The Mohegan’s Last Flameholder

Chapter 1

 Perspiration had soaked through Marybeth’s clothes by the time she pulled into Josh’s driveway. The Jeep’s fifteen-year-old air conditioning couldn’t keep up with the uninterrupted sunshine blazing through the windshield for the four-hour drive. It was 10:05 a.m. according to her dashboard clock. She’d left Pomroy early, hoping to avoid summer traffic and July heat, accomplishing neither. At least temps in Connecticut were a few degrees cooler than in Pennsylvania, but hot was still hot. And Josh had a whole day of outdoor yard saling planned for them.

She got out of the jeep, stretched her legs, and rubbed her neck with both hands.

“Hey there, MB,” Josh called as he came out the front door. “Oh-oh, long ride?” The first thing he noticed was her aura, the energy fields around her body. Everyone has them, but Josh had the gift of seeing them. He didn’t need the red glow to tell him she was irritated. He already knew from the many text messages she’d sent him on the drive.  

“Long, hot, and slow,” she mumbled as she closed the car door a little too hard. “And look at the geraniums we planted six weeks ago,” she stood looking at the mulch border along the driveway where dried leaves clung to dead plant stalks.

“I know. I’m sorry. I kept forgetting to water them. I’ll replace them all.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know. But the good news is that I’m halfway through my novel and my agent loves it.” He shrugged and half smiled. She just stared at him. “And,” he went into defensive mode, “it’s been so hot and dry this year. Look around. Everyone’s yard is suffering. Watering is only on Tuesdays and Fridays,” he pleaded. “Who can keep track of that? And half the time I was in Pomroy. Remember?”

“I know. I’m just hot and grumpy. Sorry.”

“I have the remedy, coffee’s on in the kitchen,” he suggested.

“I’ll take it.” Coffee was her magic elixir.

She exhaled with a smile as he walked over to her with open arms. She melted into his embrace. This first contact was always the sweetest moment of their visits, no matter what mood either of them was in. “I missed you,” she said.

“Let’s go inside and cool off.” They walked arm in arm to the house, despite the heat.

Seated at the kitchen table, Josh plied Marybeth with a large iced coffee and orange cranberry scones, and watched her aura soften from red to pale pink, her usual state.

“Congratulations on your agent. I know it’s a big relief.”

“And a little more pressure to perform,” Josh added.

“You’ll do it.” She washed down the scone with a gulp of coffee. “You’re half way there.”

“Surprisingly, I get more done at your place. There’s less distraction.”

“Maybe, and I get less done when I’m here, aside from the yard sales. All my tools are in Pomroy. This long-distance thing is getting kinda old.” Their two-year relationship was based on trips back and forth between their respective homes in Connecticut and Pennsylvania.

“I know, but there doesn’t seem to be a reasonable alternative at the moment. Or at least one we can agree on.”

They’d had the ‘What if’ conversation in recent months but were at an impasse on any good solution. She could leave her family and move her profitable second-hand boutique up to New Castle or he could leave his home and community of twenty years and write articles, short stories, and his next novel from Pomroy. At the moment, neither one was willing to make the move.

“Let’s not hash it out again right now,” Marybeth said between bites of scone.

“Agreed. Besides, we have some shopping to do.”

Josh was referring to their trip today over the Massachusetts border to the Brimfield Antique and Flea Market. As the largest antique market in the country, the five-day event boasted a mile of vendors along both sides of Rt 20.

“I still can’t believe this thing is as big as you say.” Her shop, One Woman’s Junque: An Antique Boutique, wasn’t so much antiques as it was gently used items and creatively upcycled yard sale finds. She usually spent the weekend hitting the local sales but Josh had convinced her that the Brimfield Flea Market would be like one-stop-shopping, ‘the mother lode, the shopping mall of yard sales’.

Josh waved off her cynicism. “Seeing is believing. We can head out anytime. It’s open until 4 today and runs for another four days so if you’re not up for it, we can go tomorrow.”

“Let’s go today so we can relax tomorrow. We can relax tomorrow, right?” She was referring to his writing.

“Relaxing for the next three days. There’s nothing that can’t wait.”

She looked up from her coffee to see a man she loved dearly, something she thought she’d never say again after her divorce. Why couldn’t they figure out this living arrangement? She took one last gulp and put her cup in the sink.

She stood behind him, kissing his neck. “Let’s go shopping so we can relax later.”

Josh stood and held her close for a long kiss mumbling something about getting home.

