Ghost Cave

Ghost Cave

Barbara Steiner

For my nephew Mark Daniel,
who took me into the cave,
which was the beginning of my addiction
to the underworld
.

1

T
HE
R
EWARD
P
OSTER

For the second time in a week, Marc felt he had to escape from home. Maybe it was the rain, the rain that had kept him prisoner in the house. School had let out, promising freedom. Then a week of rain had followed. It didn't seem fair. But then nothing in his life seemed fair lately.

He grabbed his yellow slicker. It was too small, but at least it would keep off some of the water. Jamming an old straw hat onto his head, he rolled his bike into the driveway.

Bluedog looked at him with her funny amber eyes, wiggled and whined, smiling an eager “Let's go!” look. Marc leaned over and tried to hug her, but she was in no mood for hugging. She tugged loose, bouncing and barking, impatient.

Marc laughed. He didn't know what he'd do without Bluedog. She seemed to be the only family member he could count on these days.

“Yes, girl, you can come.” One foot on the pedal, Marc swung his leg over and coasted down the drive. He didn't think his dad had heard him leave. Or if he had, he wouldn't care.

Pine Creek was one of those small towns built around a square. Instead of a courthouse or a railroad station in the center, it had a park dotted with huge pine trees and bordered with magnolias.

He cut across the park, threading his way between the two picnic tables. A park bench, usually occupied by Grandpa Howe and Ephron McCully playing checkers, was empty. Too wet for them, too. A row of magnolias dripped, beads of water trickling down their shiny leaves. The week's steady downpour had eased, but the world smelled waterlogged.

A small crowd had gathered around the town bulletin board. It announced band concerts in the park, summer classes at the recreation building, lost dogs and cats. Marc stopped to find out what was up.

“Hey, Schaller, you see this sign?” Howard Moon hollered at Marc before he got close.

Howard Moon, nicknamed Mooney, was a pain in the you-know-what. Surely he could see that Marc had just gotten there and hadn't read the sign. Marc ignored him and squeezed in between Grandpa and Ephron, to see what Mooney was so excited about.

REWARD:

Fifty dollars, cash money, for information leading to the discovery of any Indian graves in Franklin or Johnson County. I would prefer the graves be left undug, but I'll buy any relics newly found if I can see their location.

ANDY BESLOW

Collector/Dealer

Signed this tenth day of June, 1954.

Fifty dollars! Boy howdy, anyone would be excited about that amount of money. But Marc held down his desire to run right out and start looking. He pretended to be casual about the whole thing. He sure didn't want Mooney getting the idea that he knew where any relics were.

“Who's Andy Beslow?” he asked instead. Mr. Daniels was the only collector and dealer he knew around Pine Creek.

“Beslow's a professor down there at the university,” Ephron McCully told Marc. “I figure he's gotta be desperate for some Indian relics. Why, I remember when you could pick 'em up in any farmer's field around here.”

“Yep, there were plenty of flint spears and arrowheads over at the river, under the bluffs,” Grandpa Howe added. Alex Howe wasn't Marc's grandfather. Everyone in town had called him that as long as Marc could remember. He was a good person to consult for Pine Creek history.

“You figure on taking up that Andy Beslow's offer, Schaller?” Mooney asked, acting real friendly.

Right away Marc was suspicious. Mooney was no friend of his. He was the biggest kid in fifth grade because he'd flunked third two years before. He didn't have any friends unless you counted Otis Kruger. Otis was what people in Pine Creek called “poor white trash.” His father stayed drunk all the time, and nobody knew where his mother was. Sometimes Marc felt sorry for Otis. But he'd never wasted one minute feeling sorry for Mooney.

“I don't know,” Marc said, acting casual again about the poster. “How 'bout you?”

Mooney could see that Marc hadn't bought into his friendly act. “Naw, too much work. But everyone in town knows you're the expert. Maybe I'll just let you find something for me, Schaller. You and your kiddie friends do the legwork, and I'll help you collect the reward.”

Mooney grinned, showing the front tooth he'd broken on the jungle gym before school let out. Then he went to pick up his bike where he'd laid it on the curb. On the handlebars two canvas bags gaped, half full of newspapers. Was Mooney this late finishing his paper route? It was almost eight-thirty.

Maybe if Mooney lost his job for being late all the time, Marc could get it. If he could earn some money, he could buy some new relics from Mr. Daniels to add to his collection. Marc and his dad had the best Indian-relic collection in town except for Mr. Daniels—but then, he was a dealer. They spent all their spare time hunting and digging for new pieces. Or they had, until January.

Marc pushed the thought way down inside. He took pride in his ability to control his mind. Thinking about the past wasn't worth all the bad feelings it brought. He'd had enough bad feelings this spring to last him a lifetime.

He whistled to Bluedog, who was inspecting the park's garbage cans. They'd go see if Hermie was up.

Hermie lived behind the Pine Creek library and down two blocks. As Marc rode, he wondered about the poster. Was there any possibility of finding a grave that hadn't already been disturbed in Johnson or any other county? Boy howdy, that'd sure be a treasure worth hunting for, even without the reward.

He stood up on the pedals and pumped harder. The summer was looking somewhat better. Just wait till Hermie and Eddie heard about the possibility of earning fifty dollars for doing what they'd planned to do all summer anyway. Marc laughed out loud at the thought.

