Class Trip II
Page 4
She remembered what Mrs. Grigsby had said about her ancestors. How they’d come to Holyoake to escape religious persecution. Maybe her religion, whatever it was, involved a lot of ritual. That would explain white robes and candles and a mysterious midnight ceremony.
Every nerve in her body tingling, Hallie went back to her bed and crawled beneath the covers. She was even more wide awake now than before. She’d never get to sleep at this rate.
I could sneak across the Green and peek in, she reasoned. It isn’t spying. Why should they mind, anyway?
Quietly she got out of bed and pulled on a pair of dark sweatpants and a navy cotton sweater. Then she rammed her feet into her sneakers, tying them hurriedly, and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
She regretted not having a flashlight, but she could see the doors, pale as ghosts, on either side of the hall, and knew when she’d reached the landing.
The staircase, she remembered, was long and curving, but the stairs themselves were wide, and the treads shallow, so she knew that if she took her time and held fast to the railing, she’d be all right.
A board creaked as she rounded the bend in the stairway, and she paused, frozen like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights, to see if she’d roused anyone.
Nothing. Good.
Still clutching the rail, she continued on down the stairs. She knew when she had reached the bottom, because a glimmer of light filtered through the fanlight window over the front door and lit up the last step.
There was a big brass bolt on the front door. Hallie had noticed it earlier, but fortunately it wasn’t in place now—it would have been hard to slide the bolt without making a noise.
Hallie turned the handle slowly, easing the door open, and paused on the threshold, listening. Not a sound in the house. So far, so good.
Before she closed the door behind her, she checked to make sure she wouldn’t lock herself out. She’d hate to spend the night in Mrs. Grigsby’s azalea bushes.
She stood for a moment, clinging to the railing of the front stairs, and looked across the Green at the church.
The candlelight ceremony was still going strong. The faint sound of singing floated across the Green. It was a tuneless monotone sound, more like chanting than singing. A strong male voice would call out something, and the congregation would answer in an eerie, one-note chant.
Hallie took a deep breath and started across the Green. Why did she feel so nervous about this? The members of the congregation would probably be happy to see her there.
Nevertheless she found herself hugging the shadows of the trees that bordered the Green so no one could see her approaching.
The voices grew louder as she neared the church. The doors were closed, but flickering shafts of light leaked out across the sill.
What was it they were chanting in there? Maybe she should listen before she opened the double doors. She might be arriving at the wrong moment in the ceremony.
She paused beside the bush that grew by the entry stairs and cocked her head, listening.
What was that word they repeated over and over again, like a litany? Goddess? Surely she was misunderstanding them. Maybe they were only saying “goodness” in that odd accent they all seemed to have.
And yet, for some reason, Hallie still hesitated to enter the church. Instead she walked softly around to the side of the building. There must be windows here. Maybe if she stood on tiptoe, she could see in.
The windows, however, were shuttered, and only a little light showed around their edges. It was dark here—and spooky, with those voices droning on and on in that creepy monotone.
Suddenly a figure loomed up out of the surrounding darkness, grabbed her arm roughly, and clamped a hand over her mouth.
“What are you up to, you sneak?” an angry voice hissed in her ear.
Simon!
Hallie’s heart had nearly stopped when he’d reared up like an avenging demon. But now it was beating furiously, powered by the adrenaline of anger. She tried to pull free of his grasp, but he was too strong for her.
“If I take my hand away from your mouth, do you promise not to yell?” he said in a low voice.
She nodded. When he removed his hand, she whispered hotly, “What are you doing, sneaking up on me like this? Let go of my arm!”
“What are you doing,” he retorted, not releasing her, “prowling around, dressed like a cat burglar?”
“Let go of my arm,” Hallie repeated. “Let go or I’ll scream my lungs out!”
He hastily let go. “Okay. Now answer my question.”
