Yesteryear, p.1
Yesteryear, page 1
Copyright
ISBN 1-58660-165-2
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
© 2000 by Barbour Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Truly Yours, PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover illustration by Jocelyne Bouchard.
prologue
15 August 1853
The woods are beautiful. Deep. Lonely. Isolated.
The last plank of floor was laid today. My sense of “lost” is only overshadowed when encompassed by the newness and excitement of the pending school year. The odor of fresh wood is such a heady aroma. It smells of. . .future. Truly, each step through my new classroom fills me with anticipation. . .and more than a fraction of doubt. Thoughts of my father’s warning flutter through my mind. . . “Is one of such a tender age capable of this task?” But my resolution returns—with each dazzling sunset, with each songbird’s trill.
No, in spite of the vastness of this new land, I am convinced that the Almighty placed me here for a purpose. It is that thought that keeps me from shivering in complete cowardice when the noisy coyotes howl in their nighttime ritual.
How shall I ever bear the following weeks? How shall I ever endure the solitude? My resolve set aside, I cannot help but wonder. . .is the molding and teaching of young minds to be my only life’s calling? Or is there more?
Thank you so kindly, Mr. Longfellow, for leaving that ponderous gap. . . .
“No one is so accurst by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.”
I pray it might be so. . . .
—Madeline Whitcomb
one
The fly buzzed noisily through the stifling air in the cramped office. Jack Tate swung at it impatiently with the brown felt hat still clutched in his hands.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” Bob Feldman leaned across the small, cluttered desk, inadvertently shifting a pile of papers askew.
Jack shook his head without hesitation.
Bob tilted back in the creaking chair that seemed entirely too small for his ample frame. His graying brows raised a fraction. . .then he nodded. “All right. I still think you might be selling yourself short though.”
A dubious stare was all Jack returned, followed by a lopsided grin.
“Okay, okay,” Bob chuckled. “Have it your way. What do I know? I only run the place.” He twisted around to look at the quickly filling calendar on the wall. “When’s the first group scheduled to arrive?”
Jack squinted at the dates. “I. . .uh. . .next Monday.”
The older man scribbled something undecipherable on a pad in front of him. “Good enough. And everything’s set for supplies?”
A nod.
“You’ve checked in with Paul? He has all the blacksmithing materials he needs?”
“Mm hm.”
“Looks like you’ve done your job well. . .as usual.” He offered Jack a smile of encouragement. “Just wish—well, that you could be more involved.”
Jack promptly placed the dusty hat back on his head. “This. . .is fine.” With a departing smile, he yanked open the door that always determined to stick and stepped into the hot, early June sunshine—an intense load off of his mind.
❧
She picked dejectedly at the fraying threads hanging from the knee of her tattered jeans. How long had they been out there anyway? She flopped backwards on her bed, wishing she could just go to sleep. But even that seemed to elude her lately.
From outside her closed bedroom door, she heard the voices. Talking quietly, hushed. Afraid she might hear. No matter. She already knew what they were saying anyway. The same thing they’d been saying for the last few weeks. Since the funeral—
No. She would not go there. Think of something else, anything. . . .
Soft footsteps approached down the hall.
She quickly assumed a more natural sleeping position on her small bed and took a deep breath before the knock came.
“Carillon?”
Mom.
She didn’t move.
“Honey?” The door creaked open, and the sliver of light from the hall barged its way into her self-made dungeon of darkness.
“Lon?” Dad that time.
She released a silent sigh. If they were both here, there was no getting around it. Stretching, she rolled over and squinted at them in mock sleepiness.
Approaching with a cautious air, her parents stood next to the bed. Her mother finally settled lightly on the edge, the concern in her blue eyes evident. Carillon looked away. She didn’t want to see it. She didn’t deserve it.
“Lon,” her dad started, “Pastor Jim is here. He’d like to see you if—”
She shook her head adamantly. “No, I don’t want to talk to your holy roller pastor!”
This time the sigh belonged to her father.
She took the sign of disapproval as the cue to roll back over.
From behind her, she felt her mother’s hand brush gently across her arm. Carillon didn’t pull away as she might have several months ago, but the contact didn’t strike any chord within her either. She was empty. Always would be. She was an awful human being—no, a monster.
“Honey,” Mom started, “we’re worried about you. It’s not. . . natural to stay in here like this. Cloistered.”
She remained motionless. Silent.
“Rachel,” her father said quietly, “let me.”
She felt her mother slowly move off the bed, only to be replaced by her father’s slightly larger and heavier form.
“Lon,” He cleared his throat somewhat nervously. “We’ve been talking to Pastor Jim. We think we’ve found something, or rather someplace, that might help you.”
