The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (24 page)

Her voice faded out, John’s mind swimming with implications. Did Grandpa Joe know his property sat on an ancient mound? Ms. Collins said it hadn’t been “completely” excavated. Had it been
partially
excavated, then? John looked around at his classmates; everyone else seemed to be recovering from the shock of such new, important information much better than John was. He felt Candy watching him and when he turned to her, she offered a sympathetic smile.

“Creepy, huh?”

He nodded. It was a lot more than creepy, though. Maybe it was different for John, since his family owned a large part of that mound. How could he not have known anything about it?

Does Grandpa Joe have more secrets than I thought? Grandma Pearl, too?

Ms. Collins crossed to her desk and picked up her copy of their assigned textbook. She began thumbing through pages marked with florescent tabs. “Turn in your text to page…154.”

John lingered before reaching for his bag.
Yes, they must know about it.

Most of the class had not yet unearthed the heavy books, so there was a general clatter of scraping chair legs and rummaging in backpacks. Ms. Collins waited and watched, while books were thumped on desks and pages were flipped through. One by one, students opened to pictures of intricately carved stone sculptures and finely painted shell gorgets.

“What do you see? Look at the craftsmanship, notice how skilled the artists were.” Ms. Collins nodded at begrudging murmurs of assent from her students. “Now, turn to page 158.”

John flipped through the next few pages, mildly interested, but he froze in consternation when his eyes focused on the next illustrations, in a table explaining the meaning behind a list of artistic motifs. His eyes went immediately to the “tri-lobed” symbol, which looked like three circles joined, melded into one at the center. He had seen it scratched all over his grandfather’s drawings, running through some of the animal faces like tattoos. John figured they were just random doodles at the time, but he had wondered about a decorative motif within such otherwise hideous drawings. Now that he saw the design in another context, he was chilled to the bone. The description read, “The Tri-lobed Motif functioned as a serpent marking and may have symbolized a supernatural ability to travel from the Underworld to the Celestial World.”

John ran his finger down the list and found another familiar symbol. The Swastika. Also prominently featured in Grandpa Joe’s nightmares. John had tried to ignore the Swastika when he saw it in the drawings, feeling ashamed that his grandfather used the Nazi symbol. But, next to a depiction of the Swastika, the caption in his book read, “Symbolizes the creative, generative power of the Underworld.”

Where would Grandpa Joe have even seen this stuff? And why would he be drawing it?
John recalled the grisly, screaming masks, the primitive, sharp claws and teeth, and the savage tears through the paper. He felt his head start to swim and his blood go cold.
He does know about the mound. He has to.

He flipped to the next page in the text, and was confronted with a cave drawing of a winged beast. It had the horns of a stag, the face of a mountain lion, and a writhing serpent for a tail. In a flash, the same creature that John had seen in his own dream came back to him—but in fleshy, snarling realism.

The room seemed to tilt.

John muttered a quick, “Excuse me,” his hand over his mouth. He moved slowly and calmly towards the exit, though
calm
was no emotion he could hold onto.

The closest men’s room was blessedly empty. He gripped both sides of the porcelain sink and stared into the basin, willing the nausea to ebb. When his hands steadied, he turned on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water. He let the water trickle off his chin and watched it swirl down the drain, trying to regain his grip on reality. The forgotten creature—from the dream he had shared with Candy, the night he arrived in Shirley—was bright in his mind. The campfire ghost story. He didn’t embellish the ghost story with the winged monster that pounced on him right before he woke up—trying to tear out his throat—because he hadn’t remembered it before.

How did I forget that part? I must have fallen back to sleep and...

A bell announced the end of the period. John grabbed a paper towel to dry off his face and raced back to class.

§

Candy wondered if she should grab John’s backpack for him, since he hadn’t come back from the bathroom yet. She looked back towards the door. Everyone else was rushing out, ready to quit the classroom and enjoy the scant eight minutes and thirty seconds of freedom before the next bell rang for third period. She stuffed her book and notebook into her bag, then leaned over to gather John’s things.

Class over and the room mostly empty, Ms. Collins fiddled behind her desk.

Now’s the time.
Candy took a deep breath.

