\nThey hung the stranger on Tuesday as the clockwork figures on the tower struck the twelfth gong.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe Gordon had seen the man the day before as the stranger climbed onto the fountain\u2019s rim and started speaking in words no one could understand. He held something small and shiny in his right hand, alternately thrusting it toward the crowd and pointing at it with his left hand. Most of the early morning crowd ignored him, ducking their heads as they bustled past. Running late as usual, Roscoe hadn\u2019t paid much attention either as he hurried across the square toward his job at the cemetery on the far side of town. Then the stranger\u2019s narrowed eyes caught his. Roscoe felt a jolt like a spark of electricity at the man\u2019s intense gaze.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe steam whistle from the brass factory sounded the hour, letting Roscoe tear his eyes away. He brushed back his thick, brown hair and strode on, his long legs carrying him away from the square and the unsettling stranger.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe stranger was still at it when the trolley rumbled past on its third round of the evening. He\u2019d grown hoarse by then, with an air of desperation in his tone. Roscoe paused to listen on his way home. By now some of the townsfolk surrounded the stranger. Shopkeepers closed their doors to join the gathering crowd. Workers on their way home from the mill stood at the back with crossed arms and scowling faces.\n<\/p>\n
\nDawdling under a gas lamp at the edge of the square, Roscoe still couldn\u2019t tell what the man said. His outlandish tongue mixed with a few words of English made him sound like someone possessed by demons. He had the look of a demon too, unlike anyone Roscoe had seen before. Tangles of wild hair the color of faded autumn leaves sprouted like bushes from his head, and his eyes, bright with the intensity of his words, were different colors, one a pale, nearly colorless blue and the other so dark the pupil and iris melted together. He wore a bright yellow cravat, an ancient green vest, and a tattered coat of motley that flapped like the wings of an exotic bird as his speech grew ever more emphatic.\n<\/p>\n
\nA rabble of younger boys mocked the stranger. They took turns climbing on the fountain\u2019s edge and shrieking in a singsong imitation of the stranger\u2019s gibberish, then doubling over in laughter. They waggled their fingers in their ears and pranced about. The stranger paid no attention, not even when the boys tossed pebbles at him. Then Tommy Pettigrew, a twelve-year-old known for mischief, dug a couple of rotten apples from the garbage behind the grocer. He pelted the stranger, catching him on the ear.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe stranger stopped talking. He turned and fixed his pale eye on Tommy. Slowly, the stranger raised his arm, pointing a stubby finger at the boy. The arm shook in anger and something else, more sinister perhaps. \u201cBeware!\u201d he roared in accented English.\n<\/p>\n
\nSurprised, Tommy stood still, as if the word had knocked the breath right out of him.\n<\/p>\n
\nThey might have remained, gazes locked, for all time, but Tommy\u2019s father pushed through the crowd and broke the spell. He grabbed his son by the ear, dragging him toward home, scolding all the while.\n<\/p>\n
\nAt sundown, when it became clear the stranger meant to go on haranguing the good townsfolk, the sheriff locked him up in the town jail. They might have let him go the next morning, running him out of town with a warning. But Tommy Pettigrew took sick that evening and died before daybreak. Sure, the stranger was in jail by then, but Tommy\u2019s mother swore he\u2019d hexed the boy. Then she took sick and died an hour later. By mid-morning the whole Pettigrew family, along with the maid and the cook, were dead. The stranger\u2019s weird words and evil eye were the only explanation.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe town\u2019s justice was swift. By noon they had mounted the stranger on a wind-up trolley, tied a rope around his neck, and threw the loose end over the branch of the hanging tree on the edge of the square. Folks said he never stopped shouting at them until the noose choked the breath out of him.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe wasn\u2019t in town for the hanging. If he\u2019d been there, he could have told them no good ever came of hanging a man without a trial, not that anyone ever listened to Roscoe. While the townsfolk were stringing up the stranger, Roscoe was still out at the cemetery. His job as assistant groundskeeper mostly meant mowing the grass, weeding, and picking up trash folks left behind. For all the fancy title, it was little more than janitor work, but Roscoe didn\u2019t mind. It meant he didn\u2019t have to talk to many people, not live ones at least. He spent a fair amount of time talking to the dead folk there. And that suited Roscoe too. Dead folk usually had a lot fewer troubles than people with more corporeal concerns.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe learned of the hanging mid-afternoon. He was lounging against the Mehlkopf monument, eyes closed. He chewed the tender end of a blade of grass and listened to the steady clacking of the grass clipper, a clockwork contraption meant to keep the grounds neat. The machine did a reasonably good job of cutting the grass in a straight line. Roscoe needed only to rewind it every fifteen minutes or so and straighten it if it went off course. He dozed in the warm sunshine.\n<\/p>\n
