Ye gods of the shore,
Who abide evermore,
I see you far headland,
Stretching on either hand;
I hear the sweet evening sounds
From your undecaying grounds;
Cheat me no more with time,
Take me to your clime.
After a pause, Sam said, “Remarkable. What’s that one called?”
“‘All Things Are Current Found.’”
“Henry never disappoints, does he?”
Something clicked in Paige’s head. She realized only then that they were talking about Henry David Thoreau, the author of Walden.
“Thanks for that, Iris,” Adeline said. “Now then, I hereby call the New Transcendentalists meeting to order.”
“Hear, hear!” said John.
“Who wants to read her own poem? Any volunteers? Paige?”
Normally, Paige prided herself on being able to improvise in any situation. But making up a decent Transcendental poem on the spot was asking a little much, even for her.
Sensing her hesitation, Sam cleared his throat. “I’ll go,” he said, jumping to his feet. For the first time Paige was able to really look at him, and she liked what she saw: jovial eyes; raked-up hair; a long, lithe body; and cat-quick reflexes.
As for his poem, it barely registered. She tried to understand it. She really did. But it was purple and florid, stuffed with so much imagery she couldn’t keep track of it all. When he’d finished, she had no idea what it had been about.
“Thoughts?” he asked hopefully.
There were a few seconds of silence.
“I enjoyed the alliteration at the beginning,” said Adeline finally.
“And the part where lions and zebras gather for the eclipse,” said Sylvia, the black-haired girl. “That was extraordinary.”
“Quite,” added Adeline. “I think Henry would approve.”
Paige had to resist rolling her eyes. She knew precisely what these girls were doing: complimenting Samuel’s second-rate poem in the hopes that he would reward them with attention.
“And you, Paige?” he asked her.
“Me?”
“Yes. What are your thoughts?”
She took a deep breath. “Well, honestly, I think you could have used an editor. It was a little . . . over-the-top.”
Frowning slightly, he ran his fingers through his hair, raking it up still higher.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she added. “There’s potential there.” This wasn’t entirely true, but she had to say something nice.
“Perhaps you’re right about an editor. I do have a tendency to go on.”
“And on,” joked John.
“It’s always better to write too much than too little,” Paige said. This wasn’t entirely true, either, but she didn’t want to discourage him. “I can have a look at it later if you want. I’m pretty good at pruning.”
He smiled gratefully. “Splendid!”
From the corner of her eye, Paige saw Adeline frown.
More people read their work, and more people critiqued. Most of the feedback was overly charitable, in Paige’s opinion. She stopped listening for quality and instead listened for themes. She started to recognize some that she’d learned when studying Transcendentalism: beauty and truth in nature, resistance to established ideology, self-reliance as the key to a fulfilling life.
Over the next hour or so, bits and pieces of her eighth-grade unit on Emerson and Thoreau came rushing back to her. Do not go where the path may lead.
“Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail,” she said under her breath.
“Pardon?” Sam asked.
“Oh, nothing.”
“You Americans are quite mysterious.”
“Sammy, to you, every pretty girl is mysterious,” said John. Adeline poked him in the ribs. Paige realized that no matter what the century, some girls would always vie for the best-looking boy. Fortunately, she tended to win such competitions.
“Paige, what do you reckon of the new Transcendentalists?” John asked her.
“To be honest, I’m a little bored.”
That made him laugh out loud.
“Delilah really does pick some gems,” Sam said, sharing in the laughter.
“Where is she, anyway?” Paige asked, picking a blade of grass.
John mockingly made the sign of the cross. “I’m afraid her grandfather was just laid to rest in his eternity box.”
“She’s in town for his funeral,” Sam explained. “She didn’t tell you?”
Paige shrugged. “Is she very sad?”
“Sad? Hardly. The old codger didn’t leave her an inheritance. Left it to a lushy cousin instead.”
“Oh.”