 ***

 Marybeth’s excitement turned to awe as they rounded the curve that brought the market into view. “Oh my God, you weren’t kidding.” Traffic had slowed to a crawl, and ahead, as far as she could see, were fields full of tents and trailers lined up end to end.

“Didn’t believe me, did you?”

“No. Who hosts a mile-long flea market?”

“Brimfield. Three times a year.”

“This is huge.”

“Yup. And this is only the beginning. It keeps going around the next curve.”

She sat up in her seat and leaned towards the windshield for a better view when she saw Josh pass by a parking lot. “Why aren’t you stopping?” Her head was swiveling around at the stalls of merchandise.

“Trust me, M. I’ve been here before, remember. We’re still a half mile from the center where there’s more parking.” She liked his new nickname for her. Her only employee at the store, Angie, had shortened it to MB two years ago, insisting that Marybeth was too long to say. Josh had shortened it yet again, to simply M.

“What if it’s full? We could just park here.”

“It won’t be. And you don’t want to haul whatever you end up with a mile to the car.”

“Good point.”

They continued to inch down the road, passing huge fields of vendors loosely organized into rows that ran a hundred yards deep. Trucks and merchandise covered every inch of field after field. Some vendors had trailers full of old junk spilling onto the ground in their allotted spaces. Most had commercial tents set up to protect against the weather. 

People were everywhere, carrying all kinds of things along the side of the road. One man hefted a coffee table made of old rusty license plates under his arm. Behind him, a woman wrestled with a stuffed rabbit bigger than she was. It looked like a dumpster rescue.

Marybeth scrunched up her face at the imagined smell of it. “You said this was an antique market.”

“It is. But it’s also anything else you can imagine.”

“And some things I can’t.”

Josh laughed. “Yeah. That too.”

He turned left into a parking lot that could hardly be seen amidst the vendors. A woman in a green vest took his money and instructed him to the far end of the lot where another green-vested person waved them into the last space at the end of the row. The spot was tucked in tightly against a tree line that ran in both directions along the field.

“Oh, great,” Marybeth sighed, “The last spot. Well, it won’t be hard to find later.”

“And no one will ding the Jag,” Josh noted, “at least not on one side.”

She got out and peered into the dense growth. “Unless it gets butted by a moose.” She loved to poke at his obsession with his car.

“There are no moose here. At least I don’t think so.”

“Don’t you wish you knew for sure?”

“Now I do.”

Marybeth let out a chuckle.

Josh opened the trunk and removed a large duffel bag with wheels on one end and a collapsible handle on the other. “Let’s go find some treasure.”

“Wow. You’re prepared.” Marybeth had thought to bring a couple of tote bags, which she now realized were woefully insufficient.

“You know me, the boy scout. This isn’t like yard saling in Pomroy, where you can pull up to the curb to load. Here, you haul it out no matter how big it is.”

“I’m certainly impressed so far.” She looked along the tree line where a small path extended in both directions. Could be an easy path back to the car, she supposed. Up in the distance, she thought she saw a wolf. 

They spent the next hour wandering through the rows in a randomly organized route, trying to keep track of where they’d already been. They passed everything from rusty nails to contemporary dining room furniture. Two truckloads of old bed frames were followed by four tables of baseball cards that were followed by antique kitchen items, some of which Marybeth couldn’t identify. She had already picked up a couple of picture frames – her favorite stock for her shop  ̶  and a few pottery pieces. The largest item, a small occasional table, hung over the pull bars of the duffel. Her other takeaway so far was photos. Whenever she saw a creative use of something, she snapped a picture of it, hoping to recreate it back in Pennsylvania.

As they rounded the next corner, Josh stopped in his tracks. Marybeth, whose eyes were checking out a pile of wicker baskets, smacked right into him, dropping the duffel into the powdery dirt.

“What the heck, Josh?” She looked up to see that this row, end to end, was lined with cars. Some genuine restored antiques, some souped-up roadsters, some classic muscle cars.

She sighed when she saw them. “Great. Welcome to Josh’s Fantasy Flea.” She picked up the duffel and stabilized the small table hanging off it.

 “Hey. Look here.” Josh hardly noticed her as he picked up his pace again. “It’s an Edsel.” Josh ran his fingers over the fender.

“Yes, sir,” came a booming voice from a man walking towards them. “That is a 1958 Edsel Corsair, one of only sixty-five known to still exist.”

“Wow. It looks great! Did you do the restoration yourself?” Josh didn’t look up.

“Every detail, inside, outside, and under the hood. It’s my therapy.”

Marybeth could understand that. Her new vocation as an up-cycler, a Maker as some were calling themselves, had gotten her through some tough times.