\nA sudden kick to his boot startled him. His eyes flew open. Frowning down at him was Mayor Mehlkopf, a bird-like man with a shiny bald head and a beaked nose. A half step behind the mayor was the mayor\u2019s brother, Sheriff Mehlkopf. On the other side of the sheriff, Bill Anders, the cemetery sextant, scowled.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou think I\u2019m paying you to sleep in the sun?\u201d Anders fumed. \u201cThat\u2019s an expensive piece of machinery you\u2019re like to ruin.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe grass-clipper had stopped clacking. Instead it emitted a soft, petulant whine, having gotten hung up on the rough edge of a gravestone.\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe scrambled to his feet, mumbling an apology and a slew of half-formed excuses. He flipped the switch on the clipper, and the whining gears ground to a halt.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNever mind all that,\u201d Mayor Mehlkopf interrupted him with a wave of his hand. \u201cYou need to drop everything and dig a grave.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOne grave?\u201d Roscoe had heard of the Pettigrew family deaths. But their graves were set to be dug by a whole crew, not just him. \u201cFor the Pettigrews?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNot the Pettigrews.\u201d The sextant\u2019s scowl deepened. \u201cThat stranger. Dig it over there, in potter\u2019s field. And put him in it.\u201d He jerked his head toward a large, tarp-wrapped bundle on a hand cart.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe blinked. \u201cThe stranger is dead? When\u2019s the funeral?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNo funeral.\u201d Sheriff Mehlkopf looked grim. \u201cJust bury him quick and deep.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDoes he have a name?\u201d Roscoe asked. The whole affair seemed wrong to him.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou ask too many questions, young man!\u201d Mayor Mehlkopf rubbed his hands together as if to wipe away the dirt. \u201cJust do your job.\u201d The three men walked down the grassy slope to where their carriage waited.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe could have told them this was a bad idea. No good ever came of burying a man nameless. But no one paid much attention to Roscoe, so he didn\u2019t waste his words. He put the grass-clipper back in the shed and retrieved a shovel. He trundled the cart with the dead man on it to the edge of potter\u2019s field and began digging.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe ground was soft after two days of rain, but roots from the ash trees shading potter\u2019s field made for slow work. When the hole was finally ready, Roscoe rolled the corpse over the edge. It didn\u2019t seem respectful, but he had no other way of getting the dead man in place.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe tarp slipped as the man fell, revealing the stranger\u2019s face. An angry rope burn stretched diagonally across his throat. A thin dribble of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. No one had bothered to close the dead man\u2019s eyes. Swollen and bloodshot, they stared at Roscoe, unblinking, unseeing.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe slid down into the grave. He bent over the stranger and closed the man\u2019s eyes. The corpse\u2019s right hand had fallen free of the tarp and lay palm up in the dirt. Shards of broken glass glittered from a dozen puncture wounds. Gently, Roscoe tucked the bloody hand back inside the tarp.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs Roscoe straightened, the dead man\u2019s ghost hung over them, those terrible eyes wide open and boring into Roscoe. The specter raised a long, gnarled finger, the same one he had pointed at young Tommy. Roscoe shrank back, pressing up against the dirt sides of the grave. But the stranger\u2019s finger did not point to Roscoe, rather somewhere beyond him, toward the east. A gurgle rumbled from the dead man, like gases escaping through liquid, or a strangled man trying to speak. Roscoe shivered, and the specter vanished.\n<\/p>\n
\nAfter taking care to rewrap the tarp around the corpse, Roscoe scrambled out of the grave and began shoveling dirt back into the hole.\n<\/p>\n
\nAn hour later, Roscoe leaned on his shovel, contemplating the fresh mound. \u201cSeems you had something important to say, stranger,\u201d Roscoe whispered. \u201cToo bad you won\u2019t be doing any more talking, now that rope\u2019s crushed your throat. I wish I could help.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nIt felt wrong, leaving the dead man without a funeral, a marker, or any words of comfort. But Roscoe couldn\u2019t think what else to do, so he cleaned the shovel, put it away, and went home.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe found the house in an uproar. Mrs. Doak, their part-time maid, part-time tea-drinker, rushed past Roscoe with a basin slopping water in her wake. Mother lay on the couch, sobbing. Roscoe\u2019s sister, Emily, knelt beside the couch with another basin of water and a dripping rag. In a hysterical voice, nearly as shrill as Mother\u2019s, Emily exhorted the older woman to calm down.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs she caught sight of Roscoe, Mother let out a sound somewhere between a snort and a wail. \u201cOh, there you are, my poor, dear boy. Come here to Mama.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nStartled by such an unaccustomed greeting, Roscoe took a step back. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMother lay back on the chaise. \u201cIt\u2019s dreadful, just dreadful! I\u2019ve been so worried. You\u2019ve no idea\u2026\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s dreadful, Mother?\u201d Roscoe cut in. Mother could go on like this interminably, and Roscoe had the uneasy feeling something really was wrong this time.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cLock and bar the doors, now the dear boy is home,\u201d Mother cried. \u201cShut up all the windows and draw the curtains.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI fear it\u2019s too late!\u201d Emily clutched Mother as if she held onto a life preserver.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe caught hold of Mrs. Doak as she rushed to carry out Mother\u2019s orders. \u201cWhat is she talking about?\u201d he demanded.