Claire North had not said anything so far, he noticed, though he had a feeling, just from her expression, that she was among those who believed in the legend. But she did not seem the type to debate with him. Something about Claire sent a message that she was very certain of her beliefs and didn’t need to prove anything, least of all to a student like him.
“So how did you come to get interested in this tale, Jonathan?” Claire asked as he reached for the platter of crab cakes to take a second helping. “Did you come across it in a history book? Or did someone tell you the story?”
“My mother told me the story, when I was a little boy. There were relatives on her side of the family who were among the early settlers of Cape Light.”
“So you know the legend well,” Claire said.
“Well, I heard it a number of times.” Before my mother died, he added silently. “But as a historian, I appreciate and even collect different versions of a story. Especially one that has such little documentation and has mainly survived through oral history.” He paused and glanced over at her. “You seem to know the story. Would you be willing to tell me your version? I’d be interested to hear it.”
Claire looked surprised, then nodded. “All right. I’ll tell the version I know.”
“Would it be all right if I recorded this?” he asked. “It’s more accurate than taking notes. I think I have my recorder right here.” He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and took out a small digital recorder, then set it on the table.
“I don’t mind at all. Go right ahead.” Once she saw he was ready, Claire began. “The version I’ve heard goes like this . . . The first colonists settled in the village of Cape Light in the mid-1600s. I believe they migrated up from settlements around Cape Cod. Things were going all right, and they were getting some help from the local Native American people, the Wampanoag. But about six months after they arrived, a sickness broke out. I don’t know if it had a name or if doctors can now identify the illness. There were many types of contagious diseases back then that we don’t see anymore, thank the Lord. But this was a deadly fever, and highly contagious. None of the usual cures, herbs, or bleeding could cure it. Most who caught the fever did not survive. There were very few doctors back then, of course, and much of the medical knowledge was pure superstition. Though there were some good herbal treatments for illness. But many times a cure was more likely to make a patient sicker than help them—”
“Like poor George Washington,” Adele interrupted. “It was thought that he died of a simple throat infection. Today we know that his physicians actually killed him by taking so much blood, over nine pints, I read somewhere. The poor man was bled to death.”
“Yes, that is true.” Jonathan knew that for a fact. “This illness sounds something like Yellow Fever,” he said to Claire. “It was prevalent in those times.”
“It was something like Yellow Fever,” Claire said with a nod. “But the colonists believed that even when a person survived the worst bouts of this fever, they could pass the infection on for weeks after, due to the boils that broke out on the body and took as long as three or four weeks to clear. So the village leaders decided the sick ones had to be quarantined and chose to send them out here, to the island. The outbreak began in the fall, and they reasoned the rest of the villagers would not survive the winter otherwise. Nearly a third of the colony had already been lost in only a few weeks’ time. So the sick were taken from their homes and carried to this island and given shelter in crude huts. They were left with some supplies and firewood. There wasn’t much to give, and most people believed they would soon die anyway.”
“No matter how many times I hear this story, the quarantine always strikes me as harsh and cruel,” Liza said.
“It was harsh,” Claire agreed. “But those were hard times to live through. I believe a boat from Cape Light was sent out once a week or so with food and wood and not much more than that. Family members were not permitted to come, lest they carry back the infection. Few were brave or merciful enough to help the sick after they were left. A harsh winter came with many storms and high snow,” Claire continued. “No one went out to the island for several weeks. Christmas came and went. There was no great celebrating back then as there is today. But it was still recognized as a holiday,” she added. “The patients should have been home by then, but no one could get to the island. Most believed all the sick had died. Finally, a boat was sent to search for survivors. The rescue party braced themselves for a grim sight. But the truth was even more shocking than what they had imagined. The quarantined had not only survived but were completely healthy, living in sturdier shelters with ample provisions, clean water, and firewood to spare.”
Claire paused and glanced at her listeners. Though they had all heard the story before, the conclusion still drew an amazed reaction, Jonathan noticed. He suddenly realized that he had also fallen under the spell of Claire’s storytelling.
He sat up straight and cleared his throat . . . and his head. “And what was their explanation for their recovery . . . I mean, according to your version of the story?” he asked.
“The quarantined claimed that a group of able, gentle people had visited the island and nursed them through the winter. But no one could say exactly where these mysterious visitors came from. Once they returned to the mainland, many of the survivors searched for them. Some spent years traveling around to other colonies, inquiring with the ship captains who traveled back and forth from England. But it’s said that the settlers never found anyone who had gone to the island that winter. Many believed that they were saved by the angels, who were disguised in human form,” Claire added. “Some believe that the angels’ powers can still be felt on the island and will be forever. The believers even point to the interesting shape of the island’s cliffs that jut out like an angel’s wings. The place came to be known as Angel Island. The name just stuck,” Claire added.
