The Purity of Blood: Volume I (59 page)

I’d always
thought they should have called this hill on the Rhode Island side of the
valley Wells Hill after our family.
 
Most
of the land it stood on had belonged to my family at some point over the last
four hundred years.
 
It wasn’t much of a
hill anyway, just a slight reprieve before it started to tumble down into the
Tomaquag Valley back behind Diamond Hill Road.
 

As I turned left
onto Route Three in Hopkinton, the only thing visible at the bottom of the exit
were trees and more trees.
 
I headed
south towards Ashaway and Westerly, driving past familiar landmarks of my
youth, the fire house, Crandall Field and the church to name a few.
 

All of a sudden
I felt myself breathing easier.
 
For some
reason this little hamlet always felt like home whenever I found myself
here.
 
I just found something reassuring
about being in a place where my family had lived since the 1600’s.
 
As one of the original founding families of
the town, we’d owned pretty much all of the land I’d just driven over at one
time or another, though sadly we didn’t own any of it now.
 

As I was about
to turn into picturesque downtown Westerly, I thought twice about it.
 
Daniel’s Ferrari would draw too much
attention on its crowded streets so I did a U-turn and decided to drive north
of 95.
 
I knew there was an old boy scout
camp up there that might be deserted this time of year.
 
I wished I was a good camper.
 
I was sure you could disappear in these woods
for a long time if you wanted to, but I’m the first to admit I don’t do tents
well.
 
I’d much rather sleep as God
intended, in a bed, under a roof, and as far away from insects, reptiles or any
other woodland creature as possible.

I was about a
mile south of 95 when I passed an almost hidden dirt lane with a padlocked
chain link fence across it.
 
I vaguely
remembered my cousin taking me up there some years back to see an old family
house built back before the revolutionary war.
 
It was a beautiful old home that people had lived in up until just a few
years back.
 
I recalled my mother telling
me a while ago that the house had been bought by some investor from out of
state and had been sitting vacant ever since.
 

On a whim, I
pulled over and parked off to the side of the road and walked back to the
gate.
 
There were no tire tracks either
in front or behind the gate that I could see and no footprints either.
 
I turned the lock over in my hand.
 
It was starting to rust over.
 
Peering through the chain link, I looked up
as far as the trees and curving roadway beyond would allow.
 
Thankfully I didn’t see any signs that anyone
had been up there for some time.
  

Heading back to
the car, I quickly pulled back onto the road and headed north on Route Three
towards a nearby market up in the village of Hope Valley.
 
I picked up some food and supplies, enough to
get me by for a few days, but not enough to look suspicious to the clerk.
 
After that I drove down to the edge of town
and stopped at Ma & Pa’s market to pick up the rest of the items I wanted,
then walked across the street to the RUE Outfitters to purchase some camping
gear.
 

Hopefully I
wouldn’t need anything else, as after I filled up the car with gas, I was just
about out of cash.
 
Seeing no traffic on
the road, I pulled over in the turn out in front of the gate.
 
After making sure the coast was clear, I walked
up to the gate, took the lock in one hand and pulling a couple of metal picks
out of the back pocket of my jeans with my other, went to work.
 
This was one of those skills I didn’t get to
use very often and was hoping I wasn’t as rusty at it as the lock was.
 
After a minute of fiddling, it reluctantly popped
open, allowing me to lift the chain away and push the gate back.
  

After quickly
pulling the car far enough up the driveway that it couldn’t be seen by passing
motorists, I used a branch to sweep away any tracks I’d left visible from the
road then ran back and re-chained the gate.
 
Thankfully I was pretty sure no one had seen me.

The driveway was
about a third of a mile of switch backing twisty turns up a rocky hill to the
house.
 
The stately home sat in a
clearing of tall grasses with a rock wall running along the edge of the front
lawn, separating it from some fields and pasture to the right as you drove
up.
 
The house was two stories with a
high roof, brown wooden shingles and bright white trim on the windows and
doors.
 
Even though it had been sitting
vacant for some time now, it still looked like an inviting home nestled among
the tall sheltering oak and maple trees.
 
It wasn’t the only structure resting on top of the hill.
 
In the back were a series of barns ranging
from small to very large in varying degrees of age and deterioration.

After pulling
the car around the back of the house, I deposited my duffle bag and supplies on
the back porch before opening up one of the dilapidated barns to find room to
hide Daniel’s car.
 
Just inside the barn
door I found an old canvas tarp piled up in a heap.
 
After shaking the many layers of dust off, I used
it to cover the Ferrari once I’d safely parked it inside the barn.
 
The barn was filthy and who knew what was
living in there.
 
Hopefully they wouldn’t
find a way to take up residence on the fancy leather upholstery.
 
Daniel’s car was in the same shape that I’d –
well, stolen it in and I wanted to return it in the same condition if at all
possible.
 
Well, at least have him find
it that way.
 
I had no intention of
personally handing the keys back to him.

Straining my
shoulder, I pulled the huge barn door closed and turned back towards the
house.
 
It really was beautiful up
here.
 
You could almost have believed you
were back in the 1700’s if it wasn’t for the slightly more modern addition on
the far side of the house.
 

As I walked
across the back yard, I heard nothing but peaceful silence punctuated by the
songs of a mockingbird in a nearby tree.
 