“She’s a beauty. M, come look at this grill.”

“It certainly is.” She wasn’t any kind of car buff but she could appreciate the work that went into it.

“It’s perfect,” Josh looked up in the direction of the voice. “You must not drive it.”

The voice belonged to a burly man with a thick brown mustache and farmer overalls.

“I do an occasional parade. Sometimes people rent it for weddings. Once, I got a request to do a lap around a track to kick off racing day.”

“Are these all yours?” Josh asked, looking down the long row of machines.

“No. It’s too expensive a hobby for that. The biggest problem is storage once they’re finished. Who has a twenty-three-car garage?”

“I can imagine,” Josh agreed. He was getting ready to launch the next question when Marybeth touched his arm.

“Honey, we have a lot of show to see.”

“Yeah, right. I just want to ask about finding parts. Is that a Jag?” Josh’s eyes lit up as he looked down the row.

“Yes, sir. A 1965 XKE convertible. Isn’t she a beauty?” Both men headed down the row to admire a perfect red and white restoration.

“Josh?” Marybeth was walking ahead of them now, looking back.

“One more minute,” Josh waved a hand without looking up.

Marybeth shook her head and laughed. “I’m moving on. Catch up when you’re done.”

“Yeah. Great. Thanks.”

 Truth be told, Marybeth was glad to be on her own. For her, yard saling was work. The few times Josh had gone with her, he wanted to wander around and touch everything, which slowed her down. She took full advantage of the freedom to pass quickly by the hundreds of vendors selling interesting but useless things, at least as far as she was concerned. She was looking for resale and upcycle possibilities, and they had to be cheap, otherwise she wouldn’t get enough return on them. She made her way quickly up and down the aisles.

By the time she turned down the last row the duffel bag was full. She was passing the first vendors when she spotted the wolf again at the tree line. It walked along the edge of the field, then seated itself beside a strange-looking man standing behind a small table who was looking straight at her. She tried to ignore him, pretending to check out merchandise, but the truth was, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. What was he wearing? A colonial costume? She wondered if he was some market tradition honoring the long history of the area. A ‘Where’s Waldo’ kind of thing. She ducked inside the next tent, out of sight, and asked the vendor about him.

“Who’s the guy down at the end?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” he laughed. “I haven’t had time to walk around. I don’t know who’s here.”

“It looks like he’s dressed like a colonist?”

“Yeah? Maybe Old Sturbridge Village has a setup. They’re just down the road.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” she nodded considering it. Josh had mentioned that there was some colonial village re-creation nearby.

When she stepped back into the alley, the man was still there, eyes fixed in her direction and rocking back and forth on his feet, heel to toe. As she looked at him, his image twisted slightly, took on a glimmer, and then righted itself.

“What?” She shook her head and blinked a few times, then looked back at the figure a hundred feet away.

He nodded to her in acknowledgment before the image twisted again, his eyes on her the whole time.

“Oh no,” she said to no one. It looked like this was going to be another one of those sales. So far, there’d been two strange yard sales, orchestrated from the other side, the dead side. She stood motionless, looking at the colonial man. Her pulse quickened. It had been almost a year since the last yard sale sent her and her father, along with his veteran friends, on a mission to save a man’s life. But this? A colonist? Really? How far back would she have to go to figure this out?

Hot and tired, she passed by the remaining vendors and headed straight for him, keeping her eyes on the wolf. For its part, the wolf remained seated slightly behind the colonist. She continued to watch the wolf who was watching her. When it remained calmly seated, she shifted her gaze to the young man.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “Not to worry, madam. He won’t harm you.”

She approached cautiously, looking him over, while he did the same to her. He wore knickers, white stocking and large-buckled shoes. A blousy shirt and ascot were partly concealed beneath a vest and knee-length coat. The entire look was topped with a tricorn hat. Before him was a small round table no more than three feet high.

She stopped a few feet away.

“Madam, I have been awaiting your arrival.” He spoke clearly and formally with a distinct British accent. 

“Is that so?” She stifled a chuckle. He appeared to be in his late twenties and struggling to own the confidence in his voice.

“It is. A descendant of mine is in need of your aid."

“Okay.” She waited for more information.

“He is a great-five-times grandson who currently resides somewhere near New London, Connecticut Colony.”

“Okay. What’s his name?” She suspected it wouldn’t be that easy.

“I don’t know exactly. He is my relative, however and my name is John Hancock.”

Marybeth was taken aback. “What?...who?...” She couldn’t believe what she just heard. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Who?”

