Hamelton (Dr. Paul) (3 page)

As I walked past the window I glanced out clear pane. I saw a person in a black and white maid's uniform picking flowers in one of the gardens. She was too skinny to be Maggie, so I knew it must have been Hanna. This room, although welcoming, seemed rarely used and seldom dusted. Jeff wanted to see what kind of fleet of vehicles they had, so we headed out looking for them. Jeff is an interesting fellow; we had known each other for about ten years. Jeff and I, although we had spent much time together over the years, have never been really good friends. Jeff was always a tag along, even on this trip. He was never funny, energetic, or thoughtfully deep, just always there. I don't want to sound as if I disliked him, he was just always there. Kind of like socks, no one needed socks until someone invented them, now it would seem as if something is wrong if you didn't have socks. About six months before the trip Jeff met Cindy, his first and only girl friend. They seemed to be moving toward marriage soon. Cindy had just about as much personality as Jeff, so she also was not much more of a bother than Jeff is to have around. Handy liked to go out in groups, so that's why he invited them. Besides Jeff would have complained until we took him with us anyway.

Jeff was a funny looking man, he was my height, six feet, but so bony that his arms looked as if they were going to fall off every time he moved. His dark hair came down into his eyes in front. I admired his light blue eyes that livened up his face; too bad no one could see them because of his sheep dog haircut.

Cindy on the other hand, was blond hair and also blue eyed. She wore her hair to her shoulders and it curled up at the ends. Her timed smile and gentle blushing were a pleasure to look at. She was only slightly overweight and wore clothes that were outdated.

Off to the left side of the main house, behind a light thicket of trees were several small structures. There were two houses for the gardeners and caretakers to live in, a large storage barn, the stables, and the garage. We followed the driveway to the garage. The garage was less than 20 years old and disappointing. Inside was the Bentley limousine we arrived in, several average late model four door cars, a van, a pickup truck, and a tractor. It seemed several other spaces were for cars that were not there at the time or no longer owned. On one end was a portioned room that seemed to be for tool storage.

"What looks like a comfortable fit to you?" Came a woman's voice from the rear. Behind us was Hanna. Her face was long, plain and had no makeup on. She was about 21 with long almost straight light brown hair. She had a closed mouth smile that seemed proud of herself for startling us. "You can use anything you see in here for your enjoyment. Some things are more fun than others," she said suggestively. Her healthy body was a tall five foot nine, and slinky. Her chest was small and firm. Although, due to her masculine face, she was not what I would call attractive, she did however have a unique sensuality about her.

Handy later described that first meeting, "...wearing that maid's outfit, several kinky movies about the stupid nymphomaniac French maid in a mini skirt putting her legs up, came to mind."

"Which one have you had the most fun in?" Asked Handy trying to return the playfulness.

She told him, "The keys are in each one and they are ready to go. You need to get in it and turn it on to get the real feeling. What are you all planning to do to night?" "What are you planning for us to do?" Handy asked. She winked playfully then said more seriously "The night life is not too lively around Hamelton. You may want to stop by the 'Knight's Edge'. It's a friendly pub."

"Are you going to be there?" Asked Handy.

"No, not tonight. But it's the only thing for you to do around here. I will see you in the morning." Hanna turned and left through the main doors.

Despite her sexual suggestions, I did not take any of it to heart because I had known several girls like her that find sexual play a way to overcome shyness. I knew nothing would ever come of it, and I don't think I wanted anything to come of it. Handy nudged me with his elbow as she left. I was worried Handy thought he had something going with her.

Maggie's stuffed cabbage and corned beef dinner was excellent and filling. Her stories about the gardener's prize rose garden was slightly interesting but mostly repetitive. Handy asked if we were indeed allowed to use the cars in the garage.

"Treat the yanks like the master of the house... he said" Maggie imitated in a firm voice, seemingly her perception of Master Simon. "...make sure they take home memories for a lifetime. That is what he said he wanted. The master always gets what he wants." She went on about some yard worker she caught in the "Hidden Six" passed out from drunkenness last year.

