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Tuesday, June 4, 1918 ... The Bottle
Berserk loved the water. Of all the inhabitants of Jacksonport, she was the one most likely to be seen walking the beach that wistfully wrapped the easterly border of this gorgeous place with liquid joy. At least most of the time. Upon rare occasion, the glistening tranquility of Lake Michigan would stir up with a vengeance and result in pain, suffering, and sorrow. Shipwrecks. Drownings. But not today. It was bright and sunny but gusty with the following winds from the finally-departed front that had drenched the Door Peninsula for almost a week. Berserk reveled in the weather change, happily removing her stockings and shoes. She loved to walk barefooted along the point at which the waves broke on the sandy shore, savoring the scratchy sand slowly squishing between her slender, skinny toes.
Ber’s chores at home had been completed. She had helped Mama with the laundry and peeled some potatoes. Due to yesterday’s sudden collapse of the old schoolmaster, there wasn’t school today. The regular school mistress, Miss Lawrence, was still ailing, so all the children were on their own today. Thankfully only one pupil, Pris Parker, had seen the slumped schoolmaster at the big teacher desk. But Ber kept hearing Pris’ screams of sheer terror in her fourteen year old ears. The steady music of the waves helped to drown out those unsettling memories that flashed in her head. Ber had never heard Pris scream so violently as when she came out of that schoolhouse during the extra-long recess yesterday. There had been no word today as to Mr. Pearson’s condition.
Ber headed north, skipping in the sand and causing small depressions that quickly filled with foamy wash, its bubbles glistening in the late morning sunshine.
A few sleek sailboats struck a picturesque scene as they cut through the waves not far from shore. Ber thought she spotted the craft owned by her grandpa in the distance. It was the only boat in the area sporting a red streamer from the masthead. It made the sailboat look rather regal, especially when there was decent wind, the long red shape easily catching one’s eye. Grandpa was a member of a little group of older fellas that called themselves “The Windbags”. Ber thought this was a good name for the fellows, since when they weren’t out sailing, they were sitting over at Bley’s Tavern in West Jacksonport telling tall tales about their past. Those guys really loved their sailing.
Ber kept walking but was thinking about turning back and heading home for lunch. She noticed something glistening in the water. Just the light bouncing off a wave, she thought at first. After all, the sun’s rays were dancing gleefully all over the water’s surface. But wait. Ber took a double-take. Something looked different. It was an object, a shiny thing that bobbed along on top of the waves. Suddenly, Ber realized it was a small bottle, the kind that medicine came in. She walked in the direction the waves were pushing the bouncing object.
The sparkling bottle was getting closer to shore. Ber’s heart started to pound with anticipation. Suddenly she felt her whole body being pushed down by a force stronger than anything she had ever felt. Startled, Ber twisted around and the hands on her shoulders pulled away.
“Ben! What are trying to do to me! You just scared the bejesus out of me, brother!” she yelled, her eyes filling with tears. “Go away Ben, stop bothering me. It’s mine, all mine.”
“What’s yours, sweet sister?” Ben looked all around and finally spotted the bobbing glint of light, about to make its landfall. Ben wasn’t the best at finding anything. Alas, he couldn’t even see the front blackboard at school, even though the teacher made him sit in the front row. Ber kind of felt sorry for her brother, to whom she had always been very close. His vision wasn’t really that good. Father was threatening to take him to Sturgeon Bay to see about getting some spectacles, but that hadn’t yet happened. A long jaunt by horse and buggy.
The bottle was ashore. One last push from a wave brought it to rest near a clump of wet sticks and fish bones on the smooth sand. Ber raced to grab it before her brother could have a chance. The brain under his fair-haired head wasn’t the sharpest. And despite his rather long legs, he wasn’t the quickest on his feet.
Ber was absolutely thrilled with her new possession. Never had her heart pounded so hard as when this slimy little vessel was securely in her shiny wet arms. Her glee was furthered by the observation that there was a small rolled piece of paper inside the bottle. A cork still intact at the end, sealed in by clear wax, had kept the paper dry. “What message might be contained in this floating communication?” Ber whispered. She wondered where the bottle had been dropped in the water. How long had it been floating in Lake Michigan? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? Could it have come from a faraway land? Did someone throw it in from the shores of the state of Michigan? What was the message? Is someone in trouble? Would it lead to buried treasure? Would the message make any sense? What should she do next? Ber’s mind raced as she swiftly considered myriad possibilities.
One thing was for sure. The bottle was hers, all hers, and any secrets it might reveal belonged to her and her alone, Berserk Belinda Bailey. Ben would want to lay some sort of claim on her treasure, so she would have to defend her property rights with vigilance. She tore down the beach back towards town, leaving her brother far behind. “We’ll see about this!” Ben shouted after her.
