“I can’t imagine many other places can make the same boast.”
“Not in this hemisphere. They say the first foundations were set in the 1720s. The Swanns were one of the first families to travel this far into the interior. Some others had settled on the valley floor, but Aldrich Swann set his homestead up here on the Drop. He and his sons cleared the forest and planted their fields. The other families thought he was crazy at the time. They didn’t see why a person would climb a mountain to knock down a forest when a whole new continent stretched ahead of them. But he said that he’d seen the place in a dream,” the priest said.
“They say the Drop made good farmland,” Ben said.
“The best in the county, maybe the best in the state. Within a generation, the Swanns were rich. When the village was incorporated in the 1740s, it’s no coincidence that it was named after the family.”
“I guess you’d have to be awfully rich to build a place like this,” Ben said. “I just wish they’d been rich enough to keep it up.”
“By all accounts, the Swanns only got richer in the nineteenth century. They helped build a railroad that ran through this valley, connecting the freight yards of New York to the North Country. Those were the boom years. I imagine that’s how they could afford to expand the Crofts.” He pointed to the ceiling, where the vestiges of once-grand chandeliers were still visible. “An old family with the purse strings of a robber baron.”
“A family like that must have had some real characters,” Ben said. He was practiced at drawing stories out of people, and the priest was a teacher. Teachers liked to talk as much as writers liked to listen.
“A mixed lot, I’m sure—like all families.” The priest smiled at Ben. “I have to admit, I was hoping you’d know more about them, that maybe you’d found something of theirs? A journal or diary, or even old photos?”
“There are some portraits that I’d be happy to show you, and I found an old Bible in the basement.”
“I’d love to see it sometime.”
“Of course. It’d be good to learn something about it,” Ben said.
“It’s a big house, so maybe something else will turn up. If it does, you should take care of it. When people are gone, all we have left are the things they leave behind. Given enough time, almost anything can be forgotten. Such a shame,” the priest said. “I’m sure the villagers will know more. Of course, getting them to talk to you will be another matter.”
Ben was about to ask what he meant, when Father Caleb turned to the door. Ben followed the priest’s gaze to the doorway, where his son stood in khakis and a light-blue polo shirt.
—
The interview went well. Charlie was polite if distant. The three of them walked around the house and into the northern fields as Charlie answered the priest’s questions. Jake Bishop had mowed some of the farther fields. What remained of the stalks crackled underfoot. After thirty minutes, Charlie was dismissed and Ben was alone again with the priest.
“A fine boy,” Father Caleb said.
“Thank you.”
“Quiet and thoughtful. Rare qualities for someone of any age. He spends a lot of time alone?”
“He plays on his own most of the time. No neighbors, you know. Why?” Ben allowed a hint of defensiveness to enter his voice.
Father Caleb was silent for a moment. “It’ll be good for him to be with boys his own age.”
They had reached the edge of the most northeasterly fields, within the shadow of the forest. Ben had been here only a few times. The wind carried a musty smell. He was ready to head back to the Crofts, but the priest made no move to turn around. Ben turned to watch Charlie running past the house, toward the lake. Loping strides and pumping arms. Running as if the world hung in the balance.
“He loves the forest,” Ben said.
“We can all find inspiration in nature’s miracles,” Father Caleb said.
Ben nodded. “It’s a nice change from the city. The land feels so old here. Some of the trees by the mountains must have been here for centuries. Sometimes in the mornings, when the fog crawls up from the valley, it feels almost Jurassic.”
The grass was stunted here and studded with bursts of starflowers. The woods stank of something—stagnant water or the putrid scent of a plant that Ben couldn’t identify.
“The Drop has gotten under your skin, Mr. Tierney,” the priest said. Ben could tell that the priest wanted to tell him something, but he was a man who took his time. “How are you getting on with the villagers?”
“You can call me Ben, Father.”
“And you can call me Cal,” the priest said. “Just not in front of the boys.”
Ben nodded. “Some of the villagers have gone out of their way to help us feel welcome. Others…Are you familiar with the expression ‘they wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire’?”
The priest laughed, a throaty sound that rang across the field and rebounded from the trees.
“I first came up here in ’82,” Cal said. He sniffed at the air, wrinkling his nose at the reek from the forest. “Smells like something died,” he said before continuing. “It was a difficult year—maybe as tough as this year will be. Inflation and high gas prices coincided with a disease that cut down most of the milk herds. Before Thanksgiving, the wealthier parishes took up a collection to give away frozen turkeys in needier communities. Swannhaven was the only town to reject our help. And it’s one of the poorest towns in a very poor county. We even gave away a dozen in rich towns like Exton and Greystone Lake. It made me curious. I wondered what kind of place it was where people wouldn’t accept a gift as simple as meat for their Thanksgiving table.”