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An Unlikely Partner

Chapter 5

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Several slow, despondent weeks rolled passed the Dolor children. These were the days when they should have been exploring their new home and town, venturing into the wild, making friends—Esther even turned twelve in this span, but was met with only a uneventful evening at home with cake an no extra indulgences or friends. A terrible gloominess hung over the Dolor children. Having been instrumental in the release of such dangerous and wild creatures upon their new town kept them up at night and deterred them from connecting with other children at school. 

Most of the dialogue around the school lunch table was about the mythical beasts roaming around town—some real, but most made up—and in a hope to not say too much or reveal their guilt, the Dolors remained disingenuous and quiet; this in turn, gave the children a reputation of being withdrawn or peculiar, and the majority of the student-body discretely spoke behind their backs or avoided them altogether. 

At home, the lack of enjoyment and respite continued; every evening, after their father returned from work, they grew more and more suspicious of his mannerisms and dialogue; he openly idolized Professor Ludwig Wolfgang, constantly quoting his speeches and copying his strange behaviors. Mrs. Dolor was never one to fear her husband’s obsessive personality, but she had begun to question the influence his work was having on him; his incessant adoration of the Professor surely brought a distaste to her liking and she more than once encouraged her husband to be mindful of how much time he was spending away from his family, reminding him they came to the country to be closer together, not further apart. 

When she noticed the children’s depressed and newfound shy mannerisms, she attributed them to their father’s absence, never once suspecting they had a deeper root stemming from the fantastical stories around town. The children had indeed tried to explain their theory of the Professor being a vampire a few more times, but it fell flat and they thought perhaps it was doing more damage than good; as each time, their parents—especially Mr. Dolor—grew further closed-minded, to the point that they themselves began to believe it less.

Marian found herself reenacting her and her siblings’ explanation from the first dinner night again and again. Had she only corralled her brother and sister a bit beforehand, she may have been able to explain it thoroughly and logically to her parents. But tensions were high, expectations cataclysmic. It wasn’t any of their individual faults that turned their parents’ ears deaf, but all of them. On more than one occasion, she had tried to convince herself that it was all a dream or misunderstanding, just as she had done the morning following the gates opening. She had wondered if her assumptions of the Professor were merited at all, or if them man was merely a creep. But in her gut, she knew there was nothing normal about him, and he must have come from the enchanted forest like the Cherokee Devil, Tsul ‘Kalu. But she had no idea how to explain it logically to a couple of adults that didn’t believe in anything supernatural. She simply gave in to watching her father closely and hoped for a moment of clarity. But it wasn’t only the threat of her father’s new boss that impeded her thoughts; always the town felt more oppressed and open to strange encounters. 

On the weekends or evenings when Mr. Dolor worked late, Mrs. Dolor would take the children out, hoping to brighten their spirits. Several times, they were often met with the encounter of a strange man watching them. Herbert noticed him first while waiting for his snow cone outside of the Home Depot parking lot; a thin, pale man in a top-hat, leaning against a cane, standing thirty meters from them, staring at them. When Herbert looked again to make sure, the man had disappeared. This encounter occurred a second time when the family was at Marjorie’s Fantastic Pets, looking at gerbils and rabbits; Herbert noticed the man outside the window and across the street; Esther saw him too and confirmed his suspicions that someone was indeed watching them. Marian was never sure of what they believed; though she kept an open-mind and found herself looking over her shoulder often at school and around town. 

The pressure came to a boiling point for the children in late May when their school year was nearly finished. After discovering Mr. Dolor would start spending nights at work away from the family, they had decided enough was enough and something must done. Soon, with school being over, their opportunity for any other help would plummet, and they had found ignoring the problem was not diminishing its effect. They decided to investigate what really happened at the gate, and that started with learning about the ghost they had met: David Crockett. They hadn’t any idea where to begin, and so enlisted the help of the only person they thought could help. Unfortunately, he was the only person they wanted the least to do with. 

“Ah, so nows you-all wanna listen?” Aaron asked, with his nose raised and mouth agape, showing the ugly inside of his mouth. The children were at the corner of Bell Branch and Happy Valley, their bikes standing between their spread legs.

“You said you wanted to help,” replied Marian. “And you said your great-grandfather might know something.”

“He’s done dead,” Aaron replied flatly. “‘nd I never says I wanna hep. I said y’all needs to figger ’t’out.” Aaron’s teeth shown through his crooked smile at Marian. “Prolly ol’ Herbie’s fault anyways—Right, Herbie?” 

Herbert blushed.

“Leave him alone,” Marian warned.

“Or what-all, braggy? You’ll misremember whar the Atlantic is agin?” 

“Is there anyone—an adult—who can help us?” Esther asked. “We’ve tried talking to our parents about it, but they don’t want to listen.”

“Tell him about Dad’s boss,” Herbert interjected.

“Shh!” Marian ordered. “He doesn’t need to know about that.”

Aaron scrunched up his face and closed one of his eyes while the other looked at the sky. “I might could knows summin.”