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHaven\u2019t you heard?\u201d Mrs. Doak twined her fingers together and twisted them. \u201cMrs. Melhkopf is dead, and young Patsy Mehlkopf took sick no more than an hour after her mother died. It\u2019s a plague upon us and all because of the stranger\u2019s hex. We\u2019re doomed, all of us.\u201d The housekeeper suddenly stopped, her face white with terror. She backed away from Roscoe. \u201cAnd you out there burying him!\u201d She spun away from him and stumbled to the kitchen, rubbing her hands on her apron as if she could scrub away his touch.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIs that so, Emily?\u201d Roscoe turned to his sister.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe nodded. \u201cThere\u2019s sickness at the coroner\u2019s house too,\u201d she said, her voice muffled in her Mother\u2019s bosom.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe frowned. He didn\u2019t know much about hexes, but throwing out a random hex seemed a pretty chancy way of killing people. More important than the question of how it worked, was the question of why. Why hex the whole town? Why come into this town at all? The man was a stranger. He had no kin, no friends, no business here. He had no reason to want anyone hurt, let alone dead. The antics of a rude little boy were hardly enough reason to curse the town. Hanging the man might bring on such a need for revenge. But from what Roscoe had heard, the hex, if that was what it was, had come before they set about lynching him.\n<\/p>\n
\nClearly, he needed more answers than anyone here could provide. Roscoe spun on his heel and headed back out, ignoring his mother\u2019s wail of protest as the door slammed behind him.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt seemed unwise to call on the mayor, grieving and worried as he must be, so Roscoe turned toward the sextant\u2019s house, a two-story brick building not far off the Main Square.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe knocked on the door. A curtain twitched in the parlor window, but no one came to answer. Roscoe pounded harder and shouted. \u201cI know you\u2019re in there.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMr. Anders opened the door a crack, the chain still on. \u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cFolks are saying that stranger you had me bury so quick has hexed the town. What do you know about him anyway? Seems he wasn\u2019t here long enough to do anyone harm.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe sextant leaned closer to Roscoe. \u201cHe was a Tinker.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe nodded. Tinkers were traveling folk, roaming from town to town mostly fixing things for folks or selling odd bits and parts. No one much minded their coming, as long as they didn\u2019t overstay their welcome and moved on as soon as the job was done. Still, as far as Roscoe knew, being a Tinker wasn\u2019t a crime.\n<\/p>\n
\nMaybe he\u2019d said something Roscoe hadn\u2019t heard. Not gibberish after all, but some outlandish tongue only Tinkers used. \u201cDo you have any idea what the man was saying there on the green?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe sextant drew back, clearly offended. \u201cI do not speak the language of Tinkers.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNever thought you did.\u201d Roscoe held up his hand to allay the man\u2019s anger. \u201cIt\u2019s just I\u2019ve heard it said his harangue was cursing the whole town.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe sextant rubbed his whiskery chin. \u201cMichael Wittinger did say he understood the word \u2018hope\u2019, but he wasn\u2019t sure if the man meant \u2018hope\u2019 or \u2018no hope.\u2019 And I\u2019m sure he said \u2018pestilence and doom\u2019.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDoesn\u2019t sound like much of a hex.\u201d Roscoe knew the townsfolk were, in general, a superstitious lot, but he didn\u2019t think the leaders were so gullible. He frowned at the sextant. \u201cWe\u2019ve never hung a man for speaking out before, not even a Tinker. What made this one so special?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe sextant stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind. His eyes darted left, then right. \u201cHe broke the quarantine,\u201d he whispered.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cQuarantine? What quarantine?\u201d Roscoe\u2019s head jerked up.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhen Mayor Mehlkopf came back from the capital two days ago, he put the town under quarantine. He canceled all the trains and closed the harbor. The roads east and west are barricaded. There\u2019s a terrible plague in the capital, and the mayor doesn\u2019t want it to come here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nSeemed too late to stop it now, Roscoe thought. Some sort of plague was already here. A plague was a lot more believable than a hex. Still, if the stranger brought the plague, why tell everyone? Was that what he\u2019d been doing?\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe didn\u2019t believe that, not for one minute. If he were running from the plague, he\u2019d never stand out on the green and announce it.\n<\/p>\n
\nTaking advantage of Roscoe\u2019s inattention, the sextant ducked back inside his house. The lock clicked shut.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe stared at the door. He could have told the sextant that no bolt or lock would keep out a plague, but he wouldn\u2019t listen. No one ever did. Maybe the sextant didn\u2019t know that the stranger\u2019s ghost remained either. At present, the ghost seemed tied to his grave, but soon he could wander, slipping in doors unseen, an angry ghost bent on haunting his persecutors.\n<\/p>\n
\nSighing, Roscoe turned away. The sextant wouldn\u2019t believe that either.\n<\/p>\n
