The major repeated Grandmother’s family name. Then a light seemed to go on behind his eyes. “In fact, I’ve heard of you, Madam. Your name has come up more than once in the last couple days. I’d made a note to come and see you—and fate brings us together here!”
“Really?” asked Grandmother, looking amused. “In what connection has my name come up?”
“Nothing but good is attributed to you, I assure you. Particularly . . .” A curious expression crossed his face, and he gestured absently with his hat. Its bill was as black and shiny as his boots. “Particularly, I’ve heard that you are the local authority on those unusual old statues up in the forest.”
I felt as if someone had touched cold metal to the back of my neck.
Grandmother smiled. “The grove of monsters? I’m hardly an authority.”
“Yet you are clearly a woman of education.”
Perhaps to change the subject, Grandmother explained how she’d gone away to school, and how her husband, after his time in the Army, had been a finish carpenter of some renown. She’d traveled with him to sell his bookshelves and cabinets even in the neighboring countries. Together they’d attended many concerts and known the friendship of poets, musicians, and artists; they had vacationed at the beach cottage of the writer T —— L ——, for whom Grandfather had crafted a bed. On trips to the grand and ancient cities, Grandmother had entertained herself in museums and libraries while Grandfather installed his exquisite mantelpieces in many a fine home. (Which explained, I thought in later years, how it was that Grandmother had never needed to work at the cannery or take in washing and mending like so many of her friends did; she spent her long widowhood in modest comfort.)
The major looked at her in apparent wonder. “Am I to understand, Mrs. T ——, that you might have lived anywhere, and you chose this village?”
“I was born here,” Grandmother said. “I’ve lived all my life in the cottage my father built. I love the people. I love my garden and the sea and the mountains and the sky. The sky is different, you know, depending on which part of it you live under.”
Major P —— tossed his hat onto the bench beside him and tapped his aide on the shoulder. “A meeting with such a remarkable woman calls for a toast.”
Grandmother protested, but the major would hear none of it. The aide pulled from the black clasp case a corked bottle of wine and a set of ceramic cups. Popping the cork with a flourish, the major began filling them. “Please forgive the barbarity of the tableware,” he said. “Tulip-stemmed glasses do not travel well.”
He placed one cup in Grandmother’s hands and one in mine, giving me a fatherly wink. Then he filled one for the aide and one for himself. I glanced over my shoulder to see some of the soldiers watching us with curiosity and the villagers looking on impassively. We were near the front of the upper cabin, so we couldn’t help providing a show for everyone behind us.
“To victory,” the major said, “and to our country, with its noble history of struggle and perseverance.”
“To our country,” Grandmother agreed.
The wine was a full-bodied type, a little more bitter than I was used to. I held the cup with both hands, afraid of dropping it.
“But these fantastic monsters in the wood,” the major resumed suddenly. “Giants and dragons and such. You’re not afraid of them, are you?”
“Why should I be?” asked Grandmother. “Of all that humans can design, art is fairly innocuous.”
The major chuckled. “Some would debate that.”
“No doubt. But no, I think our monsters, asleep up there on the mountainside, are more in the nature of guardians. They represent a time when we celebrated beauty. Myth and story and dreams.”
“When we had the leisure to do so,” said the major. He swirled the wine in his cup, savoring the bouquet. “That time will come again, when we can return to the finer things. For now, we must be practical, though pragmatism is a bland feast. I understand that there is actually a law in effect which prohibits trespassing into any ruins of this type, of which our land has many.”
Grandmother chose to address only his last few words: “We were an artistic people.”
“And always shall be!” The major sipped his wine, and I noticed how rarely he blinked as he studied Grandmother’s face. “Those statues are marvelous pieces. They should be preserved.”
“I suspect they will be,” said Grandmother. “When . . . we can return to the finer things.”
“Perhaps the day will come sooner rather than later. I was speaking the other day with a friend of mine, an artist . . .”
I saw Grandmother glance at him through narrowed eyes.
“But I’ve nearly said too much.” The major smirked and lowered his voice. “He’s an artist of considerable fame, you see, and doesn’t wish it to be widely known that he’s traveling in this part of the country. He’s hoping for peace and quietness.”
“As are we all,” said Grandmother quite pointedly. “Praying for it. But with your artist friend, Major, what were you speaking about?”
“The statues. That enchanting garden above the village. He had heard of it; I expect he’ll pay it a visit soon. With the proper permissions, of course.”
I refrained from looking at Grandmother in alarm, but I didn’t like the thought of a stranger prying into our sacred woods. The fear of R ——’s being discovered only accounted for part of my reason. I had already begun to regard the grove as our own private space. I didn’t want Major P —— to think of it or to speak of it.
The major drained his cup. “I envy my artist friend. He can spend his days in the imaginary landscape of his mind, while I must be more concerned with the mundane. When the war is behind us, men such as I will at last have leave to indulge our spirits again. In the meantime, we do what we can.” He held up the bottle to demonstrate his devotion to fine culture. As he poured more wine, he asked Grandmother to tell him what she knew of the monsters’ history, and she did so, relating what she’d told me: the duke, his obsession with adding to the garden, and his tragic romance; but she left out his strange disappearance.