2

A P
LAN

“Hi, Hermie.” Marc entered the sleeping porch without knocking. Through the screens he could see his friend still in bed, not asleep, but reading.

Hermie pushed up his wire glasses from where they'd slipped down his nose. His pajamas were getting too small, and his belly showed around the middle. 'Course, Hermie's belly seemed to show underneath whatever he wore, since it was fairly round.

“Hey, Marc. Did you know there were three Civil War battles fought in this part of Arkansas?” Hermie put his cardboard 3-D Polaroid glasses on over his real ones and stared at Marc.

Marc laughed. They'd gotten the glasses in April when they went to watch
It Came from Outer Space
. Marc still had his, too. He and Eddie and Hermie wore them when they played outer space games. They'd heard another 3-D movie called
The Creature from the Black Lagoon
was coming this summer. They all hoped to get another pair of glasses.

Marc and his mother and father used to drive to Fort Smith to see the new movies long before they came to Pine Creek, since his mother loved movies almost better than anything. Mama even liked cowboy and outer space movies. But now his dad wouldn't go. They hadn't been to the movies together since January. Marc struggled to bring his thoughts back to the present, but it was hard to forget that Mama was in the sanatorium at Boonville—to forget she was sick and might never get well, might never come back home.

“I know of two battles: Pea Ridge and Prairie Grove,” Marc said. As much as he liked Civil War history, his specialty was Arkansas Indians, especially the Osage. They were known for being very aggressive. Sometimes he wished he could go back through time and live with them for a few days. His relic collection helped. As he studied all the tools, weapons, and other artifacts he identified as Osage, he could imagine he was back there with them.

“I'll bet you've done nothing but read since school let out, Hermie,” Marc continued. “Wasn't being promoted to sixth grade enough to make you take a few days off from studying?”

“This is not studying, Marc. I like reading this stuff.”

Hermie was only ten, while Eddie and Marc were eleven, but Hermie belonged in sixth grade just as much as they did—maybe more. Eddie wasn't a great student, and Marc studied only when he had a test. He preferred reading about what he liked instead of having some teacher tell him what to study.

Where Howard Moon had flunked a grade, Hermie had skipped one. He and Marc had been best friends ever since that October when Hermie came from second grade up to third. No one but Marc had known what to say to him. “Welcome to third grade,” Marc had said. “Do you like cars?” “Yeah, and airplanes,” Hermie had replied. “I'm making a model of a 1926 Fokker. Want to see it?” Marc had, and that was that.

“If I read any more I'm going to go blind,” Marc said, saving his news for when they found Eddie.

“Bluedog would make a good guide dog for you.” Hermie snapped his fingers. Bluedog jumped on Hermie's bed, muddy feet and all.

“Boy howdy, I sure hope your mother isn't home.” Marc looked around. “She'll kick us out of here.”

Hermie laughed and dived into Bluedog. She and Hermie rolled and wrestled on the bed. “She's not home right now, but we can't stay here today. Mom only went to a church meeting for a couple of hours. I sure wish we could hang out at your place, like we used to.”

“Well, we can't,” said Marc. “And even if we could, it wouldn't be the same.” Marc tackled Bluedog, hugging her warm, wiggly body. She barked in protest.

“I know.” Hermie pushed his glasses up. “What do you want to do today?”

“Hey, look.” Marc turned and stared at the sky. “The sun is trying to come out. I'd almost forgotten what it looked like. Let's go find Eddie. I've got some super news.”

“What is it?” Hermie grabbed his jeans and favorite red T-shirt and tugged them on.

“I'll tell you later,” Marc teased.

“Aw, Marc.” Hermie stuck his feet in old tennis shoes and flopped on the bed to tie them. “Get off, Blue.” When she leaped, Hermie pulled up his old yellow bedspread. “Mom will yell at me if I don't make my bed,” he explained to the dog.

Bluedog started to get back on, until she realized the boys were heading for the kitchen. Then she trotted to catch up.

Hermie grabbed two bananas, three store-bought sweet rolls—giving Marc the last two in the package—and they ate all the way to Eddie's.

“I want to tell both of you at the same time,” Marc said, eating the first roll. He started at the outside, turning it as he nibbled, then slipped the soft, gooey middle into his mouth all at once. “I have a great plan for the summer.”

“You always do.” Hermie stripped the first banana, tossing the peel into Gertrude Frisch's immaculate yard. Bluedog ran over and sniffed the skin, then caught up to them again. She stayed close to Hermie's hand with the squished last roll in it. “Hey, Bluedog's become a pointer,” Hermie decided.

“Yeah, she points to any and all food.” Marc laughed.

Eddie never encouraged them to come to his place except to pick him up. He had lived with his grandparents ever since his mother was killed in a car accident. He didn't know where his father lived. Sometimes Eddie talked about him, though. He bragged that he was sure his dad would come one day and take him out of this old folks' home.

“Hi, boys. Looking for trouble?” Pops, Eddie's grandfather, cackled with laughter that sounded more like wheezing.

“You mean Eddie?” Hermie asked, and laughed with Pops.

“When I was young, three boys your age didn't have to look far to get into some mischief.”

Sometimes it was hard to remember that Pops had ever been a boy. He was as wrinkled as a walnut and complained about his arthritis all the time. He and Eddie had done some cave exploring together until a couple of years ago, but now Pops said he couldn't stand the dampness anymore.