\nShoving his hands deep in the pockets of his trousers, Roscoe strode toward the fountain where the stranger had been preaching. Most of the shops on Main Street were already closing. Even the soda shop on the corner had the gaslights turned off and the shutters drawn. At the general store, Mr. Wells was dragging the last racks of aviator goggles and ear-flap hats inside. Roscoe crossed the street.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAfternoon, Mr. Wells. Let me give you a hand with that.\u201d He reached for the closest rack.\n<\/p>\n
\nMr. Wells slapped his hand away. \u201cOh no you don\u2019t! Not until you\u2019ve disinfected.\u201d He nodded toward a bowl of strong-smelling vinegar set on the bench in front of the store.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe dipped his fingers in the bowl. The vinegar seeped into a hangnail on his thumb, stinging like the dickens. He shook his hand and resisted the temptation to suck on the offending thumb. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on, Mr. Wells? Seems everyone\u2019s scared witless on account of that stranger, even now that he\u2019s dead.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAs well they should be! He\u2019s brought doom on us.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe frowned as he helped move the last rack inside. \u201cSurely you don\u2019t believe in hexes.\u201d As far as Roscoe knew, Mr. Wells was a down-to-earth sort of man, not believing in anything he couldn’t see. He didn\u2019t even believe in ghosts.\n<\/p>\n
\nMr. Wells took off his work apron and folded it neatly. \u201cNo, I don\u2019t believe that nonsense. But I do believe in science and contagion. Maybe the poor man didn\u2019t know he was carrying it, but there\u2019s no doubt in my mind, that Tinker brought the plague here. I only hope we put him out of his misery before he infected us all.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBut Mr. Wells, if it\u2019s just a sickness, don\u2019t you have something in that medicine room back of your store? Seems to me that would stop this plague quicker than hanging the man.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMr. Wells pressed his lips together and shook his head. \u201cNo. I don\u2019t. And before you ask, it\u2019s too late to send to the capital for anything to help. Towns all up and down the river are shutting up, barricading their roads, and closing their harbors and stations. Nothing is moving anywhere in the county.\u201d He waved the back of his hands at Roscoe, shooing him out the door. \u201cMy advice to you, young man, is go home. Lock your door, and pray to God no one thinks you\u2019ve become a carrier because you buried the poor devil.\u201d Mr. Wells splashed the remaining vinegar on the entryway before closing the door.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe crossed back to the square and sat on the limestone rim of the fountain. He stared at the water sprouting from the mouth of a green-tarnished heron. Normally, he found the splash of the water soothing, but he was too troubled to relax. Though the Tinker\u2019s ghost had not followed Roscoe, the specter of the dead man with the angry scar haunted him. Would nobody miss the stranger? Would no one mourn his passing? Tinkers usually travelled with family. Was this stranger truly alone? Clearly, the man had come to town for some reason important enough to defy barricades.\n<\/p>\n
\nCome to think of it, how had the stranger come to town? With no trains running, and the harbor and roads closed, he must have come on foot.\n<\/p>\n
\nWith sudden purpose, Roscoe stood, brushed his wet hands on his vest, strode past the hanging tree to the post office on the corner of the square. Anyone entering town from the east would surely pass by there.\n<\/p>\n
\nInside, the air was thick with smoke. The postmaster, a tall, thin man with wispy brown hair and an equally thin moustache, bent over a large canvas bag. A contraption a bit like a beekeeper\u2019s smoker was strapped to his back. He aimed the nozzle at the piles of letters and packages. Dark smoke spewed from the nozzle and settled onto the paper.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat in the name of all tarnation are you doing?\u201d Roscoe coughed violently, waving smoke away like a swarm of mosquitos.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe postmaster looked up, his sandy eyes red-rimmed from the smoke. \u201cFumigating the mail. Only way to keep it safe. I\u2019m not sure what that stranger brought into town, but I don\u2019t want to be any part of spreading it.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDid you see him come into town? I thought all the roads are closed.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat they are. I helped put up the barricades myself.\u201d He leaned closer to Roscoe and motioned him to lean in too.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe hesitated because of the smoke, but leaned in anyway.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cJust between me and you, those barricades aren\u2019t much good against a plague. Sure they\u2019ll stop a cart or a steam car, but a walking man could go right around them, skip across the river, and the guards would be none the wiser.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIs that what the stranger did?\u201d Roscoe asked.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCan\u2019t say for sure how he snuck past the barricade, but he sure enough did walk into town without a please or by-your-leave. I saw him with my own eyes, striding down that main road with his coat-tails flapping like he owned the place.\u201d The postmaster crossed his fingers in a quick sign against evil. \u201cHe was a Tinker, you know.\u201d He pumped out a great puff of smoke over the pile of letters.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe opened his mouth to tell him his smoke might keep away flies and mosquitos, but was no use warding off hexes, or plagues, or ghosts. But the postmaster had turned away, focused on his fumigation, so Roscoe closed his mouth without saying anything.\n<\/p>\n