After collecting her shoes and stockings further up the beach, the happy girl assumed a normal gait through town, so as not to stimulate any interest in what she might be doing. She finally reached the Bailey home after the brisk walk. Everyone else in the family was outside, so it was easy to slip into the privacy of her small bedroom. She closed the door and tossed the bottle gently down on her bed. Now what, she thought. Easy. Get the cork out and remove the rolled paper.
Slowly removing the cork, which released easily from its waxen grip, Ber wondered how best to remove the rolled slip of paper that rested inside the partially foggy glass bottle. A long tweezers would be the best bet, but she wasn’t sure the family even had such a thing. She could try slipping a knife into the neck and work the paper up and out, but it would have to be a skinny knife. A simple solution might be to simply shake the bottle upside down and see if the note would drop out. She tried that; it didn’t work.
Berserk had a flash of brilliance. She carefully dried off the bottle with a towel. Then she stashed her bottle under her pillow. Exiting her little bedroom behind the kitchen of the Bailey home, Ber grinned at her mother, Bee, who had come into the house and was getting busy in the kitchen. “Need any help, Mama?” Ber asked, hoping the answer was “no”. “That’s kind of you to ask, dear, but no. You run along now and enjoy the nice day. Where will you be, Ber?” Mother quizzed her happy daughter. “At the Hill’s,” Ber responded quickly. “See you later.”
The Hills lived down the street four houses, on the same side. Mrs. Hill was in the back yard hanging wash. As Ber approached, a dog’s bark greeted her repeatedly. “Oh Zeke, come on, it’s me, Ber!” she pleaded. The yellow dog raced across the front yard and jumped up higher than Ber stood, resting front legs on her small shoulders and eagerly licking her face. Pushing him down, Ber caught her breath just as Mrs. Hill rushed up to greet her in a more human manner. “Ber, Ber, I’m sorry dear, he’s just always so glad to see you,” the tall and friendly lady explained. Ber wiped the dog slobber off her face with her hand.
“Come sit on the porch a spell, Ber … tell me what’s new with you. Heavens to Betsy, I don’t think we’ve visited in several months. What brings you by, sweetheart? Anything special?” Mrs. Hill straightened her simple work dress and sat down on the wooden swing.
“Well, sort of, ma’am,” Ber beamed as she took to an iron chair on the attractive front porch, from which one could see the lakeshore in the distance. “I need to borrow a long tweezers from you, that is, of course, if you have one. I don’t think we have one in our house,” Ber continued.
“My, my, Ber, I think you’ve grown up a bit since I saw you last … when was that, dear, at the Jameson family picnic last fall I dare say? And you’re a mighty fine young lady, I’ve heard tell,” smiled the Hill woman. “Oh how rude am I, Ber, would you like some cool lemonade, dear? And maybe a piece of pie I just made today, from rhubarb grown in our very own garden?” Ber could not turn down this offer, but she hoped she could go home with a pair of tweezers before too long. “Sure, ma’am, that’d be wonderful.” A neat, spry woman of about 40 years, Mrs. Hill rose quickly out of her chair and scurried into the house through the big white front door.
Zeke had settled at Ber’s feet and was nudging her as if to want some attention. “Good boy, Ezekiel,” she said softly, as she ran her hand up and down his yellow labrador back. “Guess what I found today, Zeke,” she went on, “something really wonderful … I think. Oh, but why am I telling you? You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, do you boy?” Zeke stretched his body out straight as a board, rotating a tad so Ber’s hand rubbed his tummy. Ber remembered when Zeke had been born a couple years back. He was the giant of a litter of six pups over on the Fred Junion farm.
Mrs. Hill returned shortly with a jug of lemonade, two glasses, one piece of rhubarb pie, a paperback book, and a pair of tweezers. Ber brightened and consumed her refreshment hastily. “Thanks, ma’am, it all tasted good, but I better get home now … and thanks for letting me borrow the tweezers,” she chirped. With that, she bounded from the chair and leapt off the porch. “Wait, wait,” pleaded Mrs. Hill. “Please give this book to your mother, if you would,” she said, handing it to the suddenly harried girl. “I finished it, and I thought she’d enjoy reading it.” Ber glanced at the cover … “Lady Ryhope’s Lover” by Emma Garrison Jones. “Will do, thanks Mrs. Hill. I’ll return the tweezers soon … goodbye,” she replied.
Back home, it didn’t take Ber long to get back to her project. The tweezers proved successful in carefully extracting the small paper roll in the bottle. Then, using her fingers, she carefully spread open the paper, which really wanted to stay rolled up. There it was, the message, written in cursive, in black ink:
Maharba em evol ot uoy hceeseb i kresreb ho kresreb
Ber was immediately delighted but confused and crestfallen. “Now what?” she thought to herself. “What could it possibly mean? Is it a different language? Exactly where did this bottle come from?”
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