Jeff and Cindy wanted to stay home that night and Maggie offered to build them a fire. Handy and I took off in the pickup truck in search of the Knight's Edge. I felt the pickup may make us more liked by the locals than the limousine. Handy drove aimlessly around the town looking for the pub. We talked about how much bigger the town seemed now that we were lost. The west side of town seemed newer and slowly growing, while the east side seemed almost untouched by time.

The Knights Edge ended up in what looked like a very old part of town. The sign protruding over the door was a cross section of a large tree trunk with the name carved into it. The door was big and thick. Handy and I both stopped before the door, we looked into each other's faces and realized we shared the feeling of being out of place; we were outright scared of the unknown. I smiled and took a slow, loud, and deep breath, to show the gaining of courage to Handy. Handy did the same. I think I grew up a lot at that moment by not turning and running. Every muscle in my body was waiting for the approval to run back to the truck. I grabbed the forged metal handle protruding out of the door and thrust the door open. Handy and I, still holding our breaths marched in shoulder to shoulder.

The room was dark, oil lanterns could be seen all around the room. It seemed everything was made of rough wood. The floors, the walls, the rafters on the ceiling, everything all wood. There were pillars that seemed to hold the rafters up throughout the place. On the left were lots of uneven tables and chairs with a few small groups quietly chatting. On the right was a long and heavy looking bar. Even at that distance and the darkness I could see chips, dents and slashes imbedding history forever in its quiet majesty.

"Ya come to take pictures or to drink?" Came a voice from the bar.
I realized I must have been standing there for half a minute still holding my breath. I relaxed, then walked toward the voice. There were five outspoken men sitting at the end of the bar. I sat two empty seats away from them and Handy sat on the other side of me.

The bartender was thin and looked wrinkled like a seventy year old man but his voice and mannerisms made me think he was only fifty. His eyes seemed oversized through his thick-rimmed black outdated glasses. He was clean shaven and had short straight dark hair. He wore a brown shirt with an open brown cardigan.

"What can I get for you gentlemen?"
Handy answered automatically, "Harvey Wallbanger."

Still silence overtook the area. The barkeeps face slowly forced an amused smile; he looked at me through the corner of his glasses with a sparkle in his eye, almost to see if I was amused. Realizing that something was wrong, I glanced around and noticed no hard alcohol bottles behind the bar.

"We'll take whatever local light beer you have," I said, looking in his eyes as a good recovery.

"You're looking for Harvey Wallenger you say? Don't know him. He supposed to live in Hamelton?" Came that voice from the corner again.

"Wallbanger. George, he said Wallbanger not Wallenger, it's a mixed drink," replied the barkeep in our defense as he poured our beers.

"Bangers..," said the voice, "...we do not sell sausages here." "Leave it alone George," said the barkeep.

George walked up to introduce himself "You mates can call me George. Where are you from?" George had at least one too many to drink that night. He was well over six feet tall, wiry, about forty-five years old. He wore a work shirt with his name on it that made me believe he might work for the city. He was friendly but had an annoying habit of leaning forward into our faces.

As Americans we have an invisible wall of privacy around us, which also extends to our cars, houses or anything we consider ours. We feel great discomfort when our boundaries are penetrated. However, in Europe people do not have such walls. They freely put their arms over people and stand in their “space”. I did not understand this at the time and was constantly uncomfortable with intrusions.

"Name's Handy, meet my buddy Chris." We all shook hands and George introduced us to the gang, whose names didn't seem important to remember, even at the time. For hours we all talked about our two different countries. Handy and I laughed off several almost rude American jokes. In general the men were kind and friendly. When one man asked which inn we were staying at, I replied, "The Simon's house." There was a moment of thoughtful silence, and then they avoided the subject and continued to treat us well. A younger crowd was now coming in filling the place, but we stayed at the far corner of the bar with the older men we then knew and felt comfortable with.