\nOnce outside the post office, Roscoe stopped on the boardwalk to think. Being they were travelling folk, Tinkers usually had some sort of vehicle. Besides, this Tinker\u2019s boots hadn\u2019t been road worn or dusty. They had been clean and fairly new, not the boots of a man who had walked thirty miles, which was how far it was to the nearest town. So he must have come most of the way by wagon, either an old-fashioned horse-drawn or a modern steam wagon. He\u2019d probably come close enough to see the barricade at the Colt’s Fork Bridge on the east edge of town. Maybe he had come up to it and been turned away. In any case, instead of giving up, he must have parked his wagon somewhere and skirted the barricade. That took a powerful lot of determination.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe felt a growing kinship with this Tinker, a man who got a notion in his head and carried on no matter what. Mother claimed this sort of stubbornness was sheer obstinacy, but Roscoe preferred to think of it as tenacity. And if the Tinker had found it so important to come into town, Roscoe felt he owed it to him to find out why. Perhaps the Tinker\u2019s vehicle would hold a clue about his purpose.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe continued to the Colt’s Fork Bridge. Sure enough, they had stacked telegraph poles across the entire width of the road. A tangle of wire, barbed with tiny points of metal, surmounted the pile. The formidable blockade would indeed stop any vehicular travel.\n<\/p>\n
\nSitting on the edge of the barricade was Bram Wilkes, one of the newest town deputies. Roscoe pulled up short. The young man had been a classmate back in high school. He had been a bully then, with a great deal more brawn than brain. High school was six years past, but Roscoe doubted anything had changed. Best avoid talking to him whenever possible.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe ducked off the road and into a corn field alongside. From there he made his way down to the river. Colt\u2019s Fork Creek wasn\u2019t deep this time of year. Water splashed over a sandy bed, littered with rounded stones tumbled into place by the current. Roscoe rolled up the legs of his pants and waded across. Bram never looked up.\n<\/p>\n
\nOn the far side of the creek, Roscoe picked his way through another field and returned to the road. His wet shoes slopped against the macadam as he continued east.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt took more than an hour of searching before Roscoe found the Tinker\u2019s wagon in a small meadow with a row of stately pines at the far edge. Apparently, he had made some effort to hide the vehicle with pine boughs but had not taken the time to cover it well.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe dragged off the pine boughs, revealing a barrel-shaped steam wagon, with a small stove pipe jutting out of the roof. The wagon was old enough it had been originally horse drawn, but had been remodeled to include a steam engine. Bright colors and patterns decorated the large back wheels, but the rest of the wagon was shabby, with peeling paint and bare patches. It seemed the stranger had begun re-painting, but never finished. Roscoe circled the wagon and stopped at the back, facing the rear door. The steps were folded away and the door closed. Roscoe hesitated. It didn\u2019t seem right to invade the man\u2019s home. But there could be clues as to the man\u2019s identity inside and answers to the question of why he came at all.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe folded down the steps, climbed up, and pulled the door open.\n<\/p>\n
\nA huge black bird swept out the door, cawing in raucous annoyance. Roscoe fell back, one arm raised to protect his eyes. The crow swooped low across the clearing and then flapped back and perched above the wagon door. It cocked an eye at Roscoe and clacked its beak, then stepped back, as if to make room for Roscoe to enter. Roscoe brushed himself off and cautiously stuck his head inside the Tinker\u2019s wagon.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe Tinker\u2019s ghost sat on the bed, head down, hands folded helplessly in his lap. He looked up at Roscoe and sighed. Not the sigh of an angry ghost, but one defeated.\n<\/p>\n
\nWith a nod to the silent ghost, Roscoe stepped inside the wagon. The man was not just a Tinker, Roscoe realized, but an apothecary of sorts. In addition to the pots and pans, hammers and tongs hanging from the walls were bunches of dried herbs. Above a sink, a small cupboard held a dozen glass bottles filled with liquids of various colors. A stack of labels advertising liniment sat next to a pot of glue. A folded newspaper lay on the polished wooden table that divided the workshop\/kitchen area from the living\/sleeping area of the wagon. \u201cI wish you could talk,\u201d Roscoe muttered. He sat on the edge of the bed beside the ghost and opened the paper.\n<\/p>\n
\nUnfortunately, it was not in English. Roscoe recognized a few place names of local towns in the headlines, but he couldn\u2019t understand anything else. He flipped through it, to make sure he wasn\u2019t missing anything. On the back page, in what appeared to be several columns of ads, two such items were circled in red. These were of no help since Roscoe couldn\u2019t read them either.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe rummaged around in the wagon, until he found a box of six dozen small vials each half-filled with clear liquid. On the side of the box was a label, listing the contents as anti-plague serum. The box was addressed to Doctor Shadrack Beswick. Roscoe sat back on his heels, remembering the crushed glass in the dead man\u2019s hand. Where had a Tinker gotten such medicine?\n<\/p>\n