She had to know more about that painting of the Sendalee woman in the lodge. The photo album she snagged from Grandma Catherine’s turned out to be a gold mine; Grandpa Raymond’s mother had the black eyes, just like Candy’s. Grandpa had died before Candy was born and she’d never seen pictures of his mother. But there in the photo album, only two pages from the back, was Maeve McBride, holding her little baby boy Raymond, in 1936. Her eyes were deep and dark as night, even though she was fair. Flipping to the front of the book, one childhood picture stood out. It was one of Maeve on her mother’s lap. Black eyes again.

After so much amazing info from the first stolen album, Candy had been tingling with knowledge and trepidation. She raced back over to Grandma Catherine’s and found an even older album, yellowed and waxy and falling apart. Most of the pictures proved fruitless. But one was of a woman who was much darker than the other McBrides—black eyes and black hair. And more like the Sendalee woman from that painting. A daguerreotype. Candy carefully removed the picture from its black corner tabs and turned it over, her heart racing. There, written on the back was, “Ahnaanvwodi, 1861.”

Candy’s heart almost stopped.

When she asked her grandma about it, she confirmed the album was from Grandpa Raymond’s family. Grandma Catherine said she had never known much about the early McBrides in America. Candy could tell by the uninterested way her eyes skimmed over the photos that she was telling the truth. She went back to her crocheting without another thought to her granddaughter’s new secret obsession.

But, Ms. Collins knows everything about Shirley County history.
She had to know something about this Ahnaanvwodi person. Candy slung her bag over one shoulder, John’s over the other. Determined. “Um. Ms. Collins?”

“Yes, Candace,” her teacher said without looking up. She was stooped against the window, searching for something in a bottom drawer of flat files.

“I was just wondering. When would painting—like oil painting...” Candy shifted both backpacks. “When would that have come to the colonies…back in the early days? The first settlements?” Ms. Collins straightened up and cocked her head in question. “I mean, the Indians didn’t paint on canvases, obviously…”

Ms. Collins smiled. “You’ve seen the painting of the Ahnaanvwodi.”

Candy’s blood thickened with sudden chill.
How the heck does she know?
Oh shit.
She wasn’t sure what she could admit to without getting Sam in trouble, since he was the one with the keys to the Buffalo Lodge that day. “Er…what painting?”

“Your secret is safe with me, dear. In my opinion the lodge is a museum that should be enjoyed by all citizens of Shirley County, not the select few.”

“Oh. Well.” Candy cleared her throat. She still felt silly asking, but. “You said the Ahnaanvwodi. It wasn’t her name?”

“It’s the title of a woman who is considered to be a healer. In the Sendalee dialect, the word ‘ahnaanvwodi’ translates roughly to ‘the touch.’ In a feminine context.”

Holy crap.
“What does that mean? She could heal with a touch or something?”

Ms. Collins shrugged. “That’s the legend. I highly doubt there’s any truth to that. More likely an Ahnaanvwodi simply had more knowledge of the best healing herbs in the region. But of course, I’ve never met one, so how would I know?”

Candy could’ve sworn she saw a twinkle in the old educator’s eye before she bent down to open a lower desk drawer. When she straightened up, she had a nondescript brown book in her hand. It looked like a small text book.

Candy accepted the book from her with reverence. “Are there accounts of…how an Ahnaanvwodi would have healed someone?”

“Written accounts?” Ms. Collins frowned, disappointed. “The Sendalee relied on oral history, Candace. You should remember from last night’s homework—if you read it—that written language was only introduced by the colonists who arrived here in 1793.”

Heat bloomed up Candy’s neck. “Oh, right.”

“However, I am certainly glad that you’ve developed an interest in our town’s history.” Ms. Collins looked past her. “Glad you decided to return, Mr. Robinson.”

“Sorry.” John jogged through the classroom, breathless. “Thanks for picking up my stuff, Candy.”

“There you are, what happened?” She crammed Ms. Collins mystery book into her bag before John could ask about it.

“I’m sorry I had to leave like that.” John took his backpack off Candy’s shoulder. “I don’t know, I…felt sick all of a sudden.”

Ms. Collins set a practiced eye on John. “Do you need to see the nurse, son? You do look pale.”

“No. Really, I’m fine now.”

“It’s those morning protein shakes, John. Do you know how much artificial crap those things have in them?” Candy was happy to nag; she wasn’t thrilled about his new role as a Bobcatt football player.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. It won’t happen again, Ms. Collins.”

