The Mystery of the Deserted Village

Ronnie was in the hayloft sliding down the piles of newly-stacked hay when he heard the car drive up into the yard and come to a stop. Spitting a mouthful of hayseeds from his lips and tongue, he ran over to the open doors and peered down into the yard.

The car was shiny and new, a big black sedan with white-walled tires. A man in a business suit carrying a briefcase climbed out of the driver’s seat and headed briskly for the front door of the house.

Ronnie knew who he was and why he was here, and his heart sank. Why did the St. Lawrence Seaway need a piece of the Rorth farm land, and why did it have to be just that part where the deserted village lay?

Of course he really knew the answers to his questions. What he meant was--why did it have to happen that way? Why did the land have to be so low that when the dam was built and the waters of the St. Lawrence River began to pile up behind it, the deserted village would be flooded?

He thought of Grandfather and Father in the parlor talking with the man and he wondered about what they were saying and how it would all turn out. The last time Mr. Evans had come in his black sedan Grandfather had gotten very angry and Ronnie had heard him shouting and thumping his cane on the floor.

Ronnie went over to the opening in the loft floor and, grasping the ladder, climbed quickly down to the bottom. It was darker below, and for a moment the boy had trouble seeing his way. He heard Beatrice stamping in her stall, and smelled the sharp, pungent odor of fresh manure.

His bare feet padded across the hard earth floor as he moved toward the barn door. A moment later he was out in the glaring sunlight, the full heat of the afternoon striking him on his bare shoulders and back.

He saw his brother Phil lying in the hammock beneath the grape arbor.

“Hey, Phil!” he called. “That man’s here again.”

Phil opened his eyes lazily. “What man?” he asked indifferently.

Ronnie squatted down beside him. “The man from the Seaway, of course. I just hope Grandfather gets hopping mad again and gives it to him good. Nobody’s got a right to just come along and tell a person he’s got to sell his land. Nobody!”

Phil closed his eyes again and started the hammock swinging.

“Of course you don’t care one bit, Philip Rorth!” Ronnie continued. “I think Grandfather was right. He said you’re not a real Rorth! ’Cause a real Rorth’s got fighting blood and a love for his land, and most of all he wouldn’t let the village go without a fight.”

Phil opened his left eye and squinted up at his brother. “All the fighting in the world’s not going to save the village, Ronnie, ’cause when the government wants something, it gets it. _Period!_”

Ronnie turned away in disgust. What could he expect of Phil? His brother had never gotten excited about anything, and he probably never would.

He headed toward the other side of the house, partly because it was shady there, but mostly because he knew the parlor window was open and he might be able to hear what was going on inside.

He passed the woodshed and swung around the corner of the house. Almost immediately he heard Grandfather’s voice. “Why, young fellow, do you know this land’s been in the family close onto a hundred and fifty years? And you come along, and without so much as a how-do-you-do, tell me I got to up and off it? Hah! Well, I’ve got a lawyer, too, to protect my rights!”

Ronnie settled down in the shade near the lilac bushes. He really wasn’t eavesdropping. He’d been wanting to weed the lily-of-the-valley bed for some time now, and this was a perfect time to do it with the sun on the other side of the house. He grabbed hold of a ragweed and started to pull it, but he stopped tugging after a few seconds so he could hear what Mr. Evans was saying.

“Mr. Rorth,” the man said, his voice like a whisper compared to Grandfather’s, “Mr. Rorth, I wish you’d try to understand. We--”

He didn’t get any further because when Grandfather was angry he didn’t usually give anyone else much time to talk. “I don’t understand, eh? Well, young fellow, I understand just fine, and just don’t you bother giving me any more of that hogwash about how wonderful it will be when big ships can come sailing down the river from the ocean to the Great Lakes, because that doesn’t touch me one bit.”

Ronnie heard his father’s voice next. “Father,” said Mr. Rorth, “it doesn’t do a bit of good getting yourself all upset like this. The Seaway Authority has told us that the water level of the lake formed behind the dam will cover the section of land where the deserted village is, and for this reason it will have to be purchased. There isn’t a thing we can do about it. Our lawyer has told us that himself.”

“More hogwash! Sometimes I think that lawyer is working for both sides and against the middle.”

The weed came loose from the ground with a suddenness that sent Ronnie reeling backward. Before he could catch himself he had crashed against the side of the house. When he looked up, there was his father peering at him from behind the screen. “Ronnie, what are you doing out there?”

“I--I’m weeding the lily of the valley,” he managed to stammer.

“Well, you’d better weed it some other time. Now go somewhere else.”

“Y--yes, sir.” Ronnie wandered away toward the front of the house. He felt ashamed for having been caught snooping, and he was peeved at himself too. He wanted to hear what happened next. He hoped and prayed that there could be something that would save the village.

Almost without thinking, he headed across the dirt road that led out to the paved highway and then he entered the apple orchard. The blossoms had faded already, and in their place were clusters of tiny green knobs with big whiskers on the ends.

A few minutes later he left the orchard and stood for a moment at the top of the bluff, looking down into the tight little valley where the buildings of the deserted village lay half hidden among the hemlocks and spruce and maples and oaks. Great-great-grandfather Ezra Rorth’s father had built the village, and had chosen a beautiful location. The brick and stone buildings were nestled comfortably in the deep ravine. A cobbled road ran through the center of the village, and Goose Brook raced along its rock-strewn course down to the St. Lawrence.

Every time he stopped to look at the village from up here on the bluff, Ronnie thought of Grandfather. When Ronnie was hardly old enough to walk, his grandfather had brought him here. For many years after that the old man and the boy had walked together down the cobbled road in the late evenings, and Grandfather had told stories of the days when the village was alive with people, and the glass furnace belched smoke day and night and Rorth glassware was known almost around the world.

Now, as always, the village drew Ronnie like a magnet. He raced down the face of the bluff, whirling his arms about like propeller blades to keep his balance. At the bottom he stopped. Now that he was here, he couldn’t decide just which part of the village he wanted to visit. He could swing on the wild grapevines in front of the gristmill, and maybe take off his trousers and go sailing feet first into the millpond. Or, he could have fun climbing around on the pile of rubble that remained from the old bakery building.

He decided to visit the old, padlocked, boarded-up building which had been the office of the Glassworks back in Great-great-grandfather Ezra’s days. He started down the path, keeping his eyes open for any big toadstools he could splatter against a tree trunk. Then he spied Bill.

His best friend was coming through the trees from the opposite direction. Ronnie put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly.

“I was just coming over to your place,” Bill greeted him. “Where are you headed?”

“No place special. Thought maybe I’d climb around on the old office building roof and maybe get a look at that swift nest down the chimney. You figuring on something else?”

“Nope.”

They started down the path together. “You know, Ronnie,” Bill said as they came to the cobblestone road through the middle of the village, “you know, I’d sure like to get a look inside that building sometime. How come your grandfather keeps it all locked up with shutters on the windows?”

“He’s had it open once or twice.”

“I’ve never seen it open.”

“I guess that’s because he hasn’t opened it up since we were big enough to remember,” Ronnie said.

“My pa was talking about it the other night. He said it’s supposed to be haunted. You believe that, Ronnie?”