\nThe ghost rose from the bed, his glum look replaced with one of hope. He pointed to the label on the box and then himself.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou are Doctor Beswick?\u201d Roscoe said to the ghost. \u201cA Tinker and a doctor?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe ghost nodded.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe studied the labels on the vials. Though he didn\u2019t recognize the scientific-sounding words, he could see each was neatly typed, with a list of what were probably ingredients. These were not the crude labels of a snake-oil potion, but the real thing, manufactured by a real pharmacy. Four more boxes, identically labeled, identically filled, were tucked away underneath the bed.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThis is medicine, isn\u2019t it?\u201d Roscoe mused aloud. \u201cFor us?\u201d he asked the ghost.\n<\/p>\n
\nDr. Beswick\u2019s odd eyes lit up with something that might be hope. He opened his mouth, but produced only a gargled croak. He swirled away in obvious frustration.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe ducked and instinctively held out his hands to placate the frantic ghost. \u201cEasy, man. I guess that\u2019s why you raved about a plague. You wanted to bring this medicine into town. To help. But why us?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe ghost settled back on the bench and pointed to the newspaper.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe looked more closely at the ads that had been circled. The one crossed off listed a town upriver, and the second one named his town. \u201cOh. You were going all along the river, helping each town along the way.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe ghost let loose a wail of such deep sorrow that Roscoe covered his ears. But he couldn\u2019t look away from such longing. Dr. Beswick had come to help, but the town had turned him away, refused to listen, and murdered him.\n<\/p>\n
\nNo wonder the man\u2019s ghost was so troubled. With such a tragic ending, the man\u2019s ghost would linger for days, years even. His pain would seep through town, infecting everyone with a sense of despair.\n<\/p>\n
\nEveryone, that is, who survived the plague Dr. Beswick had tried to prevent.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe snapped shut the box of medicine and jumped to his feet. He could do what the Tinker had tried and failed to accomplish. He could be the hero this time. For a glorious moment, he imagined himself bringing salvation to everyone.\n<\/p>\n
\nThen he paused, pressed his lips together, and sat back down. Who was he fooling? Him, a hero? No one ever listened to Roscoe. More, likely they would string him up the same way they\u2019d killed the Tinker. He slumped beside Dr. Beswick on the narrow berth.\n<\/p>\n
\nHis sigh mingled with the mournful moan of the stranger\u2019s ghost. The angry scar on Dr. Beswick\u2019s neck pulsed, and his eyes blazed. He looked at Roscoe with burning intensity, then aimed his ghostly finger at Roscoe, then at the medicine, and finally toward the town.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI can\u2019t.\u201d Roscoe shuddered. \u201cI know you want me to take over for you. But I can\u2019t. No one ever listens to me.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nDr. Beswick\u2019s ghost leaned in, mouth open in a silent scream. He grew larger and larger until he loomed over Roscoe like a thunder cloud ready to burst. He slashed a finger across his throat, mirroring the scar. Then he jabbed the same finger at Roscoe over and over again.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe shrank away from the ghost\u2019s fury.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut the doctor did not mean to hurt him. He was only trying to help. That\u2019s all he\u2019d ever been trying to do.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe stiffened in sudden resolve. This man had given his life in his attempt to help others. Roscoe couldn\u2019t let that sacrifice be in vain. Dr. Beswick could no longer make anyone listen. But Roscoe still had a voice. It was no good giving up before he even tried.\n<\/p>\n
\nPocketing two vials of the serum, Roscoe went outside. He leaned against the wheel hub of the Tinker\u2019s wagon, thinking about a plan. He couldn\u2019t force his way through the barricade with the medicine. Bram was too dumb to listen to any kind of reason, and he was six inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier than Roscoe. There was no sense in trying to overpower him. But really, Bram wasn\u2019t the one who needed convincing. No one listened to him either.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe crow cawed twice, hopped from the wagon roof to Roscoe\u2019s shoulder, and tilted its head. One dark, unblinking eye stared at Roscoe. Like the dead Tinker, the bird seemed intent on telling him something.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe had no idea what the bird wanted, but the crow\u2019s intensity gave him an idea. If Roscoe was going to succeed where the doctor had failed, he had to get someone to listen, the right someone, with the power to change things.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe stuck his hands in his duster pockets and walked toward the river, whistling tunelessly.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe Tinker\u2019s ghost moaned, hovering directly over the wagon as if tethered there. \u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d Roscoe called over his shoulder. \u201cI\u2019ll be back.\u201d He strode along the road and through the field, until he came to the river. He waded across and come onto the main square.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe place was even emptier than it had been earlier. Not a single shop was open. The shutters were closed on the post office and the bank. Even the hotel had its door closed and barred. Roscoe paused in the middle of the square, considering who he should who might listen. No one believing in hexes, so that left out most of the town, including his mother, and probably the postmaster.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe decided to try the sextant first. Mr. Anders knew there was a plague, and he had the power to lift the quarantine to bring in the wagon. But no matter how hard Roscoe knocked, the sextant refused to answer his door, even when Roscoe tried kicking it in.\n<\/p>\n
