw was.

"Over here. Anyway, Sophie, we have all the displays set up in the buildings. All the stuff was in boxes, we just placed it. You can take a look if you want." He didn't wait for a response. "In fact, could you do me a favor? I got some guys coming around to see the place before we open. Could you unlock the buildings for me quick, in case they come by today? Make sure you remember how to do everything. Uh, key sets are up by the cash register. Take one, keep it. Oh – and do you know how to get the damn register open?"

I swallowed hard and did my best to sound composed. "Do you have a screw driver?"

"What? Nevermind. Tif, make a note, we'll order a new one."

Before I had an uncontrollable outburst in front of my new colleagues, I moved over to the counter where the keys were laying. My eye quickly found the set with a safety pin strung on the ring. I grabbed it and went outside.

Without paying much attention to what I was doing, I opened the depot, fire station, schoolhouse and general store. Each key and doorknob played out like memorized lines in a play, and the crisp cool in the air kept me on course. My game plan was to run on autopilot for the rest of the afternoon, then go home and not think about it until I was scheduled to come in again.

My plan was going along fine until I came to the church.

When I reached the door, I did not simply shove it open and move on like I had with the previous buildings. Something tempted me to stop and take my time with the lock and key, to notice the peeling paint on the doorframe. Then a strange feeling urged me inside.

So inside I went, one step, into the darkened room. The scent of the church was odd to describe – like a brew of timber, dust, and sweat. You could almost feel the congregation packed into the high-backed pews. As soon as the sweet, mixed scent hit my face, it took me right back to all those hot afternoons leading tour groups, or the rare afternoon after a reenactment when my friends and I would take refuge from the sun in the tiny building, sitting on pews or the floor, chatting away without a care in the world. I remembered it as though it were only days instead of years – Josh up on the pulpit one slow afternoon, delivering a highly theatrical impromptu sermon. There had even been a real wedding in the church once. The couple had their reception in the museum.

Being the building was a church, it might not be surprising that I found it sacred. When I was in it, I somehow forgot the rest of the world. I longed to hear the echo of my voice, or my footsteps, but my legs remained motionless.

I angrily wiped the tears that slid from my eyes before they reached my cheekbones. Turning on my heel, I stomped out into the park.

Once I was outside, I felt lost. Lost and alone, always the best combination. I was gripping the keys so tightly I could feel the blood pumping through my fingers. I gazed around at the silent and motionless buildings. I looked up to the sky. Even that didn't offer an escape.

I looked down at the key ring in my hand and in a sudden outburst I threw it – flung it with all my strength as far from myself as I could. I covered my face with my hands and fell to my knees in the freshly sprouted grass.

My rage had no sooner peaked when surprisingly, a wave of fear forced me out of it.

I felt like someone was watching me. Lifting my head, I looked to the buildings that surrounded me, but had to force my eyes to focus on the darkened windows. Those scared me the most. Another surge of fear took hold when I realized that my solitary stint in the village had been rendered longer because I would have to search for the discarded keys.

I jumped up and spun around. Fear crept up my back and clung to my shoulders.

What am I afraid of? Dead people?

I'd already been through that once. Plus, that idea was ludicrous. It wasn't even sprinkling.

Rushing forward, my eyes scanned the grass for a glint of silver. Finding them, I snatched the keys up and sprinted toward the 1910 house.

I unlocked the padlock that secured the entryway door. Once inside I kicked the inside door, shoving it open on its hinges.

Kitchen.

I expected it to look like I had left it years ago, but I discovered the contrary. Every utensil and artifact on the shelves, table and counters were in perfect order – sickening, straight, immaculate order. I put my hands on my hips even though there was no one around to observe my frustrated body language.

Fear was forgotten and anger revisited. I moved in and began placing the kitchenware where I had remembered it, scattered about, not perfectly lined up – grinder thingy over here, rolling pin over there, an assortment of mismatched pots and pans on the counter. I took my anger out in messing up the kitchen. I wanted to make it feel alive.

After I had burned off most of my energy, and the cabbage slicer was where I approved, I snatched up the keys and made my leave of the house, a new game plan in place. I walked with purpose down the hill until I was standing in the shadow of the 1850’s cottonwood cabin.

"Now that I’m back, I’ll do what I should have done before. I'll tell the truth. I'll research." I knew I was talking out loud to no one, but I didn't care. "I'll find out who lived here, and do what you would have wanted." I placed my hand upon a 155-year-old log in the wall. "I promise."