“Well, should you feel the urge to vomit in the future, I would always prefer that happen in the bathroom instead of the classroom, Mr. Robinson.”

“Right. Of course.” John laughed, steering Candy towards the door.

“Miss Vale can catch you up on your homework assignment.” She turned her back and began erasing the whiteboard in preparation for her next class, dismissing them.

“Well, anyway,” said Candy, leading out into the hallway. “You didn’t miss much, except some ignorant remarks about the quality of Native American art.”

She and John merged with the stream of students making their way to third period.

“Stayed behind to chat with Ms. Collins, huh? I didn’t think you liked her.”

“Oh, she’s okay—” Candy stopped in her tracks so abruptly that a kid close behind nearly slammed into her.

“Watch out,” he grumbled, elbowing past.

Candy paid no attention to the kid, focused as she was on her favorite pair of green eyes. “Sam. Hi.”

Sam had his thumbs hooked into his backpack straps, about to stroll past without stopping. Insolent eyes were locked on hers; curious if Candy would notice him, but determined not to speak first. When she called out his name, he tipped his chin almost imperceptibly and moved next to the lockers, out of the flow of traffic. “Hello.”

“Hey...uh. I’ve been looking for you. I...I didn’t see you all day yesterday,” Candy rambled, caught off guard and tongue-tied. She’d been wondering why she hadn’t seen him around, worried that he hadn’t texted or called or anything.

His face was expressionless. “Really? You should have called me.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess I could have.” She turned to John, forced a smile and awkwardly shoved him in Sam’s direction. “So. This is my friend John. He just got into town a couple days ago. We’ve known each other since we were little.”

“Haven’t mentioned me? I’m hurt.” John stuck out his hand. “Hi, nice to meet you…” He looked from Candy to Sam, waiting for a name.

“I’m Sam.” Sam took John’s hand with a firm grip, peering into his face and scrutinizing every curve. Sizing him up. John narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, sorry,” Candy said. She slapped her forehead and made a dopey face; introductions were not going as planned.
What plan? I should’ve had a plan!
“And this is Sam.”

“Nice to finally meet you. John.”

That tone.
Candy’s nerves zinged with adrenaline. Sam looked pissed.
Why? What did I do?

John looked back and forth between the two of them; surely noticing her deep embarrassment and Sam’s challenging expression. She watched realization dawn on John’s face. Then jealousy. “Yeah, you too. Sam.”

Should I have introduced him as my boyfriend? Is he? He never said…
Candy’s face was aflame; the right moment seemed to have passed.

After a few seconds had ticked by in uncomfortable silence, Sam decisively said, “Well, then.” He hooked his thumbs back under the straps of his backpack and continued down the hall. He gave a curt nod over his shoulder, “See you around.”

Candy watched him walk away from her, her mind oscillating between hurt and fury and sorrow.

“Oh,
the waltz
,” she heard John say.

She turned to him and saw jealousy change to curiosity.

Candy blew her bangs out of her eyes, hoping John couldn’t see the pulse in her neck, the red in her face. “Whatever. What class do you have next?”

“Creative Writing.” John’s face was impassive, as if he hadn’t noticed anything odd about that obviously strained exchange. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “That way.”

“I’m that way.” She motioned in the opposite direction. “Ceramics. See you at lunch?”

His brows knitted, John suddenly seemed on the verge of laughing. “Yeah, sure. See you there.”

Screw you.
Candy waved, affecting perkiness, “Bye.”

When she turned around to trudge to class, she let her head droop to one side and she heaved her shoulders in a frustrated sigh. What had she done? She glanced behind and saw John watching her, but when she caught his eye, he smiled and headed the other way.

chapter twenty-seven

Driving into Shirley from the east always shocked Aaron Walsh after he had been away for a while. He’d be driving through the gentle rise and fall of the highway, traversing mostly highlands between the taller peaks, for miles. Then, he’d round the last summit, Widow-maker Point, and then
bang!
—the valley plunged, a deep crevice in the countryside below the granite cliffs. The transition was breath-taking. He usually felt contented by the vision, flooded with memories of a happy childhood spent rampaging through the forests with friends, siblings and cousins. But not that day.