\nMaybe it would be best to go directly to the mayor. Roscoe hadn\u2019t wanted to go to him first, knowing the man\u2019s own family was suffering. But there was no time to worry about that anymore. Pompous and arrogant as the mayor was, he had at least tried to protect the town with the barricade. Could he be convinced to tear it down?\n<\/p>\n
\nThe mayor lived on the far side of the town square, in a huge house with beveled glass sidelights flanking the front door and a bulbous copper clock tower looming over the north wing.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs Roscoe pulled the door bell, the massive clock gears ground into place and chimed the hour. From inside, the echo of the bell rang though the halls.\n<\/p>\n
\nNo one came.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe was just about to ring again, when the door swung open revealing the mayor\u2019s butler wearing silver gloves, bronze goggles, and a formal black duster. \u201cYes?\u201d he said, his voice muffled by a long scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI need to see Mayor Mehlkopf. It\u2019s urgent.\u201d Roscoe stood tall and tried to make his voice sound authoritative, but it came out more pleading than commanding.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThe mayor does not see \u2026\u201d The butler paused, as if deciding the right word, then continued, \u201cpersons without an appointment.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe tinker\u2019s crow, perched on the gaslight by the entry way, cawed harshly, whether in judgement or encouragement, Roscoe couldn\u2019t tell. In either case, the sound reminded Roscoe of his resolve. He stuck his foot in the door. \u201cThen let me make an appointment.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe butler did not bother to answer. With one swift motion, he kicked Roscoe\u2019s foot back and slammed the door in his face.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe rang and rang, but the butler did not return.\n<\/p>\n
\nShoving his hands in his pockets, Roscoe turned away from the mayor\u2019s front door. If Roscoe couldn\u2019t get to him, who would Mayor Mehlkopf let in?\n<\/p>\n
\nThe crow flew to Roscoe\u2019s shoulder, cocked his head, and stared at him. That unblinking black eye made Roscoe so uncomfortable he looked away. He gaze fell on Mr. Well\u2019s shop across the square.\n<\/p>\n
\nMr. Wells was the closest thing to a doctor the town had, and a good friend of the mayor. Surely the Mr. Mehlkopf would listen to him.\n<\/p>\n
\nWith renewed resolve, Roscoe cut straight across the square to Mr. Wells\u2019s closed shop and hurried around back. A flight of wooden steps led to a second floor apartment. Roscoe took the steps two at a time and knocked on the door.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d Mr. Wells shouted from inside.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cMe, Roscoe Gordon.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cGo home, Roscoe, before someone says you\u2019re spreading the plague, just from being near that stranger.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWait, Mr. Wells.\u201d Roscoe rattled the doorknob. If the pharmacist wouldn\u2019t listen, he didn\u2019t know where else to go. He kicked the door in frustration. \u201cListen to me! You\u2019re wrong. All wrong.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe door opened a crack. Roscoe could see one rheumy eye.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWrong about what?\u2019\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThe stranger.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHe\u2019s already dead, Roscoe. Maybe we were overhasty, but nothing can be done now.\u201d The eye backed away, and the door started closing.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe shoved a toe in the crack. \u201cNo, it\u2019s not too late. What if the stranger didn\u2019t bring the plague? What if he was trying to help? What if he brought the cure?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMr. Wells opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. \u201cWhat are you claiming, boy? This is nothing to joke about.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNo joke.\u201d He held out one of the vials. \u201cI can\u2019t tell for sure, not without an apothecary to check on it, but his wagon is full of this.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMr. Wells snatched the small bottle from Roscoe. He turned it over and held it up to light. He opened it and sniffed.\n<\/p>\n
\nSweat beaded on Roscoe\u2019s forehead as the silence stretched out. He needed Mr. Wells\u2019 help to convince the mayor to take down the barricade and bring in the medicine. \u201cThe plague\u2019s already here, Mr. Wells. All the wire and logs in the world won\u2019t stop it. That barricade is keeping out the stuff that might just save us.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMr. Wells closed his eyes and shuddered, as if holding back a sob. \u201cMy God,\u201d he whispered. \u201cMy God, what have we done?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nNothing good, Roscoe might have said, but that wouldn\u2019t help. \u201cIt\u2019s what we do now that matters, Mr. Wells. You\u2019ve got to talk to Mayor Mehlkopf, help bring that wagon into town.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nMr. Wells took a deep breath, swiped the back of his hand across his face, and opened his eyes. \u201cRight. Wait here.\u201d He ducked into his kitchen and returned a moment later with his hat and coat. Brushing past Roscoe on the landing, he lead the way down the steps and over to the mayor\u2019s house.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe same butler opened the door, but instead of asking to see the mayor, Mr. Wells barged right in. \u201cGet out of the way, George,\u201d he said as he pushed past. \u201cWhere\u2019s Morton? The library?\u201d Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Wells hurried up the broad staircase. With a smirk at the butler, Roscoe followed.\n<\/p>\n