“Great,” Marian whispered and nearly spat in her dislike for Aaron.

The Someone Aaron was thinking about was his grandpa, Mr. Mewbourn, who lived a mile down, as the bicycle cuts through lawns, just before Six Mile Road; his house was a small shack, once a nice mobile home in a bygone era, and now surrounded by odd knicks, knacks, overgrown weeds, and garbage that he had a hard time throwing away; an old fiberglass canoe was tacked to the porch, and a beaten down Nova sat on cinderblocks was in the front yard. He was a widower that enjoyed sitting in his blue velvet reclining chair or laying on his bed. Baseball and Golf were always on his television, streaming in from one of four satellite dishes, unless, of course, one of his grandkids was over. He loved telling stories to his grandchildren, especially Aaron, whom he told all about David Crockett and East Tennessee. Aaron’s mother didn’t seem to like Aaron visiting his grandpa that much, but Aaron snuck there often on his bike. 

When they entered the house, Marian sneezed at the smell of stuffy clothes and mildew; it made Esther think of the old shopping mall in Florida. Herbert’s eyes fixated on a glass terrarium in the corner, with a long bearded dragon in it, basking under a red lightbulb. 

“Aaron, my sweet grandson!” Mr. Mewbourn cheered as he rose from his chair to hug him. 

“Howdy, Paw-Paw,” replied Aaron. 

“I see you brought friends,” said Mr. Mewbourn, while Marian smirked at Esther and Herbert. “Hello kids, I am Clive Mewbourn.” 

They each greeted him respectfully. 

“Would you like some candy?” The old man held out a jar of orange slice candies. Most kids today haven’t eaten orange slice candies, and if you ever get a chance to, you probably won’t like them; but old grandpa’s like Mr. Mewbourn seem to love them. Marian and Herbert replied, “no, thank you,” but Esther tried one. He handed her the jar, and she noticed the wrinkled tattoo of a blue anchor with the letters USN smeared across his right forearm; the old man’s disposition seemed tender, but she believed he was secretly really tough. 

“So if you two don’t like orange slices, maybe you’ll like some vanilla bean ice-cream.” Mr. Mewbourn smiled, and all four lit up. 

Mr. Mewbourn had a way of taking his time letting others get to their reason for visiting, which bothered the Dolor children at first, but later they would appreciate him for it. He showed them his bearded dragon and let Herbert and Esther feed it some crickets; Marian didn’t want to touch the insects, and Aaron had fed it plenty of times before. Esther told the elderly man about her lemon gecko, and the two laughed about the quirky habits of reptiles. 

The previous night, Mr. Mewbourn had caught a timber rattler in a large trashcan and showed it to them from a safe distance; he taught them that some snakes are dangerous, but never purposefully trying to hurt people. 

Mr. Mewbourn not only made his own ice-cream, but grew his own Fiji apples, too. He gave one to each child, who enjoyed it greatly; he offered the Dolor children a bundle to take home for their parents to enjoy as well. Though she were eager to get to business, Marian appreciated the slow manners of Mr. Mewbourn and the quality time he intentionally gave her and her siblings. 

When he had finally plopped down into his reclining chair, the children intuitively knew they could ask him their questions without appearing rude.

“What brings you over, children?” Mr. Mewbourn asked, dropping an apple core in the trashcan next to him.

“We-all war hoping ye’ns could tell ‘bout David Crockett,” Aaron replied.

Mr. Mewbourn’s eyes beamed, and he leaned back in his seat. “Oh, Crockett,” he whispered to himself, and closed his eyes. “My father told such remarkable stories.”

“We read that Davy Crockett died at “the Alamo” in Texas,” said Marian, looking at her brother and sister for affirmation. 

“Mmm,” Mr. Mewbourn smacked his lips and put his finger in the air. “He would never have been called ‘Davy’ Crockett. That’s that silly propaganda to make little children like him. Ha! They don’t know that the truth makes him so much more interesting. But go on, dear, I don’t mean to interrupt your thinking.”

“Well,” Marian struggled to find the words; Mr. Mewbourn peaked an eye open at her. 

“It’s okay, dautie,” said he. 

“Let’s say, hypothetically, a ghost of David Crockett was walking around—er, floating around—town. Why would he be in Tennessee if he had died in Texas?” 

Mr. Mewbourn opened his eyes and cocked his head at his grandson and back again at the Dolors. Marian misinterpreted it as irritation and felt uncomfortable and silly. She stood to her feet, eager to gather her siblings and leave. “Well, it’s not like I really believe that or anything,” said she. “I was just wondering. It’s a stupid question—I’m sorry. C’mon Ess; c’mon Herbert.” 

“I’ve often wondered the same thing myself,” Mr. Mewbourn’s slow voice interrupted. Marian stopped and stared at the old man. “If a ghost did belong to David Crockett, no doubt it would have to be here. Because that is where he really died.” 

“I don’t understand,” Marian whispered, and she caught Aaron smirking out of the corner of her eye. Was he making fun of her, or did he know something that no one else knew?

