C h a p t e r T h i r t e e n
Treasure
I sat up and stretched. Warmness entered into my bones at once and replaced that shivery cold I had gotten from the rain. Sun pushed through the tree branches. I stumbled to my feet and glanced around the tree. Artie was gone again.
“Why does he never wait for me?” I asked myself. I still wore his straw hat. It was warm settled on my head. My hair had now fallen completely out of the ribbon I had worn.
“Artie?” I called out, but no one answered. “Artie!”
“Argh!”
“Ahh!” I fell forward on my face and screamed like a banshee. “Artie, how dare you!” I said through light laughter. “That wasn’t very smart of you, I’m afraid. I could have broken something. I’m serious, Artie!”
Artie bent over laughing at me, which I imagined he would keep on doing for the rest of eternity. He laughed so hard and then fell on his back in the dirt.
I took off his hat and stood back up. “You shouldn’t push me like that.”
Finally, his laughter wore off and it evolved into breezy snickers everytime he attempted speech. “I—just had to,” he managed to say before hysteria overtook him again.
“Alright, alright,” I grew impatient. “Enough, Arther.”
“Yes, ma’am,” and he stood straight and saluted me.
“Why are you in such a good mood, this fine morning?”
He dramatically shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “I’m as clueless as you are. But come on! If we get there soon, then maybe she’ll ask us to stay for breakfast.”
It was not too long of a trek and at last I came into view of a large dark grey house on a nice cleared plot of land. A black fence traced around the land and marked where her lawn met the woods. We went up to the fence and stared at the house.
“It’s nice,” I said, though not awe-stricken.
“Come on,” and he opened the gate and led me through.
I felt a little intimidated as we approached the front door. It wasn’t very tall or fancy. In fact, this whole place was rather old and rusty. She probably had lived here for years and years.
Artie rapped the brass knocker against the door.
“And you know this lady? And she’s kind?” I worried. “You haven’t…”
“I don’t steal, she lets me!”
The door opened directly and one middle-aged lady stood there. “Come again, Arther?”
“Is Mrs. Rivet around?” He inquired politely.
“Yes, she happens to be. Come in,” the lady smiled at me and told me her name was “Madge.”
Madge Marie Hodge. She was more of a daughter than a servant here and was the only one employed. I guessed she spoke the truth because no one else said otherwise.
The house wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and full of many curious things. The first thing I noticed was the abundance of paintings. Dozens of them, some dim, some vivid, but all beautiful.
There were also many carpets and statues and instruments.
I saw on one wall a map of the constellations.
She loves the stars too, I thought.
We stepped into a small but comfortable parlor and the first thing I saw was a chestnut brown grand piano, sitting there in a corner, looking old and glorious.
“Oh,” was all I said. “It’s so magnificent,” and I walked farther in and took the liberty of setting myself in front of it.
“Do you play?” came a scraggly but interesting voice.
I jumped and looked across the room to an elderly lady who wore all black, sitting in a chair reading.
I left the instrument. “Not really. A little, but not anything impressive. I’m sorry for intruding.”
“Oh posh,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Artie has brung a friend,” Madge announced us.
I felt like I was in the presence of royalty, even though I remembered times where my own home was far grander than this. But this lady was an explorer, I knew. I saw it all over the walls.
“Come now,” her fingers motioned me and Artie to her. “Who is this girl?” she asked, curiously, but not snobbishly.
Artie glanced at me briefly. “Annabelle Phoenix.”
She looked me up and down and looked satisfied. “I like people who I like.”
I didn’t know if that was a compliment or the contrary.
“Oh, don’t look so injured. I like you. I don’t have to know you to tell so.”
Artie grinned at me. “About your book—”
“Do you have it? And the telescope you borrowed?”
“Not with me. But I will return them soon,” Artie promised. He looked respectfully at her, and she smiled kindly back to him.
Her head was a fine silvery grey with strands of lingering black. Her eyes were misty grey and wise. Her voice was that of a person of old age, but unique, too. It pleased my ears to hear her speak. Her accent was a mixture of things. English, yet foreign, laced with hints of the way people spoke around here.
“You look at me queerly. Why?” She studied my face like I did hers.
“You have an adventurous spirit,” I said, and felt bashful. “What made you settle down here?”
“That’s a long story,” she said, taking off her spectacles and setting them with her book on a corner table. “Robbie and I came to America together. We were young lovers, passionate, but unwise too. And we learned through our faults and settled down in many different places. We came here to see what it was like. It turned out he loved it here, but he always wanted to go back someday. We had children, built this house, and…and then my dear had his stroke, and…” she looked past me in remembrance. Her eyes were somewhere else and it made me excited for some reason. “I never left after that. I stayed here after he died and made no plans to ever leave.”
I wanted to listen to her stories; I knew she had them. Hundreds of them. I wanted to hear the stories of all of her treasures. I wanted to see them all. Hear all her tales.
Artie and I ended up remaining at her home until the afternoon. We ate a scrumptious breakfast of fruits and bacon and eggs and even scones. She told us stories and we sat on her floor looking up at her magically. I had a feeling that Artie had already heard these stories, maybe hundreds of times, but the sight of him admiring her like he was hearing them for the first time made my heart swell. I loved people who loved adventure.
I loved people who loved the things I did.
Eloise Rivet and Artie Ferguson were people like that.
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