“I . . . I saw the church from my window. And I saw the people in the white robes,” she said, rubbing her arm. “So I thought I’d come over and—”
“And spy on them, I suppose,” Simon said in a low, harsh voice.
He gripped her arm again, tighter this time, and pulled her toward him. The physical violence of it frightened her. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go back to bed and mind your own business. Nobody asked you to come here to Holyoake and snoop around.”
Then he pushed her from him. She staggered for a second and almost fell, but he didn’t put out an arm to save her.
There were so many things she wanted to say to him. Things that would put him in his place and make him ashamed of the way he was treating her.
The only trouble was, she couldn’t think of them at the moment.
Without a word she turned and made her way across the Green, into the house, and up the stairs as quickly and silently as she could in the dark, tears of humiliation and anger streaming unchecked down her cheeks.
Chapter SEVEN
When Hallie entered the dining room for breakfast the next morning, she was relieved to see that Simon wasn’t there. Mrs. Grigsby, chirpy and twinkly as ever, waved her to the table where Adam was happily demolishing a plate of country sausage and scrambled eggs.
“What’s Becky doing?” he asked, looking up. “Making herself beautiful?”
“She was still sleeping when I left our room,” Hallie said, taking a seat. “I tried to wake her up, but she didn’t even budge.”
Mrs. Grigsby smiled. “Let the dear child sleep. I’ll fix her something when she comes down.”
Hallie noticed dirty dishes and a crumpled napkin at the end of the table. Simon’s place. He must have eaten and run. Hallie breathed a sigh of relief.
Mrs. Grigsby noticed her glance. “Simon’s gone out to help with the Beltane preparations. The old oak tree needs more propping up. It’s starting to lean again.”
“I noticed the tree last night before it got dark,” Hallie told Mrs. Grigsby. “It looks terribly old.”
“It is,” said Mrs. Grigsby. “That’s the oak the town is named for.”
“The town was named for that tree?” asked Adam. “Why?”
“Well, when our ancestors came to America, their—” she paused for a brief second “—their pastor came with them, and he brought a seedling oak from the grounds of the old village’s place of worship. He planted it right out there, on what would become the Green. As you can see, it’s still standing, even after nearly three centuries. So eventually the village came to be called Holyoake, because of the tree.”
“But why holy?” Adam asked.
“Back in pagan times the oak tree was considered sacred,” explained Mrs. Grigsby. “Our ancestors were descended from one of the old pagan tribes. Old habits and traditions die hard around here. Or maybe the oak was called holy simply because it grew on the grounds of our ancestors’ old place of worship. Who knows?”
Mrs. Grigsby’s blue eyes had become shuttered, unreadable, when she’d spoken of the oak. Hallie wondered why.
Then, quickly changing the subject, Mrs. Grigsby said, “You two must meet Reverend Thoreson. He’s our . . . vicar. We’ve always had a Reverend Thoreson here in Holyoake. It’s one of those callings that have been passed down from father to son.”
Becky finally appeared, just as Adam and Hallie we
re preparing to leave the dining room. Hallie noticed that Becky looked a little pale and that the skin around her eyes seemed a bit puffy.
If Adam noticed a change in Becky’s appearance, he didn’t comment on it. “I’m going to go see Norman about the van,” he said, pushing back his chair. “Maybe it’s not as bad as he thought. Maybe we can still make it to the Shakespeare Festival. Even if it’s only for the last day.”
Keeping a wary eye out for Simon, Hallie ran back upstairs while Becky ate her breakfast. He was nowhere in sight. Maybe he was as embarrassed about what happened last night as she was. He should be, she thought grimly.
When she came down the stairs for the second time that morning, Hallie found Becky in the kitchen, perched on a stool and listening, entranced, to Mrs. Grigsby talk about her herb garden.
“Oh, Hallie,” she cried when she spotted her friend. “Mrs. Grigsby is an herbalist. She’s been telling me about some of the things she does with herbs. She’s kind of like the local medicine woman. It’s so fascinating!”