“Mr. John Hancock, of Boston.”

Thinking that couldn’t possibly be true, she smiled and nodded. “Oh, I get it. Did Josh put you up to this?”

The man harrumphed. “I assure you, madam, I am nothing but sincere in my request. And I know no one named Josh.” He looked to the side as if attending to another conversation. “I see,” he said to the air before turning back to her. “No. Josh has not been involved in orchestrating our meeting.”

The earnest look on his face convinced her he was serious. “You are really John Hancock? The Declaration of Independence, John Hancock?”

“Yes. Yes.” He all but rolled his eyes. “And President of the Continental Congress, owner of the largest shipping fleet in the colonies and twice Governor of Massachusetts, but no one seems to remembers that.”

Marybeth stepped back. “No offense intended. I’m just a little surprised.”

“My apologies, madam.” He bowed.

“Okay, then. Tell me more.”

“I have a grandson.”

“Yes. I got that part.”

“He is the product of the greatest love of my life. A forbidden love. A love that causes my heart to both fill and break, for it was not tolerated by the social rules of my day.”

Marybeth watched his commanding posture soften as he spoke. She felt the heaviness of his story. She had her own soft spot, not so much for love but for children. “So, not married?”

“Sadly, no. And our child was raised in my absence by his mother.” John fell silent for a moment. “I have followed their spirits over these many generations, through hard times and times of plenty. My love has kept me tethered to this world for too long and now is the time for me to let go.”

It was a familiar story. Let go in order to move on. Josh’s mother had said the same thing at the first sale. So, too, had the Vietnam soldier at the second one. Marybeth wondered if it was not love but guilt that had kept Mr. Hancock tied to this world. “Let me guess. You’ve been talking to an old white-haired woman.”

“Indeed. A gracious and stately woman. She encouraged me to seek you out today and beseech you for aid.”

“Of course she did.”

“You know her then?” He cocked his head.

She hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

“Very well. It’s unimportant to me in any case.” He stood up tall again and tugged on his lapels. “I understand my grandson has gotten himself obligated to the Mohegans. It seems utterly ridiculous to me due to the fact that any trade with the tribes must go through Massachusetts Bay Company Enterprises. And to the staggering sum of 30,000 pounds sterling. Another seemingly impossible fact, equal to the net annual revenue of my entire merchant fleet.”

“Well,” she gestured around her, “things have changed.”

He glanced briefly behind her. “So it appears. Not the least of which is the manner of dress. In my time, madam, you would be arrested.”

Marybeth looked down at her tank top and shorts. “We’ve lightened up a lot. More to the point, what is it you would like me to do?”

“My grandson is in great peril. You must find him. He will need this.” He gestured to the single item on the table. “I am told his loss would result in the death of tens of thousands of people. Another number inconceivable to me.” He looked quickly over his shoulder responding to another unheard conversation. “My time grows short. Please give him this. It will yield him something of great value.”

As she stepped forward, the wolf twitched nervously but remained in place. On the table sat a piece of heavy paper, folded many times into a small square. Without thinking, she reached down and picked it up. Instantly, she was overcome by the now-familiar phasing into a psychic vision. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled as the vision consumed her.

 ***

 She was watching John Hancock, in the semidarkness of sunset, creeping stealthily along a stone wall that ran the length of a manicured lawn. He stopped, faced the wall, and after checking to ensure he was alone, he removed an ornate brass box from beneath his coat. He opened it, fingered through the papers it contained, then paused in contemplation for a moment before securing the lid. A sound caught his attention. He looked up to see two British soldiers coming down the road. They had begun patrolling in the evenings, looking for meetings of the local militia. He quickly ducked behind the tree and into the long shadows of the evening. After the soldiers passed, he checked again for privacy, removed a stone from the wall and stashed the box in the crevice. After replacing the stone securely in its nook, he snuck back down the road to his horse that was waiting out of sight. He began his ride back to Boston in the moonlight.

 ***

 Marybeth shook her head as reality came back into focus. She looked up from the folded paper in her hands to find herself alone. No John Hancock, no wolf, not even a clearing in the trees where he had just stood.

“Here we go again,” she said to no one.

She examined the paper. It was thicker than material used today, and had a coarse texture to it. She noted how it was folded as she opened it  ̶  in thirds, then in long quarters accordion-style towards the center. When fully opened, it displayed a map of a small village with half a dozen streets. It was drawn in ink but without the use of a ruler or straight edge, more of a sketch than a formal map. There was one large road that went right through it. The name was Boston Post Road.