Before Jonathan could respond, Adele spoke up. “That’s pretty much the version I know, too. Though the way I heard it, this place was already called Angel Island because of the cliffs. When the illness struck and the town leaders had to decide where to bring the sick, they chose the island because many believed it was a sacred, protected place. And it turned out that was true,” Adele concluded.
Jonathan’s eyes widened at her matter-of-fact tone, but he didn’t want to interrupt. Still he had to wonder: How could she possibly know that was true? People did use the word lightly.
“How about you, Liza?” Adele asked their hostess. “Is this the same story you always heard?”
“More or less. Aunt Elizabeth loved to tell the tale, especially on a beach walk to the cliffs. It was always a little different each time,” Liza recalled with a smile.
“What sort of variations were there?” Jonathan turned the recorder in her direction, curious to hear her reply.
“Oh . . . let’s see.” Liza’s blue gaze wandered as she tried to remember. “I think in my aunt’s version, the villagers didn’t expect to find anyone on the island still alive, just as Claire said. But the survivors surprised them by coming across the water on a raft or some sort of roughly made boat, and then they walked into the village, astounding everyone. My aunt would say that as they walked down Main Street, all activity stopped and everyone came out of the shops and houses to see them. But no one dared to say a word until the minister arrived and begged for their forgiveness on bended knees. They gave it, of course. And then he led everyone in a prayer of thanksgiving for their care and survival.”
“My goodness, that ending to the story gives me goose bumps all over again.” Adele hugged her thick cardigan sweater closer.
Jonathan also felt a few goose bumps at that ending to the story. But he didn’t want to admit it. “In your aunt’s story, did the survivors also say they had been nursed by mysterious strangers?”
“Oh yes.” Liza nodded. “My aunt
told us the helpers were angels in human form who had come on Christmas Day. And they also made the boat,” she added with a smile.
Before he could say more, Claire caught his attention again.
“So, what do you think, Jonathan? Are these versions similar to the one you grew up hearing?”
“There are some interesting differences. I never heard the detail about the angelic beings arriving on Christmas before. Though that does make sense, in the context of the narrative,” he quickly added. “And the variant with the boat is very interesting, too. It’s a small detail, but sometimes those are the biggest clues.”
“What sort of clue do you think that is?” Adele asked eagerly.
“Well, a roughly hewn boat or raft could suggest contact with the Native American people who were living in the area at the time. Perhaps they came to the island and helped the quarantined group. Though I would have to study some firsthand descriptions of the boat to support that theory.”
“How interesting . . . I never thought of that,” Adele said.
“So you don’t believe the story about the angels visiting,” Claire said. It wasn’t a question, he noticed, more of an observation. She didn’t seem offended as he had expected, but merely curious. However, he felt put on the spot and tried to frame a diplomatic answer.
“Let’s put it this way: I believe any part of the story I can verify with factual evidence. How many people were sent to the island, and how long they were there, for instance. There could be village records to document that . . . and other details of the event, too. I believe that something happened on the island during those winter months that has never been fully explained, and that’s what I’m trying to discover.”
“But you must have some feeling about it,” Claire persisted.
Now Jonathan didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to insult Claire. He didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings here. They had all been so helpful to him and were so nice. But finally, he had to answer.
“I have to be honest . . . I don’t believe it’s possible. But when I’m researching, I put my personal opinions aside and keep an objective, open mind. Think of me as an archaeologist, digging things up—hard, tangible bits of evidence that I try to fit together. Then I see what I’ve got. I’ll have some guesses as it takes shape. But I can never assume I know for sure until all of it, or mostly all of it, is there.”
“I see. Well, it is a fantastic, improbable story. There can be no argument about that.” Claire smiled, putting him at ease again. “But you know what Albert Einstein said: ‘There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.’”
Jonathan had to smile. She had him there.
Liza turned to him. “I’d heard that quote but didn’t really get it until I moved out here. When you look at the natural world—the ocean, the flowers, the trees—it’s all so amazing, so miraculous. Anything seems possible.”
Jonathan nodded and slipped the recorder back in his pocket. “Nature is fascinating and inspiring . . . and very mysterious. No doubt about that. I just can’t quite make the leap to angelic beings nursing people on a deserted island.” He gave a helpless shrug. “Sorry.”
The three women smiled and exchanged looks. He felt as if they were sharing some secret message about him. He didn’t mind. He had enjoyed the discussion and had collected some good information for his study.
“How long will you be working around here?” Claire asked.
“Hard to say. It depends on what sort of documents I find. I’ve only just started.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Claire nodded and smiled.
What was true? That he had hardly scratched the surface and in time would change his mind? With all due respect to everyone at the table, Jonathan sincerely doubted that.
“Would you like some dessert and coffee?” Liza stood at the sideboard, collecting dessert dishes and flatware.
“Thanks but I’m really full.” Jonathan meant it, too. But when a slice of lemon meringue pie—with mile-high sugary peaks, perfectly golden on top—was set in front of him, it looked too good to resist.
Afterward, he pushed back from the table, feeling pleasantly full. “That meal was awesome. At this rate, I’ll gain fifty pounds before I go back to Boston.”
