The Ancestors

NOTE: Coming soon are my thoughts on The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. Still trying to sort my thoughts out on that one so I can sound astonishingly profound rather than inspidily obtuse. Hopefully, I’ll get it straight soon.

Until then, I thought I’d post the first chapter of my new WIP (work in progress for you non-writers), as I haven’t posted anything here in quite some time. This is a previous work that I’m converting to first person narrative. Fairly unedited. Be warned.

The Ancestors © 2011

Chapter 1

It was the search for my ancestors that lead me to it. And, in a sense, I did find them, but just not how, or who, I expected.

I came back to the place of my birth on the headwind of a late spring storm — the worst kind of tempest. For two days it snowed in a diaphanous curtain of white, until the snow was heaped in great caches against doors, and gathered precariously in the corners of window sashes; the snow drifted across the mountains, floated down into the valleys, blew across the flats in bilious mounds of white, and collected on the banks of the river; it spread like a downy blanket over rooftops, and clung to the rough surface of brick buildings; it swept across roads, and clung to the eyebrows and lashes of the few intrepid travelers who dared to venture outdoors.

I found myself trapped on top of the mountain, in the doublewide trailer of my estranged, and recently deceased, father. It was more comfortable than I had imagined and even provided a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains, but it was too close to the cemetery for my liking. It was a family cemetery, but those lost souls were still unfamiliar to me and it gave me no comfort. I had come to bury my father, but there would be no funeral until after the storm, I knew. My father’s sudden demise offered me a chance to further my research and, for that small benefit, I was grateful.

It was the snow that forced me underground, or should I say, into the cellar to look for food. I had rummaged through all the cupboards and cabinets in the trailer, but they reflected a drunk’s priorities and neglect; all I found was a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. Not only was there no food, my father had died with the propane tank almost empty. I soon had to make my way to the old homestead, as Owen Bradley, the real estate lawyer, had called it. He told me my father often rented it out to the occasional hunter, or the overflow of tourist from the Rhododendron Inn during the annual Bluegrass Festival. It sat a few hundred yards to the east. I could see the chimney jutting invitingly above the snow. Swirls of snow curled above it like wisps of smoke.

After I tunneled my way through the drifts, I stood on the porch, breathless and sweating, and hesitated, not knowing what to expect. When I finally nudged open the door to the old house, what I saw did not displease me. I swept the tight beam from my small flashlight across the space in front of me. Straight ahead, through a narrow opening, I could see a long rectangular table surrounded by chairs. A mounted deer head hung on the opposite wall from where I stood. I quickly jerked the light away from the grotesque thing with its large accusing eyes. I could swear they stared back at me. To the left was a well-used fireplace and beyond was a bedroom with it’s own fireplace that shared the one chimney. I walked into the dining area and noticed another bedroom to the left. To the right of the long table was the entrance to a kitchen with an old-fashioned wood-burning stove situated close to the back wall, and there was a red water pump next to the sink. The kitchen held a modern refrigerator, but I didn’t take the time to open it. The electricity had been out for two days; whatever might have been forgotten was surely spoiled by now. The house was not large, but every room was adequate and functional.

Tracing my way back through the dining room, I saw a door on the back wall that opened onto the yard, and, on a small table next to it, sat a propane lantern. Luckily, it still had plenty of fuel, and there were several packets of matches in the drawer underneath. I lit the lantern and immediately went to start a fire. When I first entered the house, instead of a pile of wood, I had noticed a large bucket of coal on the slate apron of the fireplace. It took me more than a few tries to get it started, and, even then, I wasn’t sure if the fire had taken hold. The coal produced little flame but seemed to be generating a lot of heat. The black chunks emitted an occasional ticking that sounded strange to my ear, but there was something about the smell wafting up from the burning coals that seemed vaguely familiar. Where had I smelled it before? It fired a memory synapse deep in my brain that left me uneasy. I could feel the black coal dust heavy on my face. I knew that if had a mirror, I would laugh at the sight of my own image. But I could only see my hands. They were filthy.

Suddenly, I craved water. Not only for cleaning my hands, but to quench my thirst. I knew a person could live a long time without food but only a short time without water. With all that snow outside, I would have plenty of it, as long as the coal held out. Eating cold snow if you were already freezing wasn’t a good idea.

