Miles Page 2

  Chip stared at me intensely.

  “You want more water?”

  No reaction.

  “What, you want to go back out in that?” I exclaimed, looking toward the cellar stairs, where hail bounced and rolled across the floor like spilled marbles.

  Chip huffed, and stood.

  I followed him with the beam of my flashlight as he crossed the cellar floor, and stopped at the foot of a second set of stairs. He looked back at me pointedly, then turned and climbed the steps toward the closed door at the top.

  “Chip!” I hissed in alarm, scrambling to my feet. “Where do you think you’re going!”

  Chip reached the top of the stairs, pushed the door open, and disappeared.

  I could not believe he did that! It was horrible behavior on his part, and not like him, at all. But like him, or not, and like it or not, he was out of the cellar, and inside the estate. So, now what?

  I stood there looking up at the open doorway and the darkness on the other side, as I wondered what to do.

  There were so many good reasons not to go inside this castle. As bad as it is to go through the front door of a stranger’s house by invitation, entering through their cellar without their knowledge is on a whole other level. We kind of broke and entered, and are already trespassing. I remembered seeing that curtain move, too.

  But my dog is in there. I can’t just let him go wandering around like that, who knows what he could get into. And I’ve got to admit, as crazy as Chip was acting, a part of me was crazy enough to almost be glad he was giving me an excuse to see the inside of the castle.

  I felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension as I reached the steps, and began to climb. I remembered the old saying “curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought her back.” I sure hope the second part of that is true, I thought, as I reached the top of the stairs.

  The open doorway revealed a broad, shelf-lined room with some sort of cabinet, kind of like a kitchen island, in the center. The room had to be a pantry. There was nothing on the shelves now, other than the indentation of cans and a few stains. And dust. I stifled a sneeze and hurried through the next doorway, anxious to collect my insubordinate dog.

  Beyond the pantry loomed a large kitchen. There was no wood burning cook stove, ice box, and water pump, but the space retained its antique appearance, in spite of all the modern conveniences. The dust which lay undisturbed over every surface said it was abandoned, but sometime in the past few years, not century. I continued on, following the dog prints on the dusty hardwood floor.

  That didn’t make sense… Chip’s prints crossed over a second set of paw prints. Another dog must have been here not long ago, but why? How did it get in, and where was it now? There was no evidence of human footprints, which did not disappoint me. It was spooky enough in here, already.

  Chip’s paw prints led through a butler’s pantry to a large dining room. The light from the flashlight cast eerie shadows behind the mahogany furniture. Intricately carved figures and designs, were obscured by a thick layer of dust. Heavy embroidered wall hangings adorned the walls.

  The light from my flashlight glinted off the glass doors of the china cabinet. In its reflective surface, I saw that my brown eyes were even larger than usual, my shoulder length brown hair was a mess, and my heart shaped face was pale. I looked almost as apprehensive as I felt.

  Inside the cabinet was a gorgeous display of china. It would be beautiful in the light of day, minus the dust and cobwebs, but right now the sun was no match for the storm, or the heavy window coverings. The frequent lightning flashes didn’t improve the eerie atmosphere.

  I was glad I had a flashlight! I couldn’t imagine stumbling around here in the dark. I was wishing I had my dog, too.

  I continued through room after room and hall after hall, following the trail of paw prints. Every so often the second set of prints intersected with Chip’s. I traveled deep into the left wing of the house, in pursuit. How far did he intend to go? This wasn’t like him at all.

  My heart pounded as the flashlight flickered and dimmed, then shone steady again. I needed to find Chip and get out of here before my batteries failed, but a sense of self-preservation kept me from calling out to him. I was overwhelmed with fear that someone else would answer, and if that happened, I would surely die of fright.

  I spotted Chip as he passed through yet another doorway at the end of a dark hallway.

  “There you are!” I shivered as I caught up with him, retrieving his leash from my pack, and clipping it to his collar. “What in the world were you thinking, taking off like that?”

  As I turned to go back the way we came, a lightning flash revealed the walls of the room around us, and the paintings which covered them. We were standing in a portrait-filled gallery.