Interstate 95 wasn’t more than a mile or so north of here so I was
surprised I didn’t hear the sounds of passing traffic.
 

Relieved and
anxious at the same time, I walked across the yard and onto the covered back
porch.
 
When I stopped in front of the
door, I pulled out my picks again and carefully unlocked it.
 
Shaking my head, all I could think was
Boy, these people really need to install
some kind of security system.
 
I
chuckled at my thought.
 
It wasn’t like I
couldn’t get around those as well.
  
As I
turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open, its rusty hinges protested the
intrusion by giving an ominous creak.
 

Once inside, I
immediately noticed the thick layer of dust that covered everything in sight indicating
that no one had been up here for a very long time.
 
I breathed a sigh of relief.
 
Yes, this place would do nicely.
 
Unfortunately, when I flipped the light
switch I discovered there was no electricity, but I’d kind of expected
that.
 
Satisfied that this place would
do, I started to carry in the bags from the porch and piled them on top of the
rather beat up looking antique kitchen table.
 

I’d heard that
the last owners had rescued the house from the dilapidated state it had found
itself in after decades of inattention.
 
I’d seen pictures of what it had looked like before, and it truly had
been on the verge of falling down around them when they’d begun the restoration
process.
 
Leaving much of the original
architecture in place, they’d done a great job in restoring the house to its
former glory.
 
Adding an addition onto
the side of the house, they’d expanded the kitchen and updated it with
electricity and running water.
 
Thankfully they’d left most of the original home looking as it must have
shortly after it was built by my ancestor all those years ago.
  
The builder of this house had been a Wells
grandfather of mine, my fourth great grandfather if I recalled correctly.
 
My cousin who I’d come up here with, was
going to school with the son of the folks who’d owned the house at the time.
 
That was how we’d been allowed up here to
take a look around all those years ago.

I walked into
the living room and placed my hand against the large stone fireplace that
dominated the bottom floor of the house.
 
I’d make a fire later after it got dark, when the smoke wouldn’t alert
the outside world to my presence.
 
Up
here on the hill sheltered amongst the tall oak trees it would get cold after
the sun went down and a fire would be a necessity.

I set to work
pulling out the cleaning supplies I’d purchased, and after opening up all the
windows I could, I wiped away the accumulated layers of dust collected over the
past few years of neglect.
 
When I
finished, I used a broom to sweep out all the rooms.
 
Luckily, most of the furniture was gone so
they were mainly empty rooms.
 
I stopped
only long enough to eat a sandwich I’d picked up at the market and a bag of
chips before digging right back into my work.
 
Strangely my appetite had come back.
 
I could only attribute it to hard work.
 
Dad always did call it the best therapy.
 

After my meal, I
shook out a couple of throw rugs
the
previous owners had left behind, and with my limited resources, beat the
stuffed chair in the living room out in the yard to try to get it as clean as I
possibly could.
    

Why was I cleaning?
 
Well, two reasons mostly.
 
One,
because I was trespassing and the least I could do in repayment was to clean
the place up and leave it in better condition that I’d found it.
 
And secondly because if I were going to stay
here for a while, I needed to know for certain that nothing that
creeped
or crawled was going to surprise me in the middle
of the night.
 
Besides, busy work kept my
mind otherwise occupied.
 
Well, sort of.

I could have kissed the previous
owners who had left the old hand water pump in the kitchen functioning and
simply put in a new kitchen sink next to it.
 
Amazingly, after a little priming, I got the pump working and had clean
water to drink and wash up with.

As the sun
started to set on my long day of labor, I put a chair out in the front garden
and looked out on the overgrown lawn bathed in the amber light of the setting
sun.
 
It was the most tranquil place I
think I’d ever been too.
 
At the far edge
of the lawn was a rock wall that ran along a line of towering elm trees,
separating the lawn from the field beyond.
 
Searching my memory, I vaguely remembered horses grazing in that field
when I’d come up here all those years ago.
 
I sipped on a bottle of water and wondered how different the view had
been back when my great, great, great, great, grandfather Wells had built this
place.
 
I’m sure at one time or another
he must have sat here like I was, looking out over a similar view in the
dimming light at the end of a long day.
 
Did he wonder if his descendants would someday sit here like I was, and
what kind of view they would see?
 

I remembered
telling Daniel once that I wished he’d known some of my ancestors and that he
could have filled me in on the personal details of their lives aside from the dry
facts of the birth, death and marriage records they’d left behind.
 
Sitting here, I almost felt like I knew
something of this ancient grandfather of mine. – If for no other reason than
leaving this tranquil oasis behind for me in my most dire hour of need, I
couldn’t help but like him.

From the comfort
of my chair, I watched the light change and finally fade away.
 
I was deep in thought about how thoroughly
I’d managed to screw up my life when a cold breeze found its way up the valley
to chill my bones.

Pulling my arms
around myself, I considered that I was really just frustrated that I didn’t
have control over things I was never meant to.
 
Ultimately whether I liked it or not, God was in control.
 
I should have found this comforting, but I
didn’t.
 
Control is always an
illusion.
 
We really have no control over
things at all when you come right down to it.
 
But it’s the illusion that we do that allows us to get up out of bed every
day and go about our lives in relative peace.
  
At the core of it, this seemed to be my problem.
 
My illusion had been shattered.