---

An Unlikely Partner

Chapter 3

---

“Do you think the Ghost will come back if we go up to the gate again?” Esther asked. She shoved a fork full of scrambled eggs into her mouth and gulped a glass of water.

Herbert played with the bacon in his hands, but his appetite had fizzled.“Maybe somebody closed it.”

“Who’s gonna go back up in the woods behind our house?”

He shrugged.

Esther flicked a spritz of water from her glass at him. “What’s your problem?”

“I just don’t get why you want to go back up there.”

“‘Cause I opened it, Herb. It’s only right that I close it. ‘Sides, I like that Ghost. He seemed really nice. I want to see him again.”

Her brother shuddered. “You’re crazy.”

“You’re both crazy for even talking about it,” Marian interrupted. Like her brother, she had a hard time moving beyond simply staring at her breakfast. “Look, we have today off ‘cause of that Teacher Work Day. I’m happy to not have to see Aaron or that school for a long weekend. Let’s just enjoy—” 

“We may as well see if the Ghost comes back,” Esther implored. 

“We aren’t going back,” Marian demanded.

Esther scowled playfully, then rolled her eyes at her uninspired siblings.

Springing from the living-room, the children heard a strong, intimidating voice from a news reporter dashing all hope that their problems would resolve on their own. Mrs. Dolor rested her feet on the coffee table, sipping a glass of garbanzo bean coffee, nibbling on a biscuit, and watching the morning news.

“It’s Halloween in March!” A woman with blonde curly hair, wearing a red blouse, reported from an obscure pasture on the southeast side of Maryville. The wind was blowing through the stringent grass, and a loud red and blue semi roared by on the far side of the forty-acre pasture. “…Reports of Tsul ’Kalu, also known as the Cherokee Devil have begun popping up in the Blount County area over the last twenty-four hours. Those unfamiliar with the legend will know the monster as something akin to the Smoky Mountains’ Bigfoot.” 

The Dolor children glanced at one another and dashed from their chairs, racing to the living-room to hear more. They crouched behind their mother on the couch and watched anxiously. The video cut away from the Blonde Reporter and showed images around Maryville, Montvale, Chilhowee, and Happy Valley, street signs and four-way stops, local Mom-and-Pop shops, rough bars, empty schoolyards and quiet homesteads. The woman’s voice continued, “Reports seem to be sporadic and random in location and persons…” 

The video cut to a clip of a skinny man, with no shirt and a Tennessee Volunteers hat, standing in a field along Six Mile Road. His lips were moving, but the audio wasn’t up on his clip. 

The female reporter continued. “…Local reports came during the midnight hour last night —” 

The skinny man’s volume rose. “That’s what I seen, yeah,” he said confidently. “It looked like a big hairy man—but he was humongous—standing right there, right over there, on toppa Jeff’s house…” 

A second clip appeared. This one of an obese elderly woman in what appeared to be a nightgown with pink and purple flowers, holding a chihuahua. “Oh, I’ seentit many timesin ma life.” The woman closed her eyes as if she was remembering. “…eight, ten- feetall, easily. ’t can jump s’high as a five story buildin’. And ‘tit’s mean a ‘sa far’cracker. I ‘ouldn’t be surprised if ‘tit’s mad a t’all ‘em loggers and killin’ all t’e elk.” 

While the woman and reporter conversed, the video cut to historical looking images of drawings and stock-footage of Cherokee people, erroneously blending both West and East Nations. The drawings showed interpretations of the Cherokee Devil—a snowy-white Bigfoot character with bright white eyes and massive shoulders—bringing dead deer to an old woman and her daughter at night, followed by another of him walking away into the forest with the young woman.

The stock footage disappeared and the Blonde Reporter returned, holding her mic and smiling pleasantly. “Blount county officials are asking that any sighting of what may be the Cherokee Devil be reported immediately and that citizens try not to engage. Sheriff Kirk refuses to comment on his personal beliefs, but does, however recognize the strong possibility that any animal of this size should be considered dangerous.” 