  All thoughts of returning to the cellar in a timely manner were shoved aside as curiosity overcame me, and I stepped forward for a closer look.

  The portraits were amazing. I’d never been so close to original works of art before. It was interesting to follow the changes in fashion over the years as I followed the paintings, but what fascinated me the most, were the people who once lived here. I walked slowly, taking the time to read each name and study each face.

  Until the late 1800’s, the firstborn son in every generation was named Delevan. The last died in 1870.

  I stood for a moment, studying the portrait of the last Delevan Bannerman. He was stocky, with thick black hair that wanted to curl. I couldn’t decide what his eye color was, maybe gray. He had chiseled features and a firm chin, and looked serious and determined. His deep-set eyes had a look of kindness, in spite of his expression. He was only twenty-three at the time of his death. That explained why he was the last one, then. He died without leaving behind a son to carry on the tradition.

  I felt appropriately saddened by that, then moved on to the next portrait, Delevan’s younger brother.

  Miles Delevan Bannerman. MDB. He must have built the bridge that led me here. I glanced at the year of his birth and death, which were engraved underneath his name, and was dismayed by what I saw.

  Miles died the same year as his brother.

  I stared back and forth from one portrait to the other. What happened? Were their deaths connected, or was the timing a horrible coincidence? A lot of people died due to illness before vaccinations became available. Was that the cause of this double tragedy? I studied his portrait, wishing I could make sense of it.

  Miles didn’t resemble Delevan at all. He was strong but lean, with short, dark blond hair that waved back from his forehead in what resembled a modern-day business man’s cut. The laughter in his smile also filled his hazel eyes, and he looked as though he’d found the secret to happiness. The joyful light in his eyes promised if you were around him long enough, you’d find it too.

  Miles’ portrait stood out in extreme contrast to the others, whose subjects looked as though they could barely manage a smile, much less laughter. I did the math. Born in 1850, he was about my age. Only twenty years old, when he died. His eyes were filled with such life and optimism, it just didn’t seem possible he could do anything other than live. It never felt right when someone died young, all their hopes and dreams and so much potential, just—gone from this earth. Sadness washed over me.

  I stood in front of the portraits of the two brothers for a long time after that, wondering.

  The Bannermans had other children as well, a younger daughter and son, who both survived them. How sad though, to lose two of their sons. Nothing would make up for their loss, and how horrible for the remaining children to lose their siblings. As I looked at the paintings soberly, I thought of my sister. Some of the worry I let go earlier in the day, returned.

  I spent so much time on the earlier portraits, especially the two brothers, that I hurried to get through the rest of the paintings. I was anxious to see them all, but also wanted to return to the cellar so we could leave as soon as the storm allowed. I forgot my watch, but it felt like we�
��d been here for hours. The desire to explore was strong, but memories of the moving curtain continued to intrude, and left me feeling unsettled.

  Judging by the paintings, there were two Bannerman descendants still living. Polly Bannerman, and grandson Miles. He looked an awful lot like his ancestor of the same name, though younger.

  I spent a few more minutes comparing the two. The likeness was pretty close. More tragedy though, the second Miles’ parents died five years ago. He didn’t have the same joyful laughter in his eyes as the first, and that was probably why. Although, I’d never seen anyone with the light in their eyes that the first Miles had. It wasn’t common.

  Someone was here in the last five years, anyway, to have the year of the parents’ deaths engraved and added to those two paintings. I wondered where Polly Bannerman and her grandson were now, and why the house stood empty and uncared for.

  My flashlight flickered threateningly. It was time for us to go, if we didn’t want to be left in the dark.

  “Come on buddy, let’s see what the weather’s doing now,” I said, pulling myself away from the paintings. Back through the darkened house we went, past the shrouded furniture. It was fortunate the floors were so dusty, if I didn’t have our footprints to follow, I’m not sure we’d find our way back out. Pulling aside a very dusty curtain at one of the windows, I breathed a sigh of relief. If the clouds held more rain, for the moment at least, they were holding it in.