That day, the scene made him feel homesick and sorry for himself. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in a cozy lounger and watch a Mystery Science Theater marathon under blankets. He turned up the volume on a melancholy country song and let his mood settle in. Aaron reached up to squeeze Henri’s collar; he hung it from his rearview mirror after the vet had returned the collar, empty, along with other personal items. The grain of the fabric was worn and soft, slightly oily from years of use.

Henri had started out as his wife Chloë’s, dog years before, but the dog had taken to Aaron. Aaron loved to give Henri bacon treats and dinner handouts under the table. Chloë bought him for a show dog. He was a Bichon Frise with Champion lineage—his sire was actually named Champion, no kidding—but Aaron had spoiled his wife’s chances in a matter of months. He smiled, thinking about how mad she was when Henri got too fat to fit the standard. He remembered that glorious, flowing-white tail that Henri would wrap around his wrist while he petted him. Aaron had grown up with hounds and mutts, and he never would’ve imagined a fluffy white dog would or could steal his heart, but he had.

Then, Henri started showing signs of mysterious health problems. A pure bred dog after all, Aaron had tried to reason that inbreeding often caused strange issues. He took him to dozens of specialists and spent thousands of dollars on testing and treatments. Finally, he had to accept it. Henri was dying. Once Aaron decided to have him put to sleep, he made the commitment to be there with him when he passed away. He cried like a baby for days leading up to it and for days after it was done, but he was able to stroke his fur and whisper thanks in his ear, for being such a good dog. As difficult as it was, he was grateful to have been able to tell him good-bye.

Chloë was sympathetic and patient at first. But after several days of Aaron’s prolonged mourning, moping around the house uselessly, she started to lose patience. He lashed out at her for not seeing Henri’s worth as a show dog (which was ridiculous; Henri would have hated that prissy crap), and Chloë suggested a week in the mountains might help.

She was right, of course. Camping always helped heal the soul. Aaron couldn’t wait to get out there, among the elements. He’d spent too much time indoors the last few years. City life did that to you. He figured he’d stop in and say hello to Dad before he headed south, into the most secluded wilderness along Red Ridge.

“Oh, shit.” When he neared the house, he saw his dad’s car was not in the driveway. Mieke’s was. The idea of a solo conversation with that woman made his skin crawl. He couldn’t imagine her understanding his pain, remembering how she never seemed to like their family dogs and refused to take any responsibility in caring for them. He always resented that.

Aaron parked next to Mieke’s SUV and got out of the car, then approached the back door with dread. He felt around the top of the doorjamb for the key, considering sneaking in without announcing himself and falling asleep in the den before anyone noticed he was there. But, even if he could get away with that, he knew it would make things awkward later. So, he rapped on the door as he entered and called, “Hello?”

The kitchen was empty but all the lights were on. There was an opened bag of chips and half-empty glasses of soda on the breakfast table. He could hear the television in the front room and the muffled voices of a woman and man talking. Leaving his suitcase by the back stairs, he walked down the hallway to the front of the house and leaned his shoulder against the entryway, taking in the scene.

“‘Sumpin lack at’—did you hear that?” Mieke pointed to the television screen and then enunciated clearly, “Something like that.”

It wasn’t a man, Aaron was surprised to find. “Yes, yes.” The boy next to her nodded and scribbled on a pad of paper.

“See? ‘Uppin awr.’ That should be pronounced ‘up in there,’ but that’s not really correct grammar anyway.”

“Yes.”

Mieke and the boy whom Aaron assumed to be their new foreign exchange student, were sitting with their backs to him on the sofa, watching some reality show that apparently took place in a pretty backwoods southern community. The characters’ hillbilly accents were so thick that there were English subtitles at the bottom of the screen.

“Having trouble with the accent here?” Aaron asked.

Mieke jumped, grasping her chest and turning around with terror in her face. Something told Aaron she wouldn’t have been showing the kid that show if his dad had been home. Recognizing Aaron in the doorway, she broke into a smile, flicked off the television and rose to greet him.

“Aaron. Hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Hi, Mieke.” He gave her a perfunctory hug, looking over her shoulder. The kid was waiting with his hands in his pockets, his gaze averted to allow them privacy while they embraced. “You must be the new foreign exchange student. I’m sorry—Dad told me, but I forgot your name.”