“Nonsense.” Claire waved her hand as she cleared the dishes. “I bet you survive on soup and crackers at school—and maybe some pizza and Chinese food.”
“I’m not that bad.” Jonathan laughed. He was, in fact, worse. She had forgotten the old standby, cold cereal.
“A good meal will never hurt you. But you need to get outside today and get some fresh air, or you won’t have any appetite for dinner.”
He nodded agreeably. He usually bristled from too much advice, but Claire’s motherly prescription made him feel cared for.
“Just what I was thinking. I’d love to see the cliffs. Is it too far to walk?”
“The cliffs are on the other side of the island. It’s a nice hike in the summer but it might get dark by the time you head back, this time of year.” Liza glanced at her watch. “If you walk one way, I can come pick you up there. Or you can take a bike. We have a few in the barn. Just pick one you like and be sure to take a helmet and a map.”
“Good idea. I haven’t been riding in years. I’ll definitely come back with an appetite.” He glanced at Claire, and she smiled back approvingly.
* * *
A short time later, Jonathan was on his way, pedaling past the goat farm that bordered the inn’s property. The grass-covered meadows were golden brown but very pretty, Jonathan thought. There was a rambling old farmhouse, not far from the road, and a big red barn behind it. He had already noticed the goats from his window, frolicking in the big field. They were still out, grazing at the back of the meadow, which created a peaceful scene.
He pedaled on, down a long, sloping hill and a tight curve that made him remember the sense of freedom and the feeling that he was practically flying—feelings he had loved as a boy.
The road swung into a small town center and suddenly was all bumps. He noticed there were Belgian blocks on the roadbed. He bumped along through a small village square. A general store with a long, wide porch looked interesting, but he didn’t need anything. Liza had even sent him with a water bottle and energy bar.
Across the way, he saw a small cottage encircled by a rickety picket fence. It looked like an elf from a fairy tale might live there. No wonder people around here indulged in these magical beliefs. Closer inspection revealed it was a shop or café. Or maybe both. He slowed down to read the sign: WINKLER TEAROOM & LENDING LIBRARY—BOOKS ARE OUR BEST FRIENDS. He was almost curious enough to go in, but the windows were dark. He decided to come back some other time, if he remembered.
On and on he pedaled, following the road past more cottages and gracious old houses, some in good condition and others quite run-down. Then past vast empty spaces filled with woods or meadows or acres of tall marsh grass, or a stretch of open coastline that would suddenly appear, running parallel to the road.
The island really was a beautiful place, natural and untamed even now, and he could well understand how the landscape here might have helped inspire the story about angels.
He was starting to feel tired and wondered if the cliffs were much farther along. But as he came around a bend, the legendary cliffs—jagged, golden sandstone, at least ten stories high—came into view.
It was nearly four. As Liza had predicted, the sun was already low in the winter sky, coloring the horizon with a rosy hue that reflected on the dark blue waves. The road inclined sharply uphill, and he battled to make it through the final stretch. He stopped for a break a short distance from his goal and stood on the sandy shoulder, holding up the bike. The outline of the cliffs stood out in stark contrast to the backdr
op of dark blue sky. The cliffs did indeed look like wings, crescent-shaped and cupped, a point flaring out at the bottom like a long feather.
Quite unusual, he had to admit. He could understand how the early settlers came up with the angel explanation. They fell back on their spiritual beliefs to explain most anything out of the ordinary, and this landscape lent itself perfectly to those sorts of fantasies.
Pure fantasy, Jonathan reminded himself as he pulled out a slim digital camera and snapped a few photos. He left the bike on the roadside, then followed a rambling path to the beach, where he treaded through a few more yards of sand to finally examine this local wonder, up close and personal. He stood in the shadows of the towering rock wall and stared straight up while strong gusts off the water beat at his back. It didn’t take a geologist to see that the odd formation had obviously been shaped by the salt winds and hard rain on this side of the island. Yet he hadn’t heard one person propose that idea. So far, anyway.
Claire North was a sweet old woman, but . . . Well, what was it to him? She had a right to believe whatever she pleased. He hadn’t come here to pull people kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. He had come to investigate and get a good paper out of his findings.
He took more photos from different angles. The wing shape was best seen from a distance, but close-ups were important, too.
Standing at the base of the cliffs, he turned to look out at the water. The tide was coming in high. Wild waves rolled toward him, crashing on the shoreline and along a natural jetty that extended from the cliffs into the sea. He felt the cold spray on his face and squinted into the sun, which had dipped even closer now to the horizon.
It was getting late and he had to head back. He was walking back to his bike when he found he couldn’t resist. He turned toward the cliffs again for one last look. The sandstone peaks were bathed in a glorious golden light, looking strangely softened. Supple enough to spread and take flight. An eerie feeling swept over him as he stared at them. Then he blinked and shook his head.
Season of Angels (9781101612170) Page 4