  Through the cellar, up the stairs, and we were standing in the garden once more.

  I looked back at the open doorway ruefully. I hated leaving it that way, but didn’t see an alternative.

  A glance at the sky revealed dark clouds still lurking. It wouldn’t be long before it was pouring rain again.

  Chip and I took off running for the cabin. Maybe we could make it home before then.

  Our feet flew across the garden, down the path, over the bridge, and through the forest. We kept up our break-neck pace, and made the trip from castle to cabin in a fraction of the time it took to go from cabin to castle.

  We raced across the miniscule covered porch and through the door, as rain poured from the sky once more.

  “Anika!” exclaimed Mom. She held a dish towel in one hand, and a wooden spoon in the other. A chocolate cake sat on the counter behind her. She brushed her short blond curls off her forehead with the back of her hand, and looked me over with her blue eyes. “I’m glad you’re back. I was beginning to worry, with the weather like it is.”

  “Yeah, pretty crazy. The forecast was for clear skies. It came out of nowhere,” I said, washing my hands at the sink. Ouch. The abrasions left on my hands after clinging to the ledge, didn’t appreciate that.

  “What on earth happened?” Mom asked, giving my muddy clothes a concerned glance. “You look like you got in a fight with something. You’re not nearly as soaked as I expected, though.”

  “I slipped and fell, and Chip and I found some shelter. Are we having company tonight?” I asked, glancing at the cake and conveniently changing the subject, at the same time.

  I rationalized that Mom would be happier not knowing about the fall that could have led to my death when the cellar door collapsed, and I’d be happier if I didn’t have to explain where Chip and I spent the afternoon.

  “Yes, Uncle Mark is driving up with your Dad. They’ll be here in a couple of hours. Go get out of those filthy wet clothes, then come help me with supper.”

  I hurried out of the kitchen and through the living room. Chip sank down in front of the warm fire with a deep sigh, and closed his eyes thankfully.

  I quietly shut the door to the tiny room I shared with my sister, so as not to wake her, then took off my muddy, dirt stained clothes and changed into a t-shirt and jeans.

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror which hung low on the wall. For most people that would be a problem, but not for me, since I’m only five foot two inches tall, anyway.

  I quickly brushed my hair. The side swept bangs which were still in the process of growing out since my last haircut, fell across my large brown eyes as they always insisted on doing. That was the one feature I thought slightly remarkable. The eyes, not the unruly hair. That, could do with some taming. I mercilessly smoothed it all back, and corralled it with a clip. I put on my belted sweater, quietly set my brush back on the dresser top, and returned to the kitchen.

  “How’s Doreen?” I asked.

  Mom sighed.

  “Tired. Headachy, joints hurt… shortness of breath, but maybe that’s from the higher altitude. About the same, I guess. I’m anxious for the appointment with the new doctor to get here. I’m really praying he’ll know what she needs.”

  “Me too.”

  If another doctor said nothing was wrong… I wasn’t sure which of us would wring his neck first. There would be a line.

  “Here, fix a salad,” Mom said, “then vacuum the living room.”

  “Sure, Mom,” I replied, as I hunted through a cabinet for the large wooden salad bowl.

  “How was your hike?” Mom asked.

  “Really great,” I said enthusiastically. “It’s beautiful out there. The leaves are changing colors, and there’s a stream. It was awesome. Chip loved it, he had the best time.”

  “Well good,” said Mom. “I think this is working out really well for us all. Even though I do miss your Dad during the week.”

  “Yeah, me too, but it sure beats how it was,” I said, as I chopped bell peppers and onions.

  “No kidding,” Mom said with feeling.

  I finished the salad, and found the vacuum in the living room coat closet.

  The cabin wasn’t large. It was built to vacation in, not live in, like we were doing. It beat the horrible apartment we’d been in before moving here though, so no one minded the tight fit. It didn’t take long to vacuum the small space either, who could complain about that!

  I dusted the furniture for good measure. I was almost finished, when my three-year-old brother, Tryon, stumbled in. His blond baby curls framed his face and his big brown eyes, which lit when he saw me.