“The only one that ever believed me was Lucille,” Mr. Mewbourn said and closed his eyes again. “Oh, Lucille, how I miss you.” The children waited in silence. Mr. Mewbourn didn’t move for so long that they begun to believe he had fallen asleep. Then, suddenly and violently, his eyes shot open and he leaned forward on his knees. “My father was a great man! Well, he had his faults, sure. Promiscuous or violent here and there, but a long life devoted to his craft and family, nonetheless. He was an ‘istorian, and had in his possession a journal that belonged to Crockett. Well, he believed it belonged to Crockett—see, it was never signed by the man—and because of this, many wrote my father off as a forger.”

“A what?” Herbert asked.

“A liar.”

“Why did they call him a liar?” Marian asked.

“Because of what the writings portrayed,” Mr. Mewbourn said, with a twinkle in his eye. “It gave the account that David Crockett and Jim Bowie never died at the Alamo. But that they came back with something called the Pardo Stone.”

“What’s that?” Esther asked, leaning forward.

“I don’t know exactly,” Mr. Mewbourn replied, smacking his teeth and putting his hand against his lips. “And neither did my father. But you can imagine that people didn’t like him messing with their history of a great man. People don’t like it when you tell them something that changes the way they think of someone they love and trust.”

The children looked at each other knowingly. “Yeah, we know,” Marian replied.

“My father lost his license as an ‘istorian; was called a fraud and went bankrupt. But he searched his whole life for answers until he passed from hardening of the arteries in 1967.” Mr. Mewbourn sprung from his recliner and approached a small dusty bookshelf. There were several books on it: Twain, Poe, Doyle, Lewis, and London; he ran his frail fingers over their binds. “No one ever believed my father but me, and my Lucille believed me, and now I tell you what I’ve told Aaron. Ah, here it is!” 

He pulled out a book called Cherokee History and Myths, and began thumbing the front section of it until he came to a page marked and read aloud, “‘…Juan Pardo led an expedition through the Smoky Mountains in 1561.’ It says it was a short journey, and he was likely searching for silver mines. There’s not much here about him, except that the Cherokee destroyed six of his forts and left only one survivor. His Pardo Stone is called a ‘petroglyph’; a stone with carved markings all over it. My father could never make much more sense of it, and I’m sure not anyone else has either.” 

He closed the book, sniffed the air in deep thought, shrugged and sat back down in his recliner. “If you want my opinion of why the ghost of David Crockett would be here in Tennessee instead of Texas, well, I would say that’s because he never died in Texas. And I would go so far as to say it’s the Pardo Stone—whatever it is—is what has made him a ghost!” Mr. Mewbourn’s eyes ran along the ceiling as if he could see someone and he gasped, “Oh, Lucille, my love,” he whispered and leaned back, closing his eyes.

“Paw-Paw like ta sleep a law,” Aaron said. 

“Hush, Aaron, I’m not asleep,” said Mr. Mewbourn, flailing his hand in the air. Then, after a pause in thought, he said, “it is peculiar.”

“Mr. Mewbourn,” said Marian. “Why do you believe us?” 

He glanced open his eyes and smirked. “Why do I have any reason not to believe three charming children who came into my house, ate my ice-cream, met my lizard, and listened to my stories. My goodness, I don’t know many children in today’s day that would do something like that with an old man like myself. It’s what friends do—they believe each other. And we are friends now.”

Marian smiled and sighed. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so welcomed.

“I wish I had that journal,” Mr. Mewbourn sighed and leaned back in his recliner.

“Where is it?” Esther asked.

“It was given away many decades ago. Lucille begged me to let it pass to her sister-in-law and nephew. I never knew why, and that’s all a story that I’m not proud of.” He leaned back and sighed. “Oh Lucille, my love.” He shot forward again. “I should never have let it go. But after my father passed—well, it was many years after all that, anyway. I guess it was too hard to hold on to, and Lucille assured me it was in a safe place. I haven’t seen it since. But I can only imagine it passed down through the family.”

The next moment, Mr. Mewbourn leaned back and closed his eyes. He recited quietly to himself, “be always sure that you are right, then, go ahead.” 

The children thought he might jump up to help as before, but eventually, the sound of snoring crept from his nose and mouth, and they realized the old man had fallen asleep. They looked at the floor, despondent, beginning to lose hope that this adventure would never end, and in way it had hardly even started.

“I knowed whar ’t’is,” Aaron whispered, and they eagerly looked at him. 

“Well…that’s wonderful,” said Marian, half-smiling and trying to excite herself. But she had her doubts that the journal would help them that much even if they had found it.

“Stupendous!” Esther cheered. “How do we get it?”

“It ain’t gonn’ be fun,” Aaron replied. “I seen it wit’ my cous’n. Never knowed what-all it was. But nows it make sinse.” He shook his head and looked at each of them. “We -all calls ‘im Vinnie the Rat.”

As the children stepped onto the front porch and the door slapped shut, Mr. Mewbourn shot forward and cried, “Don’t forget to take some apples!”

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