Uncertain Justice

Chapter 43

Across from the fireplace, on the southern wall, were more shelves and pegs holding instruments and gear that Miles couldn't identify. He did recognize an old "coal oil" lantern perched on the topmost shelf. A large tin sitting next to it had probably contained a supply of the flammable liquid at one time ... he doubted there would be any in it now.

Completing his circuit around the room, he found another set of pegs and more shelving set into the wall on either side of the side window. These were empty, waiting for garments or equipment to be hung there.

He suppressed a quick urge to fill the shelves and hooks with his own gear, and do it now--make this house his home.

Miles snapped off the flashlight. His eyes were adjusted to the comparative dimness and he could see well enough inside the house now. He wanted to conserve the batteries as much as he could too. When the cells he had with him expired, there would be no more.

He walked deeper into the little one-room dwelling and spun around slowly in place. His eyes were drawn to the table under the front and side windows where a slim book sat framed in a dusty shaft of sunlight.

Miles tapped the flashlight against the tabletop a couple of times and then used a bare knuckle to rap on the surface. There was a solid thump in return both times. Squatting low, he saw the tabletop was a good two inches thick. The undecorated but functional legs were double that.

The rough chair seemed sturdy enough, though not as heavily constructed as the table. Carefully, Miles pulled the chair away from the table and gently lowered himself onto the hard wooden seat. It screeched a little in protest at the burden of his two hundred-odd pounds, but didn't immediately collapse.

Wiggling his hips a little, Miles felt a little sway to the chair that he didn't like at all. The thing could fall apart at any moment. As he grabbed the edge of the table to haul himself up, his fingers touched the book on the table in front of him.

More intrigued by the book than he was concerned about the chair coming apart with him in it, Miles eased himself back down. Mindful of its fragile condition, he was careful not to put much stress on the crude chair by dropping back down into it.

Wiping his hands on his pants, Miles cautiously lifted the cover of the volume to find a folded piece of paper lying inside. He lifted the sheet carefully to reveal the front page. It was blank except for a brief handwritten proclamation.

"Zebidiah Cross, his Jurnal," it read.

"Zebidiah ... Zebidiah," Miles repeated the name a couple of times. Not a name you ran across a lot these days, he reflected. Wasn't it something out of the Bible? What the hell did old Zebidiah mean by 'jurnal.' What was a 'jurnal?' Then he had it.

"Journal! Okay ... I see ... creative spelling." Pleased to have deciphered the cryptic lettering, Miles frowned in concentration. "But why call it a journal? Miles shrugged his shoulders. The man had been entitled to call it whatever he wanted.

"Okay, Zebidiah, old man ... what do we have here?" Miles asked the empty air. He cautiously unfolded the sheet of paper that had been placed inside the cover of the journal. The single page felt brittle and ready to crumble.

He opened the top half of the folded piece of paper gently to find a few lines of script followed by what must have been Zebidiah's signature at the bottom. There was a brownish stain at the bottom, something spilled on the paper that was permanent now. Turning the book so the light from the open door fell on it more fully, he read what Zebidiah had written.

To the Pilgrim who fins this

I, Zebidiah Cross Bornd Juli 18, 1806 an Kilt by a

dam ol' Bar in Aprl in the year of our Lord 1852. I figger I aint goin to make it throuh the Niht what with a brok Leg and bustd up bad insid lik the bar lef Me. I go to the Lord hopin he'll receev me in his flok.

Everthin I got in this werld is rite heer in Ston Howse and you kan heve it all Jest git me a decint Christon Buriel whenevir you can and if aint to much truble. I cut all the Animuls loos so they cud get to gras and watre. Take ker of Scar hes a fin old ridin Hors. Cain an Abel are gud pak horses to. Thay will serv You well if You treet em rite.You ken hav all the shinee Stuff an al my Posibles. If you ken let my Sister Abigal Johnson know of my passin. She's livin in Fancy Pennsilvania nowdays. She s a Good womin

Zebidiah Cross By his hand

It took a while for Miles to puzzle through the words old Zebidiah had written but when he did, he had a good time line on the house and its furnishings. If the old man's writing was accurate, he'd been dead for more than a century and a half. That explained the condition of the courtyard outside.

On the other hand, the things left inside the stone house were in pretty good shape. Evidently, the stone building had protected the interior from weather and animals. The dry conditions in the cavern must have helped preserve things that might have otherwise deteriorated.

Well, most things ... he had serious doubts about the seating arrangements. Miles experimented with a cautious wiggle and was rewarded with loud, protesting creaks.

He wanted to lean back to think better but checked himself. The ancient furniture complained about sudden movements. Miles grinned and watched dust motes dancing in the sunlight that spilled through the open door.