  “Hi, Anika! Read to me, please?” he begged, holding out his favorite story book.

  “Oh, Tryon!” groaned Mom from the kitchen doorway. She suddenly looked exhausted, and as if she might cry. “I thought you were taking a nap!”

  “I woke up!” Tryon beamed, clearly proud of this accomplishment.

  “Here, Try, if you’ll be good for just a few minutes and let me help Mom, then I’ll read you a story. But I’ve got to get done first. Okay?” I reasoned.

  “OK!” Tryon smiled in consent.

  Thank goodness the kid tended to wake up in a good mood.

  I helped Tryon climb up on one of the breakfast bar stools with a coloring book and glass of milk, then finished helping Mom in the kitchen.

  Tryon and I sat in the cozy living room, where we’d hear Dad’s car when he and Uncle Mark drove up. After reading Tryon’s favorite story twice, the car pulled into the driveway.

  “Hear that, Tryon? That’s Dad’s car! Go open the door for Dad and Uncle Mark,” I said, as I tried and failed with an agonizing pain in both arms, to lift him out of our chair. Tears came to my eyes it hurt so badly. Tryon scrambled off the chair himself, and raced to the door and threw it open.

  Mom hurried in to greet Uncle Mark, and thank him again for letting us use his cabin. Tryon held tightly to Dad’s hand, and Mom gave Dad a hug. I managed to raise my arms enough to hug Dad, too. He looked good, like the weight of the past year was lifting. Doreen walked slowly into the room, and my heart sank a little. My nine-year-old sister was even more pale than she was the day before. Dad gave her a long hug, and some of the worry returned to his eyes.

  “Why don’t we all sit down and have supper?” Mom said. “It’s ready, and on the table.”

  Dinner was excellent. Mom is a great cook, and the barbeque she made for dinner was exceptional. The rolls were, too. I was starving after being out all day. I could barely remembe
r eating lunch.

  After dinner, we sat in the living room, around the cheerfully crackling fire in the stone fireplace. Chip was still sprawled on the wood floor, dead to the world.

  “There are times when I really appreciate paper plates,” Mom said as she sat down.

  “Me too,” I agreed.

  Tryon held his book out to our Uncle Mark.

  “Read to me, please!”

  We all tried, more or less successfully, to stifle a groan. Uncle Mark raised his eyebrows, looked back at Tryon, then raised his hand to his chin as though in deep thought.

  “How about one story, and then to bed? If I remember right, it’s about that time.” Uncle Mark looked to Mom for approval, and she nodded.

  After a reading of Tryon’s favorite story, which we could all recite from memory, Mom put him to bed, then rejoined us in the living room.

  “This is such a beautiful place. How do you stand not living here all the time?” asked Mom.

  “Well, work, for one thing!” Uncle Mark laughed. “It’s a little far for a daily commute. And I admit, I do enjoy living in the city.”

  “The buildings in Cedar Oaks are so cute,” said Doreen, who was curled up on the couch next to Dad.

  “Yes, many of them were built long ago. The city is determined to keep that old-time atmosphere, so there are strict building codes. Tourism is important to the survival of the town, and that helps attract visitors.”

  “Do you know anything about this area’s history?” asked Dad.

  Uncle Mark thought briefly.

  “I did hear an interesting story recently. It’s about a wealthy family who built a castle on the mountain many years ago, not far from here… The House of Bannerman.”

  My eyes widened in surprise.

  “The estate was built by the Bannerman family after emigrating here from England in the 1700’s. It resembles an English castle, and is very impressive. You’ll have to drive by and see it sometime, while you’re here.

  “In 1870, two Bannerman sons, Delevan and Miles, lived there with their family. The brothers were best friends. Delevan was older, and more serious. He was a handsome fellow. But there was no question Miles was the handsomer of the two. There wasn’t a girl around who didn’t do everything she could to try and get his attention. But Delevan wasn’t jealous, in spite of his brother’s popularity. They worked well together, and as I said, were best friends… and so the story is all the more tragic.”