Wellington County Museum, a great grey pile of local quarried stone shaped like a shoe box lying on the long end, with a central tower, sat brooding on the top of a big hill on City Road 18 between Fergus and Elora, as uninviting as a prison. In fact, it used to be one—of a sort. According to the plaque bolted to the wall at the entrance, it was built in 1877 as “the House of Industry and Refuge”—in other words, a poorhouse.
I locked up my bike and shouldered my backpack. Just inside the door was a staircase to the left and beside it a small counter of polished wood. Behind the counter an elderly woman sat at a cluttered desk, a book open in front of her. She turned as she heard the door hiss shut behind me.
“Hello,” she said. “Is this your first visit to our museum?” Her hair was silvery white, her face wrinkled and kindly.
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, the fee is four dollars. Two for students.”
“I was wondering, is there someone who I can talk to, who knows history and stuff?”
Way to go, Zack, I thought. History and stuff. In a museum. What a moron.
“You mean the curator?”
“Sure, that’s right.”
“Just a moment, please.” She lifted the phone, pressed a button, and spoke softly for a moment. “He’ll be right out.”
“Thanks.”
For some reason I had expected that everyone who worked in a museum would be old, but the guy who came through the door behind the staircase was in his thirties, with a rangy build and a shock of vivid red hair. He wore a denim shirt and cork sandals.
“Can I help you?” he greeted me.
“I’m doing a school project and I wondered if you would look at something for me.”
“Come this way.”
He led me into a small office whose walls were lined with shelves holding books, knick-knacks, boxes of computer diskettes and various artifacts. On the file-strewn desk were a phone, three coffee mugs, all of them dirty, a computer and an elaborate pen set covered with dust.
The curator held out his hand. “I’m Murray Knox.”
“Zack Lane.” I shook hands with him.
“Take a seat,” he invited, lowering himself into a chair behind the desk. “So what’s this assignment you’re working on?”
I sketched in the background, leaving out a lot, still intent on keeping as much secret as I could. I left out the part about the box, straps and nugget.
“Well, local history. That’s our specialty around here.”
I unzipped my pack, lifted out the linked iron Cs and placed them on his desk blotter.
“My, my,” he said without touching it, but plainly interested. “You dug that up in your yard?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you live?”
I told him.
“Holy cats,” he muttered. “Mind if I touch it?”
“No, not at all.”
He picked it up and with a deft movement formed it into a ring with the two box-shaped loops resting against one another. “Uh-huh,” he said. He looked up at me, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “What is it you want to know?” he asked me.
“I want to know what it is,” I said, recalling The Book’s warning that I wouldn’t like the answer.
He flushed. “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t realize.”
“You didn’t realize … I don’t understand, Mr. Knox.”
“It’s a neck iron. I take it you’ve never seen one before?”
“No.” A neck iron. Who on earth would wear something like that? And what was this guy’s problem, anyway? He was acting as if he’d just told me I had six months to live.
“See here?” He held up the ring, speaking withhesitation. “These D-shaped loops could be held together with a lock and chain. Or, alternatively, if the slave was part of a coffle—a string of slaves—a rope or chain would be passed through and on to the next slave in the line, making escape impossible.”
My mind went blank. “Slave?” I whispered, my mouth dry.
“Yes. I’m sorry to embarrass you.”
I swallowed hard and straightened up in my chair, only now realizing why he was uneasy. He
I locked up my bike and shouldered my backpack. Just inside the door was a staircase to the left and beside it a small counter of polished wood. Behind the counter an elderly woman sat at a cluttered desk, a book open in front of her. She turned as she heard the door hiss shut behind me.
“Hello,” she said. “Is this your first visit to our museum?” Her hair was silvery white, her face wrinkled and kindly.
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, the fee is four dollars. Two for students.”
“I was wondering, is there someone who I can talk to, who knows history and stuff?”
Way to go, Zack, I thought. History and stuff. In a museum. What a moron.
“You mean the curator?”
“Sure, that’s right.”
“Just a moment, please.” She lifted the phone, pressed a button, and spoke softly for a moment. “He’ll be right out.”
“Thanks.”
For some reason I had expected that everyone who worked in a museum would be old, but the guy who came through the door behind the staircase was in his thirties, with a rangy build and a shock of vivid red hair. He wore a denim shirt and cork sandals.
“Can I help you?” he greeted me.
“I’m doing a school project and I wondered if you would look at something for me.”
“Come this way.”
He led me into a small office whose walls were lined with shelves holding books, knick-knacks, boxes of computer diskettes and various artifacts. On the file-strewn desk were a phone, three coffee mugs, all of them dirty, a computer and an elaborate pen set covered with dust.
The curator held out his hand. “I’m Murray Knox.”
“Zack Lane.” I shook hands with him.
“Take a seat,” he invited, lowering himself into a chair behind the desk. “So what’s this assignment you’re working on?”
I sketched in the background, leaving out a lot, still intent on keeping as much secret as I could. I left out the part about the box, straps and nugget.
“Well, local history. That’s our specialty around here.”
I unzipped my pack, lifted out the linked iron Cs and placed them on his desk blotter.
“My, my,” he said without touching it, but plainly interested. “You dug that up in your yard?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you live?”
I told him.
“Holy cats,” he muttered. “Mind if I touch it?”
“No, not at all.”
He picked it up and with a deft movement formed it into a ring with the two box-shaped loops resting against one another. “Uh-huh,” he said. He looked up at me, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “What is it you want to know?” he asked me.
“I want to know what it is,” I said, recalling The Book’s warning that I wouldn’t like the answer.
He flushed. “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t realize.”
“You didn’t realize … I don’t understand, Mr. Knox.”
“It’s a neck iron. I take it you’ve never seen one before?”
“No.” A neck iron. Who on earth would wear something like that? And what was this guy’s problem, anyway? He was acting as if he’d just told me I had six months to live.
“See here?” He held up the ring, speaking withhesitation. “These D-shaped loops could be held together with a lock and chain. Or, alternatively, if the slave was part of a coffle—a string of slaves—a rope or chain would be passed through and on to the next slave in the line, making escape impossible.”
My mind went blank. “Slave?” I whispered, my mouth dry.
“Yes. I’m sorry to embarrass you.”
I swallowed hard and straightened up in my chair, only now realizing why he was uneasy. He
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