C.E. Murphy - Truthseeker

“No, but there were survivors of the massacre.” Lara picked up the history where Kelly had left off, tracing the words with a fingertip. “Maybe there are still a few descendants who might know something about a legendary staff.”

“And how are you going to find them?” Kelly asked with curious exasperation. “Go around knocking on doors? ‘Excuse me, were your ancestors murdered in their beds by an army captain? They were? Great! Do you know anything about Saint Brendan’s visit a thousand years ago, or about a staff he brought here?’”

Lara glanced down the street at storefronts already closed for the evening and restaurants doing late-dinner business. “If we have to, but there must be some bars off the main street here that are less trendy and more local. We could start by talking to people at them, instead of knocking on doors.”

“And if any of them watched the news and recognize us?”

“Recognize me,” Lara said decisively. “Dafydd’s glamour won’t hold, so he can’t go anywhere people might get a good look at him, and I’d rather not leave him alone. So if you guys want to hole up in—” She turned back to the tourist poster and tapped a green square a block and a half away from where they were. “In Peskeomskut Park here, then I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

“Lara …” Worry creased a line between Kelly’s eyebrows. “You’re not very good at sweet-talking people. Maybe I should—”

“Much as I would like to retreat to a wooded place with Lara and allow you the search,” Dafydd murmured as he joined them on their side of the sign, “I suspect that if Lara should find anyone who knows of Brendan or the staff, her truthseeking talents might be critical in establishing herself. You’ve been extraordinarily helpful, Kelly, but I fear in this you and I may be relegated to the sidelines.”

Kelly’s frown increased, then slid away in a rueful smile at Lara. “How does he make that sound so reasonable?”

“Because it is reasonable,” Lara said, but Dafydd put his hand over his heart and bowed elegantly, if more shallowly than full-blown theatrics might call for.

“Centuries, even aeons, of practice, my dear Miss Richards. Now, if you would be so good as to escort me to this mouthful of a park, I would be grateful for rest among some greenery.”

Kelly severely said “You be careful,” to Lara, and “‘Peskeomskut’ isn’t that hard to say,” to Dafydd as they headed for the park, leaving Lara behind.

Bars and dance clubs were not Lara’s natural or comfortable habitat. In the one or two trendy clubs, she was at least the right age; in the more local bars, she stood out as both too young and too touristy.

And, she decided, probably too determined to broach a particular topic of conversation. Films always showed locals closing ranks when a stranger came in to talk, and that representation felt dismayingly accurate. Still, she nerved herself beyond the front door in more than one bar, ordering a glass of wine and putting on a shy smile for the bartender. By the third bar she wished she’d ordered soda all along, though it did seem to be getting easier to broach her awkward topic. Amused at the realization, she leaned forward to explain herself for the third time.

“I’m doing research on Native American legends. I—”

“You’ll probably want the Discovery Center, then,” the bartender said. So had the previous two, and Lara nodded with familiarity.

“Probably, but I got into town after it closed. I thought I’d see if there were any locals willing to share stories, especially about the falls.” Unrelated statements, both true, meant to sound like together they meant something. If someone else had done that, it would make hairs stand up on Lara’s arms, but her truthseeking sense allowed it to slip past, this once at least. “I’m on a tight deadline, so I hope I can skip going through the Discovery Center.”

A hint of sympathy tempered the barman’s smile. “Put off a college research paper, huh? Look, you can try Old Jake. He’s usually down at the Canal Bar—you know where that is? Head west three blocks, until you get to the canal, then go north two. He’ll tell tall tales as long as you keep buying him another drink. I don’t know if any of them are true, but you’re looking for legends, not the truth, right? And if you’re looking for a place to stay, the bar’s got rooms, too. Canal Bar and Inn, you can’t miss it. New building, part of the revitalization work going on here, not one of the old mill buildings.”

Lara, grateful, said, “Thank you,” and drank her wine much too quickly, eager to make her escape. Turners Falls streets were laid out in tidy square blocks, and following the barman’s instructions was easy, even with three glasses of wine in her. The waterfront was as he’d suggested, a mix of old mill buildings and newer ones similar enough in style to retain character but unique enough to mark themselves as modern. The canal itself reflected streetlamps, and there was indeed a sense of revitalization as couples took after-dinner walks along the water, greeted by dog walkers and joggers. It had the feel of a town reinventing itself, and Lara found the Canal Bar with her own sense of purpose renewed.

A group of locals, mostly young men, sent wolf whistles and approving jeers toward her as she approached. Nerves clenched her stomach and she wished Dafydd or Kelly were with her after all. Retreating, though, wasn’t an option, and she made her hands into fists, hidden by her skirts, to urge herself forward.

An older man with military-cut gray hair and a limp stepped through the group of younger men, raising his cane to smack one of the youths on the shoulder as he passed. “Your mother’d never forgive you for harassing a woman that way, Denny. Behave like a gentleman.”

“Denny” swallowed a protest into a look of embarrassment as the older man came forward to offer Lara his hand. He was in his sixties, and wore a beaten-up black leather jacket over a blue T-shirt and jeans that had seen better days. “Sorry about that, Miss Jansen. I’m Old Jake. Been waiting for you a while now.” He glanced beyond her, eyebrows lifted, then looked back at her. “Where’re your friends? Two men and a woman. They were expected, too.”

“Expected?” Lara squeaked the word, then cleared her throat. “There are, um. Just three of us. How did you know?”

He flashed a sharp smile. “You want the hoodoo mystic answer or the practical one? You were on the news,” he announced, choosing which answer she got. “But I’ve been waiting a lot longer than that. C’mon inside, let me get you away from these hooligans.”

Bemused, Lara followed him into the bar, which was brighter and more welcoming than she expected it to be. Jake waved a waitress down, ordered himself a beer and Lara a ginger ale without asking, then gave her a sly look of curiosity.

“Ginger ale’s fine, thanks. Great, in fact. How did you—”

“Know the history of Turners Falls, Miss Jansen?” Jake leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. Lara thought he might kick his feet onto the table between them, he looked so comfortable, but instead he thumped his chair forward again as the waitress hurried back with their drinks. Lara waited for the woman to leave again before giving Jake an uncertain smile.

“Not really. Only what I read on the tourist board on the main street.”

“About the massacre. Does it mention the men were gone from the village that night? That it was mostly women and children who died?”

“God,” Lara said involuntarily. “No. That’s even more horrible, somehow.”

“No, Miss Jansen, what’s horrible is the men left knowing their wives and children would die, but they went anyway, or so that’s what the family stories say.”