Heartened by this, I measured out the length of my arm away from the boulder, and dug the length of my arm in depth. The clam and oyster shells seemed like old friends as I unearthed them. I settled the bucket in the hole, shoveled all the soil back in, stamped it down with unwonted exuberance, and headed back, a final time, toward Cambridge.
And then as ever, returning through the town, across on the ferry, back along the oxcart path, to the home of Goody Fitch. A final conversation with her and her young daughter Elizabeth about working with us. And then home.
Journal Entry of
Rebecca East-Oda
AUGUST 22
Temperature 89F. Dusty, dry. Barometer steady. Lettuce bolted. Kale ready to harvest but will be too bitter. Perennial herbs in fine form. Asters magnificent.
It finally happened today. In the former vegetable garden, which had been dug up so often earlier in the summer but lately lay unmolested while Tristan went to the London DTAP. We gathered around it. Mel dug a hole. Tristan has one arm in a homemade sling he had fashioned from two Tshirts tied together, and could not dig; Erszebet was in stockings and heels; Mel insisted Frank and I are age-exempted. So she dug it all herself. No doubt it gave her satisfaction, for all the times she had to bury it before.
And there it was. The barrel. Quite small, and very old, and soft around the edges where damp had found its way into the wood. But not rotted away. That cooper knew his business.
I have not been to a DTAP. I was not in residence during Erszebet’s first few weeks exploring her powers in the ODEC. Other than seeing her transform herself, this was my first concrete experience of magic. I have seen that plot dug up a dozen times, and it has never contained a small well-sealed barrel containing an unspeakably valuable seventeenth-century hymnal.
Until today.
Diachronicle
DAYS 391–436 (SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER, YEAR 1)
In which we sell a book
THE CATASTROPHIC DEDE FROM WHICH Les never returned, and the recovery of the Bay Psalm Book from Frank and Rebecca’s backyard, occurred at the beginning of the final week of August. Not until early October did we actually bank the money. In the meantime, General Frink continued to sign our paychecks, for our recovery of the book had saved our bacon politically. As with General Schneider, Les Holgate’s death was deeply and sincerely regretted, but apparently considered to be just one of those things that happened when patriots went into harm’s way for the defense of their homeland.
So, September was a month of unruffling all the legal feathers, getting the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed. Frink’s brain trust concocted a story to explain Les Holgate’s disappearance. It wasn’t a very convincing story, but it didn’t need to be; friends and family of people who worked in clandestine service knew that mysterious, unexplained death was something that happened.
There was a no-casket memorial service for him. This was attended by his family—including his uncle, Roger Blevins, who, like Tristan and myself, flew down from Boston. There was (obviously) no interment, but at the solemn reception afterward, in a bland conference room with recessed fluorescent lights, we were fortified with bad institutional coffee and Royal Dansk butter cookies. Tristan and I were there to represent the Cambridge office; the others had sent cards and flowers. I had hoped to avoid Blevins. Our turbulent past included two incidents of sexual harassment that would have sufficed to get any other man fired. Somehow, however, he cornered me at the hazelnut-flavored-cream dispenser, all smiles and smarm.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, refraining from direct eye contact.
“It’s terrible,” he said, slightly hurried, as if to get the formalities out of the way. “But I must say, Mel, it’s good to see you’ve landed on your feet. I don’t need to tell you how concerned I was when you left the department so suddenly. I was afraid your head was turned by, let’s say, non-professional considerations.” He gestured vaguely toward Tristan. Tristan pivoted and took a stride in our direction. I hadn’t told him about the harassment, but he knew how to read me, and he seemed to have an overdeveloped damsel-in-distress radar.
“I have no regrets,” I said, deciding to skip the creamer.
“Oh, neither do I,” Blevins said. “It’s a far better fit for you.” The insult didn’t need to be spelled out: You were going nowhere in academia.
“It’s an excellent fit,” I heard Tristan say from over my right shoulder. Blevins’s eyes rose to see him. Tristan rested his hand on my upper arm and squeezed gently. “This woman is the most talented linguist, translator, scholar, and researcher I’ve ever encountered. And a brilliant team player. Worth her weight in plutonium. Thank God we ended up with her.” Reader, I do believe I blushed the slightest bit with pleasure.
Blevins gave us both a forced smile, as if somebody were tightening his belt without his consent. “I’ve been a mere advisor until now, as you know, and my involvement is to be ramped up, or so I’m told,” he said, with a glance across the room at General Frink, who was offering his condolences to Les Holgate’s mother. It was a classic Blevins move—making it seem as though he was being drawn unwilling into the project, affecting a sort of patrician befuddlement.
Tristan’s hand almost imperceptibly tightened around my arm. “So I’m informed,” he said.
“I’ve been working with General Frink and Dr. Rudge for years on the precursors to DODO, always on the assumption it would peter out. Never saw myself as the cofounder of a new department. But life takes us to surprising places!”
Tristan’s grip now tightened considerably. Shut up, Stokes! “When I approached you, sir, you refused involvement in DODO,” he said.
“Not exactly, Colonel Lyons,” said Blevins, always happy to seem wiser than anyone else. “I was just making it clear that I wasn’t right for that particular role. Which”—and here he had the audacity to reach out and pat my left arm—“clearly was the right move, as it left a space open for our Mel here to fill. I knew my skills would be better applied elsewhere, as is proving to be correct.” He smiled. “I look forward to working with you. Just like old times, Mel.”