“But Delilah will survive. Her parents already bequeathed her their estate. The one in Winchester. Have you visited?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s grand,” said Sylvia. “Twice as big as my father’s, and twice as nice.”
Paige nodded as if she knew a lot about bequeathed estates. “Have you come into your inheritance?” she asked Sam.
“Two more years,” he lamented. “You?”
“One,” she lied.
“Good girl,” he cheered.
“Not to change the subject,” Paige said, “but Adeline mentioned bathing costumes . . .”
“And?”
“And I wouldn’t mind going for a dip.”
“I assume Delilah told you about Mirror Lake,” said Sam.
She prayed he would stop mentioning Delilah, whoever she was. How much longer before the group realized Paige and this girl were complete strangers?
“Yes, Mirror Lake,” she said. “It’s nice, right?”
“Glorious. The sand beneath is silvery as the moon.”
“Shame about its real name, though,” said John.
“Mirror Lake is actually George’s Hole. A travesty of a title,” Sam explained, shaking his head.
Paige got to her feet and offered him her hand. “Well, come on,” she said.
He looked at her in confusion.
“It’s time to go,” she said. “Mirror Lake awaits our arrival.”
His uncertainty transformed into mirth as he accepted her offer, taking her hand and kicking off his shoes.
“But the meeting isn’t over yet,” Adeline complained. Paige caught a hint of desperation in her voice.
“For us it is,” she said cheerfully.
“Wait, I’ll join you.”
“Sorry, you can’t. We’re going ‘where there is no path,’ and there’s only room for two.”
Adeline scowled as they strode off.
Paige found George’s Hole a lot less poetic than its nickname. The water was murky, and the sand at the bottom seemed like ordinary brown mud to her. Still, she was game for a swim, and giggled when Sam stripped down to his underwear: a large, woolly onesie that was as endearing as it was ridiculous. She watched him take a wild running leap into the water.
“Come on in!” he clamored. “Let’s baptize you into the New Transcendentalists Society!”
“Please don’t tell me you really do that.”
“No, but maybe we should.”
“Is the water cold?”
“Warm as summer rain falling on a hot tin roof. Wait—too ‘over-the-top’?”
“Yes.”
“Do you write a lot of poetry, Paige?”
“Nope. I prefer prose. Fiction.”
“Where do you study? Trinity?”
“Is that where all of you study?”
“Most of us. I’m about to finish, though. It’s my last year.”
She put her toes in the water. “What’ll you do after?”
At that, a shadow seemed to descend on Sam’s ca
refree mood. “Lord Alfred Tennyson is looking for a pupil. A protégé,” he said thoughtfully. “There are only a few fellows in the running.”
“And you’re one?”
He nodded, waist-deep in the water. “I sent him my best poems. That’s how he’ll decide. He’ll assess our work and look for the bloke with the most talent.”
“You really want this, don’t you?”
“I’ve admired Lord Tennyson since I was a boy. He’s England’s greatest living poet. The world’s greatest living poet. His opinion is the only opinion.”
Paige walked into deeper water. She hated that she could barely see the bottom, imagining all kinds of creepy-crawlies, but she kept going. “It’s dangerous to put so much stock in one person,” she told him.
“But Tennyson’s not an ordinary person. He’s more like . . . God.”
“So become an atheist.”
Samuel shook his head. “Why do you say that? You don’t think he’ll like my work?”
“I’m not concerned with him. I’m concerned with you. It’s stupid to put all your eggs in one basket. You need to diversify.”
“Diversify?” he repeated.
“Yeah, it’s this American way of saying you need other options. A backup plan. A Plan B.” She waded in farther, till she was up to her hips.
“Criminy. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not a nymph, but a sage?”
“I’m whatever you want me to be,” she replied cheekily. Then she gathered her courage and dove underwater, into the unseen.
CHAPTER TEN
“And then I woke up,” Paige said.
Saskia watched her tremble at the memory and couldn’t help but shiver herself.
