the New World: one must never underestimate the persistent convictions of the ignorant.
Oddmund held on to the smooth gray stone that he had rescued from the deck of the
Sovereign of the Seas
. Aside from his tattered clothes, this was the only possession that survived with him. One afternoon, wandering alone along the edge of the island, Oddmund found two short wooden tubes half buried in the sand. The tubes were so arranged that the smaller slid into the larger, and he decided that this may very well have been the spyglass used by the captain of the
Sovereign of the Seas
. Though the lenses had fallen out and the brass rings at either end were missing, Oddmund clutched the useless spyglass as if it held forbidden secrets, and looked through its empty tunnel, comforted by the confined perspective it offered. He carried it everywhere, hidden in his pocket with the stones he collected from the grounds around the asylum. From the window of the dormitory, he surveyed the harbor, the masts of the tall ships at the wharf, the steeples of the churches of Boston, and, when he dared, he scanned the dark surface of the water where, to the best of his knowledge, the
Sovereign of the Seas
had disappeared. His nightly searches with the useless spyglass only added to the mirth of the other boys, who believed his puzzling behavior confirmed the meaning of his peculiar name.
For almost three years, Oddmund remained at the asylum on Thompson Island while his Unitarian caretakers circulated his name through the surrounding counties. They had reunited other families. They printed his name in newspapers. They posted bills. They wrote letters and knocked on doors in search of a Hus who might take him in. There was a
Hoss
family in Connecticut. Therewere
Hooses
in Vermont. There were
Hesses
in the Berkshires and
Hasses
in the Appalachians. But these settlers were not included on the family tree that Lars Hus burned on board the
Sovereign of the Seas
. The Hosses and the Hooses ignored the letters. The Hesses and the Hasses turned away inquiring visitors. Those who did respond swore ardently that they were not related to the poor boy's family; they insisted they had never heard of the father; they said they already had children enough, and some confessed that they wanted nothing to do with an orphaned Hus from the Old World.
But it was only a matter of time before someone retrieved him. Oddmund might eventually have found himself alone, to fend for himself on the streets of Boston, had it not been for the well-dressed man with hard sweets in his coat pocket who drifted up the orphanage steps one day and knocked gently on its doors. The man conferred with the ministers in hushed tones; he said he came as soon as he learned of the possibility, and one look at Oddmund told him that his suspicions were correct. When he smiled—a mouthful of white, even teeth—his bottom lip contracted into an inverted
V
at its middle.
“You must be Master Oddmund,” the man said. “How delightful.” He presented Oddmund with a peppermint lozenge in his open palm. “I am your uncle, Søren Mikkel Hus. I have long hoped someone would come.”
Thus did something discarded and forgotten by the family Hus reappear, washed up by the inexplicable undercurrents of fate.
8
Eliot
Eliot squints through his spectacles at the fat pillar of smoke rising in the distance and wonders if there is cause for concern. It is possible, he thinks, that his heavy glass lenses are making the plume appear larger than it really is. No one else on Main Street seems to take notice. He slips the spectacles into a coat pocket, then pulls a key from another pocket and works it in the lock of the shop's door. He has heard stories of men who thought they had purchased a property only to learn that they had procured nothing more than a counterfeit deed and a phony key, and he is relieved when the bolt reluctantly gives way. Of course, he will need to replace the lock with something more
Oddmund held on to the smooth gray stone that he had rescued from the deck of the
Sovereign of the Seas
. Aside from his tattered clothes, this was the only possession that survived with him. One afternoon, wandering alone along the edge of the island, Oddmund found two short wooden tubes half buried in the sand. The tubes were so arranged that the smaller slid into the larger, and he decided that this may very well have been the spyglass used by the captain of the
Sovereign of the Seas
. Though the lenses had fallen out and the brass rings at either end were missing, Oddmund clutched the useless spyglass as if it held forbidden secrets, and looked through its empty tunnel, comforted by the confined perspective it offered. He carried it everywhere, hidden in his pocket with the stones he collected from the grounds around the asylum. From the window of the dormitory, he surveyed the harbor, the masts of the tall ships at the wharf, the steeples of the churches of Boston, and, when he dared, he scanned the dark surface of the water where, to the best of his knowledge, the
Sovereign of the Seas
had disappeared. His nightly searches with the useless spyglass only added to the mirth of the other boys, who believed his puzzling behavior confirmed the meaning of his peculiar name.
For almost three years, Oddmund remained at the asylum on Thompson Island while his Unitarian caretakers circulated his name through the surrounding counties. They had reunited other families. They printed his name in newspapers. They posted bills. They wrote letters and knocked on doors in search of a Hus who might take him in. There was a
Hoss
family in Connecticut. Therewere
Hooses
in Vermont. There were
Hesses
in the Berkshires and
Hasses
in the Appalachians. But these settlers were not included on the family tree that Lars Hus burned on board the
Sovereign of the Seas
. The Hosses and the Hooses ignored the letters. The Hesses and the Hasses turned away inquiring visitors. Those who did respond swore ardently that they were not related to the poor boy's family; they insisted they had never heard of the father; they said they already had children enough, and some confessed that they wanted nothing to do with an orphaned Hus from the Old World.
But it was only a matter of time before someone retrieved him. Oddmund might eventually have found himself alone, to fend for himself on the streets of Boston, had it not been for the well-dressed man with hard sweets in his coat pocket who drifted up the orphanage steps one day and knocked gently on its doors. The man conferred with the ministers in hushed tones; he said he came as soon as he learned of the possibility, and one look at Oddmund told him that his suspicions were correct. When he smiled—a mouthful of white, even teeth—his bottom lip contracted into an inverted
V
at its middle.
“You must be Master Oddmund,” the man said. “How delightful.” He presented Oddmund with a peppermint lozenge in his open palm. “I am your uncle, Søren Mikkel Hus. I have long hoped someone would come.”
Thus did something discarded and forgotten by the family Hus reappear, washed up by the inexplicable undercurrents of fate.
8
Eliot
Eliot squints through his spectacles at the fat pillar of smoke rising in the distance and wonders if there is cause for concern. It is possible, he thinks, that his heavy glass lenses are making the plume appear larger than it really is. No one else on Main Street seems to take notice. He slips the spectacles into a coat pocket, then pulls a key from another pocket and works it in the lock of the shop's door. He has heard stories of men who thought they had purchased a property only to learn that they had procured nothing more than a counterfeit deed and a phony key, and he is relieved when the bolt reluctantly gives way. Of course, he will need to replace the lock with something more
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