Mrs. Grigsby beamed modestly. “I do my best. It’s a wonder what can be done with herbs. My old granny was a healer, so she taught me everything she knew.”
“This house even has an herb room,” Becky told Hallie. “It’s the little room off the back hall. Mrs. Grigsby says I can visit it later this morning, when she’s working out there.”
Hallie waited for Mrs. Grigsby to extend the invitation to her, too, but Mrs. Grigsby suddenly got very busy scrubbing out her already spotless sink. Hallie was more amused than insulted. She wasn’t all that interested in herbs anyway. Besides, she was glad that Becky, at least, would be enjoying their stay here in Holyoake.
“Then how about taking a walking tour of the village with me in the meantime?” she asked Becky. “Everyone’s out on the Green, getting ready for the festival. It should be interesting.”
“Oh yes, do,” said Mrs. Grigsby, pausing in her scrubbing. “You can meet some of the villagers. I’m sure Reverend Thoreson will be there supervising the arrangements. What a lovely man! He’ll be directing the pageant tomorrow.”
“Pageant?” asked Hallie.
“It’s quite a do, really,” Mrs. Grigsby explained. “There will be games and food and a great bonfire on the Green. Everyone comes in medieval costumes, the way they have for centuries here in Holyoake.”
As Becky and Hallie walked across the Green, the groups of people they passed fell silent and stared at them. Particularly at Becky. It wasn’t the staring that bothered Hallie the most. It was the strange pleased, secretly excited expressions on the villagers’ faces that unnerved her. And the way their eyes lingered on Becky’s thick, fire-colored hair. For the umpteenth time since leaving home the day before, she wondered if no one had ever seen a redhead in this part of the state. But no—there was one, right over there, although her hair was a pale, carroty color.
“I feel like a Thanksgiving turkey just before they bring out the cranberry sauce,” she whispered to Becky.
Becky laughed. “They’re just curious, Hallie. Mrs. Grigsby says they don’t see many outsiders here in Holyoake.”
“I don’t get it,” Hallie muttered hotly. “Why should they be so darn curious? They don’t have to shut themselves away from civilization, do they? And what’s more—”
“Sshhh!” Becky cautioned, elbowing Hallie to silence.
A sandy-haired man was making his way rapidly toward them over the smoothly clipped surface of the Green. Although he was tall and broad-shouldered, his eyes and the bone structure of his face resembled that of Norman and Mrs. Grigsby.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said.
His voice, as Hallie had expected, was typically Holyoake.
“My name is Joshua Sidlaw,” he explained. “I’m one of the twelve village elders. Reverend Thoreson has asked me to give you a little tour of the village. We’ve all heard of your coming and hope you are enjoying your stay here in Holyoake.”
“How thoughtful! Isn’t that thoughtful, Hallie?” Becky asked.
“Yes, it is,” Hallie said. “But you really don’t have to do that, Elder Sidlaw.”
“Nonsense, I want to. Now, where would you like to go first?”
“We’ve been watching the people get ready for the festival. What do they have to do before tomorrow?” Becky asked.
“Most of the preparations have already been completed,” answered the elder, “but there are still many last-minute things. See the people over there at the oak?”
“Yes,” Hallie answered. “Mrs. Grigsby told us about that tree and how old it is.”
“Then you’ll understand why they are busy at work propping it up. We’re trying to keep it standing for as long as we can.”
Hallie looked for Simon among the group. He wasn’t there. Simon certainly knew how to maintain a low profile.
Maybe he saw me coming and ran—the rat!
Elder Sidlaw pointed to some women who were approaching the oak, carrying flower garlands. “When the men have made the oak secure, these ladies will decorate it with wreaths of spring flowers. That’s an old tradition here in Holyoake.”
“Mrs. Grigsby said back in the old days people used to think oak trees were holy,” Becky put in.