“Confused—but excited, too,” Paige finished. “I was back in bed, like it never even happened. The only proof I had was the fact that I was soaking wet.”
“Are you sure if was from the lake water?” Saskia asked, remembering when sweat, not rain, had dampened her clothes after she’d first met Cornelius.
“Well, yeah, of course,” Paige replied briskly.
“Were you scared?” Adrienne asked.
“I was . . . but more than anything, I felt strange. Off-balance. Like I had one foot in this world and one foot somewhere else.”
“I wonder if you really were on the other side,” said Sara Beth. Her voice was quiet. She sounded as if she were talking to herself.
“The other side of what?” asked Adrienne.
Paige rolled her eyes. “You know what. The other side of life. Death.”
Maybe Saskia should have felt scared, but she didn’t. She felt relieved. The field of wildflowers. The new Transcendentalists. Lord Tennyson. The sweat that Saskia was sure Paige had mistaken for lake water. All of these intimate details convinced her that Paige wasn’t making this up. Paige couldn’t have pulled such a story out of thin air, or even Wikipedia. No, just like Saskia, she had somehow crossed a divide, switching between two different centuries and two different realms.
Saskia looked at the other girls, wondering about their reactions. Adrienne looked tense and fearful, like Paige’s story had unnerved her. Saskia wondered what part of the tale had scared her. Lila was attempting a poker face, but Saskia knew her well enough by now to realize she was hiding something. But what was it? Maybe she’d met her dead boyfriend, but was determined to continue playing the role of unbeliever. And Sara Beth? Paige’s sister looked lost in thought as she fiddled with a decapitated Barbie a little too aggressively.
“Who’s next?” asked Paige.
“I’m not sure I can go after you,” Adrienne said. “My story will sound . . . what’s the word?”
“Anticlimactic?” said Paige.
Adrienne nodded. “Yeah, that.”
“Just go for it,” Saskia said encouragingly. “This isn’t a competition.”
Adrienne smiled shyly at her. “Fine, okay. So I did the routine just like you told us, Saskia. I held the picture of my Mercury Boy and ran my fingers over it. I thought about him really hard. Then I put some mercury in my palm and rolled it around. That was a little freaky.” She fidgeted, fingers lacing and unlacing again and again. “I had trouble falling asleep. Nerves, I guess. After about an hour, I must have nodded off. The next thing I knew, I was somewhere else. Outside. But it wasn’t a nice meadow with wildflowers.” She glanced nervously at Paige. “This place, my place . . . well, it was like something out of a nightmare.”
Adrienne
Her sandals half sank as she squished through the mud. The heels and sunny yellow canvas quickly turned brown. It would have made sense to stop walking, to turn back, but Adrienne couldn’t. She felt inexplicably propelled, even magnetized, toward the camp in the distance: several tents and a barn.
The tents were set up helter-skelter. They reminded her of the ones she’d built as a child: white sheets draped over sticks. Crude structures. A woman, oblivious to her presence, ducked into one, coming out a moment later with what looked like a pair of scissors. Adrienne cringed at the sight of her old-fashioned dress. In the heat, Adrienne wondered how the woman could stand the high neck, long sleeves, and dirt-grazing skirt.
The woman scurried away. Adrienne continued forward, but cautiously. She smelled something foul. Blood, sweat, urine, rot, sickness—these were the things the odor reminded her of. She stepped over a thin streambed, alarmed to see that the trickle of water ran pink. “It’s not blood. It’s not blood,” she whispered to herself. But she suspected that it was. Panic lodged in her throat like a stone. Dread filled her body like a toxic fog. What was she about to walk into?
Again, she thought about turning back. Again, she couldn’t. She knew she would end up at the camp no matter what. She didn’t know why, but the destination felt inevitable. Predetermined.