One heck of a tough man, Miles considered. It wasn't everyone who had the balls to announce his own death and have enough presence of mind to write out what he wanted done with his property and his body while he was dying. The old man had lived here before the before the airplane had been invented--even before the Civil War.

"Wonder what he would have thought about men walking on the moon," Miles mused. He smiled to himself. "Probably would have labeled anyone claiming to have seen that a damned liar." He reread a couple of the lines in the paper to see if he could make more sense of them.

The will, at least he assumed that's what it was meant to be, wasn't very clear at all. What was the 'shiny stuff' he talked about leaving to the person who found him.

Possibles? Was that a noun--a plural one at that--back in those days? Miles didn't have a clue. He let that go while he pondered the rest of what the old man had written. Suddenly he stopped reading. Zebidiah had asked for a Christian burial. How had that been accomplished ... and who had done it?

The shorthairs on the back of Miles' neck, unusually long in the absence of a haircut for many weeks, began to rise. Miles could feel the ripple of goose bumps forming on his forearms and he shuddered as a chill ran down his spine. His grandfather had referred to it as a rabbit running over his grave. He suppressed the disquieting thought. He looked out of the corner of his left eye, then the right. There was nothing there.

He twisted around, ignoring the chair's protests, to find nothing behind him either. The shadows in the corners of the little hut mocked him. They seemed to say they were hiding more than he knew. He fumbled the flashlight out of his hip pocket and stabbed at the switch. The bright light eliminated the shadows. He couldn't see under the old bunk but it didn't look like anything could hide there. He froze.

"Oh s**t," he breathed. He'd assumed the cot held only a pile of old blankets. He hadn't checked them closely. In the flashlight's beam, Miles saw the finger bones of a human hand protruding from a corner of the covers and lying quietly alongside the mound he'd taken as nothing more than a pile of blankets.

Like most Americans, Miles had never seen an actual human skeleton. He'd seen any number of dead bodies in Afghanistan, but all the bones had been decently covered. Skeletons were something else again. The gaping jaws and empty eye sockets of skulls were somehow more evil and repulsive than even the remains of a soldier killed in action.

He didn't get the impression of a serene passing from the thin dried finger bones that were, it seemed, pointed accusingly at him. The blanket twitched in a sudden breeze that blew in through the open door.

Miles lunged out of the old chair, sending it careening across the small room to slam against the back wall. The abused piece of furniture finally gave up its attempt to stay together. Two legs splintered at the contact with the rock and the chair broke up; the seat bounced across the room and over the hearth into the fireplace.

He wasn't there to see the chair's final destruction. Miles bolted for the door and was in the process of getting out of the house as fast as he could. His right boot slipped in the dust on the floor and he nearly fell. Regaining his balance, he found traction and catapulted out the door, banging his left shoulder against the doorframe as he passed through.

He caught himself at the low wall, skidding to a stop before he could run right off the cliff. He slumped on the old wall, suddenly drained of energy. He massaged his sore shoulder and watched the doorway, half expecting a pursuit. After a bit, he remembered to switch off the flashlight.

In minutes, his pounding heart eased and laboring lungs were filled with oxygen. He wiped sweat from his face. Suddenly he was ashamed of having raced out of the little house where the journal's author had lived ... and apparently died.

"Damn, Zebidiah," he complained. "Give me a break would ya? I don't need this, man."

He stood, still rubbing at his shoulder.

"Hell," he chastised himself. "A damn skeleton never hurt anyone. What the hell are you running from anyway? Stupid!"

He was abruptly furious with himself for giving in to instinctive revulsion at the sight of the skeleton. He goaded himself with assorted insults until he was humiliated enough to walk back inside the little stone hut.

Snapping on the flashlight, he walked slowly inside the stone house and up to the old bed with its lumpy blankets. He knew what the lumps were now. Nerving himself, he bent to study the blankets covering old Zebidiah's body. The dying man had pulled them over himself, even dragging a piece of one over his head to cover himself decently. The left hand he'd used to position the covering over his eyes was the only part of his body visible.

The skeletal fingers had seemed to be reaching out for Miles when he first caught sight of them. But that wasn't the case at all. The hand was only lying where it had fallen when the old man breathed his last. Zebidiah had done what he could to make all the arrangements ... the only thing he couldn't manage was his own burial. He'd had to leave that to someone else.

Miles grabbed a corner of the blanket at the foot of the bed. The material hung almost to the floor there and was as far away from the skeletal hand as he could get. Holding the time-ravaged fabric between his thumb and forefinger, he tugged the blanket away to expose the body. Half expecting to see rotting flesh, Miles held his breath. As he pulled the cloth away, the skeletal hand slipped off the blanket and settled beside the hipbone as if the dying man had intended that all along.