\nWith his head in his hands, Mayor Mehlkopf slumped behind a gleaming desk. \u201cGo away,\u201d he said without looking up. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing anyone can do.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNonsense,\u201d Mr. Wells barked. \u201cListen to this.\u201d He stood aside and waved at Roscoe.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe gaped at Mr. Wells. Wasn\u2019t he going to do the talking now they were with the mayor?\n<\/p>\n
\nThe mayor lifted his head, saw Roscoe standing there with his mouth open, and moaned. He dropped his head again. \u201cGo away,\u201d he repeated.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe was used to people ignoring him, but this time the mayor\u2019s casual dismissal angered him. This man, with the power to do as he liked, had given up at the first defeat. Roscoe cleared his throat. \u201cIt\u2019s not too late, Mr. Mehlkopf. There\u2019s medicine.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe mayor waved his hand as if brushing away a pesky fly. \u201cMedicine?\u201d he said derisively. \u201cHow could you have medicine? Do you take me for a fool?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOnly if you won\u2019t listen,\u201d Roscoe said, and immediately regretted his words as too brash, as likely to get him fired as to help anyone. Quickly, before anyone could interrupt, Roscoe explained about the Tinker, Dr. Beswick and the wagon full of medicine.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs he spoke, Mayor Mehlkopf, raised his head, sat up straight, and looked right at Roscoe. By the time Roscoe had finished, the mayor was on his feet. With a brief nod of thanks, he rushed out the door to issue new orders. Within an hour, the barricade came down, and Roscoe and Mr. Wells drove the Tinker\u2019s wagon into town.\n<\/p>\n
\nNews traveled fast, especially in a frightened town. Soon people with masks and kerchiefs covering their faces, gathered, glancing nervously from neighbor to neighbor. Rumors spread through the crowd like electric fire. Some said there was a plot to kill them all quickly, end the suffering. Others claimed the whole thing, even the plague, was a hoax. Mr. Wells urged people up to get their doses, but no one stepped forward.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou tell them.\u201d Mayor Mehlkopf pushed Roscoe forward.\n<\/p>\n
\nRoscoe stumbled, eyes wide. Him? Talk to all these folk? His eyes met Mr. Wells, who nodded encouragement.\n<\/p>\n
\nThough he hands shook, and his knees wobbled, Roscoe climbed onto the fountain\u2019s rim. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and told the whole story. With this third telling, it grew easier, and he spoke with greater confidence. But what really convinced the townsfolk was when Roscoe took his dose in front of everyone.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs the townsfolk finally began lining up for the medicine, Roscoe eased away from the crowd, and made his way out to the cemetery. It was a relief to be away from everyone. He hadn\u2019t realized how much energy it took to have people actually listen to him. He found the stranger\u2019s grave and saw Dr. Beswick\u2019s ghost there, hovering over the fresh mound. The rope burn on his neck had dulled to a burnished scar. Roscoe set out the smooth, flat board he\u2019d brought along. With a small pot of paint, he carefully lettered the marker. \u201cDr. Shadrack Beswick, stranger no more.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe let the paint dry a bit, then nailed it to a cross piece. As Roscoe pounded the sign into the head of the grave, Dr. Beswick\u2019s ghost floated overhead. From an ash tree shading potter\u2019s field, the Tinker\u2019s crow cawed twice.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe ghost shuddered as if letting go of a great weight. He nodded once to Roscoe, then faded away, like dust motes blown by the breeze.\n<\/p>\n
An avid fan of all things historical, Terri Karsten lives in a hundred year old house near the upper Mississippi River. After retiring from teaching high school English, she divides her free time between writing books, playing with grandkids, and chasing the outdoor life. Karsten writes both fiction and non-fiction, and has publication credits in a variety of magazines, newspapers and encyclopedias, including Highlights for Children, The Winona Daily News and An Encyclopedia of Women’s History. Her novels focus on historical fiction with strong women as protagonists (A Mistake of Consequence, When Luck Runs Out). For more information, visit her website: www.terrikarsten.com<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
They hung the stranger on Tuesday as the clockwork figures on the tower struck the twelfth gong. Roscoe Gordon had seen the man the day before as the stranger climbed onto the fountain\u2019s rim and started speaking in words no one could understand. He held something small and shiny in his right hand, alternately thrusting …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107951,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20133],"tags":[20135],"class_list":["post-140317","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-50-winter-2024","tag-the-colored-lens-50","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140317","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107951"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140317"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140317\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140319,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140317\/revisions\/140319"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140317"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140317"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140317"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}