Suddenly Adrienne stopped short—nearly stumbling into a long trench in the earth. Nervously, she wondered if it had been built for cover. Was this a war zone? But when she peered down, all she saw was excrement. The trench, about six feet deep, was a latrine—a latrine even more crude than the tents. Hovering over its foul contents were flies, their metallic green bodies glinting bright in the sun. Adrienne tried to cover her ears as well as her nose. The insects’ buzzing nauseated her almost as much as the stench.
Gingerly, she walked around the trench to the first tent, pausing when she heard crying and whimpering. Someone in pain. She tiptoed around the periphery, not wanting to know what was happening inside. Whatever was going on behind those flimsy sheets sounded like the soundtrack to a horror movie.
Near the barn, she saw a long table. She gazed at scraps of food on scuffed metal plates: the skin of a baked potato, eggshells, a gristly strip of gray meat, half a biscuit. The leftovers, spoiling in the sun, crawled with more fat green flies. As for the table itself, it was nothing but sticks and boards nailed into submission. There were no chairs, just crates and barrels. Like everything else in this godforsaken place, the furniture looked makeshift and shoddy.
Finally she reached the derelict barn. The whole thing tilted to the side, like a tired beast on the brink of collapse. Adrienne lingered by the half-open door, not realizing at first what was beside it: a bloody pile that caused her nausea to reach a crescendo. She bent over and threw up all over the front of her shirt. Wiping her mouth, she screwed her eyes shut. Maybe she’d been mistaken. Maybe her eyes had deceived her. She counted to three, then commanded herself to look at the pile again.
Alas, she hadn’t been wrong. The pile was comprised of body parts: arms, hands, feet, legs, fingers, toes. These parts were clearly human, but they weren’t normal. The skin was grayish-black, or sickly yellow, or too bloody to see. Some limbs were lumpy, bloated, and disproportioned; others were mangled; still others skeletally thin. All of them were grotesque. Judging by the ragged edges of skin and bone, Adrienne figured they’d been sawed off—and sloppily, at that. Like the
food, they were rotting in the sun.
She vomited again, but this time only bile, putrid and vinegar sharp, came out.
Head throbbing and heart pounding, she opened the barn door the rest of the way. It creaked on one hinge. Inside, the odor was worse than by the latrine. She put her hand over her mouth and scanned the room, glad that there was nothing left in her stomach to purge. Inside were about a dozen men. Injured men. Men in agony. Some lay on rough-hewn cots, elevated a few inches off the ground. Others rested on dirty mats, or bare earth. The men were mostly young—even as young as she was—and closer to death than to life. They must’ve been the ones making the noises she’d heard. And no wonder. Their wounds were gruesome: gashes, ripped-up flesh, limbs half-hanging from sheets of skin.
She was frozen, immobilized by horror. The only thing she could move was her eyes. And these she wanted to close.
Finally someone took hold of her arm. A woman. The same woman she’d seen before. In the same awful dress, confining as a nun’s habit. The woman was maybe Adrienne’s mother’s age, maybe older. It was hard to tell. Grime and exhaustion overwhelmed her face.
“Another volunteer,” the woman said. It wasn’t a question.
Adrienne stared at her.
“Good,” the woman continued. “We’re short. Eliza caught dysentery.” Her mouth flattened into a grim line when she saw Adrienne’s soiled shirt.
Before Adrienne knew it, the woman was pulling her toward the back of the barn. Adrienne let herself be led, listening to the swish of the woman’s skirt. Some of the injured men looked at her. But most were too dazed to notice anything.
Abruptly the woman stopped. A bloodstained table stood before her. On the ground, knives, scalpels, and a small handsaw soaked in a metal bucket of water. Pink water.
“I’m—I’m not a volunteer,” Adrienne stuttered, staring at the bucket and remembering the streambed.
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”
Adrienne looked at her blankly.
Frowning, the woman looked her up and down in a no-nonsense way. “Well, you’re filthy—and you’re dressed like a public woman. Certainly you’re not up to the standards of a Union nurse. But I need an extra set of hands, so you’ll have to do.”
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