The video cut to a man sporting a crewcut haircut and recently ironed uniform, standing in front of a gas station and Gondolier Italian Restaurant. “Look, I’m not saying this is or is not real. Obviously we have received a lot of phone calls last night and this morning…” The footage quick-faded to another clip of the Sheriff. “—Very real possibility it is a large predator, maybe a black bear that has lost its fear of man…” Quick-fade. “—Also strong possibility this is a person dressing up, whether for a prank or even mental issues…” Quick-fade. “— Call your local law enforcement, keep a distance and don’t try to get a good story for your friends.” 

The finished clip cut back to the Blonde Reporter, smiling. “Tsul ’Kalu’s legend is famous all over the Smoky Mountain region,” she said. “And though sightings have been reported in the last decade, nothing has come close to the proportion and volume of those occurred in Blount County last night, with over sixty-three calls made to local law enforcement officials, so much so that they have this reporter wondering if this is, in fact, not a hoax. Only time will tell if Tennessee’s new mystery resident is one of fact…or myth. I’m Wendy Lawrence, reporting live from Maryville, Tennessee.” 

The shot cut away to the studio. A man in a suit with black hair was smiling. “Wow, that’s incredible stuff, Wendy,” the man said, patting a stack of papers in line with each other and placing them on the table in front of him. “In other news, at the Smoky Mountain Deer Farm—” 

Click! The television turned off. 

Mrs. Dolor took a sip of coffee and eyed the T.V. suspiciously. She tapped her lips and murmured to herself something the children couldn’t understand. Turning around, she was amazed to discover all six of her children’s eyes glued to the blank television. “You alright?” she asked. 

“Uh, yes!” Marian replied. 

Mrs. Dolor laughed. “Hey, I’m sick of unpacking boxes,” she said. “Let’s do something fun! How about we go for a drive through the mountains?” 

The children sighed, desperate for the distraction. 

---

The mountain peaks rolled over the horizon like blue and green waves, slate and sandstone faces jutted out in brash strength, a bald eagle hovered on the wind like a frozen monument of glory. Down the road and through the valley, the Dolor children traveled with their mother, up high hills and creeping down steep faces, a flurry of green, brown, and gray as trees and rock passed by. The children laughed and stared in wonder at the Smokies’ majesty. The car sped through a tunnel and the world became dark and mysterious, the children cheered. 

After an hour, the children had forgotten every ounce of their worries and fear. And the snow cones Mrs. Dolor bought them were icing on the cake. Seated outside the snow cone hut, the children licked their dessert and listened to their mother’s fanciful stories about her childhood with her Cherokee grandmother.

“Did you know my Ama used to bring me up here when I was little?” she asked, gazing across the valley at foggy, rolling mountains and hilltops.

The children shook their heads.

Their mother nodded and smirked, as if she could see her grandmother now. “She would tell me wonderful stories. My favorite was about—oh, how do you pronounce it? It’s been so long. Kana…Kananeski Anayehi!”

“What’s that?” Herbert asked, unceremoniously biting into his snow cone.

“She is the water-spider that brought fire to Cherokee Nation.”

“Really?” Herbert put his cone down as if entranced. “Did God tell her to do that?”

Mrs. Dolor giggled. “Maybe!” She sighed and looked across the valley again. “I loved when my Ama brought me up here. She was a good grandmother. She used to call me her golden child.”

Esther smiled and held her mother’s hand. “Tell us the story.”

As his mother tried to remember all the details, Herbert noticed a thin, pale man in a top-hat staring at them from the hardware store parking lot across the street. The awkward gaze sent chills down Herbert’s spine as this man would not stop gawking at him, leaning on his cane, tapping his pristine shoes, and smirking.

“Ess,” he whispered and nodded at the man. 

She glanced over her shoulder, her smile turning to concern when she saw the Top- Hat Man. Marian and her mother looked with her but could not see anyone from their angle. Before the two youngest children could point him out, he had vanished amidst the sea of parked cars and trucks. 

“Oh, I guess it’s nothing,” Esther said. 

---

“But what if it’s not ‘nothing’?” Herbert asked. 