Elder Sidlaw looked at Becky for a moment before answering. “Yes, that’s true. Our people used to worship oak trees . . . among other things.”
A few yards beyond the tree, a Maypole was being erected. A deep hole had been dug, and several men were sinking the pole into it. Long, colorful ribbons fluttered down its top.
“That’s another Beltane custom—the Maypole. The Maypole dance is supposed to ensure fertility,” he said.
“What’s going on over there?” Becky asked, pointing to the center of the Green, where a large group of people were laying wood—and something else—in preparation for the huge bonfire Mrs. Grigsby had told them about.
The something else, Elder Sidlaw explained, were bones. Cattle bones.
“Eeeuw!” Becky said. “How gross!”
“Not really,” the elder explained, looking a little injured at Becky’s reaction. “This is the center, the very heart, of the old Beltane festival. Again, it dates back to our pagan ancestors, who burned the bones of animals each year on the feast of Beltane.”
“Why?” Becky asked. “And where do you get all those bones?”
“Whenever we butcher an animal—and we raise all our own meat here, on the farms just outside the village—we save its bones.”
Becky still looked puzzled, so he hastened to explain.
“The word bonfire comes from the word bonefire. In the old days the festival of Beltane was supposed to herald in summer and the growing season. So it was a sacred ceremony. The bones of animal—and human—sacrifices were burned, and the ashes were then spread over the fields to ensure plentiful and healthy crops.”
“Human sacrifices?” Hallie gasped. “You mean, they actually burned people?”
Elder Sidlaw nodded.
“And you’re still celebrating a feast where things like that were done?”
“Why not?” Elder Sidlaw replied calmly. “It’s an ancestral tradition. Afterward the entire village turns out to spread the ashes of the Beltane fire over the fields of Holyoake’s communal farms. That’s a tradition, too.”
Hallie and Becky watched as a low platform with a stake in its center was erected in the middle of what would become the Beltane bonfire.
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Hallie said. “This looks like they’re getting ready for the real thing. Aren’t you all carrying tradition just a bit too far?”
“It’s totally harmless,” the elder assured her. “In primitive times a maiden would have been sacrificed to the people’s patron Goddess on Beltane. Now, of course, a straw dummy represents the maiden. It’s just one of those peculiar customs, like the straw effigies they burn in England on Guy Fawkes day.”
Becky was staring at the scaffolding, her eyes wide.
Someone beckoned to Elder Sidlaw from across the Green.
“Oh dear,” he said. “I believe I’m needed. I’ll be back just as soon as I can.” He hurried off.
Becky looked at her watch. “Mrs. Grigsby said to come to her herb room so she can show me what she’s doing before she has to stop and fix lunch. Do you want to come, too, Hallie?”
“No, thanks,” Hallie said, remembering how Mrs. Grigsby had pointedly refused to issue her an invitation. “I’m going to walk around here for a while. Maybe I’ll go visit that lovely old church on the edge of the Green.”
“Don’t be too long,” Becky said. “I think I’ve seen enough. I love the village, and the people are all darling and friendly, but they do have some pretty gruesome traditions, don’t they?”
When Becky left, Hallie started across the Green to the church. On the way she noticed a couple of small children sitting on the grass, playing listlessly with some wooden, hand-carved, farm animals. With a start, she realized these were the first children she’d seen in Holyoake so far.
How strange, she thought. You’d think all the kids in town would be out here watching the preparations for the festival.
She wondered if there was a bad case of flu going on in town, and if the other children were all sick in bed. These kids didn’t look very healthy. They were pale and thin and listless. Frowning, Hallie turned back toward the church.
And then she saw him.
Standing half-hidden in the shadows of the church was the man they’d met on the road. Hallie was sure of it. The one who’d given them directions to Holyoake.
What was he doing here? He’d said he didn’t know much about Holyoake, and yet here he was. Maybe he even lived here—he looked just like all the other people in the village.