For the first time in a long, long while, Carillon felt something. The quick surge of panic rushed through her veins as her clouded mind raced with a host of unthinkable outcomes of this conversation. They’d stick her in a mental institution, or some hospital. Or maybe jail. After all, it had been her fault that—
“Lon, do you hear me?”
She tried not to shiver.
“Turn around, please.”
For once, she didn’t have the courage to brush the request aside. There was an earnestness in his voice she’d not heard—not lately. She gingerly maneuvered herself over. But she still couldn’t meet his eyes.
“This isn’t healthy,” he began. “And your holing up in here isn’t helping you, us, or anyone else.”
“So. . .what?” she replied edgily. “You want me to throw a party? Have all my friends whom you love so much over here?”
“That’s not what we meant.”
“Of course, it isn’t. Nothing I do would be right anyway.”
He seemed to ignore her last comment and forged on. “We think you need to get away for awhile.”
Here it came. What hospital would it be? And how long would it take her to break out of it?
He laid a pamphlet down on her comforter. “We’ve gone ahead and made the arrangements for your arrival. You can pack tonight. The bus leaves tomorrow morning.”
Bus? Tomorrow? Every part of her being wanted to jolt upright and scream “What!” But she did nothing. Said nothing. It was routine now—trouble caught up with her, consequences around the corner. Until she found her way out.
But this time. . . This time it was different. She might just deserve it. Or at least need to rid her parents of her lifetime of mistakes that tarnished their lily-white name.
Apparently her parents were waiting for some sort of reaction from her. Why, she didn’t know. They ought to know by now. . . .
Her father fingered the pamphlet one last time, then tentatively reached over to stroke her hair. But he stopped a few inches from her head.
Keeping her gaze glued to the cotton comforter, Carillon watched his arm fall in resignation before the two of them left the room in silence, pulling the door shut behind them. She collapsed back onto the bed, letting the now welcome darkness envelop her once more. She heard the slip of paper slide to the floor. She hadn’t the energy to retrieve it, much less flick on a lamp to see what it might say.
No, all she wanted right now was the darkness. So no one could see her. Even herself.
❧
The long walk back to Jack’s “quarters” was quiet, pleasant. It gave him a chance to be pensive without the occasional distractions of work—and visitors. Only the varied chorus of birds provided the background for his welcome solitude.
Underneath the lacy canopy of giant evergreens and maples, he trudged along the well-worn path, finding his destination purely by instinct. He could have walked this in the pitch black of night—indeed, he had. More than a few times. Recently. . .and long ago. An involuntary shiver skittered down his back.
Sloughing off the latter portion of that thought, he came to the clearing that marked his home. Stopping, he assessed it with a critical eye, trying to see it as one would for the first time.
The small, sturdy log cabin sat peaceably beside a stand of pine trees. Behind the white chinked structure stood the weatherworn barn; a chicken coop, compl
Resuming his study, he wondered. . .was everything in place? Anything missing? All miscellaneous, unnecessary items properly put away? It just wouldn’t work to have a visitor stumble across a stash of old Pepsi cans while traipsing around the one-hundred-year-old barn’s manger.
Removing his hat and once more assessing his plain brown trousers and light colored work shirt, he nodded to himself. From here on out it was the ’50s.
The 1850s.
❧
Night time had finally come. For real. Carillon could pull up the shades in her room and let the natural blackness invade the space. Time seemed irrelevant anymore. She couldn’t measure hours, days, weeks. Even months and years were fast congealing into an abyss of bad memories and guilt. She found it preferable not to dwell on it at all. The continual hum of the digital clock and the rustling of her bedclothes were the only sounds she knew now. On occasion when she had to go into her small, adjoining bathroom, she ignored the light switch. She wanted no reminder of herself appearing in the bathroom mirror. The ghostly hush was broken only by the sound of splashing water.
Tonight there were a few stars. Faint little pinpricks of brightness in the vast expanse above. For some unknown reason, Carillon reached out and pushed open the window—just this once. Just to let a little bit of the cool night air blow on her face.
It nipped at her cheeks ever so slightly, its dampness settling around her.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
At least tonight there was no moon. Nothing to illuminate the reminders of her own stupidity, carelessness, selfishness. . . .
No wind. No movement to bring even the sounds to her—
“Carillon. . .”
Her lids flew open. Her heart stalled for a split second.
Silence.
She stood from the window seat and stumbled backwards.
“Carillon. . .”
Around the enormous lump in her throat, she managed a breath. “Evie?” she whispered.
No response.
A different, new courage overtook her. She lunged at the window and flung it open wider. “Evie?” she called desperately into the evening breeze.
Down the street, a lone dog barked out a warning. All else was still.
But she’d heard her. She knew she had.
