My search for answers led me to a tome I believe can be found in the personal Library of one Professor Brighton, late of the little burg of Niverbrook in *redacted* county. A respected scholar and widely traveled, Brighton had acquired many strange books and treatises in his various adventures, and his library was reputed, by a website, to be available to visitors. Upon my arrival I was informed that the Widow Brighton was gone, visiting relatives, but expected back the following day, or maybe the next. So I found a bed and breakfast for a reasonable expense in the next town, made my arrangements, and returned to explore the little village.
At first glance the little burg is just that, a tiny hamlet apparently doomed to obscurity according to the whims of the Interstate planners, a full six miles from the nearest highway and twenty to the closest grocery store who's milk can be relied upon to not be expired. Storefronts on the two or so blocks of "main street" are vacant save for two... a barbers and a small cafe.
The "Main Street Cafe," as a dilapidated sign named it, proved to be, by my estimations, the main congregating point in Niverbrook, save perhaps for the Congregationalist church down the road. The owner/operator, a distant older woman named Sylvie, seemed shocked when I went in... I gathered it had been ages since a non-native had patronized her business. It took her a few minutes to even find a menu, and while she searched the others eyed me with a curious mix of surprise and suspicion.
None were particularly eager to talk, beyond ascertaining why I was in town and how long it would be until I left. The fact that I was interested in the Brighton library did not seem to help matters, and at least two of the five present left within minutes of me announcing that as my intention. When I asked Sylvie if I had given offense, she'd considered her answer before responding.
"Ol' Esmerelda's a good enough sort. Comes in regular and best tipper in town. Can't say as anyone was too keen on ol' Wilbur, though. Oh, he can give himself airs and call hisself 'professor' till the cows come home but ask any three old-timers in town... naught much but old-timers LEFT... and you'll find one as remembers old Wilbur Brighton, biggest trouble-maker *redacted* county ever did see.
Always curious, always digging up what ought to be buried, and 'specting everyone to be all keen to see it. Why else would leave that old website up, sayin' anyone as was fixin' to look at his weird library was welcome? Brings in some mighty odd folk- often the only strangers we'll see in a year, which is why them folks skedaddled, I suppose. If you're fixin' to see them books, then you're one of 'em, seems to me.
Now you SEEM alright... polite enough, anyway... and maybe you'd be keen on seeing something else we got around here. The opera house was built before the second world war, when Old Man Keener come home missin' a leg... they used to live in the green farmhouse I reckon you passed if you come in from the north... or maybe the old Wilkes bridge. No good for driving no more, and they put that ugly concrete slab just south of it... but that was once the only covered bridge in a hun'red miles.
Now Esmie'll be back in a day or two, but if you're willing to listen, not that I ever met a friend of Wilbur's who WAS, you'll do a bit of siteseein' and get on out of here and not wait for her. Nothing that boy ever dabbled in did anyone a lick of good, and I'm certain it was digging up evil in foreign parts what brought his untimely end. But if you're stubborn as the rest of them and stick around I reckon she'll let you in. Just be polite, she's had it hard of late, and don't move so easy as she used to."
I don't think I need to explain my excitement as I heard this speech, which matched the patterns so many of the old investigators experienced. Country locals can, I believe, be forgiven an unwillingness to delve to deep into the mysteries we pursue, no less as remote locations often seem to be the nurseries of the powers we fight. But her warning and well wishes seemed sincere enough. I thanked her and paid for the meal... a decent grilled cheese sandwich made on an ancient griddle... and then went out to see the sights as she had named them.
The Opera House was, as expected, a run-down example of late 1940's architecture. The sign in the marquee still advertised for a traveling show on a weekend over four years passed. The building wasn't abandoned, though... I saw a shadow in the windows as I read the marquee, though no one answered my knocking at the door. Likely a janitor or some such whose wages were paid by one of the trusts such buildings often had.
I then visited the green Keener house that she had mentioned and found it walled up. It had clearly once been the nicest house in town, and I found myself wondering if Keener had been mayor, or just a wealthy resident, and how he'd made his money before losing his leg in the war, which explained the dilapidated ramp on the front porch, but there was no sign or plaque bearing historical information, which was odd, as towns like these are often flush with them, like an old man rushing to write down their memoirs.
I will admit I was tempted to enter the old mansion... despite the boarded windows, the front door was wide open... but I did not wish to do so without at least the blessing of some local in a place of authority, say a policeman or at the very least old Sylvie. I cannot hope to impress the Widow Brighton with my requests if they come after being released from jail!
The Wilkes Bridge, however, WAS interesting, covered bridges not being widespread in this region or any region I know of for hours in any direction. Clearly dilapidated beyond automotive use, after a few careful steps I decided it was worth risking on foot, the stream below being quite low, and the drop being only a few feet. As I walked it's length, first on the western side, then the eastern, I noticed deep etchings in the boards over my head. I was hesitant to climb for a closer look, but found an interesting array of symbols and numbers and an arrow, followed by the letters WB.
Following the arrow, it was easy to find a loose board in the side of the bridge which revealed a tiny cubby. Inside, besides a considerable number of rat droppings, were a number of child's treasures... not the least a decoder ring which, when used, decoded the etchings to say "Wilbur's Stash, Goblins and Faeries Keep Out!"
I replaced the board and clambered back down. It seems that the Professor, as a boy, had a sense of imagination that had set him on a search for hidden places at an early age. Such minds are often the hallmark of investigators, and brought to mind a certain knot in a tree behind my parents house. I am sure I stowed treasures there, and wonder if any remain!
I am all the more eager to see what his library holds than I was when I set out to find this tiny, dying town. I drove back to the bed and breakfast, where I now sit enjoying a lovely dinner and writing this post with the host's gracious provision of free wifi.
Tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, I will have my hands on his books, and will get to see what his later searches discovered, once they were free from the childhood whimsy of his decoder ring.
--Addendum
When I mentioned the ring I remembered that I had placed it in my pocket, rather than sealed it back in the hiding place. Should I have time tomorrow, I will be sure to replace it. He placed wards, after all. Some of childhood's magic should remain safe.
No comments:
Post a Comment