As she finished, Grandmother deftly returned our empty cups to the aide before the major could refill them.
“So, we’re bound for ——,” said the major, using the name that was printed on maps.
“Wool Island, yes,” answered Grandmother. “We’re going to buy yarn. But I’m surprised that you’re going there—and so many of you, at that. Is it possible that the enemy soldier has gotten over there?”
“I doubt that, unless he’s part fish. No, our visit is an inspection . . . by which I mean mostly a diversion. My men are tired of tramping through the woods, and the beaches over there are lovely.”
“That they are,” said Grandmother. “But the man you’re looking for . . .”
Major P —— shook his head. “I suspect he’s dead of his wounds in some ravine, and five years from now, a woodcutter will happen upon his bones. Or else in a few days, he’ll wander down starving into some village and give himself up. At any rate, I think we’ve done what we can. Try not to worry, Madam. I’m sure he presents no threat.”
Grandmother pursed her lips and gave a nod with her brow furrowed.
The major corked the wine bottle and handed it back to his aide. “I’m afraid I offended the good sisters at the abbey. We made a rather extensive search of their premises.” Smirking again, he brushed at something on his sleeve. “The Church shows compassion to the wounded and the homeless—which is virtuous enough in times of peace.”
Grandmother sighed. “And when have we ever been at peace?”
“Alas, not in my memory.”
“Nor in mine.” Grandmother reached across me and opened the carpet bag. I had a vision of her pulling out the gun and handing it to Major P ——. But instead, she came up with tangerines and gave them to the major and his
aide, two each. “Thank you very much for your kindness,” she said. “If you don’t mind, my old legs need stretching. All this sitting and vibration is bad for the circulation.”
“The pleasure has been mine,” said the major. His glance fell upon the carpet bag. “What a charming piece of work! Surely that didn’t come from a local market?”
“No,” said Grandmother. “I made it myself, actually, out of some good remaining parts of the carpet we had when I was a little girl.”
The major held out his hands to see it, and to my shock, Grandmother tugged it off my arm and gave it to him.
He made a dramatic show of straining under its weight. “Are you carrying bricks? It’s a good thing you have this young soldier to tote it for you.”
As he ran his hands over the plush side, tracing the swirling patterns with his fingers, Grandmother explained. “This was the part of the carpet that lay under the bookcase for years. It didn’t fade or get worn out like the rest.”
“And you found its use,” said the major.
“Like your artist friend, I often prefer the ‘landscape of my mind.’ That’s where I find the uses of things.”
Balancing the bag on his knee, he shook his head with a bemused grin. “Mrs. T ——, you are an extraordinary person.”
“Major P ——, you are too kind.” Grandmother bowed humbly.
After what seemed an eternity, he handed back the carpet bag.
Grandmother passed it to me, and I lifted it to my shoulder. We each thanked the major again as we got up, and he waved.
“I wish your husband were still doing his carpentry,” he called after us. “I’ve acquired a set of antique chairs and would like a table that matches.”
Grandmother paused to glance back at him. “He could have helped you, sir.”
We passed between the benches. Once when the boat rocked, a curly-haired soldier lent Grandmother a steadying hand and cheerfully advised her to watch her step, calling her “Grandma” as R —— had done.
An open door at the rear led out onto a tiny aft deck, shaded by a roof but open on the sides and back. To our left, a steep metal stairway descended to the lower level. From the deck’s rail, I looked down onto the edge of a similar deck below, which stuck out a little farther than ours. Beyond this, the churning white wake of the ferry’s engine stretched in a long swath. The land was far away now, green mountains shimmering. All around us was blue air and the dazzling sea.
Seagulls swooped along beside us, coming up from behind, overtaking the ferry, then circling back to overtake it again. They screeched and crossed one another’s paths, now dipping low, now soaring high.
Grandmother placed her walking-stick in a corner of the railing where it wouldn’t fall over. She dug in the bag again and brought out the tin of crackers. Breaking one cracker up, she showed me how to feed the birds: first letting them see what she held, then flinging the morsels into the air, one bit at a time. Gulls veered and snatched the pieces before they hit the water. Other people must have been feeding the seabirds through open windows on the lower deck; some of the gulls dove that way, and sometimes I saw bits of bread in the waves until the birds snapped them up, hardly leaving a ripple.
By the time we’d gone through four or five crackers, I was enjoying myself so much that Grandmother’s next words caught me completely by surprise.
“Now look behind us,” she said quietly. “Is anyone watching?”
At once I knew what she intended, and it was as if my blood had been replaced with ice water. Mouth going dry, I turned and peered in through the doorway. I saw mostly the backs of heads. The soldiers who were sitting sideways seemed engaged in conversation. A few were dozing. None were looking our way.
“No one’s looking,” I murmured back to her. “But some might see us out of the corners of their eyes.”
“This is about as far from land as we get,” Grandmother said, tossing another piece of cracker. “I’ll block the view. You’d better throw it. You can get it farther out there.” She took the bag from my shoulder. “It’s supposed to be unloaded, but a bullet could be in the chamber or whatever they call it. Don’t touch the trigger, and point the barrel away.”