The three children sat in the grass under the massive sweet chestnut in their yard, fiddling with sticks and dead leaves. The light was still fresh in the morning sun, the coolness hadn’t yet turned hot, and dew shimmered in the shade. Marian looked up the hill to the Smoky Mountains. From here, she could barely see the gate still propped open and foreboding as ever. 

“What else might have come out of their last night?” Herbert continued. 

Esther nodded forlornly.

“But what do you want to do about it?” Marian bellowed.

“Should we tell Mom?” Esther suggested. 

“No, the last time we did something like this was when we got caught taking oranges from Mr. Wayne’s orchard and we all couldn’t go outside for a week. I’m not telling on myself until I know it was even our fault.” 

“Who else’s fault could it be?” pleaded Esther.

“Maybe we should go talk to that Ghost again,” said Herbert. 

Marian laughed derisively.

“Or Aaron?” added Esther.

“That’s even worse than the Ghost!”

“Well, he saw us do it and seemed to know about David Crockett. I was in class with him yesterday. He doesn’t seem as bad once he quiets down.”

“Yeah, but when is that?” Marian argued.

Esther scowled. “Fine! I’ll go talk to him. I’m tired of you saying ‘no’ to everything anyway. Herbert is right. We need to do something. And talking to Aaron might be the best bet we have.” 

“Esther, wait!” Marian begged as Esther stormed toward her bike and pedaled down the street. Herbert glanced back and forth between his two sisters before cringing at Marian as if to apologize, and raced off after his second oldest sister. 

Marian gave up and chased after them. “Ugh! Fine!” 

---

“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, mockingly. “And that 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 it 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 sucker-punch me agin?” He rubbed his bruised jaw and smirked. “Pretty good right hook, though.”

“Is there anyone else who can help us?” Esther asked.

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

“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 side of the house, and a beaten down Nova sat on cinderblocks in the dirt driveway. 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 over one of his 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 much, but Aaron snuck there often on his bike. 

When they entered the house, Marian sneezed from the odor 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. 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. 

“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. Snow cones and ice-cream in one morning was unbelievable. 

Mr. Mewbourn had a way of taking his time letting others get to why they were visiting, which only slightly bothered the Dolor children. 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 bonded 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. “See, some snakes are dangerous, but they are never trying to hurt people. See how ca’m he is. Real perdy, too, ain’t he? I’m gonna take a drive up to Cades Cove and let him go later. Get him away from all these people round here so he don’t get accidentally smushed.” 

Mr. Mewbourn not only made his own ice-cream, but grew his own Gala apples, too. He gave one to each child, who greatly enjoyed it, and offered the Dolors take a bundle home for their parents. 

When he had finally plopped down into his reclining chair, the children knew he was ready for their questions. 

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

“We-all war hoping ya could tell us’n ‘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.” 

“I learned in school 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.

“It’s okay, dautie,” he said, shutting his eyes again.

“Well, 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 the minute glances as irritation and felt silly. She stood to her feet. “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 gazed at the old man. “If a Ghost did belong to David Crockett, no doubt it would have to be here. Because this is where he really died.” 

Marian glanced at Aaron, who was smirking. “I don’t understand,” she said. 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 had begun to believe he had fallen asleep. Then, suddenly and violently, his eyes shot open and he leaned forward on his knees. 

He dove passionately into a story. “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,” whispered Marian.

“Why did they call him that?” Esther 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 to Tennessee with something called the Pardo Stone.” 

“What’s that?” Marian 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 confused. 

“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 ’67.” Mr. Mewbourn sprung from his recliner and approached a small dusty bookshelf. There were several books on it: Twain, Poe, Doyle, Lewis, and London among others; he ran his frail fingers over the 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 Myths of the Cherokee, and began thumbing the front section of it until he came to a marked page 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 likes ta sleep a law,” Aaron muttered. 

“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.” 

“What is?” asked Esther.

Mr. Mewbourn sighed. “Well, all of it, my dautie.”

“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 dragon, 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 finally 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 steps and the screen door slapped shut, Mr. Mewbourn shot forward and cried, “Don’t forget to take some apples!” 

---