“Oh, this is Antonio di Brigo. Antonio, please meet my step-son, Aaron.” Mieke held out her hand to welcome Antonio over, and he came around the couch to hug Aaron just as she had.

“Hi, Aaron. It’s nice to meet you,” Antonio said clearly, looking to Mieke for approval.

“Yes, that’s much more natural now,” she assured him. “I’m just helping him work out some quirks, you know. Learning to speak the language fluently is a big part of the program. He’s already fluent, just a little rough around the edges.”

Antonio raised his eyebrows in question, and Aaron supplied in the clearest American English, as accent-free as he could make it, “Rough around the edges means unrefined.”

“It could be smoother.” Mieke made a smoothing gesture with her hands. She flicked her shiny black bob away from her eyes and chuckled. “But, like I told you, American girls will love your Italian accent.”

Antonio nodded with a revelatory smile, and though Aaron wasn’t sure that he had understood every word, he certainly got the gist.

“Look, but don’t touch, though, right Antonio?” she laughed, and shoved him on the shoulder with manicured fingertips.

“What do you mean?” asked Aaron.

“Oh, that stupid Stephanie Jameson brought over a written declaration yesterday, stating that Antonio would refrain from dating any under-aged girls. She insisted he sign it. Because he’s nineteen, you know? Isn’t that ridiculous?”

“Seems like that could be difficult to monitor,” Aaron guessed. When he was in high school, most parents were pretty clueless about the sexual diversions of youth.

“Anyway, I told Antonio that being forbidden would only make the girls want him more, right?”

The two snickered companionably, clearly having shared more than a couple private jokes between themselves already.

“Um, actually Aaron…” Mieke turned to him and cocked her head in solicitation, then touched his forearm. Aaron flinched—she wasn’t much older than he was himself and physical contact with her was always a little creepy when Dad wasn’t around. “I’m glad you’re here. I need to get to the pharmacy before it closes and I can’t take Antonio with me. He has some friends coming to pick him up for football practice in a little while. Will you watch him, while I slip out?”

“Sure,” Aaron shrugged, not sure why a nineteen-year-old needed watching, but always happy to see the backside of Mieke. As soon as she left, he plopped down on the sofa and flipped the television back on in hopes of catching more of the show they had been watching.

I don’t have an accent, do I?

The show had already ended. He searched his mind for something to talk about with the kid while flipping through channels.

“So, school lets out early, huh?”

“The last for me is house school, with Mieke.”

“Oh, homeschool? Cool.”

He flipped past a dog show and his stomach lurched. There was no way this foreign kid would see him cry. “Want a beer?” he ventured, but they were interrupted by the doorbell. “Hold on, lemme get that.”

Cursing Mieke for her insistence on keeping the house on lock-down, Aaron searched for the key to the deadbolt and found it in a brass box next to the coat hooks.

“Just a minute,” he hollered.

He finally fit the key into the lock and lugged the heavy oak door open to find a pretty, black-haired young woman on the stoop. He thought she wore a little too much make-up for a high school girl, but what did he know? It looked like a style, with thick ‘60s eyeliner, red lipstick and bangs trimmed short.

“Hey there, you here for Antonio?”

One plucked, penciled eyebrow shot up in surprise. “Why, yes I am. Were you expecting me?”

“Yeah, Mieke said friends were coming to get him.”

“How interesting.” She leaned in to give Aaron a better view of her cleavage and he backed away, embarrassed to feel things coming to life down below his belt. “Hey, Antonio! Your friend is here.”

Thankfully, the two kids went straight to the guesthouse, where Antonio probably kept his football gear. Aaron waved good-bye and forced a fatherly smile.
Her lipstick is the same color as her heels. Fire-engine red.

He shook the idiocy from his brain, shut the front door, and leaned his back against it. He savored a long sigh of relief. Things were going better than he had dared to hope; only fifteen minutes after arriving, he was blissfully alone. No Mieke, no foreign stranger. Leaving his suitcase where it was, he fetched himself that beer from the fridge and headed down to the basement den. He left the lights off, turned the television on, and kicked his feet up in the lounger. He pulled a fleece throw over his legs, aching with the absence of a warm, fat dog on his lap.

“Oh, Henri.”

Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks as he flipped through channels.