Trying to swallow, I nodded.
Fishing in the bag, she came up with the gun’s magazine, the metal clip loaded with bullets. With a quick motion, she tossed it overboard. A seagull winged close but didn’t like its looks, and the magazine spun into the sea.
Grandmother nodded in satisfaction. Handing me another chunk of cracker, she said, “Check one more time.”
I wandered into the doorway again. Just as I did so, one of the sideways soldiers looked right at me. He touched two fingers to his forehead in salute, then made his hand into the shape of a gun and pretended to shoot me. I gave him what I hoped was a grin, but I probably looked like I was about to throw up.
Going back out to Grandmother, I flung the cracker piece to a gull.
“Are they looking?”
“Yes. One was.”
“But no one’s coming?”
“No.”
“All right. Then stand right in front of me.”
I did so, facing her.
She’d taken the gun out of the little cloth bag. With our stomachs almost touching, she laid the weapon into my hands. This was the first time I’d touched it. Though I’d held a handgun of my father’s before, I was startled anew at how heavy such things were.
“Quickly,” she said. “Straight out.”
I turned toward the sea and stooped, putting my hands down between my knees, bunching myself for the throw.
Just then, bootsteps clanged on the metal stairs beside us.
“Now,” Grandmother whispered.
Whoever was on the stairs would be facing forward until he got to the landing halfway up; then he’d be looking out over the stern. I had maybe two seconds to throw.
I hurled the gun outward into the sunlight. It flew with agonizing slowness, black and unmistakable. I imagined it getting stuck in the sky, as if the world were a drawing, showing me with my arms raised toward the enormous gun that had replaced the sun. A gull darted toward it and careened away. A second bird collided with it—I was sure I heard the thump over the engine’s growl—but the gull stayed airborne, and the gun was falling again. For a long time after that, I half-believed the gull had gotten the pistol unstuck from the sky, that a shining bird had saved us.
Grandmother patted my back. We gazed down the ferry’s wake as if down a road to another world, a magical land across the water, and our village and our mountain far away became that green world beyond time. The sun was burning the sea, turning everything to molten gold and silver. Birds came streaking and crying out of the blue and the fire.
With the sun in my eyes, I barely saw the splash when the gun finally met the sea, somewhere out in the wake.
Then two soldiers topped the stairs, rifles on their backs, and the first looked down at me. It was the one with the shaved head, the wide eyes.
I shrank against Grandmother, trying to get enough air into my lungs.
Leaning down as he passed me, the soldier touched the center of my chest with his pointer finger. He lingered again, staring at me. In a husky whisper, he said, “It all ends in fire.”
Then he ducked through the cabin door behind the other man.
“What did he say?” asked Grandmother.
I shook my head, too afraid to answer. The words reminded me vaguely of something, some old fear or dream. I didn’t understand what he meant, but it felt as if I’d heard a voice from a burning bush. To repeat it might bring knowledge too terrible. I watched the soldiers go, hand-crawling between the benches, to join their comrades. No one was looking at us.
Grandmother wore a mild expression, but I noticed she had a firm grip on both her walking-stick and the rail. Glancing around to see w
ho might be within earshot, she let out a long breath. “I should have told you not to throw it quite that far. But anyway, well done. We’ve taken an enemy gun out of the fighting permanently. If that’s not doing some good for the war effort, then I don’t know what is.”
* * * *
We could easily have spent the entire day on Wool Island. Beaches of clean white sand wandered away in both directions from where the ferry docked. Shops along the boardwalk sold fruit and hats, pans and dishes, figurines, paintings, wood-carvings, stoneware, pinwheels and noisemakers, noodles and fried breads and an array of other foods with enticing smells—and most of all, wool: yarn dyed in every color imaginable, and yarn knitted into caps, shawls, sweaters, socks, and blankets. People bought these warm things, even in the summer.
Sheep covered the green mountainsides so thickly that they seemed to be growing there, a ubiquitous woolly shrub.
To make the best use of our time, Grandmother sent me to wade in the surf while she browsed among the stalls, choosing her yarn. I played tag with the waves, following the ones that retreated, then reversing my course and scrambling to safety as reinforcements arrived. Though I’d left my shoes and socks high up the beach, my pants were soon drenched past the knees.
The smooth, wet sand ground deliciously under my feet. I picked up shells of amazing shapes and colors, washing them in the swells, turning them in the light. Several of the best I dropped into my pockets.
Farther along the coast, I saw a group of the soldiers at the water’s edge, their boots and rifles abandoned. They laughed and shouted and pushed each other, splashing. Seagulls glided as they fished.
I ran back now and then to check on Grandmother. When she had the carpet bag stuffed with yarn and two full shopping bags besides, we bought noodles and sat at a boardwalk table under a fringed umbrella. To lighten the load, we ate as many tangerines as we could and drank the crock of milk. After we sat for a while, Grandmother waded, too. Her feet were like things grown in her garden under the soil, bulbous with shiny bunions.
A Green and Ancient Light Page 9