Later, that night, I felt a hand firmly on my shoulder. As my laughing face turned, I met the piercing eyes of a stern faced man with a look as if he was on a mission. His eyes were dark and cold. His white beard perhaps on a different face would have reminded me of Santa Claus, but not on his. He wore a hooded cloak that covered his head and made shadows in his wrinkled puffy face. Long white hair appeared from under the hood around his neck. I looked down to his feet and noticed he had black leather boots that tied above his knees.

"You are the boys staying in Hamelton mansion, aren't you?" He demanded to know, "Aren't you?" The answer did not come fast enough for him.

"Yes sir, we are," I said, looking to my new friends for help, who just sat there apparently not concerned.

"Take my word for it boys..," he grumbled out of the side of his mouth, "you couldn't get me there if my life depended on it. The rogues show up about every eighty years. It's nearing that time. Do you hear me? It's nearing that time! William Hamelton cursed our town three hundred years ago when his satanic band of murderers pledged their souls to the devil himself, who swooped down and took his children home. Take my word for it boys." He turned suddenly and headed for the door, wind seemed to lift his cloak as he walked out. That was the scariest thing I had seen up until then in my young life.

I looked over to the men at the bar. The barkeep laughed to break the tension and said, "In a way, he told you what we all wanted to say. But not that way." He turned to dry some glasses with a towel knowing someone else would take it from there.

George, more sober than earlier, said to the barkeep "Beers for me and the yanks" He put an arm around each of us like a dad as he walked us to a table in a secluded corner of the pub. "What old Joffy said was mostly the alcohol talking. I think I'd best straighten this out, now that you know." Barkeep brought us our drinks and George took a big swig before he started. "The truth of the matter is no one knows what happened. William Hamelton's parents died when he was about twenty. It was his responsibility to continue his ancestors work advising royalty on the works of God." He sipped his beer as Handy and I sat on the edges of our seats. "He took up teaching an odd bunch of blokes religion. There was no evidence of witchcraft, but some still say there was. One day William and some of his students left without saying a word. The mansion reverted to the town's people, thanks to an old will of his grandfathers. That's it. Over time and bar talk, the tale has grown, perhaps in the back of our minds we wonder, some too much. But the truth is, the town selling the mansion to an earl long ago saved the town from financial ruin."

"What about the rogues every eighty years thing?" Asked Handy.

"Oh that, I don't think it's related. Three times since then the town has been plagued by a band of vagrant thieves. Each time they camped on Hamelton property. No one can live that long, and they aren‟t immortal, one was caught, killed and buried. Three separate incidents three different bands," George finished up his beer and story.

We left soon after that. Back in my room, I tried to go over all that had happened this day. I knew I would not be able to sleep, but again, I was wrong as the alcohol overwhelmed me and I faded out again on top of the covers.

III

I woke up early on my second day in England. I gave a quick look at the weapons hanging in my room. I saw what I was looking for. Something that may have belonged to some knight from the old days or William Hamelton himself. It was an oversized dagger. It wasn't made of any type of precious metal, but it was very interesting and well crafted. It had a hand carved metal handle and "W R H" carved into the blade along with his family crest, which I recognized from seeing it around town. It was obviously a dagger but it seemed to be half the size of a sword. Both edges of the blade were sharpened but pitted with age. I wanted to take it down and look at the other side but it was pinned to the wall and I did not want to tamper with it. I thought about the old cloaked man from the previous night, and George's account of the tale of William. My curiosity was growing faster than I could believe.

I dressed myself in clean clothes and headed for the kitchen. Maggie, apparently also an early riser, was cutting vegetables for some future meal when I arrived in the kitchen. I greeted her and asked if she could make coffee. We shared small talk for an unbearable time. I wanted so badly to talk about William but wanted to ease into the subject. Finally, when she asked where we went last night, I had my opening.
"We found ourselves in a small pub called the Knight's Edge," I started, "it's on the east side of ... I'm sorry of course you know where it is."

"The Knight's Edge can be a friendly place. They never brought electricity into that place. The only establishment in town they still haven't. It is part of the charm and no one wants to change it. Of course electricity was put into this house before I was born. I did however watch some of the old stores, trying to stay on fuel for the tourists, one by one give in. Some of them..."