Plucking her pillow from the bed, she propped it up against one end of the window seat and settled in. If Carillon heard her again—she’d be ready.
two
The bus jostled and swayed along the curved, tree-lined road. Carillon knew that out the rear window the last telltale remainders of the city had slipped away. . .somewhere between the suburbs and the increasing rolling hills. If she’d a mind to, she could have turned around and watched as all she knew stayed behind on some paved street while the rest of her was whisked away. Each bone-rattling bounce from the gravel path’s potholes made it more than apparent. She’d never been one to lament much of anything. That would have entailed giving a rip about something, and she didn’t. Not anymore.
It was clear why her parents hadn’t told her of their plans until last night. With such short notice there was no opportunity for her to run away—hide. Finally she was at the mercy of their “do good” ideals. She didn’t want it. She didn’t need it.
Facing a span of hours with nothing else to do, Carillon finally relented and pulled out the pamphlet from her duffel. Yesteryear. A place of history and healing.
She frowned. A place of. . .what?
The little paper was overloaded with Bible verses and photos of ancient-looking buildings. In and around them were people of all ages, apparently dressed to match the surroundings. This was where she was going? And what did they expect her to accomplish there?
She read on and discovered it was a tourist-type place. Apparently the “workers” were people such as herself. And during the summer months, people came to visit the living history museum—to see life as it might have been lived more than one hundred years ago.
Carillon’s frown deepened. She was going to have to be Laura Ingalls for the summer?
No, she reminded herself—only for a little while.
Shoving the leaflet back into the pocket of her duffel, she tried to doze as the eternal stretch of hours, which might as well have been days, finally ended and the aging vehicle ground to a stop. With the roar of the engine now quieted, the slow patter of the persistent drizzle made itself known against the dusty windows. She knew some of the others aboard, probably filled with equal amounts of curiosity and dread, were straining to see through the watery streaks what would be their “home” for the next three and a half months.
Three and a half months. . .
She still couldn’t believe her parents had pawned her off for that long. No matter. It just gave her more time to plan and execute her escape. Then she wouldn’t have to trouble her family or anyone else ever again.
In spite of her resolve not to care, she couldn’t keep her eyes from straying upward and outward, just for that initial glance.
Before she could take in much at all, a fresh-faced, college-aged girl covered in a bright orange slicker stepped up into the bus. “Good afternoon!” she said cheerily. “Welcome to Yesteryear. If you’ll all just grab your bags and things and follow me, I’ll take you into the main meeting hall where we’ll go through the orientation material. There are snacks and beverages there as well, so come on in and relax.”
Carillon studied the girl. She looked young, in a carefree sort of way. Like she hadn’t a care in the world. And why would she? She obviously wasn’t there for any reason close to Carillon’s. What did these people know about real life when they were stuck out here in the middle of la-la land?
For the first time, Carillon looked around her at the hodgepodge group trailing off the bus. She wondered why they were here.
Waiting until the last passenger had disembarked, she flung her khaki duffel over her shoulder and stepped down the aisle and out into the light rain that covered everything in a gray mist.
Her eyes settled on Yesteryear. Amid the drizzle, four log buildings of varied sizes were situated in a rectangular shape, the one long, open end of a neatly mowed courtyard facing the parking lot where she now stood. Behind all of the white chinked structures stood a continuous row of huge towering pines.
Out of all the overgrown cabins, the only two which were clearly labeled were a restaurant and a gift shop. The other two, she guessed, were the non-tourist buildings. Most likely where she’d be staying.
None of them looked genuinely old, but they’d obviously been built to seem that way. Rustic, to say the least. And not exactly what she’d had in mind for her summer months, even before Evie had—
Squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head adamantly, she bid the thoughts away. . .for the moment. It was only a matter of time until they came back.
For now she had another job to do. Another person to become. . .just until it was all done.
❧
Jack wrapped the slicker closer about his neck as he peered up from under the brim of his hat. Cold rain. The crops were never going to grow if they didn’t get any decent warm weather for more than one day at a time. The rain-slicked grass on the path had already turned his boots a moist dark brown. . .and most likely his socks as well. He’d have to remember to put more oil on the boots when he got back home later.
As he neared the building compound that housed the offices, gift shop, restaurant, and sleeping quarters for some of the staff, he heard the roar of the bus driving away, the spittle of gravel being showered back upon the road.
So, they’d made it. The first group was here.
For some reason he’d not yet been able to define, that same sense of apprehension, nervousness, and disquiet nagged at him. The same as the last five years. He’d tried to sort it out. He’d prayed about it. He knew why he was here and that he believed in what Yesteryear was doing. But it still came. Maybe not so much apprehension—more discontent. Thus far he’d been able to brush it aside as he immersed himself in the ever-present duties that needed his overseeing. It was enough—for now. Later. . .? He’d trained himself not to worry about later. What would come would come. One day at a time.
