Literary Corner

I crept away from the meetinghouse that now seemed as uninviting as a crypt. Before entering my car, I studied the lane ahead and the best method to maneuver around a car partially blocking the far end of the driveway. Its out-of-state license with the insignia of a car rental agency explained how the violinist reached the meeting house.

Retracing my path, I sidestepped the tall grasses gorged with water, only to land in squishy red clay that oozed up and over the rim of my shoes. I glanced around angrily to determine its origin.

The sight took my breath away. Several yards to my right, the soil from a deep excavation had churned into a thick muddy river. Was this a freshly dug grave intended for a corpse? That seemed unlikely in an abandoned churchyard.

Or was the plan to disinter a treasure?

I wasted no time reaching my car and steering in the direction of the house holding the clues to the crumpled paper in my pocket. The turn onto Short Hills Mountain Road was without incident, but not a hundred yards beyond, the engine coughed, choked once or twice, then seized up with finality.

How could I keep my appointment with Burke?

I grabbed for the cell phone he gave me earlier, but the sheet of office contact numbers was missing. I had left them in the Cameron car! Dumber yet, I had not stored them in the new phone. Torn between waiting for help and meeting either Elmont or the musician, I gathered my purse and a canvas tote bag, locked the car, and began trudging down the muddy lane.

Upon reaching the house, I drew Bunny’s crumpled paper from my pocket and studied the first line: “Drop the plumb line of truth to the all-seeing eye.”

The entire structure was a simple rectangle halved symmetrically by the doorway. Mentally, I drew a vertical line down the center of the house from the topmost level of the roof, bisecting the front door and coming to rest on the threshold.

That was it! I raced forward, recognizing the carving on the stone for what it really was: A God’s eye! The very same one found on the dollar bill.

Now I knew exactly who carved it there. No matter his name, he was on the side of the colonists, if not as a soldier, certainly as a supporter.

Next, the second line: “Find the key to the secret wedged halfway between.”

Halfway between what? I backed off and studied the geometric puzzle before me until the veil lifted. How obvious! It directed me to a point halfway between the top of the plumb line and the threshold stone. That was exactly where the keystone sat above the doorway.
I hurried forward and tried to reach it by stretching to my full height, but that was not enough. I searched around for a booster.

Not even a log presented itself, but there was a shed some distance from the house. Perhaps Tom Grigsby had left a ladder.

The late afternoon sun illuminating the shed’s interior confirmed the absence of a ladder, but a stack of UPS boxes, still sealed, offered the perfect alternative. I chose one sufficiently light and manageable and carried it back through the soaking grass.
Even though it held my weight, I still lacked several inches. Back I went for another. By stacking them, I could touch the keystone. If my suspicions were correct, this was a false front. My initial rap elicited a faintly hollow timbre that boosted my hopes.

Unlike true keystones, this was not pressured into a solid, stationary seal against the adjoining stones A faint indentation around its perimeter invited me to pry further. Retrieving a nail file from my purse, I tried to loosen mortar around the rim. When some
flaked off, I plunged the file deeper and soon chipped a border around the keystone.
Now it was time to flex some muscle. Back to my purse, this time for a lever of sorts. Using the best substitute available, I jimmied a ball point pen into the cracks. Still the stone held firm. Putting more elbow into my effort, I felt a definite give. The third try was the charm.

The stone, responding to firm pressure under its base, emitted a faint sucking sound and pulled away from the building. It fell straightway into my arms, heavier than I had expected. Startled into a crouching position on the boxes, not daring to let the stone slam against the ground and crack, I cradled it against my body. Once I caught my breath, I stepped down and laid it gently on the threshold. Now! On to the anticipated revelation.
Mounting the boxes once again, I reached warily into the cavity. At first, I felt nothing. Had my theory been too wild?

But there! I felt a wad of cloth. Grabbing hold, I pulled it into the light and realized at once that it was too heavy for a mere roll of material. Dismounting, I inspected it closely.
The cloth was made of natural fibers yellowed and frayed from age and gnawing insects, but its true nature was evident the moment I opened it out flat. The main segment, a nearly perfect square, was topped by a triangular bib. The single strings on either side were meant to circle a waist. Several words on the lower portion of the triangle were too faded to read, but the name and date, John Davis 1774, were as clear as the day they were inscribed.

I recognized it immediately as a Masonic apron. Almost identical to one in a box of personal belongings inherited from my father, this relic of the Revolutionary period was far more mysterious, for it contained a secret pocket. Even before locating the hidden seam, I knew its contents by running my fingers across the telltale bulge: a large iron key!

© 2007 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at ecary@chesapeakestyle.com