After I melted a sufficient amount by resting a large kettle near the fire and making several trips outside with another, I found soap and cleaned my hands and face the best I could. Then I took the lantern and went back into the kitchen in search of something to eat. Luck was not with me. Again, I found nothing, despite a thorough search. I went to stand by the fireplace and felt grateful, at least, for it’s warmth, when I spied something through the window jutting out of the snow near the west side of the house.

I was sweating again by the time I’d cleared all the snow from the door of the root cellar. What I had seen from the window was the small roof-like structure that protected the trap door. I pulled the ring to lift the wooden covering with my left hand and held the lantern in my right. In the small circle of light, I saw an opening in the ground, with rough planks set into the earth for steps. And a thick curtain of cobwebs. I let the trap door flop backwards with a loud thud, slashed through the cobwebs with my freed hand, and stepped carefully down into the dank darkness.

It is what I find here that begins my real journey. The one I never expected. Hidden within the damp dirt walls of the cellar is the key to mankind’s existence. But I didn’t know it then. I only thought I’d found some mementos of my family’s past.

I started a careful search to the left of the steps and soon discovered a large mason jar hidden in the back of a deep niche. When I brought it nearer to the lantern, instead of preserved food, I saw papers and trinkets through the grimy glass. I found it curious and couldn’t wait to examine the contents. Even though I was hungry, I tried to twist off the lid, but it wouldn’t budge. Resigning myself that exploring the contents would have to wait, I continued my search. At the back of the cellar, I found two rows of mason jars this time filled with apples and green beans, which looked luscious to me. I placed a container in each of the pockets of my parka, and held tight the third larger jar as I made my way back to the house. Next time I would bring a basket, or bowl, so I can carry more, I decided.

Once in the house, I ignored the two jars filled with food but, instead, turned my attention to the other. I pried open the lid, leveraging the tines of a sturdy fork under the rim to help break the seal, and spilled the contents onto the dining room table. Spread out in front of me were letters, correspondence written during the Civil War between my great-great-grandparents. I recognized their names from the little I had been told or had read while researching my ancestors. At first I found it odd that these items would be stored in the root cellar, rather than in an inlaid wooden box, or some other special holder. Then I saw the prudence of it: my grandmother preserved their history in the same way she preserved a harvest. What safer place for buried memories?

Scattered among the letters were other mementos, meaningful to the two of them in ways that I could never understand. I picked up one curious object and twirled it between my fingers. Even then, my ancestors must have worked in the coalmines, I thought.

Suddenly, my hunger overtook my curiosity. I abandoned the contents of the keepsake jar, and turned my attention to the canned food instead. Back in the kitchen, I pried open the jar of apples and pulled a wedge out with my fingers. It was delicious, if cold. I was now so famished that I didn’t take the time to warm the fruit but stood pulling wedges dripping with juice out with my fingers, until I had to grab the fork sitting on the counter to reach the contents. I ate until I’d had my fill.

It was soon dark, and the house that seemed so warm and inviting at first now seemed like a brooding animal. It creaked and groaned; banged and whined. The corners grew darker and took on a dangerous feel. Logically, I knew that there was no one lurking in the shadows. The snowstorm held back the good intentioned as well as the bad. But I was starting to see the incredulity of my situation – far from home with no cell phone service, alone in a strange house and snowed in by, what even I recognized, as possibly the biggest storm of the century. I had packed what was left of the Jim Beam in my backpack when I first made my trek to the house, and thought about taking a swig of it to wash down one of the Xanax I always kept in my purse, but thought better of it. Instead I washed the pill down with a glass of melted snow.

The pill did its magic and that night I slept peacefully in the living room on the couch. Luckily the evil-eyed deer was hidden from my vision. In the morning my mood had brightened. The snow had stopped falling, but the ground — and everything above — was covered in a thick white layer as far as I could see. It played with the cloudless sky, creating an effect like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I stepped off the porch into the yard and raised my arms, as if I could touch the deep blue dome that seemed to cover the globe like a lid.

I wondered, then, if Owen Bradley would remember I was up on the mountain, alone. How anyone could rescue me from the storm, I had no idea.